The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [351]
"Yeah."
Croft shouted suddenly. "Come on, men, let's move out."
Red turned around. His heart was churning and he massaged his hands slowly against his thigh. "We ain't goin', Croft."
Croft strode toward him. "Made up your mind, Red?"
"If you want to do it so fuggin much, you can do it alone. Japbait'll take us back."
Croft stared at Martinez. "Changed your mind again?" he asked softly. "What are ya, a goddam woman?"
Martinez shook his head slowly. "I don't know, I don't know." His face began to work and he turned away.
"Red, get your pack ready and cut out this shit." It had been wrong to talk to Martinez. Red saw it clearly. It had been disgusting, as though he had been arguing with a child. He had been taking the easy way and it wouldn't work. He would have to face Croft. "If I go up that hill, you'll be draggin' me."
Some of the men in the platoon were muttering. "Let's go back," Polack yelled, and Minetta and Gallagher joined him.
Croft stared at them all, and then unslung his rifle, cocked the bolt leisurely. "Red, you can go get your pack."
"Yeah, you would do somethin' when I ain't got a gun."
"Red, just get your pack and shut up."
"It ain't me alone. You gonna shoot all of us?"
Croft turned and gazed at the others. "Who wants to get lined up with Red?" None of them moved. Red watched, hoping numbly that one of them might pick up a rifle. Croft had turned away from him. Now was the time. He could leap at him, knock him down and the others would help out. If one man would move, they all would.
But nothing happened. He kept telling himself to jump at Croft and his legs wouldn't function.
Croft turned back to him. "Awright, Red, go get your pack."
"Fug you."
"Ah'm gonna shoot ya in about three-four seconds." He stood six feet away, his rifle raised to his hip. Slowly the muzzle pointed toward Red. He found himself watching the expression on Croft's face.
Suddenly he knew exactly what had happened to Hearn, and the knowledge left him weak. Croft was going to shoot. He knew it. Red stood stiff looking at Croft's eyes. "Just shoot a man down like that, huh?"
"Yeah."
It was worthless to temporize. Croft wanted to shoot him. For an instant he had a picture again of lying on his stomach waiting for the Japanese bayonet to strike into his back. He could feel the blood thumping in his head. As he waited, his will drained away slowly.
"How 'bout it, Red?"
The muzzle made a tiny circular motion as if Croft were selecting a more exact aim. Red watched his finger on the trigger. When it began to tighten he tensed suddenly. "Okay, Croft, you win." His voice croaked out weakly. He was making every effort to keep himself from trembling.
About him he could see the platoon relaxing. He felt as if his blood had slowed down, halted, and now had begun to flow again, outlining every nerve in his body. With his head down he strode over to his pack, rammed in the blanket, buckled the straps, and stood up.
He was licked. That was all there was to it. At the base of his shame was an added guilt. He was glad it was over, glad the long contest with Croft was finished, and he could obey orders with submission, without feeling that he must resist. This was the extra humiliation, the crushing one. Could that be all, was that the end of all he had done in his life? Did it always come to laying down a load?
He fell into line and trudged along in the middle of the platoon. He looked at nobody, and no one looked at him. All of them felt a wretched embarrassment. Each man was trying to forget the way he had been tempted to shoot Croft and had failed.
As they walked, Polack cursed continually in a low sullen voice, filled with self-loathing. Dumb yellow bastard. He was swearing at himself, frightened, a little shocked. The moment had been there, and he had let it go, had had his rifle in his hands, and had done nothing with it. Yellow. . . yellow!
And Croft at this point was confident again. This morning they would cross the mountain peak. Everything and everybody had tried