The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [259]
"Everybody's here," someone yelled back.
The grove at the other end of the field was silent. Only an occasional shot chirruped over their heads.
"Let's get out of here."
Croft peered over the top of the shelf, searched the field for an instant and saw nothing. He ducked down as a few shots chased after him. "Want to go, Lootenant?"
Hearn was unable to concentrate for a moment. He was still caught in the ferment that had aroused him. He could not quite believe they were back to a temporary safety; all his energies were balked. He wanted to drive them for another hundred yards and another, bawling out his commands, bellowing his rage. He rubbed his head. It was impossible for him to think. He was churning. "All right, let's go," he blurted. There was an emotion in it somewhere, as sweet as anything he had ever known.
The platoon jogged away from the shelf, keeping close to the cliffs of Mount Anaka. They walked quickly, almost running, the men at the rear crowding up to the men ahead of them. There was a low hill they had to cross which put them in view of the grove for a few seconds, but it was several hundred yards away. They drew only a few scattered shots as they darted quickly, one by one, over the summit. For twenty minutes they kept walking and running, going farther and farther to the east, parallel to the base of the mountain. They were more than a mile away, separated by many small hills from the entrance to the pass, before they halted. Hearn, following Croft's example, selected a draw near the summit of a knoll, and posted four men at the approaches. The others flung themselves down, panting breathlessly.
They had been in the draw for ten minutes before they discovered Wilson was missing.
5
When the platoon fell into the ambush, Wilson took cover behind a rock near the tall grass. He had lain there, exhausted, feeling nothing, content to let the skirmish pass above him. When Hearn commanded the retreat, he had stood up obediently, had run back a few steps, and turned to fire at the Japs.
The bullet hit him in the stomach with the force of a blow to the solar plexus. It turned him around, sent him reeling a few feet, and then pitched him into the tall grass. He lay there a little startled, his first emotion anger. "Who the fug hit me?" he muttered. He rubbed his belly, planning to get up and rush the man who had punched him, but his hand came away wet with blood. Wilson shook his head, hearing the sound of rifle fire again, the shouts of the men in recon from the other side of the rock ledge, only thirty yards away. "Everybody here?" he heard somebody shout.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm here," he mumbled. He thought he had spoken loudly, but it was no more than a whisper. He rolled on his belly, suddenly afraid. Goddam, them Japs hit me. He shook his head. His glasses had been lost when he fell in the grass, and he squinted. He could see the field only a yard or two from where he lay and its emptiness pleased him. Goddam, Ah'm jus' pooped, that's the mother-fuggin truth. He relaxed for a minute or so, his mind swirling languidly toward unconsciousness. Dimly, he could hear the platoon leaving, but he hardly thought about it. Everything was relaxed and peaceful, except for the dull throbbing in his stomach.
Abruptly, he realized the firing had stopped. Ah gotta git back in the weeds where the Japs won' find me. He tried to rise but he felt too weak. Slowly, grunting from the effort, he crawled a few yards farther back into the tall grass, and relaxed again, content because he could no longer see the field. His dizziness, his well-being sifted through his body. Feels like Ah'm likkered up. He shook his head in bewilderment. He remembered sitting in a bar once, pleasantly drunk, his hand around the hips of the woman beside him in the booth. He was going home with her in a few minutes, and a tingle of passion flushed through him at the thought. "That's right, honey," he heard himself say, looking at the roots of the kunai grass before his nose.
Ah'm gonna die, Wilson told himself. A cold