by James Jones
“What the fuck happen to your boy there? Who the hell he beat up with them skinned knuckles and all them blood splatters on him? Did I miss somethin?”
Welsh looked up at him with that level gaze of his which, when he wasn’t pretending to be crazy, could be so penetrating. Already, Doll felt he had made a mistake, and guilty. Without answering Welsh turned to look at Bead, who sat hunched up by himself on a small rock. He had put back on his equipment.
“Bead, come over here!”
Bead got up and came, still hunched, his face drawn. Doll grinned at him with his raised eyebrow. Welsh looked him up and down.
“What happened to you?”
“Who? Me?”
Welsh waited in silence.
“Well, I slipped and fell down and skinned myself, that’s all.”
Welsh eyed him in silence, thoughtfully. Obviously he was not even bothering with that story. “Where’d you go a while ago? When you were gone for a while? Where were you?”
“I went off to take a crap by myself.”
“Wait!” Doll put in, grinning. “When I seen him, he was comin down from the 2d Platoon’s section of line on the ridge.”
Welsh swung his gaze to Doll and his eyes blazed murderously. Doll subsided. Welsh looked back at Bead. Stein, who had been standing nearby, had come closer now and was listening. So had Band and Fife and some of the others.
“Lissen, kid,” Welsh said. “I got more problems than I know what to do with in this screwy outfit. Or how to handle. I got no time to fuck around with kid games. I want to know what happened to you, and I want the truth. Look at yourself! Now, what happened, and where were you?”
Welsh apparently, at least to Bead’s eyes, was much closer to guessing the truth than the unimaginative Doll, or the others. Bead drew a long quavering breath.
“Well, I went across the ridge outside the line in the trees to take a crap in private. A Jap guy came up while I was there and he tried to bayonet me. And—and I killed him.” Bead exhaled a long, fluttering breath, then inhaled sharply and gulped.
Everyone was staring at him disbelievingly, but nevertheless dumbstruck. “Goddam it, kid!” Welsh bellowed after a moment. “I told you I wanted the goddam fucking truth! And not no kid games!”
It had never occurred to Bead that he would not be believed. Now he was faced with a choice of shutting up and being taken for a liar, or telling them where and having them see what a shameful botched-up job he’d done. Even in his upset and distress it did not take him long to choose.
“Then god damn you go and look!” he cried at Welsh. “Don’t take my word, go and look for your goddam fucking self!”
“I’ll go!” Doll put in immediately.
Welsh turned to glare at him. “You’ll go nowhere, stooly,” he said. He turned back to Bead. “I’ll go myself.”
Doll had subsided into a stunned, shocked, whitefaced silence. It had never occurred to Doll that his joking about Bead would be taken as stoolpigeoning. But then he had never imagined the result would turn out to be what it apparently had. Bead killing a Jap! He was not guilty of stooling, and furiously he made up his mind that he was going along; if he had to crawl.
“And if you’re lyin, kid, God help your fucking soul.” Welsh picked up his Thompsongun and put on his helmet. “All right. Where is it? Come on, show me.”
“I’m not going up there again!” Bead cried. “You want to go, go by yourself! But I ain’t going! And nothin’s gonna make me!”
Welsh stared at him narrowly a moment. Then he looked at Storm. Storm nodded and got up. “Okay,” Welsh said. “Where is it, then?”
“A few yards in the trees beyond the crest, at the middle of the 2d Platoon. Just about in front of Krim’s hole.” Bead turned and walked away.
Storm had put on his helmet and picked up his own Thompson. And suddenly, with the withdrawal of Bead and his emotion from the scene, the whole thing became another larking, kidding excursion of the “Tommygun Club” which had held the infiltrator hunt that morning. Stein, who had been listening in silence nearby all the time, dampened it by refusing to allow any of the officers to leave the CP; but MacTae could go, and it was the three sergeants and Dale who prepared to climb to the crest. Bead could not resist calling a bitter comment from his rock: “You won’t need all the goddamned artillery, Welsh! There’s nobody up there now but him!” But he was ignored.
