The Naked and the Dead (31 page)

            "Red drunk," Martinez said.

            "You're fuggin ay," Red shouted. Liquor seldom made him happy. It recalled in his mind a monotonous suite of dingy barrooms and men drinking quietly, looking with resignation into the bottom of their shot glasses. For an instant he could see again the opaque rings of the glass base. He closed his eyes and the rings seemed to flow into his brain. He felt himself sway drunkenly, and he opened his eyes, and sat upright fiercely. "Fug ya, all of ya," he said.

            They paid no attention to him. Wilson looked around and saw Goldstein sitting alone at the next tent, writing a letter. Abruptly, it seemed shameful to Wilson for them to drink without including anyone else in the squad. For a few seconds he watched Goldstein scribbling busily with a pencil, moving his lips soundlessly as he wrote. Wilson decided that he liked Goldstein but he was vaguely irritated that Goldstein did not drink with them. That Goldstein's a good fella, he said to himself, but he's kind of a stick-in-the-mud. It seemed to Wilson that Goldstein was missing a very fundamental understanding of life.

            "Hey, Goldstein," he roared, "come over here."

            Goldstein looked up, and smiled diffidently. "Well, thanks, but I'm writing a letter to my wife now." His voice was mild, but it had an expectant fearful quality in it as if he knew he would be abused.

            "Aw, forget that ol' letter," Wilson said, "it'll wait."

            Goldstein sighed, stood up, and walked over. "What do you want?" he asked.

            Wilson laughed. It seemed an absurd question to him. "Ah, hell, have a drink. What do ya think Ah asked ya for?"

            Goldstein hesitated. He had heard that the liquor made in the jungle stills was often poisonous. "What kind is it?" he temporized. "Is it real whisky or is it jungle juice?"

            Wilson was offended. "Man, it's just good liquor. Y' don' ask questions like that when a man offers ya a drink." Gallagher snorted. "Take the goddam drink or leave it, Izzy," he said.

            Goldstein reddened. Out of fear of their contempt he had been about to accept, but now he shook his head. "No, no, thank you," he said. To himself, he thought, What if it should poison me? That would be a fine way, to leave Natalie to get along as best she can. A man with a wife and child can't take chances. He shook his head again, looking at their hard impassive faces. "I really don't want any," he said in his mild breathless voice, and waited with apprehension for their answer.

            All of them showed contempt. Croft spat, and looked away. Gallagher looked righteous. "None of
them
drink," he muttered.

            Goldstein knew that he should turn around and go back to his letter, but he made a feeble attempt to justify himself. "Oh, I drink," he said. "I like a little sociable drink once in a while, before meals or at a party. . ." He trailed off. A part of his mind had known with a certain bitter understanding that he was in trouble the moment Wilson called him, but that had served only to send random disconnected warnings which he was incapable of obeying.

            Wilson looked angry. "Goldstein, you're chicken, that's what you
are."
Out of his superiority and well-being, he felt a condescending annoyance at anyone who was too stupid to appreciate the chance he had given Goldstein.

            "Aaah, go write your letter," Red bellowed. He was in an ugly mood, and Goldstein's expression of humiliation and bewilderment offended him. He felt contempt that Goldstein could not hide his feelings; more, he had had a bitter amused knowledge from the moment Wilson had offered Goldstein a drink. He had known exactly what would happen and it gave him an ironic pleasure. Deep inside him he was feeling a trace of sympathy for Goldstein, but he smothered it. "A man ain't worth a damn if he can't even take care of himself," Red muttered.

            Goldstein turned around abruptly and walked away. The circle of men who were drinking drew closer, and there was an almost tangible bond between them now. They opened the third canteen.

            "It was jus' a mistake," Wilson said, "to try an' be nice to him."

            Martinez nodded. "Man pay for liquor, drink it. No free drinks."

