Dog Tags (11 page)

When a vehicle pulled into the courtyard voices rose, and the sounds of loading; four men entered, scavenged thoroughly, chatted with the noncom, removed the wounded officer. The noncom committed Ewald and his bulging pack to the care of a soldier, and walked beside me to the door. He seemed thoughtful and not inscrutable. At the door he halted me and brought the muzzle of the burp gun to my throat. I tried to read his eyes and could not, and the imminence of death ripped through me like an electric shock; my knees dissolved. The Chinese reached inside my shirt and ripped away my dog tags. I felt old aches, magic hangovers, universal déjà vu, everything, always.

Outside in the dark I stumbled and sagged. I made signs for beddy-bye and they let me lie on the floor of the truck, where I was cold. I found a stack of my own blankets and wrapped myself in one and said, “Die-foo,” and the Chinese all laughed.

6

“Parsons.” Benny spoke the name slowly. This was a dream, or a trick. The ship rolled, and Benny seemed to glide.

“You remember me.” Parsons rose to shake hands. “How do you feel?”

“Seasick,” Benny said. “But I'd …” He gestured, open hands. “I'd rather be seasick than …”

“I imagine so. Sit down.”

Benny examined the metal chair. “It's bolted to the floor.”

“Yes.”

Benny sat. “You? How come …?”

“I asked for you.” Parsons smiled. “Old friends, and all that.” The table between them was round and covered in green baize. “Just took your name off one list and put it on another.” Parsons too sat down, and they squirmed and settled like card players. Parsons poked at a file folder. “You're all right physically. I'm glad of that.”

It was a sizable room, perhaps a wardroom or a saloon. They were alone in it.

“It's nice on deck,” Benny said. “The sunshine, and the ocean.”

“Quite a change. So you got into medical school all right.”

“I almost wish I hadn't.” Portholes. Wooden trim here and there, dark. Bright screws. Tables and shelves hinged to the wall. Bulkhead.

“You know,” Parsons said, “this is a tremendous problem we have on our hands.”

A phrase-maker. He did not mean Ewald, Benny knew. All problems were tremendous. “I suppose so.” No rats. No lice. So antiseptic!

“We have nine of these transports, all doing the same job. We're just collecting facts, you know.”

Earnest. Earnest Parsons, as in an old play. What was his Christian name?

“Glad to help,” Benny said. He belched gently. “Sorry. Still adjusting to food. You have no idea what tropical storms a little soda pop can generate.” The ship rolled tamely, languidly; he blinked and breathed deeply.

“Are you all right?” The remote tones: Parsons. Parsons wore silver oak-leaves.

“I'm all right. All tanned. Gaining weight.”

“You were down to one fifty.”

“From two oh five. I'll get it back.”

“Yes. A nice slow trip and all you can eat.”

“And whiskey in the officers' quarters.”

“Go easy,” Parsons said. “You've got to get used to things all over again. You've come out of an absolutely regulated life, every decision made for you, no choices, no options.”

“Decisions?” Benny said. “Choices? Ah, Colonel: every minute of every day.”

Parsons considered, pursed his lips, clucked. “Maybe so.”

“You're older,” Benny said. “You've lost some hair.”

Parsons smiled sadly. “I'm forty.”

“And a light colonel. You'll be a general in the next one.”

“You're older too,” Parsons said.

“Several decades older,” Benny said. Outside the porthole blue sky, an endless tilting sea.

“Why don't you call me Alex,” Parsons said. “We're old friends.”

“Alex.” Benny approved. “Good. Companions in arms.”

“That's what we are,” Parsons said. “Benny, nobody here is your enemy, but I have to remind you of article thirty-one of the uniform code of military justice. You may decline to answer any question if you feel that the answer will tend to incriminate or degrade you. But anything you do say may be held against you.”

7

In a searing white dawn they prodded us off the truck and into a temple. Ewald's face was yellow wax, frozen, set hard. We had no fire and now no blankets. We: a dozen or so. Ewald moved away from me and curled up on the floor. I went after him: “Stay close, Corporal. I'll need that pack.” He made no answer. Men stirred. I defined myself and asked who needed help. “He does,” they said, and waved at a bulky Negro.

“Unconscious or asleep?”

“Unconscious. Maybe dead.”

“Give me a hand. Turn him over. Gently.”

