The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [30]
Croft shook his head. "Damn if I know." He cleared his throat. "Listen, Japbait, they's something I want to talk about to ya. I'm gonna divide us into two squads again, and I been thinkin' I'm gonna keep most of the old men in one squad and set up the other one with you and Toglio."
Martinez fingered his delicate aquiline nose. "The old squad with Brown?"
"Yeah."
"Red, Brown's corporal?" Martinez asked.
Croft snorted. "I wouldn't pick Red on a bet. That boy can't take any orders so how the hell could he give 'em?" He picked up a stick and lashed it against his legging. "Naw, I thought of Wilson," he said, "but Wilson can't even read a map."
"Gallagher?"
"I would have liked to make Gallagher, but he just blows his top in a tight spot." Croft hesitated. "I tell you, I picked Stanley. Brown's been batting my ear about how good Stanley is. I figured he'd be the best man to work with Brown."
Martinez shrugged. "Your platoon."
Croft broke the stick in two. "I know, Stanley is the biggest goddam brown-nose in the platoon, but at least he wanted the job, which is more than you can say for Red or Wilson. If he ain't any good, I'll bust him, that's all."
Martinez nodded. "Only pick, I guess." He looked at Croft. "You say I have squad with goddam men who are. . . who are new?"
"That's right." Croft slapped Martinez on the shoulder. He was the only man in the platoon whom Croft liked, and he felt an anxious, almost paternal care for Martinez, which was at odds with the rest of his nature. "I'll tell you, Japbait," he said roughly, "you been through more than any other man in the platoon including me. The way I figure it, I'm going to use the squad of old men for most of the patrols because they know what to do. That new squad is going to get the easy ones for quite a while. That's why I want you to have it."
Martinez paled. His face was expressionless but one of his eyes winked nervously several times. "Brown, bad nerves," Martinez said.
"The hell with Brown. Ever since the rubber boats he's been missing all the shit storms. It's his turn. You need a rest, man."
Martinez fingered his belt. "Martinez goddam good scout, okay," he said proudly. "Brown good boy, but his nerves. . . no fuggin good. I'm with old squad, okay?"
"The new one's gonna have it easier."
Martinez shook his head. "New men, no know me. No fuggin good, don't like it." He tensed himself with the effort to put his feelings into English. "Give order. . . trouble. Don't listen to me." Croft nodded. The argument had validity. And yet he knew how frightened Martinez was. Sometimes at night Croft could hear him groaning from a nightmare. When he put his hand on Martinez's back to awaken him, Martinez would spring up like a bird startled into flight. "You really sure, Japbait?" Croft asked.
"Yes."
Japbait was a good old boy, Croft thought. There were good Mexicans and bad Mexicans, but you couldn't beat a good one. "A good man'll hold on to his job," Croft said to himself. He felt a surprising flush of warmth for Martinez. "You're a good old sonofabitch," he told him.
Martinez lit a cigarette. "Brown scared, Martinez scared, but Martinez better scout," he said softly. His left eye still quivered nervously. And as if his eyelid were transparent, it seemed to reveal his heart beating behind it in anguished sudden ambush.
The Time Machine:
JULIO MARTINEZ
SHOEING THE MARE
A small slim and very handsome Mexican with neat wavy hair, small sharp features. His body had the poise and grace of a deer. And like a deer his head was never quite still. His brown liquid eyes always seemed nervous and alert as if he were thinking of flight.
Little Mexican boys also breathe the American fables, also want to be heroes, aviators, lovers, financiers.
Julio Martinez, age of eight, walks the festering streets of San Antonio in 1926, stumbles over pebbles, and searches the Texas sky. Yesterday he has seen an airplane