Chapter 42 — Teaching Companion

What it asks It asks the student to tell apart two pieces of news that look alike. In the second paragraph Troop C comes “wearily back from the border” and says “that none of this was true”: “Mexicans could shoot straight, goddam it!” The narrator takes the lesson as his own, and adds the cost: “Some of our boys didn’t really feel good again for years.” Then “We went right back to our myths. One American was as good as twenty Germans.” In the seventh paragraph, after the telegrams and the draftees, some men “talk softly in the poolrooms and the bars.” They have “private information from a soldier”: men sent in without guns, troopships sunk in secret, a German army “so far superior to ours that we didn’t have a chance.” The narrator calls them “carrion talkers” and says that “usually” they were “the same ones” who had boasted, and he says “the same ones” twice. He does not say whether their rumors are true. The question touches the hinge: the town learns nothing from Troop C, boasts again and then panics, and the chapter’s last line calls that town “inexperienced.”

One reading

Seeing against hearing. Troop C were there. They rode against Villa’s horsemen and came back sick and tired, and their news cost them their pride. The poolroom men were never there. They pass on “private information from a soldier” in low voices, in bars. One is a witness and the other is rumor, and the narrator trusts the witness.

• When our own Troop C came wearily back from the border they said that none of this was true.
• These had private information from a soldier—we weren’t getting the truth.

Another reading

It is the men, and what their talk feeds on, not the news. The narrator never says the rumors are false. He says the talkers are “the same ones” who boasted, so their doom is one more way of being sure without knowing. And it comes after the telegrams, to families with sons overseas. “Carrion” is the flesh of the dead, and that is what this talk lives off.

• And usually these carrion talkers were the same ones who had said one American was worth twenty Germans in a scrap—the same ones.
• The dreadful telegrams began to sneak sorrowfully in, and it was everybody’s brother.

Listen for

• Sets the two reports side by side and names what really differs: who saw what, when the news comes, and who carries it.
• Weighs “carrion,” the flesh of the dead that scavengers feed on, and asks what these men live off.
• Hears “usually” and the doubled “the same ones,” and does not make every talker a boaster.
• Keeps to the page: the chapter does not say whether the poolroom rumors are true.

If stuck

• What did Troop C say when it came home, and how did the boys come home?
• Where do the poolroom men get their news, and where do they tell it?
• Who were these men before the war came to Salinas?

A strong answer A strong response names the difference the narrator sees and grounds it in the second and seventh paragraphs. One reader says it is seeing against hearing: Troop C came back from the border with what it had lived through, and the poolroom men pass on rumor. Another says it is the men and the moment: they are “the same ones” who boasted, their talk comes after the telegrams, and “carrion” names what it feeds on. The best answers hear “usually” and the doubled “the same ones,” notice that the town forgot Troop C’s lesson, and say nothing about whether the rumors are true.

What it asks It asks the student to weigh two deaths in one sentence, say which one lands harder, and find what in the words does it. The fifth paragraph opens “It wasn’t much fun then,” just after the telegrams, and lists the town’s war work: the Liberty Belles parade, “Our uncle could rewrite his Fourth of July speech and use it to sell bonds,” the high school drills with the physics teacher. The list breaks: “but Jesus Christ! Marty Hopps dead, the Berges boy, from across the street, the handsome one our little sister was in love with from the time she was three, blown to bits!” Marty Hopps gets his name, the word “dead,” and no verb. The Berges boy gets his street, his looks and a little girl’s love, and then the worst words in the chapter. One paragraph before, the narrator had cried “Mother of God!” at the thought that it is not always someone else who gets killed. The chapter does not say which relatives “Our uncle” and “our little sister” are, and the talk need not. The question touches the hinge: the closing comparison has to answer to both of these deaths.

One reading

The Berges boy. He lived “from across the street.” He had a face the narrator could describe, and “our little sister” loved him. The details climb, from the street to his looks to a three-year-old’s love, and then drop to “blown to bits!” The war stops being for “somebody else” at the house across the street.

• the Berges boy, from across the street, the handsome one our little sister was in love with from the time she was three
• And just as war is always for somebody else, so it is also true that someone else always gets killed.

Another reading

Marty Hopps. He gets his name, the word “dead,” and no verb. That is the news as a telegram brings it, with nothing to soften it and nothing to remember him by. The Berges boy is at least a person in the sentence. Marty Hopps is only a name, and the telegrams brought a name like that to every house: “everybody’s brother.”

