Three Soldiers by John Dos Passos (best e book reader android .txt) đ
- Author: John Dos Passos
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âI donât smoke.â
âYeâd better learn. The corporal likes fancy ciggies and so does the sergeant; you jusâ slip âem each a butt now and then. May help ye to get in right with âem.â
âDonât do no good,â said FuselliâŠ. âItâs juss luck. But keep neat-like and smilinâ and youâll get on all right. And if they start to ride ye, show fight. Yeâve got to be hard boiled to git on in this army.â
âYeâre goddam right,â said the tall youth. âDonât let âem ride yerâŠ. Whatâs yer name, rookie?â
âEisenstein.â
âThis fellerâs nameâs PowersâŠ. Bill Powers. Mineâs FuselliâŠ. Goinâ to the movies, Mr. Eisenstein?â
âNo, Iâm trying to find a skirt.â The little man leered wanly. âGlad to have got ackwainted.â
âGoddam kike!â said Powers as Eisenstein walked off up a side street, planted, like the avenue, with saplings on which the sickly leaves rustled in the faint breeze that smelt of factories and coal dust.
âKikes ainât so bad,â said Fuselli, âI got a good friend whoâs a kike.â
They were coming out of the movies in a stream of people in which the blackish clothes of factory-hands predominated.
âI came near bawlinâ at the picture of the feller leavinâ his girl to go off to the war,â said Fuselli.
âDid yer?â
âIt was just like it was with me. Ever been in Frisco, Powers?â
The tall youth shook his head. Then he took off his broad-brimmed hat and ran his fingers over his stubby tow-head.
âGee, it was some hot in there,â he muttered.
âWell, itâs like this,â said Fuselli. âYou have to cross the ferry to Oakland. My auntâŠye know I ainât got any mother, so I always live at my auntâsâŠ. My aunt anâ her sister-in-law anâ Mabe⊠Mabeâs my girlâŠthey all came over on the ferry-boat, âspite of my tellinâ âem I didnât want âem. Anâ Mabe said she was mad at me, âcause sheâd seen the letter I wrote Georgine Slater. She was a toughie, lived in our street, I used to write mash notes to. Anâ I kepâ tellinâ Mabe Iâd done it juss for the hell of it, anâ that I didnât mean nawthinâ by it. Anâ Mabe said she wouldnât never forgive me, anâ then I said maybe Iâd be killed anâ sheâd never see me again, anâ then we all began to bawl. Gawd! it was a messâŠ. â
âItâs hell sayinâ good-by to girls,â said Powers, understandingly. âCuts a feller all up. I guess itâs better to go with coosies. Ye donât have to say good-by to them.â
âEver gone with a coosie?â
âNot exactly,â admitted the tall youth, blushing all over his pink face, so that it was noticeable even under the ashen glare of the arc lights on the avenue that led towards camp.
âI have,â said Fuselli, with a certain pride. âI used to go with a Portugee girl. My but she was a toughie. Iâve given all that up now Iâm engaged, thoughâŠ. But I was tellinâ yeâŠ. Well, we finally made up anâ I kissed her anâ Mabe said sheâd never marry any one but me. So when we was walkinâ up the street I spied a silk service flag in a winder, that was all fancy with a star all trimmed up to beat the band, anâ I said to myself, Iâm goinâ to give that to Mabe, anâ I ran in anâ bought it. I didnât give a hoot in hell what it cost. So when we was all kissinâ and bawlinâ when I was goinâ to leave them to report to the overseas detachment, I shoved it into her hand, anâ said, âKeep that, girl, anâ donât you forgit me.â Anâ what did she do but pull out a five-pound box oâ candy from behind her back anâ say, âDonât make yerself sick, Dan.â Anâ sheâd had it all the time without my knowinâ it. Ainât girls clever?â
âYare,â said the tall youth vaguely.
Along the rows of cots, when Fuselli got back to the barracks, men were talking excitedly.
âThereâs hell to pay, somebodyâs broke out of the jug.â
âHow?â
âDamned if I know.â
âSergeant Timmons said he made a rope of his blankets.â
âNo, the feller on guard helped him to get away.â
âLike hell he did. It was like this. I was walking by the guardhouse when they found out about it.â
âWhat company did he belong ter?â
âDunno.â
âWhatâs his name?â
âSome guy on trial for insubordination. Punched an officer in the jaw.â
âIâd a liked to have seen that.â
âAnyhow heâs fixed himself this time.â
âYouâre goddam right.â
âWill you fellers quit talkinâ? Itâs after taps,â thundered the sergeant, who sat reading the paper at a little board desk at the door of the barracks under the feeble light of one small bulb, carefully screened. âYouâll have the O. D. down on us.â
Fuselli wrapped the blanket round his head and prepared to sleep. Snuggled down into the blankets on the narrow cot, he felt sheltered from the sergeantâs thundering voice and from the cold glare of officersâ eyes. He felt cosy and happy like he had felt in bed at home, when he had been a little kid. For a moment he pictured to himself the other man, the man who had punched an officerâs jaw, dressed like he was, maybe only nineteen, the same age like he was, with a girl like Mabe waiting for him somewhere. How cold and frightful it must feel to be out of the camp with the guard looking for you! He pictured himself running breathless down a long street pursued by a company with guns, by officers whose eyes glinted cruelly like the pointed tips of bullets. He pulled the blanket closer round his head, enjoying the warmth and softness of the wool against his cheek. He must remember to smile at the sergeant when he passed him off duty. Somebody had said thereâd be promotions soon. Oh, he wanted so hard to be promoted. Itâd be so swell if he could write back to Mabe and tell her to address her letters Corporal Dan Fuselli. He must be more careful not to do anything that would get him in wrong with anybody. He must never miss an opportunity to show them what a clever kid he was. âOh, when weâre ordered overseas, Iâll show them,â he thought ardently, and picturing to himself long movie reels of heroism he went off to sleep.
