by David Poyer
“You speak it very well.”
“I have an accent.”
“A bit of one. Sure. But I can understand everything you say. You don’t make many mistakes.”
“No, I don’t make many mistakes,” he repeated. His eyes came down to hers. “Your husband, then, he is not with this group. He isn’t here?”
“He’s not here. He’s … he’s in Italy. I was on my way to join him.”
“And what does your husband do, Susan?”
“Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Something to do with insurance.”
“An executive?”
“No. Just a—just a clerk.”
“You are happy with him?”
“No,” she said.
And then stopped, appalled. “Wait … no, I didn’t mean that.”
“But you said it. What is wrong?”
“I don’t know. I never said it before, I mean, not to anyone.” She looked at him with wide eyes. “You don’t—I didn’t mean anything by that. You have to understand it. I love him.”
“Then why were you traveling without him?”
“His company called him away. I went to visit friends in Cyprus. We were going to meet later.” Her cigarette had burned down now. She looked around, then stubbed it out on the carpet.
Harisah sank into a reverie, tilting his head against the wall. She shifted her hips a little; the floor was getting hard. She should go back to Nan. She knew that. But then her eyes found the curl of hair at the V of his shirt, and followed the tanned curve of neck upward to his jaw. There was no question that he was attractive. But he was also what Moira said. He had fed them, but for his own reasons. He was the one in charge, the one to fear.
The only one who could protect.
Very slowly, she put out her hand and laid it atop his. Her fingertips traced the tautening of his muscles, the start of a pulling away; then they relaxed, and submitted to the pressure of her palm. “Do you think,” she whispered, “you could let the old doctor see my child?”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? How can I—”
He turned his head, and the whisper stopped in her throat. Her eyes shifted upward four inches to his. They sat like that together for several seconds.
He leaned forward, slowly, and his lips touched hers. Lightly at first, and then harder. She twisted her head back, trying to move away along the floor; yet the touch of his mouth was so warm, so hard, she felt the grating bristle of beard on his jaw, and smelled the heat of his body. She was sticky too, dirty and unwashed; she thought she must smell awful.
Vicious thoughts welled up in her mind. She turned her head away, and then felt his arms slide around her. She thought it was a hug, and stiffened, but then she heard his lips tighten as he took in air. He was lifting her, one hand under her and one around her waist. Lifting her in the yellow hot light, in the shadows that flickered in the warm night. Bearing her up like a child, as no one had since she was as small as Nan, high into the air, her feet dangling, feeling the old fear of being dropped.…
Weakness took her legs, her arms. “What are you doing,” she whispered, close to his ear. A lock of his hair brushed across her lips with a softness that thrilled and frightened her.
He did not answer. The corridor moved by, room after room. The candle diminished to a distant spark. He shouldered open one of the doors.
She gasped as he threw her onto the bed. He stood for a moment by the door, outlined in the faint light, and she thought that he was going to leave. But instead he closed it.
Scream, Betts, a part of her thought desperately. Her mind was a tornado. Scream. But who would come if she did?
More of his men.
There was one last moment of doubt, later, in the darkness. A last surge of terror. But it passed. She made it pass, she let it go, said nothing, lay quiet. She was two minds, mind and body, mind that spun confused in the dark, body that lay quivering and silent. She did not know what to do. And then, it was too late for knowledge.
It is for Nan, she thought at that last moment. For Moira. For all of us. But she no longer was sure whether it was only her mind whispering to her, justifying her, telling her that since she only did what was right, whatever she did was right.
And after that she did not think anymore. She put up her arms, and felt the smoothness of his hair.
I hate you.
And outside, from the night, came unheard to both of them the rumble of the guns, the roar of the wind.
VI
THE ASSAULT
27
U.S.S. Spiegel Grove
Three A.M., after the gear check and map familiarization that had occupied the mortar squad till 0100, was bleary as a hangover. Givens lay half-asleep, sprawled on a nest of life preservers in a small compartment just forward of the helicopter deck.
