by Tim O'Brien
Footsteps click in the great conference hall. The lieutenant enters. He wears his helmet and rucksack. He shakes hands with Paul Berlin; they exchange a few quiet words. The old man then crosses to Sarkin Aung Wan. He offers his arm, she takes it, and they move away. A moment later Paul Berlin leaves by a separate exit.
Spotlight dims: An electric hum fills the Salle des Fêtes. The amplification system buzzes indifferently.
Spotlight off.
Imagine it.
Forty-five
The Observation Post
Already the flies were awake. Two sea gulls perched on the tower’s south wall. The night was over. The sea was blue. Soon the others would be awake. The day would start. They would roll up the ponchos. Doc would shave. Eddie and Oscar would go in for a swim, then they would eat breakfast, then sit in the shade beneath the tower to wait for resupply. Later they would go out on patrol. There would be no battles, no terror, and the day would be long and calm and hot.
Those were the coming facts, as nearly as he could guess.
The war was still a war, and he was still a soldier. He hadn’t run. The issue was courage, and courage was will power, and this was his failing.
“Facts,” Doc Peret liked to say. “Face facts.”
Six o’clock now. He rubbed his face.
The facts were not disputed. Facts did not bother him. Billy Boy had died of fright. Buff was dead. Ready Mix was dead. Rudy Chassler was dead. Pederson was dead. Sidney Martin and Frenchie Tucker and Bernie Lynn had died in tunnels. Those were all facts, and he could face them squarely. The order of facts—which facts came first and which came last, the relations among facts—here he had trouble, but it was not the trouble of facing facts. It was the trouble of understanding them, keeping them straight.
Even Cacciato. It was a fact that one day in the rain, during a bad time, the dummy had packed up and walked away, a poor kid who wanted to see Paris, no mysterious motives or ambitions. A simple kid who ran away. There was no toying with the truth. It couldn’t be colored or altered or made into more than it was. So the facts were simple: They went after Cacciato, they chased him into the mountains, they tried hard. They cornered him on a small grassy hill. They surrounded the hill. They waited through the night. And at dawn they shot the sky full of flares and then they moved in. “Go,” Paul Berlin said. He shouted it—“Go!”
That was the end of it. The last known fact.
What remained were possibilities. With courage it might have been done.
Forty-six
Going After Cacciato
He’s gone,” Doc said. “Split.”
“Gone where?”
“Who knows where? Him and his gear, everything. Just gone.”
Paul Berlin shook his head. “Impossible. He wouldn’t do it.”
“No? Go look for yourself. The man’s gone, flown the coop. Appears he’s taken the girl with him.”
The apartment had been cleaned out. The rugs, the clock, the watercolor, Sarkin Aung Wan’s geranium, and new curtains—all, gone. The floors were swept. The bed was made up in crisp forty-five-degree angles. The closets were bare. In the kitchen a single joss stick smoldered on the counter.
“Believe it now?” Doc said. “Not even a lousy fare-thee-well. Right when things come together, right at the buzzer, the old fart takes off without even a salute.”
Paul Berlin’s eyes burned. It was the joss smoke. He went to the stick and squeezed it until the burning stopped.
“Gone.” Doc sighed. “Both of them. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Makes you faithless.”
“Maybe they just—”
Doc wagged his head. “Face it, they deserted like rats. Must’ve been planning it all along. Everything so neat and tidy, all the loose ends tied up … not even a good-bye.”
Paul Berlin’s eyes were stinging. Her smile when she first saw the place. Her excitement, the way she took his arm. The way she called him Spec Four, thinking it was his name. Clipping his nails. Long sunny days on the march. Refugees. The apartment, the whole idea of refuge. Such a fine idea.
He went out to the sun porch. For a time he stood alone, looking out on the church belfry. He wished the bell would chime—something. He closed his eyes and made the wish. Doc put a hand on his shoulder and led him inside.
“My condolences. Honest, it’s a tough piece of luck.”
“She was, right.”
“What can I say, pal? What can I say?”
Later they found the note. It was tacked to the bathroom door: “Heading east. A long walk but we’ll make it. Affection.”
