The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [284]
In the squad tent he could hear an occasional burst of laughter, a few raucous jeers.
Always, he had had to be alone, he had chosen it that way, and he would not renege now, nor did he want to. The best things, the things worth doing, in the last analysis had be done alone. The moments like these, the passing doubts, were the temptations that caught you if you were not careful. Cummings stared at the vast dark bulk of Mount Anaka, visible in the darkness as a deeper shadow, a greater mass than the sky above it. It was the axis of the island, its keystone.
There's an affinity, he told himself. If one wanted to get mystical about it, the mountain and he understood each other. Both of them, from necessity, were bleak and alone, commanding the heights. Tonight, Hearn might have negotiated the pass, be traveling under the shadow of Anaka itself. He felt an odd pang, composed of anger and expectation, not quite certain whether he wanted Hearn to succeed. The problem of what he must do with him eventually was still not settled, could not be unless Hearn did not come back. And again he was uncertain what he felt, was mildly troubled.
The Captain disturbed his reverie. "We're going to fire in a minute, sir. Would you like to watch?"
The General started. "Yes." He strolled beside the Captain to the artillery piece about which the cannoneers were grouped. As they approached, the men finished adjusting the piece, and one of them loaded the long slim shell into the breech. They became silent, stiffened, as Cummings approached, standing about awkwardly, their hands behind their backs, uncertain whether to come completely to attention. "At ease, men," Cummings said.
"All set, DiVecchio?" one of them asked.
"Yeah."
The General looked at DiVecchio, a short squat man with his sleeves rolled up, and a tangle of black hair covering his forehead. City-runt, the General thought with a mixture of condescension and contempt.
One of them giggled roughly out of embarrassment and constraint. They were all conscious of him, terribly conscious, he realized, like youths outside a cigarette store, ill at ease because a woman was talking to them. If I had just walked by, they would have muttered, perhaps even jeered at me. It gave him an odd sharp pleasure almost thrilling.
"I think I'll fire the gun, Captain," he said.
The cannoneers stared at him. One of them was humming to himself. "You men mind if I fire the gun?" the General asked pleasantly.
"Huh?" DiVecchio asked. "Naw, why no, sir."
The General walked over to the position of No. 1 man outside the trails by the elevating mechanism, and grasped the lanyard. It was a foot-length of cord with a knob at the end. "How many seconds, Captain?"
"Fire in five seconds, sir." The Captain had looked at his watch nervously.
The knob of the lanyard hefted pleasantly in the General's palm. He stared at the complicated obscured mechanism of the breech and the carriage springs, his mind hovering delicately between anxiety and excitement. Automatically he had posed his body in a relaxed confident posture; it was instinctive with him to appear unconcerned whenever he was doing something unfamiliar. The mass of the gun, however, troubled him; he had not fired an artillery piece since West Point, and he was remembering not the noise nor the concussion, but a time in World War I when he had been under an artillery barrage for two hours. It had been the most powerful single fear of his life, and an echo of it now was rebounding through his mind. Just before he fired he could see it all, the sharp detumescent roar of the gun, the long soaring plunge of the shell through the night sky, its downward whistle, and the moments of complete and primordial terror for the Japanese at the other end when it landed. An odd ecstasy stirred his limbs for a moment, was gone before he was quite aware of it.
The General pulled the