The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [270]
Oh, this was awful, he had to get his mind off it.
He looked at the man lying beside him. It was almost entirely dark, and he could barely make out his features.
"Red?" he whispered softly.
"Yeah?"
He caught himself from saying, "Are you awake?" Instead, he propped himself on an elbow. "You feel like talking?" he asked.
"I don't give a damn, I can't sleep anyway."
"It's overfatigue that causes it; we've been going too fast."
Red spat. "If you want to bitch, tell it to Croft."
"No, I think you misunderstood me." He was silent for a moment, and then could hold it no longer. "That was terrible what happened to Wilson."
Red started. He had been brooding about it ever since he had got into his bedding. "Aaah, you can't kill that old sonofabitch Wilson."
"You think so?" Roth was relieved. "Only there was so much blood over him."
"What the fug did ya expect to see -- milk?" Roth irritated him; anyone, everyone would have irritated him tonight. Wilson was one of the old men in the platoon. Why the hell did it have to be him? Red thought. The old anxiety, the basic one was working. He liked Wilson; Wilson was perhaps his best friend in the platoon, but that didn't count; he allowed himself to like no one so well that it would hurt if he was lost. But Wilson had been in the platoon as long as himself. It was different when a replacement was knocked off, just as it meant much less when a man from another platoon was killed. That didn't affect you, that didn't touch your safety. If Wilson was gone, his turn was next. "Listen, that big sonofabitch had to stop a bullet sometime. How the hell can you miss him?"
"Only it happened so suddenly."
Red snorted. "When it's your turn I'll send you a telegram."
"You shouldn't say that even in kidding."
"Aaaah." Red shuddered unaccountably. The moon was coming out, limning the slabs of the cliffs with silver. Lying on his back, he could see up the great slopes of the mountain almost to its peak. Nothing seemed right at this moment. He could even believe it might be bad luck to say such a thing to Roth. "Forget it," he said more softly.
"Oh, that's all right, no offense. I can understand how you're wrought up. I can't even stop thinking about it myself. It's unbelievable. One moment a man's perfectly all right and then. . . I don't understand it."
"You want to talk about something else?"
"I'm sorry." Roth halted. His wonder, the horror that supported it, was still unappeased. It was so easy for a man to be killed; what he could not shake was his surprise. He twisted over on his back to relieve the constraint on his stomach. He took a breath. "Oh, I'm knocked out."
"Who isn't?"
"How does Croft keep going?"
"That sonofabitch likes it."
Roth's mind cowered as he thought of him. The episode with the bird had come back to him, and he blurted, "Do you think Croft is going to have a prejudice against me?"
"For the bird? I dunno, Roth, it's better not to waste your time trying to figure him out."
"I wanted to tell you, Red, that. . ." Roth paused. His exhaustion, the enfeeblement of his diarrhea, all the aches and bruises, the terror Wilson had caused him, all of it was working on him abruptly. The fact that several men, that this man beside him, had come to his aid after Croft had killed the bird overwhelmed him with self-pity and gratitude and warmth. "I appreciate extensively what you did today about the bird." His voice caught.
"Aaah, forget it."
"No, I. . . I want to tell you that I appreciate it." To his utter dismay, he found himself weeping.
"Jesus Christ." Red was touched for an instant, and he almost extended his arm to clap Roth on the back. But he aborted the motion. Roth was like the mongrel dogs with shaggy moth-eaten hides that had always gathered in the rubbish dumps or clustered around the flophouses when the swill was thrown out. If you gave them a scrap of food or a pat on the head, they would follow you for days, staring at you with watery eyes of gratitude.
He wanted to be kind to Roth now, but if he did Roth would be coming to him all the time, donating his confidences, making a touch for sentiment. Roth would latch on to anyone who was friendly to him. He couldn't afford it; Roth was the kind of man who would stop a bullet soon.