already?”
Strader held his flak jacket open on one side to let in the breeze. “No, just me.”
Pusic moved behind one of the desks and shuffled some papers. “I don’t remember the captain giving me any orders about you.”
Strader tore himself away from the fan. He hadn’t washed or shaved in five days, and his jungle pants showed every inch of his travels. They were rolled up above worn-out boots with holes abraded in the ankles and nearly every bit of black on the leather scuffed away. His forehead was divided by a tan line showing where his soft cover fit, and his arms were marked to the elbows with scabs from elephant grass cuts. He leaned his M14 against the desk next to a carved wooden placard warning against asking for favors that said: DUTY MARINES HAVE NO FRIENDS AND GIVE NO HUSSES. “Lieutenant Diehl sent me back. If you have any arguments, they’re with him.”
Corporal Pusic was a political realist when it came to the Marine Corps hierarchy. He never questioned officers. If a question was going to a lieutenant, it would come from a captain. The trick was to get the captain to ask the question. “I never argue with Lieutenant Diehl,” Pusic said.
Strader leaned both hands on the edge of the desk. His arms were covered with tracks where sweat had eroded the dirt. “That’s probably best, because it seems Diehl has decided to let the Chief resolve all his problems.”
Pusic’s eyes widened. “The Chief?” he said.
“Yeah. He was going to shoot me this morning if I didn’t get on the chopper. And he likes me. Can you imagine what he would do to someone he didn’t like?”
Pusic briefly imagined what horrors that might involve, then decided to regain some command over his domain. “What is it you want from me, Strader?”
“I want a hot meal and a shower, but what I need is some sleep. I need a rack.”
Pusic leaned back in his chair. “Third Platoon is manning the lines. They’re in the hootches along the runway on the mess hall side. There should be some empty cots.”
Strader snatched up his rifle and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in the morning for a checkout list. I’ve got three and a wake-up and I wanna get the paperwork done as soon as I can.”
“So, you’re going to leave your happy little family here?”
Strader stood in the doorway and looked down the road, across the runway, all the way to the distant Ong Thu shrouded in the Arizona haze. “I already did that,” he said. “Now I’m going back to the world.”
After the supply chopper lifted off, 1st Platoon moved northwest of the clearing, the lead fire team hacking a path as quickly as they could. The point man swung his machete until his arm was spent, then the second man took over. The three Marines rotated point until the platoon had traveled more than a click from the LZ and Lieutenant Diehl called a halt so the supplies could be distributed. Replacement equipment, ammunition, and twelve cases of C rations had come off the chopper and had to be dispersed through the platoon. The men carrying the heavy cases were glad to hand them off to squad leaders. Bandoliers of M60 and M16 ammunition were passed out. The two M79 men split thirty rounds between them, and Deacon got his new pants.
Corporal Middleton dropped two cases of meals on the ground and snapped the wire banding with the slots in the flash suppressor on his M16. Each meal had the contents printed on the box top, and some meals were more prized that others. Wieners and baked beans were a favorite, while ham and lima beans were universally despised; the combination of the ham and the beans just didn’t work, and the Marines made it known which ingredient was the culprit by naming the meal “ham and motherfuckers.”
Middleton flipped the cases over so only the unprinted bottoms of the individual meals showed. In theory, each squad member would choose an anonymous box in turn until the case was empty. Unfortunately, every case was packed exactly the same way, so the configuration was easily memorized; if you were too new to know or too late to pick, you either learned to love ham and limas or starved.
Middleton tossed a green bundle to Deacon. “Here, don’t rip these,” he said. “And I don’t want to have to tell you again, lose the skivvies.”
Deacon dropped his gear and started stripping off his torn trousers as fast as he could. He didn’t want to be caught half naked if the platoon moved out.
Up ahead, Lance Corporal Burke was handing out C-rats to 3rd Squad in the same manner and with much the same results. Burke had eight months in-country and, though only an E-3, with Strader’s departure now found himself in charge of a squad in the most dreaded area in I Corps. Sergeant Blackwell had promised to stay close, but since the sergeant had been with the platoon only a little over four months, he didn’t find the promise comforting.
“Blackwell says I’m to honcho 3rd Squad,” Burke said to the others as they stowed their new meals in their packs.
“Where the hell is Reach?” one of the Marines said, flipping his meals over to confirm what he would be eating.
“The lieutenant sent him back on the chopper.”
It took a second for that to take hold. Reach was gone. They were glad to know that one of their own was going home, but his departure left a hole in the squad, an important hole that made them more vulnerable.
Sergeant Blackwell moved down the line, pushing the Marines to gather their gear and get ready to move. He found Deacon wearing only a helmet, flak jacket, and boots. “Do you think this is a nudist colony, Marine?” he said, watching as Deacon tried to dance into his new pants. “Get those lily-white legs back into green before some VC takes a shine to your ass.”
Whistles came from around 2nd Squad. Middleton laughed.
“It ain’t funny, Middleton. You got a man doin’ a striptease in the Arizona,” the sergeant said.
Middleton laughed again. “He’s just practicing for a section eight discharge.”
“I am not,” Deacon said, struggling to button his fly.
The sergeant looked around at the debris. “Get those empty cartons torn up and buried, and don’t leave any of the wire here.”
Middleton pulled his KA-BAR from his belt and tossed it to Deacon. “Here you go, Gypsy Rose. Cut up those boxes.”
Deacon sliced away at the empty C ration boxes, worrying all the while that the “Gypsy Rose” label was going to stick and haunt him the rest of his tour. Being given the name of a stripper old enough to be his mother would be hard to live down.
Farther along, Sergeant Blackwell reached the CP. Two Marines in clean uniforms stood behind Lieutenant Diehl gulping water from their canteens.
“Sergeant, meet Privates Haber and DeLong,” the lieutenant said. “See if you can find a place for them.”
Sergeant Blackwell looked the replacements up and down. “Out-fucking-standing,” he said.
The Chief stood directly behind the two, his M16 cradled in his arms.
“Chief, get back up to 3rd Squad and take these two with you,” the sergeant said. “But tell Burke to keep them away
