Going After Cacciato (9 page)

He waded in to his knees, spread his feet, unbuttoned, and relaxed.

High up were the stars like lighted lanterns, constellations telling where and when. He felt brave. Tonight, anything was possible.

When he was empty, he waded down to where the wire entered the sea. He stopped there, washed his face and hands and hair, then waded out.

For a time he stood in the tower’s moon shadow. Just standing. Not moving and not afraid. It wasn’t much of a tower. From down below, a sapper’s-eye view, it looked rickety and fragile and tottering, just a simple square of sandbags supported by thirty-foot piles. A Tinker Toy in Quang Ngai. He smiled, wondering whose idea it was. An observation post with nothing to observe. No villages, no roads or vital bridges, no enemy, not a dog or a cat. A teetering old tower by the sea.

He walked once around the tower, looking up at it from various angles, then moved back to the water.

No, it was not an ordinary night. This night, posted by the sea, he was gallant and wide awake and nimble-headed. His fingers tingled. Excited by the possibilities, but still in control. That was the important part—he was in control. He was calm. Clear thinking helped. Concentrating, figuring out the details, it helped plenty.

After a time he turned back to the tower, climbed up and resumed his post.

One-twenty now.

Smoking quietly, he remembered what his father had said on their last night along the Des Moines River. “You’ll see some terrible stuff, I guess. That’s how it goes. But try to look for the good things, too. They’ll be there if you look. So watch for them.”

And that was what he did. Even now, figuring how things
might have happened on the road to Paris, it was a way of looking for the very best of all possible outcomes. How, with luck and courage and endurance, they might have found a way.

At one-thirty he moved to the radio, called in the situation report, then smoked another of Doc’s cigarettes.

Sure, it was swell advice. Think about the good things, keep your eye on Paris.

G
et me the M&Ms,” Doc said, and Stink got them, and Doc shook out two candies and placed them on Bernie’s tongue and told him to swallow.

Sidney Martin, who had ordered Frenchie into the tunnel, and who had then ordered Bernie Lynn to go down to drag Frenchie out, knelt on one knee and looked over Bernie’s wound and then went to the radio to help Ben Nystrom make the call.

Nystrom was not yet crying.

Frenchie lay uncovered at the mouth of the tunnel. He was dead and nobody looked at him. He was dirty. His T-shirt was pulled up under the armpits, which was how they’d finally dragged him out. His belly was fat and white and unsucked in. Black clumps of hair were matted flat against the white skin. He had been shot through the nose. His face was turned aside, the way they’d left him.

“Swallow,” Doc said.

“I heard it,” Bernie Lynn said.

“Orphan Six-Three, this is Indigo One-Niner—” The lieutenant’s voice, though he was new to the war, was calm and unbroken. “Request urgent dustoff, repeat, urgent, one KIA-friendly, one urgent friendly WIA … grid … wait on grid.”

“Swallow,” Doc said. “It’s good stuff for what ails.”

“Say again, One-Niner.”

“Urgent,” the lieutenant said without urgency. “Repeat, wait on grid—” He gave the handset to Ben Nystrom and sat down with his code book.

The earth was shaking.

“There, man,” Doc purred. “Down she goes. There. Feel better already, huh?”

“I heard it,” Bernie Lynn said.

“Sure you heard it. How’s that? Better? We got a ship coming, so … so hold still now. Hang tight and we’ll have you out of here pronto.”

“Bang,” Bernie said. “Bang! Just like … just like that,
bang!
”

“Hold still now. Wait’ll that good-shit medicine takes hold, couple seconds or so. You feel it? Feel it?”

As he spoke, purring, Doc unwrapped another compress bandage and pressed it tight against Bernie’s throat and held it with his hand.

“Bang, like that. Dark as … but, jeez, I swear to God I heard it … what’s wrong? What’s wrong here? I did, I heard it.”

“I know, man.”

“All the way. I swear.”

Behind them, the radio made a static sound, then a voice demanded grid coordinates. “Say again, no dustoff till we get those coordinates. No grid, no chopper. Is that a good read?”

“Jesus!” Oscar screamed. He was on his hands and knees. The earth kept shaking.

The lieutenant still worked with a pencil, using his map and
compass and code book to work up the coded coordinates. He worked calmly and without hurry.

Beside him, Frenchie’s helmet and boots and socks were arranged neatly on a square of rock. Frenchie was always neat. Bernie Lynn’s gear lay in a heap where he’d dropped it.

