Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 22

When I go for my session with Weiss, I can smell right away he’s going to work on me. I know for sure I’m not going to tell him anything; I’m certainly not going to tell anything about Birdy. I don’t want him to find out about Birdy feeding himself or standing up and walking around. I’m convinced Weiss can’t do Birdy any good. If only I can stay a little longer maybe Birdy’ll come around.

We salute and he leans back, crosses his hands over his fat stomach and smiles at me. He’s got the folder open on his desk. He has another folder there, too. I’m willing to bet it’s my records from Dix. He’s working himself up a thing OK. There’s nothing I can do but play it by ear. I try to get myself into a good Sicilian mood. I pretend we’re sitting at a cafe in Cambria with sunshine streaming down on us. Weiss is a tribal chieftain from the other side of the hills.

‘Well, Sergeant. How did it go yesterday?’

‘Fine, sir. I talked to the patient about how we used to ice skate in the winter sometimes. I think he might have been listening to me, sir.’

‘What made you think he was listening, Sergeant?’

‘Just the way he was sitting, sir. He seemed to be watching me.’

I’ll have to be careful here. Whatever happens, I don’t want Weiss charging into the ward. Birdy’d be sure I’m working against him. I back off some.

‘How is your jaw coming along, Sergeant? I have your papers here and you seem to have had a rather serious injury there. How long is it before you have another operation scheduled?’

He’s the psychiatrist this morning, all right He couldn’t care less about me. He’s working up to something.

‘It’s fine, sir. Next week I have the final work done. They’ll put on the last layers and finish it off.’

Weiss leans forward and pulls my folder in front of him. He flips open the cover. It’s my records all right; I see my name.

‘Sergeant, would you mind going into more detail about this court-martial you had at Fort Cumberland? What actually happened?’

‘I don’t see what that has to do with the patient, sir. It all happened a long time ago.’

‘Let me decide that, Sergeant.’

Son-of-a-bitch!

‘Well, sir, if you think it might help, I’ll tell you all I can remember.’

Some way I have to keep this shit away from Birdy. He’s sitting there smiling at me over his folded hands. I smile back, a Sicilian smile, the Southern smile which says, ‘You and I know all this is so much horseshit, let’s get on with it.’

He leans back in his chair, exhales a deep sigh, closes his eyes behind his glasses while picking up a yellow pencil from the desk. He starts putting the pencil on its point, sliding his fingers down the pencil, then turning the pencil around so the eraser is on the desk, and sliding down again. He’s sort of subtly jacking off on the pencil. I consider sneaking away; I don’t want to talk about Cumberland. Boy, Birdy, the crap I’m putting up with for you.

‘Well, sir, I was in the Pennsylvania State Guard and in December they sent me to Fort Cumberland for induction and reassignment into the regular army.’

I even have to show those assholes at Cumberland how to hook bayonet scabbards to the webbing equipment. There’s a hunky T-5 in charge, but he sits in the squad room all day long topping up his load. Hell, I’m taking over the barracks, going to make general in six months.

The third morning, we’re called out and lined up in the company street. It’s so cold that when I spit it freezes before I can smear it with my foot. A second lieutenant and a Sergeant come out from a shed on the other side of the street. The Sergeant calls us to attention and there’s mail call. My feet are freezing, my nose is about to drop off, my fingers are stiff in the gloves. None of us is going to get any mail. Then, the Sergeant calls us to attention again and the lieutenant starts.

‘All right, men. After this, you’ll be dismissed to quarters. Chow at twelve hundred. First, Corporal Lumbowski will choose men for details.’

The hunky T-5 starts walking down the line. He stops every once in a while and points. He comes to me, points and says, ‘Coal.’ Would you believe it, I’m proud I’ve been chosen. The rest are dismissed and about fifteen of us stay.

Weiss is still lying back with a smile on his face, his eyes closed behind his glasses. I almost expect him to snore but he isn’t asleep at all. I’m wondering how much I can bullshit this without making him open his eyes.

