Fields of Fire (37 page)

“Where's Cat Man, Bagger?”

“Cat Man, Cat Man. Cat Man passed out about two hours ago.”

“Where?”

“Well, I don't remember, exactly.” Bagger pointed thoughtfully. “But it was one of three ditches.”

30

“Get 'em on the road, Snake-man. It's oh-eight hundred now.”

Snake pulled the poncho liner off his face and stared in the dimness of the troop tent at the figure looming over his cot. The man was very black, round-faced and heavy-shouldered, with a small bulge over his belt and thick bulbous buttocks. He stood, hands on hips, leering amusedly at the stringy wisp of man he had awakened.

Snake thought to shake his head and clear it. He moved it to one side, and found that it only set it into further spinning. He sat on the edge of the cot, his brain tingly, his whole self relaxed, and was almost angered that he had to activate his senses enough to respond to the man's order.

He eyed his platoon sergeant, who still smiled amusedly at him. “Hey, Sergeant Sadler.” He rubbed his face, trying to remember why he was being awakened. He found his glasses underneath the cot, put them on, then rubbed his face again. “Uh—I s'pose I should know the answer to this. But what's going down? Why you want us on the road?”

“You knew las’ night. We had a good talk las’ night.” Sadler chortled. “ ’Course, you were 'bout halfway to the moon. I'll give you a hint: you ain't done it in a long time.”

Snake grinned, finally awakening. “No shit. Gotta hand it to you, Sarge. When we get to the rear you think of everything.”

“Yeah. I think about it. Doan’ hold yo’ breath about any o’ that. Now, get yo’ ass outa the rack an’ get yo’ people on the road. We got platoon formation. Now.”

Snake had slept in his boots and trousers. He reached down for his flak jacket, staring unbelievingly at Sadler. “Platoon formation? Aw, come on, Sarge. You're shitting me.” Faint memories of Staff Sergeant Austin's interrupted regime floated through the cobwebs of his mind.

Sadler stood over him, still amused. “Man, you a salty little shit, you know that? Where you think you are? Back on the block?”

Snake shrugged absently. “I was just wondering about what the hell was going on.”

“I told you las’ night.”

“I forgot.”

“Well, if you wanna know, I recommend you get yo’ ass outside an’ find out.” Sadler grinned triumphantly. “An’ while yo’ at it, bring along yo’ squad.”

Snake laughed in spite of himself as he rounded up his men. Now how can you argue with logic like that?

Outside the tent there were uncertain rows of men he no longer recognized. His own squad held a dozen people beside himself, eight of whom were nothing more than vague, uncharacteristic faces, unmarked flak jackets and helmets, unscuffed boots. Not one of 'em even has a name yet, he fretted.

He viewed the row that was primarily new dudes and each face reminded him of some other man who had flowed through the unfortunate conduit, who was trolled like bait along the Basin floor, and who now rested comfortably in anonymity as a reward for his effort. All the faces who had appeared and were real to this surreal world, a year of faces now, and who had disappeared on big green birds and were eventually replaced, as if the conduit itself were an organism capable of gorging itself on bodies and, especially, excreting the ones it had totally devoured.

He counted his people. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. All here. And tonight I just gotta give 'em names.

The platoon strolled along the dirt road in three rough squads. Sadler walked casually at the side of the column of threes. Snake called to him. “Hey, Sarge. I asked and nobody knows. What the hell is going on?”

Sadler answered Snake as if he were calling cadence or leading a chant. His voice was deep, full. “Way-ull. First we goan’ git everybody clean uniforms. That means new everthang. Flak jackets, hay-ulmet covers. Everthang.”

Snake whistled. “Whooo-boy. Something heavy's coming down, I can tell already.”

Cannonball agreed. He howled, jive-chattering. “Ohhh, man, you ain’ lyin’! Ah tried to git a new flak jacket when Ah come back fum R & R an’ that mother-fuckin’ Supply Gunny act like Ah was tryin’ to take the gold right outa his teeth!”

Sadler strutted like a cock rooster. He still led the chant. “Now, I din’ say nothin’ about you all bein’ able to keep this trash. I jis’ said we goan’ git it.” The platoon cheered: now don't that figure? Sadler chided them. “Go on, now. What you all want with a clean flak jacket in the bush? You doan’ need no clean flak jacket to fight.”

Cannonball removed his flak jacket and held it out for Sadler's perusal. It was empty of protective plating, a veritable rag. “Ah doan’ care if it ain't clean, but Ah wish Ah could get me some o’ them thangs. This ol’ rag ain’ nothin’ but hot, Sarge.”

