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The stink of rotten paddy came up out of the ground, hung around Theodore’s nose, gushed up over his head and stayed there. Sweat rolled off his forehead and into his eyes. The chopper took off behind Theodore, it's dust-off cooling nothing – all that hot wind coming down just stirred the humid soup in which Theodore swam, the hot jungle, the molding dishrag wetness of it. He squinted straight ahead at the barracks and walked until he found his brother.
Theodore grinned his bucked teeth, and the grin wrinkled up his freckled nose, but his brothers eyes bored past him one thousand miles, a dead man’s eyes. Theodore straightened up and saluted his brother.
“Put your goddamned hand down,” his brother said.
Theodore put his hand down.
“Gosh, Wally, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
Wally looked like a mad dog dressed up in clean green jungle fatigues. His black boots were spit-shined, but his creases were slack and his cap sat too low on his brow. He looked Theodore up and down, and he softened, just for an instant, just long enough to say “Come on, let’s get you set up,” and then he turned his back and was the mad dog again. Theodore slung his duffel over his shoulder and followed behind.
“So who’s top?” Theodore asked.
“You’ll see. Keep your trap shut,” Wally said.
They walked to a row of Quonset huts and entered the last one on the right. It was clean, immaculate, and there were three men inside, and Theodore recognized two.
Lumpy was a skeleton – he weighed a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet with rocks in his pockets. His old slack jaw was sharp as broken glass. He stood like a man who wanted to run. His hands were so straight and still at his sides that he had to be forcing it.
Opposite him stood the LT. Theodore only saw his back, and his pomade-slicked hair. He carried a clipboard, which he handed over to the third man, a tow-headed sergeant.
Theodore’s guts turned cold. The top kick, Sergeant Haskell, E. He took the clipboard from the LT, signed a paper on its face, and handed it back before offering a crisp little salute and standing at attention.
The LT turned and left, and Eddie Haskell was at ease. He turned to face Lumpy, and Theodore froze – but Eddie paid him no attention, as if he hadn’t seen him at all.
Wally went forward. Theodore followed.
“He’s here,” Wally said, and saying so made it okay for Eddie to look Theodore over, and for Theodore to look back.
Eddie was clean – pine-sol-lemon-pledge-spotless. His fatigues could have passed for dress greens, no holes, no spots, perfect creases: officer grade. These clothes had never seen the bush, of that Theodore was sure, but Eddie had. Eddie was carved out of wood, taught in every joint, tanned bronze and mad around the eyes. Eddie must have gotten his duds new – bought, procured, swiped, stolen – they were Eddie’s clothes and they weren’t going out.
“You see this sack of meat?” Eddie asked Lumpy.
“How’s it going, Eddie?” Theodore asked as cordially as he could, the name sticking in his throat.
Sweat ran down his sides and back.
“I wasn’t talking to you, scrip.” Eddie said.
Theodore screwed up his face, confused.
“You’re a f-f-fucking c-c-conscript,” Lumpy explained.
“Don’t tell him nothing,” Eddie said.
“Hey, lay off him,” Wally said to Eddie.
Eddie took his eyes off Theodore for a second and met Wally face to face. It was no contest - Eddie was top kick - but Wally didn’t back down or flinch.
Eddie took a different tack.
“I don’t know whose cock you sucked to get into this outfit, but here’s how it goes down: you do what I say, when I say it – same goes for Wally and Lump. Shit rolls down hill and from where you’re standing, you’ve got a worm's eye view of our assholes, get it?”
Theodore’s face paled, but he nodded and managed to say, “Sir, yes sir,” with reasonable confidence.
“The kid sits up real good,” Eddie said as he passed Wally by, giving him a little pat on the shoulder.
“Get him settled, get him debriefed, and get him ready. We go out tomorrow,” he said.
Wally took his brother’s duffel and threw it on an empty bunk.
“That’s you, so’s the locker. Unpack your ass and we’ll get some chop-chop,” he said.
Wally started going through his brother’s pack.
“You got anything good?” he asked.
Theodore shook his head and said “a whole bunch of pills is all.”
Wally perked up and asked what kind.
“Oh, all kinds of stuff – salt, iodine, Mondays, vitamins – everything they gave me,” Theodore said.
Wally stopped going through the bag.
“Hurry up – I’m hungry,” he said, and he left for the mess.
Lumpy, unseen by anyone, had seated himself on the next bunk over, and sat staring at his hands in earnest
Theodore took notice of him. “How you doing, Lump?” he asked.
“You got any stick?” Lumpy asked.
“Stick?”
“D-d-dew, man, grass,” Lumpy said.
“No, I don’t,” Theodore said reproachfully.
“That’s just a god-damned shame. Too god-damned b-b-bad. Too god-damned bad.”
Theodore made his bed and shoved his duffel underneath. He wanted the fuck out of that room. He wanted the fuck out right then and there.
[TO BE CONCLUDED 1-15-2010]
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