Sloan Wilson - Man in the Gray Flannel Suit

Hank Mahoney had been behind a rock, near the ravine where Tom had landed, and there had been three Japs with a mortar just to the left of him. Tom had found Gardella, and the two of them had got part of the company together and had just managed to clean out the Jap mortar when Mahoney ran out from behind his rock. Tom, barely seeing a moving figure out of the corner of his eye, had whirled and thrown a hand grenade. “No!” Gardella had yelled, just too late. In the instant while the grenade had been poised in mid-air, and Mahoney had still been running, like a schoolboy about to receive a forward pass, Tom had seen who it was, but then the grenade had exploded, Mahoney had crumpled, and at the same time a machine gun had opened up on Tom and his men. Tom had motioned to Gardella and the others to withdraw to the shelter of a near-by shell hole. He himself had flattened his body against the earth and had crawled over to Hank. Mahoney had been lying on his belly, and no injury had been visible on his back. “Hank?” Tom had said. There had been no answer. Tom had put his hand under Mahoney’s arm and turned him over. Mahoney’s entire chest had been torn away, leaving the naked lungs and splintered ribs exposed. His face had been unsoiled and serene. Perhaps that, in addition to the panic-stricken torrent of self-accusation, had contributed to Tom’s madness. With courage and surprising lucidity of mind, he had undertaken the rescue of a corpse. Picking up Hank’s blood-drenched body, he had run, cleverly dodging from rock to rock. When confronted by a cave full of Japs, he had carefully propped Hank up in a shell hole and under heavy machine-gun fire had crawled to within fifteen feet of the mouth of the cave and tossed in two hand grenades. When the smoke and dust had cleared, he had gone into the cave with a knife, finding six Japs dead and one half alive. With grim pleasure he had finished that one off and calmly returned to Hank’s body. Picking it up as if it were a child, he had continued across the island. He had fought his way almost to the beach on the opposite side when it occurred to him that he didn’t know where he was going, for there was nothing on the beach, and no doctors had yet been landed anywhere on the island. Carrying Hank’s body into a pillbox which had been cracked open by bombs, he had knelt astride it and had committed his ultimate act of agony and madness: he had tried to give Hank’s pitifully torn body artificial respiration. Remembering fragments of lessons in lifesaving he had taken as a boy, he had pumped Hank’s stiffening arms up and down relentlessly, succeeding only in forcing blood through Hank’s nose and mouth. He had had no idea how long he applied artificial respiration, but after a long time he had become aware that the shooting outside the pillbox had stopped. The whole island had suddenly hummed with silence. Picking up Hank’s body, which had stopped bleeding, he had run to the top of a knoll. “Medici!” he had shouted. “Medici! Medic!”

A sergeant halfway down the knoll had called to him and pointed toward a medical corpsman bandaging a man’s knee a hundred yards away. Tom had run there and gently put Hank’s body on the ground near the man with the injured knee. “This is an emergency case,” he had said to the medical corpsman. The man had glanced briefly at Hank’s body, then walked over and examined it closely.

“You don’t need no medic for this guy,” he had said casually. “He’s been dead for hours. Put him with the other dead over there.” The corpsman had gestured toward an irregularly shaped pile covered by a torn parachute. Flies had been crawling on the white cloth.

“No,” Tom had said.

“He’s dead,” the corpsman had replied.

“He’s not.”

The corpsman had glanced at Tom sharply and sighed. “I’ll do it for you,” he had said and, leaning forward, had unceremoniously started to drag Hank’s body away.

“Don’t touch him. I want a real doctor for him,” Tom had said.

The corpsman had straightened up and stared at Tom. Then he had called over his shoulder to a group of soldiers who had sat down in the dirt and already started a card game. “Hey, come over here,” the corpsman had said. The soldiers had wearily got to their feet. Holding a knife in one hand, Tom had stood astride Mahoney’s body. The soldiers had approached him slowly and stopped a few yards away.

“Captain, that man you’ve got there is dead,” the corpsman had said. “Let these men take care of him, and you get a rest.” The soldiers had spread out around him, but had kept their distance. Tom had said nothing, but his big body had been tense and alert, and some of the soldiers had started to back away. After a moment of silence Tom had said calmly and reasonably, “I just want this man here to see a real doctor.”

“Let him go,” a fat corporal had said to the corpsman. “The captain looks like a mighty big man, and somebody’s going to get hurt if we rush him.”

“The guy’s psycho,” the corpsman had said.

“Let him go find a doctor if he wants,” the fat corporal had replied.

While they were arguing, Tom had suddenly stooped, picked up Mahoney’s body, and burst through the loose circle they had formed. He had run hard, without feeling the great weight of Mahoney’s body. After a few minutes he had felt gravel under his feet and had heard many voices. Looking up, he had found himself standing only a few hundred feet from the sea, surrounded by Negro troops pouring from a landing barge. “What’s the matter, Captain?” a gigantic Negro master sergeant had said. “You looking for the medics?”

“Yes.”

“They’re taking some wounded out to the hospital ship right over there,” the enormous sergeant had said, gesturing toward another landing craft several hundred yards down the beach. Tom had started off, but had felt a big hand on his shoulder. “Let me carry him for you, Captain,” the sergeant had said. “You must be beat.”

“I’ll take him.”

The sergeant had already put one great arm around Hank’s body. In a shocked voice he had suddenly said, “Captain, this man’s dead. Look at his chest.”

“Let him alone.”

“Ain’t no use, Captain,” the sergeant had replied in a soft voice. “Put him down and take yourself a rest.”

“I’m not going to put him with the dead.”

“Of course not. Let me put him right down here.” The big sergeant had put gentle and respectful hands on Hank’s body, and Tom had not objected. Carefully the sergeant had put Hank’s body on the gravel a hundred yards from the other men. “Sit down now, Captain,” the sergeant had said.

Dazedly Tom had sat down. The sergeant had given him a cigarette and lit it for him. Tom had sat staring at the sergeant’s shoes, tremendous muddy shoes, the tops of which were still highly polished. After looking at the shoes for a long while, he had brought himself to glance at Mahoney and had seen that on Hank’s face was the sardonic grin of a dead man. The dead always have the last laugh, Hank had said. A wave of nausea had overtaken Tom, and he had been sick. For several minutes he had lain there retching. The big sergeant had put cool hands on his forehead, the way a mother holds the head of a sick child. Gradually the nausea had gone, and with it the madness. Tom had stood up slowly, and the sergeant had handed him a canteen. After taking a drink, Tom had poured water into his hands and splashed his face. “Thanks, Sergeant,” he had said.

“Let me help you find a burial detail,” the sergeant had replied. “You look mighty tired.”

“I’d like to find one with a chaplain.”

The sergeant had picked Mahoney up. They had walked a long while before finding a priest with a detachment of men preparing for funeral services. The big sergeant had put Mahoney down, and the chaplain had immediately come over and had gently laid a blanket over him.