The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [187]
After a few minutes a truck ground by and stopped for him. He climbed into the back, sat on top of a load of small-arms ammunition boxes, and fretted. A guy gets hurt and how do they treat him? Like a dog. They don't give a damn about us. Here I was willing to go back on my own accord, and he treated me as if I was a criminal. Aaah, fug 'em, they're all a bunch of bastards. He pushed his helmet off his forehead. I'm damned if I'll try any more. I'm out for myself. If they want to treat me that way, okay. The thought gave him some relief. Okay, then, he said at last.
He stared at the jungle which slid thickly past on either side of the truck. Okay. He lit a cigarette. Okay.
Red saw Minetta at midday chow when the platoon came in from working on the road. After he filed through the chow line, he sat down beside Minetta, and laid his mess gear on the ground. With a grunt he eased his back against a tree. "Just got back, huh?" he nodded to Minetta.
"Yeah, this morning."
"They kept you pretty long for just a scratch," Red said.
"Yeah." Minetta was silent for a moment and then added, "Well, you know how it is, hard to get in, hard to get out." He swallowed a mouthful of Vienna sausage. "I had a pretty soft time there."
Red piddled the dehydrated mashed potatoes and canned string beans with his spoon. It was the only eating utensil he owned; months ago he had thrown away his knife and fork. "They treated you pretty good, huh?" He was annoyed with his own curiosity.
"Damn good," Minetta said. He swallowed some coffee. "Well, I had a run-in with a doctor there, the sonofabitch. I lost my temper and told him where to get off, so I'm on company duty now, but outside of that it was okay."
"Yeah," Red said. They continued eating in silence.
Red was uncomfortable. For weeks his kidneys had been growing more painful, and that morning on the road he had strained himself badly in lifting a pick. A severe pain had seized him at the top of his swing, and he had ground his teeth, his fingers trembling. After a minute or so he had been forced to quit, and his back had throbbed for the rest of the morning with a dull constant ache. When the trucks had come, he had hoisted himself with great difficulty over the tail gate. "You're gettin' old, Red," Wyman had piped.
"Yeah." The jarring of the truck over the bumps had aggravated his pain, and he had been silent. The artillery was firing constantly and the men talked about an attack supposed to start soon. They're gonna be sendin' us out again, Red had thought, I better get fixed up. For a moment he had allowed himself to think, Maybe the hospital, and then he had repressed the thought with disgust. I never run out on anything, and I won't now. But he had kept looking uneasily over his shoulder. I ain't over that week yet, he had told himself.
"They treat you pretty fair, huh?" Red asked Minetta again.
Minetta set down his coffee, looked at Red warily. "Yeah, okay."
Red lit a cigarette, and then hoisted himself awkwardly to his feet. As he washed his mess gear in the hot water cans he debated whether to go on sick call. It seemed shameful to him somehow.
He compromised at last by stopping off at Wilson's tent. "Look, boy, I think I'm gonna go on sick call. You wanta come along?"
"Ah don' know. Never did know a doctor did a man any good."
"I thought you were sick."
"Ah am. Ah'll tell ya, Red, mah insides are shot plumb to hell. Ah cain't even take a leak any more without it burnin'."
"You need some monkey glands."
Wilson giggled. "Yeah, somepin the matter with me."
"What the hell, we might as well go," Red suggested.
"Aw, listen,