Chapter VIII
VIII
and Bagger’s patience tears away like a pair of old britches, there’s no question which of these men he’d condemn to crawl out there if he had the power, and that’s the thing, he does have the power, part of what makes him the Hawkeye Hustler is his ability to spin a yarn, it’s how he lures a fellow into horse betting, how he convinces widows their dead husbands had nearly finished paying for a surprise jewelry gift, how he coaxes men into believing he’s a stockbroker, please read my brochure, How A Modest Fortune May Be Made From A Small Investment In Wheat And Corn,
and it’s a skill he picked up from his father, Bishop Bagger’s sermons made the obscurest Bible tales as suspenseful as photoplay serials, and Bagger has learned it’s easiest to swindle the rich or sophisticated, who despise admitting that they have been rooked, which means getting through to Hugh Popkin won’t be easy as there’s no intellect to manipulate,
and the laughing lug appears to read the shift in Bagger’s demeanor, Popkin takes hold of his own Springfield with a defensiveness Bagger thinks he can capitalize on, the lummox is childlike, after all, and children love stories,
and so Bagger begins, carefully, “All that bang-bang. You’re good at it,” and Popkin warns, “I told you, I’ll make boots of you,” and Bagger says, “I know. But hear me out first,” and Popkin says, “You ain’t good enough for boots.
Rags to wipe my dick,” to which Goodspeed giggles and interrupts, “Show him, Popkin, show him your pork and beans, wait till you see, Bagger, the worst case of clap you ever saw!,” and Popkin’s lip curls up as he gamely holds open the front of his pants,
and Goodspeed says, “Get yourself a gander, Arno, here’s a lesson in social hygiene,” and the kid looks terrified, he saw the same VD posters, they all did at Camp Winn, HE PICKED UP MORE THAN A GIRL!
and BOOBY TRAP!, neither of which worked as the Army intended, for the poster artists couldn’t help but draw the tainted girls as absolute knockouts worth any VD risk, though now Bagger hopes the posters’ small-print curses come true for Popkin, insanity, blindness, heart disease, sterility,
and after Popkin’s pants snap back to his gut, Bagger says in his father’s doxological tone, “I want you to listen, Popkin. I want you to imagine. You’re out there.
Zero hour. Over the top,” to which the lummox snorts, “Is this storytime?,” and acts like it is, closing his eyes and leaning into the clay, so Bagger says, “Storytime, sure. Now, in this story, you’re belly-crawling over No Man’s Land.
Jerry’s bullets zipping through your hair,”
and Popkin snorts, “Oh, good, I got my hair back,” and Bagger goes with it, “You and your big head of hair crawl till you find the shrieker,” and Popkin singsongs, “I told you, I ain’t going,” but Bagger soothes, “It’s just storytime.
All right. So you find the shrieker. He’s caught in barbed wire like a steer.
It’s bad. It’s bad like we all know it’s going to be.
But you do your duty. You do what you’re so good at,” and sure enough, Popkin hits his cue, forming his finger gun and going, “Bang,”
and Bagger says, “Correct. You help him. Like Reis said,” and Popkin laughs, “Yeah. With élan,” and Bagger dares a glance at the others, even amid the death rumbles and offal stink, perhaps because of it, they have the translucent look of Bishop Bagger’s rapt congregation, because stories are hope, stories have all sorts of fantastical twists, underdog victories, and heavenly interventions, all things soldiers yearn for,
and Bagger continues, “Then you crawl back here. The rest of us greet you like a hero. Because you are a hero. Finally, the hero you always knew you could be. You did what the rest of us couldn’t.
And we vow to give you all the credit you’re due,” and Popkin says, dreamily, “Lift me on your shoulders,” to which Goodspeed protests, “You might get your block shot off,” but Popkin warns, “I’m the star of this story,”
and, sure, whatever, “We lift you on our shoulders. We carry you all back to the division. Hollis sees us first. Can’t believe his eyes.
Sends for Motta. Motta’s beside himself.
Greisz shows up. Greisz gets the whole story.
Greisz calls you ‘son.’ Now word reaches Reis.
