The Ninth Configuration by William Peter Blatty Page A

attack on whatever he valued in himself. “Kane should be stopped! For Chris-sakes, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing! He doesn’t know shit about the service! I checked in his 201 file: he’s a goddam dumb civilian; he got a stupid direct commission just six months ago! What in the hell is he doing in command? What the hell is he doing!”
    “He’s got an idea that if he indulges all the fantasies of these men, it’ll prove an accelerated catharsis for them. In other words, they’ll be cured.”
    “But that’s preposterous!”
    “You got any better ideas?”
    “But these guys aren’t sick; they’re all faking!”
    “Oh, fuck you, Groper.”
    Groper’s broad veined nostrils flared. He darted a glance at the cup in Fell’s hand. “You’re drunk,” he said.
    Sergeant Christian came into the room. He was carrying a stack of cardboard clothing boxes. He put one of them on the examining table. “Your uniform, sir,” he told Fell. “They just came in.” Then he looked at Groper. “Sir, I put yours in your office. On your desk.”
    “What uniform?”
    No one answered.

     

 

     
     

    12
     
     
    Later that evening, Groper stormed into Kane’s office. Kane was at his desk, staring out at the rain. He did not turn at Groper’s entrance.
    Groper was breathless. “Sir, why do I have to wear this?” he demanded.
    Kane turned slowly and looked at the adjutant. Groper was dressed in a German Gestapo uniform from the era of World War II. So was Kane. “What?” asked the colonel. His stare was numb and remote, and he winced as if in pain. A trembling hand traveled slowly to his forehead. He seemed displaced, uncomprehending. “What did you say?” he repeated.
    “I said, why do I have to wear this?”
    Kane jerked his head slightly, as if he was clearing a blurring of his vision. “It’s called psychodrama, Major. It’s a more or less accepted tool of therapy. The inmates are playing the role of Allied prisoners of war attempting to tunnel their way to freedom.” Kane appeared to be squinting now. “We are their captors,” he said.
    “We’re their prisoners!” Groper cried angrily. His new-found knowledge that Kane had no military background, and was therefore a civilian in Groper’s eyes, had freed the adjutant of his former inexplicable fear.
    “Nothing but yellow-bellied goof-offs have a ball out there!” he blurted. “I mean, Christ! Why do I
    have to help their fun? I’m not a psychiatrist! I’m a Marine! By God, it’s an unfair imposition and I think I’ve got a right to—”
    He broke off and took a step backward. Seething, shaking, Kane rose and cut him off in an icy, hoarsely whispered voice that gathered fury with every word: “Jesus! Jesus Christ, man! Why don’t you love somebody a little! Why don’t you help somebody a little! Help them! Help! For the love of Christ! You green-soaked, caterpillar-torturing bastard, you’re going to wear that uniform, bathe in it, sleep in it. Try to take it off and you’ll die in it! Is that clear!” Kane leaned over the desk, his weight supported on trembling fingertips.
    Groper’s eyes were wide. He backpedaled slowly toward the door. “Yes, sir.” He was stunned. Behind him, the door flew open and knocked him to the floor. Cutshaw slipped in, looked at Groper, snatched the American flag from the wall and placed a foot on the major’s neck, announcing, “I claim this swamp for Poland!”
    “Groper, get out of here!” Kane said shakily.
    “Immediately!” added Cutshaw as the adjutant knocked away the flag and quickly scrambled to his feet. “And keep that uniform clean,” added Cutshaw. “I’m putting you in for Best of Show.”
    Groper averted his eyes and left. Cutshaw stared after him for a moment; then he turned to Kane. “What’s up? What’s going on?”
    Kane was at his desk again. His head was propped in his hands. “Nothing,” he said. He looked up at Cutshaw. Compassion pooled in his eyes. “What