I don’t mean to say that we didn’t suffer. Just one night was a lifetime of suffering, believe me. And during most of the day, this little hot-air pot was our chief domain and, except for our stolen and in-line-of-duty liberties, we remained there and suffered the trip as best we could—which was not very well, in the case of Esky, who found it rather close quarters for a healthy he-man of a dog. He was satisfied to stay put for a couple of days; that snowy journey to Camp about finished him; but soon he was full of pep and would have been on deck pronto if he hadn’t been so well trained that he didn’t know how to disobey my orders that he stay where he was.
He sure was one fine pup. Everybody liked him and anyone who couldn’t finish his eats brought whatever he could carry back to Esky. Ben took a very paternal interest in him and a fiendish delight in hoodwinking the inspecting officers during the morning tour. As I was usually out at the time, Ben had to do the dirty work and take the risks. He would tuck Esky under my blanket roll when he heard the officers coming down the ladder into the compartment, and Esky stayed there without a wiggle, no matter how long he had to hold this uncomfortable position. It was so dark in there that the inspectors had to carry flash lights, and after the second morning, they didn’t bother to do more than look in the door, so Esky was safe. It would have been safe enough now to leave him under the bunk, but Ben said that as sure as we did, Chilblaines would come along on inspecting detail and “Dat rat’ll want to look in yer ears even!” So far, Chilblaines had failed to appear.
Ben was lying in his bunk trying to decide whether to make an effort to join the crap game outside, Esky was panting so hard underneath me that the head of my bunk was quivering, and I was about wilted. I’d have given my right eye for a bath—even considered surrendering my honor for one. I tried Christian Science to see if I could make my imagination control my body: if faith can move mountains, it certainly ought to be good for a little spell of comfort even in this god-awful sweatshop. Oho, for the life of a soldier in this man’s war! What a dumb-bell I was to imagine there was anything glorious or exciting about this business!
—3—
One morning I came back to the bunk hole, found Ben there and told him, “The General says Chilblaines is sicker’n a dog and has lost everything he ever ate in his life. Isn’t that good news?”
Ben just took one look at me and made a dive for the G.I. can that was set, for this very purpose, in the middle of the compartment. He was engaged there for some little time and the sounds he emitted could be heard above the monotonous hum of pumps and engines. When he finally stumbled back to his berth, he looked as if he had lost twenty pounds, but he managed a hollow-eyed grin and observed, “I hope he’s unconscious the rest o’ the trip! Might o’ known somethin’ was wrong when he didn’t come snoopin’ around all this time. Serves him damn well right.” And he flopped into his bunk—or rather, his huge frame flopped, his legs hanging awry over the edge. He didn’t have strength enough to lift them up, too.
I said that I thought Chilblaines’ attack of seasickness was an act of Providence intended to safeguard Esky’s passage. “Or maybe the vengeance of the Lord,” I added.
“Ugh—” he groaned. “What the hell did I ever do to be treated like this?” He opened his eyes and stared at me. “Leony—be a good kid and get me a wet towel or somethin’.”
So I got him a wet towel and a couple of lemons, and just as I was leaving, I discovered the remains of a plug of chewing tobacco on the deck. “Here’s your tobacco, Ben,” I said, laying it on his berth in front of his face.
“Aw, my God!” he cried out. “Don’t ya know I’m sick! Christ, I think I’m gonna die!”