Going After Cacciato, Page 2

  Climbing, he tried to picture Cacciato’s face. He tried hard, but the image came out fuzzy. “It’s the Mongol influence,” Doc Peret had once said. “I mean, hey, just take a close look at him. See how the eyes slant? Pigeon toes, domed head? My theory is that the guy missed Mongolian idiocy by the breadth of a genetic hair. Could’ve gone either way.”

  And maybe Doc was right. There was something curiously unfinished about Cacciato. Open-faced and naïve and plump, Cacciato lacked the fine detail, the refinements and final touches, that maturity ordinarily marks on a boy of seventeen years. The result was blurred and uncolored and bland. You could look at him then look away and not remember what you’d seen. All this, Stink said, added up to a case of gross stupidity. The way he whistled on guard, the funny little trick he had of saving mouthwash by spitting it back into the bottle, fishing for walleyes up in Lake Country. It was all part of a strange, boyish simplicity that the men tolerated the way they might tolerate a frisky pup.

  Humping to Paris, it was one of those crazy things Cacciato might try. Paul Berlin remembered how the kid had spent hours thumbing through an old world atlas, studying the maps, asking odd questions: How steep were these mountains, how wide was this river, how thick were these jungles? It was just too bad. A real pity. Like winning the Bronze Star for shooting out a dink’s front teeth. Whistling in the dark, always whistling, chewing Black Jack, always chewing and whistling and smiling his frozen white smile. It was silly. It had always been silly, even during the good times, but now the silliness was sad. It couldn’t be done. It just wasn’t possible, and it was silly and sad.

  The rain made it a hard climb. They did not reach the top of the first mountain until late afternoon.

  After radioing in position coordinates, they moved along the summit to a cluster of granite boulders that overlooked the Quang Ngai plain. Below, clouds hid the paddies and the war. Above, in more clouds, were more mountains.

  It was Eddie Lazzutti who found the spot where Cacciato had spent the night, a gently recessed rock formation roofed by a slate ledge. Inside was a pile of matted grass, a can of burnt-out Sterno, two chocolate wrappers, and a partly burned map. Paul Berlin recognized the map from Cacciato’s atlas.

  “Cozy,” Stink said. “A real nest for our pigeon.”

  The lieutenant bent down to examine the map. Most of it was burned away, crumbling as the old man picked it up, but parts could still be made out. In the left-hand corner a red dotted line ran through paddyland and up through the first small mountains of the Annamese Cordillera. The line ended there, apparently to be continued on a second map.

  Lieutenant Corson held the map carefully, as if afraid it might break apart. “Impossible,” he said softly.

  “True enough.”

  “Absolutely impossible.”

  They rested in Cacciato’s rock grotto. Tucked away, looking out over the wetly moving mountains to the west, the men were quiet. Eddie and Harold Murphy opened rations and ate slowly, using their fingers. Doc Peret seemed to sleep. Paul Berlin laid out a game of solitaire. For a long while they rested, no one speaking, then at last Oscar Johnson took out his pouch of makings, rolled a joint, inhaled, and passed it along. Things were peaceful. They smoked and watched the rain and clouds and wilderness. Cacciato’s den was snug and dry.

  No one spoke until the ritual was ended.

  Then, very softly, Doc said, “Maybe we should just turn back. Call an end to it.”

  “Affirmative,” Murphy said. He gazed into the rain. “When the kid gets wet enough, cold enough, he’ll see how ridiculous it is. He’ll come back.”

  “Sure.”

  “So why not?” Doc turned to the lieutenant. “Why not pack it up, sir? Head back and call it a bummer.”

  Stink Harris made a light tittering sound, not quite mocking.

  “Seriously,” Doc kept on. “Let him go … MIA, strayed in battle. Sooner or later he’ll wake up, you know, and he’ll see how nutty it is and he’ll—”

  The lieutenant stared into the rain. His face was yellow except for webs of shattered veins.

  “So what say you, sir? Let him go?”

  “Dumber than marbles,” Stink giggled. “Dumber than Friar Tuck.”

  “And smarter than Stink Harris.”

  “You know what, Murph?”

  “Pickle it.”

