Whistle by James Jones Read Free Book Online

get older. But you’ll be out of the hospital and back to your outfit in five weeks.
    “If I fix it my way, the way I would fix it for a patient back home, you’ll be in a cast at least two months. There’ll be no choice but to send you back to the States. You’re the patient. The choice is up to you.”
    Landers suddenly wanted to yell at him, curse him. Landers could remember back when his life had been like the major’s, when nothing bad had happened to him, either. That was back before his misshapen sense of honor got him to enlist in the infantry as a private.
    “I suppose getting shipped back to the States would be the best thing,” he said, instead. “Wouldn’t it?”
    The major had thought the answer a foregone conclusion, and Landers had rattled him. “Are you trying to tell me you prefer not to go back to the States?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Well, what are you trying to tell me, Sergeant, uh”—he looked down at the papers— “Landers?”
    Landers felt wacky. His extravagances again. Suddenly he lowered his head and peered up at the youthful doctor through his eyebrows, and leered. Not even knowing his name seemed the last, ultimate joke. “Well, I think they’re going to get me,” he said, leering, “ one way or the other. If you want to know the truth. That’s what I think. I haven’t got a chance.”
    The young major was brought up short, for a moment. “Who’s they?”
    “Them. You know,” Landers said. “Whoever. The same ones you’re trying to fight, isn’t it?”
    “I see . . . Yes. Well.” The major scratched his nose. “I don’t think you understand. I’m not fighting any ‘them.’ I’m fighting a government policy. I’m doing my work the way it ought to be done, the way I was taught to do it.”
    “Oh, I understand all right,” Landers said. But he really wanted, again, to shout at the major, simply fill his lungs with air and bellow it back out. How could he be so fucking sure of himself about everything? How could he be so safe?
    “Look. Tell me something. Do you want to go back up there?” the major asked.
    Landers thought this over seriously. “No, sir,” he said finally. “I don’t want to go back.”
    “All right.” The major slapped his hands down on his knees. He stood up. “I’ll have you prepared for tomorrow.”
    “But I don’t think it’ll make any difference,” Landers said.
    As if he had not heard, the major said, “After all, my job is seeing that you men are fixed up as well as possible for your later life.”
    “Yes, sir,” Landers said sourly. “Thank you, sir.”
    “Also, it’s a job of work I’d like to have a shot at. It’s got interesting problems.”
    Landers stared at him. “Sir.”
    “Of course, it’ll make a difference!” the major said suddenly. “Why wouldn’t it make a difference?” Still standing, the major put his hands on the desk and looked at Landers. “I don’t think you’re acting very rational. Well. It’s probably perfectly normal.” He sighed. “I’ll have you gotten ready for tomorrow.” But he looked hurt. As if somehow Landers had let him down. If he had been the type to get angry, he would probably have gotten angry.
    Landers was certainly angry. But he was confused. And then he began to feel guilty. By the time he was rolled back to his ward, he began to worry. He worried all that night about their misunderstanding, about how he had treated the major. But in the morning when they rolled him in half-woozy from the shot and put him on the table, the surgeon smiled at him. Then they put the anesthetic to him.
    Lying comfortably in the hospital bed after the operation, he slept a lot.
    But they kept him full of dope for several days, and something kept coming back in his mind.
    Going up with the message from the colonel he had carried a full canteen. The heat was terrible, and soaked with sweat he had conscientiously conserved his water. But after getting hit, he had drawn the canteen and