The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [253]
The haze was dissolving, and Croft squinted through the field glasses into the distance. "I wouldn't say, Lootenant. That pass is narrow enough for a platoon to hold it till hell freezes over." He spat. "Course we got to find that out." The sun was beginning to outline the contours of the hills. The shadows in the hollows and draws were considerably lighter.
"There's not a damn thing else we can do," Hearn murmured. Already he could sense the antipathy between Croft and himself. "With any luck we'll be able to bivouac behind the Jap lines tonight, and then tomorrow we can scout the Jap rear."
Croft was doubtful. His instincts, his experience, told him that the pass would be dangerous, probably futile, and yet there was no alternative. They could climb Mount Anaka, but Hearn would never hear of that. He spat again. "Ain't nothin' else to do, I suppose." But he felt disturbed. The more he looked at the mountain. . .
"Let's start," Hearn said.
They went down again to the men in the hollow, put on their packs, and began to march. Hearn alternated with Brown and Croft in leading the platoon, while Martinez acted as point and scouted ahead, almost always thirty or forty yards in front of them. The grass was slick from the night's dew, and the men slipped frequently as they moved downhill, panted hoarsely as they toiled up an ascending slope. Hearn, however, was feeling good. His body had reacted from the preceding day's march, and was stronger now, the waste burned out of him. He had awakened with stiff muscles and a sore shoulder, but rested and cheerful. This morning his legs were firm, and he sensed greater reserves of endurance. As they crossed the first ridge-line, he hefted his pack higher on his broad shoulders, and turned up his face to the sun for an instant. Everything smelled fine, and the grass had the sweet fresh odor of early morning. "Okay, men, let's hit it," he called to them cheerfully as they passed by. He had dropped back from the point, and he moved from man to man, slowing his stride or increasing it in order to keep pace with them.
"How's it going today, Wyman, you feel any better?"
Wyman nodded. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry I pooped out yesterday."
"Hell, we all were bushed, it'll be better today." He clapped Wyman on the shoulder and dropped back to Ridges.
"Lot of country, heh, boy?"
"Yeah, Lootenant, always enough country." Ridges grinned.
He walked for a while beside Wilson, kidding him. "Still fertilizing the ground, boy?"
"Yeah, Ah lost mah petcock, ain't nothin' to hold it in now."
Hearn nudged him in the ribs. "Next break we're gonna cut a plug for you."
It was easy, it was swell. He hardly knew why he was doing it, but it gave him a great deal of pleasure. He had suspended all judgments, scarcely cared now about the patrol. They would probably be successful today, and by tomorrow night they would be ready to start back. In a few days the patrol would be over, and they would be in bivouac.
He thought of Cummings, an felt a sour hatred, had no desire suddenly for the patrol to end. His mood was spoiled momentarily. Whatever they accomplished would be for Cummings's benefit.
To hell with it. If you ever traced anything out to the end, you found yourself in trouble. The trick was to keep putting one foot in front of the other. "Okay, men, let's keep moving," he said quietly, as they filed past him on a slope. "That's it, hit it."
And there were other problems. There was Croft. As never before he would have to keep his eyes open, absorb things, learn in a few days the lessons Croft had acquired over months and years. Now he was in command only through the most delicate of balances. In a sense Croft could kick it over whenever he wanted to. Last night on the hilltop. . . Croft had the wrong kind of command, a frightening command.
He continued talking to the men as they marched, but the sun was hotter, and everyone was tired again, a little irritable. His own approach was less spontaneous now.
"How's it going,