by Andre Dubus
On his way there he approached the dispensary passageway, turned into it, and knocked loudly on the door marked Medical Officer. Then he pushed it open, slamming against a desk, and two chief petty officers turned from the coffee percolator but he did not see them: across the room Doc Butler sat behind his desk, and Dan pointed his swagger stick at him:
“If I sign a statement that I’m a habitual masturbator, will it ruin your Goddamn career?”
He stepped in far enough to grab the doorknob, watching Butler’s surprise changing to embarrassment, not anger; then he left, slamming the door.
Tolleson was waiting on the sponson deck; the sea was calm and blue again, and Dan wished he could wave his swagger stick, changing blue to grey and black, lapping waves to water crashing against the hull. They saluted, then stood by the guardrail while Dan told him about Freeman, the changed decision of the board, his letter of reprimand, unsatisfactory fitness report, and transfer.
“Sir, if I went berserk and shot that Goddamn Captain, how many years would I get?”
“About what Hahn will get, if it was him and they find him guilty: ten years.”
“Well sir, I’d be forty-eight then—it might be worth it.”
Dan was thinking that in ten years he would be thirty- five; by that time you were supposed to be a major, a year or so from lieutenant-colonelcy and the command of a battalion. For a while he was quiet. He could think of nothing he wanted in ten years except to be a major, an executive officer of an infantry battalion.
“How are the troops?” he said.
“Confused, sir. I ain’t passed much word ’cause I can’t keep up with it.”
“Get them together in the classroom, and I’ll talk to them. In about fifteen minutes. First I want to tell Mr. Price about Freeman.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Alex was not in his room. His office was somewhere in the island, and to find it would take more time than Dan felt he had, so he phoned from Alex’s room. He spoke quickly, only slowing down when he realized he was delivering pain so fast that Alex could not vocally react to it. When Alex asked him to go to the wardroom for coffee so they could talk about his statement to the Commandant, Dan said it would have to be later because right now he had to meet with the troops.
“They need drawing together,” he said. “I’ve been so fouled up lately that I forgot about them.”
He left Alex’s room, turning into a passageway that went by the Gunnery Office, and thought of stopping to tell the Gun Boss that an innocent boy was dying in Iwakuni. But it was a fleeting thought, as if only from habit, and he kept on to where he was going: the troops.
They came to attention, rows of them standing in front of benches; he paused at the foot of the ladder, behind them: their shoulders and backs were straight, some wearing pressed tropicals for guard duty, others in starched green utilities; all had crew cuts, the backs of their heads nearly shaved. He moved around to their front, stepping past Tolleson who stood at the rear, and told them to sit down.
“The smoking lamp is lit,” he said.
About three-quarters of them reached into socks or utility shirt pockets for cigarettes. His swagger stick in one fist, he put both hands on his hips. Looking at their faces he saw them walking out of the Chosin Reservoir, pinned down in the surf at Tarawa, holding at Guadalcanal, fighting their way inland at Iwo Jima; he thought of them wearing bowl-shaped helmets and overcoats in Belleau Wood, saw them marching past the reviewing stand at his retirement parade, none of them knowing how each marching step pulled at his heart, while gold bugles and scarlet drums glittered in the sun—
“First of all,” he said, “some information. Pfc McKittrick and Privates Freeman, Hahn, and Jensen appeared before a board of three Naval officers. They were represented by counsel—Mr. Price—” He spoke louder, watching the troops but talking to Tolleson really, showing him the approach he had chosen, the only approach there finally was “—After a long hearing, the board recommended that these four Marines receive Undesirable Discharges.” He lowered his voice. “In the cases of Hahn, Jensen, and McKittrick it was for passive homosexual acts in San Francisco—in other words, they went with queers for money. Keep that in mind if you end up broke on liberty. Also, the incident that occurred here added up against them. Private Freeman was cleared by the ONI of any previous homosexual experiences. However, because of that grab-ass the other night, he was found guilty of lewd and obscene acts. You all know how Captain Schneider, the First Sergeant, and I feel about that particular Marine. We made him an orderly for the Captain of this ship. But the discipline of the Chosin Reservoir is not formed on the football fields of America—“ He paused, regretting an allusion they would not grasp. “—it is formed right here, on this ship, every day. Or on the hills of Camp Pendleton. Or the boondocks at Camp Lejeune. Or whatever duty station where Marines are. What sets us apart from our sister services, and I mean sister—” They glanced at each other, wearing smiles “—is discipline and a brave tradition that goes back to the first young hard- charging Marine who enlisted at Tun’s Tavern in 1775. Those things—discipline and tradition—must be enforced. Even when it seems unfair.”
