"I know it," said Patty.
Frank took a sip of Johnnie Walker. "Yeah. Thinking about that day sweats the alcohol right out of me. Donner, that poor, fat, son of a bitch.” He leaned back and kicked his feet up against the desk.
"It was his first mission, and we marched all day in that stinking heat. When we'd take a break, he'd just fall down with his pack on and pant for five minutes before he could even take a sip of water. In the early afternoon, one of the old-timers, a guy we used to call Blade 'cause he was so thin, started helping him because Donner looked like he just couldn't make it on his own. Thinking back, I'm glad it was Blade, good guy that he was, instead of me. He was always helping new guys, taking care of them like stray dogs. When we'd break, he'd take Donner's pack off, get him comfortable, and even give him extra water from his own canteen.” Frank paused. "It's funny I can remember it so well."
"Sure," said Patty. "There are missions like that for me, too."
"When we were walking and there was little hills and dikes, he'd grab Donner's arm and help him up. You know. 'We'll make it together, good buddy' and all that shit."
Frank shook his head.
"It was late afternoon. Oh, maybe just an hour before sunset and the end of the day's march. It was that pretty, peaceful time when the sun has stopped blasting the ground, and the browns and greens of the villages and wood lines come out. We came to a steep dike. Old Blade and Donner were just in front of me so I saw everything. Blade stepped up, turned around, grabbed the barrel of Donner's rifle, and pulled. Donner had forgotten to flick the safety on his rifle and was holding it by the trigger. You know, the inexperience of a new guy. Anyway, it went off just like that, and the bullet chopped a little hole in Blade's chest going in and left a hole big enough for your fist coming out. You'd have thought Blade would've fallen right over but, no, looking kind of surprised and glassy eyed, he just hung on the top of the dike for a bit and then fell over on his back. It took two hours for him to die, and afterward we couldn't get his eyes to stay closed."
"What about Donner?" said Patty.
"He crawled up on the dike and stood there, just staring down at Blade and smiling the whole two hours."
"Smiling?"
"Yeah, smiling."
"What'd everybody say?" said Patty.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"There wasn't nothing to say. It happened, that's all.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Why don't you get back to your letter. I'm gonna drink a bit."
The room was quiet. Patty began to type.
"You know," said Frank. "I love the sound of that typewriter. It's reassuring.” He paused and listened to the clack of the typewriter. "Anyway, Donner refused to go out on any more missions, so the C.O. made him a supply clerk."
Patty nodded.
Frank took a long, slow drink.
The sensual touch of the typewriter lifted Patty out of the grip of death into the thoughts of tenderness and love and home, and the tension of the talk slipped away. Tat-a-tat-tat, the typewriter muttered. Patty was comfortable when the screen door banged shut. He jumped up expecting to see the lieutenant and found himself staring at Donner.
"At ease, buster," said Donner.
"Hi ya, Donner," said Patty, sitting down and affecting ease.
"What you know, shmo," laughed Frank as he handed over the bottle.
Donner took a swig and walked behind Patty. Patty had to force himself not to move, to keep his back against the chair and not turn his head. He heard Donner breathing behind him and pictured the bottle in his hand.
Donner leaned over Patty's shoulder and read the letter in the typewriter. "Dear Janet," he mimicked. "Writing a letter on company time.” He put his hand on Patty's shoulder. "What would the main man say?"
Patty scowled in silence.
"I don't hear you. What would he say?"
"Lay off, will you," said Patty.
Frank sat there, still, observing.
"Why don't you read the letter," said Donner.
Every muscle was taut, shaking, but Patty didn't move.
"Okay. I'll read it," said Donner. He pulled it from the typewriter.
Frank smiled up at Donner. "Return the paper, man."
"I'm just playing, Frank," said Donner.
"Let him read it," said Patty.
Frank leaned back in his chair and frowned.
"Okay?" said Donner.
"Yeah, since you're only playing," said Patty.
