The Thin Red Line (38 page)

When Stein took the phone, he received the extraordinary impression that his arm, his whole body, was too tired, too weak, to lift the almost weightless little tin instrument to his ear. Astonished, he waited. Slowly the arm came up. Already worn out, the affair of Tella’s death had taken more out of him than he realized. How long could he go on? How much longer could he watch his men being killed in agony like this without ceasing to function entirely? Suddenly, for the first time, he was terribly afraid that he might not be able to cut it. This fear, added to the already heavy burden of simple physical fear for himself, seemed almost too much of a load to bear, but it jerked a renewed energy up out of some deep in him. He whistled into the mouthpiece.

Scattered around him, as he whistled and waited, the mixed remnants of his CP force plus a smattering of 2d and 3d Platoon men lay huddled to earth, watching him with white eyes and those drawn in-turned faces, as if all were looking to him and hoping he could in some way get them out of this bind, this mess, so that they might go on living. Stein could grin, and did, at the looks on the faces of Storm and his cook force, which seemed to say clearly that they had had their fill of this volunteering for combat, that if they ever got out of this one they would most certainly never do it again. They were not alone in it, either. Supply Sergeant MacTae and his clerk wore the same look.

Stein did not have long to wait; almost before his whistle had ended the phone was answered on the other end, and it was Colonel Tall himself, not any communications clerk. It was not a long conversation, but in a way it was one of the most important conversations in Stein’s life up to now. Yes, Tall had seen the little three squad attack, and had thought it fine. They had made a good lodgment. But before Stein could say anything further, he demanded to know why Stein had not already followed it up and exploited it? What was the matter with him? Those men should be reinforced immediately. And what were they doing? Tall could see them through his glasses, just lying there behind that ledge. They should be already up and out and at work cleaning out those emplacements.

“I don’t think you understand what’s going on down here, Sir.” Stein said patiently. “We’re taking a lot of fire down here. We’ve had heavy casualties. I was planning to reinforce them right away, but something bad happened. We had a man—” he did not actually hesitate or gulp over the word, but he wanted to gulp— “gutshot out on the slope, and he caused quite a bit of upset. But that’s taken care of now, and I’m planning to reinforce now.” Stein swallowed. “Over?”

“Fine,” Colonel Tall’s voice said crisply, without his former enthusiasm. “By the way, who was that man who ran out on the slope? Was that what he was doing? The Admiral—Admiral Barr—saw him through the glasses; the Admiral couldn’t tell for sure but thought he had gone out to help someone. Was that it? The Admiral wants to recommend the man for something. Over.”

Stein had listened wanting suddenly to laugh hysterically. Help him? Yes, he had helped him all right. Boosted him right on off the old cinder and out and away. “There were two men who went out, Sir,” he said. “One was our senior medic. He was killed. The other,” he said, remembering what he now thought of as his conspiratorial promise to Welsh, “was one of the privates. I don’t know which one yet, but I’ll find out. Over.” And fuck you. And the Admiral.

Fine. Fine, fine. And now, Tall wanted to know, what about those reinforcements? Stein went on to lay out, while the mortars continued to search unabated along and around the fold, his little plan of bringing his reserve platoon forward to this slope, while sending the remaining two squads of 2d Platoon up with the other three—other two now, rather, after casualties—up on the ridge. “I lost Keck, you know, too, Colonel. Up there. He was one of my best men,” he said. “Over.”

The answer he got was an unexpected outburst of official fury. Two squads! What the hell did he mean, two squads! When Tall said reinforcements, he meant reinforcements. Stein should throw every man he had in there, and should do it now. Should have done earlier, as soon as the lodgment was made. That meant commit the reserve platoon and all. And what about Stein’s 1st Platoon? They were lying on their fat asses down there doing nothing. Stein should move them by the flank in to the ridge, should get a man down there to them right now with orders to attack—attack around the left of the ridge. Send his reserve platoon to attack around the right. Leave the 2d Platoon there to hold and press the center. An envelopment. “Do I have to give you a ten cent lesson in infantry tactics while your men are getting their ass shot off, Stein?” Tall howled. “
Over!
”

Stein swallowed his wrath. “I don’t think you fully understand what’s going on down here, Colonel,” he said more quietly than he felt. “We’ve already lost two officers dead, and a lot of men. I don’t think my company alone can take that position. They’re too well dug in, and have too much firepower. I formally request, Sir, and I have witnesses, to be given permission to make a patrol reconnaissance around to the right of Hill 210 through the jungle. I believe the entire position can be outflanked by a maneuver there in force.” But did he? Did he really believe that? Or was he only grasping at straws? He had a hunch, that was the truth. He had a real hunch but that was all. There had been no fire from there all day. But was that enough? “Over,” he said, trying to muster all his dignity—then blinked and ducked down flat, as a mortar shell went up roaring ten yards away along the little crest and somebody screamed.

