New York Times Bestseller: This “shocking” murder mystery addresses homophobia in the military during World War II (Richard Wright, author of Native Son).
The men in the barracks, wrenched from the normal pursuits of life, are being molded into warriors in a battle against the “others.” Isolated and fearful, they sometimes relieve their frustrations on the most disenfranchised civilians, namely homosexuals. But one weekend, one of them loses control and commits murder.
This tale of suspense is also a story ahead of its time, written by a young marine stationed at Quantico who would go on to become an Academy Award–winning director of such films as Elmer Gantry and The Blackboard Jungle. Sinclair Lewis, writing in Esquire, called Richard Brooks “a really important new writer” and The Brick Foxhole was acclaimed in the Saturday Review of Literature as “angry, rapid, stream-lined, and beautifully written . . . the best of the new stuff coming out of this war”—though the US Marines threatened the author with court-martial.Eventually, the story was made into the movie Crossfire (with the hate crime in question changed to an act of anti-Semitic rather than antigay violence), which earned Brooks an Edgar Award for Best Motion Picture. Today, The Brick Foxhole remains both a twisting thriller and an early landmark of gay-themed fiction.
CHAPTER 1
He lay on the upper bed of the double bunk and tried to shut out the voices. The voices belonged to some of the other men in the crowded barracks. It was Friday, the twentieth and Friday the twentieth was payday, so the voices were louder than usual. The voices said the same things they always said on payday.
"Two to one he don't Joe."
"Covered."
"He won't make it. He ain't got faith himself."
"Deal the cards." This from another part of the barracks.
"What do you hafta do to get a lousy blackjack in this game?"
"Seven. He sevened out."
That's the way it was every payday. A couple of dice games. A few card games. Some borrowing. Very little lending. A bit of stealing. And talk. There was always talk. A soldier went overseas to fight and he forgot how to talk. A soldier stayed in the States, cooped up in a brick coffin, and all he did was talk.
Corporal Jeff Mitchell didn't want to hear the talk. He wanted to think of Mary. He threw his arm across his eyes to stave off the yellow glare that came from the light fixture directly above his bunk. That was better. It made it much easier to see her that way. In a week he would be eligible for a furlough. A soldier was allowed only fifteen days a year furlough. The second year would begin next week. Fifteen days. It would take at least four days to get home by train. Four days back. That would give him seven days with Mary. Seven days. And there would be seven nights, too. But after a year, he thought, the days and nights would be the same. He saw himself arriving at the station. There was the long walk up the ramp. Then the usual crowd standing behind the ropes. Then there was Mary. Then she was in his arms. That's where a wife should be, he thought. In her husband's arms. He let the words run through his mind, words he had stored up for a year.
"Mary. Darling, darling."
Those were the words. All of them. That's all a man saved up in a year. He began with millions of words and then each day they became fewer until at the end nothing was left but a woman's name and "darling." All the words you began with never amounted to much anyway. Only, "Mary, darling."
He saw himself with her at the railroad station. There were tears in her eyes and he kissed them. And her lips trembled and he kissed them. And then he held her close to him and thought she had become thinner. And that would be because she had missed him. The smell of her hair made him weak and the pressure of her breasts made him tremble and her legs against his accentuated the dull pain at the pit of his guts and high in the chest. And finally she said with a smile that people were staring at them. No matter how many times he had replayed that scene in his mind, she had always said that. And then they went to the car, which was parked diagonally outside the station and she drove because he was too nervous to hold the wheel. The moment they were in the house and the door had closed, he kissed her again and his throat became dry even as it did now on the barracks bed. I'm glad you let your hair grow in again, she said. And she touched his hair and he kissed her fingers. When he had played this game in his mind a year ago he had always told her, I've got to take a bath, darling. You know how trains are. But now he didn't have to say anything. He just went upstairs and took his bath. And she sat on the edge of the tub and soaped his back and shampooed his hair and finally he pulled her into the tub with him, ruining her dress. But it didn't matter. They both laughed and splashed and played and the awful pain at the pit of his guts began to go away.