• but Jesus Christ! Marty Hopps dead
• The dreadful telegrams began to sneak sorrowfully in, and it was everybody’s brother.

Listen for

• Says what in the words does the hitting: “Marty Hopps dead” has no verb, and the Berges boy’s half runs on before “blown to bits!”
• Hears where the list of war work breaks, at “but Jesus Christ!”, and what the parade and the bonds look like beside the dead.
• Notices that the narrator cries out where the dead enter: “Mother of God!” in the fourth paragraph, “Jesus Christ!” in the fifth.
• Does not name the uncle or the sister; the chapter does not.

If stuck

• What does the narrator tell us about Marty Hopps? About the Berges boy?
• Where did the Berges boy live?
• What was the town doing for the war just before the names come?

A strong answer A strong response picks a death, says what in the sentence makes it hit hard, and grounds it in the fifth paragraph. One reader says the Berges boy: the details climb from the street to his looks to a little girl’s love, and then drop to “blown to bits!” Another says Marty Hopps: his name and “dead,” with no verb, is the news as bare as a telegram, and nothing in the chapter remembers him. The best answers notice where the list of war work breaks, hear the oaths where the dead enter, and leave the uncle and the sister unnamed.

What it asks It asks the student to look into one silence. In the sixth paragraph the draftees, “gangling, shuffling loose-jointed boys carrying suitcases,” march “awkwardly down Main Street to the Southern Pacific Depot.” They are “sheepish.” The Salinas Band marches ahead playing the “Stars and Stripes Forever,” the families walk “along beside them” crying, and “the music sounded like a dirge.” Then: “The draftees wouldn’t look at their mothers. They didn’t dare.” The paragraph ends, “We’d never thought the war could happen to us.” The narrator watches from the street and never says what the boys were thinking. The question touches the hinge: these are the boys of a town that believed every American “a rifleman by birth,” and this is the moment the war leaves Main Street with them.

One reading

They would break. A boy who looked at his crying mother might cry too, and then he could not keep walking. Not looking is how they hold themselves together as far as the depot. The word “dare” is about courage, and the courage at risk is their own.

• The draftees wouldn’t look at their mothers.
• the families walking along beside them were crying

Another reading

They were ashamed. They are “sheepish,” boys with suitcases led down the main street behind a band, in a show they did not choose. To meet their mothers’ eyes would be to be seen as what they were, boys in a parade for soldiers. What they could not face was being looked at.

• They were sheepish
• boys carrying suitcases were marching awkwardly down Main Street

Listen for

• Uses the paragraph’s own words for the boys, “gangling,” “shuffling,” “sheepish,” rather than picturing soldiers.
• Hears that the band and the families both walk with the boys, one ahead and one beside.
• Notices that “dare” is a word for courage, and hears it come back: the town had said the Kaiser “wouldn’t dare” touch its trade, and he did.
• Sets the silence beside the paragraph’s last line, “We’d never thought the war could happen to us.”

If stuck

• Who walks with the draftees down Main Street, and what are they doing?
• What words does the narrator use for the boys themselves?
• What would a draftee have seen if he had looked?

A strong answer A strong response says what the boys feared and grounds it in the sixth paragraph. One reader says they feared breaking down: one look at a crying mother and they could not keep walking. Another says they were ashamed, “sheepish” boys with suitcases paraded behind a band. The best answers use the narrator’s own words for the boys, notice that he watches from outside and cannot see into them, and connect the moment to the paragraph’s last line.

What it asks It asks the student to account for one sentence that seems out of place. The eighth paragraph turns from the poolrooms to “Little groups of British in their outlandish uniforms (but they did look smart),” who buy “everything that wasn’t nailed down” and pay “big.” “A good many of the British purchasing men were crippled, but they wore their uniforms just the same.” They buy beans because beans travel and keep and “a man can damn well live on them.” “Beans were twelve and a half cents a pound and hard to find.” Then: “And farmers wished they hadn’t contracted their beans for a lousy two cents a pound above the going price six months ago.” The narrator gives no comment. The chapter names no farmer and no one who holds the contracts, and the answer should not. The question touches the hinge: the war that sends the telegrams also sends up the price of beans, and the closing comparison has to hold a town that grieved and was paid.

One reading

It judges by where it stands. The sentence comes right after crippled men who still wear their uniforms. Beside them, farmers who are sorry their sure profit was not bigger judge themselves. The narrator needs no comment. The war pays the valley while it takes its sons.

• A good many of the British purchasing men were crippled, but they wore their uniforms just the same.
• And farmers wished they hadn’t contracted their beans for a lousy two cents a pound above the going price six months ago.