He looked over their heads at Tolleson, standing with folded arms, his face nearly as interested as theirs.
“We are part of a whole,” he said. “Just like a bolt is part of a rifle—” that disturbed him “—or a shortstop is part of a ball club. And every Marine, every one of the one hundred and seventy-five thousand of us, must carry his load, submit to discipline, enforce traditions, fit smoothly as a part of the whole. Now: back to Freeman. His case was a little different from the others, so as his Acting CO I felt obliged to write the Commandant and recommend that he be retained on active duty. Whether or not he’s cleared is not the main thing. What’s more important is that the regulations we live by are being upheld. As long as—” glancing at Tolleson’s face, quizzical now, he suddenly remembered where Freeman was “—as long as each of us upholds these regulations the Marine Corps will continue to be what it has been and is: the best fighting organization in the world, the organization you joined.”
“There is more about Freeman. Captain Howard received a message this morning stating that he is in the hospital at Iwakuni. He has a fractured skull and his condition is critical. Hahn, Jensen, and McKittrick are being held for investigation at Iwakuni. Freeman was apparently beaten up—” They were turning to each other, or twisting around to look at a friend; some began to whisper.
“You people knock it off,” Tolleson said.
When they were all facing him again, Dan went on:
“I’m as concerned as you are—maybe more—and I’ll let you know as soon as I hear any word.”
But he realized that wasn’t it: few of them were actually concerned. Today and perhaps tomorrow they would go through phases of emotions which they would consider pity or outrage; but most of all they would be interested. Something new had entered their lives, and his timing of the announcement was overshadowing those things he had felt before speaking, those things he had to say.
“Now. Those are the only announcements I have. I wanted to talk to you for another reason too. I want to congratulate you and thank you for a job well done during the air defense exercise. Since I spent my watches on the signal bridge, I wasn’t able to be with you in the gun mount watches. I know it was a long boring duty. Soldiering often is. We wait and we wait and we wait. But that’s part of discipline too. And when the waiting’s over, Marines are ready, just as you were when general quarters sounded this morning. Course we didn’t shoot the planes down—” they started grinning “—but we could have. Or I should say you could have. I suppose there are some sailor officers aboard who have a low opinion of this ship. Because this morning when I hollered sink the son of a bitch, they thought I was referring to the Vanguard—” he smiled back at them “—well, I’ve called this ship a few names now and then, but it happens that this morning I was talking about those A4Dee’s.”
/>
He had them now: they didn’t know whether or not he was telling the truth, but they would believe him anyway; and those who doubted yet still believed him would feel they were in collusion with him, that they were joining him in some victory over the rest of the ship. He leaned forward, his face serious, and waited until their smiles were gone.
“And I’ll tell you something: if the Navy would throw out this obsolete radar and let you Marines fire those guns manually, you’d have shot down some A4D’s.”
He stood erectly again.
“I believe that, because you’re Marines.”
He scanned the faces in the first two rows.
“And it’s your Marine Corps.”
He looked at the next two rows of attentive believing faces.
“You’re the troops: the ones who make the Corps what it is.”
His eyes swept over all of them.
“And I’m glad to be in it with you.”
Before he had taken three steps, Tolleson called them to attention. With his eyes straight ahead, he moved past them and Tolleson, up the ladder.
