The Naked and the Dead (55 page)

            He fell asleep, and was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of voices and the noise of orderlies moving patients into the tent. Occasionally he could see the red skeletal outline of a hand covering a flashlight, and once or twice a midgeon of light cast an eerie shadow across a patient's face. What's going on? Minetta wondered. He could hear a man groaning, and the sound formed goose flesh on his scalp. The doctor came in, and talked for a little while with one of the orderlies. "Watch the drain on that thoracic, and give him a hypo, twice the usual amount, if he's too restless."

            "Yes, sir."

            That's all they know, Minetta thought, hypo, hypo, I could be a sawbones myself. He was watching the scene through half-opened eyes, and he listened cautiously to the conversation between the two patients whose heads were bandaged. It was the first time he had heard them speak. "Hey, orderly," one of them was asking, "what's up?"

            The orderly came over to them, and talked for a little while. "I hear there was a lot of patrolling today, and these guys just came from Battalion Aid."

            "You know if E Company was in it?"

            "Ask the General," the medic said.

            "I'm glad I wasn't in it," one of the patients muttered.

            "You ain't just a bird-turding, Jack," the orderly said.

            Minetta turned over. What a way to get waked up, he thought. There was a patient at the far end of the tent who was weeping with loud thick sounds that seemed to writhe out of his chest and throat. Minetta closed his eyes. What a setup, he thought disgustedly. His annoyance was suppressing a great deal of fear; he had become conscious suddenly of the thrumming of the jungle night outside the tent, and he had the childish horror that comes from waking suddenly in the darkness. "Jesus," he muttered. With the exception of the minor exertions that had been required to use the bed pan under the cot and to eat the food that had been set before him, he had been completely inactive for two and a half days, and it made him extremely restless. I can't take this, he said to himself. The patient who had been weeping had begun to scream now, and the sounds had such terror that Minetta ground his teeth and held the blanket over his ears. "NEEEE-YOWWWWWWW, NEEEEEEE-YOWWWWWRR," the patient wailed, imitating the sound of a mortar, and then he screamed again, "God, you got to save me,
you got to save me!'

            There was a long silence afterward with no sound at all in the black tent, and then one of the patients muttered, "Another psycho."

            "What the hell are we in the loony ward for?"

            Minetta shivered. That nut could kill me when I'm asleep. His thigh, which was almost healed, began to throb. I gotta stay awake. He pitched restlessly, listening to the crickets and the animals in the brush beyond the tent. A few shots were fired far in the distance, and he began to shudder again. I will be nuts by morning, he thought, and began to giggle to himself. His stomach felt empty; he was hungry. What did I get into this for? he wondered.

            One of the new patients began groaning, and lapsed at last into a bubbly cough. That guy sounds bad, Minetta thought. Death. It seemed at the moment almost tangible. He became afraid to breathe, as if the air were polluted. In the darkness things seemed to be moving about him. What a night, he said to himself. His heart was beating quickly. Oh, Jeez, lemme just get out of here.

            His stomach was tense and nervous; he retched emptily once or twice. I ain't gonna get any sleep, that's a cinch. Jealousy began to torment him. Minetta went through a long fantasy in which Rosie made love to another man; it began with her going alone to dance at Roseland; and it ended inevitably, sickly, in his mind; he felt a chill sweat forming on his shoulders and the backs of his thighs. He began to worry about his family. They ain't gonna hear from me for a couple of months. How the hell will I write them a letter? They'll think I'm dead. He felt a pang as he thought of his mother's anxiety. Jeez, the way she'd fuss over me when I got a cold. Italian mothers and Jewish mothers, they're always that way. He tried to repress the concern his mother was causing him, and began to think of Rosie again. If she don't hear from me, she'll be fooling around with someone else. He became bitter. Aaah, fug her, I've had dames who give me a better time than her. There's lots of others. He thought of the exciting shiny luster of her eyes, and felt a comfortable grief and self-pity. He longed for her.

            The man who had combat fatigue screamed again, and Minetta sat up shuddering. I gotta get some sleep, I can't take this. He began to shout out. "There's the Jap, I see him,
I see him,
I'm going to kill him!" He got off his cot and began to wander about the dirt floor of the tent. The earth was cold and damp against his bare feet. He trembled genuinely.

