The Naked and the Dead (104 page)

            Martinez wriggled his toes inside his boots, extracting a bleak satisfaction.

            "You wanta get your fuggin head blown off?"

            "No." He fingered the little tobacco pouch in his pocket where he kept the gold teeth he had stolen from the cadaver. Perhaps he should throw them away. But they were so pretty, so valuable. Martinez wavered, then left them there. He was struggling against the conviction that they would be an effective sacrifice.

            "We ain't got a fuggin chance." Gallagher's voice shook, and as if he were a sounding board, Martinez resonated to it. They sat staring at each other, bound by their common fear. Martinez wished dumbly that he could assuage Gallagher's anxiety.

            "Why don't you tell Croft to quit?"

            Martinez shivered. He knew! He could tell Croft to go back. But the attitude was so foreign to him that he shied away from it fearfully. He could just ask him, maybe. A new approach formed for him naïvely. For a moment as he had hesitated before killing the Japanese sentry he had realized that he was only a man and the entire act had seemed unbelievable. Now the patrol seemed ridiculous. If he were just to ask Croft, maybe Croft would see it was ridiculous too.

            "Okay," he nodded. He stood up and looked at the men bundled in their blankets. A few of them were stirring already. "We go wake him up."

            They walked over to Croft, and Gallagher shook him. "Come on, get up." He was a little surprised that Croft was still sleeping.

            Croft grunted, sprang to a sitting position. He made an odd sound, almost like a groan, and turned immediately to stare at the mountain. He had been dreaming his recurrent nightmare: he lay at the bottom of a pit waiting for a rock to fall on him, a wave to break, and he could not move. Ever since the Jap attack at the river he had been having dreams like this.

            He spat. "Yeah." The mountain was still in place. No boulders had moved. He was a little surprised, for the dream had been vivid.

            Automatically he swung his legs free of the blanket and began to put on his boots. They watched him soberly. He picked up his rifle, which he had kept beside him under the blankets, and examined it to see if it was dry. "Why the hell didn't you wake me earlier?"

            Gallagher looked at Martinez. "We go back today, huh?" Martinez asked.

            "What?"

            "We go back," Martinez stammered.

            Croft lit a cigarette, feeling the pungence of the smoke in his empty stomach. "What the hell you talkin' about, Japbait?"

            "Better we go back?"

            This was a shock to Croft. Was Martinez threatening him? He was stunned. Martinez was the only man in the platoon whose obedience he had never doubted. Croft's next reaction was rage. He stared quietly at Martinez's throat, restraining himself from leaping at him. His only friend in the platoon threatening him. Croft spat. There was no one you could trust, no one except yourself.

            The mountain ahead had never looked so high and forbidding. Perhaps a part of him did want to turn back, and he flung himself from the temptation. Hearn was wasted if they turned back. And again the flesh on his back writhed under a play of nervous needles. The peak still taunted him.

            He would have to go easy. If Martinez could do this, then the situation was dangerous. If the platoon ever discovered. . . "Goddam, Japbait, you turnin' on me?" he said softly.

            "No."

            "Well, what the hell's this talk? You're a sergeant, man, you don't go in for crap like that."

            Martinez was caught. His loyalty was being questioned, and he hung sickly on Croft's next speech, waiting for him to say the thing he dreaded. A Mexican sergeant!

            "I thought we were pretty good buddies, Japbait."

            "Yah."

            "Man, I thought they wasn't a damn thing you was afraid of."

            "No." His loyalty, his friendship, his courage were all involved. And as he looked into Croft's cold blue eyes he felt the same inadequacy and shabbiness, the same inferiority he always knew when he talked to. . . to White Protestant. But there was even more this time. The undefined danger he always sensed seemed sharper now, closer upon him. What would they do to him, how very much would they do to him? His fear almost stifled him.

            "Forget it. Japbait go with you."

            "Sure." Croft's wheedling had hung awkwardly on him.

            "Whadeya mean, you're goin' with him?" Gallagher asked. "Listen, Croft, why the hell don't you turn back? Ain't ya got enough fuggin medals?"

