Cool Hand Luke (15 page)

Slowly, very slowly, he began to pick out a few chords, stopping to flex his fingers and shake his hand from the wrist. Then he started. And once again we were far more than just amazed. Because Luke could play that thing. He was a master.

Koko's simple chords and Dragline's country-boy harmonica were nothing to what Luke could do to that banjo, his fingers beginning to loosen up, the memory of his former skills returning, fondling every chord with a certainty, a subtle strength and delicacy. Quickly he skipped from one thing to another, playing fragments of songs, picking out runs and scales, playing brief snatches of Dixieland jazz, spirituals and mountain hymns, long and complicated virtuoso pieces in the Blue Grass style.

Since the laws of silence were always enforced in the evenings by the Floorwalker, we could only hear
Luke's music on the weekends. He would sit on the floor crosslegged by his bunk, his feet and his chest both bare, his eyes closed and his head tilted backwards, a tiny smile on his lips which were parted just enough to reveal the white of his teeth. And as Luke fondled those vibrant threads his face underwent a transformation, his hard and youthful handsomeness beginning to assume a glow. Slowly he became two selves, his hands undertaking a life of their own while the rest of him drifted away.

And he would sing, his voice droning as if inspired by some distant source, his flying fingers going on with their melody. Then he might repeat what he just said. Or make noises, throw in odd words which were not meant to be sentences but which kept up the syncopated rhythm of his voice, half-talking in a mocking chant that alternated in pitch and intensity and became a kind of song, a kind of Talking Blues of a style and nature all his own.

For the first time we began to learn something of Luke's past. In little snatches we caught disconnected glimpses of his life. But when accompanied by the banjo it all made sense. He was never really performing nor was he telling a story. It was more like thinking aloud, explaining it all to himself.

Come on you little fellas and gather around and your Uncle Luke will tell you all about the war. You remember the war. The big war. When everything went boom boom. And it also went—bang bang. And sometimes even—ka-zowie!

But just remember. You gotta play it cool.

Course I had to kill a couple fellas here and there. Killin‘ was my job. And my daddy always used to tell me to do a real good job. Him bein' a preacher and all, carryin‘ the Word, I always did what my daddy said. Got to be pretty good at it. Got promoted. Got to be a corporal.

But you gotta be cool. That's part of the job.

Bein‘ a preacher's son and bein' one of the good guys I just naturally had to have me a lot of faith. A drink now and then didn't hurt none neither. Pretty tough fella. Pretty brave. Pretty good shot too.

But better'n that. I was pretty damn cool.

So the war went on and we went here and we went there. We'd walk awhile and we'd dig holes awhile. Then we'd walk a little more. Then we'd sit and we'd wait and they'd put us in some trucks and we'd wait. Then they'd drive us around and park a little bit. And we'd wait. But I never fretted like them other boys. Sooner or later ole Captain Luke would just hafta shoot. Or give up the gun. Besides. Preacher's son. One of the good guys. Strong and silent type. So I'd just play the banjo here and pick out some new tunes. Just pickin‘ and pluckin' and playin‘ it real cool.

Cause you gotta be cool. That's part of the job.

After awhile we got tired of playin‘ soldier. So we went sailin'. We sailed to England. We sailed to Africa. We sailed to Sicily. But it seemed like no matter where we went folks kept shootin‘ at us. We kept tellin' ‘em that we were the good guys. But they kept right on shootin'. Then we sailed to Italy. They took us out in this here big iron
boat and put us in this little iron boat. And we kept sailin‘. And they kept shootin'. And I sat up on top of a big old tank in this here landin‘ craft so's I could see what was goin' on. Get a good luck at all them bad guys. And them bad guys was mad. Shootin‘ guns all over the place. Things blowin' up. Water splashin‘. Airplanes flyin' around. Everybody scared. So I played my banjo a little bit. And I sang to them boys. And I told ‘em. I come from Alabama. Oh, yeah. With a banjo on my knee.

And they saw me up there, pickin‘ away and not gittin' shot. And they figured things weren't so bad. So they perked up a little and weren't afraid no more.

Cause you gotta be cool. That's all. Remain refrigerated.

Later on the colonel he heard about how I could pick a banjo and all and he figures that's pretty hot stuff. So he give me this here extra medal that he didn't need. A star, he said. Bronze star. Like they make statues with.