The T-5 calls us together. He’s a chunky bastard, not tall but square, true hunky type, reminds me of a Cheltenham Polack I pinned in the District finals. Pinned him first period; strong but dumb. The stupid shit cries while I’m pinning him. Tears are running down his red face while I’m tightening a half nelson and jacking up a crotch hold. The T-5 tells the coal detail to report to him at the shed next morning at oh-five-hundred. There are four of us.

Back in the barracks it looks as if the shit hit the fan. Everybody’s thrown all their gear on the floor and crowded around the stove. I start high-kneeing up and down the barracks, jumping and dodging all the crap on the floor. I hate to think of going into combat with fuck-offs like these.

Next morning, a PFC flunky wakes me and I get down to the kitchen for chow. I’m the first one there and I even made up my bunk before I left. The kitchen is warm and steamy. I eat while the rest of the detail comes straggling in.

After that, we stand for ten minutes in the dark on the company street, waiting. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, but my feet are already cold. My arms are stiff from the shots. I jog in place and windmill my arms. The other three jerks are hunched inside themselves, smoking.

Finally, the T-5 comes out. He doesn’t look up or count us. Maybe he can’t count to four. We follow him to the motor pool where a truck is waiting. There are two jigs in the cabin. I smile at them but they ignore me. The T-5 pulls down the tailgate.

‘OK, up you go, shitheads.’

I muscle up and swing into the truck first. Two guys can’t make it so I give them a hand. The back of the truck is sheet metal, wet, slick and black with damp coal dust. Shovels are leaning against the front wall of the truck bed. There are no seats. The damned coal dust is going to get all over the new overcoats. I go and squat beside the shovels. The other farts line up on both sides of me. Nobody’s saying anything. We’re not even looking at each other.

The truck starts with a lurch and swings hard out of the motor pool. We’re all thrown on our asses and slip across the truck bed. We can hear the sons-of-bitches laughing in the cabin. The T-5 looks back at the fun through the cabin window. We barrel along a dirt road, falling all over each other, till we get on the main road to Harrisburg. Our knees are black from sliding around, and Christ it’s cold! There’s nothing to block the wind. My face and ears have turned numb. After about half an hour, we pull up to some coal piles near the river. The truck stops and the T-5 comes around to open the tailgate.

I guess I’ve stopped talking and I’m only thinking because Weiss opens his eyes and says, ‘Go on, Sergeant, tell me about the incident that related to the court-martial. Tell me everything you can remember.’

‘Well, sir. They transported us by military transport to Harrisburg. There was a corporal in charge, Corporal Lumbowski, the non-commissioned officer I was accused of attacking. There were also two PFCs driving the truck and four of us on the detail.’

I’m running my mind a mile a minute trying to give Weiss enough to keep him interested but not too much. I’m hoping I can tell this without sounding like a homicidal maniac.

I jump off the truck first and my legs buckle. I can’t feel a thing. One guy takes a header and cuts his hand on the gravel. The T-5 is standing, pointing into the truck. He’s wearing thick leather mittens.

‘Stupid basturds; ya fergot the fuggin’ shovels. Ya wanna shovel tha’ coal whit yer han’s dat’s OK whit me. You!’

He points at me.

‘Yeah, you, musclehead. Jump up deah an’ git dem gahdamn shovels an’ make it fast! We ain’ gaht awh fuggin’ day!’

I do a quick, one-handed hurdle up onto the truck bed. The moron didn’t expect that. I grab the shovels. I stand with them at the tail of the truck. I motion to one of the guys on the detail.

‘Here, you; catch!’

I throw him a shovel. The asshole not only misses; he ducks!

‘Cut dat shit, fuck-off! Jiis’ han’ ’em down. Dem’s guvment isshew. Ya wanna make outta fuggin’ Stamenttachaages, huh?’

