merely lay on his back repeating, “Sonofabitch! Sonofabitch!”
“Are you all right?” Payne asked.
“Yeah.”
“I think so.”
As they got to their feet, Forsythe said, “I thought you were just gonna use your flame throwers.”
They ignored him as they checked their equipment. By this time about ten more people had come over to find out what had happened. Hamilton and Chalice started walking back up to the road and Forsythe followed. Before they had gotten twenty yards, Hamilton said, “Walk faster, here comes Preston.”
“What a down,” Forsythe moaned.
“Hey, wait up,” Preston called.
“Too late.”
A skinny, awkward-looking corporal approached. Chalice was struck by the dark brown color of his buck teeth as they protruded from a large, sarcastic grin. “Well, just who I wanted to see.” Hamilton and Forsythe looked at each other with disgusted expressions. “C’mon back to the hootch with me. The gunny wants a working party.”
“How ’bout it, Preston? Why don’t you find somebody else?” Hamilton asked.
“I’ve got somebody else. They’ll help you. C’mon, let’s go.”
They followed him back to the company area without speaking except for the times Forsythe repeated, “What a fucking bummer.”
While they waited outside, Preston got eight men from inside the hootch. “The gunny wants these moved up there,” he said, pointing from a stack of seventy or eighty ammo boxes to some higher ground on the edge of the barbwire.
Hamilton protested, “We just moved the fucking things down from there two days ago.”
“The gunny changed his mind,” Preston replied with a self-satisfied look on his face.
“ Jesus Christ! Tell him to move them himself.”
“I’m telling you to do it. If you wanna tell him something, that’s your business, Hamilton.”
“Thanks, pal.”
The boxes were full of sand and rocks, and it took two men to carry each box. Plodding through the softer earth near the top of the knoll, they would often stumble to their knees or chests, then struggle to their feet again with a new coating of dry sand against their sweaty skin. The heat alone was enough to make just sitting in the sun exhausting. Before the job was finished, over three hours later, the rest of the platoon had straggled back from their working parties.
Chalice trudged down from the knoll towards the platoon hootch, hands rubbed raw and dirt completely covering his face except where sweat had etched it away. After a few minutes of rest in the hootch, the men headed for the mess hall. The food was overcooked and bland. All Chalice could taste was the dirt that covered his hands and face. Right after chow, he trudged to his bunker. He was still exhausted when his watch started. Though he could hardly stand, the soreness of his body helped him to stay awake.
Chalice had lost track of the days and was surprised when somebody mentioned it was Sunday. “At least we don’t have to go on any working parties today,” he remarked at breakfast. Everyone stopped eating and stared at him until Forsythe finally droned, “In the bush, Sunday’s like any other day, except you get a little present.” Nobody mentioned what the present was, and he figured he’d find out soon enough so he didn’t ask.
After chow there was a company formation. The four platoons lined up separately and in order. Sergeant Kovacs, the platoon sergeant, and Preston, the right guide, stood in front of Second Platoon. Each platoon was divided into four ranks; the three rifle squads in front and the guns and rocket squad in the rear. Being in Alpha, Chalice stood in the front rank. Kovacs yelled for everybody to cover down and shut up. Hearing a lot of laughter and talking behind him, Chalice looked over his shoulder. A few of the men were shoving each other, somebody in Charlie Squad was trying to get his hat back while it was being tossed from man to man, and Ski, oblivious to everything else going on around him, was playing
“Are you all right?” Payne asked.
“Yeah.”
“I think so.”
As they got to their feet, Forsythe said, “I thought you were just gonna use your flame throwers.”
They ignored him as they checked their equipment. By this time about ten more people had come over to find out what had happened. Hamilton and Chalice started walking back up to the road and Forsythe followed. Before they had gotten twenty yards, Hamilton said, “Walk faster, here comes Preston.”
“What a down,” Forsythe moaned.
“Hey, wait up,” Preston called.
“Too late.”
A skinny, awkward-looking corporal approached. Chalice was struck by the dark brown color of his buck teeth as they protruded from a large, sarcastic grin. “Well, just who I wanted to see.” Hamilton and Forsythe looked at each other with disgusted expressions. “C’mon back to the hootch with me. The gunny wants a working party.”
“How ’bout it, Preston? Why don’t you find somebody else?” Hamilton asked.
“I’ve got somebody else. They’ll help you. C’mon, let’s go.”
They followed him back to the company area without speaking except for the times Forsythe repeated, “What a fucking bummer.”
While they waited outside, Preston got eight men from inside the hootch. “The gunny wants these moved up there,” he said, pointing from a stack of seventy or eighty ammo boxes to some higher ground on the edge of the barbwire.
Hamilton protested, “We just moved the fucking things down from there two days ago.”
“The gunny changed his mind,” Preston replied with a self-satisfied look on his face.
“ Jesus Christ! Tell him to move them himself.”
“I’m telling you to do it. If you wanna tell him something, that’s your business, Hamilton.”
“Thanks, pal.”
The boxes were full of sand and rocks, and it took two men to carry each box. Plodding through the softer earth near the top of the knoll, they would often stumble to their knees or chests, then struggle to their feet again with a new coating of dry sand against their sweaty skin. The heat alone was enough to make just sitting in the sun exhausting. Before the job was finished, over three hours later, the rest of the platoon had straggled back from their working parties.
Chalice trudged down from the knoll towards the platoon hootch, hands rubbed raw and dirt completely covering his face except where sweat had etched it away. After a few minutes of rest in the hootch, the men headed for the mess hall. The food was overcooked and bland. All Chalice could taste was the dirt that covered his hands and face. Right after chow, he trudged to his bunker. He was still exhausted when his watch started. Though he could hardly stand, the soreness of his body helped him to stay awake.
Chalice had lost track of the days and was surprised when somebody mentioned it was Sunday. “At least we don’t have to go on any working parties today,” he remarked at breakfast. Everyone stopped eating and stared at him until Forsythe finally droned, “In the bush, Sunday’s like any other day, except you get a little present.” Nobody mentioned what the present was, and he figured he’d find out soon enough so he didn’t ask.
After chow there was a company formation. The four platoons lined up separately and in order. Sergeant Kovacs, the platoon sergeant, and Preston, the right guide, stood in front of Second Platoon. Each platoon was divided into four ranks; the three rifle squads in front and the guns and rocket squad in the rear. Being in Alpha, Chalice stood in the front rank. Kovacs yelled for everybody to cover down and shut up. Hearing a lot of laughter and talking behind him, Chalice looked over his shoulder. A few of the men were shoving each other, somebody in Charlie Squad was trying to get his hat back while it was being tossed from man to man, and Ski, oblivious to everything else going on around him, was playing
Similar Books
