The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [225]
Croft was moved as deeply, as fundamentally as caissons resettling in the river mud. The mountain attracted him, taunted and inflamed him with its size. He had never seen it so clearly before. Mired in the jungle, the cliffs of Watamai Range had obscured the mountain. He stared at it now, examined its ridges, feeling an instinctive desire to climb the mountain and stand on its peak, to know that all its mighty weight was beneath his feet. His emotions were intense; he knew awe and hunger and the peculiar unique ecstasy he had felt after Hennessey was dead, or when he had killed the Japanese prisoner. He gazed at it, almost hating the mountain, unconscious at first of the men about him. "That mountain's mighty old," he said at last.
And Red felt only gloom, and a vague harassment. Croft's words bothered him subtly. He examined the mountain with little emotion, almost indifference. But when he looked away he was bothered by the fear all of the men in the platoon had felt at one time or another that day. Like the others, Red was wondering if this patrol would be the one where his luck ran out.
Goldstein and Martinez were talking about America. By chance they had chosen cots next to each other, and they spent the afternoon lying on them, their ponchos drawn over their bodies. Goldstein was feeling rather happy. He had never been particularly close to Martinez before, but they had been chatting for several hours and their confidences were becoming intimate. Goldstein was always satisfied if he could be friendly with someone; his ingenuous nature was always trusting. One of the main reasons for this wretchedness in the platoon was that his friendships never seemed to last. Men with whom he would have long amiable conversations would wound him or disregard him the next day, and he never understood it. To Goldstein, men were friends or they weren't friends; he could not comprehend any variations or disloyalties. He was unhappy because he felt continually betrayed.
Yet he never became completely disheartened. Essentially he was an active man, a positive man. If his feelings were bruised, if another friend had proved himself undependable, Goldstein would nurse his pains, but almost always he would recover and sally out again. The succession of rebuffs he had suffered in the platoon had made him more wily, more cautious in what he said and did. But still, Goldstein was too affectionate to possess any real defenses; at the first positive hint of friendship he was ready to forget all his grievances and respond with warmth and simplicity. Now he felt he knew Martinez. If he had phrased his opinion he would have said to himself, Martinez is a very fine fellow. He's a little quiet but he's a nice guy. Very democratic for a sergeant.
"You know in America," Martinez was saying, "lots of opportunity."
"Oh, there is," Goldstein nodded sagely. "I know I've got plans for setting up my own business, because I've considered it a-lot, and a man has to strike out for himself if he wants to get ahead. There's a lot to be said for steady wages and security, but I'd rather be my own boss."
Martinez nodded. "Lots of money in your own business, huh?"
"Sometimes."
Martinez considered this. Money! A little perspiration formed on his palms. He thought for a moment of a man named Ysidro Juaninez, a brothelkeeper who had always fascinated him when he was a child. He shivered as he remembered the way Ysidro would hold a thick sheaf of dollar bills in his hand. "After the war maybe I get out of the Army."
"You certainly ought to," Goldstein said. "I mean you're an intelligent fellow and you're dependable."
Martinez sighed. "Still. . ." He did not know how to say it. He was always embarrassed at mentioning the fact that he was a Mexican. He thought it was bad manners as if he were blaming the man he told it to, implying that it was his fault there were no good jobs for him. Besides, there was always the irrational hope he might