            Goldstein tried to become absorbed in his letter again. But he found it impossible to write. He kept brooding over what the men had said and what he had answered, and he kept wishing that he had given the replies he was thinking of now. Why do they give me all this aggravation? he wondered, and for a moment felt like weeping. He picked up his letter and read it through again, not quite able to concentrate on the words. After the war he was planning to open a welding shop, and he and his wife had been discussing it in letters ever since he had been overseas. Just before Wilson had called him, Goldstein had not been writing. He had held his pencil in his hand, and he had thought with excitement and joy of what it would be like with a shop of his own, becoming an established man in the community. He had not been daydreaming about the shop; he had the place picked out, and he had figured very nicely how much money he and his wife would save if the war lasted one year or at most two -- he was very optimistic about its ending soon -- he had even calculated how much they could save if he were to make corporal or sergeant.

            It was the only pleasure he had since he had left the States. At night in his tent he would lie awake and plan for his future, or think of his son, or try to imagine where his wife would be at that moment. And sometimes, if he decided that she would be visiting her relatives, he would attempt to create their conversation, and would shake with suppressed glee as he remembered the family jokes.

            But now he could not bury himself in those thoughts. As soon as he would try to hear the light cheerful sound of his wife's voice, he would become conscious of the bawdy laughter of the men who were still drinking at his left. Once his eyes filled with tears and he shook his head angrily. Why did they hate him so? he asked himself. He had tried so hard to be a good soldier. He had never fallen out on a hike, he was as strong as any of them, and he worked harder than most of them. He had never fired his gun once when he was on guard, no matter how tempted he had been, but no one ever noticed that. Croft never recognized his worth.

            They were just a bunch of Anti-Semiten, he told himself. That was all the goyim knew, to run around with loose women, and get drunk like pigs. Deeply buried was his envy that he had never had many women and did not know the easy loud companionship of drink. He was tired of hoping to make friends with them; they didn't want to get along with him, they hated him. Goldstein smacked his fist against his palm in exasperation. How can You permit the anti-Semites to live, God? he asked. He was not religious, and yet he believed in a God, a personal God with whom he could quarrel, and whom he could certainly upbraid. Why don't You stop things like that? he asked bitterly. It seemed a very simple thing to accomplish, and Goldstein was irritated with the God he believed in, as if he were a parent who was good but a little thoughtless, a little lazy.

            Goldstein picked up his letter and began to write again. "I don't know, honey, I get so sick at the whole thing at times I want to quit. It's a terrible thing to say, but I hate the soldiers I have been put with, they're a bunch of
grobe jungen.
Honestly, honey, it's hard to remember all the fine ideals. Sometimes even with the Jews in Europe I don't know why we're fighting. . ." He reread what he had written, and then crossed it out violently. But he sat there for a minute or two with a cold fear.

            He was changing. He realized it suddenly. His confidence was gone, and he wasn't sure of himself. He hated all the men with whom he lived and worked and he could never remember a time in the past when he hadn't liked nearly everyone he knew. Goldstein held his head for a moment, and then laboriously began to write again. "I have an idea that is pretty good. Maybe we should try to do some work with the junk yards. There is lots of things they have there that need only a little welding to be able to work even if they don't look so good. . ."

            Wilson was getting restless. He had been sitting in one place for several hours now, and his mood of contentment was beginning to lapse. His drinking sessions always followed a similar pattern: for the first few hours he would feel happy and benevolent, and the more he drank the more superior he felt to anyone who was not drinking. But after a time he would feel a need for some external excitement and he would become bored and a trifle sober. He would fidget, become a little agitated, and then abruptly he would leave the bar or the house where he was drinking, and wander away to accept whatever adventures might occur. Many times he would wake up the next day in the bed of a strange woman, or in the gutter, or on the sofa in the parlor of his small frame house. And rarely would he remember what had happened to him.

            Now he emptied the last few drops of the third canteen and sighed noisily. His voice had become very thick. "What in the hell are we gonna do now, men?" he asked.

            Croft swayed to his feet and laughed again. He had been chuckling to himself all afternoon. "I'm gonna sleep," he announced.

            Wilson shook his head, and leaned forward, holding Croft's leg. "Sergeant -- Ah'm gonna call ya sergeant 'cause you're so goddam chicken -- sergeant, you got no call to be hittin' the sack 'cause it ain't even gonna be dark for an hour yet, maybe two."

