Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien Page A

and told him it was a matter of going down or getting himself court-martialed. One or the other. So Frenchie swore and took off his pack and boots and socks and helmet, stacked them neatly on a boulder, cussing, taking time, complaining how this would screw up his blood pressure.
    They watched him go down. A great big cussing guy who had to wiggle his way in. Then they heard the shot.
    They waited a long while. Sidney Martin found a flashlight and leaned down into the hole and looked.
    And then he said, “Somebody’s got to go down.”
    The men filed away. Bernie Lynn, who stood near the lip of the tunnel, looked aside and mumbled to himself.
    “Somebody,” the new lieutenant said. “Right now.”
    Stink Harris shrugged. “Maybe Frenchie’s okay. Give him time, you can’t never tell.”
    Pederson and Vaught agreed. The feeling of hope caught on, and they told one another it would be all right, Frenchie could takecare of himself. Stink said it didn’t sound like an AK, anyway. “No crack,” he said. “That wasn’t no AK.”
    “Somebody,” the lieutenant said. “Somebody’s got to.”
    No one moved.
    “Now. Right now.”
    Stink turned and walked quickly to the perimeter and took off his helmet, threw it down hard and sat on it. He tapped out a cigarette. Eddie and Vaught joined him. Doc Peret opened his medic’s pouch and began examining the contents, as if doing inventory, and Pederson and Buff and Rudy Chassler slipped off into the hedges.
    “Look,” Sidney Martin said. He was tall. Acne scars covered his chin. “I didn’t invent this sorry business. But we got a man down there and somebody’s got to fetch him. Now.”
    Stink made a hooting noise. “Send down the gremlin.”
    “Who?”
    “The gremlin. Send Cacciato down.”
    Oscar looked at Cacciato, who smiled broadly and began removing his pack.
    “Not him,” Oscar said.
    “Somebody. Make up your mind.”
    Paul Berlin stood alone. He felt the walls tight against him. He was careful not to look at anyone.
    Bernie Lynn swore violently. He dropped his gear where he stood, just let it fall, and he entered the tunnel headfirst. “Fuck it,” he kept saying, “fuck it.” Bernie had once poured insecticide into Frenchie’s canteen. “Fuck it,” he kept saying, going down.
    His feet were still showing when he was shot. The feet thrashed like a swimmer’s feet. Doc and Oscar grabbed hold and yanked him out. The feet were still clean, it happened that fast. He swore and went down headfirst and then was shot a half inch below the throat; they pulled him out by the feet. Not even time to sweat. The dirt fell dry off his arms. His eyes were open. “Holy Moses,” he said.

Fifteen
Tunneling Toward Paris
    S o you see,” said Li Van Hgoc as he brought down the periscope and locked it with a silver key, “things may be viewed from many angles. From down below, or from inside out, you often discover entirely new understandings.”
    Bowing once, the officer escorted Paul Berlin into a brightly lighted chamber made up to resemble a patio at midmorning. Birds chirped and butterflies fluttered above wrought-iron tables. The others were there having breakfast.
    Afterward Li Van Hgoc escorted the lieutenant through his deep fortress, beaming, answering questions about military matters, shop talk, explaining the functions of various dials and buttons and blinking lights on his chrome console. Corson was impressed. The two officers got along splendidly.
    When the tour was over they took chairs in the sitting room. The lieutenant accepted a cigar.
    “So,” the old man sighed. He let the word linger. “So this is how the other half lives. Very enlightening.”
    The two men talked for a time, mostly of military matters, then the lieutenant glanced at his watch and carefully cleared his throat.
    There was a pause.
    “Yes, it’s a nifty setup you got here,” Lieutenant Corson said. “A real sweet BOQ.” Again he looked at his watch. “But I hate to say