The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [269]
An artillery piece fired, shattering the loom of the night.
Cummings listened to its echoes and shuddered.
7
In the twilight the cliffs of Mount Anaka were glowing with reds and golds, reflecting back into the hills and fields at the base. In their bivouac what was left of the platoon was settling for the night. The four extra men who had gone along with Brown's detail for the first hour had returned now and were adjusting their blankets. Gallagher was on guard in the knoll that overlooked the hollow; the rest of the men were eating their ration or clumping a few yards into the grass to relieve themselves.
Wyman was brushing his teeth very carefully, sprinkling a few drops of water from his canteen onto the bristles and then massaging his gums thoughtfully.
"Hey, Wyman," Polack called, "turn on the radio for me, will ya?"
"Naah, I'm tired of listening to it," Minetta said.
Wyman flushed. "Listen, you guys, I'm still civilized," he piped. "If I want to brush my teeth I can."
"Not even his best friends will tell him," Minetta wisecracked.
"Aaah, go fug yourself, I'm sick of ya."
Croft stirred in his blankets, propped himself on an elbow. "Listen, you men, you can just shut up. You want to stir up a whole pack of Japs?"
What answer could there be? "Awright," one of them muttered.
Roth had heard them. Squatting in the grass, he peered over his shoulder fearfully. Behind him was nothing but the vast darkening sweep of the hills. He had to hurry up. The paper was in the ration carton, but even as he fumbled for it a new spasm caught him, and he grunted, held his thighs as the process worked its way through him.
"Jesus," he heard one of the men whisper, "who the hell's crapping, an elephant?"
To Roth's nausea and weakness was added embarrassment. He picked up the pad of tissues, finished, and drew up his pants. He was so weak. He lay down on his poncho and pulled a blanket over him. Why did this have to start now? he asked himself. For the first two days his bowels had been tight and heavy, but that was preferable to this. It's the nervous reaction from the bird, he told himself. Diarrhea is caused by nerves as much as by food. As if to prove his statement, his belly knotted, passed through a few moments of anguish. I'm going to have to go again during the night, he told himself. But it would be impossible. If he started moving in the darkness, the man on guard might shoot him. He would have to do it right next to his blankets. Roth's eyes teared with frustration and annoyance. It was unfair. He felt a deep bitterness at the Army for not having taken into account such situations. Ohhh. He held his breath, yoked his sphincter, while the perspiration ran into his eyes. There was an instant of panic when he was certain he would soil himself. These riffraff in the platoon had an expression, "to keep a tight ass-hole." What did they know of it? It's the only way they judge anybody, he told himself.
"When the shit hits the fan that's when you keep a. . ." This afternoon, all right, he had done it; he hadn't even thought about that.
But in remembering the skirmish at the entrance to the pass, he felt a helpless anxiety. He had ducked behind the ledge, and even when Croft was yelling at them to fire, he hadn't done anything at all. He wondered if Croft had noticed, and hoped he had been too busy. He'll really have it in for me if he did.
And Wilson. Roth pressed his face against the damp rubbery texture of the poncho. He had not thought about Wilson at all until now -- even when they had brought him back to the hollow and had prepared the stretcher, he had been playing with the bird. He had seen him but he hadn't wanted to look at him. Only now, Wilson was so clear to him. His face had been white, and his uniform was covered with blood. It was horrible. Roth was shocked, a little sick, as he remembered how very red the blood had been. I thought it was darker somehow. . . arterial. . . venous. . .? Oh, what does it matter?
Wilson had always been so alive, and he wasn't a bad fellow. He was very friendly. It was impossible. One moment, and then. . . So badly wounded; he had looked dead when they brought him in. It was difficult to conceive, Roth thought, and then shuddered uncontrollably. What if the bullet had hit me? Roth saw the blood rippling brilliantly out of a deep hole in his body. Ooh, the wound was like a mouth, it was horrible looking. To add to his misery his stomach began to churn, and he lay on his chest, retching feebly.