Sadler examined it quickly, not breaking stride, then chanted again. “Ain’ nobody said nothin’ about that kind o’ shit. Doan’ you worry ‘bout a thang, Washington. You keep the one he give you. An’ if he doan’ like it he can try an’ walk over me.”

Murmurs in the platoon. Hey. Old Sadler's gonna be all right.

Snake called to him again. “So what's this all about, Sarge?”

“Way-ull. After we get you all lookin’ cool, we goan’ teach you how to march again.” There were disbelieving hoots. “That's right. Then we goan’ take you all down to the landin’ strip tomorrah moanin’ an’ let the General give you a Meritorious Unit Citation. An’ some medals.”

HODGES sat on an old ammunition box and watched in amused awe as Sadler taught the platoon parade procedure. When the practice ended, the old-timers from Snake's squad ambled over to where he sat. He laughed to them. “No-o-oo shit. I'da never believed it could happen.”

Snake lit a smoke. “Just like the Old Corps, huh, Lieutenant?”

“Hell, I wouldn't know!”

Bagger scowled to Hodges. “Hey, Lieutenant. What's this all about, anyway? I mean really. Why the hell is this General—it's a real Heavy, ain't it—from the World?”—Hodges nodded in affirmation. Visiting Royalty. In An Hoa, no less—“Why the hell is he coming all the way out here, just to give a couple of awards out like this? The way we heard it, he's just gonna jump off the chopper, give the awards, and then jump back on it again. Sounds crazy. ”

Hodges nodded, grinning sardonically. “That's what I hear, too. Hell, I don't know why. Maybe they're just covering their asses with ceremony.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, they're giving the company a unit citation for something that happened before any of us were here. Those things take years, you know?” Then Hodges grimaced with some of the shrewdness he inherited from the departed Staff Sergeant Gilliland. “But they're also giving the Sergeant Major a Commendation Medal.”

Cannonball rolled his eyes. “Noo-o-o! Not the Sergeant Major?”

“Him-self.”

Snake's eyes narrowed. “The one Gilliland said was gonna be investigated?”

“That's affirm.”

Bagger squinted unbelievingly, holding the top of his head. “What the hell did he do?”

“Oh, I hear he did a lot. But they're giving him an award for what he's about to do.” Hodged grinned. “He's leaving. They're giving him a meritorious Navy Commendation as an end-of-tour award.”

“He ain't been here a whole tour. I was here when the bastard got here.” Snake was adamant, but then assumed a knowing grin. “But I guess he's been here long enough.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “So much for God, Corps, and Country, eh, Lieutenant?”

“It figures. It goddamn figures.” Goodrich walked away, his face a brooding grimace.

“Well, this Green Suck. Here we are living like mud hogs and that bastard sells off our only comforts.” Bagger pointed accusingly at Snake. “Is that why you're staying in, Snake-man? Huh? Be a lifer and get rich.”

“You better lay off my Marine Corps! One turkey don't mean a goddamn thing.”

“Snake's right, Bagger.” Hodges pulled on his cigarette, a mediator. “Just about every Top and Sergeant Major I've seen are damn good people. Look at our Top. Look what he did for us just last night. All the food and booze. Who knows where he dug the stuff up?”

“Hah. Prob'ly had to buy it off the fucking Sergeant Major.”

Hodges laughed, shaking his head at Bagger. “Well. I'll admit the man's a turkey. And he sure as hell deserves a court-martial, instead of a medal. Figure our company by itself. Never mind the others. About a hundred men in the field at any one time, maybe a little more. Beer and soda per man per day. That's two hundred cans. A day. At a dime apiece, that's twenty bucks. A day. No overhead. Hell. Him and the resettlement ville chiefs should get along just fine.”

Snake guffawed, unsurprised, then shook his head in disgust. “But what I can't handle is the medal. That General is coming all the way out here to wave good-bye to the bastard.”

“Well. He was gonna give Baby Cakes the Navy Cross.”

They suddenly fell silent. Cat Man got up and walked slowly away. Snake shook his head and stood up. “What a bummer.”

LONG rows of men stood rigidly inside the morning drizzle. The helicopter made a runway landing, touched down smoothly, and maintained an idle pop-pop-pop of rotors as the General descended. Before him was the awe-inspiring sight of combat troops who only days ago were bleeding in the unproductive sand and weeds of Go Noi. Today they stood disciplined and scrubbed, dressed out in newly issued gear.

The General's wrinkled face was stern and solemn. He marched to the company staff. His aide began to read the wording of the unit citation. There was a pole, and a flag with the company's letter on it. The General hung a streamer on the end of the pole, and addressed the company. “The Twenty-Fifth Marines is not a Regiment,” said the General, proudly. “It's a State of Mind.”

