Dog Soldiers (58 page)

Hicks lowered his good shoulder to cradle the stock under his arm and started down the steps.
“
Bring it here, Dieter.
”

“
It goes,
”
Dieter said.
“
You
’
re stoned, you
’
re delirious.
”

He backed further away, toward the door.
“
Dope is not what I
’
m all about,
”
he said.
“
What I
’
m all about is much stronger than this.
”
He drew himself up and closed his eyes for a moment, trying for instant serenity.
“
This is one I have to win.
”

He turned and walked carefully out the front door and down the steps.

Hicks sauntered after him.

The space outside the mission building was bathed in light from the spotlights on the tower. Dieter was striding purposefully across the plaza toward the cliff. Darkness commenced about thirty feet ahead of him, and the paths down began in that darkness. Hicks smiled at Dieter
’
s clev
erness.

“
Hey, Dieter. You
’
re not gonna make it, man.
”
He released the safety and brought the clip up into Fire position.

Well, they just kept coming, he thought, one of them after another. Pieces and bayonets, lies and cunning and deviousness but none of them were worth a shit. None of them could take him off.

“
You
’
re not gonna make it, Dieter.
”

Dieter stopped and turned toward him.

Hicks sighed and sat down on the top step.

“
Please,
”
Dieter said. His own spotlights dazzled his eyes. He raised a hand to shield them. Hicks laughed.
“
No, Dieter. No, Dieter. You just bring that on back

here, man.
”
Dieter performed a fat man
’
s shuffle and began running for darkness. Hicks spread his legs out behind him on the top step and crouched over his weapon. He brought the barrel up.

All right —

Dieter made for the darkness, for a moment he was out of sight. A moment later his running figure was visible against trees, totally available against the moonlit sky.

You dumb —

A little man running against the trees, Hicks thought, I
’
ve hit that one before. And Dieter wasn
’
t so little, he was paunchy and slow.

Son of a bitch.

Look at his dumb ass up against that pretty sky.

All right you dumb son of a bitch.

An automatic round — it sprayed him with shells and splintered the fence he was trying to climb. Hicks walked down the steps through the smoke and over the still clattering cartridges. He went across the plaza toward the cliff. In Nam, he would have fired another two clips into the darkness as he came.

Dieter was lying on his belly under the remnants of his fence. His wrist jerked. Hicks walked up and kicked him. The pack was not beneath his body.

After a while, Hicks found it, quite near the cliff edge.

So he threw it, Hicks thought. He was running for the edge and he threw it.
“
For Christ
’
s sake,
”
Hicks said.

Dieter had not been taking him off. Of course not. Not Dieter.

It was a gesture. A gesture — he was going to throw it over because there was no fire for him to throw it in.

Throw it over was what he had said. A gesture.

“
What the hell, Dieter,
”
Hicks said.
“
I thought you were taking me off.
”

It was one he had to win. He was trying to get it on again. He was being stronger.

Damn it, if you
’
re going to make a gesture you have to have some grace, some style, some force. You have to have some Zen. If you act like a drunken thief, and people haven
’
t seen you in a while, they
’
re likely to think that
’
s what you are.

He had certainly fucked his gesture.

“
Semper fi,
”
Hicks said. The pain came up again, he sat on a standing part of the fence in the rain.

Lousy stupid thing. like the Battle of Bob Hope. like everything else.

During the long and painful time it took to get the pack on his back, he put it out of his mind.

Walk.

The first part of the wal
k was through happy forest; Die
ter
’
s knickknacks flickered in the moonlight and the earth was soft and mossy under his
feet. He fell several times, ex
periencing with gratitude the tenderness of the ground and its reluctance to injure. Disneyland. Each time he had to stand up again, he felt th
e throb and although it was dif
fused, its fangs drawn by the drug, he was sorry that it had happened.

Another sort of light was creeping up on him; it seemed at first to come from the trees. Morning. In spite of what it meant, he was innocently glad to see it

His satisfaction in the coming light made him feel like an ordinary man with a child at his core, out walking one morning for pleasure. He was tempted by anger and self-pity.

The light was not good news and the sentiments were the stuff that killed, the warrior
’
s enemy.

Hungry bluejays chattered. He touched his side and felt blood flowing. When the pie was opened, his child
’
s voice prattled, the birds began to sing. He wondered if in their hunger and ferocity the screeching jays might not be tempted by the blood and the mauled flesh. There were things that lived in wounds.

