CHAPTER SEVEN
PRIVATE FIRST CLASS ELMO C. HACKETTS, JR., approached the Shah of Bratpuhr, Doctor Ewing J. Halyard, of the State Department, Khashdrahr Miasma, their interpreter, General of the Armies Milford S. Bromley, General William K. Corbett, camp commander, Major General Earl Pruitt, division commander, and their aides. Private First Class Hacketts was in the middle of the First Squad of the Second Platoon of B Company of the First Battalion of the 427th Regiment of the 107th Infantry Division of the Ninth Corps of the Twelfth Army, and he stayed right there, and put his left foot down every time the drummer hit the bass drum. “Dee-veesh-ee-own -” cried the Division Commander through a loudspeaker. “Reg-ee-ment -” bawled four regimental commanders. ” ‘Tal-ee-own -” cried twelve battalion commanders. “Cump-neee -” shouted thirty-six company commanders. “Batt-reeee -” shouted twelve battery commanders. “P’toon -” muttered a hundred and ninety-two platoon commanders. “Hacketts,” said Private First Class Hacketts to himself. “Halt!” And Hacketts did, hut, two. “Ri-yut -” said the loudspeaker. “Right, right, right, right, right, right . . .” echoed two hundred and fifty-six voices. “Right,” said Private First Class Hacketts to himself. “Fay-yuss!” Hacketts faced right, hut, two. And he stared into the small, bright eyes of the Shah of Bratpuhr, spiritual leader of 6,000,000 people somewhere else. The Shah bowed slightly from the waist. Hacketts did not bow back because he wasn’t supposed to and he wasn’t going to do a goddamn thing he wasn’t supposed to do and he had only twenty-three more years to go on his hitch and then he was through with the Army and the hell with it, and in twenty-three years if some sonofabitching colonel or lieutenant or general came up to him and said, “Salute me,” or “Pick up that butt,” or “Shine your shoes,” or something like that he’d say, “Kiss my ass, sonny,” and whip out the old discharge and spit in his eye and walk away laughing like crazy because his twenty-five years was up and all he had to do was hang around with the old gang in Hooker’s in Evansville and wait for the old pension check and to hell with you buddy because I don’t have to take no crap from nobody no more because I’m through and – The Shah clapped his hands delightedly and continued to stare at Private First Class Hacketts, who was a huge, healthy man. “Niki Takaru!” he cried, exhaling a strong effluvium of Sumklish. “No Takaru!” said Doctor Halyard. “Sol-dee-yers.” “No Takaru?” said the Shah in puzzlement. “What’s he say?” said General of the Armies Bromley. “Said they’re a fine bunch of slaves,” said Halyard. He turned to the Shah again and waggled his finger at the small, dark man. “No Takaru. No, no, no.” Khashdrahr seemed baffled, too, and offered Halyard no help in clarifying the point. “Sim koula Takaru, akka sahn salet?” said the Shah to Khashdrahr. Khashdrahr shrugged and looked questioningly at Halyard. “Shah says, if these not slaves, how you get them to do what they do?” “Patriotism,” said General of the Armies Bromley sternly. “Patriotism, damn it.” “Love of country,” said Halyard. Khashdrahr told the Shah, and the Shah nodded slightly, but his look of puzzlement did not disappear. “Sidi ba – ” he said tentatively. “Eh?” said Corbett. “Even so -” translated Khashdrahr, and he looked as doubtful as the Shah. “Lay-eft -” shouted the loudspeaker. “Left, left, left, left, left, left . . .” “Left,” said Hacketts to himself. And Hacketts thought of how he was going to be left alone in the barracks this week end when everybody else was out on pass because of what happened in inspection that morning after he’d mopped and squeegeed the floor and washed the windows by his bunk and tightened up his blankets and made sure the tooth-paste tube was to the left of the shaving-cream tube and the tube caps both pointed away from the aisle and that the cuff on his rolled-up socks pointed up in his footlocker and that his mess kit and mess cup and mess spoon and mess fork and mess knife and canteen were shining and that his wooden rifle was waxed and its simulated metalwork blackened and his shoes shined and that the extra pair under his bunk were laced to the top and tied and that the clothes on his hangers went: two shirts, O.D.; two pants, O.D.; three shirts, khaki; three pants, khaki; two shirts, herringbone twill; two pants, herringbone twill; field jacket; dress blouse, O.D.; raincoat, O.D.; and that all the pockets were empty and buttoned and then the inspecting officer came through and said, “Hey soldier, your fly’s open and no pass for you,” and – “Fay-yuss.” “Hut, two,” said Hacketts. “For’d -” “For’d, for’d, for’d, for’d, for’d for’d . . .” “For’d,” said Hacketts to himself. And Hacketts wondered where the hell he’d go in the next twenty-three years and thought it’d be a relief to get the hell out of the States for a while and go occupy someplace else and maybe be somebody in some of those countries instead of a bum with no money looking for an easy lay and not getting it in his own country or not getting a good lay anyway but still a pretty good lay compared to no lay at all but anyway there was more to living than laying and he’d like a little glory by God and there might be laying and glory overseas and while there wasn’t any shooting and wasn’t going to be none either probably for a good long while still you got a real gun and bullets and there was a little glory in that and sure as hell it was more grownup than marching up and down with a wooden one and he’d sure like a little rank too but he knew what his I.Q. was and everybody else did too and especially the machines so that was that for twenty-three more years unless one of the machines burned out a tube and misread his card and sent him to O.C.S. and that happened now and then and there was old Mulcahy who got ahold of his card and doctored it with an icepick so the machines would think he was qualified for a big promotion but he got restricted to barracks instead for having clap twenty-six times and then transferred to the band as a trombone player when he couldn’t even whistle “Hot Cross Buns” and anyway it was better than the frigging Reeks and Wrecks any day and no big worries and a nice-looking suit only the pants ought to have zippers and in only twenty-three more years he could go up to some sonofabitching general or colonel or something and say, “Kiss my -” “Harch!” “Boom!” went the bass drum, and down came Hacketts’ left foot, and off he went in the midst of the vast, tractable human avalanche. “Takaru,” said the Shah to Khashdrahr above the din. Khashdrahr nodded and smiled agreement. “Takaru.” “What the hell am I supposed to do?” said Halyard unhappily to General of the Armies Bromley. “This guy thinks of everything he sees in terms of his own country, and his own country must be a Goddamn mess.” “Amerikka vagga bouna, ni houri manko Salim da vagga dinko,” said the Shah. “What’s eating him now?” said Halyard impatiently. “He say Americans have changed almost everything on earth,” said Khashdrahr, “but it would be easier to move the Himalayas than to change the Army.” The Shah was waving goodbye to the departing troops. “Dibo, Takaru, dibo.”