Page 113 of Walking Wounded

“That’s just it, though: there’s no such thing as an ex-Marine.”

Finn smiled, a small scrap of a true smile, and reached, unconsciously, to cover the picture he carried against his heart.

September 1951

Showers and laundry service were infrequent. The last stop, they’d stripped off their filthy dungarees and added them to the vat; they’d come out on the other side of the showers to dungarees with other men’s names and serial numbers on them. Finn marched in front of Will wearing someone named Lindsey’s clothes. Thank God for dog tags, Will kept thinking, morbidly, or else someone might mistake their corpses for those of other men.

The dirt kicked up by their boots crusted their salty skin until they looked like scaled and textured undersea creatures. So when the river drew into view, it was met with joyous shouts.

“Thank Jesus,” someone said.

Will set down his pack and propped his rifle carefully against it. Beside him, Finn was already tugging off his boots. Will saw him fold his shirt up very carefully, the breast pocket situated on top to protect the photo of Leena.

Naked, they all waded out into the cold, dark water, shivering a little, but sighing in relief.

Will sank down deep, blowing bubbles, letting the cool surface close over the top of his head. He felt it sift through his hair and caress his grimy skin, stripping off the road dust. He opened his mouth and let it pass across his parched tongue, spitting it back out without swallowing. He just wanted the wetness around his teeth.

They swam for a half hour, and stretched out in the grass to let the sun dry them. It was the best he’d felt in miles, warm and relaxed.

After, they dressed, packed up, filled their canteens and started upstream.

“Makes you feel human again,” Ski said, and there were murmurs of agreement.

Will took a deep breath and let the oxygen fill his lungs, chasing away the last of his soreness. He felt like he could march all night.

They humped through the deep brush along the river, turned a long slow corner…

And there were the bodies. Bloated and grossly white, tattered clothes caught in the current like streamers. Two dozen dead North Koreans, stiff limbs locked together to form a grisly raft, the whole mass of them caught between the banks and on protruding rocks. Vacant holes where eyes had been. Silver flashes beneath the water: fish nibbling.

Will thought about the cool relief of the water flowing on his tongue.

His stomach surged…but he managed to keep the bile down.

Murray staggered over into the bushes and vomited noisily.

Bradshaw wasn’t Catholic, but he made the sign of the cross and marched on.

November 1951

“What the fuck do you mean the fucking doorcame off?!”

“It fucking came off!”

The helicopter was a Sikorsky H-19 Chickasaw, and its door had indeed fucking come off. Something had gone wrong with the hinges, either a malfunction, or maybe Ski had been lifting more than he thought and just ripped the damn thing clean off. In any event, there was no way to fix it now, and they needed to get off the mountain.

Prior to leaving for Camp Pendleton, Will had never flown in a plane before. He’d white-knuckled his armrests the entire time. But the helicopter? That was a whole new kind of terror.

They’d needed to engage with an advancing regiment of Chinese that were trying to cross almost impassable, rocky, mountainous terrain. Rather than make the hike to meet them, the Marines had been air-lifted in and were now being air-lifted out.

Then Ski had to go and pull the door off.

“Just get the hell in!” Corporal Caldwell had to shout to be heard above the droning of the blades.

It was a tight squeeze with all their gear. Will perched with his knees jacked up to his chin. The concentrated stink of them – grungy dungarees, BO, fresh sweat, and mud – was so commonplace at this point that it didn’t register; it was just the way the world around him smelled. He noticed brown flecks on Finn’s pants that looked like blood. The sight didn’t faze him anymore.

When they were all secure, Caldwell shouted for the pilot to “go!” and the thrumming beat of the blades shifted, its tone changing. The ugly, bulbous little craft shuddered and lurched, and then began its climb.

The door gaped open.

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