Doc read it over twice, then three times, shaking his head.
“East?”
“The Far East,” said Paul Berlin, who could see it clearly. “Back to where it started. Reverse march—eight thousand six hundred statute miles.”
“Don’t even say it, man.”
“Maybe—”
“Too simple, too slick. A sick old man, a girl. It can’t be done.”
Oscar Johnson took command. The final operation, he said: Stake out Cacciato’s hotel, plug up the exits, wait, and, when the kid showed himself, move in to end it.
It was Oscar’s game.
“No waffling,” he said. “No pitty-pat shit. Tonight we do it right.”
There were no arguments. Oscar unwrapped Cacciato’s M-16 and held it out. Doc touched it. Eddie touched it. Paul Berlin touched it.
“Done,” Oscar said.
They showered, changed into fresh uniforms, then met for a final strategy session.
At dusk they moved out.
Single file, Oscar leading, they marched down St.-Germain to St.-Michel. The night was warm. The café awnings along St.-Michel were held full by a breeze. Girls sat at the sidewalk tables, legs carefully folded, smoking cigarettes and watching the passing crowds. Paul Berlin tilted his helmet down. He concentrated on the march.
They crossed the river at Cité. Immediately the lights and traffic were gone. They circled the massive Palais de Justice, moved across Pont au Change, then turned in toward Les Halles.
No one spoke.
Oscar took the rifle from its blanket and carried it openly, patrol-style, the barrel off to one side. No more pretense. Lead-colored turrets stood bare against the sky. Silhouettes, statues, and gargoyles. The night seemed to move. Paris, Paul Berlin was thinking, but the feeling was Quang Ngai. He told himself to be brave.
Counting: That was one answer. He counted his steps, watched the others move in front of him.
They crossed the square at Fontaine des Innocents and moved into the huge deserted market area. Smells of clotted sewage, algae, rotting vegetables, animal fat, the paddies. Moonlight played on the high iron-latticed pavilions. Once, when Oscar spotted a policeman, they stopped and waited in the shadows of an abandoned storefront; otherwise it was just a march.
It was past midnight when they found the dead-end alley.
There were no lights. The hotel looked old and forlorn and empty, like an abandoned farmhouse outside Fort Dodge.
“You’re sure?” Oscar whispered.
Paul Berlin nodded. “Up there. Second from the right.” He pointed to Cacciato’s second-story window. Two panes were missing.
They listened, letting their eyes adjust. There were no lights or signs of life in the building. Doc took off his glasses, spat on the lenses, wiped them, put them on again. He managed a nervous little laugh.
“Think he’s up there?”
Oscar shrugged, cradling the rifle against his stomach. “Wait here. I’ll see what there is to see. Keep alert.”
He trotted down the alley, stopping once to test the front door, then he circled behind the building. When he was gone, Doc moved into the shadows of a cluster of garbage cans. Eddie chuckled and whispered something obscene, and Doc laughed, and they sat down to wait. It was the wound-tight feel of an ambush. Partly hidden, partly exposed. The wondering and the waiting. Paul Berlin felt a little guilt. Not much, but enough to think about. Mostly it was a
n eagerness to have it over and finished.
Oscar was gone nearly twenty minutes.
Then Paul Berlin felt a cold tickle on his ear.
“Swell lookout,” Oscar purred. “Real alert.”
The tickle was painful. He tried to move. It was the pain of ice when it sticks to flesh. Without looking, Paul Berlin knew it was the rifle muzzle.
“I was Charlie, what would you be?”
“Dead,” Paul Berlin whispered. “I’d be dead.”
“God’s own truth,” Oscar said. “A dead lookout.”
“Sorry. I was—”
“Pitiful.” Oscar lifted the rifle. The cold tickle persisted. “You guys … you’re genuine yo-yos, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
“I guess.”
“I guess, I guess. Fuckups. Dipsticks in the overall slime.”
“We try,” Doc murmured. “We do try.”
Oscar smiled coldly. “Tryin’ don’t cut it. Honest, I pity you. Battin’ in the wrong fuckin league. I just got pity.”
No one answered him. Paul Berlin scratched the tickle on his ear.