At the edge of the trees was a cattle gate strung with wire. He unhooked the wire loop and stepped carefully over a rusted grid and into a high meadow where the tall dew-covered grass soaked his trouser legs. The sun was rising over purple hills behind him; the track ahead led down ward into a canyon that was crowned with tortured rock spires like the towers of the pagodas along the Cambodian Mekong.

He walked down on his heels, arching his back to support the weight of the pack, gripping the stock of his slung M-70 to keep it from knocking against his thigh.

The Fool.

Down had a rhythm of its own, bad for discipline because the lowered foot on striking sloping ground caused the body to lurch and lose cadence, broke up concentration. The temptation was to coast, let the feet find their own quick way down — an ankle buster. To
hold back and de
scend deliberately was work. He detached, thought of the water that would be at the bottom, watched for rattlesnakes, and imagined the wild pigs whose tusks had tested the trail for buried oak balls. By the time the rising sun touched the tops of the pagoda spires over the canyon, he was into shade. The canyon bottom was cool, but windless and rank smelling. It filled him with suspicion and he walked tensely, ready to crouch and unsling his weapon.

The canyon opening was a hole in the wall, so narrow that he had to turn sideways to advance through it. When he was out, he saw the flat before him. The near edge of it was still in shade; across its yellow stony surface, balls of tumbleweed ran before a wi
nd he could not feel in his pro
tected place. At the
end of it were round brown moun
tains; they were an insupportable distance away, but he would not have to walk that far to reach the road. Miles out, the dun color of the ground gave way to something unearthly, a glowing twinkling substance without color that grew brighter as the sun strengthened and sent off waves of heat that made the mountains shimmer. A line of rusted tracks, supported by mummified crossties, shot dead straight across the barren.

Between the desert and himself were shaded grass and a small stream that ran down from red boulders to nourish three cottonwoods and a lone stunted oak. He followed the stream and rested among the trees, ran the cold water over his face and filled his canteen. In trying to drink from it, he did a foolish thing. As he lowered his face to the water, the backpack slid forward ov
er his neck and the strap tight
ened on his torn underarm; the pain made him straighten up and increased the pressure. He let himself slip into the water and got the pack so that he had it hanging from one strap balanced on his right shoulder. The water hurt at first, but in a few moments it felt very good indeed. When he climbed out, he noticed for the first time how swollen his left arm was and that he could not move it, not at all. Spot of bother.

He threw away the captured pistols and most of his M-16 clips. In spite of its weight, he could not bring himself to leave the rifle. Conditioning, something — he could not imagine such a walk without it. He kept two clips, one in the weapon, an extra in the pack.

The edge of shade had narrowed when he started out. The farther he went from the canyon wall, the more the wind rose and it was against him. That shaded part was a stroll. The moment he stepped out under the sun, the wound began to bother him.

A triangle and a song. First to keep the brilliant sunlight from the base of his skull, then to assemble the figure — black background, blue triangle, red circle. The pain in the circle looked like it might catch fire in the heat. It wasn
’
t easy to get it all in there, it took a while. The song wasn
’
t easy either because there were so many things to think about

Gate, gate, paragate, parasamgate bodhi swaha. That was cool all right, that was lovely but you might disappear into it, pass out and bake.

Form is not different from nothingness. Nothingness is not different from form. They are the same.

Try a little nothingness.

Nothingness was cool too but you couldn
’
t count cadence to it. It helped with the triangle but it certainly didn
’
t make you feel like walking. Well, he thought, the old songs are the good songs, they used to say.

He sang as he walked beside the tracks. He had tried walking over the ties and
of course that was murder. Walk
ing beside them was the only way.

“
I don
’
t know,
”
he sang.

“
But I been told

Eskimo pussy

Is Mighty Cold

Your left
”

P.I. without sandfleas and hotter. P.I. reminded him of salt. He took the shaker bag from his pocket and had a lick. Your left The pain was contained, he was covering ground.

Can pussy be cold? Yes. No. Philosophical discussion at the Little Tun, Yokasuka,
F.P.O.
San Francisco.

Converse, can pussy be cold? How would he know?

