James Jones - 5 Sept

When he finished packing, he walked out onto the third-floor porch of the barracks brushing the dust from his hands, a very neat and deceptively slim young man in the summer khakis that were still early morning fresh.

He leaned his elbows on the porch ledge and stood looking down through the screens at the familiar scene of the barracks square laid out below with the tiers of porches dark in the faces of the three-story concrete barracks fronting on the square. He was feeling a half-sheepish affection for his vantage point that he was leaving.

Below him under the blows of the February Hawaiian sun the quadrangle gasped defenselessly, like an exhausted fighter. Through the heat haze and the thin mid-morning film of the parched red dust came up a muted orchestra of sounds: the clankings of steelwheeled carts bouncing over brick, the slappings of oiled leather slingstraps, the shuffling beat of scorched shoesoles, the hoarse expletives of irritated noncoms.

Somewhere along the line, he thought, these things have become your heritage. You are multiplied by each sound that you hear. And you cannot deny them, without denying with them the purpose of your own existence. Yet now, he told himself, you are denying them, by renouncing the place that they have given you.

In the earthen square in the center of the quad a machine gun company went listlessly through the motions of its Loading Drill.

Behind him in the high-ceiling squadroom was the muffled curtain of sound that comes from men just waking and beginning to move around, testing cautiously the flooring of this world they had last night forsaken. He listened to it, hearing also the footsteps coming up behind him, but thinking of how good a thing it had been to sleep late every morning as a member of this Bugle Corps and wake up to the sounds of the line companies already outside at drill.

You didnt pack my garrison shoes? he asked the footsteps. I meant to tell you. They scuff so easy.

Theyre on the bed, both pair, the voice behind him said. With the clean uniforms from your wall locker you didnt want to get mussed up. I pack your diddy box and extra hangers and your field shoes in the extra barricks bag.

Then I guess thats everything, the young man said. He stood up then, sighing, not a sigh of emotion but the sigh that is the relaxing of a tension. Lets eat, he said. I got an hour yet before I have to report to G Company.

I still think youre makin a bad mistake, the man behind him said.

Yeah I know; you told me. Every day for two weeks now. You just dont understand it, Red.

Maybe not, the other said. I aint no tempermental genius. But I understand somethin else. Im a good bugler and I know it. But I cant touch you on a bugle. Youre the best bugler in this Regiment, bar none. Probly the best in Schofield Barricks.

The young man thoughtfully agreed. Thats true.

Well. Then why you want to quit and transfer?

I dont want to, Red.

But you are.

Oh no Im not. You forget. Im being transferred. Theres a difference.

Now listen, Red said hotly.

You listen, Red. Lets go over to Choys and get some breakfast. Before this crowd gets over there and eats up all his stock. He jerked his head back at the awakening squadroom.

Youre actin like a kid, Red said. Youre not bein transferred, any more than I am. If you hadnt of gone and shot your mouth off to Houston none of this would ever happened.

Thats right.

Maybe Houston did make his young punk First Bugler over you. So what? Its only a formality. You still got your rating. All the brunser gets out of it is to play the Taps for funerals and sound Retreat for the shorttimer parades.

Thats all.

It aint as if Houston had had you busted, and give the kid your rating. Then I wouldnt blame you. But you still got your rating.