The Generalissimo’s never looked so shocked.
Forget a court-martial. Reis shows you off to Bullard.
Bullard shows you off to Pershing. You’re the best thing to ever come out of the 43rd, and the honors?
They’re only beginning,” and Popkin murmurs, “Medal of Honor. I get one before Reis,”
and Bagger’s on a roll, “Here’s the best part, Popkin.
Tonight, as early as tonight, a few hours from now, you’re cozied up in the driest spot of the camp because heroes don’t sleep in mud, and you ask for pencil and paper, and I know writing’s not your strong suit, but you get your point across, I bet,” and Popkin says, “Figure I do. Who’m I writing?
,” and Bagger pauses long enough for artillery blasts to tenderize the lummox’s heart before he forks it, “Effie,”
and here we go, Effie Inez Barbeau, Darling Inez, Effie Weffie, Effie My Hart’s Desire, Hart pronounced with a seal’s arf to mock the misspelling the recruits saw on letters Popkin let slip to the floor, where men were pissing into brand-new boots to soften them overnight, and had it been only one soldier teasing him, Popkin probably would have murdered the guy, but the whole damn barracks razzed him,
and though Popkin tried to hide his future letters, as well as the girl’s replies, he’s always failed, and thus his tragicomic relationship with Effie Inez Barbeau became Company P legend, how Popkin had enlisted at Effie Weffie’s request, or at least that was Popkin’s understanding, as Effie Weffie, in her imitable, playful way, wrote repeatedly that she hadn’t asked Popkin to join the army specifically, rather that she could only love “a fighting man,” a distinction that, at this point in the war, feels really fucking important,
and Popkin’s letters sop with obsessive accounts of the times Effie Weffie let him hold her hand and how his loins burned, a different burn than the clap, Bagger assumes, and of the times Effie Weffie spurned his kisses, which always lead to the same list of questions, why did she refuse to kiss him after he signed up, why does she still refuse to say she loves him, does she know he fantasizes about her every night, P Company sure knows, the lummox can’t keep Effie Weffie’s name from his masturbatory sighs,
and it’s probably fair to mention all the boys are obsessed with Effie Weffie, the girl is trouble, a real minx, and yet, like the VD vixens, she inspires lust through her painstaking descriptions of the boys she dates back home, boys who aren’t “fighting men” at all, each detail a bullet into Popkin’s chest, a feminine barrage from four thousand miles away, she’s driving the lummox insane, a different shell shock than Veck’s,
and Popkin’s eyes twitch behind his lids as he asks, “Why’m I writing Effie?,” a justified suspicion particularly when it comes to Bagger, as it was Bagger’s rigged blackjack game that unloaded Popkin of the diamond ring he’d intended to present to Effie upon returning home,
and so Bagger replies quickly, “All your letters have been complaints. That’s no way to win a lady.
This time, you’ll have something to brag about,” and Popkin asks, “Yeah?,” and Bagger says, “Tell her about the letter of commendation you’re getting.
About the medal you’ll show her when you get back.
The medal you’ll show all the girls when you get back.
That ought to do it, don’t you think?,” and Popkin licks his lips of tobacco and blood, and growls hungrily, “Yeah,”
and Popkin’s eyes open slowly thanks to the weight of mud and the intoxicating notion that he, at long last, might be the driver of his own sexual future, and there’s a dull bison glow to his eyes that unsettles Bagger, makes him worry that, if Popkin does get out of the war alive, Effie Inez Barbeau will need better protection than a well-manicured slapping hand,
and Popkin’s eyes roll toward the trench top, and Bagger holds his breath, and Popkin leans away, the clay slurping as it lets him go, he’s picturing No Man’s Land, how he can keep his big body low, how he might bludgeon the shrieker to death so as not to tip off Jerry sharpshooters, deep thoughts for a lummox, but this is how good cons work, your mark’s imagination finishes the con for you,
and Popkin takes a single step, the first station of the cross en route to the trench ladder, the first stage of keeping the rest of them safe and sound, when the whole effort is ruined by the kid, the goddamn kid, bouncing up, hands bolted to ears, screaming,