            "Gallagher, you can shut your hole."

            Martinez wished he could sidle away.

            "Aaah." Gallagher pirouetted between fright and resolution. "Listen, I ain't afraid of you, Croft. You know what the fug I think of you."

            Most of the men in the platoon had awakened and were staring at them.

            "Shut your mouth, Gallagher."

            "You better not keep your back to us." Gallagher walked away, trembling in the reaction from his courage. Any moment he expected Croft to come up behind him, spin him about, and strike him. The skin along his back quivered with anticipation.

            But Croft did nothing. He was having a reaction from Martinez's unfaithfulness. The resisting weight of the platoon had never pressed more heavily upon him. He had the mountain to fight and the men dragging upon him. It accumulated in him for that moment, left him empty and without volition.

            "All right, men, we're gonna move out in half an hour, so don't be fuggin around." A chorus of mutterings and grumblings answered him, but he preferred to single out none of them. He was extracting the last marrows of his will. He was exhausted himself and his unwashed body itched unbearably.

            When they did get over the mountain what could they do? There were only seven of them left, and Minetta and Wyman would be worthless. He watched Polack and Red, who munched their food dourly, glaring back at him. But he forced these considerations away. He would worry about the rest of it once they had crossed the mountain. Now that was the only important problem.

            Red watched him for several minutes afterward, noticing every move with a dull hatred. He had never loathed any man so much as Croft. As Red picked at the breakfast ration of tinned ham and eggs, his stomach rebelled. The food was thick and tasteless; when he chewed there was a balance between his desire to swallow it and his desire to spit it out. Each lumpful remained heavy and leaden for an interminable time in his mouth. He threw the can away at last, and sat staring at his feet. His stomach pulsed emptily, sickeningly.

            There were eight rations left: three cheeses, two ham and eggs, and three beef and pork loafs. He knew he would never eat them; they were merely an added load in his pack. Aaah, fug this. He took out the ration cartons, slit the tops off each with his knife and separated the candy and cigarettes from the food tins, the crackers. He was about to throw the food away when he realized that some of the men might want it. He thought of asking, but he had an image of passing from man to man with the cans in his hand, having them jeer at him. Aaah, fug 'em, he decided, it's none of their goddam business anyway. He threw the food into some weeds a few feet behind him. For a time he sat there, so enraged that his heart was beating powerfully, and then he relaxed and began to make up his pack. That'll be lighter anyhow, he told himself, and his rage began again. Fug the Army anyhow, fug the goddam mother-fuggin Army. That stuff ain't fit for a pig. He was breathing very quickly once more. Kill and be killed for this lousy goddam food. So many images blurred in his mind, the mills where they stamped and pressured and cooked the food that went into the tins, the dull
thwopping
sound of a bullet striking a man, even Roth's shout.

            Aaah, fug the whole goddam mess. If they can't feed a man, then fug 'em, fug 'em all. He was trembling so badly he had to sit down and rest.

            He had to face the truth. The Army had licked him. He had always gone along believing that if they pushed him around too much he would do something when the time came. And now. . .

            He had talked to Polack yesterday, and they had both hinted about Hearn, both let it lay. He knew what he could do, and if he skipped out on it he was yellow. Martinez wanted them to go back. Since he had tried to convince Croft, Martinez must know something.

            By now the sun was shining brightly on their slope, and the dark-purple shadows of the mountain had lightened to lavender and blue. He squinted upward toward the peak. They still had a morning's climb ahead of them, and then what? They would drop down among the Japs and be wiped out. They could never come back over the mountain again. On an impulse he walked over to Martinez, who was fixing his pack.

            Red hesitated for an instant. Nearly all the men were ready, and Croft would shout at him if he delayed. He still had to put his blanket in his pack.

            Aaah, fug him, Red thought again, ashamed and angry.

            Before Martinez he paused, uncertain what to say. "How you doin', Japbait?"

            "Okay."

            "You and Croft couldn't work it out for a little while, huh?"

