‘I never saw ’em once we left the slit trench,’ came the reply. The implication was clear.
‘I saw two of ’em get hit,’ the Motor Transportation Operator reported.
‘Well, what about the third guy?’ No one knew. He was, therefore, either a coward or dead.
‘Where’s that woman?’ Stempel asked.
‘Dead,’ the Motor Transport man said. ‘Grenade blew up right in front of her.’
‘Jesus’ the comet player said. He rubbed under the obviously itchy cap that he wore under his helmet. ‘That’s half of us… dead.’
Lieutenant Dawes returned with a sergeant. Stempel thought it was their new squad leader. But he saw too many rockers and chevrons on the man’s black plastic insignia.
‘Listen up,’ Dawes said. ‘We’re gonna combine you with 2nd Squad. This lodgement has been reduced. But there’re still infiltrators running around loose. We’re gonna form a skirmish line and sweep the runway. When we find ’em, just drop, return fire, and wait for orders. Let’s go.’ Stempel started to rise. ‘Not you,’ Dawes said. ‘You go with the First Sergeant. The line companies need infantry fillers.’
‘Well, shit!’ the Motor Transportation guy said. ‘We need him too, sir!’
‘He’s infantry,’ Dawes replied. ‘This is a provisional company.’
‘Yeah, but I don’t see them out here attackin’ Chinese “lodgements.” ’
‘You wanta go out to the perimeter?’ Dawes snapped angrily. He turned to the First Sergeant. ‘I know it must be a little slow up there, Top! But you think you can use one more man?’
The man’s slow laugh sounded like a smoker’s cough. ‘Well, sir, we do have this patrol goin’ out come sun-up.’ The soldier didn’t say another word. Harold parted company with his second unit since the war began. They shook hands and wished each other luck. Dawes led the small group off.
That left Stempel alone with the First Sergeant. ‘You were with the 2/263rd?’ the senior non-com asked. Stempel nodded. The man looked around at the dead Chinese. Stempel had grown accustomed to their presence. He was safe there. ‘We tried to come help,’ the man said. ‘Ran right into the main force coming in to attack this base. Made it back with the whole People’s Liberation Army on our heels.’
The man’s voice sounded far away. Stempel didn’t know what to say. ‘Thank you,’ he managed.
The dark profile of the helmet slowly turned Stempel’s way. He stared at Stempel in silence before reaching out to Stempel’s shoulder. ‘You got that the wrong way around, private,’ the raspy First Sergeant said softly. His hand gently squeezed.
It was a bad time for introductions. Stempel’s new comrades had just survived a major attack.
‘Private Stempel, here, is joining First Squad,’ the First Sergeant announced. The hollow-eyed men sagged low against the main trench wall. No one rose, or nodded, or extended a hand, or said a word. The First Sergeant took Stempel’s new squad leader aside for a few private words. The men sat facing Stempel — their backs to the fighting steps and covered machine-gun revetments. Some looked down at his blood-caked parka. Not in horror, or even curiosity, it seemed to Stempel, but in a daze.
The First Sergeant left. The squad leader stepped back up to Stempel. ‘We better get those wounds seen to,’ he said — peering at Stempel’s face.
‘Oh,’ Harold remembered — raising his left arm. ‘I got grazed here, too,’ he said. He showed the sergeant the bloody hole in his sleeve. Harold looked up and caught the man looking at him.
‘You were with the 2/263rd?’ he asked. Heads turned from among the zombies on the trench floor. Stempel nodded. The sergeant’s gaze now fell. Hard, black ice covered the trench floor. ‘We tried to back you guys up,’ he said. ‘We tried to make it out to you.’
‘We barely made it back here alive,’ one of the men against the wall said. He snorted.
‘Patterson!’ the squad leader snapped.
‘Well, shit, sarge!’ Patterson replied — looking around for support. ‘We lost two on that little, stupid fucking excursion. Then we lost Taylor last night.’ Stempel didn’t understand the reason for the men’s heated exchange. ‘Now they got us goin’ out on a Goddamn combat patrol?’
‘We’re not goin’ out. We’re stayin’ here to get fillers like Stempel.’
Patterson leapt to his feet and shook Harold’s hand. ‘Welcome to First Squad, new guy!’ He was grinning.
‘We’re gonna dig instead,’ the squad leader said. There were groans. Patterson bitched. ‘And yeah, Patterson, we’ve lost three guys out of ten.’ He turned to Stempel. ‘How many did you lose in your squad?’
Stempel’s mouth hung open. Patterson’s smile disappeared. He quickly released Stempel’s hand.
‘Come on, sarge,’ Patterson whispered.
‘How many?’ the squad leader snarled at Stempel.
‘Out of my squad?’ Stempel asked. The man nodded. Stempel’s throat was dry. He didn’t know any of their names. ‘Well… all of ’em. Except me.’ He asked about casualties in Harold’s platoon. ‘M-my… platoon? The squad leader nodded. ‘Uhm, everybody. I think I was the only one in my company to…’
Gone was the dissension — the back-talk from Patterson. Stempel’s answers seemed to roust the men from their well of fatigue and self-pity. ‘Let’s get you some new gear,’ the squad leader said. He came back with a new parka. Stempel quickly changed. The new jacket was freezing cold, but clean. ‘Just toss your old one over there,’ the sergeant directed him — pointing.
Stempel went over to the heap. When he got there, he realized it was a pile of gear. Webbing. Packs. Wool underclothes. Arctic whites. All of it was ripped open and covered in blood. He added to the pile, tossing the caked-brown parka on top.
Chapter Fourteen
The knock at the door woke Gordon Davis. When he opened his eyes, he saw Daryl Shavers.
Gordon smiled. His old friend approached the bed.
Gordon could hear a faint chant in the distance. Demonstrators shouting, ‘Hell no, we won’t go!’
‘You made it through that all right?’ Gordon asked.
Daryl smirked. ‘They’re pacifists, not anarchists.’ He laughed. ‘They got these doctors — you know, in those green scrub suits — standing in front of the cameras protesting your drafting them. Haven’t seen ’em this mad since that big managed-care legislation. You remember that?’ Daryl sat. ‘So, what’s it like to be president? Is it everything you dreamed it’d be?’
‘No jokes, please,’ Gordon said. ‘It hurts to laugh.’
There was an awkward pause. ‘Helluva mess you got yourself into, Gordon. I think you’ve singlehandedly set the civil rights movement back thirty years.’
‘Is it that bad?’ Gordon asked. ‘Are they bringing up race?’
Daryl shook his head. ‘I’m just pulling your leg. About the only thing you’ve got going for you in the polls is that you’re black, and you’re all shot up.’
Gordon’s eyes strayed to the window. The chant had given way to a fiery but unintelligible speech shouted through a bull horn. ‘My honeymoon period?’ he said.