Whistle by James Jones
“As far as being killed goes, it’s true you might be killed,” he said on one visit. “If you don’t change your job. Sergeant of infantry. Whereas I don’t know if I would. I mean, with my kind of work. Cooking, and running a mess. I’ve never even seen any real combat. Like you have.”
“I haven’t really seen any either,” Landers said.
“Well, at least you’ve been in a couple of firefights and killed some Japs.”
“Only one Jap. And that was at pretty long range. I don’t know if I killed him. I know I hit him. I’m only a clerk, really.”
“Yeah, company clerk, rifle company, infantry. That’s what you’ve got to get changed.”
“Can you see me getting myself transferred to the quartermaster?”
“No. I guess not.”
“I wouldn’t even know how to begin.”
“It’s that damned getting wounded. If you hadn’t got wounded, you’d have been all right.”
“Yes. I guess so,” Landers said. “And I’d still be out there.”
Strange had managed to get hold of a bottle somewhere, and passed it over. “Well, don’t go feeling lonesome and blue. Shit, we don’t even know what we’re gonna run into when we do get to Luxor. Maybe you’ll find you’re permanently disabled.”
“I don’t think so. Not from the way that surgeon who operated on me talked.”
“Well, you never can tell,” Strange said.
Another time he said, “What about your family?”
“Ha, my family.” Landers laughed. The suggestions were becoming more and more ridiculous each time Strange came. “I could tell you a lot about my family. If I got killed, my mother would buy herself a gold-star flag to stick in the window, that’s what. And be tickled to death she had something to cry over every week at her bridge club. My sister would have something to get attention with in her sociology courses in college. And my father. My father would be able to go down to the American Legion three nights a week and brag about how his boy fought, bled and died for his country.”
Strange stared back at him expressionlessly and ran his tongue slowly over his teeth. “That don’t sound like much of a family.”
“They’re all phonies. Hypocrites. Listen, I quit college to join the infantry when the war started,” Landers said. “Well, my father raised all kinds of hell. He wanted me to stay in college till I graduated and then he would help me get a commission, he said, something nice and safe like in Washington. I refused. He wouldn’t even come to say good-by to me when I left.”
“But now it looks like your father was right, don’t it?” Strange said.
“I suppose he was. In a way. The cynical old son of a bitch.”
“What’s he do?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Maybe you should let your father help you get that commission now?”
“I’d rather die,” Landers said. “Anyway, now he wouldn’t.”
“Well, maybe there are other ways to do it. You’re an educated fella. You ought to be able to use it.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do, how to begin. And besides I’d be ashamed.”
“Hell, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Strange said. “Let me think about it awhile more. I’ll come back later.” He stood up, swaying with the train’s sway.
This time, Landers was almost laughing when he left. It had become a personal challenge to Strange, apparently, the way he shook his head and set his jaw. And the next time he came, ambling bandy-legged and picking his way back along the swaying central corridor, Landers began to laugh almost before he sat down. Strange stopped and looked at him, nonplused, and then grinned and began to laugh himself. He had brought a newer, almost full bottle with him this time. They drank it empty, getting drunk and roaring with laughter, and each trying to outdo the other in making up newer and more outlandish, more outrageous ways for Landers to save himself. And save his life.
When he left that time, Landers watched him with warm eyes.
Strange could feel pleased with himself. But if he thought his little therapy had cured the despair, he was mistaken. He came back more and more, and they drank more and more, and laughed more and more, but whenever he left, Landers still had the night window to stare out of. The moon was full over the Kansas wheat fields on that trip. It seemed right in keeping. And Landers clung to Strange more and more. When the truck convoy stopped inside the Kilrainey General central compound and started unloading, all Landers could think of, in a kind of juvenile panic, was where to find Strange. Like most people who pick a confessor to expose themselves to, he had become the slave of the therapist.
In the confused press of the unloading, in the midst of all those to be unloaded and all those who had come to see them arrive, it was impossible to find anybody. Landers let himself be helped off the truckbed, and standing on his crutches in the crowds looked frantically everywhere for Strange, until in the edge of the crowd of observers he heard somebody cry, “There’s Landers!” He looked and saw five men from the old company who looked vaguely familiar, but he didn’t really recognize them. They didn’t look like the same men. Their faces had changed in some way. Some way that he could not read. They weren’t the old companions from the company that he’d known. Before he could do more than wave, he was hurried away on his crutches with a group, toward one of the distant wards, along the brick-porticoed-covered concrete walkways.
When he finally was allowed to get outside the big doors of his ward a few days later on his own, and find his way around a bit, he found that Strange had already left on a short convalescent furlough to Cincinnati.
CHAPTER 9
THE SHAKEDOWN TOOK A full six days. It was not only that there was so much to do to and for each man. It was also the amount of time required to get the simplest thing done.
Getting an X-ray was often a full day’s job for a man who could walk, like Landers or Strange. It meant going to the X-ray Section (always a long way off and hard to find) and sitting and waiting in line through a full working day, and then often having to return the next day. While the ambulatory cases waited patiently, each with his signed chit in his hand, one or two or three stretcher cases might be rolled in in their surgeon’s “meat wagons” and given precedence. There were always more men waiting than the staff could get to. The Chemical Medicine Section for blood tests was equally difficult.
