Уильям Макгиверн: Odds Against Tomorrow

He glanced at the sign on the mirror: PLEASE TELL US YOUR TROUBLES. WE’RE MAKING A LIST FOR THE CHAPLAIN. Earl smiled faintly but he felt depressed and weary; for some reason his mood of confident good humor had evaporated. What ever happened to the list, he wondered. It had kicked around in his things for quite a while, and then it must have got lost or thrown away.

The soldier boy and one of his friends were playing a wrestling game, he saw from the corner of his eye. They stood facing each other expectantly, hands swinging loosely at their sides. The other two men had taken their drinks from the bar and stepped out of their way.

“Now throw a punch at my head,” the young soldier said, smiling easily, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet. “Go ahead, let one fly.”

The man facing him was smiling, too; he was inches taller than the soldier and thirty pounds heavier, a cheerful-looking man with big, bony hands hanging down from the sleeves of a well-worn suede jacket. “You’re sure you got this stuff down pat now,” he said. “I don’t want to clout you by mistake.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the soldier said. “We spent weeks on this in camp. It doesn’t make any difference how big a guy is, really. It’s just a question of leverage. Go ahead and swing. I’ll show you how it works.”

“With either hand?” the big man said.

“It doesn’t make any difference,” the soldier said, crouching slightly, and letting his arms swing out from his body. “Go ahead, Jerry.”

“Okay,” the man said doubtfully.

Earl had turned on his stool to watch them, a hand toying with the shot glass and a skeptical smile touching his lips.

The big man set himself and threw a clumsy, looping right at the soldier’s head, but it didn’t land; the soldier blocked it with his forearm, then twisted the man’s arm quickly and forced him down to his knees. “You see?” he said, panting a little and holding the man on the floor. “See how it works?”

“That’s damned good,” one of the other men said, and the soldier flushed with pleasure. “Well, it’s just leverage, like I told you.” He released his grip, and the big man got to his feet, grinning and rubbing his arm.

“That’s quite a trick,” he said. “And it’s worth a drink any day.”

Earl finished his second drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That stuff is nothing but a lot of crap,” he said, smiling at the soldier. “Believe me, I know.” He hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but a frustrating and angry loneliness had forced him to speak; and now his words hung awkwardly in the silence, and the soldier, after a puzzled look at his friends, stared down the bar at him with a tense little frown on his face.

“You know a lot about it, eh?” he said. “Maybe you’d like to show me how much you know.”

“Now let’s just drink our drinks,” the bartender said gently.

“Well, where does he get off at?” the soldier said. “Where does he get off saying it’s a lot of crap?”

Earl managed a smile. He had just wanted to be part of the conversation, but it had all gone wrong. “I didn’t mean any offense, kid,” he said. “But that tricky stuff gets you thinking only about defense. You let the other guy lead. But you get a platoon thinking that way and they’re in trouble. Know what I mean?”

The soldier laughed a little. “Do you?” he said.

“Sure, sure,” Earl said quickly, eager for the chance to explain himself and set things right. “It’s a defensive thing, that’s what I mean. You lay back waiting to get hit. The payoff goes to the attack, get me?”

“So let’s drink up,” the bartender said. “Down the hatch, everybody.”

“You’re talking about something else,” the soldier said, still staring at Earl. “Pentagon stuff, the big strategy. Me, I’m just a corporal.”

“Well, maybe I sounded like a wise guy,” Earl said. “That wasn’t what I meant, kid.”

“If you think this judo is phony, I can teach you otherwise,” the soldier said. He was pushing it a little now, cocky and tough, savoring the respectful silence of his friends. “Come on down here a second,” he said. “Come on, I won’t hurt you.”

“No, I got to get going,” Earl said, trying to laugh it off.

“Hell, don’t be in a hurry.” The soldier grinned and held out his arms. “Come to Papa. Papa won’t spank.”

Earl’s mood changed; he stared at the youngster for a few seconds, feeling a bitter, confusing anger ripping through him. Why didn’t they teach these guys something before turning them loose, he thought. Here was something else the Army should know about. Young punks with two weeks of judo acting tough in barrooms. Getting the idea they were killers because they could show off a trick hold to their friends. Parlor commandos... “Listen, kid,” he said, standing and walking down the bar slowly. “Just listen, will you? I can tell you something for your own good if you’ll listen. The punch your buddy threw wouldn’t knock the hat off an eighty-year-old grandmother. Don’t you realize that?”

“Well, you throw one,” the soldier said; but some of the hardness left his face. He saw the power in the way Earl moved and he saw something in Earl’s eyes that made his throat go dry and tight.

“Now relax, you guys,” the bartender said. “What’s the sense of getting yourselves all stirred up?”

“Let him throw one,” the soldier said, swinging his arms out from his body and going down in a little crouch. “Go ahead, let him!”

A good kid, Earl thought; he didn’t scare worth a damn. He felt suddenly warm and protective toward him; this one would be okay, he thought. He was worth teaching... Grinning tightly, he said, “When you fight for real, you don’t play by the Book — always remember that.”

He dropped his left shoulder and snapped a hook at the boy’s head. But he stopped the punch instantly, as the soldier moved to block it. For an instant Earl checked himself, seeing the sudden fear and comprehension in the boy’s face. He was wide open and he knew it, suckered out of position by the feint. Earl didn’t mean to hit him; a token tap would have proved his point. But the confusing anger shook him suddenly, and he pulled the trigger on the punch, snapping it into the boy’s unguarded stomach with the power of a mule kick behind it.

The soldier went down, gasping in pain, his feet kicking spasmodically, his mouth opening and closing as he gulped for air.

“For Christ’s sake,” one of the men said hoarsely.

“He’s not hurt,” Earl said, wetting his lips. “He’s just out of wind.” His hands hung limply at his sides, and a hot shame ran through him; the three men were staring at him as if he were something dirty. “Look, he’s all right,” he said, as the soldier worked himself up to a sitting position. “Here, I’ll give you a hand, kid. Just walk a little, that’ll help.”

But the man in the suede jacket pushed him away. “Never mind, you helped him enough.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

“Okay, okay,” the man said. “Why don’t you go back and finish your drink?”

“I was just showing him something for his own good.”

“Go finish your drink. Forget it.”

The three men helped the boy into a booth. He put his head on his arms, and cried in a low, strangling voice, “Tell him not to go away, hear? Tell him, will you? I’ll be okay in a second. I’ll fix him.”

“Sure,” one of his friends said, rubbing his shoulders gently with the palm of his hand. “He caught you with a low one. Don’t you worry, kid.”

Earl walked slowly back to his stool, his whole body burning with shame. Why had he done it? Why had he hit him like that? He picked up his change with fingers that trembled helplessly, and then got into his old black overcoat. “I was just trying to show him something,” he said to the bartender.