            The orderly got up from his chair and sighed. "Oh, man, what a ward." He picked up a hypodermic from the table beside him and approached Minetta. "Lie down, Jack."

            "Fug you." He let himself be marched back to his cot.

            He held his breath while the needle jabbed into his muscle, and then exhaled. "Oh, what a time," he groaned.

            The man who had the chest wound was making the bubbling coughing sounds again, but to Minetta they sounded remote. He relaxed, feeling comfortable and warm, thinking about the sedative. That stuff is good. . . I'll become a dope addict. . . aah, anyway to get out. . . He fell asleep.

            In the morning he awoke to find that one of the patients was dead. The blanket was drawn up over the dead man's head and his feet made a stiff peak which traced an icy caress along Minetta's spine. He looked at the body and turned away. There was an envelope of intense silence about it. There's something different about a guy when he's dead, Minetta thought. He felt an acute curiosity about the man's face under the blanket; he wondered what it looked like. If there had been no one in the tent, he might have walked over and lifted the blanket. That's the guy with the hole in his chest, he told himself. He was afraid again. How do they expect a guy to stay here, after some poor Joe died right next to you? A touch of horror welled in him; he felt a little sick. The sedative had left him with an acute headache, and his stomach was raw, his limbs ached. Oh, Jeez, I got to get out of here.

            Two orderlies came in, placed the dead man on a stretcher, and carried him out of the tent. None of the patients said anything, but Minetta found himself still looking at the vacant cot. I can't take another night like last one. A sour fluid retched from his stomach into his mouth, and he swallowed it automatically. Oh, murder.

            When his breakfast came, he was unable to touch it. He sat there musing; he knew he could not bear another day in the hospital. He wished he was back with the platoon. Anything to get out of here.

            The doctor came, and Minetta watched him quietly while he stripped the bandages from his leg. The cut was entirely healed except for the line of pink new flesh; the doctor smeared a red antiseptic over it, and did not replace the bandages. Minetta's heart was beating rapidly. His head felt hollow and quivering.

            The sound of his voice surprised him. "Hey, doc, when am I gonna get out?"

            "What's that?"

            "I don't know, I woke up this morning. Where am I?" Minetta smiled with bewilderment. "I remember I was in another tent with my leg, and now I'm here. What's the score?"

            The doctor looked at him quietly. Minetta forced himself to stare back; in spite of every effort, he ended by grinning weakly.

            "What's your name?" the doctor asked.

            "Minetta." He gave his serial number. "Can I get out today, doc?"

            "Yes."

            Minetta felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. At that moment he wished for a second that he had remained quiet.

            "Oh, and, Minetta, after you get dressed, I want to talk to you." The doctor turned, and then said over his shoulder, "Don't skip out. That's an order, I want to talk to you."

            "Yes, sir." Minetta shrugged. What's up? he wondered. He was feeling a little glee now as he thought of how easily he had managed it. All you got to do is think fast and you can get away with anything. He put on his clothing, which had been wrapped in a ball at the head of the cot, and slipped into his shoes. The sun was not yet too hot, and he felt cheerful. That wasn't for me, he thought, I can't go this staying on your back all the time. He looked at the cot where the soldier had died, and shrugged to overcome a quiver of anxiety. A guy's lucky to get out. He remembered abruptly the patrolling that had taken place yesterday, and was depressed. I hope they don't send the platoon on something. He wondered if he had made a mistake.

            After he dressed, he felt hungry, and he went over to the hospital's mess tent and talked to the first cook. "You wouldn't send a guy back to the lines without a breakfast in his belly, would ya?" he asked.

            "Awright, awright, take something, then." Minetta wolfed down the rubbery remains of the scrambled powdered eggs, and drank a little of the lukewarm coffee still remaining in a ten-gallon boiler. The chlorine in it was very strong, and he made a wry face. Might as well drink iodine, he thought.

            He clapped the cook on the back. "Thanks, bud," he said, "I wish they cooked as good as this in our outfit."

            "Yeah."

