In fifteen minutes they had fled beyond the point...
In fifteen minutes they had fled beyond the point where they had started that morning
When Croft finally caught up with the platoon, gathered them together, he discovered there were only three rifles and five packs leftHe knew they could never make the climb againHe was too weak himselfHe accepted the knowledge passively, too fagged to feel any regret or painIn a quiet tired voice he told them to rest before they turned back to the beach to meet the boat
The return march was uneventfulThe men were wretchedly tired, but it was downhill work on the mountain slopesWithout any incident, they jumped the gap in the ledge where Roth had been killed, and by midafternoon descended the last cliffs, and set out into the yellow hillsAll afternoon as they marched they heard the artillery booming on the other side of the mountain rangeThat night they bivouacked about ten miles from the jungle, and by the next day they had reached the shore and joined the litter-bearersBrown and Stanley had come out of the hills only a few hours ahead of the platoon
Goldstein told Croft how they had lost Wilson, and was surprised when he made no commentBut Croft was bothered by something elseDeep inside himself, Croft was relieved that he had not been able to climb the mountainFor that afternoon at least, as the platoon waited on the beach for the boats that were due the next day, handbag chanel Croft was rested by the unadmitted knowledge that he had found a limit to his hunger



14

THE BOAT picked them up the next day and they started on the journey backThis time the landing craft had been equipped with eighteen bunks along the bulkheads and the men put their equipment in the empty ones and stretched out to sleepThey had been sleeping ever since they had come out of the jungle the preceding afternoon, and by now their bodies had stiffened and become painfulSome of them had missed a meal that morning but they were not hungryThe rigors of the patrol had left them depleted in many waysThey drowsed for hours on the return trip, awaking only to lie in their bunks and stare out at the sky above the open boatThe craft pitched and yawed, spray washed over the sides and the bow ramp, but they barely noticedThe sound of the motors was pleasant, reassuringThe events of the patrol had receded already, become a diffused wry compound of indistinct memories
By afternoon most of them were awakeThey were still terribly fatigued but they could not sleep any longerTheir bodies ached and they felt no desire to walk about the narrow confines of the troop well, but still they were subtly restlessThe patrol was over and yet they had so little to anticipateThe months and years ahead were very palpable to themThey were still on the treadmill; the misery, the men's gucci wallet ennui, the dislocated horrorThings would happen and time would pass, but there was no hope, no anticipationThere would be nothing but the deep cloudy dejection that overcast everything
Minetta lay on his bunk, his eyes closed, and dawdled through the afternoonThere was one fantasy he kept indulging, a very simple one, a very pleasing oneMinetta was dreaming about blowing off his footOne of these days while cleaning his gun he could point the muzzle right into the middle of his ankle, and press the triggerAll the bones would be mashed in his foot, and whether they had to amputate or not, they certainly would have to send him home
Minetta tried to add up all the anglesHe wouldn't be able to run again, but then who the hell wanted to run anyway? And as for dancing, the way they had these artificial limbs he could put on a wooden foot, and still hold his ownOh, this was okay, this could work
For a moment he was uneasyDid it make any difference which foot it was? He was a leftie and maybe it'd be better to shoot the right foot, or were they both the same? He thought of asking Polack, and immediately dropped the ideaThis kind of thing he'd have to play aloneIn a couple of weeks, on a day when nothing was doing, he could take care of that little detailHe'd be in the hospital for a while, for three months, six months, but thenHe lit a cigarette and watched the chanel jewelry clouds dissolve into one another, feeling agreeably sorry for himself because he was going to have to lose a foot and it was not his fault
Red picked at a sore on his hand, examining maternally the ridges and creases of his knucklesThere was no kidding himself any longerHis kidneys were shot, his legs would begin to break down soon, all through his body he could feel the damage the patrol had causedProbably it had taken things out of him he would never be able to put back againWell, it was the old men who got it, MacPherson on Motome, and then Wilson, it was probably fair enoughAnd there was always the chance of getting hit and coming out of it with a million-dollar woundWhat difference did it make anyway? Once a man turned yellowHe coughed, lying flat on his back, the phlegm gagging him slightlyIt took an effort of will to prop himself on his elbow and hawk the sputum out onto the floor of the boat
"Hey, Jack," one of the pilots on the stern hatch yelled, "keep the boat cleanWe don't want to scrub it after you guys
"Aaah, blow it out," Polack shouted
Croft called from his bunk, "Let's cut out that spittin', men
There were no answersRed nodded to himselfIt was there, all right; he had waited a little anxiously for Croft to say something, had been relieved when Croft had not scolded him by name
The bums in the flophouse who cringed when they were cheap fake louis vuitton bags sober and cursed when they were drunk
You carried it alone as long as you could, and then you weren't strong enough to take it any longerYou kept fighting everything, and everything broke you down, until in the end you were just a little goddam bolt holding on and squealing when the machine went too fast
He had to depend on other men, he needed other men now, and he didn't know how to go about itDeep within him were the first nebulae of an idea, but he could not phrase itIf they all stuck togetherAll they knew was to cut each other's throatsThere were no answers, there wasn't even any pride a man could have at the endFor an instant he hovered over the idea of writing her a letter, starting it up again, and then he threw it awayThe least you could do was back out like a manAnd there was the thought that maybe she'd tell him to go to hellHe coughed once more and spat into his hand, holding it numbly for several seconds before he wiped it surreptitiously on the canvas of his bunkLet the boat pilot try to wash that outAnd he smiled wryly, shamefully, at the satisfaction it gave himWell, he'd been everything else in his time
And Goldstein lay on his bunk with his arms under his head and thought dreamily about his wife and childAll the bitterness and frustration of losing Wilson had been tucked away in his brain, encysted temporarily by the stupor that had gucci wallet follow