by Tim O'Brien
Still on the red road, now three-quarters of the way to the top, Private First Class Paul Berlin did not have the lieutenant’s advantages of perspective and overview. Marching automatically, he had the single advantage of hard labor. He felt strong. He felt the muscles working in his thighs and stomach. He did not think about the mountains or the coming battle. For a time he did not think about anything—just the effortless coordination of the march. It was easy. And when the time came, when he made the decision, he would simply stop. But for now his legs kept climbing. He watched the road. He saw its color mottled by age and weathering. He watched the unmoving grass. He saw Stink Harris remove a belt of machine-gun ammunition and throw it into the weeds, then walk faster. He saw Cacciato using his rifle as a walking stick, muzzle down. He saw the shiny sweat like polish on the bare backs of Eddie Lazzutti and Pederson and Vaught, and the slow unfolding of events as the platoon moved up, the oddities of men close to the ground and weighted by gravity, foot soldiers with feet hardened, and the red road. Above him, he saw the blond-headed lieutenant standing alone and watching. “If we fight well,” Sidney Martin had said before the march, “fewer men will be killed than if we fight poorly.” Private First Class Paul Berlin had not analyzed that statement, but he knew it was both true and dangerous. He knew he would not fight well. He had no love of mission, no love strong enough to make himself fight well, and, though he wanted now to stop, he was amazed at the way his legs kept moving beneath him. Paul Berlin, who had no desire to confront death until he was old and feeble, and who believed firmly that he could not survive a true battle in the mountains, marched up the road knowing he would not fight well, knowing it certainly, but still climbing, one step then the next, climbing, seeing each thing separately, a wildflower with white blossoms, a pebble rolling, always climbing, as if drawn along by some physical force—inertia or herd affinity or magnetic attraction. He marched up the road with no exercise of will, no desire and no determination, no pride, just legs and lungs, climbing without thought and without will and without purpose. He felt no drama. He felt a curious quiet. He felt he could stop at any moment, whenever the time came, whenever he told himself to quit. Then he decided. It came first as a dreamy, impossible idea, but then it hardened into a firm decision, and he told himself that now was the time. He would stop. He decided it: He would let his knees collapse, go limp all over, just toppling and rolling to whatever spot he came to and not moving again. He would simply fall. He would lie very still and watch the sky and then perhaps sleep, perhaps later dig out the Coke stored in his pack, drink it, then sleep again. All this was decided. But the decision did not reach his legs. The decision was made, but it did not flow down to his legs, which kept climbing the red road. Powerless and powerful, like a boulder in an avalanche, Private First Class Paul Berlin marched toward the mountains without stop or the ability to stop.
Lieutenant Sidney Martin watched him come. He admired the oxen persistence with which the last soldier in the column of thirty-nine marched, thinking that the boy represented so much good—fortitude, discipline, loyalty, self-control, courage, toughness. The greatest gift of God, thought the lieutenant in admiration of Private First Class Paul Berlin’s climb, is freedom of will.
Sidney Martin, not a man of emotion, raised a hand to hail the boy.
But Paul Berlin had no sense of the lieutenant’s sentiment. His eyes were down and he climbed the road dumbly. His steps matched his thoughts. He did not notice the heat, or the beauty of the country, or the lieutenant’s raised hand. If he had noticed, he would not have understood. He was dull of mind, blunt of spirit, numb of history, and struck with wonder that he could not stop climbing the red road toward the mountains.
Twenty-six
Repose on the Road to Paris
The time in Delhi was a good time. Cacciato did not show himself, and, except for a once-a-day stop at police headquarters, they did not waste much time looking. The days were hot. The evenings were warm. Eddie Lazzutti spent the afternoons in an air-conditioned movie theater across from the hotel. Oscar and Stink sampled nua dem houses in the new city, Doc Peret found a kiosk that sold American magazines, and the lieutenant, whose health seemed to be returning, spent his time with Jolly Chand, sometimes going off for day-long trips to the country, sometimes just sitting in the Phoenix courtyard, where they talked in low voices.
