The Suicide Run: Five Tales of the Marine Corps Read Online Free Page B

back in his chair, calmer now, faintly ashamed at his outburst, and reflecting that, after all and in spite of everything, Mulcahy was a good marine, and likable even if he was stunningly ignorant. But as he slumped slowly back, anticipating a few seconds’ rest—perhaps a catnap, even, to clear from his mind the morning’s tension—the siren, howling for the midday count, went off above him. It was a sound which, being so familiar, should not have disturbed him, but now in his frustration and weariness the noise seemed to pour through the walls in wildly ascending and racking gusts and, reaching its crescendo, to probe into his eardrums like lancets. One window was cracked open; he got up, scattering papers, and slammed it down. As he turned again, he noticed that his hands were trembling—a phenomenon so rare and strange that it caused him a fleeting sense of panic. Perhaps it was only a cold coming on, perhaps a recurrence of his malaria. He walked toward the wash basin, meaning to inspect his eyes in the mirror, but at this moment there was a knock. The door opened; as it did, the siren ceased its clamor, falling swiftly earthward in a remorseful sullen groan.
    “This here is the man, Gunner,” said Mulcahy.
    Blankenship sat down, shooed Mulcahy out, and looked up to meet the prisoner’s gaze.
    “What’s your name?” he said.
    “McFee.”
    For a moment Blankenship said nothing, for there was something familiar about this man; he was certain he had seen him before. This certainty was in itself curious enough, since few prisoners had memorable faces but only drab achromatic promontories upon which noses, mouths, andears were struck like gray and similar shapes of putty. What was more striking now was the man’s expression. That, too, Blankenship recalled, from wherever and whenever it was: an aspect at first glance no different, in its wan sun-sheltered anonymity, from all the rest of the prisoners, yet swiftly and hauntingly unique—intelligence, perhaps? Perhaps no more than something in his level blue eyes which seemed halfway between scorn and defiance. Then Blankenship remembered: the face floating toward him through cigarette smoke and a confusion of laughter, a voice—“Drink, sir?”—too straightforward to be insolent yet touched with a whisper of mockery, and a parting smile, finally—like the one he wore now—that was not so much a smile as a smirk, expressing some mysterious and inner satisfaction. Of course. He had seen this man months before, working as a waiter at the only one of the colonel’s parties he had ever been to.
    “Look, McFee,” he said at length, “I don’t know what kind of language you’ve been getting away with over at the colonel’s quarters, but over here when you’re asked your name you give your full name and you give your serial number and you say sir. Do you understand that? Now let’s have it.”
    “McFee, Lawrence M., 180611.” There was a pause, one which though somehow avoiding disrespect still flirted perilously with the notion of contempt, and the “sir” came only a cagey half second before the crucial, unbearable instant. It was odd, bold, and Blankenship felt a surge of anger, not so much at this behavior as at the fact that he himself suddenly felt, here among two thousand spineless and craven snobs, a sneaking admiration for such talentedarrogance. He continued to gaze at McFee. It was a young face—twenty-five or twenty-six, he judged—with features usually described as “clean-cut,” and unshrinking blue eyes. Without his miserable denims he might have been taken for a college football star, for he was big and broad-shouldered, and even standing now at attention he had all the relaxed, supercilious grace of a campus athlete.
    “What’s the matter with you, McFee? The duty sergeant told me you’ve been giving him a hard time.”
    “He tried to strong-arm me.”
    “Mulcahy told me you were beating your gums about the accommodations