mad whirl of air. The kid clutched at the bag. He’d been told in no uncertain terms its value and what would happen to him
if he failed to deliver it.
“Give me that fucking thing,” Vancouver shouted. He grabbed the bag and started opening its drawstrings.
“Vancouver, what the fuck are you doing?”
Vancouver looked over his shoulder and saw Staff Sergeant Cassidy’s red face. He stood up and looked down at him. “Oh, hi,
Gunny. I’m looking for my gook sword. I ordered the fucking thing two months ago.” The new kid slowly took back the mailbag,
his glance vacillating between Vancouver and Cassidy.
“Vancouver,” Cassidy said in mock weariness, “go back down to the lines and let me take care of the mail, OK? Because if you
don’t, and if I ever see that fucking sword of yours, I’ll break it over your fucking head. Is that clear?”
“You wouldn’t really do that, would you, Gunny?” Vancouver asked.
“Try me.”
Vancouver turned and headed down the hill.
Cassidy watched him go with obvious affection. He had intercepted the sword with its ornate scabbard and complicated straps
three weeks earlier and hidden it in Bravo Company’s supply tent in order to keep Vancouver from getting killed trying to
use it. He turned to face the five new kids who had come in on the chopper. “What the fuck you staring at?” Cassidy asked,
his smile suddenly gone. “Do I look pretty to you?”
While most of the platoon was reading the mail for the third time, Mellas was preparing supper. He told himself it would be
a while before his mail caught up with him. He was adding Tabasco sauce, grape jam, and powdered lemon tea to his can of spaghetti
and meatballs when he became aware of Doc Fredrickson watching him.
“Can I talk to you a minute, Lieutenant?” Fredrickson asked.
“Sure. Beats eating.”
“It’s about Mallory, sir.”
“Ahh, fuck. I thought you and Bass took care of that.”
“He’s still complaining about headaches,” Fredrickson said. “I give him all the Darvon he can handle and he keeps coming back
for more.”
“Is that shit addictive?” Mellas asked.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s just what they give us. I think it’s fucking useless.” Fredrickson leaned over and looked into the
can of spaghetti. “Maybe you ought to put some of that fake coffee cream stuff in it. It’d smooth it out.”
“You stick to medicine.”
“Anyway, I ain’t sure Mallory even has headaches. But I’ve been watching him close, and on patrol yesterday he looked like
he was hurting.”
“Him and everyone else. I’ve got headaches too.”
“Maybe you ought to talk to him. I talked to the senior squid, and he says sometimes people get psychosomatic stuff and it
really does hurt them even if it’s all in their heads anyway. It’s also possible that there’s really something wrong with
him.”
“What—you want me to decide?”
“You’re the platoon commander. If you think he’s telling the truth, maybe we ought to send him back to VCB to see a doctor.
Just in case something really is wrong with him.”
“OK.”
“He’s over in my hooch now.”
Mellas looked at Fredrickson out of the corner of his eye. “All right.”
Fredrickson left and returned with Mallory, a small-boned kid with narrow hips, a thin graceful neck, and a rather large head.
“Hi, Mallory,” Mellas said, trying to be friendly. “Doc says you’re still having trouble with headaches.”
“My fucking head hurts,” Mallory said. “I eat all that Darvon and it don’t do shit.”
“How long you had the headaches?”
“Ever since they humped us without water on the DMZ operation. I think I got heat-stoked or something.” Mallory looked quickly
over at Fredrickson to see how the corpsman was reacting. Fredrickson had his poker face on.
Mellas took a spoonful of spaghetti and chewed it while he thought. “Well, shit, Mallory, I don’t know what it is. Doc’s stumped.
if he failed to deliver it.
“Give me that fucking thing,” Vancouver shouted. He grabbed the bag and started opening its drawstrings.
“Vancouver, what the fuck are you doing?”
Vancouver looked over his shoulder and saw Staff Sergeant Cassidy’s red face. He stood up and looked down at him. “Oh, hi,
Gunny. I’m looking for my gook sword. I ordered the fucking thing two months ago.” The new kid slowly took back the mailbag,
his glance vacillating between Vancouver and Cassidy.
“Vancouver,” Cassidy said in mock weariness, “go back down to the lines and let me take care of the mail, OK? Because if you
don’t, and if I ever see that fucking sword of yours, I’ll break it over your fucking head. Is that clear?”
“You wouldn’t really do that, would you, Gunny?” Vancouver asked.
“Try me.”
Vancouver turned and headed down the hill.
Cassidy watched him go with obvious affection. He had intercepted the sword with its ornate scabbard and complicated straps
three weeks earlier and hidden it in Bravo Company’s supply tent in order to keep Vancouver from getting killed trying to
use it. He turned to face the five new kids who had come in on the chopper. “What the fuck you staring at?” Cassidy asked,
his smile suddenly gone. “Do I look pretty to you?”
While most of the platoon was reading the mail for the third time, Mellas was preparing supper. He told himself it would be
a while before his mail caught up with him. He was adding Tabasco sauce, grape jam, and powdered lemon tea to his can of spaghetti
and meatballs when he became aware of Doc Fredrickson watching him.
“Can I talk to you a minute, Lieutenant?” Fredrickson asked.
“Sure. Beats eating.”
“It’s about Mallory, sir.”
“Ahh, fuck. I thought you and Bass took care of that.”
“He’s still complaining about headaches,” Fredrickson said. “I give him all the Darvon he can handle and he keeps coming back
for more.”
“Is that shit addictive?” Mellas asked.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s just what they give us. I think it’s fucking useless.” Fredrickson leaned over and looked into the
can of spaghetti. “Maybe you ought to put some of that fake coffee cream stuff in it. It’d smooth it out.”
“You stick to medicine.”
“Anyway, I ain’t sure Mallory even has headaches. But I’ve been watching him close, and on patrol yesterday he looked like
he was hurting.”
“Him and everyone else. I’ve got headaches too.”
“Maybe you ought to talk to him. I talked to the senior squid, and he says sometimes people get psychosomatic stuff and it
really does hurt them even if it’s all in their heads anyway. It’s also possible that there’s really something wrong with
him.”
“What—you want me to decide?”
“You’re the platoon commander. If you think he’s telling the truth, maybe we ought to send him back to VCB to see a doctor.
Just in case something really is wrong with him.”
“OK.”
“He’s over in my hooch now.”
Mellas looked at Fredrickson out of the corner of his eye. “All right.”
Fredrickson left and returned with Mallory, a small-boned kid with narrow hips, a thin graceful neck, and a rather large head.
“Hi, Mallory,” Mellas said, trying to be friendly. “Doc says you’re still having trouble with headaches.”
“My fucking head hurts,” Mallory said. “I eat all that Darvon and it don’t do shit.”
“How long you had the headaches?”
“Ever since they humped us without water on the DMZ operation. I think I got heat-stoked or something.” Mallory looked quickly
over at Fredrickson to see how the corpsman was reacting. Fredrickson had his poker face on.
Mellas took a spoonful of spaghetti and chewed it while he thought. “Well, shit, Mallory, I don’t know what it is. Doc’s stumped.
Similar Books