Paul Berlin passed the days with Sarkin Aung Wan. In the mornings it often rained, and they would watch the rain from the lobby windows, sitting quietly, then when it stopped they would hold hands and go to the streets. Sometimes they shopped for clothing or jewelry or special facial creams. Sometimes they visited the zoo. Often they walked just to make themselves hungry, then they would eat, and then they would walk again until dinner. When he was with her, having lunch or walking or taking pictures in the old city, he did not think about the war or about Paris. He thought about the depth of the days, and the peace, and how fine it was to worry about where to stop for dinner. On their long walks Sarkin Aung Wan would sometimes talk about life in Cholon. How the district had its own special flavor, like a secret stew, and how her father’s restaurant had once attracted all the important colonels and politicians. And then she would ask about Fort Dodge. Was it a true cattle town? Was it difficult to walk in spurs? He told her, no, it was mostly a corn town, but, yes, many people in Fort Dodge broke their legs and ankles trying to walk with spurs. Next to gunshot wounds, he said, it was the hospital’s biggest business.
Most evenings they played cards in the lobby, then went to his room where they kissed. He pretended they made love.
They talked often of Paris. Sarkin Aung Wan wondered if together they might start a restaurant, or maybe a beautician’s parlor on the Right Bank, where they would give skin care to the city’s richest ladies. Her face brightened at this sort of talk, and it was then that he most liked to touch her. To put his hand on her calf and rub it to feel the smoothness of the skin and the short bristles of black hair at the spots she’d missed shaving. He liked putting the creams on her. All sorts of creams, a whole sack of them: “This one, it replenishes the facial oils,” she’d say, and then she would explain how, after replenishing the oils, it helped close the pores to keep out bacteria. Then she’d laugh and dab some on his nose, and rub it in, and then rub more onto his chin and throat and chest and stomach, asking if he felt the replenishment, and he would say, yes, he felt greatly replenished.
He liked the evenings, and the afternoons, but the mornings were his favorite. He liked looking out at the wet streets and seeing the crowds huddled under awnings and umbrellas and newspapers. He liked waking Sarkin Aung Wan by putting his hand on her neck and then holding it there until she smiled. He liked, other times, watching her sleep like a child with the smells of creams and soap on her body, and liked seeing her stretch and touch the corners of her eyes and do exercises on the floor.
Yes, he liked the mornings most, but he also liked the evenings. Jolly Chand served elegant dinners, always with an American staple and good wine and, afterward, plenty of brandy. One evening Doc Peret cooked hamburgers on a grill in the courtyard. Oscar made a bean salad, Stink and Eddie cut watermelon, and Jolly Chand, with great fanfare, produced a half bottle of Hunt’s ketchup. She’d returned from America, she said, with forty-five bottles. This was the last. So everyone cheered her, and the lieutenant proposed several toasts, then after the picnic they sang folk songs and played charades until midnight.
But except for those occasions they saw little of the lieutenant and Jolly Chand. Doc Peret was worried. “Transferred loyalties,” he said. “A case of gross overcompensation. I fear the old coot is gonna screw himself up good over this one.”
Even so, the lieutenant showed signs of recovery. His skin turned tighter and more resilient, his spirits were high, and the dysentery had entirely disappeared. In Jolly Chand’s presence he was subdued. Courtly, a bit awkward, he was always careful to hold the woman’s chair, to attend her empty glass, to laugh or nod or
make clicking noises in appreciation of her chatter about the wonders of America. He began taking care of himself again, dressing well and combing his hair into a neat old-fashioned part. He demanded that the men start showing the same good habits. “Garrison troops,” he said loudly, for Jolly’s ear, “are what make a wartime army.” Twice in one evening he sent Stink upstairs to shave off the beginnings of a mousy moustache.
“A goner,” Doc said one afternoon.