Aiee. Bad. Projectile in the back, beside the first lumbar vertebra, slashed in angling to the outside, still in there. Nerves, maybe; kidney, maybe. A mess. Little blood. The dog tags: Howard, Charles Arthur, Protestant, type O. Fever minimal. Respiration too. A lump. “Turn him back.” Bladder full. I pressed lightly. Hell. I unslung the pack. Catheter, grease, needle, clamp. I drew a cc. of water into the syringe. I had to be calm and not shaky and not blasphemous and not suicidal; but a tiny black void blossomed at my precise center. I took his penis in my hand and inserted the catheter, slid it all the way up. (Taking this in? A day in the field with our boys. Penology, you might call it.) This long tube went right up into his bladder, and at the inner end was a small balloon (whee!), with a separate channel of access, and that was what the cc. of water was for: I shot it into the smaller channel and it filled the balloon which then sat in the neck of the bladder so that the catheter could not slip out. Meanwhile the poor bastard was draining into my canteen cup. Seven hundred cc.'s, I estimated. Old Doc Beer, hewer of bone and drawer of pee. The drugstore joke: Do you do urinalysis? Yes. Then wash your hands and make me a ham sandwich. I think by now there were tears in my eyes. But no blood in the urine. Thank God for the least of his blessings. Naturally not responsible for sordors and agonies. When the flow ceased I clamped the tube. Shock. He needed plasma. “Has he been conscious at all?” “He groans.” “Watch him. If he wakes, give him all the water he can hold.”

“Not supposed to give a wounded man water.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Make him drink.” I had a considerable audience, some gagging. Always something new out of Asia. Join the army. Enlist now. I held forth the cup: “Get rid of this.” A hand took it. “Who's in charge?”

“I am.” A sergeant, southern voice. “Trezevant. First regiment, twenty-fourth.” Big and black.

“Forget that. Name, rank, serial number, date of birth. If they march us we'll need a litter for this man. I want you to detail four men to carry him, two on, two off. I'll tag him. Anybody else?”

“Cuts and bruises. A smashed shoulder.”

“I'll look at them. Pool the food? Share and share alike?”

“Later,” the sergeant said. “Let 'em sleep.”

“Any hot water?”

“Nothin.”

“Here's your cup,” someone said.

I rinsed it and scrubbed it with dirty snow. “Ewald. Let's get some plasma into this man.”

“God's sake,” he said. “Here and now?”

“Here and now. This fellow may not have any there and then.”

Afterward we froze in silence. I ate a chocolate bar, sipped from my canteen, smoked. Then I sat back against the stone wall of that house of worship and dozed. Attend the church of your choice. It occurred to me that I might soon die. Or was already dead. The Tibetan hell was a vast lake of ice and the damned stood entombed to the neck crying “ha-ha.” The spark of life: a good phrase and you never knew how good until the fire burned low. I wound my watch.

Later there were thirty-odd in the temple and I had performed minor embroidery. One of the newcomers was a major. “Kinsella,” the major announced. “You keep these men in shape.” He was a short, hard, dark-haired man, energetic, would rise early, and he reminded me of plains colleges, fields of rimed stubble, a good wing shot. He made a speech. “You take your orders from me. You refer all problems to me. You maintain discipline and respect for rank.” No one cheered. He stood taut, angry. “You just do what I tell you,” he said, and came to sit beside me. “We need a litter,” I said. “Right,” he said, and bounced up and went to the door to holler for a guard. This small tyrant; I almost smiled. Kinsella instructed, made signs; the guard stared blankly and went away. He returned with an officer and Kinsella resumed. The officer spoke English and I joined them. In a pause I spoke my one Chinese idiom and the officer grunted. “We have one man badly hurt and unconscious,” I said. “If you can give me a litter we'll carry him.”

“We have no stretcher.”

“Two poles and a blanket.”

“Who are you?”

“Die-foo.”

“You come.”

“The stretcher.”

“Yes. The stretcher. You come.”

Kinsella nodded okay. I took up my pack and followed the officer. The temple was surrounded by guards. We crunched up a frosted slope to a wooden building—monks' quarters?—and inside. I treated four Chinese, minor lacerations, a crushed hand; I set new dressings, enjoyed the warmth, and accepted a cigarette. Also a bowl of warm grain. I did not recognize it but supposed it was millet. A small cup—a cup? a little porcelain cup!—of tea. The officer escorted me back to the temple. Above us the sky was dead, pallid.

