From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [22]
Prew slung his hat up on his shoulder with his arm shoved through the strap, so nobody could steal it while he was inside, and entered.
“Private Prewitt reporting to the Compny Commander as ordered, Sir,” he mouthed the formula, whatever humanness there was inside him falling out, leaving only a juiceless meatless shell.
Capt Dynamite Holmes, who was a favorite with the Islands sport fans, directed his long, high-foreheaded face with its high cheekbones and eagle’s nose and the hair combed sideways across the just beginning bald spot, sternly at the man before him and picked up the Special Orders that announced the transfer without looking at them.
“At ease,” he said.
His desk was right before the door, and at right angles on the left was the First Sergeant’s desk, where Milt Warden sat with folded elbows leaning on it. As he moved his left foot and crossed his hands behind his back, Prew spared him one swift glance. Warden stared back at him, half-gleefully, half-foreboding; he seemed to be poised and waiting for his chance.
Capt Holmes swung his swivel chair to the right and stared sternly out the window for a moment, offering Prew a profile of the jutting jaw, grim mouth, and sharp commanding nose. Then suddenly he swung back around, the swivel creaking, and began to speak.
“I always make it a policy to talk to my new men, Prewitt,” he said sternly. “I dont know what you’ve been used to in the Bugle Corps, but in my outfit we run it by the book. Any man who fucksup gets broken—quick and hard. The Stockade is the place for fuckups until they learn to soldier.”
He paused and stared at Prewitt sternly, and crossed his booted legs whose spurs jangled punctuation to the warning. Capt Holmes was warming to his subject. Here, said the long boned, eagle’s face to Prew, is a soldier who is not afraid to talk to his men in their own language, who does not mince the words, and who understands his men.
“I have,” he said, “a damned fine smoothrunning outfit. I do not allow anything to bitch it up. But—if a man does his work, and keeps his nose clean, does as I say, he’ll get along. Plenty of room for advancement here, because in this organization there is no favoritism. I make it my business to see that each man gets just what he earns. No more, no less.
“You start with a clean slate, Prewitt. What you do with it is up to you.
“Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said.
“Good,” said Capt Holmes, and nodded sternly.
Milt Warden, at his own desk, was watching the progress of this conference that was not new to him with acumen. Crap! cried the king, he thought, and twenty thousand royal subjects squatted and strained, for in those days the king’s word was law! His face straight, he grinned at Prew with his eyebrows, and a devilish pixy peered out from behind his face with unholy glee.
“To get a rating in my Company,” Capt Holmes was saying sternly, “a man has got to know his stuff. He has to soldier. He has to show me he’s got it on the ball.” He looked up sharply.
“Understood?”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said.
“Good,” said Capt Holmes. “Understood. Its always important for an officer and his men to understand each other.” Then he pushed his chair back and smiled at Prewitt, handsomely. “Glad to have you aboard, Prewitt,” he smiled, “as our colleagues in the navy say. I can always use a good man in my outfit and I’m glad to have you.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Prew said.
“How would you like to be my Company bugler, temporarily?” Holmes paused to light himself a cigaret. “I saw your fight with Connors of the 8th Field in the Bowl last year,” he said. “A damned fine show. Damned fine. With any luck you should have won it. I thought for a while in there, in the second round, you were going to knock him out.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Prew said. Capt Holmes was talking almost joyously now. Here it comes, Prew told himself;