The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [248]
"How many you sending with him, Lootenant?" Brown asked.
Hearn hadn't thought about that until now. How many would it be? He shrugged, trying to remember the number of men specified in the manual. "Oh, I think six will about do it," he said.
Croft shook his head, made an abrupt decision. "We ain't gonna be able to spare six, Lootenant, we'll have to make it four."
Brown whistled. "It's gonna be a sonofabitch with four men."
"Yeah, four men, not so good," Martinez said sarcastically. He knew he would not be chosen as one of the litter-bearers, and this once it made him bitter. His nerves were still taut from the ambush. He knew Brown would maneuver himself into going back with Wilson, while he would have to go ahead with the platoon.
Hearn interrupted. "You're right, Sergeant, we can spare only four litter-bearers." His voice was easy, forceful, as if he had been commanding them for a long time. "We never can tell when some other man jack is going to get hit, and we'll need bearers for him."
This was the wrong thing to say. They all looked glum, and their mouths tightened. "Goddammit," Brown blurted out, "we been pretty lucky up to now this campaign. Outside of Hennessey and Toglio. . . why in the hell did it have to be Wilson?"
Martinez rubbed his fingertips, staring at the ground. He slapped at an insect on his neck. "His number up."
"We might be able to get him back okay," Brown said. "You're gonna send a noncom with the litter-bearers, aren't you, Lootenant?"
Hearn didn't know the procedure, but there was no point in admitting it. "I think we can spare one of you noncoms."
Brown wanted to be picked. He had concealed it from the others, but nevertheless he had gone to pieces behind the ledge. "I guess it's Martinez's turn to go back," he said, however, not without guile, for he knew Croft would want Martinez with him. Yet on another level Brown was trying to be fair.
"I need Japbait," Croft said shortly. "I guess it'll be you, Brown." Hearn nodded.
"Any way you want it." Brown rubbed his hand over his cropped brown hair, fingered a jungle ulcer on his chin. He felt vaguely guilty. "Who'll I take?"
Croft reflected. "How 'bout Ridges and Goldstein, Lootenant?"
"You know the men better than I."
"Well, they ain't much fuggin good, but they're strong enough, an' if you push 'em, Brown, they ain't gonna goof-off on ya. They were awright when we carried Wilson back from where he got hit." Croft looked at them. He remembered that Stanley and Red and Gallagher had almost got into a fight on the boat. Stanley had crawfished, and he wouldn't be much use now. Still, he was a smart kid, Croft thought, probably smarter than Brown.
"Who else?"
"I figure you need a good man since you got a coupla fug-ups. How about takin' Stanley?"
"Sure."
Stanley was not certain what he wanted. He was relieved to be heading back for the beach, to be out of the patrol, but still he felt cheated. If he stayed with the platoon, there would be better chances later with Croft and the Lieutenant. He didn't want any more combat, not like that ambush certainly, but still. . . It was Brown's fault, he told himself. "If you think I oughta go, I'll go, Sam, but I kinda feel as if I ought to stay with the platoon."
"Naw, you go with Brown." Any answer would have left Stanley unsatisfied. It was like spinning a coin to decide your decision, and wishing the coin had landed on the other side. He was silent.
Hearn scratched his armpit. What a goddam mess! He chewed on some grass, spat it out quietly. When they had brought Wilson back, he had been. . . all right, he had been annoyed. That was the first emotion, the honest one. If they hadn't found him the patrol would be relatively simple, and now they were shorthanded. It was a hell of a thing for a platoon leader to feel. He had to face some things; this patrol meant more to him than it should. And everything was loused up, he didn't know what they were going to do now. He had to get away by himself, think it out.
"Where the hell are those men with the poles for the stretcher?" Croft asked irritably. He was depressed for once, almost a little frightened. Their talk was finished and they stood about uncomfortably. A few feet away, Wilson was moaning deliriously, shivering under his blanket. His face was very white, and his full red mouth had turned a leaden pink, pinched at the corners. Croft spat. Wilson was one of the old men, and it hurt more, stirred him more, than if they had lost one of the replacements. There were so few of the old men left -- Brown, and his nerves were shot; Martinez; Red, who was sick; and Gallagher, who wasn't much use now. There were all the men who had been lost when the rubber boats were ambushed, the few others who had been wounded or killed in the months on Motome. And now Wilson. It made Croft wonder if his turn was coming due. His mind would never release the memory of the night when he had shuddered in his foxhole, waiting for the Japanese to cross the river. His senses were raw, a little inflamed. He remembered with a thick lusting anger in his throat how he had killed the prisoner in the draw. Just let me get ahold of a Jap. He felt balked on this patrol, infuriated; his rage extended to include everything. He stared up at Mount Anaka as if measuring an opponent. At that moment he hated the mountain too, considered it a personal affront.