Soldiers Pay Read Online Free PDF

She said from the ruthless humanity of money:
    â€œI shall report you to the conductor. That man is sick and needs attention.”
    â€œAll right, ma’am. But you tell the conductor that if he bothers him now, I’ll knock his goddam head off.”
    The old woman glared at Gilligan from beneath a quiet, modish black hat and a girl’s voice said:
    â€œLet them alone, Mrs. Henderson. They’ll take care of him all right.”
    She was dark. Had Gilligan and Lowe ever seen an Aubrey Beardsley, they would have known that Beardsley would have sickened for her: he had drawn her so often dressed in peacock hues, white and slim and depraved among meretricious trees and impossible marble fountains. Gilligan rose.
    â€œThat’s right, miss. He is all right sleeping here with us. The porter is looking after him—” wondering why he should have to explain to her—“and we are taking him home. Just leave him be. And thank you for your interest.”
    â€œBut something ought to be done about it,” the old woman repeated futilely. The girl led her away and the train ran swaying in afternoon. (Sure, it was afternoon. Cadet Lowe’s wrist watch said so. It might be any state under the sun, but it was afternoon. Afternoon or evening or morning or night, far as the officer was concerned. He slept.)
    Damned old bitch Gilligan muttered, careful not to wake him.
    â€œLook how you’ve got his arm,” the girl said, returning. She moved his withered hand from his thigh. (His hand, too, seeing the scrofulous indication of his bones beneath the blistered skin.) “Oh, his poor terrible face,” she said, shifting the pillow under his head.
    â€œBe quiet, ma’am,” Gilligan said.
    She ignored him. Gilligan, expecting to see him wake, admitted defeat and she continued:
    â€œIs he going far?”
    â€œLives in Georgia,” Gilligan said. He and Cadet Lowe seeing that she was not merely passing their section, rose.
    Lowe remarking her pallid distinction, her black hair, the red scar of her mouth, her slim dark dress, knew an adolescent envy of the sleeper. She ignored Lowe with a brief glance. How impersonal she was, how self-contained. Ignoring them.
    â€œHe can’t get home alone,” she stated with conviction. “Are you all going with him?”
    â€œSure,” Gilligan assured her. Lowe wished to say something, something that would leave him fixed in her mind: something to reveal himself to her. But she glanced at the glasses, the bottle that Lowe, feeling a fool, yet clasped.
    â€œYou seem to be getting along pretty well, yourselves,” she said.
    â€œSnake medicine, miss, But won’t you have some?”
    Lowe, envying Gilligan’s boldness, his presence of mind, watched her mouth. She looked down the car.
    â€œI believe I will, if you have another glass.”
    â€œWhy, sure. General, ring the bell.” She sat down beside Mabon and Gilligan and Lowe sat again. She seemed . . . she was young; she probably liked dancing, yet at the same time she seemed not young—as if she knew everything. (She is married, and about twenty-five, thought Gilligan.) (She is about nineteen, and she is not in love, Lowe decided.) She looked at Lowe.
    â€œWhat’s your outfit, soldier?”
    â€œFlying Cadet,” answered Lowe with slow patronage, “Air Service.” She was a kid: she only looked old.
    â€œOh. Then, of course, you are looking after him. He’s an aviator, too, isn’t he?”
    â€œLook at his wings,” Lowe answered. “British. Royal Air Force. Pretty good boys.”
    â€œHell,” said Gilligan, “he ain’t no foreigner.”
    â€œYou don’t have to be a foreigner to be with the British, or French. Look at Lufbery. He was with the French until we come in.”
    The girl looked at him and Gilligan, who had never heard of Lufbery, said: “Whatever he is, he’s all right.