Chapter 17
All the men let go of their muscles and laugh,
and you turn back to your digging with relief. Before
there was strain and discomfort and now a ridiculous incident
has severed the cords of the clinging hood of reticence.
Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for brethren
to dwell together in unity. As in water, face answereth
to face. So does the heart of man to man. . .
This is the aftermath, the epilogue, the period of intimacy
when men gather boldness to themselves as brooms of assurance
sweep clean the dishevelment from the threshold of their uncertainty
and dusty hands that had squeezed triggers and tossed grenades
and hurtled a clenched fist to the jaw of fear
now reach humbly out for fellowship and draw companions close
in the soft, deep communion of a great adventure shared.
The visages of men that had been wooden with intensity
and on which edged curses had whittled their rough obscenities
now open to the gossamer touch of an unashamed retrospection
and heavy doors of the mind that had swung inward
rattle on their hinges and reveal the spirit's floodlighted corridor.
Sure, it's only been a skirmish — just a minor phase
in an island campaign that really hasn't begun to begin,
and you landed on a relatively undefended strip of beach
and the enemy probably had orders to retreat before you.
But just the same, it took plenty of solid fibre
and a lot of those boys who came in ahead
will never hear anyone tell them that they were heroes. . .
You only see buckskin shirts in the movies these days,
but the sharpshooter's eye is still there, and the guts
and the insolent coolness and the large chew of tobacco.
You're exhilarated and giddy at being part of all this,
and you feel that nothing can stop you now. Nothing.
You can go out and bring back the whole universe
on the end of your bayonet and stamp it neatly
with your regimental insignia and you can lift the ocean
and all its ships and put it in your fieldpack
and you can load the stars in your rifle's chamber
and nonchalantly take some target practice at the whirling cosmos.
It's a corny feeling and a hammy feeling and a
kidstuff feeling to be able to look anyone straight in
the eye and say, "Hell, man — I was there, too."
But it's a strong feeling and it's a big feeling
and you see it reflected in the men around you.
They've got to make noise. Any kind of noise.
It's as natural as the desire to sing tuneless serenades
after they have gone out and gotten themselves stinking drunk.
So men talk. Men from other platoons in the company,
digging in on your flank, are letting their tongues wander
about to gather up the loose bits of battle experience
and tie them together with the knotted thread of conversation. . .
"Them little slopeheads were either drugged or dizzy as hell.
I shot one and he wouldn't even look at me.
He just kept walking and walking until he toppled over.
"The Jap bastard went up in flames, like tissue paper.
Christ, Jimmy, did you ever see a human body burn?
Everything goes poof except the skull and the knee caps.
But the insides don't burn. They just pop and sizzle.
"You should have seen Jonesy. He found a few Japs
hiding in some trees. He comes back yelling, 'Coconut grove!
Coconut grove!' over and over again like he was crazy."
And here I always thought it was just a nightclub!"