Now that he had finished the game in his mind, he was ready to begin it all over again. The same scene. The same actions. The same way. He knew every part of it. It had become so real that it actually relieved the aching in him. It was a mental morphine that he would take several times a night to quiet him, so that he wouldn't suddenly go over the hill, so that he could stand the claustrophobia of confinement one more day, and another day, and then another. And because the time was drawing near, he went more and more often to his game. But the voices around him were like tiny spears thrusting themselves into his game.
"Did you hear? Red's back from Pearl."
"The hell with Red. Roll the dice."
"When he get back?"
"Yesterday."
"I hear they made him a platoon sergeant."
"Sometimes they even make you a Looey."
"Yeah. Red's a hero now. Platoon Sergeant Appleton."
"How many yellow bastids he kill?"
"Twenty, thirty. I don't know. His picture was in the paper."
Jeff was arriving at the railroad station. He was walking up the long ramp. Up ahead he saw the crowds behind the ropes.
"After he left San Diego, Red went up to Los Angeles. They gave him a big party."
"Free drinks, huh?"
Then there was Mary. Then she was in his arms. That's where a wife should be, he thought. In her husband's arms.
"Any dames?"
"Plenty. Hollywood stars and everything."
"Boy, that's what I'd like to get me. One of them actresses."
Mary. Darling, darling. There were tears in her eyes and he kissed them.
"Red meet any of them actresses?"
"Sure thing."
"Oh, Mama."
Her lips trembled and he kissed them. And he held her close and thought she had become thinner.
"They drank champagne, Red says."
"Christ, I'd kill a thousand bastids for something like that."
"Don't listen to him. Red gave him a snow job."
"Yeah? Listen. One of those dames was so hot for him she couldn't wait to get at him. She wasn't no movie star, but Red says she knew her lines all right."
The smell of her hair made him weak and the pressure of her breasts made him tremble and her legs against his accentuated the dull pain....
"Sure. Some gal by the name of Mary. That's the place to be, all right. L.A. They treat heroes right."
The last spear had punctured Jeff's game. The crowd at the station, his wife, everything was gone. He was listening to the voices now. He remained just as he was, his arm shielding his eyes but his mouth open like a hooked fish, his gills caught by the barb.
Some of the voices were laughing nervously. It was the kind of story they liked to hear. It was like looking at obscene photographs. Only this was better. It had happened to someone they knew. Red Appleton. One of their own was part of the obscenity, and that made it more enticing, far more exciting. If it could happen to Red, it could happen to them.
"How was she?"
"According to Red, none better."
It wasn't his Mary. She wasn't the only woman called Mary. Oh, God, don't let it be her. Please, dear God, I'll do anything you say. Ask me to do anything, anything at all, only don't let it be my Mary.
"Don't tell us she knocked him over right there at the party."
"Sure. Don't you know Red? Irresistible."
"Only one girl? Red must be slippin'."
"Just a minute you guys. This is on the level."
"Listen to him, will yuh?"
"We're listening, daddy."
"She took him to her house. Red says it was a little house on a street that runs uphill."
No, God. No!
"It was at night and he couldn't see good but he said there was a lot of little houses in a kinda court."
The hook was going deeper and the edge of the water was receding swiftly. Dear God let me faint. Don't let me hear any more. Don't!
"Did he stay all night?"
"I don't know. He didn't say."
"Did he get any money out of her?"
"I'll bet she was an old bag."
"Red did say she was kinda old. About thirty."
"That's the best kind. They like it better."
"You mean they're easier."
"The easiest kind is the married ones."
"Billy's right. If she's married and is got a husband in the service she's easy. Ask anybody."
He wanted to leap down and make a heroic gesture of fighting. Fighting was the answer. The only answer. Even if beaten and bloodied he would feel better. He would begin by saying "You're liars! Mary's my wife. I don't want any of you to even mention her name!" Stronger words came to his mind. Words that would lash them into feeling ashamed. Words that would give him the dignity he needed for what was to come. And then there would be at least one among them who would sneer. He would have to sneer. And then he would fight them. He would begin with the man who had told the story and then continue and take them on one at a time. Until they all were lying on the floor bloodied and apologetic. For a moment he wondered whether he could do it. Why not? Hadn't his officers, his noncoms, the papers, the magazines, the movies told him over and over again that he and his comrades were heroes, that his branch of the service was the greatest, the most courageous? And what of the tradition that had battered its way into his brain every day? He had been trained to fight. Well, now was the time to fight! To get up and destroy the enemy, the hateful voices which sifted into his ears and dropped with a crash into his belly.
