The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [50]
"Let's get out of here," Wyman said. He was covered with mud and his lips were chattering. "Goddam rain," he said.
They stumbled out of the hole, and began to run toward the motor pool where there would be some shelter in the lee of the trucks. Toglio staggered as though he had lost some necessary ballast and was being driven downwind without any way to control himself. Goldstein shouted to him, "I forgot my rifle."
"You don't need it," he bawled back.
Goldstein tried to halt and turn around but it was impossible. "You never can tell," he heard himself shout. They were running side by side, but it felt as if they were roaring to each other across a vast room. Goldstein had a moment of glee.
For a whole week they had worked on improving their bivouac. Every spare moment, there had been something new to set up. And now his tent was lost, his clothing and writing paper were sopping, his gun would probably rust, the ground would be too wet for sleeping. Everything was ruined. He had the kind of merriment a man sometimes knows when events have ended in utter disaster.
He and Toglio were blown into the motor pool. They collided as they tried to turn and went sprawling in the mud. Goldstein felt like lying there without getting up, but he put his hands against the ground, pushed and went staggering behind one of the trucks. Almost the entire company was in the trucks or bunched together in the lee of them. There were about twenty men clustered together behind the truck he had reached. They stood there shivering and huddled together for warmth, their teeth chattering from the icy rain. The sky was an immense dark bowl that crashed and quaked with thunder. All Goldstein could see was the green truck, and the wet green-black uniforms of the men. "Jesus," somebody said.
Toglio was trying to light a cigarette, but it soaked through and came apart in his mouth before he could get his matches out of his waterproof pouch. He threw it to the ground and watched it dissolve in the mud. Despite the fact that he was completely wet, the rain still hurt; every drop that went down his back was like a cold slug, shocking and loathsome. He turned to the man next to him, and shouted, "Your tent go down?"
"Yeah."
It made Toglio feel better. He rubbed his black unshaved chin, and felt intimate suddenly with all the men, liked them immensely with a burst of warmth. They were all good guys, good Americans, he told himself. It took Americans to stand something like this and laugh about it, he decided. His hands were cold, and he stuck them in the baggy pockets of his fatigue pants.
Red and Wilson, who were standing a few feet away, had begun to sing. Red's voice was deep and gruff, and Toglio laughed as he listened to them.
Once I built a railroad, made it run,
Made it race against time. . .
they sang, and jogged up and down to warm their feet.
Once I built a railroad, now it's done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Toglio found himself roaring with laughter. Red was a comic, he told himself, and began to hum with them.
Once I built a tower to the sun,
Bricks and, rivet and lime,
Once I built a tower, now it's done,
Brother, can you spare a dime?
Toglio joined in on the last line, and Red beckoned to him. The three of them kept singing as loudly as they could, their arms about each other for warmth. The wind had abated to some degree, and they could hear their voices clearly every now and then, but they sounded distant and a little unreal, like a radio in another room being turned up and down, up and down.
Once in khaki suits
Gee, we looked swell
Full of that Yankee Doodly Dum.
Half a million boots went sloggin' thru Hell,
I was the kid with the drum.
Say, don't you remember, they call me Al?
It was Al all the time.
Say, don't you remember, I'm your pal?