“Got all your mortar team shit?” the Top was saying to Silkworth. The two noncoms glanced over the piles of equipment, ammunition, and weapons. Will saw the special intensity as they checked out the dozing troops.
“Looks like about a helo full, don’t it?” said Silkworth, grinning at the older man.
“No jokes, Silky. You got it all, or not?”
“Yeah, Mick, I got it,” said the sergeant quietly. “Can I send them up to breakfast now?”
“Soon as you’ve made muster and checked equipment, head them up. But leave a gear watch.”
“Goddamned right I will,” muttered Silkworth, to nobody in particular, since the Top had left already, hustling himself along to the next station. “Liebo! Pry your eyes open. Keep an eye on all this crap, specially the forty-fives.”
“Why me all the time? I just got to sleep.”
Silkworth ignored him, turned to the others. “Rest of you, go on up to chow. No grab-assing or fuckin’ off. Get your butts back here by zero-three-thirty or I’ll kick ’em back for you.”
Givens watched Cutford flash the sergeant the finger, but Silkworth’s back was turned. He closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them the corporal’s perpetual scowl was looming over him. His hands tightened.
“Goin’ to get som’n eat?”
Givens said, “Yeah, Cutford.”
“Surprisin’ me, Oreo. Figured you’d be puking scared by now. You know, in a hour we be hittin’ the beach.”
His mouth was dry, but Cutford was wrong about his not wanting breakfast. He wanted it desperately. He turned away through the hatch, heading for the mess deck.
Spooning up fresh scrambled eggs, nearly a plateful, he blew into a coffee mug so hot it burned his fingers just holding it. The squids in the serving line acted different this morning. They ladled the food with anxious, ingratiating smiles. Nice of them to care, now that we’re leaving, he thought vaguely, sipping at the cooled edge of the cup. He stared at the Formica tabletop, as if in its random maculation he could read what this day would bring. But he was not thinking about himself.
Not yet. Instead he found himself thinking about other days, other men.
About other landings. North Africa, Iwo, Normandy, Inchon. The names you learned in boot camp. The men on those gray ships, had they looked as young, eaten in the same strained quiet as the marines around him, boys of eighteen and twenty bending shaved heads low over their plates, eyes far-focused? Had they felt the same as he did now? No matter that a dozen of his mates crowded hip to hip at the same table. Each ate alone.
They were going in. And this was where the real waiting began. It was internal, a preparation of the soul. This was the point when it became not a matter of the mass, the team, even for men who worked and drilled as a team. But of the individual.
Will Givens finished his eggs and started on the hash. A squid messman, younger, skinnier, and blotchier than Washman even, rattled down a platter of buttered toast. He did not thank him. It took several seconds before he even noticed it. He finished the hash, crunched half a piece of toast in a still-dry mouth, drained his mug to the bottom, and shoved back his plate. Before he could get up
, though, the sailor was there, reaching for it.
“Want more, Marine?”
“Huh?”
“Y’all had enough, buddy? Can I get you something else?”
“No. No, thanks.” He stared after the messman, uncomfortable; his politeness had just the flavor of a warden serving a final meal.
“You finished, Will?” said Silkworth, breaking into his bemusement.
“Uh, yeah, Sarge. Just leaving.”
“Take your time. Have another moka joe. Just got word: movement’s delayed.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Don’t know. That’s the word, that’s all they tell me. Go on, have another cup.”
He muttered thanks and sat down again. He did not want more coffee, but he took some anyway. Delayed … he was not sure whether to be glad or not. Maybe if it was delayed enough they wouldn’t go in. But then if it was delayed too much, and they still went, they would be landing in broad daylight. He was afraid even to be annoyed at the extension of the wait. Afraid because at least now, right now, he was warm, he was alive, he was safe. And in a few hours, he might wish with all his might to be back aboard the old Spiegel, drinking hot joe.
