"Is Slutfinger very pissed?" Morning asked.
"Who cares."
"You do. All you fucking lifers do." He had a deadly stillness to his face.
"Not so much as you think. Besides, he's too curious to be pissed now. Wants to observe the disaster firsthand, get an eyeful and claim it for a bellyful…"
"And we have to guard him against dead little fuckers. Where was he, when the lights went out?"
"I don't know. He doesn't go to the Officer's Club."
"I hear he has the thing going again with Reid's wife, the turd."
"Just be glad Saunders wasn't here. Trick Two would have charged those jeeps."
"I thought you might." He wasn't smiling.
"Huh?"
"How long have you been waiting for a chance like this."
"No longer than you, Morning."
"Fuck," he muttered, his voice tired, as we followed Dottlinger toward the clustered headlights.
But Morning's mood couldn't stop the grin on my face. The carbine seemed very small in my hand, like a toy outgrown. My body was tight, hard, as it was after a workout with the weights, solid. Dottlinger's nose, Morning's mood, the lie before – these no longer clouded the night. Not them, nor the sick, greasy nudge of fear. The enemy had risen out of darkness, had stood erect and dared me, and if he paid a price, it seemed only what he owed for the honor of standing. I had been afraid but had acted, and the action transcended, as ever, the emotion. Morality did not matter, nor mortality, only the act, the duty, simple and clear. I could not have chosen otherwise. Hundreds of lines through the space of time had converged in that fire-seared, light-spitted night, and one of the lines was me. Some stopped, some dodged the impact, and others could not have crashed if they wanted to; but mine endured. I too stood and dared, then, now, and forever. The cool night air blessed my face, and whatever throats gagged on the odors of the night, mine didn't. I breathed only victory as I strode over the gravel into the smoky circle of light.
People moved in all directions: hospital orderlies tended the wounded, gathered the dead; photographers recorded the scene from all angles; a priest with a pale, yearning face blessed friend and foe alike. A tall Air Force captain came over to Dottlinger, smiling, and extended a congratulatory hand.
"Lieutenant! I was just on my way down to thank you and your men for their timely help. Understand your men knocked off the first jeep, the one with the cannon on it," he said, shaking Dottlinger's surprised hand. I might have been crazy, but this captain was a fool. What had been, however perversely, salvation for me, became a golf match in his mouth. His voice, prideful voice, sullied the world.
"Sorry, sir, but all the credit goes to Sgt. Krummel here," Dottlinger answered. I was surprised he didn't lie. Then he lied. "I was making the courier-run."
"Well, I guess I owe you a great big 'thanks,' sergeant," he gleamed.
"Don't forget God," Morning whispered in my ear.
"No telling how many lives you saved."
"Or took," came the whisper.
"We really broke their backs this time," the captain continued. "Three jeeps and ten men here, and another jeep and four men at the gate." He smiled. "We were waiting for them, all right."
"Sir?" I asked.
"Trap," he answered, quickly, proudly. "But they pulled a fast one on us." He frowned slightly. "Came through the gate instead of busting the fence as we expected. But we broke their back, all right."
Morning whispered again. "Who the fuck trapped whom?" I heard him walk away. Looking around the field, I couldn't answer him.
The captain discussed the Communist problem in Asia, and Dottlinger agreed, but before they resolved it, Tetrick and Capt. Saunders, just back from the States, came wandering across the crowd in civilian clothes. They looked like Town. Capt. Harry smiled as if he loved the entire concept of humanity, and Tetrick frowned as if he were worried about it.
"Any of our men hurt?" he asked as soon as he saw me. I shook my head but he kept frowning.
"Everyone all right?" Capt. Harry asked. "Looks like the men got a little action tonight." He rocked his large body, smiled and slapped me on the shoulder as if I were his brother.
"Yes, sir."
"Well, goddamnit, that's all right. Trick Two's a good bunch, and I knew they would do all right." Dottlinger stopped trying to get his attention, and huffed off. "But wish to hell I'd been here. We'd have run right out and knocked the bastards right off the road. Yes, sir, by God."
"Sgt. Rummel did a fine job, Harry. One hell of a fine job," the airman captain said. Morning was gone, but I heard him whisper, "Yeah, yeah."
"Sir," I asked while he still remembered me, "You don't need my men for anything tomorrow, do you?"
"Why?" He and I were no longer comrades-at-arms, but were returned to suspicious officer and crafty sergeant.
"Well, sir, they've had a trip planned for over a month, and I'd hate to see them miss it, after doing such a good job tonight, and they planned to leave tomorrow morning."
"Oh. Well, I don't know…"
"Come on, Fred," Capt. Harry interrupted the captain, "Ease up. You know you slice the ball when you tighten up." He laughed and slapped the captain on the back.
"Oh, all right. Take off. We can get statements from you later. You've earned a break," he said. "And thanks again, sergeant."
"And thank you, sir." I excused myself, thanked Capt. Harry, reassured Tetrick, and went to find Morning. The kiss was off the flesh now, and I wanted very much to get to the beach tomorrow and forget… or remember.
I found Morning squatting in the ditch, watching some debris, a gutted jeep and a half-naked body lying on its face. Exit wounds covered the back like black roses with an occasional gristle petal. But for all the poetry of death, he looked no different than the charred jeep. Morning was alone. The crowd hadn't found this body yet.
"Maybe that's why man invented God," he said as I walked up behind him. "They saw dead men and understood that dead men weren't men any more. They had to have something in man they couldn't kill, something holy in man alive, someplace for man dead to go, something that couldn't die. Couldn't die." He had been waiting for me.
"Don't eat on it, Joe."
"A man needs to know what the hell he's done."
"You won't find out eating his liver. Or yours."
"You smug son of a bitch. You've got all the answers, don't you?" He stood up. He was crying. No sobs, just tears. We both remembered who had had the last shots.
"I only know what questions not to ask," I said.
"Slick, smooth counter-puncher, aren't you? You take all the shots on your shoulders. But you never miss, do you? You fucking bastard." His voice was quiet and grim. I could only wait.
"Come on let's go back to Ops."
"Shit," he sighed. "Shit."
Neither of us spoke as he followed me through the high thick grass toward the lights of our building. The air hung warm and heavy in the grass, and the insects swarmed up about our legs, circling and rising to our faces. The tough roots clutched at our feet, and we stumbled and cursed the heat, the bugs, the grass scratching at our eyes, and the darkness. And later we cursed the light when it blinded us.
7. Dagupan
Trick Two packed itself into the Air Force bus with the rented Filipino driver before seven-thirty the next morning. As I came out of the barracks, they greeted me with hoots and jeers for being so foolish as to want breakfast, then booed when I sent half of them back to the Orderly Room to sign out. When they came back, I climbed aboard behind them, swung down the aisle over the stacked K-rations, the garbage can of iced beer, the four cases of beer and six cases of Chianti and Rhine wine, and finally dropped into the rear seat between Morning and Novotny.