"'Dear Janet'" Donner read. "'I'm on C.Q. with no news to report, preparing to spend just another numbered night away from everything that has meaning and beauty for me. Sometimes I think this nightmare will never end, and I'll never return to your arms, that I'll end up stretched on a dike with a bullet in my chest and a question in my eyes. Your letters, your thoughts, and visions of you have kept me alive, in contact with reality these many months. All is not ugliness here. Sometimes I look at the stars shining above me and have a vision of you bringing light into the dark, sinful ugliness that is me. And sometime I look at men here that I should love but am afraid to love, afraid to risk letting their impending deaths touch me. If only I could learn to be worthy of your love, to frown when I mean a frown, to let myself be touched, I . . '"
Donner put the letter and the bottle on the desk. "That's enough," he said. "I shouldn't be reading your letter."
In three steps he was at the door. It clicked shut behind him. The letter slid off the desk and wafted slowly to the floor. Patty picked it up. There was a dark smudge on the right side where Donner's hand had been.
Frank got up. "He didn't have the right to read it."
"Yeah," said Patty.
"You should've decked him."
"Yeah," said Patty.
Frank picked up his bottle and stalked off into the night. The door slammed behind him with a bang.
Patty spit across the room into the waste can. "Two points," he muttered.
CHAPTER 6: WEED
The sky was a high blue vault drifted with scattered cumulus clouds. A hot morning sun lit every shadow. In the glare, Charlie Company walked out toward the bare perimeter of the base. They walked behind long morning shadows over baked, brown land stripped of every blade of grass.
Patty walked easily beside Frank. "I'm glad they defoliated this place," he said. "It makes it safe for us. Charlie's got a hell of a shot to even reach the bunkers from the woods."
Frank wiped sweat from his forehead. "It makes it hot."
"Yeah, and it's only morning," said Patty.
Mac stepped between them. "This a private talk, or can anybody join?"
"What you know?" said Frank.
"It's hot as hell," said Patty. "That's what I know."
"I know something," said Mac. "This perimeter duty is going to be sweet sugar."
"No lie," said Patty.
"Man," said Mac, pointing at the sky, "It's such a pretty day, I could float right out of this war – like a baby on clouds of cotton candy."
"Don't get carried away," said Frank.
"Not me," said Mac. He pulled a little transistor radio out of his shirt pocket and flicked it on.
Lieutenant Henders of Bravo Company came to meet them. "You're late," he snapped.
Sergeant Holt tapped his forehead in salute. "Captain Madison sends his best."
"It's about time. We thought you men were never coming," said the lieutenant.
"Always glad to be of service," said Holt sarcastically. He brushed past Henders and into the shade of the command bunker. His voice echoed in the bunker. "Bug off, Bravo. Charlie's taking over."
Holt was the new sergeant. It had taken a while to get somebody because Frank wouldn't take the job. Holt was okay. He'd been a star basketball player at Arizona State, but he’d dropped out in his second year. They said he couldn't take the pressure, but he was nice and easy with his men.
Bravo Company took off, and the men of Charlie Company spread out around the bunkers. The peri
meter was a six foot high sand bagged wall with bunkers spaced every hundred yards. Each bunker was a sand-bagged room built level with the wall.
Patty, Frank, and Mac led the way in through the low, door-shaped opening. The room smelled musky with a heavy clay scent. Light filtered in from three one-foot view holes. Frank and Patty leaned their rifles into the left and right view holes. Mac moved like a shadow. He dropped his M-60 machine gun on the dirt and stretched out its forelegs so it stood by itself, with the muzzle neatly in a peek hole. Patty lay down on his back and felt the cool damp of the ground through his shirt. Frank and Mac lay down beside him. Mac flipped up his radio. As the rest of the squad came in, a disc jockey's voice whined in a high echo. "Now, as a special surprise for all you soldiers out there in Cong land, we're going to play the Beetles’ new album, the fabulous Sergeant Pepper."
"Jesus, do we have to listen to that," said Baker.
"Bet your sweet ass," said Mac. "If I got to listen to it, so do you. Either that or leave."
"Come on, Leigh," said Baker. "Let's take off our shirts and get some sun.” They unbuttoned their shirts as they ducked out the door.