  “Ha! Who’s saying to pickle it?”

  “Just stick it in vinegar,” said Harold Murphy. “That’s what.”

  Stink giggled again but he shut up. Murphy was a big man.

  “So what’s the verdict, sir? Turn around?”

  The lieutenant was quiet. At last he shivered and crawled out into the rain with a wad of toilet paper. Paul Berlin sat alone, playing solitaire in the style of Las Vegas. Pretending ways to spend his earnings. Travel, expensive hotels, tips for everyone. Wine and song on white terraces, fountains blowing colored water. Pretending was his best trick to forget the war.

  When the lieutenant returned he told them to saddle up.

  “Turning back?” Murphy said.

  The lieutenant shook his head. He looked sick.

  “I knew it,” Stink crowed. “Can’t just waddle away from a war, ain’t that right, sir? Dummy’s got to be taught you can’t hump your way home.” Stink grinned and flicked his eyebrows at Harold Murphy. “Damn straight, I knew it.”

  Cacciato had reached the top of the second mountain. Bareheaded, hands loosely at his sides, he looked down on them through a mix of fog and drizzle. Lieutenant Corson had the binoculars on him.

  “Maybe he don’t see us,” Oscar said. “Maybe he’s lost.”

  The old man made a vague, dismissive gesture. “He sees us. Sees us real fine.”

  “Pop smoke, sir?”

  “Why not? Sure, why not throw out some pretty smoke?” The lieutenant watched through the glasses while Oscar took out the smoke and pulled the pin and tossed it onto a level ledge along the trail. The smoke fizzled for a moment and then puffed up in a heavy cloud of lavender. “Oh, yes, he sees us. Sees us fine.”

  “Bastard’s waving.”

  “Isn’t he? Yes, I can see that, thank you.”

  “Will you—?”

  “Mother of Mercy.”

  High up on the mountain, partly lost in the drizzle, Cacciato was waving at them with both arms. Not quite waving. The arms were flapping.

  “Sick,” the lieutenant murmured. He sat down, handed the glasses to Paul Berlin, then began to rock himself as the purple smoke climbed the face of the mountain. “I tell you, I’m a sick, sick man.”

  “Should I shout up to him?”

  “Sick,” the lieutenant moaned. He kept rocking.

  Oscar cupped his hands and hollered, and Paul Berlin watched through the glasses. Cacciato stopped waving. His head was huge through the binoculars. He was smiling. Very slowly, deliberately, Cacciato was spreading his arms out as if to show them empty, opening them up like wings, palms down. The kid’s face was fuzzy, bobbing in and out of mist, but it was a happy face. Then his mouth opened, and in the mountains there was thunder.

  “What’d he say?” The lieutenant rocked on his haunches. He was clutching himself and shivering. “Tell me, what’d he say?”

  “Can’t hear, sir. Oscar—?”

  And there was more thunder, long-lasting thunder that came in waves.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Just tell me.”

  Paul Berlin watched through the glasses as Cacciato’s mouth opened and closed and opened, but there was only more thunder. And the arms kept flapping, faster now and less deliberate, wide-spanning winging motions—flying, Paul Berlin suddenly realized. Awkward, unpracticed, but still flying.

  “A chicken!” Stink squealed. He pointed up the mountain. “Look it! See him?”

  “Mother of Children.”

  “Look it!”

  “A squawking chicken, you see that? A chicken!”

  The thunder came again,
and Lieutenant Corson clutched himself and rocked.

  “Just tell me,” he moaned. “Just tell me, what’s he saying?”

  Paul Berlin could not hear. But he saw the wide wings, and the big smile, and the movement of the boy’s lips.

  “Tell me.”

  So Paul Berlin, watching Cacciato fly, repeated it: “Good-bye.”

  In the night the rain became fog. They camped near the top of the second mountain, and the fog and thunder lasted through the night. The lieutenant vomited. Then afterward he radioed back that he was in pursuit of the enemy.

  From far off, a radio-voice asked if gunships were needed.

  “Negative on gunships,” said the old lieutenant.

  “Negative?” The radio-voice sounded disappointed. “Tell you what, how about some nice arty? We got—”

  “Negative,” the lieutenant said. “Negative on artillery.”

