Free The Collected Stories of Richard Yates by Richard Yates

standing in formation in front of the barracks for a few moments, at ease, before dismissing us. His restless glance seemed to survey all our faces in turn. Then he began to speak in a voice more gentle than any we had ever heard him use. “I won’t be seein’ yew men any more after today,” he said. “I’m bein’ transferred. One thing yew can always count on in th’ Army, and that is, if yew find somethin’ good, some job yew like, they always transfer your ass somewheres else.”
    I think we were all touched—I know I was; it was the closest he had ever come to saying he liked us. But it was too late. Anything he said or did now would have been too late, and our predominant feeling was relief. Reece seemed to sense this, and seemed to cut short the things he had planned to say.
    â€œI know there ain’t no call for me to make a speech,” he said, “and I ain’t gonna make one. Onliest thing I want to say is—” He lowered his eyes and stared at his dusty service shoes. “I want to wish all yew men a lot of luck. Y’all keep your nose clean, hear? And stay outa trouble?” The next words could scarcely be heard. “And doan let nobody push y’around.”
    A short, painful silence followed, as painful as the parting of disenchanted lovers. Then he drew himself straight. “P’toon! Tetch— hut! ” He looked us over once more with hard and glittering eyes. “Dismissed.”
    And when we came back from chow that night we found he had already packed his barracks bags and cleared out. We didn’t even get to shake his hand.
    Our new platoon sergeant was there in the morning, a squat jolly cab driver from Queens who insisted that we call him only by his first name, which was Ruby. He was every inch a Good Joe. He turned us loose at the Lister bags every chance he got, and confided with a giggle that, through a buddy of his in the PX, he often got his own canteen filled with Coca-Cola and crushed ice. He was a slack drill-master, and on the road he never made us count cadence except when we passed an officer, never made us chant or sing anything except a ragged version of “Give My Regards to Broadway,” which he led with fervor although he didn’t know all the words.
    It took us a little while to adjust to him, after Reece. Once when the lieutenant came to the barracks to give one of his little talks about playing ball, ending up with his usual “All right, Sergeant,” Ruby hooked his thumbs in his cartridge belt, slouched comfortably, and said, “Fellas, I hope yez all listened and gave ya attention to what the lieutenant said. I think I can speak fa yez all as well as myself when I say, Lieutenant, we’re gonna play ball wit’ you, like you said, because this here is one platoon that knows a Good Joe when we see one.”
    As flustered by this as he had ever been by Reece’s silent scorn, the lieutenant could only blush and stammer, “Well, uh—thank you, Sergeant. Uh—I guess that’s all, then. Carry on.” And as soon as the lieutenant was out of sight we all began to make loud retching noises, to hold our noses or go through the motions of shoveling, as if we stood knee-deep in manure. “Christ, Ruby,” Schacht cried, “what the hella you buckin’ for?”
    Ruby hunched his shoulders and spread his hands, bubbling with good-natured laughter. “To stay alive,” he said. “To stay alive, whaddya think?” And he defended the point vigorously over the mounting din of our ridicule. “Whatsa matta?” he demanded. “Whatsa matta? Don’tcha think he does it to the captain? Don’tcha think the captain does it up at Battalion? Listen, wise up, will yez? Evvybody does it! Evvybody does it! What the hellya think makes the Army go?” Finally he dismissed the whole subject with cab-driverly nonchalance. “Arright,