“No more tryin’,” Oscar said. “Tonight you pitiful mothers is gonna do. Tonight I teach the basic difference between fuckup tryin’ and doing. I say it, you do it. Real simple like.”
Even in the alley’s thick dark Oscar wore sunglasses. Paul Berlin wondered for a moment about the miracles of vision. He scratched his ear and wondered.
Oscar waited a moment.
“So. We got ourselves an understanding? Follow your friendly leader, that’s all.”
Paul Berlin started to speak, then thought better of it.
“Words?” Oscar smiled.
Paul Berlin shook his head.
“Good. An improvement. A definite betterment.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Listen up. I got the place scouted. No back doors. Only other way out is them two fire escapes. See ‘em?”
Doc and Eddie nodded.
“All right then. What you’re gonna do is this. You’re gonna climb up there an’ you’re gonna sit an’ you ain’t gonna let nothin’ in and nothin’ out. Think you can manage?”
“Sure,” Eddie said. He looked at Doc and grinned. “We can do that easy.”
“Splendid. Real progress.”
“Nothing to it,” Eddie said.
“When you’re set, give me a wave. I’ll do the messy shit. If Cacciato’s inside … if he’s there, then we got his ass. Fini. If he’s not, we hold positions an’ wait. When he shows we nail him.”
“What about me?” Paul Berlin said. “Where you want me?”
Oscar made a wide, mocking gesture with his hands. “I don’,” he said.
“Say again?”
“I don’ want you. You’re a fuckup. Man, you’re the worst.”
“Hey, don’t—”
“You heard me. Go home. Go hide your head.”
Paul Berlin backed off a step. Then he swallowed. “I’m going along, Oscar.”
“Shit.”
“I am. I’m going.”
“The messiness?” Oscar grinned. “You want in on the real nasty stuff?”
“I’m going, that’s all.”
“Brand-new balls?”
“I’m going.”
Oscar studied him, then shrugged. “Okay, man. Even yo-yos got to get their brand-new rocks off.” He let the rifle bolt fall. “So what’s the delay?”
They filed up the alley.
Climbing slowly, Doc and Eddie made their way up the two fire escapes, testing the steps as they went. Paul Berlin made his thoughts into a revolving sphere, a tiny marble, and he concentrated on the marble. He watched it turn. A silver, shining marble. He could feel the fear coming, but he kept his attention on the marble. Focus on it, watch it spin in the dark, a brilliant glowing sphere. Like a star. Be brave, watch the silver star.
When Doc and Eddie reached the second story, they crouched down and waved.
Oscar raised the rifle.
“Ready, Deputy? Showdown time.”
Oscar led the way inside. The doors were unlocked. Lighting a match, Oscar moved slowly across the lobby to the staircase. He stopped there. He listened, then lit a second match, then tested the stairs. The place smelled old. It smelled of dust and mildew and age. Damp, like Lake Country. Like the smell of old canvas. When the match went out Oscar did not light another.
Eyes firmly on the spinning silver star, Paul Berlin followed Oscar up the stairs. He tried for silence. Stealth, cunning. He listened for telltale sounds. The hotel was quiet.
At the top of the stairs Oscar paused again, shifting the rifle, turning, feeling for the walls. A window at the end of the hallway let in a pale path of moonlight.
Oscar began moving up the hallway. His shoulders were rolled forward. He stepped lightly, carefully, but there was no tension in the way he carried himself. He seemed loose and ready.
At the end of the hallway, Paul Berlin pointed to the green door. Then he stepped back.
Oscar grinned. “No, man.”
“What?”
“Heroes first.” Oscar pressed the rifle into Paul Berlin’s hands. “You dig this shit so much … here, take it. Go ahead.”
“I don’t—”
“Take the weapon. It’s your move.”
The rifle was incredibly light. Paul Berlin had to squeeze to keep it from drifting away. The shining silver star was gone.
“Go!”
Oscar used his shoulder to drive the door open.
The room was empty. Paul Berlin felt the emptiness before he saw it.
Then he felt the fear.
A monstrous sound hit him. It jerked him back.
“Jesus,” someone was saying, loud. Oscar, maybe.