The messman came by and filled his cup again. Just this once, he thought, sipping, why not forget it. Don’t worry, don’t even have an opinion. It’s too far beyond you to affect, too far even for you to understand. Did anyone at all understand what was going on? Here, aboard the ships, ashore? He doubted it.
He waited.
* * *
Helmet tipped over his eyes, blanket roll and pack strapped to his back, flak jacket hunched forward on his chest, he lay later on a pile of green lifejackets and brown cases of c-rats, staring at his book. In the diagram electrons were shown charging one side of a condenser, while on the other the little crosses of positive charges piled up, row on row.
The holding station for helo embark was twenty feet long, six feet high, and no more than eight feet deep. Into this less than one thousand cubic feet had been crammed an entire planeload, thirty men and all their gear. Wash-man and Hernandez lay almost indecently nestled, save that they were turned away from each other, on a stack of packs, Washman with his eyes closed and Hernandez with his open, but both looking equally remote. Harner sat apart from them, chain-smoking Marlboros. Liebo’s face hovered over a tattered paperback; the title was visible; it was School Mistress. The others in the compartment were grunts, the three rifle squads. Their landing team was forty strong, the capacity of one of the helicopters. And that one plane would hit with eighteen, twenty other choppers. They wouldn’t be going in alone. That was one of the things the crowding of them all into that small compartment meant. It was reassuring, a reinforcement as well as a preparation for the even more cramped space inside the fuselage of a helo.
Cutford and Silkworth sat near the door, together yet apart, and sitting that way too, as if their noncomness set them together and the other thing set them apart, and right now both these things were working and so they did not know how to sit. From time to time the sergeant turned his wrist to bring the face of a black twenty-four-hour combat watch into view. The compartment was silent, closed off, filled with men and then sealed, like a jar. And all they could do, inside the invisible glass that walled each one of them off from the others, was wait.
“Time you got,” Givens heard Cutford grunt.
“Five ten.”
“When they gonna move their fat asses? Said we was gonna move out at four.”
Silkworth said something too low for the others to hear, and Cutford grunted appreciation.
He felt his stomach move uneasily and forced his attention back to the book. Maybe the jitters, like seasickness, would back off from you if you ignored it. Let’s see … the voltage from the battery built up a kind of pressure. It squeezed the electrons into the plates kind of like air blowing up a tire. He could see that. The higher pressure pump you had, the more air you could get in the tire. Then you sealed the tire up, and then when you needed the electrons they were there to do the work for you.
He yawned hugely, unexpectedly, and lost the page. Damn, he was sleepy. He looked over at Washman, yawned again, and was considering catching a couple of Zs himself when the outer hatch banged open, bringing in a blast of night air and the roar of descending helicopters.
It was the captain, in battle dress and light pack, the anodized railroad tracks of rank black in the instantly red light of the compartment. Suddenly everyone was awake. Silkworth jumped up, looking at him expectantly. The captain’s mouth opened, but the turbines were too loud. The men stared at him blankly. He glanced over his shoulder, then half-shut the hatch. “You men—get ready to go.”
“Now, sir?”
But the captain was gone, the hatch clanging steel-hollow behind his back. Silkworth turned, motioning impatiently. “You heard him. Get that gear buckled up. Liebo—where the fuck’s Dippy?”
“I’m back here.”
“Get that helmet on, damn it. Gear check! On your feet.” As they scrambled up, their legs tangling in straps and slings, he moved through them, tightening buckles, slapping their helmets for fit. He pulled a cammie stick from his pocket and smeared more of the smelly paint under Washman’s staring eyes. “Washout. You feelin’ okay?”
“Sure, Sarge.”
“No butterflies? No whimping out?”
“No sweat, Sarge.” The Washout straightened thin shoulders. “I’m, uh, up for it.”
“Good.” Silkworth slapped his arm and moved on. “Givens? This is it. You ready?”
Ready. Was he? This was the moment marines were supposed to live for. The moment they had screamed after at boot camp, simulated so many times on the bayonet course, the grenade range, Combat Town; the assault tactics at Geiger and LeJeune, practice landings here in the Med. This might be it for any of them. Nobody knew what waited for him ashore. His hand slid sideways to brush the reassuring steel of the mortar tube.
