Frank laughed. "It's just weed talking."
They sat there quietly, looking at each other. Patty closed his eyes. He felt for the boy in himself and knew that he was gone, leaked through days of bullet holes. And his head sang a song over and over again, ". . . do you need anybody?"
"Hey, Mac, should I roll another joint?" asked Hoskins.
"Not for me, brother," answered Mac. "I had enough."
He pulled his transistor out of his shirt pocket and clicked it on. A tinny voice sang, "American woman, stay away from me . . . ."
"James Brown – all right.” Mac clapped his hands and bobbed his head in time to the tune. He punched Frank. "Dig that tune. Come on, man, clap."
Frank clapped his hands to the music, then Patty and Hoskins picked it up. Mac jumped up and started to swing his hips as the tune ended.
Hoskins jumped up. "Hey, gents, I'm invincible. I'm flying, and Charlie can't touch me. I'm invincible."
"Yeah. We all are," said Frank.
"No man. I mean it. You'll see."
He ran over to the bunker and climbed on to the roof. He stood up there, his arms stretched out, silhouetted by the sun and the blue sky like a fat Jesus Christ.
"Hey, Charlie," he yelled. "You can't kill me now. I'm invincible, just like God. You can't kill me now."
A shot rang out from the wood line.
"Ha, ha," screamed Hoskins, jumping up and down. "I told you. Just like God, you dumb bastards."
Another shot rang out. Hoskins grunted with the impact and tumbled down.
Frank reached him first. He turned over a corpse.
"Just like God," muttered Frank.
"Do you need anybody? I want somebody to love.” The song revolved in Patty's head.
Rob huddled inside the bunker, trembling.
CHAPTER 7: SCARED OF THE DARK
Captain Madison walked into the dark barracks and flicked on the light. He didn't walk through the barracks, shaking beds like the C.Q. usually did. He stood alone and called from the doorway.
“Okay, men. Good mission today. Now's the time, so let's move it. It's the island today. Nothing to worry about.” Madison let go of the light switch and disappeared out the door.
The men grumbled and slowly got up.
Patty shook himself awake, dressed, and gathered his gear for the mission: clean clothes, a shiny rifle, and ammo pouches half-filled with ammo and half-stuffed with books, a camera, and a writing tablet.
It was that kind of mission. No one signed up for sick call. Everybody had waited for this mission for weeks. The old timers often told the new men about 'the island,' the wide open grassy fields, the palm trees, the side sand beach, and the rhythm of the blue water slapping the shore. Last time there, they'd smuggled in a ball and bat and played softball.
Patty was eager. He grabbed his stuff, pressed his helmet to his head, and went outside. He walked ten yards from the barracks, and the dark closed in like a wall. He hated the dark. It was peopled with specters and strange noises. Patty's ammo magazines scraped together. His canteen and rifle jiggled, but they gave him no sense of himself. In the black, even his hand was invisible. Patty stood still and listened. His chest hammered at his throat. Footsteps came toward him. Patty turned to the sound, and somebody bumped into him. He smelled the man's morning breath.
"Hey, buddy, you're blocking the road," said Camp.
"Camp?" said Patty.
"Hey, Patty, what's up? Let's move it. I can't wait to get to that island."
"I can't see nothing," said Patty.
"Stick to me. Your eyes will adjust in a minute. It's about a quarter of a mile to Dock."
"Yeah," said Patty. "I know."
They walked off. Soon they heard the putt-putt of the landing boats and a low hum of voices. The water slapped steadily against the wooden dock. A salt smell hung on a soft breeze, and little white lights bobbed from the boats.
"That you, Camp? Patsin?" said Captain Madison, shining a flashlight in their eyes.
"Right," answered Camp.
"This boat," said Madison as he pointed his light on the rail.
Patty caught the wink of the little light on board and stepped over the rail into the bowels of the boat. He made his way to the back and found a spot beside Mac.
Mac's voice sliced through the night, warm and friendly. "Man, when I get back to the world, I'm going to sleep 'til noon every day."
"Good morning, brother," said Patty. He sat down heavily.
"Morning, hell," said Mac. "In case you ain't seen, it's night time."
In the dim light of the boat lantern, the men were so many shadows pressed together like fish in a cargo hold.
