Soldiers’ Pay - William Faulkner (people reading books TXT) 📗

after the first two drinks. Makes me homesick: like a garage. Ever work in a garage?”

Sitting on the floor between two seats was Yaphank’s traveling companion, trying to ignite a splayed and sodden cigar. Like devastated France, thought Cadet Lowe, swimming his memory through the adenoidal reminiscences of Captain Bleyth, an R.A.F. pilot delegated to temporarily reinforce their democracy.

“Why, poor soldier,” said his friend, tearfully, “all alone in no man’s land and no matches. Ain’t war hell? I ask you.” He tried to push the other over with his leg, then he fell to kicking him, slowly. “Move over, you ancient mariner. Move over, you goddam bastard. Alas, poor Jerks or something (I seen that in a play, see? Good line) come on, come on; here’s General Pershing come to have a drink with the poor soldiers.” He addressed Cadet Lowe. “Look at him: ain’t he sodden in depravity?”

“Battle of Coonyak,” the man on the floor muttered. “Ten men killed. Maybe fifteen. Maybe hundred. Poor children at home saying ‘Alice, where art thou?’ ”

“Yeh, Alice. Where in hell are you? That other bottle. What’n’ell have you done with it? Keeping it to swim in when you get home?”

The man on the floor weeping said: “You wrong me as ever man wronged. Accuse me of hiding mortgage on house? Then take this soul and body; take all. Ravish me, big boy.”

“Ravish a bottle of vinegar juice out of you, anyway,” the other muttered, busy beneath the seat. He rose triumphant, clutching a fresh bottle. “Hark! the sound of battle and the laughing horses draws near. But shall they dull this poor unworthy head? No! But I would like to of seen one of them laughing horses. Must of been lady horses all together. Your extreme highness”⁠—with ceremony, extending the bottle⁠—“will you be kind enough to kindly condescend to honor these kind but unworthy strangers in a foreign land?”

Cadet Lowe accepted the bottle, drank briefly, gagged and spat his drink. The other supporting him massaged his back. “Come on, come on, they don’t nothing taste that bad.” Kindly cupping Lowe’s opposite shoulder in his palm he forced the bottle mouthward again. Lowe released the bottle, defending himself. “Try again. I got you. Drink it, now.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Cadet Lowe, averting his head.

Passengers were interested and Yaphank soothed him. “Now, now. They won’t nothing hurt you. You are among friends. Us soldiers got to stick together in a foreign country like this. Come on, drink her down. She ain’t worth nothing to no one, spit on his legs like that.”

“Hell, man, I can’t drink it.”

“Why, sure you can. Listen: think of flowers. Think of your poor gray-haired mother hanging on the front gate and sobbing her gray-haired heart out. Listen, think of having to go to work again when you get home. Ain’t war hell? I would of been a corporal at least, if she had just hung on another year.”

“Hell, I can’t.”

“Why, you got to,” his new friend told him kindly, pushing the bottle suddenly in his mouth and tilting it. To be flooded or to swallow were his choices so he drank and retained it. His belly rose and hung, then sank reluctant.

“There now, wasn’t so bad, was it? Remember, this hurts me to see my good licker going more than it does you. But she do kind of smack of gasoline, don’t she?”

Cadet Lowe’s outraged stomach heaved at its muscular moorings like a captive balloon. He gaped and his vitals coiled coldly in a passionate ecstasy. His friend again thrust the bottle in his mouth.

“Drink, quick! You got to protect your investment, you know.”

His private parts, flooded, washed back to his gulping and a sweet fire ran through him, and the Pullman conductor came and regarded them in helpless disgust.

“Ten⁠—shun,” said Yaphank, springing to his feet. “Beware of officers! Rise, men, and salute the admiral here.” He took the conductor’s hand and held it. “Boys, this man commanded the navy,” he said. “When the enemy tried to capture Coney Island he was there. Or somewhere between there and Chicago, anyway, wasn’t you, Colonel?”

“Look out, men, don’t do that.” But Yaphank had already kissed his hand.

“Now, run along, Sergeant. And don’t come back until dinner is ready.”

“Listen, you must stop this. You will ruin my train.”

“Bless your heart, Captain, your train couldn’t be no safer with us if it was your own daughter.” The man sitting on the floor moved and Yaphank cursed him. “Sit still, can’t you? Say, this fellow thinks it’s night. Suppose you have your hired man bed him down? He’s just in the way here.”

The conductor, deciding Lowe was the sober one, addressed him.

“For God’s sake, soldier, can’t you do something with them?”

“Sure,” said Cadet Lowe. “You run along; I’ll look after them. They’re all right.”

“Well, do something with them. I can’t bring a train into Chicago with the whole army drunk on it. My God, Sherman was sure right.”

Yaphank stared at him quietly. Then he turned to his companions. “Men,” he said solemnly, “he don’t want us here. And this is the reward we get for giving our flesh and blood to our country’s need. Yes, sir, he don’t want us here; he begrudges us riding on his train, even. Say, suppose we hadn’t sprang to the nation’s call, do you know what kind of a train you’d have? A train full of Germans. A train full of folks eating sausage and drinking beer, all going to Milwaukee, that’s what you’d have.”

“Couldn’t be worse than a train full of you fellows not knowing where you’re going,” the conductor replied.

“All right,” Yaphank answered. “If that’s the way you feel, we’ll get off your goddam train. Do you think this is the only train in the world?”

“No, no,” the conductor said hastily, “not at all. I don’t want you to get off. I just want you to straighten up and not disturb the other passengers.”

The sitting man lurched clumsily and Cadet Lowe met interested stares.

“No,” said Yaphank, “no!