his name again does Miller begin the hard work of hoisting himself out of the foxhole. The other men turn their gray faces up at him as he trudges past their holes.
“Come here, boy,” the first sergeant says. He walks a little distance from the jeep and waves Miller over.
Miller follows him. Something is wrong. Miller can tell because the first sergeant called him “boy” instead of “shitbird.” Already he feels a burning in his left side, where his ulcer is.
The first sergeant stares down the road. “Here’s the thing,” he begins. He stops and turns to Miller. “Goddamn it, anyway. Did you know your mother was sick?”
Miller doesn’t say anything, just pushes his lips tight together.
“She must have been sick, right?” Miller remains silent, and the first sergeant says, “She passed away last night. I’m real sorry.” He looks sadly up at Miller, and Miller watches his right arm beginning to rise under the poncho; then it falls to his side again. Miller can see that the first sergeant wants to give his shoulder a man-to-man kind of squeeze, but it just wouldn’t work. You can only do that if you’re taller than the other fellow or at least the same size.
“These boys here will drive you back to base,” the first sergeant says, nodding toward the jeep. “You give the Red Cross a call and they’ll take it from there. Get yourself some rest,” he adds, then walks off toward the trees.
Miller retrieves his gear. One of the men he passes on his way back to the jeep says, “Hey, Miller, what’s the story?”
Miller doesn’t answer. He’s afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll start laughing and ruin everything. He keeps his headdown and his lips tight as he climbs into the backseat of the jeep, and he doesn’t look up until they’ve left the company a mile or so behind. The fat PFC sitting beside the driver is watching him. He says, “I’m sorry about your mother. That’s a bummer.”
“Maximum bummer,” says the driver, another PFC. He shoots a look over his shoulder. Miller sees his own face reflected for an instant in the driver’s sunglasses.
“Had to happen someday,” he mumbles, and looks down again.
Miller’s hands are shaking. He puts them between his knees and stares through the snapping plastic window at the trees going past. Raindrops rattle on the canvas overhead. He is inside, and everyone else is still outside. Miller can’t stop thinking about the others standing around getting rained on, and the thought makes him want to laugh and slap his leg. This is the luckiest he has ever been.
“My grandmother died last year,” the driver says. “But that’s not the same thing as losing your mother. I feel for you, Miller.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Miller tells him. “I’ll get along.”
The fat PFC beside the driver says, “Look, don’t feel like you have to repress just because we’re here. If you want to cry or anything, just go ahead. Right, Leb?”
The driver nods. “Just let it out.”
“No problem,” Miller says. He wishes he could set these fellows straight so they won’t feel like they have to act mournful all the way to Fort Ord. But if he tells them what happened, they’ll turn right around and drive him back to his foxhole.
Miller knows what happened. There’s another Miller in the battalion with the same initials he’s got, W.P., and this Miller is the one whose mother has died. The Army screws up their mail all the time, and now they’ve screwed this up.Miller got the whole picture as soon as the first sergeant started asking about his mother.
For once, everybody else is on the outside and Miller is on the inside. Inside, on his way to a hot shower, dry clothes, a pizza, and a warm bunk. He didn’t even have to do anything wrong to get here; he just did as he was told. It was their own mistake. Tomorrow he’ll rest up like the first sergeant ordered him to, go on sick call about his bridge, maybe downtown to a movie after that.
“Come here, boy,” the first sergeant says. He walks a little distance from the jeep and waves Miller over.
Miller follows him. Something is wrong. Miller can tell because the first sergeant called him “boy” instead of “shitbird.” Already he feels a burning in his left side, where his ulcer is.
The first sergeant stares down the road. “Here’s the thing,” he begins. He stops and turns to Miller. “Goddamn it, anyway. Did you know your mother was sick?”
Miller doesn’t say anything, just pushes his lips tight together.
“She must have been sick, right?” Miller remains silent, and the first sergeant says, “She passed away last night. I’m real sorry.” He looks sadly up at Miller, and Miller watches his right arm beginning to rise under the poncho; then it falls to his side again. Miller can see that the first sergeant wants to give his shoulder a man-to-man kind of squeeze, but it just wouldn’t work. You can only do that if you’re taller than the other fellow or at least the same size.
“These boys here will drive you back to base,” the first sergeant says, nodding toward the jeep. “You give the Red Cross a call and they’ll take it from there. Get yourself some rest,” he adds, then walks off toward the trees.
Miller retrieves his gear. One of the men he passes on his way back to the jeep says, “Hey, Miller, what’s the story?”
Miller doesn’t answer. He’s afraid if he opens his mouth he’ll start laughing and ruin everything. He keeps his headdown and his lips tight as he climbs into the backseat of the jeep, and he doesn’t look up until they’ve left the company a mile or so behind. The fat PFC sitting beside the driver is watching him. He says, “I’m sorry about your mother. That’s a bummer.”
“Maximum bummer,” says the driver, another PFC. He shoots a look over his shoulder. Miller sees his own face reflected for an instant in the driver’s sunglasses.
“Had to happen someday,” he mumbles, and looks down again.
Miller’s hands are shaking. He puts them between his knees and stares through the snapping plastic window at the trees going past. Raindrops rattle on the canvas overhead. He is inside, and everyone else is still outside. Miller can’t stop thinking about the others standing around getting rained on, and the thought makes him want to laugh and slap his leg. This is the luckiest he has ever been.
“My grandmother died last year,” the driver says. “But that’s not the same thing as losing your mother. I feel for you, Miller.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Miller tells him. “I’ll get along.”
The fat PFC beside the driver says, “Look, don’t feel like you have to repress just because we’re here. If you want to cry or anything, just go ahead. Right, Leb?”
The driver nods. “Just let it out.”
“No problem,” Miller says. He wishes he could set these fellows straight so they won’t feel like they have to act mournful all the way to Fort Ord. But if he tells them what happened, they’ll turn right around and drive him back to his foxhole.
Miller knows what happened. There’s another Miller in the battalion with the same initials he’s got, W.P., and this Miller is the one whose mother has died. The Army screws up their mail all the time, and now they’ve screwed this up.Miller got the whole picture as soon as the first sergeant started asking about his mother.
For once, everybody else is on the outside and Miller is on the inside. Inside, on his way to a hot shower, dry clothes, a pizza, and a warm bunk. He didn’t even have to do anything wrong to get here; he just did as he was told. It was their own mistake. Tomorrow he’ll rest up like the first sergeant ordered him to, go on sick call about his bridge, maybe downtown to a movie after that.
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