both according to the rules themselves, and according to the unwritten law that, unspoken, went along with the rules. The unwritten law was that you never risked your men. Unless the gain was worth it. Double worth it. In Prell’s case the gain had been worth more than that. Even if it had never got realized.
At the aid station, while they splinted him up and took care of the other wounded, there was a lot of rehashing of the patrol by the healthy, and the subject of the loud clank that had given them away to the Japs came up. Prell only heard the first part of it. He made his report to the battalion commander, stressing the coming attack and how close he had come to getting Sasaki, and then, relaxing his control and aided by the shot the doc gave him, quietly passed out for a while. There was more rehashing in the Division hospital when the squad came down to say good-by to him, and the clank of equipment they had all heard came up again. None of them, nor the other wounded either, would admit to having been the cause of it.
Several men thought the point man, Crozier, had done it when he came running down to them. Perhaps one of the dead men, Crozier or Sims, had done it. If one had, both had certainly paid dearly for it. More than anyone could punish either for now. Prell could only think bitterly how that single clank had kept him from becoming famous, kept him from getting $1000, and how it might still cost him both of his legs. It probably had kept him from single-handedly shortening the whole New Georgia campaign by a month. Because in the end, the cocky, strutty General Sasaki had put up an obstinate, gallant defense that was still going on in August, when they reached Frisco, and would go on into October. It was still winding down when Prell reached Luxor. He only heard of the end of it there. By that time he no longer really cared about New Georgia.
Prell had had a hard time of it, in the Division rear hospital, to keep from breaking down completely when the remnants of the squad—there were only nine now—filed out of the big tent after saying good-by. He had had to exercise all his considerable will power to keep tears from coming in his eyes. These nine men had saved his life. They had put together a makeshift stretcher for him without even being asked, and had carried him at least a mile along slippery trails, without being ordered to. At great risk to themselves. And without so much as one word of complaint or grumble. They had performed like princes. And they had saved him, and Prell hated to see them go away from him a last time. What they thought of him meant more to him than whether he ever got any medal, and they clearly thought well of him. For this, he loved them back.
In the railroad hospital car, the pain in his legs hurting him more than he could remember it ever had, he missed them deeply and he missed the company. At least on the ship he had had Strange and Landers to talk to once in a while. But after the shake-up at Letterman, he hadn’t seen either again. He had caught one fleeting glimpse of Strange at a distance, ambling down a hospital corridor in a GI bathrobe. That was all. He did not know whether either of them was going to Luxor. In fact, both of them were on the train, in other cars up forward, but Prell had no way of knowing that. He knew that there were some members of the company at Luxor; he had heard it vaguely somewhere. He hoped he would be able to get together with them. Without the old company, Prell did not really feel he belonged anywhere. And he was beginning to suspect that that was the way it was going to be, from now on, and go on being. All that was past, and in the past, and every hour and every mile put it further and further behind them all.
As the train started, sending a painful jerk up his hurting legs to the broken thighs, Prell realized he had not even seen one building of all of San Francisco. Before, on his way through, he had picked up a girl downtown on
At the aid station, while they splinted him up and took care of the other wounded, there was a lot of rehashing of the patrol by the healthy, and the subject of the loud clank that had given them away to the Japs came up. Prell only heard the first part of it. He made his report to the battalion commander, stressing the coming attack and how close he had come to getting Sasaki, and then, relaxing his control and aided by the shot the doc gave him, quietly passed out for a while. There was more rehashing in the Division hospital when the squad came down to say good-by to him, and the clank of equipment they had all heard came up again. None of them, nor the other wounded either, would admit to having been the cause of it.
Several men thought the point man, Crozier, had done it when he came running down to them. Perhaps one of the dead men, Crozier or Sims, had done it. If one had, both had certainly paid dearly for it. More than anyone could punish either for now. Prell could only think bitterly how that single clank had kept him from becoming famous, kept him from getting $1000, and how it might still cost him both of his legs. It probably had kept him from single-handedly shortening the whole New Georgia campaign by a month. Because in the end, the cocky, strutty General Sasaki had put up an obstinate, gallant defense that was still going on in August, when they reached Frisco, and would go on into October. It was still winding down when Prell reached Luxor. He only heard of the end of it there. By that time he no longer really cared about New Georgia.
Prell had had a hard time of it, in the Division rear hospital, to keep from breaking down completely when the remnants of the squad—there were only nine now—filed out of the big tent after saying good-by. He had had to exercise all his considerable will power to keep tears from coming in his eyes. These nine men had saved his life. They had put together a makeshift stretcher for him without even being asked, and had carried him at least a mile along slippery trails, without being ordered to. At great risk to themselves. And without so much as one word of complaint or grumble. They had performed like princes. And they had saved him, and Prell hated to see them go away from him a last time. What they thought of him meant more to him than whether he ever got any medal, and they clearly thought well of him. For this, he loved them back.
In the railroad hospital car, the pain in his legs hurting him more than he could remember it ever had, he missed them deeply and he missed the company. At least on the ship he had had Strange and Landers to talk to once in a while. But after the shake-up at Letterman, he hadn’t seen either again. He had caught one fleeting glimpse of Strange at a distance, ambling down a hospital corridor in a GI bathrobe. That was all. He did not know whether either of them was going to Luxor. In fact, both of them were on the train, in other cars up forward, but Prell had no way of knowing that. He knew that there were some members of the company at Luxor; he had heard it vaguely somewhere. He hoped he would be able to get together with them. Without the old company, Prell did not really feel he belonged anywhere. And he was beginning to suspect that that was the way it was going to be, from now on, and go on being. All that was past, and in the past, and every hour and every mile put it further and further behind them all.
As the train started, sending a painful jerk up his hurting legs to the broken thighs, Prell realized he had not even seen one building of all of San Francisco. Before, on his way through, he had picked up a girl downtown on
Similar Books
