From Here to Eternity_ The Restored Edit - Jones, James [362]
The guard Turniphead Turnipseed had taken quite a dislike to Angelo for some obscure private reason, and this dislike had grown until it was an open flagrant heckling every time Turnipseed got near him. This one morning on the rockpile, when Turnipseed was on detail “in the pit” as the guards called the post down in the quarry, which because of the heat and dust was considered the worst detail on the place, Turnipseed, probably through irritation, had ridden Maggio even worse than usual, calling The Wop down every time he stopped his hammer long enough to breathe, reading him off particularly insultingly every time he spoke a word, obviously trying to goad him into something Turnipseed could turn him in for; until finally Turnipseed came clear over to him where a group of them were working, carrying his riotgun cradled in his left arm and slapped him in the face for not stopping talking. Prew was in the group and close enough to Angelo so that he could see the snapping bright black eyes. For the first time since he had known him there was none of that pinpoint-concentrated fury that liberties against his person always brought to the little Italian’s eyes. Maggio’s eyes were cold and calculating, as if he was also realizing at the same moment Prew’s heart skipped with it, that this was it, this was his chance, the situation he had been waiting for and trying to create, and that if he did not take advantage of it now he never would. There was the reluctant look on Angelo’s face of a man faced with a proposition of either doing a thing he would rather have avoided or else admitting to himself once and for all he was a coward.
As Turnipseed stepped back to observe the effect of his action with a careful eye toward finding something that would merit turning in, Angelo dropped his hammer and went for Turniphead’s throat with his bare hands and an excellent imitation of a gibbering insane scream. It was a greater offense than Turniphead had bargained for. He was caught flat-footed and Angelo had him on the ground choking him before he could move. The group of prisoners, including Prew, all of whom except for two were from Number Two, just stood, still holding their hammers, and watched. Turnipseed managed to beat him loose with the butt of the riotgun and get up, before Maggio came at him again, still screaming insanely, but closer this time, too close for Turniphead to even attempt to use the buckshot, and Turniphead flattened him with the gunbarrel using both hands, thus fulfilling Angelo’s plan and hope to the letter.
With Maggio unconscious at his feet in the sudden overwhelming silence, Turniphead stood dazed, breathing heavily and rubbing his neck with one hand, and staring at the group of other prisoners who had not moved, and were careful not to move now.
“Yeah,” he gasped finally. “Go ahead and try something. Just try it.”
Nobody answered.
“I wish you would,” Turniphead said hopefully, still rubbing his neck and breathing heavily. “I’d love to shoot one of you cocksuckers. You’d stand right there and let that crazy man choke me to death and not do a goddam thing. A hell of a lot of mercy a guy can expect from a bunch of blood-thirsty wolves like you,” he said accusingly.
Nobody answered.
“Couple of you carry him down to the road,” he said, jerking his head behind him without moving his eyes. “The rest of you get the hell back to work. And I mean now.”
Nobody from Number Two moved, and the two men from Number Three stepped forward quickly reluctantly, as if they had been pushed.
“Go on, pick him up,” Turniphead said. “He aint dead, worse luck. Hey!” he called up the manmade cliff to the two guards with rifles who had come over and were watching. “Keep an eye out on the rest of this bunch here,” he hollered. “I like to had a goddam mutiny. Go on, you two, pick him up.”
When they picked him up, Prew saw vaguely the knot beginning to rise from his forehead at the hairline where it had been split and a trickle of blood started down toward his eye. One more medal for Angelo. But his mind had already gone ranging ahead, reviewing the prospect of the thirty days to come, and nothing else could touch him.
Turniphead followed the temporary stretcherbearers on down