“NO!” roared Tall, as if he had been waiting fuming, dancing a little dance of frustration at the other end, until he could push
his
button and speak
his
piece into this maddening one-way phone. “I tell you,
no!
I want a double envelopment! I order you, Stein, to attack, and attack now, with every available man at your disposal! I’m sending B-for-Baker in too on your left! Now,
ATTACK,
Stein! That’s a direct order!” He paused for breath. “Over!”

Stein had heard himself talking of “formally request” and “have witnesses” with a sort of astonished, numb disbelief. He had not really meant to go that far. How could he be sure that he was right? And yet, he was sure. At least, reasonably sure. Why had there been no firing from down there, then? In any case, he had now either to put up or shut up. His heart suddenly up in his throat, he said formally, “Sir, I must tell you that I refuse to obey your order. I again request permission to make a patrol reconnaissance in force around to the right. The time, Sir, is 1321 hours 25 seconds. I have two witnesses here listening to what I’ve said. I request, Sir, that you inform witnesses there. Over.”

“Stein!” he heard. Tall was raging. “Don’t pull that guardhouse lawyer shit with me, Stein! I know you’re a goddamned lawyer! Now shut up and do like I said! I didn’t hear what you just said! I repeat my order! Over!”

“Colonel, I refuse to take my men up there in a frontal attack. It’s a suicide! I’ve lived with these men two and a half years. I won’t order them all to their deaths. That’s final. Over.” Someone was blubbering now not far away along the crest, and Stein tried to see who it was and couldn’t. Tall was stupid, ambitious, without imagination, and vicious as well. He was desperate to succeed before his superiors. Otherwise he could never have given such an order.

After the little pause, Tall’s voice was cool, and sharp as a razorblade. “This is a very important decision you’re making, Stein. If you feel that strongly, perhaps you have reason. I’m coming down. Understand: I’m not rescinding my order to you, but if I find there are extenuating circumstances when I get down there, I’ll take that into account. I want you to hold on there until I get there. If possible, get those men up on the ridge out and moving. I’ll be there in” he paused “ten or fifteen minutes. Over and out.”

Stein listened unbelieving, mentally stunned, feeling scared. To Stein’s knowledge, which he knew was not universal but nevertheless, no Battalion Commander had come forward with his fighting troops since this battle started and the division entered combat. Tall’s inordinate ambition was a Regimental joke, and he certainly had every bigshot on the island here today to perform for, but Stein still had not anticipated this. What had he expected, then? He had expected, if he made his protest strong enough, to be allowed to make his patrol in force and test the right before having to face a necessity of this frontal attack,—even though he knew it was a little late in the day now for that kind of an operation. And now he was really scared. It was almost funny, how even lying here terrified and half-expecting to be dead at any moment, his bureaucratic fear of reprimand, of public embarrassment was stronger than his physical fear of dying. Well, at least as strong.

Well, he had two things to do, while he waited for Tall. He must see about that man who was wounded a moment ago. And he must get the other two squads of 2d Platoon up there on the ridge to Beck and Dale.

The wounded man proved to be little Pfc Bead from Iowa, Fife’s assistant clerk, and he was dying. The mortar round had exploded five yards away from him on his left, sending a piece probably no bigger than a silver dime into his left side after tearing its way through the triceps muscle of his upper left arm. The chunk out of his arm would never have killed him though it might have crippled him a bit, but blood was pouring from the hole in his side into the compresses somebody had stuck on it, and from the soaked gauze dripping down to stain the ground. When Stein arrived, trailed by the wide-eyed Fife with the telephone, Bead’s eyes were blank and he spoke just barely above a whisper.

“I’m dying, Captain!” he croaked, rolling his eyes toward Stein. “I’m dying! Me!
Me!
I’m dying! I’m so scared!” He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed. “I was just laying there. And it hit me right in the side. Like somebody punched me. Didn’t hurt much. Doesn’t hurt much now. Oh, Captain!”