Each man had to have a complete VD examination. Each man had to have a full dental checkout. Then there were all the physical examinations on the ward itself. His ward intern had to get acquainted with him. His surgeon had to get acquainted with him. His file had to be studied. Questions had to be asked. And asked again.
The new arrivals learned quickly that just because this was a hospital did not mean that it would not be run in the Army way. The Army way was to achieve expertise by handling en bloc larger and larger numbers of similar objects, including casualties. While saving time and enhancing efficiency in the upper levels of bloc-manipulating, this method passed all time loss and inefficiency straight down to the lowest level of individual unit—where it enhanced and multiplied time loss, waste, human error, discomfort, all inefficiency at the individual unit level. Namely, each man. In actual fact, it was not just the Army way. It was the way of all large organizations. Such as factory forces, universities, big offices, and all hospitals, Army or otherwise.
Since most average soldiers had never experienced this managerial method, they thought of it uniquely as Army, put up with it patiently, and cursed it. And soon saw they were not going to be freed of it just simply because they were hospitalized.
By the time Landers was allowed out into the hospital proper to look around and found that Johnny Stranger had already left on convalescent furlough, he had been shut up in his particular ward for more than five full days. There was a huge general messhall somewhere, he was told, but as far as his life was concerned all meals in Kilrainey General were served on the ward.
Landers was again at a loss, with
Strange, though, had quickly developed into a special case. Partly this was because of the nature of his injury, but partly it was because his wife telephoned him from Cincinnati.
Strange lost no time in learning what he could find out about the hospital internal politics. By the sheer luck of the draw he had been assigned to the younger and more tolerant of the two chief surgeons in orthopedics, both transposed civilians. By luck also, he was put in the same ward with two old members of the old company, Corello the Italian from McMinnville and a long lanky Southerner from Alabama named Drake. These two quickly filled him in on what they knew, or had heard. The young lt colonel who was his surgeon was rumored by hospital gossip to be a crackerjack poker player. This alone showed the points he had already earned with the men. When during his rounds he first examined the articulation of Strange’s hand and then looked at the X-rays, sitting on Strange’s bed with the hand on his knee, he shook his head and made a wry smile. It was perhaps a snap judgment, he felt, but he was afraid the hand might come out of the operation in worse shape than before. He wanted more time to study it and make further examinations.
Behind him, standing at the bed foot, the thickset sandy-haired administrative major, who wore a bristly red military mustache and had administrative control over all the orthopedics cases, harumphed his displeasure and cleared his throat and coughed. Col Curran simply turned to smile brightly at him.
Strange watched them both covertly, the exchange not lost on him. He had heard all about the major, too. Not much of it good. The major’s job, in fact, was to get every man back to full duty as quick as possible. Also, the surgeon’s comment on his hand immediately sensitized Strange to the possibility that he might be up for a discharge even sooner than he had anticipated. Carefully keeping his eyes lowered, careful not to show any pleasure, Strange used the opportunity to ask in a low humble voice that if such was the case, might not the colonel see his way clear to giving him a three-day pass, since his wife was coming to Luxor to see him from Cincinnati, and he had not seen her in eighteen months.
Young Col Curran raised clear, bright, amused eyes from Strange’s hand to Strange’s face, and laughed silently. “Actually I don’t see any reason why not, Will you see to that, Major?”
The major cleared his throat again. “Well, the policy is not to allow any leaves or passes until a man has finalized his potential operative surgical status.”
“As far as I’m concerned, Sergeant—uh?—Stranger?—Sergeant Strange here has a finalized operative surgical status. At least for two weeks. So will you see to it, Doctor Hogan?”
“Yes, sir, Doctor. I will.” Hogan’s voice was stony. “But I’m sure the colonel realizes it’s unorthodox. You come see me,” he said to Strange, “when your wife arrives.”
Strange kept his eyes down. Though he knew he had made an enemy. “Thank you, Major, sir. My wife’ll appreciate it as much as me.” Col Curran’s eyes were still laughing.
But then Linda Sue hadn’t come. She had telephoned instead.
Taking a personal phone call on a crowded ward, especially a call that carried an embarrassing message, was as frustrating as it was unpleasant. You couldn’t really say anything you wanted to say. There was a small office with a phone in it on each ward, but it was kept locked and only the ward intern and the nurse had the keys. So Strange had to take the call at the ward boy’s desk.