A sharp voice beside his cot woke him with a jerk.
âGet up, you.â
The white beam of a pocket searchlight was glaring in the face of the man next to him.
âThe O. D.â said Fuselli to himself.
âGet up, you,â came the sharp voice again.
The man in the next cot stirred and opened his eyes.
âGet up.â
âHere, sir,â muttered the man in the next cot, his eyes blinking sleepily in the glare of the flashlight. He got out of bed and stood unsteadily at attention.
âDonât you know better than to sleep in your O. D. shirt? Take it off.â
âYes, sir.â
âWhatâs your name?â
The man looked up, blinking, too dazed to speak. âDonât know your own name, eh?â said the officer, glaring at the man savagely, using his curt voice like a whip.ââQuick, take off yer shirt and pants and get back to bed.â
The Officer of the Day moved on, flashing his light to one side and the other in his midnight inspection of the barracks. Intense blackness again, and the sound of men breathing deeply in sleep, of men snoring. As he went to sleep Fuselli could hear the man beside him swearing, monotonously, in an even whisper, pausing now and then to think of new filth, of new combinations of words, swearing away his helpless anger, soothing himself to sleep by the monotonous reiteration of his swearing.
A little later Fuselli woke with a choked nightmare cry. He had dreamed that he had smashed the O. D. in the jaw and had broken out of the jug and was running, breathless, stumbling, falling, while the company on guard chased him down an avenue lined with little dried-up saplings, gaining on him, while with voices metallic as the clicking of rifle triggers officers shouted orders, so that he was certain to be caught, certain to be shot. He shook himself all over, shaking off the nightmare as a dog shakes off water, and went back to sleep again, snuggling into his blankets.
IIJohn Andrews stood naked in the center of a large bare room, of which the walls and ceiling and floor were made of raw pine boards. The air was heavy from the steam heat. At a desk in one corner a typewriter clicked spasmodically.
âSay, young feller, dâyou know how to spell imbecility?â
John Andrews walked over to the desk, told him, and added, âAre you going to examine me?â
The man went on typewriting without answering. John Andrews stood in the center of the floor with his arms folded, half amused, half angry, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, listening to the sound of the typewriter and of the manâs voice as he read out each word of the report he was copying.
âRecommendation for dischargeââŠclick, clickâŠâDamn this typewriterâŠ. Private Coe ElbertââŠclick, click. âDamn these rotten army typewritersâŠ. ReasonâŠmental deficiency. History of CaseâŠ. â At that moment the recruiting sergeant came back. âLook here, if you donât have that recommendation ready in ten minutes Captain Arthursâll be mad as hell about it, Hill. For Godâs sake get it done. He said already that if you couldnât do the work, to get somebody who could. You donât want to lose your job do you?â
âHullo,â the sergeantâs eyes lit on John Andrews, âIâd forgotten you. Run around the room a littleâŠ. No, not that way. Just a little so I can test yer heartâŠ. God, these rookies are thick.â
While he stood tamely being prodded and measured, feeling like a prize horse at a fair, John Andrews listened to the man at the typewriter, whose voice went on monotonously. âNoâŠrecord of sexual depâŠ. O hell, this eraserâs no good!⊠pravity or alcoholism; spentâŠnormalâŠyouth on farm. App-ear-ance normal though imâŠsay, how many âmâsâ in immature?â
âAll right, put yer clothes on,â said the recruiting sergeant. âQuick, I canât spend all day. Why the hell did they send you down here alone?â
âThe papers were balled up,â said Andrews.
âScores ten yearsâŠin test B,â went on the voice of the man at the typewriter. âSenâŠexal mentâŠm-e-n-t-a-l-i-t-y that of child of eight. Seems unableâŠto eitherâŠ. Goddam this manâs writinâ. How kin I copy it when he donât write out his words?â
âAll right. I guess youâll do. Now there are some forms to fill out. Come over here.â
Andrews followed the recruiting sergeant to a desk in the far corner of the room, from which he could hear more faintly the click, click of the typewriter and the manâs voice mumbling angrily.
âForgets to obey ordersâŠ. Responds to no form of perâŠsuasion. M-e-m-o-r-y, nil.â
âAll right. Take this to barracks BâŠ. Fourth building, to the right; shake a leg,â said the recruiting sergeant.
Andrews drew a deep breath of the sparkling air outside. He stood irresolutely a moment on the wooden steps of the building looking down the row of hastily constructed barracks. Some were painted green, some were of plain boards, and some were still mere skeletons. Above his head great piled, rose-tinted clouds were moving slowly across the immeasurable free sky. His glance slid down the sky to some tall trees that flamed bright yellow with autumn outside the camp limits, and then to the end of the long street of barracks, where was a picket fence and a sentry walking to and fro, to and fro. His
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