He did not see Alex until lunch. After the other junior officers had eaten and left, they stayed and drank coffee and talked for a while about Freeman, trying to imagine what had happened; neither Alex nor Dan thought Freeman had actually fought with anyone. They guessed he had been beaten up for telling Doc Butler. Finally it was Alex who mentioned Dan’s statement to the Commandant.
“I can’t think about it till I get word on Freeman,” Dan said. “You’re sure Kellog will tell the truth?”
“No doubt about it. I’ll tell you something else: Commander Craig will too. He won’t lie to an investigating officer.”
“So that leaves Captain Howard.”
“And he’ll have to tell the truth.”
“That’ll be new,” Dan said. “I just hope they don’t bring me back as a witness.”
“Wouldn’t it be worth it?”
“I wouldn’t set foot on this bucket to watch him get stripped of his rank and drummed out. I’ll read your letters about it, in some quiet duty station on land. Wherever that’ll be.”
He was wondering where and what that duty would be when the next message came, in late afternoon. Captain Howard phoned him at the Detachment office and told him Freeman had died. Dan looked at Tolleson, who read his face; then Dan pointed to the classroom and Tolleson nodded and went out. Captain Howard said the ONI had a signed confession from Hahn, saying he had knocked Freeman down a flight of stairs in a Japanese tavern. There would be a general court-martial. Iwakuni would inform Freeman’s parents and arrange for his body to be shipped home. Dan said “Yes, sir” and “Thank you, sir” and hung up.
The troops were waiting on the benches. He only spoke long enough to tell the few details he knew; but even in that short time, Freeman’s name in this throat began to sound dead. As he talked, he watched the troops leaning into his words. Their faces were serious rather than sad. Burns seemed most upset of all: he was staring between his knees at the deck. When Dan said the ONI had a signed confession from Hahn, Burns looked up, his back straightening, his face vengeful, triumphant. One man half-raised a closed fist, thumb pointing up, to a friend. Another elbowed the man beside him, and nodded. There was not one face which did not show at least approval.
“I’m sure you can count on justice,” Dan said, and dismissed them.
In the office he copied Jan’s address from the brig mail log, keeping his back turned to Tolleson; without knowing why, he wanted to be alone. Then he went to Freeman’s bunk. It had been stripped of sheets and blanket; the uncovered pillow lay on the black rubber mattress. The shelf where Jan’s picture had been was empty, the small lockers open, containing nothing save a fresh layer of dust. When he left the berthing area and went up the ladder, he was trying to find a reason, not for Freeman’s death, but for his life. He had hardly begun to live, had been swept along by various forces; and had died, leaving nothing but a nameless child and a girl whose life he had altered.
In his stateroom he phoned Alex; when he heard Alex’s voice he could recall Freeman again as he had been able to before telling the troops of his death. He said “Alex?” his eyes closing on that slender kid who had been cursed with a pretty face and a small penis, and he thought of how Freeman’s heart must have swelled and pumped when Jan looked at him, touched him, wrote him a letter—with his eyes still shut, he said:
“He’s dead, Alex. They killed that Goddamned little boy.”
Then he was crying. He hung up, his head dropping to the desk, his arms folding under his forehead. He saw all of Freeman’s life as he had known it, each memory jerking his body, hurting his throat: when he remembered throwing Freeman against the bulkhead, he moaned. He had done it too, had exposed and used Freeman’s weakness to beat Hahn in the only way he could—but more: in Freeman’s scared eyes there was something he had to deny by attacking it. Yet no one in this world should ever have laid a hand on Freeman. The last time I saw him his cap blew over the side and the sailors laughed. He thought of Jan waiting in California for something to happen, Freeman to find a way to get home, or—when she would be seven months pregnant—for the ship finally to return. She would probably not even go to the funeral, add to its grief her swollen body; she would not have those last hours with his repaired face, would forever be without the finality of ceremony and grave. Then he was thinking of Khristy, and now his tears were for her.