Another reading

It shows the war reaching every part of the town. The farmers are part of the “we” the narrator speaks for, and “lousy” is the valley’s own word, like “paying big” and “damn well.” He does not sneer. War was supposed to come “always to someone else,” and here it comes to the bean fields as a price. A chapter about how war arrives has to count this too.

• buying everything that wasn’t nailed down and paying for it and paying big
• A war comes always to someone else.

Listen for

• Notices where the sentence sits: after the crippled buyers and the poolroom talk, before the songs.
• Hears whose voice “lousy” carries, and the valley’s other plain words in the paragraph: “paying big,” “damn well.”
• Notices the aside “(but they did look smart)” and asks whose voice slips in there.
• Keeps the numbers to what the chapter gives, and names no farmer and no one who profits.

If stuck

• Who is buying beans, and why beans?
• What do the farmers wish they had not done?
• What comes just before this sentence, and what comes just after?

A strong answer A strong response says what the sentence does in the chapter and grounds it in the eighth paragraph. One reader says it judges by placement: farmers sorry about a profit, set beside crippled men in uniform. Another says it shows the war reaching every part of the valley, told in the valley’s own words, without a sneer. The best answers notice what comes just before the sentence, hear “lousy,” and name no one the chapter does not name.

What it asks It asks the student to judge where the narrator stops a song. The last paragraph says “The nation and the Salinas Valley changed its songs.” At first “we sang of how we would knock the hell out of Helgoland and hang the Kaiser.” “And then suddenly” the town sang of “the Red Cross nurse,” of a voice asking the telephone operator for Heaven, “Hello, central, give me Heaven, ’cause my Daddy’s there,” and of “a baby’s prayer at twilight.” That last song breaks off on a dash inside the quotation marks: “please tell my daddy thaddy must take care—”. The next words are the narrator’s own, “I guess,” and the comparison that ends the chapter. The question touches the hinge: the narrator cuts off the town’s saddest song, and then says in his own words what he thinks the town was.

One reading

He cannot bear to finish it. The song before it has a father already in Heaven, and this one has a little girl asking God to tell her father to take care. After the telegrams, the narrator knows that some of these fathers will not come home. The line breaks the way a voice breaks.

• Hello, central, give me Heaven, ’cause my Daddy’s there
• The dreadful telegrams began to sneak sorrowfully in

Another reading

He has heard enough of it. The sad songs are a show too, as the songs about hanging the Kaiser were. A grown town singing in a baby’s voice is the town making itself small. He cuts the song off and says plainly, in his own words, what he thinks.

• She climbs upstairs and says her prayers—Oh, God! please tell my daddy thaddy must take care—
• At first we sang of how we would knock the hell out of Helgoland and hang the Kaiser

Listen for

• Notices that the break is a dash inside the quotation marks: the song stops, and the narrator’s own “I guess” comes next.
• Hears “suddenly” in “And then suddenly we sang,” and what it says about how fast the change came.
• Notices whose voices the later songs use: a voice whose father is in Heaven and a little girl praying for hers, where the early songs spoke as fighters.
• Leaves the judgment of the closing comparison to the last written question.

If stuck

• What did the town sing at first, and what did it sing later?
• Who is speaking in “Hello, central, give me Heaven”?
• What would the last line of the song have said if it had finished?

A strong answer A strong response explains why the song is cut off and grounds the answer in the last paragraph. One reader says the narrator cannot finish a little girl’s prayer for her father’s safety after the telegrams. Another says he cuts off the sentiment to speak plainly, because the sad songs are as much a performance as the Kaiser songs. The best answers notice “suddenly,” hear whose voices the later songs use, and leave the closing comparison to the last written question.

What it asks It asks the student to hear one small word against the chapter’s usual one. The narrator speaks as “we” from start to finish: “we were aware,” “our myths,” “our own Troop C,” “We went right back to our myths,” “we sang.” He says “I” twice. The first is in the fourth paragraph, before any of the dead: “We, I, my family and friends, had kind of bleacher seats, and it was pretty exciting.” The second opens the last sentence, just after the cut-off song: “I guess we were like a tough but inexperienced little boy,” and the same sentence ends “we wished it was over.” The question touches the hinge: the closing comparison is the narrator’s own guess about the town he belongs to, and the student must decide what he owns in it and what he hands back to the crowd.

