Adultery & Other Choices (12 page)

The rest of the platoon were in the showers. As he climbed the stairs he heard the spraying water, the tired, exultant, and ironic voices. In the corridor at the top of the stairs he stopped and looked at the full-length mirror, looked at his short lean body standing straight, the helmet on his head, the pack with a protruding bayonet handle, the rifle slung on his shoulder. His shirt and patches on his thighs were dark green with sweat. Then he moved on to the water fountain and took four salt tablets from the dispenser and swallowed them one at a time, tilting his head back to swallow, remembering the salt tablets on the construction job when he was sixteen and his father got him the job and drove him to work on the first day and introduced him to the foreman and said: ‘Work him, Jesse; make a man of him.' Jesse was a quiet wiry Cajun; he nodded, told Paul to stow his lunch in the toolshed and get a pick and a spade. All morning he worked bare-headed under the hot June sun; he worked with the Negroes, digging a trench for the foundation, and at noon he was weak and nauseated and could not eat. He went behind the shed and lay in the shade. The Negroes watched him and asked him wasn't he going to eat. He told them he didn't feel like it. At one o'clock he was back in the trench, and thirty minutes later he looked up and saw his father in seersucker and straw hat standing with Jesse at the trench's edge. ‘Come on up, son,' his father said. ‘I'm all right,' and he lifted the pick and dropped more than drove it into the clay at his feet. ‘You just need a hat, that's all,' his father said. ‘Come on up, I'll buy you one and bring you back to work.' He laid the pick beside the trench, turned to the Negro working behind him, and said, ‘I'll be right back.' ‘Sure,' the Negro said. ‘You get that hat.' He climbed out of the trench and walked quietly beside his father to the car. ‘Jesse called me,' his father said in the car. ‘He said the nigras told him you didn't eat lunch. It's just the sun, that's all. We'll get you a hat. Did you take salt tablets?' Paul said yes, he had. His father bought him a pith helmet and, at the soda fountain, a Seven-Up and a sandwich. ‘Jesse said you didn't tell anybody you felt bad.' ‘No,' Paul said. ‘I didn't.' His father stirred his coffee, looked away. Paul could feel his father's shy pride and he loved it, but he was ashamed too, for when he had looked up and seen his father on the job, he had had a moment of hope when he thought his father had come to tenderly take him home.

By the time he got out of his gear and hung his wet uniform by the window and wiped his rifle clean and lightly oiled it, the rest of the platoon were out of the showers, most were in their bunks, and the lights would go out in five minutes. Paul went to the shower and stayed long under the hot spray, feeling the sweat and dirt leave him, and sleep rising through his aching legs, to his arms and shoulders, to all save his quick heart. He was drying himself when Whalen came in, wearing shorts, and stood at the urinal and looked over his shoulder at Paul.

‘You and Hathaway run all the way in?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Then the grinder?'

Paul nodded.

‘Good,' Whalen said, and turned back to the urinal. Paul looked at his strong, muscled wrestler's back and shoulders. When Whalen passed him going out, Paul swung lightly and punched his arm.

‘See you in the morning,' he said.

The squad bay was dark when Paul entered with a towel around his waist. Already most of them were asleep, their breath shallow and slow. There was enough light from the corridor so he could see the rifle rack in the middle of the room, and the double bunks on either side, and the wall lockers against the walls. He went to his bunk. Hugh was sitting on the edge of it, his elbows on his knees, his forehead resting on his palms. His helmet and rifle and pack and cartridge belt were on the floor in front of his feet. He looked up, and Paul moved closer to him in the dark.

‘How's it going,' he said softly.

