to the can! Wait a minute, where’s Lovett? Where? An hour ago I saw, God damn him that nance, a lid missing from one of the garbage cans in back of the hospital. You tell Lovett to mince over there and find it. No, not you, him —a gold bar doesn’t make him too good for that.”
The colonel, Nader had told him, was scared shitless of anybody, even a corporal, from another headquarters, invariably assuming it to be a higher one that had him under surveillance for suspicion of untidiness. Schild’s request to impound what remained of the enemy documents scarcely salved his nerves.
“Don’t tell me Lovett hasn’t been sending them to you all the while! That silly pimp!”
Schild sternly put down in himself the dirty little pleasure that it was probably not abnormal to feel at Lovett’s being abused—but why does the girl-man stimulate sadism rather than pity?—and made a defense.
“That is true, colonel, today’s the first time I’ve seen him,” said the sergeant-major, neutral and hateful at the same time; he was that kind of man, just as he was the sort to turn accusingly a confession upon its maker. This worthy, it was clear, held the reins of authority; typical suburban, neat-haired, office-manager type, probably from some middle place like St. Louis or Lexington.
“I have it,” said the colonel, nervously popping the eraser from his pencil, scattering across the green blotter the contents of the reserve-lead reservoir. “I’ll assign Sergeant Shelby here to complete responsibility for the allocation of whatever it is you require. Shelby’s your man, Lieutenant Shields, want something around here, ask the enlisted men. My officers just weren’t there when the brains were passed out.” He retrieved the leads one by one, a neat trick with hands sheathed in white gloves. He answered Schild’s stare with a smile that vanished as quickly as oil into leather.
“Eczema,” he said ruthlessly. “On all ten fingers.” He tore off a glove and showed his right hand, which looked as if it were made of rusty metal. “Neurodermatitis—terrible for a man of action.”
Shelby grunted “Yeah” and grandly proceeded Schild into the outer office where he imperturbably took a seat behind his desk and began to read Sad Sack in Yank, from time to time calling one of the clerks to witness an especially funny turn.
“Sergeant,” called Schild, after a few moments had defined the insolence, “I want you to show me where the papers are stored.”
“Well yes, I will.” Not looking up from the page. “If you’ll tell me when.” But already he was weakening, that shadow of the coward was stealing across his eyes.
“Now.” Schild spoke it in his smallest voice, to demonstrate to the man and his lackeys what a small, two cents’ worth of force was needed to bring him to heel.
Shelby sullenly arose and led him out, smelling of after-shave lotion. In the hall Schild told him he had changed his mind, would come another day, smiled, and left almost lazily.
But the outfit was a nest of madmen and clowns, a traveling medicine show rather than a hospital. And he realized, at Lovett’s gate, that this condition of comedy was what lured him to the party, that he could handle it or let it go at his pleasure, without, as it were, a tab to pay. He had already freed the latch, was stepping into the yard, when a low, evil whisper, as if from the conscience, said: “Enjoy yourself. Why not?”
He drew away in the illusion that he had collided with a kind of animate bush which, weightless and retreating, yet aggressed with whipping branches in a hundred quarters, and although he stepped to the side, off the path onto the lawn, Schatzi continued to press him. Thus, without a word, he was forced to return to the public walk, where a hand jerked his sleeve in the direction of the street corner and left off, and he followed.
At the corner, where in sound underground practice they could survey all paths of approach—or
The colonel, Nader had told him, was scared shitless of anybody, even a corporal, from another headquarters, invariably assuming it to be a higher one that had him under surveillance for suspicion of untidiness. Schild’s request to impound what remained of the enemy documents scarcely salved his nerves.
“Don’t tell me Lovett hasn’t been sending them to you all the while! That silly pimp!”
Schild sternly put down in himself the dirty little pleasure that it was probably not abnormal to feel at Lovett’s being abused—but why does the girl-man stimulate sadism rather than pity?—and made a defense.
“That is true, colonel, today’s the first time I’ve seen him,” said the sergeant-major, neutral and hateful at the same time; he was that kind of man, just as he was the sort to turn accusingly a confession upon its maker. This worthy, it was clear, held the reins of authority; typical suburban, neat-haired, office-manager type, probably from some middle place like St. Louis or Lexington.
“I have it,” said the colonel, nervously popping the eraser from his pencil, scattering across the green blotter the contents of the reserve-lead reservoir. “I’ll assign Sergeant Shelby here to complete responsibility for the allocation of whatever it is you require. Shelby’s your man, Lieutenant Shields, want something around here, ask the enlisted men. My officers just weren’t there when the brains were passed out.” He retrieved the leads one by one, a neat trick with hands sheathed in white gloves. He answered Schild’s stare with a smile that vanished as quickly as oil into leather.
“Eczema,” he said ruthlessly. “On all ten fingers.” He tore off a glove and showed his right hand, which looked as if it were made of rusty metal. “Neurodermatitis—terrible for a man of action.”
Shelby grunted “Yeah” and grandly proceeded Schild into the outer office where he imperturbably took a seat behind his desk and began to read Sad Sack in Yank, from time to time calling one of the clerks to witness an especially funny turn.
“Sergeant,” called Schild, after a few moments had defined the insolence, “I want you to show me where the papers are stored.”
“Well yes, I will.” Not looking up from the page. “If you’ll tell me when.” But already he was weakening, that shadow of the coward was stealing across his eyes.
“Now.” Schild spoke it in his smallest voice, to demonstrate to the man and his lackeys what a small, two cents’ worth of force was needed to bring him to heel.
Shelby sullenly arose and led him out, smelling of after-shave lotion. In the hall Schild told him he had changed his mind, would come another day, smiled, and left almost lazily.
But the outfit was a nest of madmen and clowns, a traveling medicine show rather than a hospital. And he realized, at Lovett’s gate, that this condition of comedy was what lured him to the party, that he could handle it or let it go at his pleasure, without, as it were, a tab to pay. He had already freed the latch, was stepping into the yard, when a low, evil whisper, as if from the conscience, said: “Enjoy yourself. Why not?”
He drew away in the illusion that he had collided with a kind of animate bush which, weightless and retreating, yet aggressed with whipping branches in a hundred quarters, and although he stepped to the side, off the path onto the lawn, Schatzi continued to press him. Thus, without a word, he was forced to return to the public walk, where a hand jerked his sleeve in the direction of the street corner and left off, and he followed.
At the corner, where in sound underground practice they could survey all paths of approach—or
Similar Books
