54 ERNEST HEMINGWAY
pitched forward dead. It had been the only time Fred consciously killed a man. You don't kill men in war much, the book said. The hell you don't, Yogi thought, if you're two years in the infantry at the front. They just die. Indeed they do, Yogi thought. Anderson said the act was rather hysterical on Fred's part. He and the men with him might have made the fellow surrender. They had all got the jimjams. After it happened they all ran away together. Where the hell did they run to? Yogi wondered. Paris?
Afterward, killing this man haunted Fred. It's got to be sweet and true. That was the way the soldiers thought, Anderson said. The hell it was. This Fred was supposed to have been two years in an infantry regiment at the front.
A couple of Indians were passing along the road, grunting to themselves and to each other. Yogi called to them. The Indians came over.
"Big white chief got chew of tobacco?" asked the first Indian.
"White chief carry liquor?" the second Indian asked.
Yogi handed them a package of Peerless and his pocket flask.
"White chief heap big medicine," the Indians grunted.
"Listen," Yogi Johnson said. "I am about to address to you a few remarks about the war. A subject on which I feel very deeply." The Indians sat down on the logs. One of the Indians pointed at the sky. "Up there gitchy Manitou the Mighty," he said.
The other Indian winked at Yogi. "White chief no believe every goddam thing he hear," he grunted.
