But the lieutenant was determined to have his moment. He had launched himself from hours of meditation, finally decisive. And he intended to stick to his decision.
Taylor fiddled with the computer for an unbearably long time. Meredith felt his shoulders decline as his posture deteriorated even further. He realized that he was very, very tired.
His eyes roamed, settling on the stack of books Taylor had gathered by his cot. Meredith was eternally amused by the changing titles. The only constants were the Spanish grammars and dictionaries. Tonight, Meredith could make out the titles of a work on urban planning, a text on the Black Death in Europe, Huckleberry Finn, the short novels of Joseph Conrad, and the latest copy of Military Review. Meredith was just trying to make out the title of a halfhidden book, when Taylor startled him.
"All right, Merry, what's up?" Taylor glanced back toward the computer. "You know, it must have all been a lot easier back in the old Army when all they had were typewriters. Then there was physical limit on how much nonsense the system could expect out of you."
Meredith stood before the man who seemed so much older than the few years separating them. And he found it very difficult to bring himself to speech, to articulate the decisive words he had so carefully prepared.
"This looks serious," Taylor said, and the lieutenant could not be sure whether or not there was a flavor of mockery in the voice.
"Sir, I request to be relieved and reassigned to conventional duties."
Taylor looked up at the younger man, eyes hunting over his face. It was always difficult for Meredith to read Taylor's expression under that badly mottled skin. He felt perspiration breaking out on his forehead and in the small of his back. The major was taking an unreasonably, an unconscionably long time in responding. Meredith had expected shock… perhaps anger, perhaps disappointment. But this silent consideration was as unexpected as it was intolerable.
When Taylor finally responded, he offered Meredith only a single word:
"Why?"
Meredith reached for the appropriate response. "Sir… I do not believe… that I'm suited for this job."
Taylor nodded slightly, but it was symbolic of thought, not agreement. Then he tensed and leaned forward slightly, like a big cat who had spotted something that just might be of interest.
"Don't beat around the bush. Merry. What you mean… is that you think you fucked up. And you're feeling sorry for yourself." He brought the tips of his fingers together. "All right then. Tell me what you think you should have done differently today."
Meredith had no ready answer for the question. Instead, he felt himself seethe, defiantly childish in his incapability. Was Taylor trying to humiliate him? He searched for a sharp, tough answer that would set this acting commander straight.
But it was hard. He had done everything by the drill. He had taken the actions prescribed for such circumstances. There had been no warning, no intelligence that so big an affair was in the wind. Try as he might, he could think of no practical way in which he might have changed the day's events. It would have required a quality of foresight no man could claim. He had done his best, playing his assigned role. The only other thing he might have done would have been to die with Rosario and the others, and, even in his fury, he recognized the senselessness of that.
And the boy dying in the street? His eyes, his words? What was this all about, anyway? Had his parents been right? Was he just an oversize boy playing a very dangerous game with living toy soldiers? He was too emotionally excited to answer himself rationally. He wanted to feel guilty. But he could not help detecting a tone of falsity in these attacks on his long-held convictions.
"Sir, I don't know. But I know I failed."
The fright mask of Taylor's face never changed expression.
"Bullshit. I'll be glad to let you know when you're fucking up, Lieutenant. In the meantime I need every officer I've got." Taylor breathed deeply, as if disgusted at Meredith's childishness, refusing to make any attempt to understand. "Request denied."
"Sir…" Meredith began, in a peevish fury. He did not know what he might say, but he sensed it was now utterly impossible for him to go on performing this mission. He would not go back into those streets. At least not in uniform.
"Lieutenant," Taylor cut him off, "it would be a wonderful thing if military service consisted of nothing but doing the right thing when the choices are easy, of kicking the shit out of some evil foreign sonsofbitches with horns and tails, then coming home to a big parade." Taylor's eyes burned into his subordinate's. "Unfortunately, it also consists of trying to figure out what the hell the right thing can possibly be when the orders are unclear, the mission stinks, and everybody's in a hopeless muddle. A soldier's duty…" Taylor intoned the last word in a voice of granite, "is to do an honest day's work in dishonest times… and to make the best out of the worst fucking mess imaginable. It means… believing in your heart that some things are more important than your personal devils… or even your personal beliefs. It means the willingness to give up… everything." Taylor sat back in his chair, never breaking eye contact. "And sometimes it just means lacing up your boots one more time when the whole world's going to shit. You got that, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir. I've got it," Meredith lied, feeling only confusion in his mind and heart.
"Then get out of here and get some sleep."
Meredith snapped to attention and saluted, hoping that this outward display of self-possession would hide his inner collapse. He did a crisp about-face and marched toward the door. He was no longer angry with Taylor. He simply hated him for his strength, his superiority.
"Oh, Lieutenant?" Taylor called, just as Meredith was about to step into the safety of the hall.
"Sir?"
"I heard that you killed a man today. First time, I believe?"
"Yes, sir."
Taylor considered the younger man across the emotional vastness in the room. "Did you… happen to notice the color of his skin?"
Meredith felt an explosion of fury within himself beside which his earlier anger had been inconsequential.
"Sir. I killed a black man, sir."
Taylor nodded. He looked at Meredith calmly, ignoring the rage, the disrespect in the lieutenant's tone of voice.
"Lieutenant, it is my personal belief… that self-pity has ruined more good men than all the bad women in history. Decide who the fuck you are by tomorrow… and, if you still want to transfer out, I'll expedite the orders. Carry on."
Meredith returned to his billet and beat his locker with his fists until the knuckles bled and he could not stand the pain any longer. He did not know if he had broken any of the bones in his fingers or hand, and he refused to care. In the brackish hours before dawn, he decided, with the firmness of stone, that he would take Taylor up on his offer first thing in the morning. Then he fell asleep, torn hands burning, to the distant music of helicopter patrols.
He woke to a knock on his door. It was a Hispanic lieutenant Meredith had never seen before. The new man looked embarrassed.
"Sorry to wake you up."
Meredith mumbled a response, straining to clear his head.
"I'm Manny Martinez," the new officer said, thrusting out his hand, "the new supply officer. You're Lieutenant Meredith, right?"
"Yeah."
"The operations center sent me down to get you. Lieutenant Barret's down sick, and Major Taylor wants you to pull his duty for him. I told him I could do it, but—" Meredith looked at the new man as they shook hands. Earnest. He seemed very young, although Meredith recognized that they were, in fact, approximately the same age. The visitor spoke with an accent that declared, "I'm from Texas and I'm educated, by God," with no trace of a Spanish drawl.