“Answer up, Private.”
It didn’t matter a bit. Ready or not, he was going. “Yes, Sergeant, I’m ready.”
“Got pins?”
“What?”
“Here.” Silkworth pulled small objects from an unbuttoned blouse pocket, counted three of them out into his hand, and turned his head sideways. “See these in my helmet cover? Spares for the shells. If you get antsy, drop the pin for a round, you got one handy to safe it with.”
“Thanks, Silky. That’s a good idea.”
The men stood waiting in the compartment, swaying to the roll, glancing down to where each had organized his gear in the same way. You griped about the manual, Will thought, but when you were doing things for real, the Corps way was best. The compartment smelled of sweat and greasepaint and gun oil, and they took in the smells in short hard breaths as the minutes ebbed by, slow as time flows as you lie waiting, anticipating, when a woman has promised herself and then left to make the preparations.
“What the fuck,” said Hernandez at last. “Din’t he say we were going?”
“Sound like it to me,” said Cutford.
“Must’ve been ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes sure,” agreed the corporal, his face like dark stone, embittered, unsurprised by anything they did to him.
“Stand easy,” said Silkworth. He banged open the hatch, lighting the world red, and then disappeared.
“We goin’?” asked Washman.
“Shut up,” said Cutford, looking toward the door.
“Jesus, Cutford—when Hernandez or Givens says somethin’, you don’t tell them to shut up.”
“Shut up, goddammit, or I’ll tear your fucken throat out!”
Silkworth came back. He unslung his rifle and tossed it onto the lifejackets. When he broke the straps on his pack and lowered it to the deck too, the rest of the men began to sag back into their corners, their niches, their nests, again.
“What’s the scoop?” said Cutford.
“Some screw-up … lieutenant says stand easy on s
tation.”
“He tell you how long?”
“Lieutenants don’t tell sergeants how long they gotta wait. Even if they know … ah, fuck it.” Silkworth seemed to give way suddenly, fold inward, not from lack of strength but from disgust at having to justify what officers did to reasonable men. He stretched full length on the deck, so that no one could move between him and the hatch without stepping on him. In a moment he was snoring loudly.
“Hurry up and wait,” muttered Liebo.
“Ain’t we going?” said Washman again. This time no one answered him.
Half an hour later the door banged again. This time it was the Top. He stared around at the sleeping men, then bent to Silkworth and shook him. The sergeant blinked and sat up. The senior sergeant, squatting beside him, whispered rapidly for several minutes. Halfway through he was interrupted by Silkworth’s cursing, but the Top cursed him right back, into silence again, till he was done. When he had finished he stood up, only five-feet-five in combat boots, but still big enough to fill the compartment by himself. “And that’s your orders. Any questions? Gear man’ll be around in a minute.”
“It’s crazy, Top. Fucken crazy. We’re going to need those tubes. There’s fucken Russians ashore here, man.”
“We don’t know what it’s like ashore. They do. And those are orders, and you’re a marine. So get moving.” The Top looked around the compartment once more, then slammed the hatch hard as he left. The men stirred.
“On deck!” bawled Silkworth angrily. “Listen up, listen up! We got to turn our mortars in, and like right now.”
“What the fuck, Silky!”
“What he mean, turn them in?”
“Shit if I do, man!”
He waited out their griping for perhaps three seconds, then bawled louder than all of them put together, “Gaw-damn! You people cry like fifteen monkeys fucken’ a football at how much gear you got to carry, then you don’t want to leave it when you’re ordered to. Give me a troop of palsied old-maid librarians in front of you bastards, at least they’d do what they was told. Shit fire, if they was free blow jobs waitin’ ashore, you’d whine how you had to unbutton your flies. Now break that gear out! Cutford, count it all, make sure we leave every piece of the weapons and every round ’a’ mortar ammo.”