Shortly two men arrived with the improvised litter. The officer followed and told us to prepare to march. “Three minutes,” he said. Kinsella strode forward and made another speech. “We march in three minutes,” he finished up. “Carry all you've got and stay together. Any man who drops out may be left behind.”

“The hell he will,” I said. “If a man drops out you'll pick him up and carry him.”

Kinsella said furiously, “Lieutenant! It's my job to save as many men as possible.”

“Major,” I said, “it's my job to save them all.”

We marched north on an open road and I drifted up and down the line. The men were tired and hungry. Now they feared our own aircraft. Some had lost blood but there was no sense of doom until the snow fell. It began in midafternoon, heavy, wet, lazy flakes, great soggy feathers of snow; in half an hour the land was white and from the rear I could not see the point. I was stiff and still ached but the walking warmed me. Trezevant trudged along beside Howard's litter. I inspected my patient every quarter-hour. The man would doubtless die but there was plenty of time for that. Kinsella too moved among them, striding briskly on short legs, provoking, pleading, swearing; at the head of the column he shouted at the guards, “Rest! Rest! We need rest!” No one answered.

The litter-bearers swapped off. “I wish the son of a bitch would hurry up and die.” Our boys. I took Trezevant's place and wiped snow from Howard. He needed nourishment. He needed a hospital and a surgeon, and radiators, and intravenous feeding. We marched. Twilight gathered, but we marched. The guards marched, iron men. Jeep-like vehicles approached, stopped, passed on. A line of four came out of the north, lights pricking through the snow, and faded to the south. Kinsella loomed out of the gray dusk. “Two men down,” he bawled. “Come along.” I dropped back. At the end of the column two men supported two others. “Cramp,” one called. “Legs all seized up.”

“Lay them down and rub.”

“Guards won't let us. They stuck me once.”

“Then keep going.” In the wind and whirling snow our voices were soft and spooky.

“I'll send relief,” Kinsella called. “Just drag 'em along. These bastards got to stop soon.” To me he said, “All right, all right, we'll do all we can. God damn snow.”

We turned to move forward together and barely glimpsed the litter at the roadside.

“God damn!” Kinsella yelled. “Give me a hand. I'll bust their asses for that!”

We knelt over Howard. His pulse was thin. “He's alive,” I said, and then a blow in the side drove the breath out of me, whoosh, and I skidded through the snow on my face. I rolled over and spat and rose to a crouch. I stared through the gloom. A guard spat too, on me. “Die-foo!” I shouted. “Die-foo!” The guard hesitated. I stood up and took the rear of the litter; Kinsella and I hoisted, and shambled forward. “Son of a bitch
kicked
me,” I panted. I started to cry. Kinsella trotted; I gulped air and kept up. We found Trezevant. “I need bearers,” I told him. “The good ones. Not those other two.” Men took the litter. I wiped snow from my face and breathed hard.

Kinsella and I slogged along together. Many times his hand rose, and his thumb sought the sling of a vanished carbine. Later he groaned and said, “It's no use. I got to check the rear. If they want to kill us, why don't they just shoot us?”

“Beats me. Send word if you need me.”

Kinsella squinted. “You look like hell.”

I tried to smile, and failed. “No sleep. Overwork. I need a doctor.”

Two hours later we were herded into a dark, snowy courtyard at the center of a dark, snowy village. The men dropped in place and a vast groan arose, a common cry for peace and rest, and then there was silence except for the sobs. Kinsella called out, “Massage those men. There's still tomorrow. Move that litter out of the snow. Somewhere. Against the wall.”

“Lay the blanket over him,” I said.

“Where's that officer?” Kinsella stormed off.

“Trezevant,” I said, “bring those two men over here.”

He hesitated. “We're all in bad shape.”

“Bring them.”

He found them and brought them to me. We could all hear Kinsella raging and sputtering. I inspected the two men. They were boys. They stood sullen and snow fell on them, gliding out of the black night into the faint light of torches. “We thought he was dead,” one mumbled. I swayed but gathered myself up, stood with my feet set apart and was briefly, nastily, almost happily, a corporal again. “Take off your helmets.” They stared. “Take off your helmets.” Slowly they fumbled their helmets off. Snow whitened their crew cuts. They were not as big as me but I slapped them both, hard. “That's all.” I felt foolish.