The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [206]
"Yeah, Lootenant," Wilson murmured.
Red made no answer. His face, still sullen and irritable, stared coldly at him as Hearn climbed up again on the pilot hatch.
Croft had finished sharpening his trench knife, and while Hearn and Wilson were still talking, he worked his way forward to the shelter of the front ramp. Stanley, seeing an opportunity, joined him. It was almost comfortable talking there, for although the floor was wet, the bow was raised slightly. The spray that lashed into the boat was washed toward the stern, leaving no puddles.
Stanley was busy talking. "I think it was a goddam shame the way they stuck an officer in on us. There isn't anybody can handle the platoon better than you, and they shoulda commissioned you before sticking in some ninety-day wonder."
Croft shrugged. Hearn's transfer had been a shock to him, deeper than he cared to admit. He had been in command of the platoon for so long it was a little difficult for him to realize that he had a superior. Even in the day Hearn had been with them Croft had been forced to remind himself many times before giving an order that he was no longer in charge.
Hearn was his foe. Without even stating it to himself, the attitude was implicit in everything Croft did. Automatically he considered it Hearn's fault that the transfer had been made, and resented him instinctively for it. But it was more confused than that. He could not acknowledge his own animosity, for he had been grounded in Army orders for too long. To resent an order, to be unwilling to carry it out, was immoral to Croft. Besides, he could do nothing about it. "If you can't do nothin', keep your mouth shut," was one of his few maxims.
He didn't answer Stanley, but still he was pleased.
"I kinda think I know human nature," Stanley said, "and I damn sure can tell you that I'd rather have you running this patrol than some looey they hand us on a platter."
Croft spat. Stanley was pretty sharp, he told himself. Of course he was a brown-nose, but if a man was all right outside of that, he wouldn't hold it against him. "Mebbe," he admitted.
"Now, you take this patrol, it's going to be a rough one. We need somebody who knows the score."
"What do you think of the patrol?" Croft asked softly. He ducked as some spray washed over them.
Stanley guessed that Croft would be pleased if he accepted the patrol without resentment. But he knew he would have to answer cautiously. If he was enthusiastic, Croft would distrust him, for none of the other men were eager. Stanley fingered his mustache, which was still thin and uneven despite the care he gave it. "I don't know, somebody's got to do it, and it might as well be us. To tell you the truth, Sam," he ventured, "this may sound like bullshit coming from me, but I ain't sorry we caught it. You get tired of hanging around, you want to do something."
Croft fingered his chin. "That's what you think, huh?"
"Well, I wouldn't tell it to everybody, but, yes, that's what I do think."
"Uh-huh." Half purposefully, Stanley had stroked one of Croft's basic passions. After a month of labor details and unimportant security patrols, Croft's senses had become raw waiting for activity. Any big patrol would have appealed to him. But this one. . . the conception of it was more impressive to him. Although he did not show it, he was impatient; the chore was to get through the hours on board this boat. All afternoon he had been debating possible routes, reviewing the terrain in his mind. There had been only an aerial map of the back country, but he had memorized that.
And once again he felt an unpleasant shock, reminded himself that the platoon and the patrol would not be directed by him.
"Yeah, it's all right," Croft said. "I'll tell you, that General Cummings is a smart man to have figgered it all out."
Stanley nodded. "All the guys bitch all the time about how they could do it better, but he's got a hard job."
"Reckon so," Croft said. He stared away for a moment, and then nudged Stanley. "Look." He was watching Wilson talk to Hearn, and he felt a trace of jealousy.
Unconsciously, Stanley copied Croft's speech. "Do you reckon old Wilson is sucking?"