the trigger. Afterward, McCreedy frowned at the private, as if annoyed by him. He straddled Neiman's remains, stooping to claim a dog tag before feeling inside pockets containing no more than half a pack of cigarettes and matches. While another mortar round sent men scrambling, McCreedy finished lighting up one of Neiman's cigarettes, savoring it for himself. Unharmed by the ensuing explosion — the mortar having overshot its intended targets, striking a rice field to their rear — he slowly walked away, tapping the ground with the butt of his rifle as he went. “Smokes left for the still breathing,” would then become his maxim, although only he was willing to risk life or limb to pat down bloody uniforms, procuring cigarettes from just-killed comrades: those kids who had never once expected the sudden civil war which would soon end their lives, or who had never really known anything about the divided country where their limp, ragged bodies would be lifted onto stretchers and shipped home in coffins.
Like the rest, Hollis had known little concerning the history of Korea and its people, yet in spite of that, he believed he understood the fiber of the country too well. It was, to him, an ambiguous land, a contrary region which accommodated the absurdities of war. Nowhere else could he imagine birthday gifts being delivered by the army postal service to besieged foxholes — chocolate cakes with cherries, handmade cards, corn whiskey masked by mason jars which also contained preserved fruits, all sent from the States, somehow arriving even when needed supplies couldn't reach the front — or white-garbed refugees rushing toward the Americans who were there to help them and, depending on the moment, either would be allowed safe passage or get gunned down. So what was then gleaned seemed nonsensical, devoid of clear reason other than a kind of tactical logic he didn't always comprehend.
But the intensely surreal two weeks at war did teach him an undeniable lesson regarding the spurious nature of first impressions: the serenest-looking valley or flower-rich hillside might possibly be the most dangerous area to cross through, harboring enemy snipers or probes. And, too, he had caught the distant shrill of birds, had angled his gaze upward, spotting four sparrow hawks gliding far above him which, upon second glance, had transformed into air force jets flying northwest on a four-plane mission. He had loitered along the edge of a grassy field at dawn, surveying endless clumps of clothing and discarded belongings left behind by refugees, and with morning's expanding sunlight was amazed when the clothing began shuddering to life — the disheartened men and women, the old people, the hungry children gradually rising from the thick grass like phantoms, here and there, before resuming the southward journey as a mass procession of white.
That lesson, however, had gone unrealized for many refugees, the unfortunate ones who — rather than submit to a violent, opposing army of their own kind — perished while counting on the benevolence of their mercurial American protectors. Had the moon graced the sky, Hollis could have stared downstream from where he hid, making out the contorted outlines of girders, a heap of mangled steel which had formed a bridge over the river but was destroyed after the U.S. Army had reached the Naktong's eastern shore, blown up with charges in order to prevent the North Korean troops from coming across; in an instant the blasts had jolted the bridge, flipping it sideways, twisting girders and propelling lengths of steel through the air. Now the skeletal ruins littered the banks yet bore no traces of the human toll accompanying its destruction — the refugees who had packed the bridge from one end to the other, unaware of the charges set on the supports and roadway, never expecting the deafening explosions which would then swallow their bodies and oxen and luggage, hurling them all to the passive waters below. A bridge, after all, was supposed to be a bridge.
Finally, a subtle gradation of hues began separating the eastern mountains from the night, but it would be a while yet until Hollis could leave his position. Concealed among the reeds and near the rice stalks, conscious of every flutter of movement, he was well attuned to his surroundings — the varying tempo of the crickets, the steady flow of the river, the natural plops and gurgles and crunches around him — expecting the sudden, inevitable emergence of North Korean infiltrators: for the recent dry spell had lowered the Naktong by several feet, creating shallow places where the enemy might wade safely through the water. Nevertheless, since they had dug in along the eastern shore, the fighting had settled into a lull, disrupted periodically by skirmishes from the western side of the river. And with the daily rattle of cicadas, the restless downtime meant letters could be written and received, and home could be missed again (the girlfriends, the parents, the friends, and the food, especially the food).
But for Hollis there wasn't anything back home he recalled fondly or found himself missing. His father was deceased. His mother was content with her new husband; she had no idea he was in the army, let alone fighting the North Koreans, although he believed he should inform her just so the news of his conceivable death wouldn't be of such a great shock. While others wrote loved ones, he, too, had tried writing his mother a letter — ex-cept he didn't know how to begin or what to tell her. Pages were torn, crumpled up. In frustration he drew pictures, sketching the apple orchard, the mountain ridges, the rice stalks. At times he eavesdropped on the conversations of those sitting nearby, taking note of familiar sayings which were uttered like grand epiphanies, jotting them down instead of writing his mother, adding a few lines he had heard or read elsewhere:
While out on patrol or manning a listening post, Hollis sometimes whispered the lines to himself, memorizing the expressions like a prayer. And although the Naktong front was exposed, he always felt a real sense of security after reciting the litany, using it for his own charm — the way others wore crosses around necks, or kept photographs of mothers and girlfriends, or carried lucky pennies in pockets. In fact, nothing usually happened when he uttered the words — no mortar shells came his way, no one came under fire, and the war seemed to be somewhere else. Still, casualties happened, some men were killed or wounded in the brief exchanges across the river, but otherwise the lull prevailed without a major attack. In midday heat the men found shade, relaxing together throughout the uneasy afternoons, and prior to sundown there were card games and long conversations which invariably ran the gamut from God to the
It was during the afternoon card games that McCreedy routinely brought up sex, using any unrelated topic or offhand comment as a segue for what was a group preoccupation. What the military needed to do, McCreedy once suggested, was enlist a unit of Tokyo mama-sans, putting them on active duty inside the foxholes, a little something what'd help release the tension of combat. The men laughed, and one said, “I'd murder every single son bitch here for a lick of poontang,” and somebody else chimed in, saying, “Damn, man, you know it's been too long when the mud starts looking good, know what I mean?” Cards were dealt, bets made, cigarettes bartered. The topic changed in due course, evolving from pussy to sports cars, from sports cars to football — then, invariably, circling back to sex again. The cards were shuffled.
And through the laughter and small talk, it was McCreedy's stealthy eyes which landed on Hollis (never sitting with the group, always close by yet never joining the conversation), glaring at him coldly while talking or cracking jokes, letting him know that he wasn't really one of them; and Hollis didn't flinch, didn't look down but rather met the stare and held it, as if to say: I've already seen too much, you don't impress me anymore. Since No Gun Ri they had avoided each other's company or conversation, and since Schubert was killed McCreedy's gaze had turned toward Hollis, perhaps, at first, imploring his friendship and then, perhaps, admonishing the indifference he was sensing while also dissembling an overall amiability which didn't exist in the depths of him. But when assigned to a two-man listening post, whatever mutual dislike was quietly fostered could no longer be kept at a respectable distance.
Located several yards from the apple orchard, adjacent to a rice paddy, the listening post was built entirely of sandbags — with a large, dying pine tree used for the rear barrier, the base of its trunk reinforced by more sandbags. Sequestered in the cramped space for three nights, the two men hardly spoke, both keeping silent while monitoring the river. Then last evening, having paused to urinate, Hollis arrived at the listening post following McCreedy, and discovered him sitting there — a hand on his rifle, a hand on the sound-power phone — using a sandbag for a cushion. “What, you're still alive?” McCreedy said, not looking too pleased.
“Sorry,” answered Hollis, stepping over his boots.
“Ain't nothing to be sorry about,” he said, with a sardonic smile. “Anyhow, you might as well get in on the
