by W.E. Turner
Al Bonet can see it all in that one drop of water. Every time he comes near enough to see, a drop of water on Corpsman Max Feary's upper lip reproduces the scene in miniature, convex detail. The jungle foliage reflected in the drop is just as green; the few specks of sunlight that filter through the leaves are equally as bright; the body of the man, foreshortened until it tapers away to nothingness, looks just as pitiful as if it were the real thing. It's all right there. Perfect.
But the look of concern on Feary's face isn't perfect. Why?
“Who was it?” Al hears a distant voice ask. “Who got hit?”
“One of the FNGs,” another voice says, as far away as the first.
“Which one? The black guy or the Okie?”
“The Okie.”
“Aaaaah. Poor fucker. One week in country and he gets bagged. That's the shits.”
“Well. Better him than me. Huh?”
“Fuckin' A.”
“Will you guys shut the fuck up.” Feary says, his voice sounding so much closer than the others. “This guy ain't dead.”
Al blinks his eyes to acknowledge this truth.
Feary's face comes into Al's field of vision again. “Don't worry, kid. Dust-off's on the way.”
“Head wound, ain't it?” Another far-off voice.
“Yeah.” Feary's voice.
“Just a matter o' time, then.”
“Shut up, dammit! He can hear ya.”
Al tries to move his left hand, but can't. He reaches up with his right hand, moving it slowly toward his head—the head that feels so funny—so light; hot and cold at the same time. Al can see the hand moving up, but he has to think about it twice to even realize it's his own hand. The hand moves like it's traveling through water.
Feary grabs Al's wrist and straightens the arm out, laying it back at Al's side.
Another face looms into the field of Al's view. Dirty. Sweaty. Distorted in the fish-eye. “Oh, shit,” the face says. “Oh, my God, Doc. Oh, God. Oh, God. He ain't gonna....”
Slapping sound, hand on an empty kettle. The head loses the helmet that framed the face. “Goddam it, Doc. What the hell's got inta you?”
“I said shut up, ya stupid bastard. Just shut the fuck up.”
“What the fuck, Doc. He's just a FNG. Ain't like he's your goddam brother or somethin'.”
“Shut up, God damn it. Get the fuck away from him or, by God, I'll do you myself. Save Charlie the fuckin' trouble.”
“Shit, Doc. What's the hell's this guy to you, anyway?”
“He ain't nothin'. He ain't a goddam thing ta me. Just another Marine. Now, get the fuck away from 'im, damn it. Leave 'im alone.”
“OK. OK. I'm goin'.”
Feary's face again, dripping sweat into Al's face—into his eyes. “It's OK, kid. Dust-off's comin'. Don't worry. You're gonna be OK.”
Al keeps looking up at the green canopy, waiting for dust-off, whatever that is.
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