The Naked and the Dead (69 page)

            Croft hadn't shown too much discomfort. That Croft was a
boy,
all right. If he wasn't careful Croft would keep effective command of the platoon. The trouble was that Croft knew more, and it was silly to disagree with him; until now the march had demanded a woodsman.

            Hearn sat up and stared about him. The men were still sprawled on the rock, resting quiet. A few of them were talking or scaling pebbles into the water, and Valsen was carefully stripping the leaves from a tree which overhung the rock. Hearn looked at his watch. Five minutes had gone by since the break had begun, and another ten minutes would not hurt. He might as well give them a decent break. He stretched and rinsed his mouth out with some water from his canteen, chatted for a minute or two with Minetta and Goldstein.

            Once he had regained his wind, Brown began to talk to Martinez.

            Brown was depressed; the jungle ulcers on his feet had begun to itch and smart, and he knew they would become more painful as the patrol continued. Idly, quite hopelessly, he was thinking how pleasant it would be if he could lie in the sun with his feet bare, allowing the heat to dry his sores.

            "This is gonna be a rough sonofabitch," he sighed.

            Martinez nodded. "Five days out, long time."

            Brown lowered his voice. "What the hell do you think of this new looey?"

            "Okay." Martinez shrugged. "Nice guy." He felt cautious about answering. The men knew he buddied with Croft, and he felt they would guess his hostility to Hearn. With Croft everything had been okay. "Too friendly, maybe," Martinez suggested. "Platoon leader should be tough guy."

            "This guy looks like he can be a mean sonofabitch," Brown said. He was undecided about Hearn. Brown didn't like Croft particularly, and he sensed that Croft was contemptuous of him, but at least the situation was stable. With a new lieutenant, he'd have to be careful, always do his best, and even then he might not please him. "He seems like a good guy though," Brown said mildly. There was something else bothering him. He lit a cigarette and exhaled cautiously, his lungs still raw from the exertion of the march. The cigarette tasted unpleasant, but he continued to smoke it. "You know, I swear, Japbait," he blurted, "the times like this when you're on a patrol I wish I was a private. Those guys think we got it easy, especially all the replacements, they think being a noncom is a snap where you get all the breaks." He fingered one of the sores on his chin. "What the hell, they don't know the kind of responsibilities we got. You take someone like Stanley, he ain't seen a damn thing hardly so he's ambitious, he wants to get ahead. I'll tell you, Japbait, I was pretty goddam proud when I made sergeant, but I don't know if I'd take it if I had to do it over again."

            Martinez shrugged. He was feeling slyly amused. "It's hard," he offered.

            "You're fuggin ay, it's hard." Brown plucked a leaf from a branch which overhung the rock, and chewed reflectively on it. "You know you can take just so much, and then your nerves start goin' to pot. I'll tell ya, I can talk to you, 'cause you know just what the hell the score is, but if you had to do it all over again would you take sergeant?"

            "Who know?" But Martinez had no doubts; he would have taken it. For a moment he saw again the three chevrons he had worn on his dress olive-drabs and felt a characteristic uneasy pride.

            "You know what scares me, Japbait? I'll tell ya, my nerves are gone. Sometimes I'm afraid I'll just go to pieces and I won't be able to do a goddam thing. You know what I mean?" Brown had worried about this many times. He gained some satisfaction in admitting it, excusing himself ahead of time so that the onus would be less if his failure was realized. He scaled a stone into the river, watching the ripples.

            Martinez had a quiet contempt for Brown. It pleased him that Brown was frightened. Japbait frightened, okay, he told himself, but Japbait. . . he don't give in.

            "The worst of it," Brown said, "is not if you get knocked off, hell, then you don't know anything. But what if one of the guys in your squad stops a bullet and it's your fault. Jesus, you never get it out of your head then. I'll tell ya, remember that patrol back on Motome when MacPherson got knocked off? I couldn'ta done a thing about it, but how the hell do ya think I felt leavin' him like that, takin' off and leavin' him behind?" Brown flipped his cigarette away nervously. "It ain't all it's cracked up to be, being a sergeant. When I first got in the Army I wanted to get ahead, but sometimes I get to wondering. What the hell does it get ya?" He mused on this and then sighed. "I don't know, I suppose human nature bein' what it is I wouldn'ta been satisfied just being a private. It means something to make sergeant." This statement always gave him pleasure. "It shows you got something a little special. I'll tell ya, I feel my responsibilities. I ain't goin' to back down. No matter what the hell I get into, I know damn well I'm gonna keep trying because that's what I'm being paid for." He felt a little sentimental. "It shows they got trust in you if you make sergeant, and I'm not going to let anybody down, I'm not that kind of guy. I think there'd be nothing lower."

