The Beach

∨ The Beach ∧

57

Ol’ Blue

At the end of the tenth day we were, as usual, hurrying to get back to the lagoon before nightfall. The sun was already below the western curve of the seaward cliffs and the orange light of early evening was turning blue. Whenever we were on the move we wouldn’t talk, so all our communication was by hand signal. A clenched fist meant stop and stay still, a flat palm held horizontally to the ground meant hide, a pointing gesture with all fingers kept together meant move forward cautiously. We’d never discussed the meanings of these signs, neither had we discussed the new words we’d started using. We’d say, ‘I’ll take point,’ instead of, ‘I’ll walk first,’ and we described distances in terms of klicks. I don’t actually remember how or when these things had been adopted. I think they’d simply felt like the most appropriate vocabulary for the situation.

That evening, Jed had taken point. He always did if the light was failing because he knew the island so much better than I did. I was having a little difficulty in keeping up with him, unable to find his easy compromise between speed and stealth, and when he gave the clenched-fist signal I missed it and walked straight into his back. The fact that he didn’t frown or swear made me aware that something serious was up. I eased myself away from him and stood still.

Just ahead of us the jungle became patchy and broke into a wide area of grasses and shrubs, so at first I assumed that Jed had seen someone in the clearing. Then I noticed that his gaze was pointed almost directly at his feet. For a couple of moments we both remained motionless. I still couldn’t tell what the problem was because his body was obscuring my view. After a long minute of silence, I cautiously reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t react and it suddenly struck me that there could be a poisonous snake on the ground in front of him. I glanced around for a stick but I couldn’t see one, then I inched to the side in order to get a better view.

I would have gasped if my jaw and chest muscles hadn’t seized up. Lying less than a metre from Jed’s feet was a Thai. He was flat on his back, eyes closed, and he had an automatic rifle lightly resting in the crook of his arm. Jed slowly moved his head to face me, as if he was afraid that by disturbing the air he might wake the man. ‘What now?’ he mouthed. I jabbed a finger in the direction we’d come, but he shook his head. I nodded vigorously, and Jed shook his head again, glowering. Then he pointed at his foot. He was standing on the barrel of the rifle. The pressure had lifted the butt several inches above the Thai’s bare arm. As soon as he moved his foot away, the butt would drop.

‘Shit,’ I mouthed, and Jed rolled his eyes desperately.

I thought for a minute. Then I started to creep backwards along the track. Jed stared at me as if to say, ‘Where the fuck are you going?’ but I raised a hand to tell him not to worry. I knew what to do because I’d seen it done on Tour of Duty.

♦

I can never remember the names on Tour of Duty. That’s partly because the series is so terrible, but it’s also because the characters come from the same school as NYPD Blue’s (black lieutenant, unorthodox cops who get results). So in Tour of Duty you have the tough sergeant who knows all the tricks, the green lieutenant who learns all the tricks, the simple Southern hick who learns to make friends with the sassy blacks, the Hispanic you can rely on in a firefight, and the East–Coaster who wears glasses and probably reads books. The names really aren’t important.

The main thing is the scenes that these characters play out – tending the orphan who’s been wounded by shrapnel, stopping a rival platoon from doing a Zippo raid, leaping from helicopters into a whirlpool of flattened grass, hugging comrades as they cough and die, and dealing with mines.

The platoon is walking through the jungle when suddenly there is a barely audible click. Everyone hits the dirt except one man, an FNG, who stands rigid with fear. ‘I don’t wanna die, Sarge!’ he blurts, and starts to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Sarge crawls over on his belly. ‘You hang on in there, soldier,’ he mutters. He knows what to do. He had the same thing happen in Korea, ‘53.

Bizarrely, Sarge starts to tell the soldier about an apparently unrelated incident that happened when he was a kid, working on his daddy’s farm. Sarge had a hound dog that he loved dearly, name of Ol’ Blue, and the soldier listens, distracted by the clever ploy. Meanwhile, Sarge is easing his knife under the soldier’s boot and sweat is cutting a line through the dirt on his brow.

Ol’ Blue was caught in a rabbit snare, Sarge explains, and every time he struggled the snare grew tighter. The soldier nods, still not grasping the connection. ‘What happened to Ol’ Blue?’ the soldier asks. ‘Did ya get him out, Sarge?’

‘Sure we did, soldier,’ Sarge replies. Then he tells the soldier to lift his foot, nice and easy now. The soldier is confused, frightened, but he trusts Sarge. He does as he is told, and Sarge slips a rock on to the knife blade, maintaining the pressure on the mine. Sarge chuckles. ‘Son, all Ol’ Blue had to do was relax.’

♦

I wasn’t going to start blathering on to Jed about Ol’ Blue. As I gently laid the stone on the rifle barrel, even the noise of rock scraping against metal sounded like someone hammering on a petrol drum. When the stone was positioned I looked up at Jed. He shrugged calmly and motioned for me to get up. I suppose he wanted me to be ready to start running if the gun dropped.

Inch by inch, Jed eased up his foot. The butt shifted downwards a fraction and I heard him draw in a quick breath, but it didn’t contact the Thai’s arm. We exchanged a glance, stepped gingerly over the man’s legs and continued quietly down the island. Drama over.

It took us another forty-five minutes to reach the top of the waterfall, and I grinned solidly every step of the way. I was grinning so much my jaws were aching, and if we hadn’t needed to keep silent I would have been laughing out loud.