The lieutenant and Jolly Chand were sharing a pitcher of martinis in the garden. The woman’s laughter drifted through the lobby.
“It scares me,” Doc said. “I mean, look, the man’s got certain obligations, right? Can’t drop everything for some painted-up wench who’s playing every angle in sight. Besides, it’s not healthy.”
Paul Berlin shrugged. “Maybe it’s what the doctor ordered. If he—”
“No way.” Doc winced and shook out a cigarette. “You’re looking at the doctor, pal, and I never placed any such order. I tell you, it’s trouble.”
“You think so?”
“Trouble.”
But there was nothing to do about it. The lieutenant was dazzled. One evening when Oscar said they should think about moving on, the old man giggled and took Jolly Chand’s hand and led her away. He showed no interest in looking for Cacciato.
It turned into a waiting strategy. Oscar or Stink would sometimes lead a patrol out to watch the embassy or train station, and for a time they staked out the two major bus depots, but in the end there was no choice but to mark time. The momentum was gone. Restless, feeling a queer disquiet, Paul Berlin spent the davs roaming the city with his camera. He liked the sense of peace, all the color and harmony, but even so he felt an urge to get back on the road. To finish things. Besides, there were times when he was struck with an odd sense of guilt. At night, playing checkers with Sarkin Aung Wan, the whole made-up world seemed to dissolve: too quiet, too serene. A feeling of suspension. What the hell was he doing here? Why? Not guilt, exactly. A need to justify. A sense that someday soon he would be called on to explain things. Why had they left the war? What was the purpose of it? He imagined a courtroom. A judge in a powdered white wig, his own father, all the Fort Dodge townsfolk sitting in solemn-faced rows. He could hear snickers and hoots as the indictments were read. Shame, downcast eyes. He could feel himself sweating as he tried to explain that it wasn’t cowardice or simple desertion. Not exactly. Partly it was Cacciato’s doing. Partly it was mission, partly inertia, partly adventure, partly a way of tracing the possibilities. But it was even more than this. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it had to do with a whole array of things seen and felt and learned on the way to Paris.
He was ready to move on.
Then early one morning Doc Peret showed him the newspaper.
“Cacciato,” Paul Berlin said.
He held the paper up to better light. The photograph was grainy, partly blurred, but it was Cacciato’s happy face. Implausible, he realized. But so what? If not this way, some other way—a bold leap of the mind—just close the eyes and make it happen.
“He’s here, then. In Delhi!”
Doc shrugged. “Look closer. In the background. See there? What’s that look like?”
“This?”
“Right. What is it?”
Paul Berlin studied a large, dark smudge on the photograph. “It’s … I don’t know. A big machine or something.”
“A locomotive,” Doc said. He smiled, folded the newspaper and put it in his pocket. “That’s exactly what it is: a locomotive. That picture was taken last night at the Tapier Station.”
“And?”
“And the train’s headed for Kabul. You can bet old Cacciato’s on board.” Doc smiled again. “So get packed. Haven’t you always wanted to see Afghanistan?”
By noon they were ready.
Stink and Eddie carried the rucksacks down to the lobby while Oscar went out to hail a cab. The hotel was very quiet. Out in the garden, the lieutenant and Jolly Chand sat together in a wicker swing. They were drinking cognac.
“Time, sir,” Doc said. He tapped his wristwatch.
The lieutenant smiled. With one foot he pushed the swing back and forth. There was a moist film on the surfaces of his eyes.
Doc glanced at Paul Berlin, then he gently touched the old man’s shoulder.
“Sir? It’s time—”
“No,” the lieutenant said. The swing made a creaking sound. Sipping his cognac, he looked for a long time at Jolly Chand then shook his head. “All over for me. I’m officially retired.”
“You don’t mean it.”
“Don’t I?”
“No, sir, you don’t.” Doc stopped the swing. “Come on, now, we got twenty minutes to make the train. No more nonsense.”