“Yeah,” said Goodrich, “Dinky-Dau.”

Bagger stared incredulously, slack-jawed. “A General. A goddamn three-star General.”

Snake's eyes scanned the wet horizon beyond the airstrip. “We're lucky as hell it's raining, or we'd be getting mortared right now. No bullshit.”

Bagger's eyes had not left the stern-faced officer. “They wouldn't dare.”

The General stood before the Sergeant Major, and his aide read the Commendation Medal citation. The General pinned the medal on the Sergeant Major's flak jacket, and shook his hand.

Goodrich spat disgustedly. “The bastard.”

Cannonball shrugged. He was beginning to shiver in the rain. “Aw, come on, Senator. He done a lot of good things, too, man.”

“Name one. Come on. Name one.”

“Well.” Cannonball's creamy face smiled softly. “He never bothered us when we was in the bush.”

The General walked briskly back to his waiting helicopter, followed by a small convoy of aides. Bagger's eyes still followed him. He shook his head in raw admiration.

“Goddamn. What a thing to do. To come all the way out here just for us. Christ, I'd follow that man anywhere.”

Goodrich grunted. “Yeah. Kind of makes you want to kill, doesn't it?”

“Hey, Senator.” Snake still stared at the wet fields beyond the runway. “Come on over here and kiss my ass.”

The helicopter departed, and Sadler faced the platoon once again. He grinned amusedly. “Awright, y'all. You got till noon to get over to Supply and turn those flak jackets and hay-ulmet covers back in. Anybody I see after that with green on better have a reason.”

THEY received a letter from Waterbull, sent from the hospital in the World. Old Bull's a gutsy fucker, they all agreed. Hardly been a month and he's on his feet.

He had addressed it to “Third Herd, Snake's Squad.” It was their mutual property and they possessively passed it around to each other, making sure that everyone in the squad had a chance to read it and contemplate Bull's vindication of their existence. “I really miss you guys. We had so many good times, lost so many good people. I really wish I was back there with you. No shit. I mean it. The World sucks. Hey—tell Baby Cakes he can have my Bangkok wife. He's such a horny bastard. Christ, I miss you assholes. Now you got my address. Write me, huh?”

The squad talked animatedly about Waterbull throughout the day. Snake and Cannonball wrote him cheery letters, not mentioning Baby Cakes’ death. They both agreed unconvincingly that they would do that in the next letter. Some of the others cut him a cassette tape full of wise jokes and happy stories.

It all confused Goodrich. He thought he understood the momentum involved in Waterbull's feelings, the sense of loss caused by his serious wounds, the visceral grasping for the past, when he had been a whole man. He even thought he understood the apparent emotion that considered the past less harmful once it had been survived, and a future with a disability threatening enough to make the World seem to “suck.”

But let's be realistic, Goodrich mused after he read the letter. You don't really want to be back here, Bull. Really? Can you label this part of your goddamn life rewarding, something that you miss? You hated it. I remember. Don't bullshit me. I listened to you bitch.

Why don't you write us about the hospital ward, Bull? Does it suck? There's your reward. And would you want to come back here and go through that again? And we'll write you about Baby Cakes. Then you can really miss Baby Cakes.

AN open-bedded six-by truck pulled up near the company tents and honked twice, then waited, idling roughly. The working party sat against a sandbag bunker, inside its morning shade, and peered stodgily at the truck's impatient driver. Finally the driver jumped down from his cab and walked over to the six men.

“Come on. All right? Let's get this over with.”

Bagger took a slow drag from his cigarette. “Fu-u-uck you. All you gotta do is drive the truck.”

The driver cocked his head. “Look, man. The sooner we start, the sooner we get finished.”

Bagger shook his head negatively. “Wrong. The sooner we start, the longer we gotta work. I played this silly game before. Hey. Take it easy, all right? What's a few sandbags one way or t'other? Have a seat, man.” He gestured magnanimously next to him, at an unoccupied square of red dirt. The driver declined.

Lister, the troop handler, stood slowly and dusted off the seat of his trousers. “Well. We better get it on. Some lifer gonna see the truck and come over here and shit on me. Next thing I know I'll be back in the bush, humping mortar rounds.”

The other five men rose slowly and climbed onto the bed of the truck. In a moment it lurched forward, churning clouds of red dust. Bagger lit a cigarette with one hand, holding to the side of the truck with the other. Suddenly he squinted, focusing as if he had been slapped. His eyes remained fixed on one tent. The truck turned a corner and Bagger jostled Cannonball, who sat low in the truck, catnapping.