Free To the End of the War by James Jones Page A

myself.”
    “Does it have some special significance?” the woman asked.
    Johnny surveyed her ironically. “Yes,” he said. “It does. It signifies about forty men in my company. They all got killed. That’s what the toast means: to the end of killing guys like them and like me. . . . Here,” he said. “Have a drink.”
    The woman took the bottle from him and examined it closely, her eyes lowered to hide her embarrassment. She felt like an insensitive fool; for the first time, she had had a glimpse underneath the surface they wore. It was not a pleasant sight, and she wanted to avoid that part of the conversation, to steer it back to the light mood of a few minutes ago; tearing her hair with unhappy soldiers was no way to spend a holiday from her own unhappiness. She was intruding into something where she had no place or understanding, and she wanted to keep it out of her life. The staff sergeant also wore a Purple Heart ribbon and there was an odd look on his face, too. It seemed there were wounds for which there were no wound stripes or Purple Hearts.
    “I can’t drink whiskey straight,” she said. “But I’ll order a round of old-fashioneds if you want one.”
    “Sure,” Johnny said, “I can drink anything. We’re not very high class about our drinking in the army. After you get used to drinking Aqua Velva and torpedo juice, straight whiskey tastes pretty good.”
    “Do you want one?” she asked the staff sergeant.
    “I’ve never refused one yet,” he said.
    The woman kept buying drinks, and as they got drunker, the light mood of before returned to them. They talked and laughed above the buzz and hubbub of the smoking car. The woman was expensively dressed in a British tweed suit and a violet sweater of Indian cashmere, and she carried a pair of soft French kid gloves. Her marriage rings were diamonds set in platinum; she wore a star sapphire on her right hand. She had an air of poise and authority that bespoke an environment of wealth and richness. Johnny watched her and sighed deeply; life was wonderful. He could feel a flood of lights as the liquor rose in him.
    The porter returned and requested obsequiously if the lady wanted another drink. Johnny had not noticed the porter coming around to see if anyone else wanted another drink. Not unless he was called. This gal must really be Mrs Rich Bitch, he thought. He hoped she wasn’t so Rich Bitch that she had to watch her reputation.
    “I don’t want any more,” Johnny said. “I’m going to have all I can take care of to drink this whiskey.”
    “Then we won’t have anymore, George,” she told the porter.
    “Sure,” said Johnny. “We can’t get drunk in uniform and bring disrepute upon the armed services. How did you know his name was George?”
    “All porters are named George,” she said. “That’s an unwritten law of the railroad.”
    “Well, well,” he sighed. “I used to know a bartender named George. . . . Come, let us leave this macabre place, this sink of iniquity. I am becoming depressed watching all these foolish people fritter away their lives eating and drinking and laughing hollow laughter. I would rather be alone. Well, almost alone.”
    “Did you buy this lousy seat?” he asked her.
    “Good God, no! I wouldn’t ride on a train if I had to sit up all night. I’ve got a berth in the second car up.”
    “Do you mean to tell me you’ve been sitting here and taking this seat from some poor person who paid to ride in this bloody club car when you’ve got a berth? For shame. How the hell did you manage to get a berth? You must have had a reservation in for months.”
    “Don’t be silly,” she said. “You can get a berth any time you want one, provided you know who to see and have the pull. They always keep some berths back for the right people.”
    Johnny sighed. “I thought I knew my way around. Well, let’s go. I’m bored with this low-class place. Let us adjourn to your berth and drink up my whiskey; whiskey