men, reflecting back in the gloom the light from the engineers’ electric lanterns, while weird gnomelike shadows formed and moved grotesquely on the walls as the carriers themselves moved, an insane, mad, comically ironic parody of everything they did. Looking at those shadows would make even an uneducated man wonder about the seriousness of human endeavors, and it had that effect on almost all of them. But Mast hardly saw it at all. He was far too busy thinking about his pistol, his pistol, hanging there on Winstock’s hip, and what things he could do to go about getting it back.
The working party, consisting of fifteen men from the position plus the four or five engineers, moved back and forth trampingly, through the gloomy gallery between the bright sunlight and dust of the trucks outside and the lamplit magazine, two shuttling lines, one carrying the heavy cases, the other returning for a new load. By the end of the day, with a break for lunch, they had unloaded five truck loads of explosive and the stacks of cases in the magazine had grown steadily higher until the cave was nearly filled. Almost everyone had the same reaction, which was a mixture of awe and an expressed desire to be around, but not too close, if it was ever detonated. It would be quite a sight. Shortly before suppertime it was done, and then it was back inside that hated, hateful, self-constructed wall of wire, the gate of which the sentry closed and locked after them. The excursion was over.
During the course of the day Mast had garnered several gossips’ comments upon the appearance of his pistol on Winstock’s hip. Everybody knew about it, and the opinions ran all the way from the one that Winstock had bought it from Mast for an extraordinary sum, to the one that Winstock had won it from Mast for nothing by a single cut of the cards for the pistol against an even more fabulous sum. But it was clear that Winstock had told somebody, perhaps several, that he had bought it from Mast.
Mast himself neither confirmed nor denied any of these opinions and merely grinned knowingly, although he was raging inside. He still had not figured out how he was going to go about getting it back, unless he actually assaulted Winstock physically, a thing which he of course could not do in front of anyone since it was a court-martial offense. Court-martial offense or not, he was prepared to do even that, if he could get Winstock off to himself, because Mast felt he no longer owed Winstock the respect due a noncom. Mast was very emphatic about that. Winstock had already negated that respect himself, Mast felt righteously, when he had lied and cheated and used his rank as a noncom to get hold of the pistol by underhanded means. Mast was shocked and indignant when he thought about a noncom doing such a thing: A man who was a corporal was supposed to set an example of probity and integrity and inspire trust as a leader of men. Mast knew that were he himself a noncom, he would never do such a monstrous thing. He would take his duties and responsibilities far too seriously to do so. So Mast felt no compunction about hitting such a noncom. And besides, Winstock was smaller than Mast.
That evening after supper Mast approached the number two hole where a group had formed around two men who had guitars. He had seen both Winstock and his other enemy O’Brien there. Outside of talking, the guitar music and the singing that went with it (always provided the guitar players felt in the mood to play, of course) were about the only recreation left to those men who were no longer financially solvent enough to play poker.
Mast had already noted at evening chow that something had happened between Winstock and O’Brien. Winstock was still wearing the pistol, and it took only a few minutes to see that neither of them was speaking to the other. Lately, and for about a week before Winstock had pulled his lying, cheating, dishonest trick, the two men had been very chummy. But now
The working party, consisting of fifteen men from the position plus the four or five engineers, moved back and forth trampingly, through the gloomy gallery between the bright sunlight and dust of the trucks outside and the lamplit magazine, two shuttling lines, one carrying the heavy cases, the other returning for a new load. By the end of the day, with a break for lunch, they had unloaded five truck loads of explosive and the stacks of cases in the magazine had grown steadily higher until the cave was nearly filled. Almost everyone had the same reaction, which was a mixture of awe and an expressed desire to be around, but not too close, if it was ever detonated. It would be quite a sight. Shortly before suppertime it was done, and then it was back inside that hated, hateful, self-constructed wall of wire, the gate of which the sentry closed and locked after them. The excursion was over.
During the course of the day Mast had garnered several gossips’ comments upon the appearance of his pistol on Winstock’s hip. Everybody knew about it, and the opinions ran all the way from the one that Winstock had bought it from Mast for an extraordinary sum, to the one that Winstock had won it from Mast for nothing by a single cut of the cards for the pistol against an even more fabulous sum. But it was clear that Winstock had told somebody, perhaps several, that he had bought it from Mast.
Mast himself neither confirmed nor denied any of these opinions and merely grinned knowingly, although he was raging inside. He still had not figured out how he was going to go about getting it back, unless he actually assaulted Winstock physically, a thing which he of course could not do in front of anyone since it was a court-martial offense. Court-martial offense or not, he was prepared to do even that, if he could get Winstock off to himself, because Mast felt he no longer owed Winstock the respect due a noncom. Mast was very emphatic about that. Winstock had already negated that respect himself, Mast felt righteously, when he had lied and cheated and used his rank as a noncom to get hold of the pistol by underhanded means. Mast was shocked and indignant when he thought about a noncom doing such a thing: A man who was a corporal was supposed to set an example of probity and integrity and inspire trust as a leader of men. Mast knew that were he himself a noncom, he would never do such a monstrous thing. He would take his duties and responsibilities far too seriously to do so. So Mast felt no compunction about hitting such a noncom. And besides, Winstock was smaller than Mast.
That evening after supper Mast approached the number two hole where a group had formed around two men who had guitars. He had seen both Winstock and his other enemy O’Brien there. Outside of talking, the guitar music and the singing that went with it (always provided the guitar players felt in the mood to play, of course) were about the only recreation left to those men who were no longer financially solvent enough to play poker.
Mast had already noted at evening chow that something had happened between Winstock and O’Brien. Winstock was still wearing the pistol, and it took only a few minutes to see that neither of them was speaking to the other. Lately, and for about a week before Winstock had pulled his lying, cheating, dishonest trick, the two men had been very chummy. But now
Similar Books