            Minetta collected his rifle and helmet from the hospital supply sergeant and strolled over to the doctor's tent. "You wanted to see me, doc?" he asked.

            "Yes." Minetta sat down on a folding chair.

            "Stand up!" the doctor said. He looked coldly at Minetta.

            "Sir?"

            "Minetta, the Army's got no use for men like you. That gag you pulled was pretty low."

            "I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Minetta's voice had a meek irony.

            "Don't give me any of your lip," the doctor snapped. "I'd have you court-martialed if it didn't take too long, and if it wasn't just what you wanted anyway."

            Minetta was silent. He could feel his face reddening, and he stood there tense and enraged; he wished he could kill the doctor.

           
"Answer me!"

            "YES, SIR!"

            "You pull that trick again, and I'll see to it personally that you get ten years for it. I'm sending a note to your CO to put you on company duty for a week."

            Minetta tried to look disdainful. He swallowed once, and then said, "Why're you discriminating against me, sir?"

           
"Shut your mouth."

            Minetta glared at him. "That all you want, doc?" he asked at last.

            "Get out of here. If you come back, you better have a hole through your belly."

            Minetta stalked out sullenly. He was quivering with rage. Goddam fuggin officers, he said to himself. They're all the same. He stumbled over a root, and stamped the ground angrily. Just let me get ahold of him after the war. I'll show that sonofabitch. He walked out to the road that ran past the edge of the hospital clearing, and waited for a truck to come by from the beach. He spat once or twice. That dumb bastard probably couldn't make a living before the war. Some doctor. Shame passed through him. I'm mad enough to cry, he thought.

            After a few minutes a truck ground by and stopped for him. He climbed into the back, sat on top of a load of small-arms ammunition boxes, and fretted. A guy gets hurt and how do they treat him? Like a dog. They don't give a damn about us. Here I was willing to go back on my own accord, and he treated me as if I was a criminal. Aaah, fug 'em, they're all a bunch of bastards. He pushed his helmet off his forehead. I'm damned if I'll try any more. I'm out for myself. If they want to treat me that way, okay. The thought gave him some relief. Okay, then, he said at last.

            He stared at the jungle which slid thickly past on either side of the truck. Okay. He lit a cigarette.
Okay.

            Red saw Minetta at midday chow when the platoon came in from working on the road. After he filed through the chow line, he sat down beside Minetta, and laid his mess gear on the ground. With a grunt he eased his back against a tree. "Just got back, huh?" he nodded to Minetta.

            "Yeah, this morning."

            "They kept you pretty long for just a scratch," Red said.

            "Yeah." Minetta was silent for a moment and then added, "Well, you know how it is, hard to get in, hard to get out." He swallowed a mouthful of Vienna sausage. "I had a pretty soft time there."

            Red piddled the dehydrated mashed potatoes and canned string beans with his spoon. It was the only eating utensil he owned; months ago he had thrown away his knife and fork. "They treated you pretty good, huh?" He was annoyed with his own curiosity.

            "Damn good," Minetta said. He swallowed some coffee. "Well, I had a run-in with a doctor there, the sonofabitch. I lost my temper and told him where to get off, so I'm on company duty now, but outside of that it was okay."

            "Yeah," Red said. They continued eating in silence.

            Red was uncomfortable. For weeks his kidneys had been growing more painful, and that morning on the road he had strained himself badly in lifting a pick. A severe pain had seized him at the top of his swing, and he had ground his teeth, his fingers trembling. After a minute or so he had been forced to quit, and his back had throbbed for the rest of the morning with a dull constant ache. When the trucks had come, he had hoisted himself with great difficulty over the tail gate. "You're gettin' old, Red," Wyman had piped.

            "Yeah." The jarring of the truck over the bumps had aggravated his pain, and he had been silent. The artillery was firing constantly and the men talked about an attack supposed to start soon. They're gonna be sendin' us out again, Red had thought, I better get fixed up. For a moment he had allowed himself to think, Maybe the hospital, and then he had repressed the thought with disgust. I never run out on anything, and I won't now. But he had kept looking uneasily over his shoulder. I ain't over that week yet, he had told himself.