She could not get away from her job, was the upshot of Linda’s call. The job was in a defense plant making precision parts for 105 howitzers and they wouldn’t let her off. Yes, she’d told them it was because her husband had just returned from overseas, wounded. They still wouldn’t let her off. Strange thought her voice sounded distant and sullen. And it occurred to him suddenly that she had sounded a little bit that same way, too, when he called from San Francisco. But he had been too elated to notice. Something picked stiffly at the back of his mind. Well, why didn’t she just quit the damned job? he demanded. She could get another easy enough; in wartime. No she couldn’t, Linda came back. The good jobs were not all that easy to get. She had taken special training for this one. If she quit, she would have to start all over at the bottom in something else. Besides, she had made friends there. She liked the job. Strange suddenly stopped talking. He was aware without looking that faces were turned toward him on the ward. Besides, quite suddenly, he could see her point, her side of it. There was no reason to suspect her of anything. Well, what if he could get himself a two-week convalescent furlough, would that please her? There was a pause. Of course it would, she’d be overjoyed, Linda said, did he think he could? “I don’t know,” Strange said. “But I’ll try. I’ll call or send a wire when I find out.” She said she loved him. He said he loved her. In a low voice. Then he hung up and walked away toward his bed trying not to show any unhappiness on his face. It was then he decided to go straight to Curran. He, Strange himself, on his own.
He knew it would make an even greater enemy of Hogan, but fuck the chain of command. He waited on the surgeon outside his little office next to the big surgery theaters. There were three of them. Curran came out from somewhere, whistling to himself with some deep satisfaction, his hands and the rest of him spotlessly clean. He was still in his “cutting” apron. “Ah, yes. Sergeant Strange, isn’t it?” Yes, he could arrange to let him go. But for two weeks only. And he could not give the order. He could only recommend. Everyone was theoretically entitled to a month’s convalescent furlough after getting back. But much depended on the situation at the moment. Some got a month, some got none at all. If Strange took two weeks now, he would probably not get two further weeks later on. Strange said he would waive that. Curran would want one more much fuller examination, would take him down to the therapy lab where they had machines to check the hand more thoroughly. Then he would recommend the leave. But during the two weeks Strange must use the hand as much as possible. Make himself use it. Pick up glasses, light cigarettes, pull change from his pocket. Things like that. Even if it hurt him. And it would hurt him, a lot. He smiled at Strange merrily, and pursed his lips again for whistling.
“Look at these hands,” he said suddenly, holding them up. They spread themselves, at the ends of the slim muscled forearms, bespeaking in their shape and movement all the delicacy and reflexes that made them. “They’re worth a fortune, did you know that.” Curran grinned. “And no credit to me at all. I just happen to be the one to have them. Did you know I can’t even go out and get drunk and get in a fight? For fear of hurting them?” He whistled a little, silently. “We’re ghouls. Parasites. This war is a great boon to us. This war, and you people.” He gripped Strange by the arm above the elbow, and smiled merrily. “But it’s tough on you. We should show our appreciation occasionally. Strange, eh? A strange name, huh?” He laughed happily at his own joke.
In the taxi heading into town to the Greyhound station Strange could not decide whether he liked him or not. But at least, anyway, he told the absolute truth. He didn’t try to doll it all up in phony propaganda about duty and service to humanity, like Hogan. Hogan had been furious, red in the face when Curran’s recommendation came down approved by the head of Administration.
The big Greyhound station was jammed. Servicemen with or without their families, families with or without their servicemen, were in transit toward just about every point around the compass. Ranks of the big blue and white buses stood in echelons in their stalls, under the protective roofing. A loudspeaker’s metallic voice intoned their arrivals and departures. Loading or unloading, or just sitting silent waiting on their huge wheels, their mass dominated everything, making the people around them insignificant and small. Heading mostly northeast toward Nashville, or into the Deep South for Birmingham, Atlanta, Montgomery, and Jackson, they rolled cumbrously in and out of the main entrance with clockwork regularity.
Both the Negro and the White waiting rooms were crowded, and both the Colored and White drinking fountains had lines waiting at them. The Negro
Strange had often daydreamed about his homecoming. He had imagined himself returning carrying one of those sharp green folding airman’s valises, full of uniforms, his other arm full of packages of presents for everyone. He had bought fanciful presents in Guadalcanal, the New Hebrides, New Caledonia and Australia, but they had all been stolen or lost or broken or just thrown away until now he had nothing. He had no suitcase. He had only the clothes he stood up in. A small zipper bag carried an extra summer uniform. He didn’t mind. He was content, and sat against the wall waiting happily in the crowded steaming White waiting room, among the squalling babies and exhausted young mothers coming from or going to their husbands in the service.
Strange had traveled the Greyhounds all his adult life. It never would have occurred to him to try to go by train.
Anyway, the trains were hardly better.
The ride itself was a long half-waking nightmare of heavy-smelling bodies, paper-wrapped bologna sandwiches, swollen feet, toilet stops, beers, half pints of whiskey, oncoming headlights flashing uneasily over the sleeping faces in the darkened interior. Stopovers and changes late at night in Nashville and Louisville. He made the acquaintance of a young sailor in the seat next to his who was going home on leave from the Luxor Naval Air Station, before shipping out to the West Coast for duty in the South Pacific. When he learned Strange was just back from there, he plied Strange with an endless stream of questions. But it was hard to explain to him. Nothing was like or fit in with what the boy had already imagined. In the midst of describing the fleet base in Noumea in New Caledonia to him, Strange fell fast asleep back into his nightmare of paper-wrapped bologna sandwiches and swollen feet.