The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [320]
The ridge was pocked with boulders, and dropped almost vertically on one side to the cliffs beneath. In the kunai grass there were places where the footing was very uncertain; the men could not see below their knees and they felt their way forward slowly, holding onto the tall stalks with both hands, their rifles crossed over their packs. They climbed along it steadily like this for half an hour, and then took a break. Little more than an hour had elapsed since Croft had led them up the first gully, and the sun was still in the east, but they were tired. They accepted the break eagerly, sprawling in a line along the narrow top of the ridge. .
Wyman had been panting heavily for the last twenty minutes of the march, and he lay quiet on his back, waiting for the spring to return to his legs.
"How're you feeling?" Roth asked.
"I'm pooped." Wyman shook his head. They would be continuing like this all day, and he knew with the experience he had gained on this patrol that he would not be able to make it. "I'm going to lighten my pack," he told Roth.
But everything in it was essential. Wyman deliberated whether to throw away his rations or his blanket. They had taken twenty-one K rations with them and only seven had been eaten so far. But if they crossed the mountain and scouted through the Jap rear they would be gone at least a week. He couldn't take the chance. Wyman withdrew his blanket from the pack, and tossed it a few yards away.
"Whose blanket is that?" Croft had seen it, and was walking toward them.
"Mine, Sergeant," Wyman admitted.
"Go fetch it and stick it in your pack."
"I really don't need it," Wyman said softly.
Croft glared at him. Now that Hearn was gone, the discipline was his, and it was not going to be threatened. With Hearn, sloppy habits had developed which he must cauterize. Besides, waste always offended him. "Go get it, boy, I'm telling you."
Wyman sighed, stood up, and retrieved the blanket. As he was folding it, Croft softened a trifle. He was pleased at how quickly Wyman had obeyed him. "Listen, you're gonna need that blanket. You wake up with a cold ass tonight, and you're gonna be feeling damn glad you got it then."
"Yeah." Wyman couldn't arouse any enthusiasm. He was thinking how much the blanket weighed.
"How do you feel, Roth?" Croft asked.
"I'm all right, Sergeant."
"I don't want ya to be dickin'-off today."
"No." But Roth was furious. As he watched Croft saunter away and talk to a few of the other men, he tugged at some grass with his fingers, pulling it out angrily. "Doesn't even give a fellow a chance," he whispered to Wyman.
"Oh, gee, I wish the Lootenant. . ." Wyman felt a sudden depression. Other things were becoming clear now too; before, with Hearn, there had been a chance. "What a lousy break."
Roth nodded. You'd think he'd give the underdog a break, but Croft was like a wolf. "If I had the platoon," he said in his slow pompous voice, "I'd give the men a break, I'd try to be decent, appeal to better nature."
"Yeah, I would too," Wyman commiserated.
"I dunno." Roth sighed. Once he had been in a spot like that. His first job after two years without one during the depression had been for a real estate agent. He had made the collections. It was a job he had never liked, and he had had to take a lot of abuse from tenants who resented him. But once he had been sent out to an apartment where there was an old couple who were in arrears for several months' rent. Their story had been sad, like all the stories he was hearing then -- they had lost their savings in a bank crash. Roth had been tempted to give them another month, but he did not dare to return to his office. He had taken no collections that day. And so to hide his sympathy he had become harsh with them, and had threatened eviction. They had pleaded and he had found himself enjoying his role, elaborating the terrors of being dispossessed. "I don't care where you get the money," he had said at last. "Just get it."