After a long while, realizing he had missed the evening meal, he climbed to the sponson deck. The night was clear and warm. For the second time in a couple of hours he felt that Freeman only existed in the past. Freeman’s involvement in his future was the letter he would write to Jan tonight, and his statement to the Commandant tomorrow. Both finally, by God, the truth. And it was about time. There had been too many days when he had fought with ghosts, all of them lies.
But as he looked down at the black waves, he was reminded of death. No matter what Jan knew or did not know, Ted Freeman was dead. She would have the baby alone, saddened and ashamed; and sometimes, feeding it, she would see Freeman’s face and weep. But there were things in her favor: since she had started loving him, he had been away more than he had been with her. She had waited for letters and his return. Now she only had to stop waiting. A terrible wrenching grief, yes; but she would make it. In a couple of years, or perhaps less, she would remember him as the young boy she had loved, father of the child on whom she would gradually focus that love. Pretty girls married, and certainly she would too, probably claiming the truthful lie of widowhood. While now she loved her past with Freeman and their future together, in time she would love his memory alone.
As he raised his eyes from the water to the clear sky of stars and moon, it occurred to him that there was no reason to make her memories painful. If Freeman had already written her about the Undesirable Discharge, he was helpless to shape her future. But he ought to follow his own course, on the chance that she knew nothing. To add outrage and pity to her grief was senseless: he would write that, while on liberty in Iwakuni, Freeman had—He tapped his swagger stick on the guardrail. Unless she went to the funeral, she would not even know how he died, would be spared the images of Freeman’s beating. He would tell her that Freeman had fallen down a ladder aboard ship. He would write the letter tonight, but would mail it from Iwakuni, several days after Freeman’s body had been sent home. He felt that he was cheating her, for she might have wanted to attend the funeral; but he was certain that this was the best way. To live, she hardly needed the truth.
His orders arrived by message next morning while he was at the barracks. A sailor from the Gunnery Office delivered them and Dan smiled at Tolleson.
“Looks like the Captain and the Gun Boss are using delivery boys now.”
“Maybe they got conscience problems, sir.”
He unfolded the message. It told him to stand immediately detached from the USS Vanguard, to report to the Commanding General, First Marine Ai
r Wing, Iwakuni, for further transportation to the continental United States where he would report, with thirty days delay, to the Commanding General, Second Marine Division, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, for duty in the Second Force Service Regiment. He closed the door and sat down.
“FSR,” he said.
He gave the message to Tolleson.
“Well, sir, I’d say they had a quota to fill just about the time the Lieutenant’s name came up.”
“I’m being shanghaied.”
“I wouldn’t look at it that way, sir.”
“Jesus—FSR isn’t even the Marine Corps.”
“Well, sir, like the Lieutenant was telling the troops, it’s the bolt in that rifle.”
“Come on, First Sergeant: you’ve seen officers get shanghaied before.”
“Yes, sir. This is the first time I’ve seen it happen to a good one, though.”
Dan picked up his swagger stick and sighted down its length.
“Maybe when the Commandant reads the Lieutenant’s statement, he’ll change his mind.”
“I doubt it.”
“I guess that’s right, sir. There ain’t no way in hell to fight city hall.”
Dan stood up, looking at the cut in his swagger stick.
“I don’t suppose anybody carries one of these in the FSR.”
“Probably not, sir.”
“I guess I’ll go pack.”
His letter to Jan was lying on the desk in his stateroom, already stamped and sealed. It was a thick letter, most of it telling her what a good man Freeman had been, on board ship and ashore. He had faked a knowledge of Freeman’s liberty habits, implying what he suspected: that Jan was the last girl Freeman had made love to. He had almost told her he regretted not sending Freeman home when he had the chance; but he decided that, too, would only add to her pain. He put the letter in his overnight bag. He would mail it before leaving Iwakuni, and the whole thing would be over.
Now he saw it clearly: Freeman was indeed finished. If anything, the board’s recommendation for his discharge would be entered in his closed record book. Officially, he had died on active duty.