‘I threw
up
, man. You see what I mean? That's stupid, Goddamnit. For
what
. What's the point of doing something that makes you puke. I was going to keep running till the Goddamn stuff came up all over me. Is that smart, man?' Hugh stood; someone farther down stirred on his bunk; Hugh took Paul's arm and squeezed it; he smelled of sweat, his breath was sour, and he leaned close, lowering his voice. ‘Then you crapped out and I thought good.
Good
, Goddamnit. And man I peeled off and went to the side of the road and waited for it to come up. Then I was going to find you and walk in and drink Goddamn water and piss in the road and piss on all of them.' He released Paul's arm. ‘But that Goddamn Doberman pinscher made you run in. Jesus Christ what am I
doing
here. What am I
doing
here,' and he turned and struck his mattress, stood looking at his fist on the bed, then raised it and struck again. Paul's hand went up to touch Hugh's shoulder, but stopped in the space between them and fell back to his side. He did not speak either. He looked at Hugh's profiled staring face, then turned away and bent over his foot locker at the head of the bunk and took out a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, neatly folded. He put them on and sat on his locker while Hugh dropped his clothes to the floor and walked out of the squad bay, to the showers.

He got into the lower bunk and lay on his back, waiting for his muscles to relax and sleep to come. But he was still awake when Hugh came back and stepped over the gear on the floor and climbed into his bunk. He wanted to ask Hugh if he'd like him to clean his rifle, but he could not. He lay with aching legs and shoulders and back and arms, and gazed up at Hugh's bunk and listened to his shifting weight. Soon Hugh settled and breathed softly, in sleep. Paul lay awake, among silhouettes of bunks and wall lockers and rifle racks. They and the walls and the pale windows all seemed to breathe, and to exude the smells of men. Farther down the squad bay someone snored. Hugh murmured in his sleep, then was quiet again.

When the lights went on he exploded frightened out of sleep, swung his legs to the floor, and his foot landed on the stock of Hugh's rifle. He stepped over it and trotted to the head, shaved at a lavatory with Whalen, waited outside a toilet stall but the line was too long and with tightening bowels he returned to the squad bay. Hugh was lying on his bunk. Going past it to the wall locker he said: ‘Hey Hugh. Hugh, reveille.' He opened his locker and then looked back; Hugh was awake, blinking, looking at the ceiling.

‘Hugh—' Hugh did not look at him. ‘Your
gear
, Hugh; what about
your gear
.'

He didn't move. Paul put on utilities and spit-shined boots and ran past him. At the door he stopped and looked back. The others were coming, tucking in shirts, putting on caps. Hugh was sitting on the edge of his bunk, watching them move toward the door. Outside the morning was still cool and Hathaway waited, his boots shining in the sunlight. The platoon formed in front of him and his head snapped toward the space beside Paul.

‘Clement, did Munson Goddamn puke and die on the road last night?'

‘He's coming, sir.'

‘He's coming. Well no shit he's coming. What do you people think this is—Goddamn civilian life where everybody crosses the streets on his own time? A platoon is not out of the barracks until every member of that platoon is out of the barracks, and you people are not out of the barracks yet. You are still
in
there with—o-ho—' He was looking beyond them, at the barracks to their rear. ‘Well now here he is. You people are here now. Munson, you asshole, come up here.' Paul heard Munson to his left, coming around the platoon; he walked slowly. He entered Paul's vision and Paul watched him going up to Hathaway and standing at attention.

‘Well no shit Munson.' His voice was low. ‘Well no shit now. Mr. Munson has joined us for chow. He slept a little late this morning. I understand, Munson. It tires a man out, riding home in a jeep. It gets a man tired, when he knows he's the only one who can't hack it. It sometimes gets him so tired he
doesn't even fucking shave
! Who do you think you are that you don't shave! I'll tell you who you are: you are
nothing
you are
nothing
you are
nothing
. The best part of you dripped down your old man's
leg
!' Paul watched Hugh's flushed open-mouthed face; Hathaway's voice was lower now: ‘Munson, do you know about the Goddamn elephants. Answer me Munson or I'll have you puking every piece of chow the Marine Corps feeds your ugly face. Elephants, Munson. Those big grey fuckers that live in the boondocks. They are like Marines, Munson. They stick with the herd. And if one of that herd fucks up in such a way as to piss off the rest of the herd, you know what they do to him? They exile that son of a bitch. They kick his ass out. You know what he does then? Son of a bitch gets lonesome. So everywhere the herd goes he is sure to follow. But they won't let him back in, Munson. So pretty soon he gets so lonesome he goes crazy and he starts running around the boondocks pulling up trees and stepping on troops and you have to go in and shoot him. Munson, you have fucked up my herd and I don't want your scrawny ass in it, so you are going to march thirty paces to the rear of this platoon. Now move out. '

‘I'm going home.'

