CHAPTER 14

Private Tortures

The hump had become a mindless effort to push one foot ahead of the other. A brutal pace had been set for five long hours.

Rick began to believe he was part of something inhuman. And he was beginning to believe he wasn't tough enough to keep up when he almost ran into Mormon; Russo had ordered a break. He continued walking until he reached Russo's tired eyes and realized he'd been facing his own private tortures. They sat quietly for a short while until their strength returned.

“What a way to make a living,” Russo said.

“Yeah.”

“We'll sit here and wait ‘til…near dusk. Then we'll hump it until it's too dark to go on. It's going to be port-and-starboard watches tonight and the smoking lamp is out until I say so.”

“Okay.”

Rick stood up and went to pass the word.

The heat was unbearable throughout most of the day. And the inert wall of leaves surrounding them prevented any possibility of a breeze. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do except stay alert and conduct frequent radio checks.

Perspiration plastered Rick's shirt to his chest as he leaned against his backpack in a helpless stupor. He peered at Bearcat, who was sitting next to Sunny. Bearcat raised one of his massive hands and waved limply at him. Rick smiled at the big bear as he thought about Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, where they first met.

Cuba. Not too unlike the hellhole they were in right now, except for the war. Living there in garrison was a hot, monotonous affair with very little to occupy a man's mind away from home.

Bearcat managed to overcome some of this monotony by tilting two giant speakers together in teepee fashion and slipping his head between them while lying on his top rack dressed in a pair of skivvy shorts. He hibernated like this every day, groaning to the sounds of Bob Dylan.

Amazingly, nobody paid any attention to him, no matter what the hour. He was entertainment for the drunks who stumbled into the barracks at all hours of the night and a noise buffer for the ones already asleep against those same nightly drunks.

The solid rock of Bearcat Bradly kept the barracks' tension down to a manageable level. His presence even discouraged any physical violence—limiting self-destruction to the vomit of overdrinking, to an occasional threat of A.W.O.L., and to the cursing of God himself.

Rick shifted his gaze to Sunny.

Sunny removed his bush cover, revealing his blond head, and ran his fingers through his wet, matted hair. He pulled out a canteen and took a long drink, enjoying the sound of the gurgling water. He lowered the canteen, feeling relieved yet exhausted from the heat, and sat staring at his boots with his canteen still open. Sunny was totally defenseless against the sun and his extremely fair skin always turned cherry red when it was left uncovered. His eyebrows and mustache were also blond, his eyes blue, his lips thin, and his head skull-like. He never thought about anything other than women and booze and wore a Catholic crucifix around his neck to make sure he was safe.

Rick's mind drifted.

The endless day was finally drawing to a close. Rick had written a poem and considered sending it to his ex-girlfriend. But he crumpled the poem in his hand and buried the wad of paper in the dirt beside him.

He heard Russo giving orders. It was time to saddle up.