One reading

He can confess. Each “I” owns something the crowd would hide. The first owns that the war thrilled him: he puts himself in the bleachers, among the believers whose myths he has just mocked. The second owns the judgment: the closing comparison is his guess, not the town’s verdict. “I” is where he stops hiding in the town and answers for himself.

• We, I, my family and friends, had kind of bleacher seats, and it was pretty exciting.
• We had truly believed that Mexicans can’t shoot straight and besides were lazy and stupid.

Another reading

Very little. Each “I” is swallowed as soon as it appears. The first is squeezed between “We” and “my family” and softened by “kind of” and “pretty.” The second is “I guess,” the softest way to judge, and the sentence slides back to “we wished it was over.” He cannot stand outside the town, even to judge it.

• kind of bleacher seats, and it was pretty exciting
• I guess we were like a tough but inexperienced little boy who gets punched in the nose in the first flurry and it hurts and we wished it was over.

Listen for

• States a thesis on what the two “I”s do, and grounds it in both places, the fourth paragraph and the last sentence.
• Hears the softeners, “kind of” and “pretty,” and how “I” is squeezed between “We” and “my family.”
• Meets the strongest objection and revises: an “I” can own a confession and still hide inside a “we.”
• Does not make the narrator a critic of the war itself; he mocks the myths and mourns the dead and states no view of the fighting.

If stuck

• Find the two places where the narrator says “I.” What is happening in the chapter at each?
• What does he admit the first time?
• How does the last sentence start, and how does it end?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis on what the two “I”s let the narrator say, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says “I” is where he confesses: he owns the thrill of the bleachers and owns the closing judgment as his. The strongest objection is that each “I” is softened and swallowed, by “kind of” and “pretty,” by “I guess,” and by the slide back to “we wished it was over.” A good revision might say he speaks as “I” only to admit that he was one of the town, so even his own judgment comes out as the town’s. The best answers hold both moments together and give him no position on the war itself.

What it asks It asks the chapter’s whole question. The last sentence follows the songs: “I guess we were like a tough but inexperienced little boy who gets punched in the nose in the first flurry and it hurts and we wished it was over.” The town began sure that the United States was “the greatest and most powerful nation in the world,” watching from “bleacher seats.” Then “The dreadful telegrams began to sneak sorrowfully in, and it was everybody’s brother.” Marty Hopps is dead, and the Berges boy is “blown to bits!” Draftees march to the depot while their families cry. Some of Troop C’s boys “didn’t really feel good again for years.” The sentence starts with a boy and ends with “we.” The chapter does not say what the war will do next, or what the narrator thinks of the war itself, and the answer should not guess.

One reading

It fits. The words “tough but inexperienced” name the town exactly: the boasting was the toughness, and forgetting Troop C’s lesson was the inexperience. The phrase “first flurry” knows this is only the start, and “it hurts and we wished it was over” is the plainest thing the narrator says, the voice of someone who has stopped pretending. And the draftees were boys too, “gangling” and “sheepish.”

• a tough but inexperienced little boy who gets punched in the nose in the first flurry
• And the gangling, shuffling loose-jointed boys carrying suitcases

Another reading

It makes the losses too small. A punched nose heals, and Marty Hopps and the Berges boy do not come back. The image fits a town’s pride, not its dead, and “I guess” hedges even that. Beside “blown to bits!”, a schoolyard punch sounds like a town still unable to say what happened to it.

• the handsome one our little sister was in love with from the time she was three, blown to bits!
• Some of our boys didn’t really feel good again for years.

Listen for

• States a thesis on the comparison and tests it against the dead, the draftees and the songs.
• Weighs each part of the image: “tough,” “inexperienced,” “first flurry,” “it hurts,” “wished it was over.”
• Meets the strongest objection and revises: the image may measure what the town understood rather than what it lost, and its smallness may be the point.
• Notices that the sentence starts with a “little boy” and ends with “we,” and claims nothing about the war’s later course or the narrator’s view of the war.

If stuck

• What happens to the little boy in the comparison?
• What has the war done to Salinas by the end of the chapter?
• Which part of the town’s story does a punch in the nose fit best, and which part does it leave out?

A strong answer A strong response builds a thesis on the closing comparison, meets the strongest objection, and revises. One thesis says it fits: the town was tough in its boasts and inexperienced in its myths, and the punch is the shock the chapter traces from bleacher seats to telegrams. The strongest objection is the dead: a punched nose heals, and Marty Hopps and the Berges boy do not come back. A good revision might say the image measures what the town understood, not what it lost, and that the distance between the image and the names is part of what the chapter shows. The best answers weigh each word of the image and claim nothing about what the war does next.