From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [267]
“Here,” Prew said urgently. “Let me hold the fucking flash. Now read it, goddam it. We aint got much time to get it finished.”
“Okay,” Slade said. “Here goes. The Re-enlistment Blues—” He looked around at all of them. “The Re-enlistment Blues.”
“The Re-enlistment Blues,” he said again.
“Got paid out on Monday
Not a dog soljer no more
They gimme all that money
So much my pockets is sore
More dough than I can use. Re-enlistment Blues.
“Took my ghelt to town on Tuesday
Got a room and a big double bed
Find a job tomorrow
Tonight you may be dead
Aint no time to lose. Re-enlistment Blues.
“Hit the bars on Wednesday
My friends put me up on a throne
Found a hapa-Chinee baby
Swore she never would leave me alone
Did I give her a bruise? Re-enlistment Blues!
“Woke up sick on Thursday
Feelin like my head took a dare
Looked down at my trousers
All my pockets was bare
That gal had Mowed my fuse. Re-enlistment Blues.
“Went back around on Friday
Asked for a free glass of beer
My friends had disappeared
Barman said, ‘Take off, you queer!’
What I done then aint news. Re-enlistment Blues.”
“There!” Slade said triumphantly. “I dont give a flying fuck what anybody says,” he said proudly, “I say thats pretty damn good. What next now?”
Prew was still snapping his fingers. “That jail was cold all Sa’day,” he said, “standin on a bench lookin down. Make it like that, see? Sa’day. Two syllables.”
“Okay,” Slade said, writing.
“Hey!” Friday interrupted. “Thats not Weary!”
They stopped, and all of them looked at the figure coming toward them on the path. It was not Weary Russell. Andy kicked the almost empty bottle down over the embankment quickly. Slade brought his flash to bear on the coming figure. The beam reflected back at them from two gold bars on the shoulders. Slade turned questioningly to Prew, not knowing what to do.
“Attennsh-Hut!” Prew yelled. It was automatic.
“What the hell are you men doing up here at this hour of the night?” asked Lt Culpepper’s voice sharply, sharp as his Culpepper nose or his ramrod Culpepper back.
“Playing the git-tars, Sir,” Prew said.
“I surmised that,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. He came up to them. “What in fuck do you mean by turning a flashlight on up here?”
“We were using it to copy out some notes, Sir,” Prew said. The other three were looking at him as the spokesman. He went on, trying to keep the rage of frustration out of his voice. There would be no more blues writing this night. “There were flashlights on all over the bivouac area, Sir,” he said. “We dint think having one on here for a few minutes would hurt anything.”
“Now you know better than that, Prewitt,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll tone. “You men are supposed to be on a field problem approximating actual war conditions. That includes a full blackout.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said.
“Those lights below were inspection lights,” Lt Culpepper said. “The only time they are ever used is to inspect the posts.”
“Yes, Sir,” Prew said.
“Would they use lights to inspect posts under actual war conditions?” Slade said. His voice was trembling.
Lt Culpepper turned his head without moving his straight Culpepper shoulders or stiff Culpepper back, in the traditional Culpepper military style, developed over many Culpepper generations. “When you address an officer, soldier,” Lt Culpepper said crisply, “it is customary to either precede or conclude your question with the title Sir.”
“Yes, Sir,” Slade said.
“Who is this man?” Lt Culpepper said, in a dry droll tone. “I thought I knew everybody in the Company.”
“Private Slade, Sir,” Slade said. “17th Air Base Squadron, Hickam Field, Sir.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I came over to listen to the music, Sir.”
Lt Culpepper turned his light from Prew to Slade. “Are you supposed to be on post, soldier?”
“No, Sir.”
“Why havent you reported in?”
“When I’m off post my time’s my own, Sir,” Slade said in a kind of abortive outrage. “I broke no rules by coming over here when I got off post.”
“Perhaps not,” Lt Culpepper said in a dry droll