Mac leaned back against the bulkhead. "You know," he said, "Back in the world, I'll be sleeping on pink satin, and if my old lady gets me up just once in the morning, I'll knock her ass on the floor."
"How about breakfast in bed?" asked Patty.
"Lunch, if I'm up."
More men got in. The boat rocked like a cradle.
Patty leaned back and closed his eyes. The dark behind his eyes was like a shrinking black room, the walls, the floor, the ceiling pressing in upon him. Patty opened his eyes.
"Everybody here?" called Madison.
"Who cares," answered Sergeant Holt. "Let's move it."
The motor roared, and the boat took off with a lurch.
"To the island," called Camp.
A dozen men answered. They all talked at once. The boat hummed and bounced on the water. The voices droned with the motor. Slowly, the men fell silent and drifted off to sleep.
Patty dreamed of heroism. He was a strong, silent cowboy who wore a white hat and rode a white horse. In the saloon, a big black dude with a black hat smacked the piano player. Patty dropped him with a right hook. Neat, clean, antiseptic. No bruised knuckles. No black eyes. Patty went up to the bar, plopped down two bits and ordered a scotch.
The guy got up. "My brother and me will be outside waiting," he said.
Patty nodded to the mirror. His mom's worried face stared back at him. "Hal," she said. "You'll take care of yourself, won't you? You won't try to be a hero."
"Sure, mom," he answered. "I'm not stupid."
They hugged goodbye. Patty kissed Janet, turned and walked out of the terminal, on to the cement and over to the big Oakland-bound plane.
He swigged his scotch. The saloon door swung shut behind him. They fired before he even saw them. The warm, white breath of a bullet sank into his stomach.
"I'll get you," Patty grunted. His eyes went watery.
"Who you going to get?" said Mac.
"Huh," Patty said as he rubbed sleep from his eyes.
"Wake up, hero," said Mac. "We're here, and the sun is way up."
Patty looked into Mac's face. "You believe in dreams?"
"That depends," said Mac.
"I just dreamed of a bullet in the gut."
Mac smiled. "I disbelieve that dream. When a guy’s going to pass, there's a shadow in his eyes. You seen it?"
"Yeah.” Patty hesitated. "Do I have it?"
Mac stared at him. "Man, you got nothing but sand.” He slapped Patty's leg and pointed to the silhouette of the island. "Time to make the beach, sandman."
They gathered their gear. The ship lurched against the shore, sand scraping beneath the bow. The front of the ship wound down and sun streamed in.
Mac squeezed Patty's shoulder. "Sweet Jesus," he whistled through his teeth.
"Pretty, isn't it?" said Patty.
Mac nodded.
They waded into the water and up the sand.
"Wow," said Frank. "They never give you missions like this when you're on the boat."
"I claim this island in the name of Charlie Company," yelled Camp as he dropped his gear and slipped off his shirt.
Italy plopped on the sand. "I take this spot in the name of me. Anybody who wants to lose some bread, come on over.” He pulled a deck from his shirt pocket and riffled it.
The
C.O. sent Jimmy and Baby-sahn out to reconnoiter the island, but nobody took any real precautions. It was a big beach party, an in-country R and R. The men stretched out and opened up like flowers who'd finally found the sun. They ate, wrote letters, and skinny-dipped. The weary weight of death melted under the hot sun.
In the early afternoon, Frank pulled out a pink hand-sized football. They chose up sides for a game of touch. The opening throw off spun to Patty, high out of the sun. He bobbled it. Then he had it. He cut left as Frank decked Jimmy. He heard the thud and was gone for a touchdown. Patty turned. Frank was loping up field, smiling.
"Good block," called Patty.
"Good run," answered Frank.
Patty flipped him the ball. Frank nodded, turned, and whipped it toward the enemy goal.
They won by one touchdown. After the game, the men laid down in a sweaty semi-circle. Patty felt Frank's gaze, but when he turned, Frank looked out to sea. A soft breeze blew in and tickled the skin. Patty bunched his shirt behind his neck and watched the sun on the horizon. As it set, he dozed, a quiet empty sleep.