". . . We're Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. We hope you will enjoy the show. . . "
"Hey, Mac," said Camp, "Lower it. I want to write a letter."
"For you, Doc, the world," said Mac. He lowered the volume. The Beetles came through soft and distorted.
Lonely Hearts Club, thought Patty. He glanced around the shady room and closed his eyes.
"Hey, Patty, you ain't going to sleep now, are you?" said Mac.
"Like a little baby," said Patty, adjusting his arms behind his head.
The radio hummed softly, "I get high with a little help from my friends. Oh, I'm going to try with a little help from my friends."
Patty started to drift off while Mac and Frank talked.
"You guys are crazy," said Camp sharply, looking up from his letter-writing. "Anybody who makes friends here is a fool."
Lonely Hearts Club. The words revolved slowly in Patty's head. He pictured a little woman with glasses, a long gray dress, and an angularity in her movements. She took mincing steps as if to protect herself. Innocence. Patty felt sad as he fell asleep.
Hours later, Mac shook his shoulder. "Hey, Patty, you going to sleep all day?"
Patty stretched. "What's up?"
"Nothing. It's lunch-time. Come on. They just brought out chow from the mess hall.” Mac ducked through the door hole and was gone.
Who needs it, mumbled Patty to himself. He shook himself, wiped sand from his eyes, and crawled out of the bunker. The sun was blinding. A shiver of cold ran down his back from having lain so long on the dirt floor. He stretched, and in a moment, the hot midday sun warmed him. He took a tray and got in line. The cook poured hot beef stew, chunks of potatoes and meat in a light brown gravy on his plate. Steam rose. Patty sat down cross-legged and ate.
The chirp of birds carried from the woods. A couple of guys tossed a softball. Italy dealt poker cards and a steady patter. Hoskins and a couple of his cronies from the second squad sat down by Frank and Mac and started to talk.
"Hey, Patty," yelled Hoskins. "Come on over. Us Irish from the east got to stick together. No offense, Mac.” He giggled.
"I'm from the east too," drawled Mac. He turned and called Patty. "Come on. We got something for you."
Patty went over and sat down. Hoskins grinned at him. "Now isn't this the prettiest sky you ever seen."
"It's the same every day," said Patty.
"Think so?” Hoskins squinted at Patty and shook his head easily.
Patty eyed him. "Hey, Hoskins, what's with you?"
"Shit.” He giggled.
"He means weed," said Mac as he uncupped his hand to reveal a joint almost as fat as a cigar. "Here, take a toke.” He handed Patty the joint.
Patty took a quick puff and handed it to Frank.
"Not like that, man," said Mac. "You got to catch up. We been at it all day.” He laughed. "It's like a song. Brother, you take it in deep, and you hold it there until you're turning blue, or, in my case, turning white. And then you let it out 'cause you don't want to turn blue, just like I don't want to turn white, although a little green's okay. Now, watch me.” Frank passed him the joint.
He took a deep pull and closed his eyes. In about a half a minute, he puffed a little smoke ring above his head. "Like that, brother."
He handed the joint back to Patty.
Patty took a hard pull and gagged. He coughed and sputtered out the smoke. "I never smoked cigarettes," Patty apologized. "I'll learn."
"He needs a shotgun," said Hoskins.
"What's that?" said Patty.
"Tell him, my main man," said Mac.
"An instant stone," said Hoskins.
"Come on, brother, stay cool," said Mac. "It's kind of like kissing with a mouth full of smoke. Like the Army manual says, artificial resuscitation for the dude who's in shock."
He went over and leaned down to Patty. "Now Patty, you let all the air out of your lungs, then just breathe in as I blow smoke. Think of it like hanging on to a woman's tongue."
Rob walked over. "Mac, you ain't going to shotgun that white boy?"
"Yeah. What's it to you."
"That honkie . . ."
"Listen, shit. He's out on a mission with me while you're hiding in sick bay or the laundry."
Rob turned and walked away.
Mac leaned over Patty "Let it go, brother."