Eskimo pussy might be funky from wintering fur pants but it wouldn
’
t be cold in any weather. An eskimo granny — put her out on the ice to starve, by and by her pussy will be cold.

That
’
s not what the song
’
s about. The song
’
s about walk
ing— picking them up and putting them down, that
’
s what the song
’
s about.

Etsuko was a clean girl. And smart. Full of surprises, always something happening with her. Very straight head, many laughs.

Look at me Etsukee, I
’
m out here with my weapon in this terrible place, how you like them apples?

I don
’
t worry
‘
cause it makes no difference now.

No Hank Williams songs, please, it bothers the triangle.

It seemed to him that he co
uld still hear the birds in Die
ter
’
s forest. He resisted the impulse to run and gauge the distance he had covered. It wasn
’
t possible. It was too far, there were no birds where he was, there was no place for them to lit, nothing for them out there. We hope.

More blood, and we don
’
t really know how bad it is. Nothing to do but walk however. There was one really subversive thought, one sorry piece

of negative thinking: You
’
ll never do it twice. Walking away from the Battle of Bob Hope was one thing and this was something else. This was twice.

Negativity.

He took a deep breath and gathered up the pain. It was hard to gather. Stack it
like hay? Draw it up with a si
phon? Put it in something.

Where
’
s that triangle?

But maybe it
’
s a mistake to separate it like that. Maybe it
’
s ignorant to keep it off by itself where it just gets angrier and angrier, festers in ther
e waiting to creep out and crip
ple you. If you set it in there locked up like that you might be keeping it going.

Experiment. Get with it, and for all you know it
’
ll disap
pear. It
’
s part of you — you
’
ve always got something sore on you, burned lips, hangnails, blisters, toothaches. It
’
s just you, there
’
s always some pain around.

Merge, it
’
s you, you
’
re it. The triangle dissolved and he embraced the pain.

No, he decided immediately. Indeed not!

The experiment had go
ne so badly he had to stop walk
ing. It was unmanageable.

He stood staring down at the tracks. The hot metal glowed right through its co
at of dust and oxidation, blind
ing him.

Get back in there, you fucker, you ain
’
t no friend of mine. Those All Is One numbers were very difficult to employ in practice. I
’
ll try it again, he thought, when I
’
m a hundred and ten years old and the birds bring me flowers.

It broke down between what hurt and what didn
’
t and the difference seemed very important. That was as it should be. If you couldn
’
t tell the difference between what hurt and what didn
’
t, you had no business being alive. You can
’
t have any good times if you can
’
t tell. If you don
’
t know the difference between busting your toe and a glass of beer, where are you? That was Converse
’
s trouble.

List of things that don
’
t hurt: Birds. Mountains. Water.

It really is all one though, he thought. Contrary to sense as it might seem.

He took a drink of wate
r to balance the pain and it be
came apparent to him that what hurt and what didn
’
t could come together in a hurry and that throwing up was a fine example. He leaned forward clutching the rifle butt and retched over the tracks.

Fine mixture of sensations but you lose all your water that way.

Expedite. The triangle will assemble to the rear and to the left of the right ear under the direction of the duty NCO …

Dress it up. Bracing the back in the specified position, bring up the weight with a smart twist. He opened his mouth i
n surprise at the sudden wrench
ing. Pain within pain. Do not twist too hard. Do not twist suddenly. Proceed resolutely in a military manner.

It turned out there were birds, but he could never have heard them. Hawks, three of them, way up there, gliding on the wind. There was a jet trail over them.

“
Some of you birds think I
’
m down here to play fiddle fuck around,
”
Hicks told them.
“
Let me be the first to in
form you that I
’
m not. Any bird who makes that mistake will encounter the meanest crudest son of a bitch they could conceive of. If I catch a bird grab
-
assing, that bird can give his soul to Jesus because his ass belongs to me.

Belay that. Give Jesus the ass, I
’
ll take the soul.

I
’
ll trade these one-after-another railroad tracks for the soul and fly out of here.

What I need railroad tracks for I got no railroad.

Whatcha doin down there on those tracks, little speck?

Playing I
’
m a train, sir.

Water. Hold it down because it
’
s so nice. It
’
s the real thing.

Without the weapon, without the pack, things would be so much easier. He recalled that the pack was what he wanted so he would have to carry it. Serious people existed in order to want things, and to carry them.