            "Gotta stick," Martinez agreed.

            "That's just it. What the hell kind of guy would I be to take all the government's money, and then goof-off ? Naw, I mean it, Japbait, we come from a pretty good part of the country, and I'd hate like hell to go back and show my face to the neighbors if I wasn't proud of myself. Personally since I'm from Kansas I like it better than Texas but just the same we come from two of the best goddam states in the country. You never need to be ashamed, Martinez, when you tell somebody you're a Texan."

            "Yes." Martinez was warmed by the name. He liked to think of himself as a Texan, but he had never dared to use the title. Somewhere, deep in his mind, a fear had clotted; there was the memory of all the tall white men with the slow voices and the cold eyes. He was afraid of the look they might assume if he were to say, Martinez is a Texan. Now his pleasure was chilled, and he felt uneasy. I'm better noncom than Brown, he assured himself, but he was still uncomfortable. Brown had a kind of assurance which Martinez had never known; something in him always withered when he talked to such men. Martinez had the suppressed malice, the contempt, and the anxiety of a servant who knows he is superior to his master.

            "Good part of the country," he agreed. He was moody and had no desire to talk to Brown any longer. After a minute or two, he mumbled something and went over to Croft.

            Brown turned around and looked about him. Polack had been sprawled a few feet away from them during the conversation. His eyes were closed now, and Brown gave him a little nudge. "You sleeping, Polack?"

            "Uh?" Polack sat up and yawned. "Yeah, I t'ink I dropped off." Actually he had been wide awake, had been listening to them. He always obtained a subtle gratification from eavesdropping; while he seldom expected to receive any immediate profit, Polack usually found it amusing. "That's the only way to get a line on a guy," he had said once to Minetta. Now he yawned again. "Naw, I been gettin' some shut-eye. What, are we hittin' the trail again?"

            "Coupla minutes, I guess," Brown said. He had sensed Martinez's scorn, and it left him uncomfortable, anxious to regain his poise. He stretched out beside Polack and offered him a cigarette.

            "Naaah, I'm savin' me wind," Polack told him. "We got a long way to go."

            "That's no lie," Brown agreed. "You know, I been trying to keep my squad out of patrols, but maybe it wasn't such a good idea. You're out of condition now." He was not conscious of exaggerating. At the moment Brown believed himself, and mused with self-approbation how he protected his squad.

            "It was okay, keepin' us out. We appreciate it," Polack said. To himself, he thought, What a crock of shit! Brown entertained him. There's always that kind of guy, Polack thought. Act like a prick to get the stripes, and then when he's got them he starts worrying whether you think he's a right Joe or not. He held his long pointed chin in his hand, brushed his mop of blond straight hair off his forehead. "That's a fac'," Polack said. "You t'ink the boys in your squad don't appreciate the deals you get us. We know you're okay."

            Brown was pleased despite his doubts of Polack's sincerity. "I'll tell you, I'll be frank with you," he said. "You been in the platoon a couple months and I've had my eye on you. You're a pretty smart apple, Polack, and you know to keep your mouth shut."

            Polack shrugged. "I'm all right."

            "You take the job I've got. I gotta keep you men happy. You may not know it, but that's even in the manual, right there in black and white. I figure if I look out for my men they'll look out for me."

            "Sure, we're right behind ya." The way Polack looked at it, you were a goddam fool if you didn't say what your boss wanted you to say.

            Brown was fumbling for something. "There's lots of ways a noncom can be a sonofabitch, but I'd rather treat my men right."

            What the hell does he want out of me? Polack thought. "It's the only way to be," he said.

            "Yeah, but a lot of noncoms don't know that. The responsibility can get you down. You don't know the kind of worries there are. I'm not saying I don't want to have 'em, 'cause the truth of the matter is you gotta plug if you wanta get ahead. There's no short cuts."