Every weekend Luke would play and sing for us and we gathered round and listened. We listened carefully because we knew that this was the way it was, that when that banjo spoke to us, it was telling the truth.

And that old banjo had really been around. You could tell just by looking at it. It was a classic frontier model with a very long neck and four strings which Luke played in the same plectrum style that his family had for generations. The head was made of split calf skin, the fret board inlaid with bits of colored wood and mother of pearl that formed the suits of a deck of cards—spades, hearts,
diamonds and clubs. According to Luke it had been made by Bacon and Day sometime before the Civil War.

One of the lower frets had once been repaired with a wooden plug. But the back of the hole in the neck was still rough and splintered, the result of the same bullet that had made the long scar along Luke's left side and hip as he sat one morning in an olive grove a few kilometers north of Salerno. Luke sat on the porch steps one Sunday and told us the story just as he told us many others.

So this here war went on and on. And the soldier business was really boomin‘. Never seen so many bad guys. They were all over the place. In uniforms. In overalls. Even in dresses. Every time we took over a town the folks would come out with flowers and music. Everybody kissed everybody. Lots of real fine wine. Then this here committee would jump up. These would be the good guys who were hidin' out while the bad guys were around. Then they'd start draggin‘ these here collaborator people out of their houses. Got along good with the bad guys. So they lined 'em up by the courthouse wall. Preacher said a few words. And then bang bang. After that they hung ‘em up by the feet. Everybody stood around and made fun of'em hangin‘ there that-a-way. Upside down and all. Especially the women. Dresses hung clean down over their heads. Real dead too.

After that the good guys were even again. Everybody had some more wine. Played some more music. Kissed everybody.

But I kept pickin‘ and pluckin' and playin‘ it cool.

Then we walked some more and dug some more holes. And waited. And shot guns. Houses got on fire. Guys got killed. People ran around with wagons and bicycles and wheelbarrows. Everytime we set up a field kitchen a whole bunch of people would gather round with pots and tin cans. Especially kids. Lots of kids. We'd always leave a little bit in our mess kits and then call some kid over and dump it in his can. Took it home. Back to the hut or the cellar where his maw was. Sisters and brothers and all like that there.

But one day this here new lieutenant he sees the commotion and he says, sergeant, what's all the commotion? And the sergeant said, lieutenant sir, them is Eyetie kids what keep hangin‘ around for leftovers. And the lieutenant sir, he says that will never do. Men gotta eat. Can't waste food on just kids that way. Obstructin' the war effort. Might even be sabotage. Besides, it air.'t right that kids should eat garbage. Ain't sanitary. So the lieutenant sir, he says, sergeant, send three men to dig a nice sanitary hole for the garbage.

But the kids they all let out a howl when the left-over chow got dumped in the hole. Jumped right in after it. Little dirt didn't matter none to them. Had to stretch ropes around the hole. Push back the crowds. But the kids ducked under, slippin‘ and slidin' and floppin‘ around right in the mud. Screechin'. Cryin‘. Raisin' all kinds of hell.

So the lieutenant sir, he had the sergeant fill the hole up with dirt right away. Then the kids started diggin‘ up the dirt with their hands. So the lieutenant sir, he has
the dirt tamped down hard and has it run over with trucks and then he posts a guard over it. Day and night. That learned them little kids all right. Little smart alecks. Ain't s'posed to eat dirty old slop that-a-way.

The lieutenant sir, he just played it cool. Like you just gotta do.

So we learned about the war and we learned about Luke. We heard it as a song and a story, a jeremiad of pain and bitterness, a ragged tale made of scraps of memory, things seen and heard and half dreamed within the nightmare of combat.

The banjo told us how it felt during the triumphal entry into Rome. The next weekend we heard about the artillery barrage and the shrapnel that put Luke in a base hospital for two months. Afterwards it was France and the mountains, the roads clogged with peasants riding in carts and wagons and automobiles pulled by oxen, carrying rucksacks, pedaling bicycles, all fleeing to the rear to escape the terrors of scorched earth that the Germans left behind.

