Chapter 16
Captain MacDonald orders the men to begin digging in immediately
and you put your canteen back in its case and
unhook the harness of your combat pack and squirm free.
Then you draw out your intrenching tool from the strap
and select a site within bounds of your platoon area.
Here goes. Lie propped on your hips and start work.
Don't stand up unless you have to, because the enemy
is undoubtedly observing the clearing from positions on the hill.
Jab the small shovel into the dirt with short strokes
and place the soil in the direction of the Japs
to form a solid parapet which you will later camouflage
with oznaburg cloth of a color similar to your surroundings
or with the plentiful Kunai grass or tall brush cane.
No, it isn't very much, but you'll call it home. . .
Your parlor will be fresh soil, not yet turned mud,
with wide windows of amber sand glistening in the sun,
looking out upon the main thoroughfare of bustling community activity.
Your grounds will be broad terraces rolling in perfection and
your roof will be a towering dome of disenchanted blue
and your cellar will be a reservoir of undrinkable vintages.
Your dining room will be a knife and a spoon.
Mess its are a nuisance unless there is hot water,
so you will eat from cans and throw them away.
Perhaps, when chow time comes, a man will open up
one of those large tins of preserved beef over there
and will cut a slice for himself with his bayonet.
Then he will replace the lid and with careful aim
and cries of "Room service!" will toss the can into
another foxhole where an adjacent epicure will await his turn.
Your bedroom, if you should sleep at all this night,
will be a shelter tent section wrapped around your body,
or a mosquito net to challenge the bearers of malaria,
with only the flat of your back for a mattress
and your belly drawn up over your for a blanket
and Stevenson's "half of a broken dream for a pillow."
Some of the men relieve the dull work of digging
by making ironic jokes on the amenities of domestic existence.
"I'm gonna write home for a set of chintz curtains,"
says Ivey. "Won't you join me for tea and bridge
tomorrow awfternoon?" asks Pvt. Chapman,
mmmhis voice glutted with satire.
"So sorry, please," Ivey replies, "but I'm expecting Clare Luce."
Egan pretends to be indignant. "There's water in my basement.
I demand to see the real estate agent right away!"
"Well, you made your bed now drink it!" laughs Whitney.
Graham points out, "You'll find the complaint department on the
eighteenth floor, two doors to your left. Take the elevator."
Lindstrom warns, "You boys better wipe your feet before entering.
I don't want any mud tracked on my clean carpet."
You say, "Why don't you transfer to the Air Corps?
There's no mud in the clouds." Ivey gasps, "Hey, fellows,
focus your 20-20s on Lt. Nixon over there. He's got
his arms dirty all the way up to his shoulder patch.
And he once gigged me for having an unshined belt buckle!"
Lloyd suddenly yells, "Shut up, all you guys, shut up!
Someone is trying to sneak past the row of bushes!"
He raises his rifle. There is silence. Every man drops
his shovel and reaches for his firearm. Lloyd takes aim
at a rustling branch and fires. There is agitated foliage
And a Yank from another platoon emerges red with anger.
"Can't a guy take a leak without being shot at?"