He awoke chilled, his lips chapped and salty. An evening breeze tipped goose bumps. He got up and slipped into his sandy shirt. The grains of sand were like prickly pins against his back. It was twilight, but no early stars were visible. Instead, gray clouds scudded before the wind. Little driftwood supper fires lit the beach. Patty pulled out a can of spaghetti and meatballs from his rucksack, opened it with a P-47, and slipped it into the edge of a nearby fire.
Frank looked up from his food. "Here's a couple sticks to take it out when it's done.” He flipped them on the sand.
Patty squatted down and picked them up. They were sticky. Patty stared at Frank. Frank was lying on his back, chewing slowly, swallowing with a gurgle. His face was in shadow, yet his abstraction was palpable as though his body were out floating over the sea. Patty gazed out at the dark of the ocean.
"Hey, your food is done," said Camp. "That's a hot fire. It doesn't take long."
"Yeah. Thanks."
The sauce was bubbly and red against the fire. Patty hooked the can lid with the sticks and started to pull it out. It tipped a bit and some sauce spilled and sizzled in the fire. The flames shot up and back. Patty pulled the can to safety and squatted over it. The first spoonful was too hot and burned his tongue. He took a swig from his canteen. "May your tongue cleave to the roof of your mouth.” The lines from the Bible flashed and disappeared without recognition or meaning. Patty ate. When he was done, he stood up and heaved the can into the shadows of the ocean. He opened his canteen and drank deeply.
They put out the fires. It was night time.
"Okay, men," called Captain Madison. "Listen up. It's been good fun and games, but now we have to get to work. Any boats you see or hear, remember the size, direction, and time. Report in the morning. Sergeant Holt, you take your squad up the ridge with the bushes.” He pointed to a little hill a couple hundred yards to the far side of the beach. It was barely visible in the descending gloom.
"Two men on, eight off, switch every hour.” The captain barked his orders. They hung in the air with a shrill ring as the men walked off.
The hill was nothing special, a palm tree and low scrub brush growing in sand and shadows. The men dropped their stuff at the foot of the hill. Holt divided up the watches. Leigh and Baker had first watch, Frank and Patty were second.
"Don't get lost, Frank," said Baker. "We'll be coming for you in an hour, and I don't want to have to look for you in the dark."
"Where do you think I'd go?" answered Frank.
Leigh and Baker walked off up the hill. Patty listened for their footsteps, but the sand silenced them in a few seconds.
"What do they want to guard this thing for anyway?" said Mac.
"It's Fort Knox in drag," responded Camp.
"Brother, I could use some of that gold," said Mac.
"Man, it gets dark here in a hurry, don't it?" said Italy.
The talk meandered on. Patty lay back and watched his hand disappear into the dark.
By the time Leigh and Baker came back, the talk had ceased. The dark was total.
"Hey, where are you, you lazy bastards?” Baker hissed in a heavy undertone.
"Cool it," answered Frank.
"Well, make it. It's time," said Baker.
"Okay," said Patty.
Patty reached out until he brushed Frank's shoulder. "You ready, buddy?"
"Yeah, I'm ready," he said. Metal scraped against metal as he picked up his ammo pouches and rifle.
Patty slid his fingers across the smooth sand until he bumped his rifle. He slid his fingers up the metal of the barrel, hooked his canteen and ammo pouch, and got up. He touched Frank's wrist and smelled dried sweat.
"You with me?" said Frank.
"Sure," said Patty.
"Just follow me," said Frank. "I'll get you a good spot."
He walked off. For a second, Patty was alone and scared of the dark.
"Come on," called Frank. His ammo pouch rattled.
Patty walked heavily up the hill. The sand slid around his boots at each step.
"You still with me?" called Frank.
Patty walked quickly toward the voice. He bumped into Frank and jumped back.
"Easy. I won't eat you," said Frank.
He grabbed Patty's arm and pressed his hand against the spiny trunk of a palm.
"You can stay by the tree," he said. "It'll be comfortable. I'll be in the bushes a few yards up. Call me if you start to fall asleep.” He walked off.
Patty leaned back against the tree and listened to his heartbeat. He let his rifle and ammo belt slip to the ground. They clattered together. Patty opened his canteen and took a sip of water. It was tepid and gritty with sand around the mouthpiece. Patty listened for Frank, but he couldn't tell if the sounds in the air were the wind in the bushes or Frank cracking twigs as he walked. He strained to hear. Nothing but the waves. The wind had died. Patty peered into the dark.