“Going home,” Doc said. “It’s the truth. Nurses and booze and all that good shit. Home, man. Feel better now … Somebody get the juice … Sure, man, I bet you feel better already.” Doc removed the compress and applied another. The wound was wet. It was a tunnel wound, just below the throat and slanting steeply into the chest, the way men were always shot in tunnels, and it was hard to believe Bernie was talking, but he said, “… real loud, like
bang …
” and he coughed and shook his head, clearing it, “just like that,
bang!
”

“Stick him,” Doc said.

“Not me, man. You’re the fucking medic.”

“Somebody—”

The earth was shaking again. To the south and southwest and west, the First and Second Squads were still blowing bunkers. The explosions made Bernie blink.

“Not me,” Stink Harris said. “I don’t stick nobody with that shit.”

“For God’s sake, somebody do it.”

“Not me.”

The radio whined. “One-Niner, you want them ships, by God, you get me some coordinates. We can’t—”

“Give it to him,” Oscar Johnson said. He’d lost his sunglasses. He looked hard at Sidney Martin. “Forget the codes, just give it to him.”

“One minute.”

“Give it!”

The lieutenant bent over his code book.

“Indigo One-Niner, this is Orphan Six—”

“Forget that code shit!” Oscar screamed. “Give the grids. Just
give
it!”

“One second.”

“Indigo—”

The earth shook again. Two black clouds rose over the far hedges.

“Look,” Stink whispered. “I ain’t doing it. That’s all, I just won’t.”

“Oh, if that—”

“I ain’t.”

“Somebody do it,” Doc said. “I don’t give a shit who, just do it now.”

Rudy took the needle, and Stink held the plasma and cord, and Rudy shoved the needle into Bernie’s arm. Stink kept his eyes closed. He hated blood. Doc pressed the compress against Bernie’s throat.

Behind them, Lieutenant Sidney Martin was on the radio again, calling in the coded coordinates. He gave each number precisely, pausing, very calm.

The needle slipped. Clear fluid spilled over Bernie’s arm. A muddy puddle formed at the mouth of the tunnel. Quickly Doc exchanged places and reinserted the needle.

“Repeat,” said Sidney Martin, “one KIA, one urgent WIA, both US types. Repeat, urgent. Grid—” And again he read off the coded coordinates.

Now Ben Nystrom was crying. He squatted at the lieutenant’s feet, his hands holding the radio, crying.

The earth trembled again, rocking the heavy fluid in Stink’s bottle. Almost immediately, like an echo, another explosion went off to the southwest.

“Affirm, LZ secure … Wait on ETA. Stand by.”

The second explosion jarred the needle loose. Bernie sat up.

“Hold it, for—”

“Jesus! Get the guy down, can you do
that
? Can you just hold him down?”

“It slipped, man.” Stink opened his eyes to find the bottle. “He keeps moving, what can I do?”

“The needle—”

“For Christ sake.
Hold
it.”

Rudy held the needle in while Doc ran to his pouch and found the tape. The morning was still bright. Filmy clouds scudded below the sun, making shadows in the clearing. Bernie lay in the sun. His eyes were open but he didn’t speak when Doc adjusted the needle and taped it to the arm. Stink looked away.

“Hey, man,” Bernie said.

“Hey yourself. That better now?”

“Real nice … What time you got? I don’t know. Bang, it went. Just like that, bang. Something … What’s wrong? What’s wrong with me?”

“Stay cool now. Just—”

“Jesus!”

“Get him down. Hold him.”

Rudy pressed against Bernie’s shoulders, easing him back.

“Right there.”

“Okay.”

“Just hold him right there.”

Bernie relaxed. His legs straightened and he lay flat. His head shook from side to side. A medium-sized, brown-haired kid with thin arms and tanned skin and wide-open eyes. He looked at Frenchie Tucker but did not seem to see him. He kept shaking his head. “I heard it,” he said. “I did.”

When the plasma had emptied into him, Doc took out a fresh bottle and spiked it and attached the cord.

“I heard it,” Bernie said. “Honest.”

“We read you, man. Take her easy now, be cool.”

Bernie smiled.

“Codes,” Oscar said. He’d found his sunglasses. “Man messes with
codes
an’ … Codes.” He looked at Lieutenant Sidney Martin and spat. “Codes!”

Bernie Lynn’s mouth formed a small circle. A bubble appeared, then broke.

“More medicine, kid?”

Bernie smiled.