  “We got a real bargain going on arty this week—two for the price of one, no strings and a warranty to boot. First-class ordnance, real sweet stuff. See, we got this terrific batch of 155 in, a real shit-load of it, so we got to go heavy on volume. Keeps the prices down.”

  “Negative.”

  “Well, jeez.” The radio-voice paused. “Okay, Papa Two-Niner. Tell you what, I like the sound of your voice. A swell voice, really lovely. So here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give you a dozen nice ilium, how’s that? Can you beat it? Find a place in town that beats it and we give you a dozen more, no charge. Real boomers with genuine sparkles mixed in. A closeout sale, one time only.”

  “Negative. Negative, negative, negative.”

  “You’re missing out on some fine shit, Two-Niner.”

  “Negative, you monster.”

  “No offense—”

  “Negative.”

  “As you will, then.” The radio-voice buzzed. “Happy hunting.”

  “Mercy,” the lieutenant said into a blaze of static.

  The night fog was worse than the rain, colder and more saddening. They lay under a sagging lean-to that seemed to catch the fog and hold it like a net. Oscar and Harold Murphy and Stink and Eddie Lazzutti slept anyway, curled around one another like lovers. They could sleep and sleep.

  “I hope he keeps moving,” Paul Berlin whispered to Doc Peret. “That’s all I hope, I just hope he’s moving. He does that, we’ll never get him.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “That’s all I hope.”

  “Then they chase him with choppers. Planes or something.”

  “Not if he gets himself lost,” Paul Berlin said. His eyes were closed. “Not if he hides.”

  “Yeah.” A long silence. “What time is it?”

  “Two?”

  “What time you got, sir?”

  “Very lousy late,” said the lieutenant from the bushes.

  “Come on, what—”

  “Four o’clock. Zero-four-hundred. Which is to say a.m.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Charmed.” There was a soft warm glow where the old man squatted. After a time he grunted and stood up, buttoned his trousers, and crawled back under the lean-to. He lit a cigarette and sighed.

  “Feel better, sir?”

  “Smashing. Can’t you see how wonderful I feel?”

  “I just hope Cacciato keeps moving,” Paul Berlin whispered. “That’s all. I hope he uses his head and keeps moving.”

  “It won’t get him anywhere.”

  “Get him to Paris, maybe.”

  “Maybe,” Doc sighed, turning onto his side, “and where is he then?”

  “In Paris.”

  “Nope. I dig adventure, too, but you can’t get to Paris from here. Just can’t.”

  “No?”

  “No way. None of the roads lead to Paris.”

  The lieutenant finished his cigarette and lay back. His breath came hard, as if the air were too heavy or thick for him, and for a long time he twisted restlessly from side to side.

  “Maybe we better light a Sterno,” Doc said gently. “I’m pretty cold myself.”

  “No.”

  “Just for a few minutes maybe.”

  “No,” the lieutenant said. “It’s still a war, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.”

  “There you have it. It’s still a lousy war.”

  There was thunder. Then lightning lighted the valley deep below, then more thunder, then the rain resumed.

  They lay quietly and listened.

  Where was it going, where would it end? Paul Berlin was suddenly struck between the eyes by a vision of murder. Butchery, no less: Cacciato’s right temple caving inward, silence, then an enormous explosion of outward-going brains. It scared him. He sat up, searched for his cigarettes. He wondered where the image had come from. Cacciato’s skull exploding like a bag of helium: boom. So simple, the logical circuit-stopper. No one gets away with gross stupidity forever. Not in a war. Boom, and that always ended it.

  What could you do? It was sad. It was sad, and it was still a war. The old man was right about that.

  Pitying Cacciato with wee-hour tenderness, pitying himself, Paul Berlin couldn’t help hoping for a miracle. The whole idea was crazy, of course, but that didn’t make it impossible. A lot of crazy things were possible. Billy Boy, for example. Dead of fright. Billy and Sidney Martin and Buff and Pederson. He was tired of it. Not scared—not just then—and not awed or overcome or crushed or defeated, just tired. He smiled, thinking of some of the nutty things Cacciato used to do. Dumb things. But brave things, too.

