head to quiet him, and had two men lift him and throw him, still twitching and weeping, into the back of the truck. The Sergeant then turned to the recruits who were silently watching and said, 'That man is a disgrace to the Regular Army. He is not typical. Not at all typical. Apologize for him. Get the hell out of here!'
The orientation lectures. Military courtesy. The causes of the war which You Are Fighting. The expert on the Japanese question, a narrow, grey-faced professor from Lehigh, who had told them that it was all a question of economics. Japan needed to expand and take over the Asian and Pacific markets and we had to stop her and hold on to them ourselves. It was all according to the beliefs that Michael had had about the causes of the war for the last fifteen years. And yet, listening to the dry, professional voice, looking at the large map with spheres of influence and oil deposits and rubber plantations clearly marked out, he hated the professor, hated what he was saying. He wanted to hear that he was fighting for liberty or morality or the freedom of subject peoples, and he wanted to be told in such ringing and violent terms that he could go back to his barracks, go to the rifle range in the morning believing it. Michael looked at the men sitting wearily beside him at the lecture. There was no sign on those bored, fatigue-doped faces that they cared one way or another, that they understood, that they felt they needed the oil or the markets. There was no sign that they wanted anything but to be permitted to go back to their bunks and go to sleep…
In the middle of the speech Michael had resolved to get up and speak in the question period scheduled after the speaker had finished. But by the time the professor had said, 'In conclusion, we are in a period of centralization of resources, in which… uh… large groups of capital and national interests in one part of the globe are… uh… in inevitable conflict with other large groups in other parts of the globe, and in defence of the American standard of living, it is absolutely imperative that we have… uh… free and unhampered access to the wealth and buying power of China and Indonesia…' Michael had changed his mind. He had wanted to say, as he thought, 'This is horrible. This is no faith to die by,' but he was tired, and like all the other men around him, he wanted to go back to his barracks and go to sleep.
In front of Michael, as he marched, Ackerman stumbled. Michael quickened his pace and held Ackerman by the arm. Ackerman looked at him coldly. 'Let go,' he said, 'I don't need any help from anybody.'
Michael took his hand away and dropped back. One of those Jews, he thought angrily, one of the proud ones. He watched Ackerman's rolling, staggering walk without sympathy as they crossed the brow of the hill.
'Sergeant,' Noah said, standing before the desk in the orderly room behind which the First Sergeant was reading Superman, 'I would like permission to speak to the Company Commander.'
The First Sergeant did not look up. Noah stood stiff in his fatigues, grimy and damp with sweat after the day's march. He looked over at the Company Commander, sitting three feet away, reading the sports page of a Jacksonville newspaper. The Company Commander didn't look up.
Finally, the First Sergeant glanced at Noah. 'What do you want, Soldier?' he asked.
'I would like permission,' Noah said, trying to speak clearly through the down-pulling weariness of the day's march, 'to speak to the Company Commander.'
The First Sergeant looked blankly at him. 'Get out of here,' he said.
Noah swallowed dryly. 'I would like permission,' he began stubbornly, 'to speak to…'
'Get out of here,' the Sergeant said evenly, 'and when you come back, remember to wear your class A uniform. Now get out.'
'Yes, Sergeant,' Noah said. The Company Commander did not raise his eyes from the sports page. Noah went out of the small, hot room into the growing twilight. It was hard to know about the uniform. Sometimes the Company Commander saw men in fatigues, and sometimes not. The rule seemed to change every half-hour. He walked slowly back to his barracks past the lounging men and the loud sound of many small radios blaring tinnily forth with jazz music and detective serials.
When he got back to the orderly room, in his class A uniform, the Captain wasn't there. So Noah sat on the grass across the street from the orderly room entrance and waited. In the barracks behind him a man was singing, softly, 'I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier, the dying mother said…' and two other men were having a loud argument about when the war would end.
'1950,' one of the men kept saying. 'The fall of 1950. Wars always end right as winter sets in.'
And the other man was saying, 'Maybe the German war, but after that the Japs. We'll have to make a deal with the Japs.'
'I'll make a deal with anyone,' a third voice said. 'I'll make a deal with the Bulgarians or the Egyptians or the Mexicans or anybody.'
'1950,' the first man said loudly. 'Take my word for it. And we'll all get a bullet up our arse first.'
Noah stopped listening to them. He sat on the scrub grass in the darkness, with his back against the wooden steps, half asleep, waiting for the Captain to return, thinking about Hope. Her birthday was next week, Tuesday, and he had ten dollars saved up and hidden away at the bottom of his barracks bag, for a gift. What could you get for ten dollars in town that you wouldn't be ashamed to give your wife? A scarf, a blouse… He thought of how she would look in a scarf. Then he thought of how she would look in a blouse, preferably a white one, with her slender throat rising from the white stuff and the dark hair capping her head. Maybe that would be it. You ought to be able to get a decent blouse, even in Florida, for ten dollars.
Colclough came back. He moved heavily up the orderly room steps. You could tell he was an officer at a distance of fifty yards, just by the way he moved his behind.
Noah stood up and followed Colclough into the orderly room. The Captain was sitting at his desk with his cap on, frowning impressively at some papers in his hand.
'Sergeant,' Noah said quietly. 'I would like permission to speak to the Captain.'
The Sergeant looked bleakly at Noah. Then he stood up and went the three steps over to the Captain's desk. 'Sir,' he said, 'Private Ackerman wants to talk to you.'
Colclough didn't look up. 'Tell him to wait,' he said.
The Sergeant turned to Noah. 'The Captain says for you to wait.'
Noah sat down and watched the Captain. After half an hour, the Captain nodded to the Sergeant.
'All right,' the Sergeant said. 'Make it short.'
Noah stood up, saluted the Captain. 'Private Ackerman,' he said, 'has permission from the First Sergeant to speak to the Captain.'
'Yes?' Colclough did not look up.
'Sir,' said Noah, nervously, 'my wife is arriving in town Friday night, and she has asked me to meet her in the lobby of the hotel, and I would like to have permission to leave camp on Friday night.'
Colclough didn't say anything for a long time. 'Private Ackerman,' he said finally, 'you are aware of the Company rule. The entire Company is restricted on Friday nights to prepare for inspection…'
'I know, Sir,' said Noah, 'but this was the only train she could get reservations on, and she expects me to meet her, and I thought, just this once…'
'Ackerman,' Colclough finally looked at him, the pale spot on the end of his nose white and twitching, 'in the Army, duty comes first. I don't know whether I can ever teach that to one of you people, but I'm goddamn going to try. The Army don't care whether you ever see your wife or not. When you're not on duty you can do whatever you please. When you are on duty, that's all there is to that. Now get out of here.'
'Yes, Sir,' said Noah.
'Yes, Sir, what?' Colclough asked…
'Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,' Noah said, remembering the lecture on military courtesy. He saluted and went out.
He sent a telegram, although it cost eighty-five cents. But there was no answer in the next two days from Hope, and there was no way of knowing whether she had received it or not. He couldn't sleep all Friday night, in the scrubbed barracks, lying there knowing that Hope was only ten miles from him after all these months, waiting for him in the hotel, not knowing, perhaps, what had happened to him, not knowing about people like Colclough or the blind authority and indifference of the Army, on which love had no claims, tenderness made no impression. Anyway, he thought dreamily, as he finally dozed off just before reveille, I'll see her this afternoon. And maybe it was all for the best. The last traces of my black eye may disappear by then, and I won't have to explain to her about how I got it…