“Just take it easy, son. Just take it easy,” Stein said in a kind of fruitless, bootless anguish.

“Where’s Fife?” Bead creaked, rolling his eyes. “Where’s Fife?”

“He’s right here, son. Right here,” Stein said. “Fife!” He himself turned away, feeling like an old, old, useless man. Grandfather Stein.

Fife had stopped behind the Captain, but now he crawled closer. There were two or three others clustered around Bead. He had not wanted to look; at the same time he could not convince himself of the reality of it. Bead hit and dying. Someone like Tella, or Pvt Jockey Jacques, was different. But Bead, with whom he had worked so many days in the office, in the orderly room. Bead, with whom he had—His mind balked away from that. “I’m here,” he said.

“I’m dying, Fife!” Bead told him.

Fife could not think of anything to say, either. “I know. Just take it easy. Just take it easy, Eddie,” he said, repeating Stein. He felt impelled to use Bead’s first name, something he had never done before.

“Will you write my folks?” Bead said.

“I’ll write them.”

“Tell them it didn’t hurt me much. Tell them the truth.”

“I’ll tell them.”

“Hold my hand, Fife,” Bead croaked then. “I’m scared.”

For a moment, a second, Fife hesitated. Homosexuality. Fagotism. Fairies. He didn’t even think them. The act of hesitation was far below the level of conscious thought. Then, realizing with horror what he had done, was doing, he gripped Bead’s hand. Crawling closer, he slid his other arm under his shoulders, cradling him. He had begun to cry, more because he suddenly realized that he was the only man in the whole company whom Bead could call friend, than because Bead was dying.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

“Squeeze,” Bead croaked. “Squeeze.”

“I’m squeezing.”

“Oh, Fife!” Bead cried. “Oh, Captain!”

His eyes did not go shut but they ceased to see.

After a moment Fife put him down and crawled away by himself, weeping in terror, weeping in fear, weeping in sadness, hating himself.

It was only five minutes after that that Fife himself was hit.

Stein had followed him when he crawled away. He obviously did not fully understand Fife’s weeping. “Lie down somewhere for a little bit, son,” he said, and briefly patted his back. He had already taken the sound power phone from Fife when he sent him up to Bead, and now he said, “I’ll keep the phone for a few minutes myself. There won’t be any calls coming in for a while anyway, now,” he said with a bitter smile. Fife, who had listened to the last call to Tall, had in fact been one of Stein’s two witnesses, knew what he meant, but he was in no condition or mood to make any answer. Dead. Dead. All dead. All dying. None left.
Nothing
left. He had come unstrung, and his unnerving was the worse because he was helpless, could do nothing, could say nothing. He must stay here.

The mortar rounds had continued to drop at random points along the fold with strict regularity, all during the time it had taken Bead to die, all during the time after. It was amazing how few men they actually wounded or killed. But everyone’s face wore that same vague-eyed, terrorized, in-drawn look. Fife had seen an abandoned, yellowdirt hole a few yards off to his right and he crawled to this. It was hardly even a hole, really. Someone had scooped out with his hands, bayonet or entrenching tool a shallow little trough perhaps only two inches below the surface. Fife crouched flat in this and put his cheek to the mud. Slowly he stopped weeping and his eyes cleared, but as the other emotions, the sorrow, the shame, the selfhatred seeped out of him under the pressure of self-preservation, the fourth component, terror, seeped in to replace them until he was only a vessel completely filled with cowardice, fear and gutlessness. And that was the way he lay. This was war? There was no superior test of strength here, no superb swordmanship, no bellowing Viking heroism, no expert marksmanship. This was only numbers. He was being killed for numbers. Why oh why had he not found and taken to himself that clerkish deskjob far in the rear which he could have had?

He heard the soft “shu-u-u” of the mortarshell for perhaps half a second. There was not even time to connect it with himself and frighten him, before there was a huge sunburst roaring of an explosion almost on top of him, then black blank darkness. He had a vague impression that someone screamed but did not know it was himself. As if seeing some dark film shown with insufficient illumination, he had a misty picture of someone other than himself half-scrambling, half-blown to his feet and then dropping, hands to face in a stumbling, rolling fall down the slope. Then nothing. Dead? Are we, that other one, is I? am he?