  “Yes, He did,” he whispered. It was true. Yes … then he realized that Doc was listening. “He did. He did some pretty brave stuff. The time he dragged that dink out of her bunker, remember that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the time he shot that kid. All those teeth.”

  “I remember.”

  “You can’t call him a coward. You can’t say he ran out because he was scared.”

  “You can say a lot of other shit, though.”

  “True. But you can’t say he wasn’t brave. You can’t say that.”

  Doc yawned. He sat up, unlaced his boots, threw them off, and lay back on his belly. Beside him the lieutenant slept heavily.

  Paul Berlin felt himself grinning. “I wonder … You think maybe he talks French? The language, I mean. You think he knows it?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Yeah. But, jeez, it’s something to think about, isn’t it? Old Cacciato marching off to Paris. It’s something.”

  “Go to sleep,” Doc said. “Don’t forget, cowboy, you got your own health to think about. You’re not exactly a well man.”

  They were in the high country.

  Clean, high, unpolluted country. Quiet country. Complex country, mountains growing out of hills, valleys dropping from mountains and then sharply climbing to higher mountains. It was country far from the war, rich and peaceful country with trees and thick grass, no people and no villages and no lowland drudgery. Lush, shaggy country: huge palms and banana trees, wildflowers, waist-high grasses, vines and wet thickets and clean air. Tarzan country, Eddie Lazzutti called it. Grinning, thumping his bare chest, Eddie would howl and yodel.

  They climbed with their heads down.

  Two days, three days, and a single clay trail kept taking them up. The rain had mostly ended. The days were sultry and overcast, humidity bending the branches of trees, but now and again the clouds to the west showed a new brightness. So they climbed steadily, stopping when the old man needed rest, waiting out the muggiest hours of the afternoon. At times the trail would seem to end, tapering off in a tangle of weeds or rock, and they would be forced to fan out in a broad rank, picking their way forward until the trail reappeared.

  For Paul Berlin, who marched last in the column, it was hard work but not unpleasant. He liked the silence. He liked the feel of motion, one leg then the next. No fears of ambush, no tapping sounds in the brush. The sky was empty. He liked this. Walking away, it was something fine to think
about. Even if it had to end, there was still the pleasure of pretending it might go on forever: step by step, a mile, ten miles, two hundred, eight thousand. Was it really so impossible? Or was there a chance, even one in a million, that it might truly be done? He walked on and considered this, figuring the odds, speculating on how Cacciato might lead them through the steep country, beyond the mountains, deeper, and how in the end they might reach Paris. He smiled. It was something to think about.

  They spent the fourth night in a gully beside the trail, then in the morning they continued west. There were no signs of Cacciato.

  For most of the day the trail ran parallel to a small hidden stream. They could hear it, smell it, but they never saw it. Still it was soothing to climb and listen to the rush of water, imagining from the change in sounds how the stream would be breaking over rock, or curving, or slowing at a level spot, or tumbling down to a deep pool. It was wilderness now. Jagged, beautiful, lasting country. Things grew as they grew, unchanging, and there was always the next mountain.

  Twice during the day there were brief, violent showers, but afterward the sky seemed to lift and lighten, and they marched without stopping. Stink Harris stayed at point, then the lieutenant, then Oscar, then Harold Murphy and Eddie, then Doc, then Paul Berlin at the rear. Sometimes Eddie would sing as he marched. It was a good, rich voice, and the songs were always familiar, and Doc and Harold Murphy would sometimes come in on the chorus. Paul Berlin just climbed. It was an anatomy lesson. The way his legs kept going, ankles and hips, the feel of a fair day’s work. A good feeling. Heart and lungs, his back strong, up the high country.

  “Maybe,” he whispered, “maybe so.”

  An hour before dusk the trail twisted up through a stand of dwarf pines, leveled off, then opened into a large clearing. Oscar Johnson found the second map.

  The red dotted line crossed the border into Laos.

  Farther ahead they found Cacciato’s armored vest and bayonet, then his ammo pouch, then his entrenching tool and ID card.

  “Why?” the lieutenant muttered.

  “Sir?”