But the banjo picked and plucked and reverberated through the monotony, the waiting, the hunger, the heat and the cold and the wet and the filth, the drunken revels and the jokes, the agonies and the horrors. Men were bombed and burned and butchered. Germans and Americans. Frenchmen, Englishmen and Italians. Civilians shot as hostages, as spies, as accidents. Children disemboweled. Women decapitated.

Luke began to join those who sought out the liquor
in every captured village and farmhouse. When the sergeant led his squad into the overrun German dressingstation and pounced on the two nurses who had been left behind with the wounded, Luke took his turn in line. And when again a few weeks later they shot their way into a farmhouse and found three hysterical French girls amidst the wrecked furniture, the corpses, the empty shell cases and littered weapons, again Luke took his turn in line.

But he and the sergeant were the first of their division to enter into Germany. They crossed the bridge at a dead run, firing their M-is from the hip at the demolition team that was frantically trying to light the fuses on the charges already put in place. Stumbling when they paused to ram another clip of ammo into the breech, running ahead, firing, screaming back at their own men who cowered and took cover, screaming curses at the fumbling Germans who fell, lit fuses, shot back and started running, the two of them kicked explosives into the river, cut lashings, snatched out burning fuses and kept up a continuous, hysterical firing.

Running so fast and so recklessly that their speed alone kept them alive in the storm of answering fire, their battle fury making them insensitive to danger and pain, the sergeant not even knowing when his helmet was shot off his head, Luke thinking he had merely tripped when the bullet caught him in the leg and then jumping up and hobbling onward, following the sergeant straight towards the machine-gun nest at the bridgehead. After ducking behind steel girders and picking off two of the gunners,
they chased away the other two, jumped into the sandbagged position and turned the gun around, the sergeant feeding in the belts of ammunition until the third bazooka rocket exploded on the edge of the parapet and tore off the top of his head. Then Luke fired the gun alone, in a frenzy, trying to pin down the troops that were forming to counterattack and destroy the bridge, clearing a stoppage in the breach, opening a new can of ammo, shooting until there was no ammo left and then snatching up his rifle and using that.

The tanks saved him. The leader of the rumbling column opened up with its gun, the Germans falling back, Luke's own platoon coming out from cover, crossing the bridge and carrying him to the rear. Once again he was hospitalized. And once again he was decorated. But this time it was done during formal ceremonies, the presentation made by a lieutenant general with a band and a color guard. And this time the star was silver.

Again Luke was sent to the front, he himself a sergeant now and the squad leader. He still carried his banjo slung across his pack but he didn't have as much time for banjo picking. And he drank more and more. Deeper into Germany they went. The war moved faster, the chaos mounting into a climax of lust, confusion and destruction. The concentration camps began to be liberated. The ovens were found. Germans began surrendering by units. Germans began fighting to the last man. German deserters were found hung from lamp posts bearing signs of disgrace on their chests. German boys became Werewolves.

Luke and his men rolled on, moving too fast to wash or shave, too fast to think or feel, demented by their conquest, their immortality. They carried bottles in their packs. They confiscated civilian cars and charged over pastures and fields like a squadron of mad cavalry pursuing the enemy in any direction, they cared not which. Prisoners were fed. Prisoners were shot. Girls were given chocolate bars. Girls were raped. Orphans were given shelter. Homes were broken into and ransacked.

In a castle on a hill over a village by a river that none of them could name, having lost a fourth of their number in a ferocious fight that lasted for three days, Luke's company was quartered for a temporary rest. But they didn't want to rest. With the tacit permission of the lieutenant who had taken command the day before when the Captain's jeep ran over an anti-tank mine that blew off both an arm and a leg, the company of soldiers began to loot the place in an orgy of vandalism. Silver was taken, the contents of closets strewn open and trampled on. They shot down a painting of a high ranking officer, laughing hilariously when one of them urinated on it. They shot down chandeliers. Cabinets were smashed open and liqueurs guzzled. They slit open sofas with bayonets, broke windows, built up a fire in the fireplace and fed it with smashed furniture. An old man came tottering in, yelling his protests until he was smashed in the mouth with a rifle butt. Hysterical children were rounded up and locked in a room with an old nurse. Then the women were rounded up, the servants as well as the Countess and her family, all
of them carried off kicking and screaming into various rooms to be stripped and mauled and ravaged over and over again.