During the night the bell sounded. Henry, waking instantly, knew who it was. He heard the concerted clumping of boots, the door hinge, scuffing against the wall. The chain of the hall lamp batted on the shade with a clinking, clear noise. He pulled himself free of the quilt and sat up trembling slightly. As soon as the door came open he grasped the lower panel of the bed and climbed out. He was wooden, tired, heart thumping–shouldn’t have risen so fast.

Four entered, he could see more in the hall.

“You Howland?”

“Yes,” said Henry.

“Get dressed,” said the man in the lead.

Night Awakening

“What for?” But he need not have asked; he understood why. They didn’t answer either but stood aside, waiting. Henry sat in the reed rocker and drew on his damp clothes. Then he rose and looked in the miror. Why couldn’t he be more calm? He made his tie and tried to calm himself–one, –two, around, slip, knot. No use. His fingers slipped away from him. Was he so badly scared? He put his hand out surreptitiously–so as not to make a sudden move–and saw it quiver. Just nervous. He knew he wasn’t a coward. He was almost relieved that they had caught him at last. As they passed through the door he looked around to see if he could make any of them out. Probably civilians, all of them.

They went out, walking rapidly down the long familiar street which was viscous, black and and wet. The night was thick; as though it had a voice but the voice was hoarse and low. Now that he was clear of the room his mond cast off some of its gumminess. He heard, his ears inordinately keen, each sound first magnified then strangely thin and high, but all many years and many miles removed.

It was near morning but the street was as busy as at midday with new, hysterical activity. Young soldiers passed with no more than a glance; alert, purposeful, scornful; newly come form some high-school camp. They were getting them young now, and well trained. No question in the minds of the boys that what they were doing meant more than drill and the crisp words of patriotism. How young, hard and unforgiving. Certainly they knew what the men meant and where they were leading him. Lately such sights were not uncommon: eight or nine surrounding somone and all eddying swiftly, dumbly, through the crowds.

They passed Gilbert’s drug store. He saw the curtain waver in the apartment upstairs. He looked eagerly but no face appeared. He would have liked to see someone looking out. Even if it were someone he didn’t know. Just so long as the one knew he was there–walking. He hated the thought of disappearing so anonymously. For a moment the street lamp, an iron flower, flashed a yellow bloom on the glass, the wind stirred in the blind, and the curtain flirted upward.

Then they were half a block away. Shop windows and walls were plastered with signs–black and red letters.

FIGHT. DON’T BE AN ENEMY AT HOME.

A stern faced soldier holding out a bayonet–the crooked line advancing. What a noble face he had.

DEFEND YOURSELF.

We all had such strong and noble faces and we all ought to defend ourselves. Behind him stood a girl with a brave serious expression on her face. She was holding supplies and bandages. We ought to protect her, too.

Soldiers

Patrols of sleepy soldiers passed; sulky, hulking under large masses of khaki, awkwardly trussed, they slouched on the pavement.

God. Is there no-one I know?

The street was so familiar; every face, every doorstep, the scroll-saw porches. But the men: had he not walked near them, sat near them on trains, asked them how the Cubs were coming? Now they were about to end him. Why? More people went by. A woman in a starchy flutter gripping a coat, trucks, motorcycles, a man walking alone. A van struggling into second. A woman burst yelling out of an areaway running into the rain, running heavily in the dark. The saloons were full and noisy with men lumped over the bars singing, “O, it won’t be long till we’re there, la-de-da.” There? Where was that? London, Lisbon, Rome. Before hiding he had sat one evening in the gloom of a movie house watching the war reels. Ten thousand Frenchman in long coats, marching out of a fortress. It won’t be long. Everybody was in the swim. Austrian troops on the run. The commanding general issued his orders and the attack followed immediately. La-de-da, they were singing everywhere.

Escape

Henry did not know where he was going. He marched between them wondering whether he would die. How? In this familiar place it seemed impossible. Yet men had died in familiar places before of pneumonia, of automobile accidents. He tried to imagine how it would be if he made a break for it. He was too tired. Still, he might. Pressing and jostling, hurrying him down the street, a constant indicment of a crime he never had committed. And he had to feel furtive and alien. They demanded it of him. That they thought him a coward concerned him little. He couldn’t get away from that sory of feeling; it was grained too deeply. But what did it matter? How tired he was of running away. It was much better to settle it since it was too late to make things over. Here he was: caught. His mind turned over swiftly again. An idiot force, it was, that ran you down wherever you were. It found you and took you on this street where you knew each fence, each porch, door, angle, turn. Nevertheless, it was better to die here than there. How terrible it must be there. Die anyway.

Sometimes he felt that he ought to say something to the men about his not being a coward. Maybe they’d admire his nerve and let him go. Tender mercy, “Go on, beat it then” or “Got one myself at home.” Or perhaps he could appeal to the houses, the walls, the trees themselves. They should know him. They would miraculously save him. Such things had happened. The rod budded out with almond blossoms. The men marched behind and before, their faces like slag: motionless. Henry said nothing.

Light began to show, pale and patchy. The trees shook out custers of rain that fell on his face when he turned it up.

They turned though a half-lighted passage to a courtyard. They didn’t blindfold him as he had expected. What could that mean? He found himself in a low room with a narrow brown-boarded ceiling. They began roughing him. “Get along there you b—” He felt the brutality they had withheld breaking through. He felt a fist strike his cheek, shredding the skin. It made him weak and sick. Then, as someone brought a light close, he saw the dull ruddy faces all around. There was a preliminary flick like someone breathing sharply: a whip, that was it. He did not turn his head but faced the wall.

“Give it to ‘im, give it to ‘im, Lay it on.”

He was silent and accepted the pain. “Flick!” This is for men marching, for ships and bullets. “Flick!” This is for taps at sundown, for patriot souls. Aaaah. This is for men speaking solemnly, for guns speaking, for men overseas marching. The whip howled over his head. The men beat him steadily, grimly, taking turns.

He couldn’t think, later, but in its rhythms. He saw with a dry heart the tennuous red tracks running criss-cross. He saw with strained eyes-beyond his sight–five concentric oblongs piece themselves together. He was five blocks from home.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Mr. Bellow’s story, “The Hell It Can’t,” was awarded third prize in The Campus In Print Story Contest, held the latter part of the last semester and judged by Professors Frederick, Smith and Wright.