            Gallagher smiled lopsidedly. "Don't ya see that fuggin Croft is blind now?"

            Croft leaned down and grasped Gallagher by the collar. "I don' care drunk I am, none you men got a call to talk to me that way, none of you men." He pushed Gallagher back suddenly. "I'm rememberin' just what the hell you say. . ." His voice trailed off. "I'm rememberin', wait till tomorrow." He stopped and laughed again, and then walked a little uncertainly toward his tent.

            Wilson rolled the empty canteen back and forth. He burped once. "What the hell we gonna do?" he asked again.

            "Damn liquor go too fast," Martinez said. He was beginning to feel very gloomy at the thought of how much money he had spent.

            Wilson leaned forward. "Listen, men, Ah got an idea. Y'know them Japs've got those rollin' whorehouses they bring right up to the lines."

            "Where'd ya hear that?" Gallagher demanded.

            "Ah heard it, that's for certain. Well, why don' we jus' sneak over tonight an' get in their tail line, and we can knock off a piece of that yellow stuff?"

            Red spat. "What's the matter, ya want to see if their slits are horizontal?"

            "That's Chinee," Wilson said.

            Gallagher leaned forward truculently and said, "Wilson, you're a nigger-lover."

            Wilson laughed. "Shi-i-i-it," he drawled. He had forgotten his scheme already.

            Red was thinking once more of the bodies in the draw. He felt a curious fascination as he remembered how they had looked. A wash of fear penetrated through the whirling in his mind, and he looked over his shoulder again. "Why don't we go looking for souvenirs?" he shouted furiously.

            "Where?"

            "There ought to be some dead Japs around here," Red said. He resisted the impulse to look behind him.

            Wilson giggled. "They is, they is," he said suddenly. "Down 'bout two-three hunnerd yards from that mess sergeant's still, they was a battle. Ah 'member we passed right by it, jus' right by it."

            Martinez spoke up. "Night we go up to the river, and the Japs come. That night Japs come down almost to here."

            "Tha's right," Wilson said. "Ah heard they had tanks down 'bout here."

            "Well, let's go lookin' then," Red muttered. "We rate a couple of souvenirs."

            Wilson stood up. "If they's one goddam thing Ah gotta do when Ah get likkered up it's to start roamin' round." He stretched his arms. "Well, men, let's git goin'."

            The others looked at him dumbly. They had settled into a stupor and their conversation had been random and purposeless. They had talked without thinking of what they said, and now they were bewildered by Wilson's energy. "Come on, men," he repeated.

            They obeyed him because they were passive and would have obeyed anybody who told them to do something. Wilson picked up his rifle, and the others, seeing him do this, slung theirs also.

            "Where the hell do we go?" Gallagher asked.

            "Jus' follow me, men," Wilson said. He let out a drunken whoop.

            They tailed along behind him in a rough straggling file. Wilson led them through the bivouac area. His good spirits revived again. "Show me the way to go home," he sang.

            Some soldiers stared at them, and Wilson halted. "Men," he said, "they's gonna be some goddam officers lookin' at us, so goddammit let's look like soldiers."

            "Eyes right," Red bawled. He felt suddenly gleeful.

            They began to move with exaggerated caution, and when Gallagher stumbled once the others turned on him.
"Goddammit,
Gallagher," Wilson reproved softly. He was walking jauntily, his legs just the least bit unsteady, and he began to whistle. They reached a gap in the barbed wire, and trudged through a chest-high field of kunai grass. Gallagher kept falling and cursing, and Wilson would turn around each time and hold his finger to his lips.

            After a hundred yards the jungle encircled them again, and they weaved through the grass parallel to it until they found a trail. Far in the distance an artillery battery was firing, and Martinez shivered. He was sweating freely from the walk and he felt very depressed. "Where goddam battlefield?" he asked.

            "Jus' at the end of the trail," Wilson said. He remembered the fourth canteen of whisky, which he had hidden, and he began to giggle again. "Jus' a little while," he told them. They stumbled along the trail for a hundred and fifty yards before it debouched into a narrow road. "This's Jap road," Wilson said.