The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [188]
Red lit a cigarette, closing his eyes and suppressing a grimace as his back knotted suddenly. When the spasm had passed he muttered, "Come on, we rate a day off."
Wilson sighed. "Awright, but Ah feel a little low about it."
They walked over to the orderly room tent, and gave their names to the company clerk. Then they walked across the bivouac to the regimental-aid tent. Some men were standing around inside, waiting to be examined. There were two cots at one end of the tent and a half dozen men were sitting on them, and painting the fungus sores on their bare feet with a red antiseptic. An enlisted man was examining the men.
"It's a slow goddam line," Wilson complained.
"All lines are slow," Red said. "They got everything down to a system. Wait in line, wait in line, I tell you they ain't anything worth doing because of the lines."
"Ah suspec' when we get back we'll be waitin' in line for a woman."
They talked idly as the line moved forward. When Red reached the medic, he was tongue-tied for an instant. He remembered the old migrants, their limbs warped by rheumatism and arthritis and syphilis. Their eyes had become vacant, and they were usually drunk. Once they had snuffled up to him, and begged for a pill.
Now it was reversed, and for a second he could not speak. The medic was looking with boredom at him.
"It's my back," Red muttered in embarrassment at last.
"Well, take off your shirt, I can't see through your clothing," the medic snapped.
This broke the spell for Red. "If I took it off you wouldn't know any more," he flared. "It's my kidneys."
The medic sighed. "You guys can figure out more ways. Go over there to the doctor." Red noticed a shorter line, and walked over to it without answering. He was tense with anger. I don't have to take that crap, he told himself.
Wilson joined him in a moment. "They don' know nothin'. Jus' shuffle ya from man to man."
Red was about to be examined when an officer walked into the tent and greeted the doctor. "Come on over," the doctor called to him. They talked for a few minutes as Red listened. "I picked up a head cold," the officer said. "It's this hellish climate. Can you give me something to snap out of it, and I don't want any of your bloody aspirin." The doctor laughed. "I've got something for you, Ed; we got a little of it in the last shipment. Not nearly enough to go around, but you're welcome to it."
Red turned to Wilson and snorted. "If we came in with a cold, they'd give us a t.s. slip." He spoke loudly enough for the officers to hear, and the doctor looked at him coldly. Red glared back.
The officer left, and the doctor stared at Red. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nephritis."
"Let me do the diagnosing if you don't mind."
"I know what it is," Red said, "I been told by a doctor in the States."
"All you men seem to know just what your trouble is." The doctor asked him for the symptoms and listened inattentively. "All right, so you have nephritis, what am I supposed to do?"
"That's what I came here for."
The doctor looked at the ridgepole with an expression of disgust. "You wouldn't mind going to the hospital, I suppose."
"I just want to get fixed up." The doctor's words made him uneasy. Was that why he was here?
"We got a report from the hospital today to watch out for malingerers. How do I know you're not faking the symptoms?"
"There's some tests you can give me, ain't there?"
"If there wasn't a war on." He reached under his table, and handed Red a package of wound tablets. "Drink these with a lot of water, and if you're faking the whole thing, just throw them away." Red became pale. "Next man," the doctor said.
Red turned and strode out of the tent. "That's the last goddam time I ever fool around with those fuggin medics." He was quivering with rage. "If you're faking. . ." He thought of the places he had