upstairs.
Brill was herding men into the dining room and making them sit at tables by the door. He came up to Kahn again.
“Hey, Kahn, you want me to send somebody back downstairs to guard the gear they left out? They didn’t have time to put it in the lockers before we got out of there. They’re afraid somebody might start stealing stuff.”
Kahn looked at Brill as if he had just asked permission to start a bingo game. “Christ, Brill, I don’t give a damn. Do whatever you want to do.”
Jesus—how do you like that? Kahn thought. Worrying about some fucking cameras and stuff—as though people didn’t have anything better to do in a typhoon than sneak around and steal things. Brill actually seemed to be enjoying this. He didn’t have enough sense to be scared; he didn’t share the terrible aloneness on this puny man-made cork. Brill really was strange, Kahn thought, but so far, thank God, he had been harmless—though there was an undercurrent of meanness in Brill that Kahn didn’t like at all.
And Brill, who had just assigned Pfc. Peach to go down and guard the Bravo Company gear, was thinking that Kahn was probably going to fold up the first time they stepped into some shit, because anyone so obviously rattled by a storm was going to be petrified in a firefight. So what, with the damned storm? You couldn’t avoid it—and you couldn’t attack it—and you sure as hell couldn’t go persuade it. So either it was going to get you or it wasn’t. In fact, Brill was exhilarated by the storm. He didn’t share Kahn’s sense of aloneness in it, because he had been alone most of his life—at home, and when his parents divorced, and in the military schools, and every place else—including the Army. The storm actually made him feel less lonely, because the cattle he was in charge of were looking for someone to turn to, and whom else would they turn to but their leader, Brill? Instead of making him feel alone, the storm gave Brill something to do, and in a strange way, he was grateful for it—as he was for the war they would soon be in.
The first Patch heard of Four/Seven’s release was when Captain Kennemer panted up to the bridge with the news that “some people have gone up to the lounges.” Asking around, Kennemer had been informed that the Navy had moved them up because of the violence of the storm, and this news came as a great relief to Patch, because it had been getting plainer and plainer that his measures hadn’t worked. If the storm conveniently let him off the hook, it was indeed a fortuitous happening, no matter how bad it was otherwise.
Patch instructed Kennemer to tell the officers that the men were to remain in the lounges and dining areas inside, and under no circumstances roam around the ship—which was about as necessary as telling even the dumbest among them not to stand in front of a howitzer when it was being fired. Patch himself decided to remain on the bridge with the Navy in case his assistance or authority was needed in dealing with any problems.
The Captain was feverishly engrossed in controlling the ship, and nodded without expression when the call came in about Pfc. Peach, the man Brill had sent down to guard the gear in the troop quarters. He turned to Patch, who had been sitting pinch-faced on a small bench on the bridge, feeling a little queasy.
“Colonel, one of your men has been hurt. You might want to check on him. He fell down the Number Two companionway just midships outside the enlisted men’s lounge.”
“Thank you, I certainly will. Is he hurt bad?” Patch said.
“We don’t know yet. The doctor is with him now—he may have broken something. He shouldn’t have been on those stairs in this weather.”
Again Patch shrank from the disapproval of the Navy Captain. Resentfully, he started down the corridor toward the stairwell.
By the time he got to the spot, they already had Pfc. Peach strapped to a litter. He was a smallish pale man anyway, and the shock of
Brill was herding men into the dining room and making them sit at tables by the door. He came up to Kahn again.
“Hey, Kahn, you want me to send somebody back downstairs to guard the gear they left out? They didn’t have time to put it in the lockers before we got out of there. They’re afraid somebody might start stealing stuff.”
Kahn looked at Brill as if he had just asked permission to start a bingo game. “Christ, Brill, I don’t give a damn. Do whatever you want to do.”
Jesus—how do you like that? Kahn thought. Worrying about some fucking cameras and stuff—as though people didn’t have anything better to do in a typhoon than sneak around and steal things. Brill actually seemed to be enjoying this. He didn’t have enough sense to be scared; he didn’t share the terrible aloneness on this puny man-made cork. Brill really was strange, Kahn thought, but so far, thank God, he had been harmless—though there was an undercurrent of meanness in Brill that Kahn didn’t like at all.
And Brill, who had just assigned Pfc. Peach to go down and guard the Bravo Company gear, was thinking that Kahn was probably going to fold up the first time they stepped into some shit, because anyone so obviously rattled by a storm was going to be petrified in a firefight. So what, with the damned storm? You couldn’t avoid it—and you couldn’t attack it—and you sure as hell couldn’t go persuade it. So either it was going to get you or it wasn’t. In fact, Brill was exhilarated by the storm. He didn’t share Kahn’s sense of aloneness in it, because he had been alone most of his life—at home, and when his parents divorced, and in the military schools, and every place else—including the Army. The storm actually made him feel less lonely, because the cattle he was in charge of were looking for someone to turn to, and whom else would they turn to but their leader, Brill? Instead of making him feel alone, the storm gave Brill something to do, and in a strange way, he was grateful for it—as he was for the war they would soon be in.
The first Patch heard of Four/Seven’s release was when Captain Kennemer panted up to the bridge with the news that “some people have gone up to the lounges.” Asking around, Kennemer had been informed that the Navy had moved them up because of the violence of the storm, and this news came as a great relief to Patch, because it had been getting plainer and plainer that his measures hadn’t worked. If the storm conveniently let him off the hook, it was indeed a fortuitous happening, no matter how bad it was otherwise.
Patch instructed Kennemer to tell the officers that the men were to remain in the lounges and dining areas inside, and under no circumstances roam around the ship—which was about as necessary as telling even the dumbest among them not to stand in front of a howitzer when it was being fired. Patch himself decided to remain on the bridge with the Navy in case his assistance or authority was needed in dealing with any problems.
The Captain was feverishly engrossed in controlling the ship, and nodded without expression when the call came in about Pfc. Peach, the man Brill had sent down to guard the gear in the troop quarters. He turned to Patch, who had been sitting pinch-faced on a small bench on the bridge, feeling a little queasy.
“Colonel, one of your men has been hurt. You might want to check on him. He fell down the Number Two companionway just midships outside the enlisted men’s lounge.”
“Thank you, I certainly will. Is he hurt bad?” Patch said.
“We don’t know yet. The doctor is with him now—he may have broken something. He shouldn’t have been on those stairs in this weather.”
Again Patch shrank from the disapproval of the Navy Captain. Resentfully, he started down the corridor toward the stairwell.
By the time he got to the spot, they already had Pfc. Peach strapped to a litter. He was a smallish pale man anyway, and the shock of
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