The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [292]
"I think we ought to turn around and go back. The damn pass is closed, ain't it?" Minetta's voice, even muted, was indignant as if he had been thinking about this for a long time.
Hearn shrugged. "I don't know, maybe we will." He sat up there with Minetta for a few minutes more, and then went down into the hollow again, slipped under his blanket. It was as simple as that. Minetta had said it. Why didn't they turn around and go back, since the pass was closed?
All right, why?
The answer was simple enough. He didn't want to turn around and call the patrol off. Because. . . because. . . The motives this time would be shoddy enough. Hearn put his hands under his head and stared up at the sky.
The patrol no longer had the chance of a snowball in hell. Even if the pass were open now, the Japs would know where they were, guess their mission easily enough. If they ever got into the Japanese rear, it would be almost impossible to remain unobserved. Looking back on it now, the patrol had never had a chance of succeeding. This was one time Cummings had dropped the ball.
And he didn't want to go back, because it meant approaching Cummings with empty hands, excuses and failure. It was the supplies off the Liberty ship all over again. Kerrigan and Croft. That had been the thing that had been back of his actions the first two days; a liaison with the platoon -- that was ridiculous. He had wanted to get along with them because it would increase the chances for the patrol's success. The truth was that he didn't give a damn about them if he plumbed himself. Through the fatigue, the exertion, the tug of war with Croft, the real motive had been to get a little of his own back from Cummings.
Was it revenge? Only it became even dirtier than that. For at the heart of it was not revenge but vindication. He wanted Cummings to approve of him again. Hearn turned over on his stomach.
Leadership!
It was as filthy as everything else. And he enjoyed it now. After the ambush, after the unique excitement, call it the unique ecstasy, of leading the men out of the field, he had been replaying those few minutes over and over again in his head, wishing it could happen again. Beyond Cummings, deeper now, was his own desire to lead the platoon. It had grown, ignited suddenly, become one of the most satisfying things he had ever done. He could understand Croft's staring at the mountain through the field glasses, or killing the bird. When he searched himself he was just another Croft.
That was it. All his life he had flirted with situations, jobs, where he could move men, and always, as if he had sensed the extent of the impulse within himself, he had moved away, dropped things when they were about to develop, cast off women because deep within him he needed control and not mating.
Cummings had once said, "You know, Robert, there really are only two kinds of liberals and radicals. There are the ones who are afraid of the world and want it changed to benefit themselves, the Jew liberalism sort of thing. And then there are the young people who don't understand their own desires. They want to remake the world, but they never admit they want to remake it in their own image."
It had been there all the time, partially realized, always submerged. It had a jingle to it.
Not a phony but a Faust.
Clear enough, and what was he going to do about it? Knowing this, he had no right to go on with the patrol; objectively he was playing with the lives of the nine men left, and he didn't deserve the responsibility. If there was anything worth while left in him, he would turn back in the morning.
There was the inner smirk. He ought to, but he wouldn't. The shock, the self-disgust that followed this was surprising, almost pleasing in its intensity. He was almost horrified with this sick anguished knowledge of himself.
He had to turn back now.
Once more he got out of his blanket, and strode through the hollow to where Croft was sleeping. He knelt, about to shake him, when Croft turned toward him.