The Scummers

Nineteen

101 Nineteen Fort Ord, California November 1960 I lost the Indian shortly after that. I awoke in the cold and silence just beyond midnight and rolled over, facing in the Indian’s direction. A single, bare bulb burned all night in the latrine down the hall and reflected its dull, yellow light through the tiny glass panels of the swinging doors and into our platoon bay. I could see the silhouette of the Indian, sitting in the center of his bunk, arms and legs folded. Doing his Indian thing again, I thought. It had been a hard day in the army and the exhausted, sleeping bodies on the other bunks did not move. I eased out from beneath my blanket and padded my way silently around the end of Starker’s bunk to Wendell’s bed. As I passed Starker, I noticed he was still sleeping flat on his back, his arms straight down along his sides, as though laid out for burial. Stands to reason, I thought. I could not tell if he were actually asleep. The Indian sat motionless. His eyes were open, staring straight ahead, but they weren’t really seeing anything, I thought, not vitally seeing, not anything. The lids drooped slightly, and the Indian’s breathing was slow and shallow. “Wendell,” I whispered, lightly touching the Indian’s arm. “Wendell , what’s the matter? You okay?” The Indian did not move and made no sign that he knew I was there. I stayed where I was, not knowing what to do. Once, I gripped the Indian’s arm, hard, but it brought no reaction that I could see in 102 the dim light. Finally, I sat on the floor, leaned back against Wendell ’s bunk, and waited. I dozed, and each time I awoke I checked on the Indian. An hour later the Indian moved his arm. I saw the slight motion and got off the floor, swung my leg across Wendell’s bunk and sat down facing him. “Wendell, can you hear me? Wendell, what the hell are you doing ?” “I’ve been away, Jesse,” the Indian answered softly, in his rich, smooth, almost-gone voice. “It is the best place to be—away. You must learn how to go away, Jesse, or you will never survive in this army. Going away is the one thing they can not control, not ever control. You must learn how to go away.” “What the hell are you talking about, Wendell? Look, I know you’ve been . . . away . . . been somewhere, but how did you do it by yourself. Did you use anything? I mean, man, if they catch you with that stuff there’s no telling what—” “No, Jesse, that’s part of the greatness of being able to escape, to go away. You don’t need anything to help you. It helps to be an Indian —we’re very strange, you know—but even some white boys can learn to do it. You can learn to do it, Jesse. Your skin is white, but, I think, in your heart, you are really an Indian. “And Jesse, you must understand. I want to kill him. Starker. I have never really wanted to kill another human. But I want to kill him. See, Jesse, he’s like that bad dog back on the rez. Leavin’ him alone ain’t enough for him. He really don’t want to be left alone. He’ll keep after the chickens, sneakin’ up, killing your sheep. And that still ain’t enough. Sooner or later he will come after you. And that’s when you know you have to kill him. “So I have to go before I do that. Kill him. See, Jesse, if I kill him 103 and then run away, the army will look hard for me, and for a very long time. They will never give up. But if I don’t kill him, and I just go away, the army will look for me, but not very hard. I’ll just be another AWOL Indian.” Somewhere in the huge barracks room a body twisted in its bunk and coughed, accentuating the stillness. Starker. Wendell had thought about killing Starker. And so had I. But with me, it was a fantasy, something to hang onto that focused my anger at the army. But it was not a fantasy with Wendell. I put my head in my...