Chapter 31
Egan has stopped. Whitney has stopped. They both crouch tensely.
You pause with your body stiffly tangent to the universe.
You cannot see Lindstrom, but you hear him tap once,
then again, on the wooden stock of his Tommy gun.
Stand still. Be quiet. If you're surrounded, the noise you
would make getting flat on your middle would be like
taking your finger out of a hole in the dike
of enemy firepower. You're better off remaining on your feet.
The tall brush breaks up your silhouette, and you can
move more quickly in any direction. Listen. Listen very carefully.
You can hear the molecules in the air marching past
to the threshing and hammering drum beat of your pulse.
Turn your head and look behind you. Can you see
anything? Only mud and vines and scrub and a fly
buzzing in lazy loops and trees leaning on their years
and a single leaf falling like a drop of eternity.
A shadow darkens your awareness. You twist around,
mmmfacing forward.
There's Lindstrom. His hand is lifted. He whispers, "Stay here,
you guys. There's something rotten out front and I'm saving
myself a trip to Denmark." He sidles out of your
vision and the rustling curtain of foliage swings shut again.
You feel the jungle weaving you into its green tapestry.
"Stay here. . ." Okay. You'll stay. You'll stay because there's nothing
else to do, and you'll stay here because there's nowhere
else to do it. The whole thing is like a
poorly written play, full of dramatic build-ups that never reach
a climax and climaxes that are never built up to.
And there's no showmanship or staging or colorful lighting effects
and the characters are plain, ordinary dopes, and the lines
Said and the gestures made are plain, ordinary and dopey.
It's stupid and uninspired and insulting to the simple dignity
of human beings. . .But it is having a record run
and people come from all over and they call it
the Big Show and they will go on doing it
until maybe someday there will be a special performance given
and no one will attend. Then the empty theater will
crumble and souvenir hunters will take home parts of it
and say, "Look, here is a little piece of war,"
and people will laugh because it is just a handful
of plain, ordinary dopey dust, and not a mangled body.
Egan and Whitney are poised motionlessly, like trained bird dogs,
while silence stretches out like a tightly drawn rubber sheet.
Now they stir anxiously as a cautious footstep is heard
and rifles are raised in readiness. Lindstrom's low voice reassures,
"It's me, fellows," and he creases the brush and reappears.
He puts his hand on Whitney's shoulder and beckons Egan
and you over to him, and you see excitement in
his eyes. "Listen," he says, "I saw a T-shaped limb
that looked unnatural to me, and damned if it didn't
turn out to be a rest for field glasses. There's
a Jap observation post right behind it hidden from view
by grass, moss and stones. At first I thought it
was abandoned, and I was just getting set to investigate
when I saw a sentry standing guard. Lucky his back
was toward me, or he would have given the alarm.
Now, here's the deal. We can't bypass him because of
the stream to our right, so we'll do a quiet
disposal job. We will attract his attention from the front
while someone sneaks behind and knifes him from the rear."
Patriotism means allowing the enemy to die
for his country.
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