War Year by Joe Haldeman

Author:Joe Haldeman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497692459
Publisher: Open Road Media

“There’s one over here. X-ray?” That was one of the infantrymen who came with us to help with the pick-and-shovel work, and provide security. They all called us X-ray, as if to remind us that we weren’t heroic grunts like them.

“Okay,” Prof said. “You two stay here for a minute. I’ll check it out for booby-traps.” He went into the woods where the guy had yelled, and came back a couple of minutes later, wiping his right hand on his fatigues.

“All set. Here.” Prof handed each of us a cigar and lit one up himself.

“Thanks anyhow, Prof. I don’t smoke the things.”

“No time like the present to start, Horowitz. Keep it in your mouth and it cuts the smell.” Willy lit up and so did I.

The body was lying on its back with arms and legs stretched out all the way. The Prof called it rigor mortis. The skin on his face and hands was black, blacker than a Negro’s. His body was all puffed up to where it filled his uniform like a balloon. His mouth was stretched open wide, a swollen black sausage of a tongue forced between even yellow rows of teeth. His eyes were wide open and filled with ants. His body was covered with ants and flies.

“You guys are lucky. Don’t have to start out with a bad one.” Prof took a deep drag on his cigar and kneeled beside the body.

“This is how you check it out. First, make sure there aren’t wires or strings attached to the body. Don’t see any, do you?”

“Uh uh.” I couldn’t keep myself from looking at the eyes.

“Okay. Now you have to check underneath. They can pull the pin on a grenade and prop it under the body, so it won’t go off ’til you move it. Sometimes you can tell by just looking. Usually you gotta feel.” He put his hand palm down on the ground and slid it under the body’s back, sliding it back and forth. “Okay. He’s clean. Now, Farmer, you do it.”

“Aw, Prof, I get the idea…”

He stood up. “Still, you gotta do it.”

I kneeled down where the Prof had and slid my hand under the corpse. Through the tight cloth of the uniform, I could feel the dead skin. Cold, spongy, slimy. I spit out the cigar and puked all over the dead man’s chest. Prof put a hand under my arm and pulled me to my feet.

“Okay. It’s a hard job, I know. Here, wash your mouth out.” He handed me a canteen.

Horowitz kneeled down where the Prof and I had and repeated the action. Somehow, he didn’t puke, though he looked a little green when he got up.

The infantry was digging a hole about ten feet away. “This deep enough, X-ray?”

Prof went over and checked it out. “It’ll do. One of you guys want to give us a hand with the stiff?”

“Hell, no. We just dig the hole, man. That’s your job.”

Prof stomped back. “Horowitz, take one sleeve. I’ll take the other.

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