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Authors: Richard Yates
Tags: General Fiction
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little ass up for a general God damned court-martial. He then chalked numerals on each of their steel helmets and told them all to stand by because they’d be moving out any minute. But they didn’t move out until long after dark; when they did, it was to become part of an endless column slipping and sliding down an ice-covered hillside that seemed to fall away for miles, and despite the cold they were soaked with sweat by the time they filed into another train that took them to the Weehawken ferry slip, from which they were borne out into the gentle midnight silence of the Hudson. They floated downtown, heading east across the river, and the ferryboat drew up beneaththe enormous gray hull of the
Queen Elizabeth
. Then they labored up into the pier and onto the ship, where tired British voices guided them down curving, tilting corridors and stairways until they found the impossibly small canvas bunks, hung in vertical tiers of four, whose numbers matched the numbers on their helmets. And when they woke up in the morning – when they struggled out half seasick to stand with their mess kits in the freezing wind of the open deck, waiting for breakfast – there was no land in sight.
“Only you don’t call it the Clyde River,” Quint explained as they stood at a railing of the stilled ship, six days later. “You call it—” and here he broke into a prolonged coughing fit. Both he and Prentice had chest colds that were getting worse. “You call it the Firth of Clyde,” he said when he’d recovered. “I don’t know what the hell ‘Firth’ means, but that’s what you call it. It’s supposed to be the biggest shipbuilding center in the world, or something.”
“Don’t look like much,” said Sam Rand. “Them hills is real pretty, though.”
It took them all night and most of the next day to ride through Great Britain on a train that pleased Prentice because it was exactly like the trains in British movies, a series of cozy compartments with a connecting corridor. He had a window seat, and long after the other men were asleep he stared with fascination at the dark passing landscape of Scotland and then of England. Being in England made him think of a man whose name hadn’t crossed his mind in years – Mr. Nelson, Mr. Sterling Nelson; a man who had once said, “I’ll expect you to take good care of your mother while I’m gone” – and for a little while he could almost feel his mother riding beside him (“Oh, isn’t this exciting, Bobby?”) so that it came as a little shockwhen the person who slumped heavily against his shoulder, groaning in sleep, turned out to be John Quint.
In the morning, along with the passing out of cold K rations, bright rumors flew up and down the corridor to the effect that this particular trainload of replacements wasn’t heading for combat at all. The battle of the Ardennes, which everyone by now had learned to call “the Bulge,” was virtually won. The war in Europe would soon be over, and there were enough men now on the Continent to finish the job. Their own destination was to be a camp in the south of England, near Southampton, where they would join a new division in training for service as occupation troops in Germany. All afternoon there was a holiday mood on the train as they sped through the English countryside – there was talk of English girls and English beer and furloughs in London – but there were several skeptics, too.
“Hell, it’s the old story,” said Sam Rand. “Don’t believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. I say we’re goin’ straight to Belgium.”
“Sam, old man,” said Quint, “I hate to say it, but I’ve got a feeling you’re right.”
And he was. When they walked heavy-laden through the streets of Southampton it was still possible to believe the rumors – their camp was supposed to be
near
Southampton, wasn’t it? – but no Army trucks were there to meet them and no jeep drove up with orders to turn them away
Queen Elizabeth
. Then they labored up into the pier and onto the ship, where tired British voices guided them down curving, tilting corridors and stairways until they found the impossibly small canvas bunks, hung in vertical tiers of four, whose numbers matched the numbers on their helmets. And when they woke up in the morning – when they struggled out half seasick to stand with their mess kits in the freezing wind of the open deck, waiting for breakfast – there was no land in sight.
“Only you don’t call it the Clyde River,” Quint explained as they stood at a railing of the stilled ship, six days later. “You call it—” and here he broke into a prolonged coughing fit. Both he and Prentice had chest colds that were getting worse. “You call it the Firth of Clyde,” he said when he’d recovered. “I don’t know what the hell ‘Firth’ means, but that’s what you call it. It’s supposed to be the biggest shipbuilding center in the world, or something.”
“Don’t look like much,” said Sam Rand. “Them hills is real pretty, though.”
It took them all night and most of the next day to ride through Great Britain on a train that pleased Prentice because it was exactly like the trains in British movies, a series of cozy compartments with a connecting corridor. He had a window seat, and long after the other men were asleep he stared with fascination at the dark passing landscape of Scotland and then of England. Being in England made him think of a man whose name hadn’t crossed his mind in years – Mr. Nelson, Mr. Sterling Nelson; a man who had once said, “I’ll expect you to take good care of your mother while I’m gone” – and for a little while he could almost feel his mother riding beside him (“Oh, isn’t this exciting, Bobby?”) so that it came as a little shockwhen the person who slumped heavily against his shoulder, groaning in sleep, turned out to be John Quint.
In the morning, along with the passing out of cold K rations, bright rumors flew up and down the corridor to the effect that this particular trainload of replacements wasn’t heading for combat at all. The battle of the Ardennes, which everyone by now had learned to call “the Bulge,” was virtually won. The war in Europe would soon be over, and there were enough men now on the Continent to finish the job. Their own destination was to be a camp in the south of England, near Southampton, where they would join a new division in training for service as occupation troops in Germany. All afternoon there was a holiday mood on the train as they sped through the English countryside – there was talk of English girls and English beer and furloughs in London – but there were several skeptics, too.
“Hell, it’s the old story,” said Sam Rand. “Don’t believe anything you hear and only half of what you see. I say we’re goin’ straight to Belgium.”
“Sam, old man,” said Quint, “I hate to say it, but I’ve got a feeling you’re right.”
And he was. When they walked heavy-laden through the streets of Southampton it was still possible to believe the rumors – their camp was supposed to be
near
Southampton, wasn’t it? – but no Army trucks were there to meet them and no jeep drove up with orders to turn them away
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