Lieutenant Corson laughed bitterly. “Nonsense!”
“Come on—”
“Nonsense!” The old man stood up and refilled his glass and drank quickly. His face was red. “I’m telling you, it’s finished. Not another step. Wasn’t my war anyway.”
“The war’s over, sir.”
“Ha!”
“It’s over,” Doc said, “but we still need you.”
The lieutenant waved his glass. “Cut the dumbness, Doc. Just cut it. The war’s not over. We left the bloody war—walked away, ran. Understand that? No more crap about duty and mission. I’m out of it.”
“We need you,” Doc said. “We do, we need you.”
Paul Berlin nodded and tried hard to smile. He watched as the lieutenant sat on the swing and draped an arm around Jolly Chand’s shoulder. She smiled meaninglessly.
Shaking his head, the lieutenant gazed into his cognac. “You need me? The way you needed Sidney Martin?”
Paul Berlin felt a dullness behind his eyes. He remembered Lake Country—the deep craters and tunnels, the rain, the sad thing that happened to Sidney Martin.
“No,” the lieutenant sighed, “you don’t need me. Never did. Maybe I’m dumb. Behind the times. But, by God, I don’t understand you guys. No heart, no respect. The whole business, I don’t understand any of it.” He looked again at Jolly Chand. “So this is where I get off. Old soldier bids farewell.”
“What about Cacciato? We can’t—”
“Mercy.”
Doc started to say something but stopped and shrugged.
“That’s it, sir?”
“That’s it. Make your way, Rodneys. Send me a card from Paree.”
They were quiet a moment. Then Doc reached out to shake hands. Paul Berlin’s eyes ached. He blinked and tried to speak but couldn’t.
There were no more words. The lieutenant clapped Paul Berlin’s arm, held it briefly, then looked away. It was over. As they left the garden there was only the sound of the creaking swing.
Inside, Doc explained it to the others.
“A pity,” he said. “A sick, sick man. A genuine pity.”
Oscar Johnson shrugged. He removed his sunglasses and polished them and clipped them to his pocket. He was still grinning.
“What’s the joke?”
“Wounded,” Oscar said.
“What?”
“Wounded. The ol’ man, he’s among the walkin’ wounded, right?”
Doc looked up. Then he smiled.
“Got the picture?” Oscar said. “You don’ never leave your wounded behind. It ain’t done.”
When it was dark they slipped into the garden. Jolly Chand was gone. The lieutenant slept deeply, his head on an iron table. The cognac bottle was empty. Oscar and Eddie took the legs. Stink and Paul Berlin took the arms. Doc Peret opened doors. They loaded the old man into a cab, gave the driver fifty rupees, and told him to make haste.
Twenty-seven
Flights of Imagination
It was a newer, faster train. The coach was theirs alone. They rolled out the ponchos and slept in the seats and aisles, fine sleeping, the windows down and the fast rush of night air and the smell of coal smoke and the feeling of motion again, f
ast motion, fast through level country good for speed, then graceful dark valleys, then climbing into higher, colder country, into mountains, through Punjab and Peshawar and Kabul, and beyond Kabul. The sun rose. The mountains turned red, then white, then many colors mixed together. And the train kept climbing.
There was snow in the mountains. Cliffs of snow. The lieutenant rubbed his eyes and gazed at the snow and shook his head savagely.
“Where?” he kept asking. “Where the hell am I?”
The old man threw off the poncho, tapped out a Pall Mall, lit it, and asked again, “Where am I?” Then he sighed. He smoked his cigarette and stared out at the rushing plateaus, bleak windy November country. The mountains in the distance were capped with snow, and the snow looked permanent, and the wind was high and spacefilling.
“Kidnapped,” the lieutenant said. “That’s where.”
Flee, fly, flew, fled … down the high country, and up, rushing fast through snow flurries that hid the tracks. Mountains rose sharp out of the valleys, powerful old mountains that caught the snow and held it.