            "Nothing the matter." Martinez averted his eyes.

            Red lit a cigarette, disgusted with what he was doing. "Japbait, you're kind of chicken. You want to quit and you ain't even got the guts to say so."

            Martinez made no answer.

            "Listen, Japbait, we been around quite a while, we know what the hell the fuggin score is. You think it's gonna be fun goin' up that hill today? We're gonna have a coupla more men droppin' off on one of those ledges, maybe you, maybe me."

            "Leave me alone," Martinez muttered.

            "Let's face it, Japbait, even if we do get over, we'll just get a leg or an arm blown off on the other side. You want to stop a slug?" Even as he argued Red was bothered by a sense of shame. There was another way to do this.

            "You want to be a cripple?"

            Martinez shook his head.

            The arguments filed naturally into Red's mind. "You killed that Jap, didn't ya? Did ya ever know that brings your number a little closer?"

            This was a powerful point to Martinez. "I don't know, Red."

            "You killed that Jap, but did you say a goddam thing about it?"

            "Yah."

            "Hearn knew about it, huh, he walked into that pass knowing there was Japs?"

            "Yah." Martinez began to shake. "I tell him, I try tell him, big damn fool."

            "Balls."

            "No."

            Red was not completely certain. He paused, took another tack. "You know that sword I got with the jewels back at Motome? If you want, you can have it."

            "Oh." The beauty of the sword shone in Martinez's eyes. "Free?"

            "Yeah."

            Croft shouted suddenly. "Come on, men, let's move out."

            Red turned around. His heart was churning and he massaged his hands slowly against his thigh. "We ain't goin', Croft."

            Croft strode toward him. "Made up your mind, Red?"

            "If you want to do it so fuggin much, you can do it alone. Japbait'll take us back."

            Croft stared at Martinez. "Changed your mind again?" he asked softly. "What are ya, a goddam woman?"

            Martinez shook his head slowly. "I don't know, I don't know." His face began to work and he turned away.

            "Red, get your pack ready and cut out this shit." It had been wrong to talk to Martinez. Red saw it clearly. It had been disgusting, as though he had been arguing with a child. He had been taking the easy way and it wouldn't work. He would have to face Croft. "If I go up that hill, you'll be draggin' me."

            Some of the men in the platoon were muttering. "Let's go back," Polack yelled, and Minetta and Gallagher joined him.

            Croft stared at them all, and then unslung his rifle, cocked the bolt leisurely. "Red, you can go get your pack."

            "Yeah, you would do somethin' when I ain't got a gun."

            "Red, just get your pack and shut up."

            "It ain't me alone. You gonna shoot all of us?"

            Croft turned and gazed at the others. "Who wants to get lined up with Red?" None of them moved. Red watched, hoping numbly that one of them might pick up a rifle. Croft had turned away from him. Now was the time. He could leap at him, knock him down and the others would help out. If one man would move, they all would.

            But nothing happened. He kept telling himself to jump at Croft and his legs wouldn't function.

            Croft turned back to him. "Awright, Red, go get your pack."

            "Fug you."

            "Ah'm gonna shoot ya in about three-four seconds." He stood six feet away, his rifle raised to his hip. Slowly the muzzle pointed toward Red. He found himself watching the expression on Croft's face.

            Suddenly he knew exactly what had happened to Hearn, and the knowledge left him weak. Croft was going to shoot. He knew it. Red stood stiff looking at Croft's eyes. "Just shoot a man down like that, huh?"

            "Yeah."

            It was worthless to temporize. Croft wanted to shoot him. For an instant he had a picture again of lying on his stomach waiting for the Japanese bayonet to strike into his back. He could feel the blood thumping in his head. As he waited, his will drained away slowly.

            "How 'bout it, Red?"

            The muzzle made a tiny circular motion as if Croft were selecting a more exact aim. Red watched his finger on the trigger. When it began to tighten he tensed suddenly. "Okay, Croft, you win." His voice croaked out weakly. He was making every effort to keep himself from trembling.