attitude the others on the ward had developed toward his incarceration. His restriction had become a joke to them, instead of the basic, mean tragedy that it was. “Hey, Landers,” one would call, “I’ll think of you tonight, when I’m deep-humping my big juicy wet slippery pussy.” Or, “Hey, Landers. I’ll dip a finger for you tonight. Bring it back and let you sniff it. A dollar a sniff.”
Then they would finish dressing, and all troop out into the noon day in uniform and Landers would stay behind in the empty-seeming ward with the medically restricted, who could not go out, and who were continually coming in with new batches of lower-leg wounds from some battle front or other, but who were certainly not much sport, no great shakes, to talk to.
The winter weather change affected him strongly, in his locked-up state. Affected him very adversely. Free, or relatively so, with the hospital day passes, he had moved into town and around the city, watching the lingering Southern fall change to the rains of winter, with a melancholy that matched the drooping leaves, and whispered to him privately that this was the last autumn he would be seeing. There was no question now that he would go back to duty. And no question in Landers’ mind that he would do so just in time to be killed, murdered, in the big European push that had to be coming. Mournfully he accepted it. But Strange’s suite at the Peabody, with its kaleidoscopic changing of women, was a great, if temporary, antidote for this.
Now that was gone and lights were being left burning longer and longer in the mornings, and being turned on earlier and earlier in the late afternoon, And Landers would sit around on the little, glass-enclosed dayroom porch, playing solitaire or trying to read, and watch the lights being switched on in the other porches down the way, on his own side, and across the way, in the other bay.
Midmornings his archenemy Hogan came in, with the other doctors, for morning rounds. Landers sat his chair at attention like a good soldier. But he stared his dislike and hatred across silently at Hogan, and Hogan glared his own dislike and hatred back at him. Neither ever spoke.
It was little wonder to Landers that he felt mean and gross and flamboyant, as he walked up to Col Stevens’ office. In full uniform, and under guard.
Make an example of him. What did he have to lose? Might as well be shot for a mean wolf as for a shitty sheep dog.
It was some wonder to Col Stevens, though. The arrogance, the cockiness, of the young man was a palpable force in the room of the office. Stevens thought all that already had been taken care of, by Winch.
The boy was even wearing all his ribbons, including his Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. Stevens felt guilty enough about his age and where he was, without being reminded. The whole of it irked him exceedingly.
Stevens had meant to say how he had found extenuating circumstances in Landers’ case, and that he had been given a highly laudatory recommendation of Landers. It had been his intention, up to now, to let Landers off without even breaking him, because of Winch. Now, instead, he spoke shortly, and much more sharply than he’d intended.
“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”
In fact, Landers’ arrogance had been shrunk a great deal from what it was originally, only a moment before. That was the moment when he opened the outer door, and came into the presence of the statue-like, giant figure of Chief W/O Jack Alexander.
The w/o had looked huge, just sitting behind the desk. Then he had stood up. Landers thought he was the biggest man he had ever seen. The icy blue of his pale blue eyes bored into Landers’ soul. The bone edges of his hard mouth looked ready to physically take bites out of Landers. On the square bald head the giant face was as without expression as the eyes or mouth, as without expression as expressionless could get, neither contempt, nor pity, nor liking there. Combat service meant nothing to this soldier, his whole life had been one long war. It was the natural state of things.
The message seemed to be, if Landers was getting it, something like: Whatever the fuck it is you’re doing, you dumb punk kid, for God’s sake try to do it like a soldier.
But he hardly