But he lay glued to his blanket. His hands clutched the steel frames of the bunk in a wet grip. He knew he would do nothing, say nothing. It would have been easy enough to begin a fight. But to begin a fight would mean the voices would stop. And now he wanted to hear them. He had to be sure of what they were saying. Doubt at a time like this would be worse than the dishonor of not fighting.
"All right. Knock it off."
It was a new voice. It belonged to the Duty N.C.O. He came toward the group, the forty-five automatic pistol swinging in its holster at his right thigh.
"What's the matter, general?" one of the old voices asked. "They need us at the front?"
"Show us your pistol, general."
"I said to knock it off. You're making too much racket."
"Is that how you got to be corporal? Being quiet?"
"Naw. Ain't you heard? The general's an ear-banger."
"Look," complained the Duty N.C.O. "I don't make the rules. You don't like the rules, go see the top."
The corporal walked back to his small desk in the hallway and started thumbing the pages of a picture magazine again. The voices around Jeff grumbled and swore and laughed and then began to move off.
"Aaaah, he's buckin' for sergeant."
"That guy? He'd spit on his own mother."
That was how they dismissed authority. Mothers were sacred and to desecrate them was to desecrate authority.
Jeff lay motionless, exhausted. The tightness in his chest spread to the base of his throat and then it was hard for him to breathe. He tried to persuade himself it was all just talk. He insisted that a few moments of loose talk could not possibly shake the foundations of the last bridge with the world he knew.
I won't believe it. They were talking about somebody else. Not her. If she's married and is got a husband in the service she's easy, ask anybody. Not her. Not Mary. She's God. She's the Bible. She's something to believe in.
Did he stay all night? It was the same voice over again, whacking him, tearing the flesh. He didn't say. Now he saw himself coming home unexpectedly. No thought of the railroad station. He was on the steep street leading up to his house. He was in the court walking along the narrow cement path. The neighboring houses were dark, quiet. It was late. He noticed the car in the garage. She would be home. This was the way to do it. Suddenly. Without warning. He reached out for the doorknob and stealthily fitted his key in the lock. He opened the door and the house was dark. He entered quietly. He put his furlough bag down lightly. No noise. Then he went up the stairs carefully. At the head of the stairs his hand touched the rough softness of a towel. Then he turned left toward their bedroom. He reached out with his left hand across his body and snapped on the light. He knew beforehand exactly how it would be.
They were in bed. Mary and Red. He saw her plainly. He didn't know how Red should look, so he just saw a figure. A man asleep. They both were asleep. Drunk and asleep. And her right leg was thrown across the body of the man as it always had been across him. It was painful to see. Yet it was a pain he would not shut off from his mind. It set him on fire. Then he saw Red reach out to Mary and his hand was dark against the whiteness of her. He saw her stir and then open her eyes. She blinked at the light. Then she saw him, saw him standing there, and was surprised. He wanted to stop thinking. No more. He didn't want to think any more!
He saw her lips form his name and then she said it aloud, "Jeff!"
What would he do? Kill? Kill the man! Kill her! Inflict pain. Hurt her. Hurt him. Humiliate them. But if he spent his anger, his fury, in deliverance of pain, then the score would be even. He would have nothing to complain about. That's what she would want. To be hurt. To be hurt so that his guilt would equalize hers. He would tell the man to go. And then she would want to know what he was going to do? She would know how hurt he was. How could she do this to him? She was his world. His everything. And she had hacked it to pieces. Then he imagined she said he was placing too much stress on something that was not important. Not important? Going to bed with another man not important? No. She had been lonesome. Hadn't he been lonesome? What had he done about it? Nothing. Then he was a fool. When people are lonely they should do something about it. It had nothing to do with a woman's love for a man. And then he wanted to hit her. Why couldn't they forget it? Forget it? How could he forget it? Forget their bodies close together? Forget that she had sighed and gasped and held another man as he had dreamed she reacted only to him? Didn't it make any difference who the man was? Was it each for himself and unto himself? Was the whole business of love one-sided, to be enjoyed by each alone? And what of the next time she became lonely? Very well. She would kill herself. She begged him to strike her. Hurt her. He liked that. It suited him. Now it would be he who would forgive. His to be lenient. She wanted him. She needed him. That was better. She couldn't live without him. Better still. See what she did to him? She had made him cry. War and fear and sickness had not made him cry. But she had done that. And then what? He didn't know. For no matter how it would come out, the pain would be there. The feeling that all was lost. That everything was nothing and that the nothing would last forever.
