made me want to punch it, so I tried not looking at him as best I could.
Some other soldier, a dark-haired kid with the deep-set yet bulging eyes of a deepwater fish, said, “Well, I’m Carbone. Tony Carbone.” Another chorus of grunts. Carbone sat on his helmet and slouched forward, elbows on knees. “Anybody else from New York?”
“I’m from Manhattan,” said Berlinger.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, Kansas.”
Carbone looked confused. “Whatever, man. Anybody here from a real place?”
“K-State’s in Manhattan, boy. That’s as real as it gets. Wildcat Pride.”
There were some laughs. Carbone said, “Real country bumpkin, huh?”
“That’s right. You got a problem with good country folk?” I glanced over at Berlinger. His face was stone-serious, but his eyes twinkled with comic ire. He was enjoying himself.
“I’ve got a problem with anywhere you can’t get a good slice or an egg cream. That includes this shithole and Manhattan, wherever. Tennessee.”
I said, “Let’s leave Tennessee out of this.”
Berlinger said, “It’s Kansas, you ignorant wop.”
Carbone made like he was going to get up, but Berlinger had eight inches and a hundred pounds on him, and there was no way anything would happen. “Nothing against Italians, of course,” Berlinger added.
“Hayseed. New York City would chew you up and spit you out. We eat punks like you for breakfast.”
“You eat your sister’s pussy for breakfast!” bellowed Berlinger. This time Carbone did get up and walk across the hut, but a couple of other guys stopped him. Berlinger was cracking up, rolled back on his cot, his feet pedaling in the air like a dog getting his stomach scratched.
“Why don’t both of you shut up,” a big black dude in the far corner intoned, and everyone did. The silence filled the hut, seeming to fight for space with the choking humidity. It was worse than the arguing; it allowed in all the thoughts you didn’t want to be thinking. I got up and went back outside, where the barest trace of a breeze cooled the sweat on my arms. I could hear them inside, going at it again, the rise and fall of voices talking over each other. I walked to the side of the hut, then behind, where the tree line began. The base’s chicken-wire fencing, topped with a reassuring whorl of barbed wire, laced around the back of the hut and the adjacent buildings.
A rustling in the trees set my heart jackhammering. I looked up and out, and it stopped. I waited, and it started up again. I looked at the hut, thought of the men inside, and hated them for not running outside to help. The rustling grew louder and I tried to yell, but nothing came out. My God, I thought, it’s happening already. I half put my hands up in front of me in a posture of uncertain, preemptive surrender.
The sound resolved itself in the form of a small monkey, elderly looking, with a white mask, that shuffled through a stand of leaves and stopped. It picked insects off a limb, ate, and looked down at me. Its expression was ancient and unknowable, like one of those tormented bearded faces on the side of a Greek urn.
“What the fuck am I doing here,” I said, but it didn’t respond.
I stood there looking at the monkey and the jungle behind it, and everything was suddenly completely incredible to me, unreal and unbelievable: the monkey; the bluish razor wire pulled through the foliage like ribbon on a birthday present; the nearby voices of other uprooted boys, everyone from somewhere else and now—for reasons it seemed no one fully understood—here; my own outstretched hands palely glowing in the thin jungle light. For the first time since I’d landed, the fear dissolved and was supplanted by a helpless infantile awe. The monkey seemed embarrassed by me, pretended to look over his shoulder as though seeing something important, and scampered away. I walked to the fence and touched the limb where it had just been. I thought about how strange it is that things can be
Some other soldier, a dark-haired kid with the deep-set yet bulging eyes of a deepwater fish, said, “Well, I’m Carbone. Tony Carbone.” Another chorus of grunts. Carbone sat on his helmet and slouched forward, elbows on knees. “Anybody else from New York?”
“I’m from Manhattan,” said Berlinger.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, Kansas.”
Carbone looked confused. “Whatever, man. Anybody here from a real place?”
“K-State’s in Manhattan, boy. That’s as real as it gets. Wildcat Pride.”
There were some laughs. Carbone said, “Real country bumpkin, huh?”
“That’s right. You got a problem with good country folk?” I glanced over at Berlinger. His face was stone-serious, but his eyes twinkled with comic ire. He was enjoying himself.
“I’ve got a problem with anywhere you can’t get a good slice or an egg cream. That includes this shithole and Manhattan, wherever. Tennessee.”
I said, “Let’s leave Tennessee out of this.”
Berlinger said, “It’s Kansas, you ignorant wop.”
Carbone made like he was going to get up, but Berlinger had eight inches and a hundred pounds on him, and there was no way anything would happen. “Nothing against Italians, of course,” Berlinger added.
“Hayseed. New York City would chew you up and spit you out. We eat punks like you for breakfast.”
“You eat your sister’s pussy for breakfast!” bellowed Berlinger. This time Carbone did get up and walk across the hut, but a couple of other guys stopped him. Berlinger was cracking up, rolled back on his cot, his feet pedaling in the air like a dog getting his stomach scratched.
“Why don’t both of you shut up,” a big black dude in the far corner intoned, and everyone did. The silence filled the hut, seeming to fight for space with the choking humidity. It was worse than the arguing; it allowed in all the thoughts you didn’t want to be thinking. I got up and went back outside, where the barest trace of a breeze cooled the sweat on my arms. I could hear them inside, going at it again, the rise and fall of voices talking over each other. I walked to the side of the hut, then behind, where the tree line began. The base’s chicken-wire fencing, topped with a reassuring whorl of barbed wire, laced around the back of the hut and the adjacent buildings.
A rustling in the trees set my heart jackhammering. I looked up and out, and it stopped. I waited, and it started up again. I looked at the hut, thought of the men inside, and hated them for not running outside to help. The rustling grew louder and I tried to yell, but nothing came out. My God, I thought, it’s happening already. I half put my hands up in front of me in a posture of uncertain, preemptive surrender.
The sound resolved itself in the form of a small monkey, elderly looking, with a white mask, that shuffled through a stand of leaves and stopped. It picked insects off a limb, ate, and looked down at me. Its expression was ancient and unknowable, like one of those tormented bearded faces on the side of a Greek urn.
“What the fuck am I doing here,” I said, but it didn’t respond.
I stood there looking at the monkey and the jungle behind it, and everything was suddenly completely incredible to me, unreal and unbelievable: the monkey; the bluish razor wire pulled through the foliage like ribbon on a birthday present; the nearby voices of other uprooted boys, everyone from somewhere else and now—for reasons it seemed no one fully understood—here; my own outstretched hands palely glowing in the thin jungle light. For the first time since I’d landed, the fear dissolved and was supplanted by a helpless infantile awe. The monkey seemed embarrassed by me, pretended to look over his shoulder as though seeing something important, and scampered away. I walked to the fence and touched the limb where it had just been. I thought about how strange it is that things can be
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