A flash and explosion shot up from the bushes like a white flame. Silence. Patty froze against the tree. He didn't know if he'd imagined it or not.
Leigh called out. "What happened? You all okay?"
"I am," called Patty.
Frank didn't answer.
"Frank," whispered Patty.
No answer.
"Frank.” He yelled the name. The void came back in waves of dark.
"Easy, Patty," called Camp. "Frank probably hit a booby trap. Don't panic. Don't go to him. Don't move, not in the dark, not 'til we find some flares."
"Maybe there's somebody who's going to attack," Leigh spoke urgently. "They could have got on here in the dark."
Dark. The word echoed through Patty's head. He grabbed his stuff and crashed off into the brush. A dozen steps and he tripped on a wire of a stem. Thorny leaves tore at his hands as he caught himself on the sand.
"Patsin," yelled Holt. "Don't be a hero. Stay put."
Patty lay still in the bushes. A broken branch pushed into his belly. He twisted it off and pushed it away.
"Frank," Patty called softly. "Frank, where are you? Talk to me, buddy."
He pounded his fist in the sand.
"Frank, talk to me," said Patty. "Frank, I'm scared of the dark. Don't leave me alone out here."
Patty lay his head in the sand, spent. In the stillness, he felt his breath come through the sand, a pulse of the island, breathing, breathing.
"Ungh. Ungh. Ungh.” The moans came out of sand. Patty crawled forward through the bushes. Each clinging vine seemed like a trip wire. Each movement set off a white explosion in Patty's head, a tingle of pain down his back and through his belly into the broken twigs beneath him.
"Ungh. Ungh. Ungh.”
Patty reached out and his fingers clutched the warm round wall of Frank's thigh, the texture of warm cloth.
"I'm here, buddy," whispered Patty.
The moans continued a little louder.
Patty squeezed Frank's thigh.
Frank slid his hand down over Patty's, caught and squeezed his wrist. He yanked Patty's hand from his thigh and pulled him close.
"Ungh. Ungh. Ungh," He moaned into Patty's ear.
Patty tried to pull away, but Frank gripped his wrist hard with both hands and plunged Patty's fingers into his mouth, against his tongue and a slimy puddle of saliva.
"What are you doing? Let go?” Patty yelled.
Frank squeezed Patty's hand tighter, pulled it out of his mouth and plunged it back in.
"What are you doing?" screamed Patty.
Frank pulled Patty's hand from his mouth and released it. Patty's fingers were sticky, almost glued together. Patty tried to look at them but could see nothing. Yet he knew they were red, and the puddle he'd felt was blood. Frank was drowning in his own blood.
Patty felt dizzy and faint. He shook his head and tried to think. For a second, he pictured himself squeezing Frank's neck, choking the moans out of him. When he spoke, he was calm.
"Frank, I'm going to turn your head and drain the blood out."
Frank pressed his hand to Patty's leg and squeezed assurance.
Patty slid his hand over Frank's face, felt the bulbs of his eyes, the bulge of his nose, the wet slobber around his mouth. He gripped the head and twisted it toward the sand. Frank's muscles stiffened.
"Easy. We'll check for wounds in a bit."
"Ungh. Ungh."
Patty gripped Frank's chin and pulled his mouth wide. He sank two fingers into the hollow inside Frank's cheek and scraped the gooey slime from his mouth. As quickly as he could empty it, it refilled. Little pieces of hard material, loose skin and metal, stuck to Patty's fingers.
"Listen, Frank. I'm going to slide my other hand over your body. Guide me if you can to any other wounds you got."
"Hey. What's going on," yelled Camp.
Patty didn't answer.
He moved his hand down Frank's side. Frank slid his hand gently over Patty's and together they explored Frank's body. He was unhurt except for the well of blood that filled his mouth. Patty slid his hand back up toward Frank's head. He pressed down at Frank’s throat, and his palm pressed into sticky, flaccid skin.
"Ungh. Ungh."
"Frank, I can't bandage that," said Patty. "I'd just choke you to death and you don't want that, do you?"
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