The WWII Collection. William WhartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
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