The Eternity Brigade (6 page)

Spurred to anger by his friend’s callousness, Hawker exploded a bit himself. “Yes, damn it, I wondered. A guy like you could have it made in civilian life. You’re smart, you could go to college and make something of yourself. Doctor, lawyer, politician, I don’t know—something big. For me and Lucky, the army’s the best thing that ever happened to us, but I never could figure out what you were doing here. I figured that was your business, though. If you wanted me to know, you’d tell me, otherwise it wasn’t right to ask. But you have no right to laugh at me, just because I respect your privacy.”

Green stopped laughing and wiped the tears from his eyes. “I wasn’t laughing at you, just at this whole preposterous thing. Forget it. Forget I ever mentioned the subject.” He tried to stand, and got halfway up before sinking back into the chair. Hawker helped his friend to his feet.

“Thanks,” Green said. “I’ve been drinking a lot on an empty stomach. That’s not good for me. What do you say we get some dinner and go to bed?”

“Fine.”

After a quick snack at the coffee shop they returned to their room. Hawker helped his friend undress, and both lay down in the darkness on their respective beds. Hawker, though, wasn’t tired; his nap after the afternoon’s activities had left him feeling wide awake now. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Through the darkness, he could tell that Green was awake, too.

Finally, Hawker said, “What
is
pushing you, David?”

Minutes went by without an answer, and Hawker began to think he must have been mistaken about Green’s being awake, or else that the other man was too tired—or too upset—to answer him. But then suddenly Green replied, in a near-monotone, “My father is an Orthodox rabbi.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” More silence, then, “I don’t suppose you really know what that can mean. I’m my father’s youngest son and his biggest disappointment. He told me so, constantly. ‘Davidka,’ he’d say, ‘you are the failure of my life, the ultimate frustration of all I’ve worked for.’ He said that even before I was ten years old. Some accomplishment for a little kid, huh? I’d hardly had a chance to do
anything
, and already he was convinced I’d betrayed him. I could never be smart enough or clever enough or good enough. Not that he didn’t push me to try—but he was always careful to stick his foot out in front of me to make sure I’d trip. With his support, there wasn’t a thing I couldn’t fail at.

“You mentioned before you thought I could go to college and maybe become a doctor or a lawyer. I’ve got one of each as older brothers. I’ve got another brother who’s a cantor. I think that made my father happiest of all. Me, I can’t even carry a tune.”

He paused and coughed a couple of times. “Everything in the house was very strict. My mother in particular made sure of that. Between her and my father, I didn’t have a chance. She was the one who set my attitudes about women.
Shicksehs
… that is, Gentile girls, were
traif
, not kosher. There was something unclean about them, as though they all had some slimy social disease all over their bodies. Only good Jewish girls were worth loving, and even then I had to wait until I married one. I got the impression, somehow, that non-Jewish girls never bathed, or used Pigshit #5 cologne, or something equally disgusting. Funny thing is, I’m told I’m the exact opposite of most Jewish men. To them, Gentile girls are a turn-on; they marry nice Jewish girls and carry on with Gentiles. Not me; I’m spoiled for life.

“I tried once, during the war. I was on leave with some of my buddies over in Africa—Salisbury, I think—and we went out and got drunk. I could barely stand up, but my friends steered me into a whorehouse, one of those cheap black places on the edge of town. The building was run-down and filthy, and the girls
hadn’t
bathed in several weeks. The room smelled of sweat—Negro sweat. I couldn’t do anything, and I broke down and cried. My friends thought it was because the girl was black, so they pooled their money and took me to a fancier white bordello. I couldn’t do anything there, either. I ended up vomiting all over the bed—hardly the most comforting experience for a young virgin, right?”

Hawker didn’t answer, and another long silence ensued. Finally Green spoke again. “I entered the army to get away from home. Isn’t that hysterical? There I am, running away from the authoritarianism of my parents, and where do I go to hide? The most authoritarian system in the world, the army. So you see, I must be more mentally defective than any ten Marine Corps boots combined. And
that
is what’s pushing me. I keep hoping that maybe, if I play Rip Van Winkle long enough, the world will change beneath me to something I can live with.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawker said at last, when he was sure his friend had finished. “I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t know. I didn’t tell you. But that’s why Lucky threw me into such a tailspin when he brought those girls over. I just couldn’t face anything like that again. It’s so hard looking into the mirror and knowing what a complete and utter failure I’ve made of myself.”

Green stopped talking again, and it took Hawker several moments to realize his friend was crying. Hawker lay in bed for a time, not sure how to handle this development; then finally he threw the covers back, got up and crossed the room to where Green lay. Taking his friend in his arms, he held him tightly until all the tears were gone and Green had slipped off to sleep. Hawker left him then, at peace at last, and slipped out of the room to get himself a drink.

***

Green spent most of the next day nursing a raging hangover, but once that was behind him he returned to his old cheerful, sometimes cynical, self. By some implied understanding, neither man mentioned their talk of the night before. Nonetheless, Hawker knew they had turned a corner in their relationship.

They saw Symington occasionally as the big man dashed to and fro through this playground city. Hawker at least found a chance to take Symington aside and tell him—without going into details—that Green’s refusal of the girls was a personal problem that had nothing to do with being gay. Symington, easy-going as he was, accepted this explanation without question.

For the most part, Symington was too busy to care. He was always either chasing women or gambling—or both—and seemed to be having more success with the former. At one point, after a week and a half, he came to Hawker and Green
for a stake to help with his gambling, and the two were convinced he’d squandered his entire bonus already. He repaid them, though, the next day—with interest—and never brought the subject up again, so they could never be sure what his situation really was.