Patty breathed out, then breathed in deeply as Mac puffed and blew smoke down his throat.
"Do him, Mac," said Hoskins. "Get him good, boy. Come on, Patty, suck. More.” Hoskins beat the ground. "Way to go. Way to go."
Patty closed his eyes. His lungs felt full and raspy. He choked back a cough and held his breath. When he opened his eyes, the sky spun. He focused on the circle of men, on Frank's face.
"Welcome to the club, veteran," said Frank.
"Give me five," said Mac. They slapped hands, and Mac sat down.
They passed the joint around the circle a couple times. It went out, and somebody relit it with slow graceful motions. Hoskins lit up another one. The burning points moved around the circle making strange orange trails in the air. The Beatles sang in Patty's head, ". . . Lucy in disguise with diamonds . . .” Patty sang along, but nobody noticed. His secret singing was funny so he laughed, but nobody heard.
Frank spoke to Patty. His voice sounded far away in a tunnel. "Man, it's senseless, that's what it is. Crazy and senseless," said Frank.
"Will you look at that sky," interrupted Hoskins. "Look at the sun, like a big glittery diamond."
"Shut up," said Frank. "Everybody just shut up 'cause I'm explaining something to Patty. Patty, how did you get over here? You're not stupid."
"Well, I . . . ."
"Don't tell me. I don't need to know. Nobody's stupid, just stretched out stiff like an old dead tree on its side. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I'm scared of dying. Nobody even has to tell me why when the red blood and the green uniform, and the white face and the crew cut make a pretty pattern on the ground."
"Hey, man . . . ." said Hoskins.
"Shut up. You're not from this squad, and you don't know nothing. Patty and me know each other. We're both bastards.” He gazed into Patty's face. "Patty, I hate the power, the thrill of it, when everybody's shaking, to be cool with life and death in my hands. Why didn't anybody explain it?"
He smacked his fist on his knee and stared at Patty. His jaws were tight, teeth clenched.
"Patty, goddamn it, why didn't somebody warn us about when you're up and he's down, and you won and he lost. How do you fight the thrill of being God, of having life and death in your fingertips? We going to go home and kill people for fun."
Patty sat there silent, his hand tapping a rhythm on his shoe.
"Patty, I could kick shit out of you. Answer me."
"What do I know?” Patty closed his eyes and smiled. "Going to try
with a little help from my friends," sang Patty softly.
"I've seen it in your eyes," said Frank. "You know it. Damn it, answer me.” Frank grabbed Patty's shoulder and shook him.
"Let go," said Patty angrily.
Frank loosened his grip.
"Sure," said Patty. "I know the feeling. What of it? Everybody's got it."
"No they don't. They're too busy being scared to notice when it comes up. I've watched. Only you and me, Patsin. We can taste it 'cause we're not scared of the bullets."
"I'm scared of dying."
"Not scared enough," said Frank. "I don't like to kill, man. It does something to your inside."
"Who cares," snarled Patty. "When you touch my shoulder, it does something too. Who gives a damn? I tasted it all my life. I had a buddy, Lenny, back in Philly. He saved my life once in a knife fight. They gave him the electric chair a couple years ago.” Patty looked at Frank. "He stole an apple in a grocery store when he was ten. A cop took him into the back room and took off his shirt. The cop hit him in the belly with his club and kept on hitting him. Every time the cop asked if he'd ever do it again, Lenny spit blood on him. I carried him home. My family moved out of that neighborhood, and I never went back. Don't tell me about the taste, man. All I got to do is close my eyes and picture that fat dark belly."
"And when your eyes are open?" said Frank.
"I gotta picture of Janet to look at. And I know where my bread's buttered. We're going to make babies when I go home, a whole lot of little, fucking babies, and nobody's going to touch them."
"Yeah," said Frank.
"Yeah, 'cause I'm paying the price right now in this stinking hole."
"When I touch one of the whores in town, I want to break her in two, tear something like out of her guts," said Frank.
"Don't get sentimental," snapped Patty. "I been here too long for tears."
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