He left Hathaway and walked past the platoon.

‘Munson!'

He stopped and turned around.

‘I'm going home. I'm going to chow and then I'm going to see the chaplain and I'm going home.'

He turned and walked down the road, toward the chow hall.

‘Munrow!'

He did not look back. His hands were in his pockets, his head down; then he lifted it. He seemed to be sniffing the morning air. Hathaway's mouth was open, as though to yell again; then he turned to the platoon. He called them to attention and marched them down the road. Paul could see Hugh ahead of them, until he turned a corner around a building and was gone. Then Hathaway, in the rhythm of cadence, called again and again: ‘You won't
talk
to Mun-son talk talk
talk
to Mun-son you won't
look
at Mun-son look look
look
at Mun-son—'

And, in the chow hall, no one did. Paul sat with the platoon, listened to them talking in low voices about Hugh and, because he couldn't see him, Hugh seemed to be everywhere, filling the chow hall.

Later that morning, at close order drill, the platoon was not balanced. Hugh had left a hole in the file, and Paul moved up to fill it, leaving the file one man short in the rear. Marching in fresh starched utilities, his cartridge belt brushed clean, his oiled rifle on his shoulder, and his boot heels jarring on the blacktop, he dissolved into unity with the rest of the platoon. Under the sun they sweated and drilled. The other three platoons of Bravo Company were drilling too, sergeants' voices lilted in the humid air, and Paul strode and pivoted and ignored the tickling sweat on his nose. Hathaway's cadence enveloped him within the clomping boots. His body flowed with the sounds. ‘March from the waist down, people. Dig in your heels. That's it, people. Lean back. Swing your arms. That's it, people—' With squared shoulders and sucked-in gut, his right elbow and bicep pressed tight against his ribs, his sweaty right palm gripping the rifle butt, Paul leaned back and marched, his eyes on the clipped hair and cap in front of him; certainty descended on him; warmly, like the morning sun.

Corporal of Artillery

A
FTER THREE
years, eleven months, and two days service, Corporal Fitzgerald re-enlisted for six years, collected a re-enlistment bonus and, that same afternoon, went to the bank in Oceanside and paid the balance of the note on his 1959 Chevrolet which was four years old. He had thought that would make him feel good, but it didn't. The balding man who took his money also took the pleasure, as though it hovered between them and the banker inhaled it and grinned before Fitzgerald had a chance. So he went home and paid the rest of the bills by mail: the hospital in San Diego, because the government would pay for your wife to have babies but not a nervous breakdown; the set of encyclopedias, and the revolving charge account which he had told Carol was supposed to revolve, not rocket. That had been for clothes and he realized when he wrote the check that he was paying ten per cent service charges. He walked to the corner and dropped the envelopes in the mail box, then stood there for a moment looking at the red and blue container of at least six years of his life (already knowing, though, that it was actually fifteen and a half, for if a man did ten years—halfway to retirement—he was a fool to get out). For a while he did not turn away from the mailbox. Even after being deprived at the bank, he had expected this final settling of accounts to yield a satisfaction which would carry him through at least the next two weeks in the desert. But he felt nothing. Or he would not acknowledge what he was beginning to feel. He read the times for mail pick-up and walked home to Carol, who seemed happy, free of burden.

For re-enlisting he rated thirty days leave, all at one shot, and the First Sergeant had even told him he could miss the two week firing exercise at 29 Palms. That was how happy the First Sergeant was; he had been trying to fill the Battery's re-enlistment quota and he had worked on Fitzgerald for a long time: a series of what began as a rather formal interview in the First Sergeant's office, changed to friendly conversations on the drill field or atop some hill at Camp Pendleton, and evolved into fervid sermons, these occurring again behind the closed door of the office where First Sergeant Reichert—a slender man with a thick soft black moustache and a red dissipated face—asked him questions he could not answer and gave him answers he did not want and which he tried to resist. Fitzgerald had a whimsical variety of answers, but most frequently
I don't know
, to the recurring question:
What are you getting out
FOR?
What are you going to
DO?