The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [326]
"Better we go back?"
This was a shock to Croft. Was Martinez threatening him? He was stunned. Martinez was the only man in the platoon whose obedience he had never doubted. Croft's next reaction was rage. He stared quietly at Martinez's throat, restraining himself from leaping at him. His only friend in the platoon threatening him. Croft spat. There was no one you could trust, no one except yourself.
The mountain ahead had never looked so high and forbidding. Perhaps a part of him did want to turn back, and he flung himself from the temptation. Hearn was wasted if they turned back. And again the flesh on his back writhed under a play of nervous needles. The peak still taunted him.
He would have to go easy. If Martinez could do this, then the situation was dangerous. If the platoon ever discovered. . . "Goddam, Japbait, you turnin' on me?" he said softly.
"No."
"Well, what the hell's this talk? You're a sergeant, man, you don't go in for crap like that."
Martinez was caught. His loyalty was being questioned, and he hung sickly on Croft's next speech, waiting for him to say the thing he dreaded. A Mexican sergeant!
"I thought we were pretty good buddies, Japbait."
"Yah."
"Man, I thought they wasn't a damn thing you was afraid of."
"No." His loyalty, his friendship, his courage were all involved. And as he looked into Croft's cold blue eyes he felt the same inadequacy and shabbiness, the same inferiority he always knew when he talked to. . . to White Protestant. But there was even more this time. The undefined danger he always sensed seemed sharper now, closer upon him. What would they do to him, how very much would they do to him? His fear almost stifled him.
"Forget it. Japbait go with you."
"Sure." Croft's wheedling had hung awkwardly on him.
"Whadeya mean, you're goin' with him?" Gallagher asked. "Listen, Croft, why the hell don't you turn back? Ain't ya got enough fuggin medals?"
"Gallagher, you can shut your hole."
Martinez wished he could sidle away.
"Aaah." Gallagher pirouetted between fright and resolution. "Listen, I ain't afraid of you, Croft. You know what the fug I think of you."
Most of the men in the platoon had awakened and were staring at them.
"Shut your mouth, Gallagher."
"You better not keep your back to us." Gallagher walked away, trembling in the reaction from his courage. Any moment he expected Croft to come up behind him, spin him about, and strike him. The skin along his back quivered with anticipation.
But Croft did nothing. He was having a reaction from Martinez's unfaithfulness. The resisting weight of the platoon had never pressed more heavily upon him. He had the mountain to fight and the men dragging upon him. It accumulated in him for that moment, left him empty and without volition.
"All right, men, we're gonna move out in half an hour, so don't be fuggin around." A chorus of mutterings and grumblings answered him, but he preferred to single out none of them. He was extracting the last marrows of his will. He was exhausted himself and his unwashed body itched unbearably.
When they did get over the mountain what could they do? There were only seven of them left, and Minetta and Wyman would be worthless. He watched Polack and Red, who munched their food dourly, glaring back at him. But he forced these considerations away. He would worry about the rest of it once they had crossed the mountain. Now that was the only important problem.
Red watched him for several minutes afterward, noticing every move with a dull hatred. He had never loathed any man so much as Croft. As Red picked at the breakfast ration of tinned ham and eggs, his stomach rebelled. The food was thick and tasteless; when he chewed there was a balance between his desire to swallow it and his desire to spit it out. Each lumpful remained heavy and leaden for an interminable time in his mouth. He threw the can away at last, and sat staring at his feet. His stomach pulsed emptily, sickeningly.
There were eight rations left: three cheeses, two ham and eggs, and three beef and pork loafs. He knew he would never eat them; they were merely an added load in his pack. Aaah, fug this. He took out the ration cartons, slit the tops off each with his knife and separated the candy and cigarettes from the food tins, the crackers. He was about to throw the food away when he realized that some of the men might want it. He thought of asking, but he had an image of passing from man to man with the cans in his hand, having them jeer at him. Aaah, fug 'em, he decided, it's none of their goddam business anyway. He threw the food into some weeds a few feet behind him. For a time he sat there, so enraged that his heart was beating powerfully, and then he relaxed and began to make up his pack. That'll be lighter anyhow, he told himself, and his rage began again. Fug the Army anyhow, fug the goddam mother-fuggin Army. That stuff ain't fit for a pig. He was breathing very quickly once more. Kill and be killed for this lousy goddam food. So many images blurred in his mind, the mills where they stamped and pressured and cooked the food that went into the tins, the dull thwopping sound of a bullet striking a man, even Roth's shout.