I jump down and pass out the shovels. The jigs back the truck close to a huge pile of coal. The T-5 takes my shovel.

‘Naow, disheah’s ah shovel, an’ disheah’s de wokkin’ en’. Disheah’s de hannel. Ya take-a-hold by de hannel an’ push de flaht paht unnder de coal deah and lif’ up an trowh de coal inna truck. See? Unnerstan?’

So fuckin’ stupid. We all start shoveling. The coal’s frozen so hard we almost can’t get the shovels in for the first few bites; we have to kick them in. We’re all getting in each other’s way. The T-5 goes up to sit in the cab with the jigs. They keep the motor running so the cab’ll stay warm. All we’re getting is carbon monoxide out the back. Nobody’s talking; none of us is much at shoveling; we’re all hurting from the shots and binding tight in the new overcoats. It’s going to be one long morning filling that truck.

‘Well, sir, we work for about two hours shoveling coal into the truck. None of us had had much experience and the noncom in charge, Corporal Lumbowski, was getting impatient. He had a job to get done and we were way behind schedule.’

Weiss nods and gives a few hmms to show he’s listening. I think he really likes hearing this kind of crap. Maybe psychiatrists get into it because they like freaky stories.

I’m just getting up a sweat, when the moron T-5 jumps down from the cab, puts out his cigarette and comes back. I can see the jigs looking through the cab window over the coal we’ve piled up. The T-5 has promised them some kind of show. I’m expecting the worst. The T-5 stands watching half a minute, then comes over to me. He grabs my shovel and pushes me aside.

‘Dat ain’ no way ta shovel, musclehead. Do it lak dis heah!’

He drives the shovel into the coal, tilts and swings it over his shoulder in one movement. He does another. They gave this fart the coal detail for good reason, he’s got to be some kind of coal miner in civilian life. The other guys have stopped to watch. He pushes the shovel back at me.

‘Naoull, gitto it. Stop de fuggin’ golbricken’!’

He goes back. The cab door opens and they’re laughing; deep, inside, nigger laughing. That laughing sounds warm. I’m so frozen, even my Sicilian laugh wouldn’t work. I start shoveling.

About five minutes later, he’s there again. He stands watching, banging his mittens together, stamping his feet. I’m trying to show the bastard up; digging in hard, tilting up a full shovel load, and really swinging back to get it all in the truck. No fartface, hunky, coal miner’s going to outdo Al Columbato. He comes over to me.

‘Foah chrissake, musclehead; yer trowin’ haf de coal unner de fuggin’ truck. Giddown deah an’ scrape it all ou’ an’ trah ta aim atta gawhdamn truck instead’a all oveah de yahd.’

Five days in the regular army and I’ve already found somebody to kill. I lean under the truck and scrape out the coal. There’s not half a shovelful. I start shoveling again. After about two shovelsful, he grabs me by the arm and reaches for the shovel. I pull the shovel away.

‘Keep your fuckin’ hunky hands off my shovel, shithead.’

Everything stops; nobody’s shoveling. The T-5 stares; there’s no going back, now. I’m not going to let myself be pawed over by a dumb shit like him, stripes or not.

Weiss has stopped jacking off his pencil; he’s tense behind those glasses. He’s practically holding his breath, waiting for a violence scene. The trouble is, I want to shock the shit out of him. What the hell, the war’s over. They can’t lock me up. I’m ready to be discharged. I have more than enough points with the Purple Heart and everything.

The T-5 takes a step toward me and sticks his ugly face out.

‘What’d yoou say, soldjur?!’

‘You heard me, asshole. Keep your filthy hands off my shovel. I’ve got work to do.’

I start shoveling again.

‘Oh yeah? Oh Yeah?! Yore in big trubble, soldjur. Gimme dat shovel. Ahm takin’ yoou off deetail naull an’ turnin’ yoou in!’

He reaches for the shovel.