“Okay, cowboy. We’ll see about another dose. Don’t run away.”

Doc found a fresh pack of M&Ms. Very carefully, like a pharmacist, he shook out three green candies and began feeding them to Bernie Lynn. The men understood this. Except for Rudy, who held the plastic bottle, and Doc, who kept changing compresses, everyone moved away.

I
had him,” Stink whined. “By God, yes, I had him nailed.”

“Sure, you did,” Doc said, unwrapping the bandage. “At ease now. This’ll hurt a little.”

“Right by the balls, I had the fat little—”

Stink yelped as Doc tore the bandage loose. It was morning now, and they were preparing to move out. Oscar and Lieutenant Corson harnessed up the water buffalo, backing it into its yoke, and Eddie was busy tying rucksacks and sleeping gear to the cart. It had been a long, sleepless night.

“Like I could smell the dude’s breath, that’s how good I had him. Onions! That’s what it was—onions, stale fuckin onions. I
had
him.”

“Shit,” Oscar said. He spat and gazed spitefully at Stink’s wound. “How’d you have him, man? By the teeth?”

“It wasn’t—”

Oscar’s lips made a nasty smile. “Looks to me you never had him. Looks like he had you.”

Doc held Stink’s elbow out, inspecting it for infection. He’d stopped the blood flow the night before, wrapping it in a temporary bandage. Now it didn’t look too bad. Just two neat rows of teeth marks.

“Hell, it was
dark
. What you expect in the dark?”

“Nothin’,” Oscar said. “From you, I don’ expect nothin’. Had him, couldn’t hold him. So we spend the whole sorry night tramplin’ the bush. From you, I don’t expect nothin’.”

“Wasn’t
my
fault. I couldn’t—”

Stink squealed, squirming to get away from Doc’s iodine brush. His face was gray. He looked away as Doc sprinkled the wound with sulfa powder and began rebandaging it.

“Next time,” he muttered. “Next time the sleazy little creep’ll pay. I swear it.”

“Easy now.”

“I swear it.”

Doc clipped the bandage and helped him up into the cart.

“Hey, Doc,” Eddie called. “Maybe you better feed him some M&Ms. You need some M&Ms, Stinko?”

“Screw a monkey, man.”

Eddie laughed and finished tying on the rucksacks. He helped the two old women into the cart, gathered up a bag of rations, and waved at Oscar. Then they were moving again.

“Next time,” Stink murmured. “Next time he fries.”

Eddie laughed. “No more Mister Nice Guy?”

“You got it,” Stink said. “No more. Next time the toad gets his fuckin teeth brushed.”

   At midafternoon they found another of Cacciato’s maps, this one tacked to a log across the road. The red dotted line led into deep rubber country. Doc pointed it out on the map’s legend. “See
these symbols here? Country rich in rubber, tin, and magnesium. That’s what these symbols symbolize.”

The lieutenant touched the map. “What’s this?”

“What?”

“Right here. On the map. What the hell is it?”

It was a precisely drawn circle. Within the circle, in red, were two smaller circles, between them an even smaller circle, and beneath them a big banana smile. A round happy face. Underneath it, in printed block letters, was a warning: LOOK OUT, THERE’S A HOLE IN THE ROAD.

   That evening after supper Lieutenant Corson explained the new plan.

“Way it looks,” he said, “is that Cacciato’s headed for Mandalay. Can’t be positive, but if he keeps on to the northwest like this and then turns west, well, that’ll bring him smack into Mandalay. Anyhow that’s my guess.”

The old man paused a moment, glancing down at Cacciato’s map. In the light of the fire his skin glowed bright red. His eyes were bloodshot.

“Anyhow—” and he coughed, licking the corners of his lips, “anyhow, I figure our best bet is to cut him off. Get ahead of him. Follow me? Strike off diagonal-like, take the shortest distance between two points.” With his thumb the lieutenant drew a straight line through an area on the map colored green to represent dense jungle.

“You mean leave the road?” Eddie said. “Start humpin’ again?”

“It’s the only way.”

“Yeah, but … Jeez.”

Doc picked up the map. “Might work,” he said. “The basic hypotenuse strategy, right? Cut straight through, head him off at the pass. It might work.”

“Yeah. But
walk
?”

“Might work.”

The lieutenant rubbed the bone between his eyes. “Hell, I don’t like it either. It’s thick stuff we’ll be going through. Real jungle again. Lord knows, I don’t like it a bit.”

“But it’s still a war.” Eddie sighed.