It was just before they departed that Doll, his eyes uneasy but nonetheless steady, presented himself manfully in front of the First Sergeant and gazed at him squarely.
“Top, you wouldn’t keep me from goin’, would you?” he asked. It was not begging nor was it a try at being threatening, just a simple, level, straightforward question.
Welsh stared at him a moment, then without change of expression turned away silently. It was obviously a reprimand. Doll chose to take it as silent acquiescence. And with himself in the rear the five of them started the climb to the line. Welsh did not send him back.
While they were gone no one bothered Bead. He sat by himself on his rock, head down, now and then squeezing his hands or feeling his knuckles. Everyone avoided looking at him, as if to give him privacy. The truth was nobody really knew what to think. As for Bead himself, all he could think about was how shamefully he and his hysterical, graceless killing were going to be exposed. His memory of it, and of that resolute face coming at him, made him shudder and want to gag. More times than not he wished he had kept his mouth shut and let them all think him a crazy liar. It might have been much better.
When the little scouting party returned, their faces all wore a peculiar look. “He’s there,” Welsh said. “He sure is,” MacTae said. All of them looked curiously subdued. That was all that was said. At least, it was all that was said in front of Bead. What they said away from him, Bead could not know. But he did not find in their faces any of the disgust or horror of him that he had expected. If anything, he found a little of the reverse: admiration. As they separated to go to their various holes, each made some gesture.
Doll had hunted up the Japanese rifle and brought it back for Bead. He had scrubbed most of the blood and matter from the buttplate with leaves and had cleaned up the bayonet. He brought it over and presented it as if presenting an apology offering.
“Here, this is yours.”
Bead looked at it without feeling anything. “I don’t want it.”
“But you won it. And won it the hard way.”
“I don’t want it anyway. What good’s it to me.”
“Maybe you can trade it for whiskey.” Doll laid it down. “And here’s his wallet. Welsh said to give it to you. There’s a picture of his wife in it.”
“Jesus Christ, Doll.”
Doll smiled. “There’s pictures of other broads, too,” he hurried on. “Filipino, it looks like. Maybe he was in the Philippines. That’s Filipino writing on the back, Welsh says.”
“I don’t want it anyway. You keep it.” But he took the proffered wallet anyway, his curiosity piqued in spite of himself. “Well—” He looked at it. It was dark, greasy from much sweating. “I don’t feel good about it, Doll,” he said looking up, wanting suddenly to talk about it to someone. “I feel guilty.”
“Guilty! What the hell for? It was him or you, wasn’t it? How many our guys you think maybe he stuck that bayonet in in the Philippines? On the Death March. How about those two guys yesterday?”
“I know all that. But I can’t help it. I feel guilty.”
“But why!”
“Why! Why! How the fuck do I know why!” Bead cried. “Maybe my mother beat me up too many times for jerking off when I was a kid!” he cried plaintively, with a sudden half-flashing of miserable insight. “How do I know why!”
Doll stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Never mind,” Bead said.
“Listen,” Doll said. “If you really don’t want that wallet.”
Bead felt a sudden clutching greed. He put the wallet in his pocket quickly.
“No. No, I’ll keep it. No, I might as well keep it.”
“Well,” Doll said sorrowfully, “I got to get back up to the platoon.”
“Thanks anyway, Doll,” he said.
“Yeah. Sure.” Doll stood up. “I’ll say one thing. When you set out to kill him, you really killed him,” he said admiringly.
Bead jerked his head up, his eyes searching. “You think so?” he said. Slowly he began to grin a little.
Doll was nodding, his face boyish with his admiration. “I ain’t the only one.” He turned and left, heading up the slope.
Bead stared after him, still not knowing what he really felt. And Doll had said he wasn’t the only one. If they did not find it such a disgraceful, botched-up job, then at least he need not feel so bad about that. Tentatively he grinned a little wider, a little more expansively, aware that his face felt stiff doing it.