I step back about two steps to the edge of the coal pile and swing from the hips! God, I’ve got to say, it feels good! I catch him flush in the face, straight on, flat out!!!

Weiss is breathing hard; maybe he’ll have an orgasm.

The T-5’s feet go out from under him and he’s on his back in the coal pile. He starts to get up, then falls back again. His face looks blurred, as if somebody’d pulled a silk stocking over it. At first, it’s white, then the blood starts.

The jigs have both jumped out of the truck. Blood’s really flowing now. The T-5 begins spitting teeth. The jig holds the hunky’s head up so the blood can come out. It’s dark, thick blood and there’s not a tooth left across the front of his mouth.

The other jig is holding a pistol on me with both hands. He’s shaking and he has his finger on the trigger. I can’t tell if the safety is on or not. He’s staring, wild-eyed, down that gun at me.

‘Man, you done it. The fuckin’ ahmy’s gwine’a kill you!’

I try to stare it out with him. What else can I do? He’s liable to kill me as not.

‘Put down that gun, nigger. I’m not gwine’a kill you, not yet!’

I’m feeling cold inside. The jig lowers the gun but keeps it in his hand. The hunky is sitting up. He still doesn’t know what happened.

Weiss is leaning forward, his eyes open. His mouth has dropped but he’s not drooling yet.

‘Well, sir, after I hit him, I was confined to quarters and three days later I had a summary court-martial. I was reprimanded, it was written into my service record, and they shipped me out to Benning for Infantry basic. It wasn’t much of a way to begin an army career, sir.’

So, General Columbato was court-martialed and broken to private after only five days in the regular army. The whole thing was a farce. I’m confined to quarters for the rest of the time I’m at Cumberland; this meant no details, no standing around in the cold. They also take half my first six months’ pay. Big deal, half of fifty-four dollars a month. After the sentencing, the captain who’s in charge sees I’m not hurting. I’m trying my damnedest not to smile about the whole thing. He leans toward me.

‘Soldier, I also command you to visit Corporal Lumbowski in the hospital!’

‘I can’t do that, sir.’

He stands up and leans farther forward, vested authority pouring from his eyes.

‘And why not, soldier. That’s a direct order!’

‘I’m confined to quarters, sir.’

I keep my face straight and he’s pissed. Maybe I’ll get a second court-martial for insulting a commissioned officer. I’m working my way up.

The captain keeps his eye on me and pulls out a drawer from the desk. He writes on a pad of paper. He hands the paper across to me. I take it without looking at it.

‘That’ll get you to the hospital, private.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

I take the chance; give him a fancy salute, sharp one, he returns it. I spin on my heels and leave. I walk through the orderly room, down the steps, across the company street and into the barracks. I flop out on my bunk the way the rest of the slobs do. I borrow a comic book from the bunk next to me, Captain Marvel. The bunk’s covered with comic books. Five days and about a hundred comic books later, I get orders for Benning. I never do get to see that T-5.

I’m finished and Weiss is wanting more. We sit there quiet for a couple minutes.

‘And that’s the whole story, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you don’t feel you’d do anything like that again?’

‘No, sir. I learned my lesson.’

‘Did you ever hit or use violence on the patient?’

Finally, he asks the jackpot question!

‘No, sir. We were friends.’

He pushes the pencil up and down a few more times.

‘Do you have any idea, Alfonso, why you’ve been victim to these aggressive, hostile impulses? Did your father ever beat you excessively? Do you have some deep feeling of being hurt?’

Son-of-a-bitch!! He fooled me with all the fat and the smiles and glasses. He knows. I’m beginning to know, too. I’m stuck with some crazy things, like Popeye.

I yam what I yam

And that’s what I yam;

I’m Popeye the sailor man:

Toot!!! Toot!!!

I eat all my spinach and

Fight to the finish.

I’m Popeye the sailor man;

Toot!!! Toot!!!

Bullshit!!!!