War Year by Joe Haldeman Page B

beer in his leg pocket and tossed one to Fats.
    â€œAlso, don’t fuck around out there, y’hear? Get big logs—you two’re gonna be stayin’ in this bunker.”
    â€œWe know, Pop,” Fats said. “The life you save…”
    â€œâ€¦ may be your own. Goddamn right.” Pop watched them gather up their tools and start down the hill, then turned to us.
    â€œSo that’s the way we run things around here. Free an’ easy, no bullshit. Long as everybody follows orders. Anybody starts to fuck around, we lean on him. I lean on him. The lieutenant leans on him. And life can get pretty sorry. Understand?”
    We both nodded. “OK—Farmer, get on the pick for a while, break up the ground in the bottom of the hole. Horowitz, shovel the dirt onto that pile. Me an’ Prof’ll fill sandbags.”
    I picked away for half an hour and my palms started to blister. Willy traded with me, and the shovel seemed to put blisters everywhere the pick hadn’t. After an hour we took a break for a beer.
    â€œPop,” I said, “how dangerous is it out in the field? Many engineers get hurt?”
    â€œNo, not many. Too many, but not many compared to the infantry … you’ll be part of the ‘command group,’ always in the middle, infantry all around you.”
    â€œIt’s like this,” the Professor added. “The company moves through the jungle in three lines, right flank, left flank, and center file. We’ll be in the middle of the center file. Charlie’s got to get through a flank before he can get to us.”
    â€œBut sometimes he does,” Willy said.
    â€œSometimes.” The Prof took a big swig of beer. “And sometimes he pops mortars or rifle grenades into the center file. But it’s nothing like being on the line, smelling his breath.”
    â€œHow often?” I asked.
    â€œHmn?”
    â€œHow often do you run into Charlie?”
    â€œOh, we make contact, what, about twice or three times a month, on the average. A Company hasn’t made any contact in two weeks or so, now.”
    â€œMeans they’re due?” Willy asked.
    â€œDoesn’t mean anything, except they’ve been lucky for two weeks. Maybe they’ll be lucky for two weeks more. Maybe for the rest of the year.”
    â€œStill sounds bad,” Willy said.
    â€œAh, don’t sweat it, Horowitz. I’m glad I’m goin’ out in the field again. One heck of a lot safer than it is here—Alamo’s been hit twice this week.”
    â€œJesus Christ!”
    â€œNot all that bad, just mortars. Couple of guys hurt, but nobody’s been killed yet. They’re bound to try a ground attack, though. I’d just as soon be someplace else when it comes.” Prof wiped his forehead with a filthy rag.
    â€œAin’t gonna be no fuckin’ ground attack,” Pop said.
    â€œThat’s what they said on Brillo Pad, Pop.”
    â€œTell y’what, Prof. Those Intelligence boys been sayin’ we’re gonna have a ground attack, three days in a row now. I’ll bet you ten bucks there won’t be an attack tonight, ten there won’t be one Friday night, and ten there won’t be one Saturday night.”
    â€œI’d hate to collect, Pop.”
    â€œYou won’t collect. Intelligence’s got its head up its ass, as usual—hi, Lieutenant. How’d the meeting go?”
    A guy not much older than me sat down on a pile of sandbags and took off his hat, wiped his forehead. “Same as usual, Pop. Except Intelligence—no attack tonight.”
    â€œBet’s off, Professor!” The Prof laughed.
    â€œLet me guess,” the lieutenant said. “You’re Horowitz and you’re, uh, Farmer.”
    â€œSorry, sir. I’m Farmer and he’s Horowitz.”
    â€œGlad you could make it. Another dozen and we’d be all set. Anybody got a butt?”
    Pop threw him a