by Tim O'Brien
“It just happened.”
“No sweat. Come on now, take a swig. Isn’t that vintage stuff?”
The Kool-Aid was warm. The taste was between strawberry and lemon.
“What about Cacciato?”
Doc’s eyes kept roving. He smiled. “It’s over. Tell me if that isn’t the sweetest stuff you ever swallowed.”
The big breakfast fire burned hot. Near the lip of the hill, where the land dropped off sharply to the west, the lieutenant and Eddie Lazzutti were taking turns with the binoculars. They stood knee-deep in the grass, neither of them speaking. Eddie handed the glasses to the lieutenant, who held them to his eyes for a long time, swiveling, scanning the jungle below, then shaking his head.
“Dumbo,” Oscar said. He glanced over at Paul Berlin and shook his head. “I never seen nothin’ like it. Never once.”
Dawn had become morning. Paul Berlin got up. He heard birds in the trees. He stood very still for a moment, feeling the men watching, then he turned away.
He followed the hill’s eastern slope to the place where the grass was matted. He remembered crouching there, poised and waiting for what would happen next. How did it start? A kind of trembling, maybe. He remembered the fear coming, but he did not remember why. Then the shaking feeling. The enormous noise, shaken by his own weapon, the way he’d squeezed to keep it from jerking away from him. Simple folly, that was all.
He picked up the rifle.
Gold cartridges sparkled where they had fallen, strewn in the grass like spilt pennies.
He broke the weapon open, checked the barrel for dirt, then closed it up again. The magazine was empty. Removing it, he replaced it with another from his bandolier, then, very carefully, he pushed the safety switch from automatic to safe.
Farther down the hill he found his pack. It had started there. Dropping the rucksack, lightening himself for the final climb, the last hundred meters. He remembered following Stink up the hill. He remembered the smell of the fire, the sense of something hidden. He remembered the lightness of the rifle. Floating, seeming to float.
He opened the rucksack. Near the bottom he found a fresh pair of trousers. He changed quickly. He rolled up the wet pair, carried them to a clump of bushes, dropped them in, and pressed them down with his boot. He tried to do this with dignity.
What else?
He shouldered the pack and climbed back up the hill.
Later, after Oscar doused the fire, the lieutenant went to the western lip of the hill for a final look. He covered his eyes with one hand, shading them, and he gazed west for a long time. He did not move. When he came back he was smiling. “That’s it,” he said. “Finished.” He winked at Paul Berlin as if to relay some secret.
“We had him,” Stink said.
“Did we?”
“Sure, we had him good.”
“Who knows?” The lieutenant was smiling broadly now. He looked happy. “Maybe so, maybe not.”
“Ready, sir?”
Harold Murphy heaved the big gun to his shoulder.
Doc gathered up the things Cacciato had left behind—some Hershey bars, two signal flares, the dog tags. Oscar strapped Cacciato’s weapon to his pack.
Then, when they were formed up, the lieutenant motioned with his hand and led them away.
It was the march again.
They found the old path and followed it through the morning, backtracking. At dusk they camped at one of the old sites. And in the morning they continued east. They marched hard. It was the old order restored. Stink at point, Oscar at slack, next the lieutenant and Eddie and Harold Murphy, then Doc Peret, then Paul Berlin.
The country was familiar. On the evening of the second day the mountains began falling toward the paddies. Below, the land stretched eastward for many miles, flat and green, ending at the sea.
They came down from the mountains.
The next afternoon they stopped at a hamlet, resting and taking on water, then continued on. It was the war again. They spaced themselves ten meters apart, avoided paths, sent out flank security when it was necessary.
Late that day they were within radio range. The lieutenant made the call. Missing in action, he said. He spelled out Cacciato’s name phonetically, repeated it, his voice calm. He smiled when it was done. Then they were moving again, down from the mountains, through the rough country. The march was easy now.
At suppertime they made camp along a narrow irrigation ditch. They dug their holes and set out the tripflares and prepared for night. In the morning, with luck, they would reach the sea.
Night spread up the ditch and passed over them and rolled toward the mountains.
They talked softly. They talked of rumors. An observation post by the sea, easy duty, a place to swim and get solid tans and fish for red snapper. Later they talked about going home. It would become a war story. People would laugh and shake their heads, nobody would believe a word. Just one more war story. Then Oscar talked about two women he knew, and how, when he got home, he would choose the one who most hated war stories. This made Harold Murphy talk quietly about his wife. The lieutenant did not talk at all.
When full dark came, they moved to their separate holes along the ditch. The stars were out. And soon the moon appeared, very pale at first, but then turning bright as it passed over the mountains.
Paul Berlin slept. There were no dreams. When he awoke he saw that the lieutenant was sitting with him.
Together they kept the guard.
They watched the immense stillness of the paddies, the serenity of things, the moon climbing beyond the mountains. Sometimes it was hard to believe it was a war.
“I guess it’s better this way,” the old man finally said. “There’s worse things can happen. There’s plenty of worse things.”
“True enough, sir.”
“And who knows? He might make it. He might do all right.” The lieutenant’s voice was flat like the land. “Miserable odds, but—”
“But maybe.”
“Yes,” the lieutenant said. “Maybe so.”