The sound spun him around. Suddenly he was on his knees. He couldn’t stop shaking. He squeezed the rifle. He held on tight, but the shaking wouldn’t stop.
Someone was whimpering. A pitiful, silly sound. Behind him in the dark there were shouts, voices calling, the sound of someone running.
Red tracers made darts that stuck to the far walls. A smoldering smell. Burning. Holes opened like magic in the walls. The plaster turned crisp and black.
Shaking, shaking—he couldn’t stop it. He tried to drop the weapon. He tried to throw it, but it kept shaking him.
He heard himself whinny.
A dozen rounds were off in the time it took to squeal. Glass was breaking, windows popping. He squeezed the weapon and held on and whinnied.
“Jesus,” a soft voice kept saying, far off. “Jesus, Jesus.”
The noise ended. There was a click, then echoes, then quiet.
He was on his knees. His eyes were closed. Rocking, swaying, eyes closed tight, but even so he kept seeing red tracers, slim and sharp, brilliant red threads in the dark. The shaking feeling was gone. He smelled the burning.
“Jesus, Jesus,” he moaned.
He let the rifle fall. He put a hand to his lips and held it there, not quite touching. He felt the breath on his hand, felt himself swallow. Somewhere a fire was burning. It was a hot blazing fire, a bonfire. He heard people talking. Then there was a floating feeling, then a swelling in his stomach, then a wet releasing feeling. He tried to stop it. He squeezed his thighs together and tightened his belly, but it came anyway. He sat back. He shivered and wondered what had gone wrong.
“It’s okay,” Doc murmured. “All over, all over. Fine now.”
Paul Berlin sat cross-legged to hide his folly. His arms and hands and feet weren’t working right. First the shaking feeling, next the numbness, next the swelling in his belly and next the wetness and next the folly and humiliation.
“No sweat,” Doc was purring. “You hear me? It’s all over.”
The fire blazed away.
He smelled the grass. He heard them talking, very softly. There was the breeze and the grass and the fire.
“Just the biles,” Doc said. “Right? It’s just the pitter-patter of the biles. Just the tinkle of the biles, no sweat.”
The shaking was back. Doc helped him lie in the deep grass. He lay there, letting the weapon shake him, and when the shaking ended he watched how the grass waved with the breeze. Like spring wheat. He wished he could cover himself. Maybe he could sleep. Sleep away the rest of the war. He closed his eyes and listened to the soft voices and the breeze against the grass, then he opened his eyes, very slowly, seeing first his own eyelashes, then light, then the dawn sky.
“Dumb,” Oscar said.
Stink giggled. It was Stink’s high giggle.
There was the heavy sound of something being dropped, someone grunting, and the brittle sound of the fire.
Lieutenant Corson bent over him.
“Better now?”
Paul Berlin nodded.
The old man winked and made a comforting gesture with his hand, a kind of affectionate pat.
“It happens, kid. Sometimes it happens. You got to—” The words trailed off. The lieutenant winked again and moved away.
Folly, that was all it was.
The fire was very hot. He sat up, crossing his legs, watching the fire. He tried for control. He didn’t look at the others. Later he would have to look at them.
“Dumb,” Oscar said. “Stupidest thing I ever seen.”
Stink laughed.
Harold Murphy said something to them, then he turned and went over to his gun. He seemed angry. He kicked the gun, then kicked it again, then picked it up and moved away.
Doc Peret was back again.
“See, man? Everything’s real cool.” He held up a canteen. “So what’s your poison? I got Beaujolais, Pouilly-Fuissé, and this one last magnum of 1914 Goofy Grape. Which’ll it be?”
“I didn’t mean to.”
“Sure.”
“I was tense. I didn’t mean it.”
Doc kept smiling. His eyes wandered. “So place your order, cowboy. Chablis? Or this real saucy Spanish number? Both vintage years, I swear. Or if you’re on a budget I can recommend this special—”
“It just started. You know? It was like the gun just started … I didn’t mean to.”
“Sure, man.”
Doc unscrewed the canteen lid and sniffed it. “Drink up,” he said. “You lucked out … a terrific nose. Real sweet stuff.”
