'Good night, Shermaine.' Bruce lay on a single blanket and sweated. The
singing had long ago ceased but the drum went on and on, never
faltering, throb-throb-throbbing out of the jungle. The searchlights
swept regularly back and forth, at times lighting the laager clearly and
at others leaving it in shadow. Bruce could hear around him the soft
sounds of sleep, the sawing of breath, a muted cough, a gabbled
sentence, the stirring of dreamers.
But Bruce could not sleep. He lay on his back with one hand under his
head, smoking, staring up at the canvas.
The events of the preceding four days ran through his mind:
snatches of conversation, Andre dying. Boussier standing with his wife,
the bursting of grenades, blood sticky on his hands, the smell of death,
the violence and the horror.
He moved restlessly, flicked away his cigarette and covered his eyes
with his hands as though to shut out the memories. But they went on
flickering through his mind like the images of a gigantic movie
projector, confused now, losing all meaning but retaining the horror.
He remembered the fly upon his arm, grinning at him, rubbing its legs
together, gloating, repulsive. He rolled his head from side to
side on the blanket.
I'm going mad, he thought, I must stop this.
He sat up quickly hugging his knees to his chest and the memories faded.
But now he was sad, and alone. So terribly alone, so lost, so without
purpose.
He sat alone on the blanket and he felt himself shrinking, becoming
small and frightened.
I'm going to cry, he thought, I can feel it there heavy in my throat.
And like a hurt child crawling into its mother's lap, Bruce
Curry groped his way over the tailboard of the station wagon to
Shermaine.
'Shermaine! he whispered, blindly, searching for her.
'Bruce, what is it?' She sat up quickly. She had not been sleeping
either.
'Where are you?' There was panic in Bruce's voice.
'Here I am - what's the matter?' And he found her; clumsily he caught
her to him.
'Hold me, Shermaine, please hold me.'
'Darling.' She was anxious.
'What is it? Tell me, my darling.'
'Just hold me, Shermaine. Don't talk.' He clung to her, pressing his
face into her neck. 'I need you so much - oh, God! How I need you!'
'Bruce.' She understood, and her fingers were at the nape of his neck,
stroking, soothing.
'My Bruce,' she said and held him. Instinctively her body began to rock,
gentling him as though he were her child.
Slowly his body relaxed, and he sighed against her - a gusty broken
sound.
'My Bruce, my Bruce.' She lifted the thin cotton vest that was all she
wore and, instinctively in the ageless ritual of comfort, she gave him
her breasts. Holding his mouth to them with both her arms clasped around