For Hawker and Green, though, the time passed more quietly. They went to all the big shows and gambled a bit, losing somewhat more than they won and writing the losses off to experience. They spent some time in the bars, watching basketball games on TV and arguing with other sports fans. And they lounged about the swimming pool, soaking up the sun and getting a modicum of exercise. They avoided any further personal discussions. Much of the time they didn’t talk at all, and when they did it was of superficial matters. The one subject that was completely off limits was Project Banknote. The future would hit them fast enough— they were here to forget it in the meantime.

The problem was, neither of them
could
forget it—and as their hours of freedom ticked away, they were oppressed by the knowledge that soon they’d be leaving the safe, familiar world behind them.

Although the desert sun shone brightly, Hawker began to feel he was walking underneath a perpetual raincloud. The artificial gaiety around him began to ring hollow.

With a week still to go on his leave, Hawker packed his gear together and took off by himself, leaving behind only a brief note to Green, saying he’d see him again in a week, back at the base. Then Hawker took a taxi to the airport and bought a ticket on the next flight to Los Angeles.

***

Hawker had never been to Los Angeles before, and knew no one there. In part, that was the charm the city held for him. For his last week in the real world, he wanted to bury himself in anonymity. He’d heard about the L.A. mystique, and thought this was a perfect opportunity to experience it firsthand.

He got a room at the Holiday Inn, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. The weather was gray and overcast—unseasonable, the desk clerk said—but Hawker hardly noticed. The leaden skies matched his mood only too well.

Over the next several days he roamed Hollywood at random. He had originally intended to go all over Los Angeles, but the city’s large size made that impossible. Instead, he spent his time wandering the length of Hollywood Boulevard, drinking in its diversity and yet still feeling unfulfilled. Bookstores and music shops, boutiques and emporia, even famous names along the Walk of Fame—nothing could lift the depression that had settled over him. He walked amid the bright lights and the chattering people like a premature ghost, in the world but not of it.

When he walked at night, he received solicitations from both men and women; he ignored them all and walked on. On his second night in Hollywood he encountered a prostitute he couldn’t easily get rid of, a woman in her forties with lipstick so garish on an overly whitened face that she looked almost like a clown. For some reason she attached herself to Hawker and would not leave his side. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he took her back with him to his hotel room, but despite the best efforts of both of them, he found himself impotent. At length angered by his inability, he chased the woman out his room, then cried himself to sleep on the bed.

The world around him became progressively less real, a scene of shifting shadows. He had come here, subconsciously, to say good-bye, but the world seemed to have already left without telling him, leaving him alone in an emotionless void.

Three days before his leave was due to expire, he saw a dime on the sidewalk. He stopped and stood over it, heedless of the people who pushed by him on their hurried way. The small circle of silver became a mystic token, symbol of an entire world he was departing forever. Already it was considered an insignificant piece of change, but he remembered receiving a dime as a kid and buying himself some candy. The dime was a solid link to his past, but what of the future? What if there
were
no dimes when he awoke? What if there were no money at all, and everyone used credit cards or something? What if there was nothing familiar when he woke up, and he found himself facing a world of alien complexities? He’d been frightened enough of the world he knew; could the future be any less terrifying?

He stared at the dime for half an hour, until a little boy noticed what he was looking at and ran over to pick it up. The kid ran off with the coin and Hawker, jolted out of his reverie, returned slowly to his hotel.

He spent the remainder of his leave in his room, not even venturing out to eat. He turned on the television and sat hypnotized, blinking uncomprehendingly as images paraded across the tube. His face grew gaunt, and bags appeared under his eyes. He dozed a couple of times in front of the set, waking with a start each time and returning to his meaningless preoccupation.

His strange ritual finally completed, he checked out of his room and prepared to return to the base. Unshaven and haggard, he looked like a derelict, though he still had plenty of unused bonus money in his pocket. Hawker didn’t care what people thought about him. He had divorced himself from the present the only way he knew how, and was prepared to step into the future.

***

It turned out to be a longer step than he’d counted on. He was not put into suspended animation immediately upon his return. Instead, he was placed in a separate barracks with the other volunteers, and was told there would be several weeks of special weapons training and physical testing before the experiment began.

Green was here too, as was Symington. Both were delighted to see him, and the threesome spent their first few minutes together thumping backs and swapping insults. Green and Symington both pretended they’d hardly missed Hawker at all. But significantly, neither of them ever asked Hawker where he’d gone—or what he’d done.

Of the ninety-three men who’d volunteered for the project, eleven did not return from leave. After twenty-four hours, they were listed as AWOL and dropped from the subject rolls. Hawker sometimes wondered about them, and whether their lives were better or worse for having made the decision they did.

But the army gave him little time just then for idle speculation. The volunteers were given a course in weapons use conducted by a Special Forces instructor who did not tolerate failure. They spent four hours a day in a classroom learning the theory of weaponry, and eight more hours a day in the field putting their knowledge to practical use. They started with the simplest weapons—knives, bows and arrows, spears, and swords— learning not only their use but how to improvise them in the field if they found themselves unarmed. They spent long hours on the target range until each of them was adept at these before moving on to more modern armaments. They learned about guns, from the earliest to the most modern, including some of the more experimental computer-guided models and the laser rifles that promised to add new dimensions to warfare. Hawker and his comrades learned to disassemble, clean and reassemble every firearm in the U.S. arsenal, plus a number of captured enemy models. They saw films and demonstrations of artillery pieces, and practiced in conjunction with field artillery teams.