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

“I don’t,” replied Cadet Lowe. “I don’t want to go anywhere especially. I like this train here⁠—far as I am concerned. I say, let’s fight this war out right here. But you see, my people live in San Francisco. That’s why I am going there.”

“Why, sure,” Private Gilligan agreed readily. “Sometimes a man does wanta see his family⁠—especially if he don’t hafta live with ’em. I ain’t criticizing you. I admire you for it, buddy. But say, you can go home any time. What I say is, let’s have a look at this glorious nation which we have fought for.”

“Hell, I can’t. My mother has wired me every day since the armistice to fly low and be careful and come home as soon as I am demobilized. I bet she wired the President to have me excused as soon as possible.”

“Why sure. Of course she did. What can equal a mother’s love? Except a good drink of whisky. Where’s that bottle? You ain’t betrayed a virgin, have you?”

“Here she is.” Cadet Lowe produced it and Gilligan pressed the bell.

“Claude,” he told a superior porter, “bring us two glasses and a bottle of sassperiller or something. We are among gentlemen today and we aim to act like gentlemen.”

“Watcher want glasses for?” asked Lowe. “Bottle was all right yesterday.”

“You got to remember we are getting among strangers now. We don’t want to offend no savage customs. Wait until you get to be an experienced traveler and you’ll remember these things. Two glasses, Othello.”

The porter in his starched jacket became a symbol of self-sufficiency. “You can’t drink in this car. Go to the buffet car.”

“Ah, come on, Claude. Have a heart.”

“We don’t have no drinking in this car. Go to the buffet car if you want.” He swung himself from seat to seat down the lurching car.

Private Gilligan turned to his companion. “Well! What do you know about that? Ain’t that one hell of a way to treat soldiers? I tell you, General, this is the worst run war I ever seen.”

“Hell, let’s drink out of the bottle.”

“No, no! This thing has got to be a point of honor, now. Remember, we got to protect our uniform from insult. You wait here and I’ll see the conductor. We bought tickets, hey, buddy?”

With officers gone and officers’ wives
Having the grand old time of their lives⁠—

an overcast sky, and earth dissolving monotonously into a gray mist, grayly. Occasional trees and houses marching through it; and towns like bubbles of ghostly sound beaded on a steel wire⁠—

Who’s in the guard-room chewing the bars,
Saying to hell with the government wars?
Cadet!

And here was Gilligan returned, saying: “Charles, at ease.” I might have known he would have gotten another one, thought Cadet Lowe, looking up. He saw a belt and wings, he rose and met a young face with a dreadful scar across his brow. My God he thought, turning sick. He saluted and the other peered at him with strained distraction. Gilligan, holding his arm, helped him into the seat. The man turned his puzzled gaze to Gilligan and murmured, “Thanks.”

“Lootenant,” said Gilligan, “you see here the pride of the nation. General, ring the bell for ice water. The lootenant here is sick.”

Cadet Lowe pressed the bell, regarding with a rebirth of that old feud between American enlisted men and officers of all nations the man’s insignia and wings and brass, not even wondering what a British officer in his condition could be doing traveling in America. Had I been old enough or lucky enough, this might have been me, he thought jealously.

The porter reappeared.

“No drinking in this car, I told you,” he said. Gilligan produced a bill. “No, sir. Not in this car.” Then he saw the third man. He leaned down to him quickly, then glanced suspiciously from Gilligan to Lowe.

“What you all doing with him?” he asked.

“Oh, he’s just a lost foreigner I found back yonder. Now, Ernest⁠—”

“Lost? He ain’t lost. He’s from Gawgia. I’m looking after him. Cap’m”⁠—to the officer⁠—“is these folks all right?”

Gilligan and Lowe looked at each other. “Christ, I thought he was a foreigner,” Gilligan whispered.

The man raised his eyes to the porter’s anxious face. “Yes,” he said slowly, “they’re all right.”

“Does you want to stay here with them, or don’t you want me to fix you up in your place?”

“Let him stay here,” Gilligan said. “He wants a drink.”

“But he ain’t got no business drinking. He’s sick.”

“Loot,” Gilligan said, “do you want a drink?”

“Yes. I want a drink. Yes.”

“But he oughtn’t to have no whisky, sir.”

“I won’t let him have too much. I am going to look after him. Come on, now, let’s have some glasses, can’t we?”

The porter began again. “But he oughtn’t⁠—”

“Say, Loot,” Gilligan interrupted, “can’t you make your friend here get us some glasses to drink from?”

“Glasses?”

“Yeh! He don’t want to bring us none.”

“Does you want glasses, Cap’m?”

“Yes, bring us some glasses, will you?”

“All right, Cap’m.” He stopped again. “You going to take care of him, ain’t you?” he asked Gilligan.

“Sure, sure!”

The porter gone, Gilligan regarded his guest with envy. “You sure got to be from Georgia to get service on this train. I showed him money but it never even shook him. Say, General,” to Lowe, “we better keep the lootenant with us, huh? Might come in useful.”

“Sure,” agreed Lowe. “Say, sir, what kind of ships did you use?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” interrupted Gilligan, “let him be. He’s been devastating France, now he needs rest. Hey, Loot?”

Beneath his scarred and tortured brow the man’s gaze was puzzled but kindly and the porter reappeared with glasses and a bottle of ginger ale. He produced a pillow which he placed carefully behind the officer’s head, then he got two more pillows for the others, forcing them with ruthless kindness to relax. He was deftly officious, including them impartially in his activities, like Fate. Private Gilligan, unused to this, became restive.

“Hey, ease up, George; lemme do my own pawing a while. I