As for the weapon, he thought, I didn
’
t abandon the creature at the Battle of Bob Hope, I won
’
t give them the satisfaction now.

The Battle of Bob Hope was in the rain. Like Austerlitz.

Slipping and sliding around the Rockpile, the warm rain that never dried out. AKA-47s, the Big Sound of Charles. The fuck it isn
’
t, that
’
s them! There they are and there they are and now I fall on my ass. Yes they are, they
’
re all over the place. Don
’
t follow them, they
’
re being wasted down there.

NVAs I think it is, pith helmets.

He fired the rockets where they figured he
’
d come out —
ka-thop ka-thop
. Whee it
’
s football, fake with rockets and then, clever, I
’
m off like a fucker through the bad smelling green and oh boy they
’
re gonna get me but they don
’
t and then, oh my goodness, they do.

Blind through the asparagus to the land where the friendlies are. Hello, friendlies, you no shoot. Me U S Maline. LBJ number one!

Worse time I ever had, worse than now.

He turned round and looked behind him; there was a heartening distance between himself and the canyon. But the land around him was not heartening at all. It was dirty white, lifeless.

He crouched down, put his finger on the earth and tasted it. Salt. How about that!

As he prepared to rise, he noticed that his left arm was hanging limp and his left hand was touching the salty ground, bent at the wrist and without sensation.

Well, something hurts, he thought.

As he looked out over the salt, it began to glow. For a moment he was filled with terror.

Oh mama. What kind of place is this?

He took a deep breath.

Never mind your mama, never mind the questions. This is home, we walk here. It
’
s built for speed not for comfort.

If you don
’
t like it here, then walk away. Nobody gonna do it for you.

He stopped by the tracks and tried to throw up again but there was nothing to throw. When he finished retching he had trouble drawing breath.

What is this, rain, for Christ
’
s sake? The trouble with the rain, hot as it was, was that it made you cold eventually. It made everything slippery and rotted your feet.

I got no dry socks, he thought. Stowed my handgun, my M&M
’
s and forgot my dry socks. Or somebody swiped them. One of you bastards misappropriated my socks, I
’
ll burn your ass.

Absolutely no rain. He took the thermos and poured a bit of water over his face.

It
’
s so dry, he thought, it feels like rain.

When he found the triangle again, the stuff in it was congealed and festering.
He might construct a new trian
gle. Or else secure the old one and wash it out. Turn to on that triangle. Hot weather you have to hose it down. Negative, doc says to leave it alone if it
’
s not actually hurt ing him.

It
’
s not actually hurting, it
’
s more of an attitude.

He had to laugh at that.

He had scraped the knuckles of his right hand and for a while the pain concentrated there. He let go the lower part of the rifle and shook it.

A while before, his knuckles had been rapped with the edge of a deck of cards. The Adjutant had taken his cards and slapped his knuckles with them. The Salvation A
rmy
didn
’
t go for cards and he was
teaching the other kids in the
Booth Shelter to play G
o Fish. That was the Booth Wom
en
’
s Shelter in Chicago, North Side, Wisconsin Avenue.

Satan
’
s Game

His mother was washing pots in the kitchen. She said they put saltpeter in the food.

The salt burned his eyes and the sky was even brighter.

Nowhere to look.

There was a child around somewhere, the same child he
’
d almost met that morning in the forest, the one who
’
d had his knuckles rapped. He knew immediately that the child would be the most dangerous thing he had to face, the hardest thing to get by.

A turned-around kid who made up stories — wise guy, card player. They all made up stories in the Booth Shelter, they all told lies about themselves. The boys and the girls both.

The kid walked beside him, making him feel bad, making him feel like a kid himself.

“
Whaddaya doin
’
?
”

“
Walking across this here.
”

“
My father
’
s got a rifle like that.
”

“
You got no father and if you had he wouldn
’
t have no rifle like that.
”

“
He bought me a twenty-two and showed me how to shoot it. The first time I did, the concussion almost knocked me over.
”

“
There
’
s no concussion to a twenty-two. You like guns?
”

“
I love
‘
em. I love the way they look. I
’
m from out west. From Texas. I
’
m part Comanche.
”

“
You
’
re from Bloomington, Indiana, and then Milwaukee and then Omaha and th
en Chicago. You never saw an In
dian but on a nickel. You can
’
t shit me. How come you tell lies like that?
”