He climbed down from his bed and walked slowly to the latrine. The stench of the unflushed bowls, the sight of the crushed cigarettes and torn magazine pages, made him feel weak and dizzy. He leaned over one of the bowls and wanted to puke. But nothing came up and his throat hurt and he had to hold onto the walls lest he collapse. He continued to gag until his breath wouldn't come. Then he felt cold, but he didn't feel better as one usually did after vomiting.
He wanted to pick up the phone and call her. In a few minutes he could hear her voice. That's all it would take. A few minutes. Then Mary would tell him the whole thing was a lie, a fantastic lie which had fermented in the mental juice of a paranoiac. But what if she said it wasn't a lie? Worse still, what if no one answered the phone? What if she weren't at home? That would give him several more hours of torture. She might be at a movie. Yes, he told himself. She would be at a movie. And if he called after three o'clock and still she didn't answer? That would be twelve o'clock in California. The shows would be out. What excuse would there be then? A night club. Alone? Mary go to a night club alone? He knew at once it wasn't possible. She would have gone with someone. Whom? Which of the many could it be? No. He knew she would be home. She would pick up the phone and her voice would be soft and low. It would be his Mary. And she would tell him all the things he wanted to hear.
For a moment he felt better and the griping at the basement of his soul eased.
The easiest kind is the married ones.
Billy's right. If she's married and is got a husband in the service she's easy. Ask anybody.
Ask them, damn it. Ask anybody about Mary. Three and a half years of marriage to him. Easy? Who said so? Not Mary. She was his. Nobody else's. She would pick up the phone and talk to him and reassure him and he could breathe again. And then she would hang up and turn back to the man beside her. The sonofabitch beside her. There was space in his way. Three thousand miles. And time. That was in his way, too. And he was tied down. Trapped. Buried in a military base. A prison. A brick casket filled with living corpses.
Release Date: July 22, 1947
Release Time: 86 minutes
Cast:
Robert Young as Capt. Finlay
Robert Mitchum as Sgt. Peter Keeley
Robert Ryan as Montgomery
Gloria Grahame as Ginny Tremaine
Paul Kelly as Mr. Tremaine
Sam Levene as Joseph Samuels
Jacqueline White as Mary Mitchell
Steve Brodie as Floyd Bowers
George Cooper as Cpl. Arthur Mitchell
Richard Benedict as Bill Williams
Tom Keene as Dick, detective (as Richard Powers)
William Phipps as Leroy
Lex Barker as Harry
Marlo Dwyer as Miss Lewis
Kenneth McDonald as the Major
Awards:
1948 Academy Awards
Gloria Grahame - Best Supporting Actress - Nominated
Robert Ryan - Best Supporting Actor - Nominated
John Paxton - Best Writing, Adapted Screenplay - Nominated
Adrian Scott, producer - Best Picture - Nominated
Edward Dmytryk - Best Director - Nominated
1948 BAFTAs
Edward Dmytryk - Best Film -- Any Source - Nominated
Notes:
Due to the Hays Code, the homophobia was rewritten in the form of anti-Semitism.
🎤Eddie Muller's introduction from March 18, 2018 on TCM's Noir Alley.🎤
Author Bio:
Richard Brooks (1912–1992) was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and attended Temple University. A novelist, director, screenwriter, and producer, he was known for hard-hitting dramatic films that addressed social themes and for his skillful adaptation of literary material for the screen. His celebrated films include The Blackboard Jungle, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Elmer Gantry, and Looking for Mr. Goodbar. After serving in the Marine Corps during World War II, Brooks wrote The Brick Foxhole (1945), The Boiling Point (1948), and The Producer (1951) before turning full-time to movies.
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