turn it over to me,” Winstock shrugged apologetically, “and turn it in. It puts me in a hell of a position. Mast. I don’t mind telling you.” He looked sad.
“Why, you’re crazy!” Mast exploded, and jumped up convulsively. He stood staring at Winstock a moment and then sat back down again. “You’re not in command of me in the first place! And in the second, it’s none of your damned business anyway, this pistol! It has nothing to do with our company! I told you: I bought it off a guy in the 8th Field!”
“Well, that’s not the way I see it,” Winstock said sadly. “I see it like it’s a sort of a responsibility of ethics—like, Mast, you know? I just got to decide what I ought to do.
“Well, I’ll let you know. Soon’s I figure it out. Got to think about it.” He slapped Mast on the arm, warmly and apologetically. “I’m sorry, kid. Well, maybe I’ll feel like I won’t have to do it maybe.
“Well, come on. We better get back upstairs. The truck’ll be ready to leave soon.”
“So you’ll let me know?” Mast growled sourly.
“Sure,” Winstock said cheerfully, “sure. Soon’s I figure out what I oughta do.” He turned and started off across the grass toward the steps up the cliff.
Mast continued to sit, staring out at the water framed by the softly rustling palms, but the beautiful scene had lost a great deal of its appeal for him. He could not remember Winstock being that kind of a chicken noncom; usually it was just the reverse, and Winstock was always in trouble from trying to work angles. Nervously Mast cracked his knuckles, one by one methodically, and at the same time convulsively, then bit a hangnail off his right index finger and spat it out angrily. He should never have come down here where Winstock could accost him openly. He should have stayed where there were other people. Winstock wouldn’t have dared do such a thing in front of other people. The pistol was becoming an almost unbearable responsibility. Everything he did or thought had to be governed by it. He could hardly keep up with it all.
From the top of the stairs in the cliff, Winstock hollered down at him to come on, that the truck was loading, and as he got up wearily to go, he looked at the lovely tropic scene before him, the like of which he had seen in so many movies and had so often dreamed of seeing in the reality; it left him feeling only an intense, gloomy sense of tragedy and sorrow, and a sad, resigned melancholy. This was not for him, any more than were the ‘gravy train’ positions of the other half of the company’s sector. For him in life there were only the Makapoos and the Winstocks. There was an almost enjoyable luxury in accepting and admitting it.
The ride back out to Makapoo was even worse. Everyone hated leaving the comforts and shelter of the CP, meager as they were, compared to the beach positions in the city. When the truck left the cover of the Koko Head saddle and came back out to the beach, the unceasing wind began to buffet them again. Up in front, right behind the cab where the most shelter was, Winstock and O’Brien sat opposite each other with their heads together talking and grinning at each other. Far off across the open sea here, its surf whipped up by the wind, Molokai where Stevenson had lived and where the leper colony still was, was visible as a low storm cloud on the horizon.
There was no real doubt in Mast’s mind as to what Winstock would decide to do. Nonetheless, after the truck had deposited them back within their isolated barbed-wire island at Makapoo and the little four-man detail had gone right back to work straightening and strengthening pickets and trying to dress up the hopelessly uneven lines of wire, Mast spent the rest of the day in an absolute agony of suspense, before Winstock finally came around to him after chow that evening.
“I’ve thought it over, Mast,” Winstock said, his thin, sharp little face twisted up with apology. “Thought it over
“Why, you’re crazy!” Mast exploded, and jumped up convulsively. He stood staring at Winstock a moment and then sat back down again. “You’re not in command of me in the first place! And in the second, it’s none of your damned business anyway, this pistol! It has nothing to do with our company! I told you: I bought it off a guy in the 8th Field!”
“Well, that’s not the way I see it,” Winstock said sadly. “I see it like it’s a sort of a responsibility of ethics—like, Mast, you know? I just got to decide what I ought to do.
“Well, I’ll let you know. Soon’s I figure it out. Got to think about it.” He slapped Mast on the arm, warmly and apologetically. “I’m sorry, kid. Well, maybe I’ll feel like I won’t have to do it maybe.
“Well, come on. We better get back upstairs. The truck’ll be ready to leave soon.”
“So you’ll let me know?” Mast growled sourly.
“Sure,” Winstock said cheerfully, “sure. Soon’s I figure out what I oughta do.” He turned and started off across the grass toward the steps up the cliff.
Mast continued to sit, staring out at the water framed by the softly rustling palms, but the beautiful scene had lost a great deal of its appeal for him. He could not remember Winstock being that kind of a chicken noncom; usually it was just the reverse, and Winstock was always in trouble from trying to work angles. Nervously Mast cracked his knuckles, one by one methodically, and at the same time convulsively, then bit a hangnail off his right index finger and spat it out angrily. He should never have come down here where Winstock could accost him openly. He should have stayed where there were other people. Winstock wouldn’t have dared do such a thing in front of other people. The pistol was becoming an almost unbearable responsibility. Everything he did or thought had to be governed by it. He could hardly keep up with it all.
From the top of the stairs in the cliff, Winstock hollered down at him to come on, that the truck was loading, and as he got up wearily to go, he looked at the lovely tropic scene before him, the like of which he had seen in so many movies and had so often dreamed of seeing in the reality; it left him feeling only an intense, gloomy sense of tragedy and sorrow, and a sad, resigned melancholy. This was not for him, any more than were the ‘gravy train’ positions of the other half of the company’s sector. For him in life there were only the Makapoos and the Winstocks. There was an almost enjoyable luxury in accepting and admitting it.
The ride back out to Makapoo was even worse. Everyone hated leaving the comforts and shelter of the CP, meager as they were, compared to the beach positions in the city. When the truck left the cover of the Koko Head saddle and came back out to the beach, the unceasing wind began to buffet them again. Up in front, right behind the cab where the most shelter was, Winstock and O’Brien sat opposite each other with their heads together talking and grinning at each other. Far off across the open sea here, its surf whipped up by the wind, Molokai where Stevenson had lived and where the leper colony still was, was visible as a low storm cloud on the horizon.
There was no real doubt in Mast’s mind as to what Winstock would decide to do. Nonetheless, after the truck had deposited them back within their isolated barbed-wire island at Makapoo and the little four-man detail had gone right back to work straightening and strengthening pickets and trying to dress up the hopelessly uneven lines of wire, Mast spent the rest of the day in an absolute agony of suspense, before Winstock finally came around to him after chow that evening.
“I’ve thought it over, Mast,” Winstock said, his thin, sharp little face twisted up with apology. “Thought it over
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