fact, and carried himself through every danger as if it had nothing to do with him. Because hardly any of his men got hurt, they held him in reverence.
So it was in the nature of things that his replacement, Lieutenant Dixon, should be despised, though he was not despicable. He was a proud, thoughtful man who had been wounded twice already and now found himself among soldiers whose laxity seemed perfectly calculated to finish him off. The men didn’t maintain their weapons properly. They had no concept of radio discipline. On patrol they were careless and noisy and slow to react. Lieutenant Dixon took it upon himself to whip them into shape.
This proved hard going. He owned no patience or humor, no ease of command. He was short and balding; when he got worked up his face turned red and his voice broke into falsetto. Therefore the men called him Fudd. Ryan mimicked him relentlessly and with terrible precision. That Lieutenant Dixon should overhear him was inevitable, and it finally happened while Ryan and B.D. and some new guys were sandbagging the interior walls of a bunker. Ryan was holding forth in Lieutenant Dixon’s voice when Lieutenant Dixon’s head appeared in the doorway. Everyone saw him. But instead of shutting up, Ryan carried on as if he weren’t there. B.D. kept his head down and his hands busy. At no time was he tempted to laugh.
“Ryan,” lieutenant Dixon said, “just what do you think you’re doing?”
Still in the lieutenant’s voice, Ryan said, “Packing sandbags, sir.”
Lieutenant Dixon watched him. He said, “Ryan, is this your idea of a j-joke?”
“No, sir. My idea of a j-joke is a four-inch dick on a two-inch lieutenant.”
B.D. closed his eyes, and when he opened them Lieutenant Dixon was gone. He straightened up. “Suave,” he said to Ryan.
Ryan pushed his shovel into the dirt and leaned against it. He untied the bandana from his forehead and wiped the sweat from his face, from his thin shoulders and chest. His ribs showed. His skin was dead white, all but his hands and neck and face, which were densely freckled, almost black in the dimness of the bunker. “I just can’t help it,” he said.
Three nights later Lieutenant Dixon sent Ryan out on ambush with a bunch of new guys. This was strictly contrary to the arrangement observed by Lieutenant Puchinsky, whereby the shorter you got the less you had to do. You weren’t supposed to get stuck with this kind of duty when you had less than two months to go. Lieutenant Dixon did not exactly order Ryan out. What he did instead was turn to him during the noon formation and ask if he’d like to volunteer. Ryan said that he would
love
to volunteer, that he’d been just
dying
to be asked. Lieutenant Dixon put his name down.
B.D. watched the detail go out that night. With blackened faces they moved silently through the perimeter, weaving a loopy path between mines and trip-flares, and crossed the desolate ground beyond the wire into the darkness of the trees. The sky was a lilac haze.
B.D. went back to his bunk and sat there with his hands on his knees, staring at the mess on Ryan’s bunk: shaving gear, cigarettes, dirty clothes, sandals, a high-school yearbook that Ryan liked to browse in. B.D. lifted the mosquitonetting and picked up the yearbook.
The Aloysian
, it was called. There was a formal portrait of Ryan in the senior class gallery. He looked solemn, almost mournful. His hair was long. The photographer had airbrushed the freckles out and used backlights to brighten the outline of his head and shoulders. B.D. wouldn’t have known him without the name. Below Ryan’s picture was the line “O for a beakerful of the warm South!”
Now what the hell was that supposed to mean?
He found Ryan in a few group pictures. In one, taken in metal shop, Ryan was standing with some other boys behind the teacher, holding a tangle of antlerish rods above the teacher’s head.
B.D. studied the picture. He was familiar with this
So it was in the nature of things that his replacement, Lieutenant Dixon, should be despised, though he was not despicable. He was a proud, thoughtful man who had been wounded twice already and now found himself among soldiers whose laxity seemed perfectly calculated to finish him off. The men didn’t maintain their weapons properly. They had no concept of radio discipline. On patrol they were careless and noisy and slow to react. Lieutenant Dixon took it upon himself to whip them into shape.
This proved hard going. He owned no patience or humor, no ease of command. He was short and balding; when he got worked up his face turned red and his voice broke into falsetto. Therefore the men called him Fudd. Ryan mimicked him relentlessly and with terrible precision. That Lieutenant Dixon should overhear him was inevitable, and it finally happened while Ryan and B.D. and some new guys were sandbagging the interior walls of a bunker. Ryan was holding forth in Lieutenant Dixon’s voice when Lieutenant Dixon’s head appeared in the doorway. Everyone saw him. But instead of shutting up, Ryan carried on as if he weren’t there. B.D. kept his head down and his hands busy. At no time was he tempted to laugh.
“Ryan,” lieutenant Dixon said, “just what do you think you’re doing?”
Still in the lieutenant’s voice, Ryan said, “Packing sandbags, sir.”
Lieutenant Dixon watched him. He said, “Ryan, is this your idea of a j-joke?”
“No, sir. My idea of a j-joke is a four-inch dick on a two-inch lieutenant.”
B.D. closed his eyes, and when he opened them Lieutenant Dixon was gone. He straightened up. “Suave,” he said to Ryan.
Ryan pushed his shovel into the dirt and leaned against it. He untied the bandana from his forehead and wiped the sweat from his face, from his thin shoulders and chest. His ribs showed. His skin was dead white, all but his hands and neck and face, which were densely freckled, almost black in the dimness of the bunker. “I just can’t help it,” he said.
Three nights later Lieutenant Dixon sent Ryan out on ambush with a bunch of new guys. This was strictly contrary to the arrangement observed by Lieutenant Puchinsky, whereby the shorter you got the less you had to do. You weren’t supposed to get stuck with this kind of duty when you had less than two months to go. Lieutenant Dixon did not exactly order Ryan out. What he did instead was turn to him during the noon formation and ask if he’d like to volunteer. Ryan said that he would
love
to volunteer, that he’d been just
dying
to be asked. Lieutenant Dixon put his name down.
B.D. watched the detail go out that night. With blackened faces they moved silently through the perimeter, weaving a loopy path between mines and trip-flares, and crossed the desolate ground beyond the wire into the darkness of the trees. The sky was a lilac haze.
B.D. went back to his bunk and sat there with his hands on his knees, staring at the mess on Ryan’s bunk: shaving gear, cigarettes, dirty clothes, sandals, a high-school yearbook that Ryan liked to browse in. B.D. lifted the mosquitonetting and picked up the yearbook.
The Aloysian
, it was called. There was a formal portrait of Ryan in the senior class gallery. He looked solemn, almost mournful. His hair was long. The photographer had airbrushed the freckles out and used backlights to brighten the outline of his head and shoulders. B.D. wouldn’t have known him without the name. Below Ryan’s picture was the line “O for a beakerful of the warm South!”
Now what the hell was that supposed to mean?
He found Ryan in a few group pictures. In one, taken in metal shop, Ryan was standing with some other boys behind the teacher, holding a tangle of antlerish rods above the teacher’s head.
B.D. studied the picture. He was familiar with this
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