            "Naah." Polack scratched himself.

            "You take Stanley. He's too smart for his own good. You know he pulled a pretty slick deal in a garage he was at." Brown told Polack the story, and finished by saying, "That's smart enough, but you just get in trouble that way. You got to stick to something and take the headaches as they come."

            "Sure." Polack decided he'd underrated Stanley. It was something worth knowing about him. Stanley had more on the ball than Brown. Jesus, Polack thought, this guy Brown is gonna end up runnin' a gasoline station, and t'inkin' he's a big operator. Stanley had the right idea. You did something that was maybe a little too cozy, but if you kept your tongue in your head you got out okay.

            "All right, men," the Lieutenant was calling.

            Polack stood up with a grimace. If that lieutenant had anything but rocks in his head, he decided, he'd go back to the beach, and let us toast marshmallows until the boat comes. But all he said was, "I been needing a little exercise." Brown laughed.

            The river remained shallow and unobstructed for another few hundred yards. As they walked, Brown and Polack talked idly. "I used to have a lot of ideas when I was a kid," Brown said, "you know, kids and marriage and the rest of it, but you get a little smarter, you see where they ain't many women you can trust."

            It's a guy like Brown that lets a dame throw a horse collar on him, Polack thought. All she had to do was yes him when he was talkin' and he thought she had everything.

            "No," Brown said, "you get older and you lose a lot of that. You know there ain't too many things you can trust." He got a bitter pleasure from saying this. "The only damn thing that's worth it is money, I'll tell you. In selling you can see the kind of time a big boy can have. I remember some of those hotel parties. Man! the dames at that, the times you'd have."

            "You could have a good time," Polack agreed. He remembered a party that his numbers boss, Lefty Rizzo, had given. Polack closed his eyes for an instant, and felt a faint trickle of passion. That blonde, she had known her business. "Yeah."

            "If I ever get out of the Army," Brown said, "I'm headin' for the bucks. I'm tired of kickin' around."

            "They ain't found anyt'ing better than that yet."

            Brown looked at Polack, shuffling through the water beside him. Polack wasn't a bad kid, he thought. Just a little skinny guy who never had any education. The chances were he'd never get anywhere. "What do you figure on doin', Polack?" Brown asked.

            Polack recognized the condescension. "I'll get along," he said shortly. Like the flick of a lash, he remembered his family and grimaced. What a dumb Polack his old man had been. Poor all his life. Aaah, it makes you tough, he decided. A guy like Brown could shoot his mouth off, but when you knew the way to make a pile you kept quiet. In Chicago you could do it; that was a
town.
Women and lots of noise, lots of big operators. "They can keep this goddam jungle," he said. The water was a little deeper and he felt it tickling against the back of his knees. If he hadn't got in the Army he'd probably be workin' right under Kabriskie now. "A-a-ah," Polack said.

            And Brown was dejected. He did not know why, but the oppression of the air, the resistance of the current, had exhausted him already. He felt an unreasonable catch of fear. "Boy, I hate these goddam packs," he said.

            The river was mounting a series of minor cascades. Coming around a turn the men were almost spilled by the force of the current over a rapids. The water was shockingly cold, and the men scrambled for the bank and held onto the wall of foliage that grew to the river's edge. "C'mon, let's keep goin'," Croft shouted. The bank was almost five feet high, which made it difficult to advance. The men moved along with their bodies parallel to the wet clay walls of the bank, their eyes on a level with the jungle floor. They extended their arms, caught a root, and pulled themselves toward it, their chests scraping against the bank, their feet drudging through the water. Their hands and faces became scratched, their fatigue uniforms covered with mud. For perhaps ten minutes they progressed in this way.

            The river leveled again, and they advanced in file a few feet from the bank, toiling slowly through the river mud. At times aware of the intricate liquid rustlings of the brush, the screams of the birds and animals, the murmuring of the river, they were usually conscious only of their own parched sobs. They were becoming very tired. The weaker men in the platoon had lost the first sensitive control of their limbs and wavered in the current or floundered in one place for many seconds at a time, buckling to their knees from the weight of their packs.