A little later on Bugger Stein came over to him. Stein had remained in the background up to now. The news of Bead’s Japanese had of course spread through the whole company at once, and when messengers or ration details came down from the line, they looked at Bead as though he were a different person. Bead was not sure whether he enjoyed this or not, but had decided that he did. He was not surprised when Stein came over.
Bead was sitting on the edge of his hole when Stein appeared, jumped down in and sat down beside him. Nobody else was around. Stein adjusted his glasses in that nervous way he had, the four fingers on top of one frame, the thumb beneath, and then put his hand on Bead’s knee in a fatherly way and turned to look at him. His face was earnest and troubled-looking.
“Bead, I know you’ve been pretty upset by what happened to you today. That’s unavoidable. Anybody would be. I thought perhaps you might like to talk about it, and maybe relieve yourself a little. I don’t know that what I would have to say to you about it would be of any help, but I’m willing to try.”
Bead stared at him in astonishment, and Stein, giving his knee a couple of pats, turned and looked sadly off across the basin toward Hill 207, the command post of yesterday.
“Our society makes certain demands and requires certain sacrifices of us, if we want to live in it and partake of its benefits. I’m not saying whether this is right or wrong. But we really have no choice. We have to do as society demands. One of these demands is the killing of other humans in armed combat in time of war, when our society is being attacked and must defend itself. That was what happened to you today. Only most men who have to do this are luckier than you. They do their first killing at a distance, however small. They have a chance, however small, to get used to it before having to kill hand to hand and face to face. I think I know what you must have felt.”
Stein paused. Bead did not know what to say to all of this, so he did not say anything. When Stein turned and looked at him for some answer, he said “Yes, sir.”
“Well, I just want you to know that you were morally justified in what you did. You had no choice, and you mustn’t worry or feel guilty about it. You only did what any other good soldier would have done, for our country or any other.”
Bead listened incredulously. When Stein paused again, he did not know what to say so he didn’t say anything. Stein looked off across the basin.
“I know it’s tough. You and I may have had our little differences, Bead. But I want you to know—” his voice choked slightly— “I want you to know that after this war is over, if there is anything I can ever do for you, just get in touch with me. I’ll do everything I possibly can to help you.”
Without looking at Bead he got up, patted him on the shoulder and left.
Bead stared after him, as he had done after Doll. He still did not know what he really felt. Nobody told him anything that made any sense. But he realized now, quite suddenly, that he could survive the killing of many men. Because already the immediacy of the act itself, only minutes ago so very sharp, was fading. He could look at it now without pain, perhaps even with pride, in a way, because now it was only an idea like a scene in a play, and did not really hurt anyone.
He was not given much time to speculate on this point, however. By the time Stein, in leaving Bead’s hole, had arrived back at his own, the messenger with tomorrow’s dispositions had arrived and was waiting for him. They were to move out immediately, down into the basin and around the curve of the ridge, as soon as the reserve battalion could take over for them.
They already knew of course that 2d Battalion was being pulled out. They had watched the battered and broken companies moving back along the slopes. There was only one logical answer to this. C-for-Charlie however had preferred not to believe it. Now it had come.
The relief platoons began to come in fifteen minutes later, smiling and obsequious, somehow guiltyfaced. C-for-Charlie was already packed and was glad to get away from them quickly. There was no point in talking about it. One by one the squads came down from the top past the CP and continued on down, angling off across the steep slope toward the bottom. At the head of the basin where Hill 209 cut across the fall of the land like a dam, the bottom was much less deep than further down, perhaps only fifty yards from the crest, and this was where they were to congregate. The HQ and the mortars left last, following the platoons. There had been very little to pack. The incoming platoons still carried their combat packs, complete with meatcan, entrenching tool, raincoat, etc. C-for-Charlie had already dispensed with these. Instead each man carried his spoon in his pocket, and had his entrenching tool hooked to his belt. A few lugged their raincoats along over one shoulder.
Bugger Stein and his opposite number, when Stein made the official turnover, reacted exactly as their troops had. The other captain, a man of Stein’s age, smiled apologetically and offered his hand which Stein took perfunctorily. “Good luck!” he called softly as Stein moved off after his men. Stein, with a lump of excitement and tension filling his throat, did not think it worth the effort to swallow one half and cough up the other in order to make a pointless answer, and only bobbed his head without looking back. He, like his men, only wanted to get away quickly, and especially without having to talk.
But down in the bottom they found others who wanted to talk to them. Bars of D ration chocolate were pressed upon them by the reserve platoons stationed there. They were given first pick at the C rations for their suppers. The best places to sleep were offered them. By now it was almost dark, and over an hour was consumed in making sure each man had two full canteens of water. Stein and the officers went off for a flashlight briefing in a small ditch with Colonel Tall, an older man though not as much older as the generals, lean and boyish and burrheaded, a West Pointer. He had been trained in all this as his life work. They came back looking solemn. Tall had told them the corps commander as well as the division commander would be watching tomorrow. Men spread themselves out in holes dug by other, unknown men or in little erosion ditches and tried to force sleep upon bodies which kept shooting messages of reluctance along humming nerves.
In the night it rained only once, but it was a very hard rain which wet everyone to the skin, and woke those who had managed to doze.
CHAPTER 4
DAWN CAME, and passed, and still they waited. The roses and blues of the dawn light changed to the pearl and misty greys of early morning light. Of course everyone had been up, and nervously ready, since long before dawn. But for today Colonel Tall had requested a new artillery wrinkle. Because of yesterday’s heavy repulse, Tall had asked for, and got, an artillery time-on-target “shoot.” This device, an artillery technique left over from World War I, was a method of calculating so that the first rounds of every battery hit their various targets simultaneously. Under TOT fire men caught in the open would suddenly find themselves enveloped in a curtain of murderous fire without the usual warning of a few shells arriving early from the nearest guns. The thing to do was to wait a bit, play poker with them, try to catch them when they were out of their holes for breakfast or an early morning stretch. So they waited. Along the crest the silent t
roops stared across a silent ravine to the silent hilltop, and the silent hill stared back.
C-for-Charlie, waiting with the assault companies on the slope below, could not even see this much. Nor did they care. They crouched over their weapons in total and unspeakable insularity, so many separate small islands. To their right and to their left A-for-Able and B-for-Baker did the same.
At exactly twenty-two minutes after first daylight Colonel Tall’s requested TOT fire struck, an earthcracking, solidly tangible, continuous roar on Hill 210. The artillery fired three-minute concentrations at irregular intervals, hoping to catch the survivors out of their holes. Twenty minutes later, and before the barrage itself was ended, whistles began to blow along the crest of Hill 209.
The assault companies had no recourse except to begin to move. Minds cast frantically about for legitimate last minute excuses, and found none. In the men themselves nervous fear and anxiety, contained so long and with such effort in order to appear brave, now began to come out in yelled exhortations and yelps of gross false enthusiasm. They moved up the slope; and in bunches, crouching low and carrying their rifles in one or both hands, they hopped over the crest and commenced to run sideways and crouching down the short forward slope to the flat, rocky ground in front. Men in the line shouted encouragement to them as they passed through. A small cheer, dwarfed by the distant mountains, rose and died. A few slapped some of them toughly on the shoulder as they went through. Men who would not die today winked lustily at men who, in some cases, would soon be dead. On C-for-Charlie’s right fifty yards away A-for-Able was going through an identical ritual.
They were rested. At least, they were comparatively so; they had not had to stand watch one half of the night, and they had not been up on the line where jitters precluded sleep, but down below, protected. And they had been fed. And watered. If few of them had slept much, at least they were better off than the men on the line.
