Free A Rumor of War by Philip Caputo Page B

you to know how much us civilians appreciate what you boys are doing for us.”
    Down narrow roads the convoy rolled, past cane fields silver-green in the moonlight, past empty beaches stormed long ago by another generation in another war. It was a jolting, rocking ride to the Marine airbase at Futema, our final staging point before going on to Kadena. Bodies and equipment bounced on the steel beds of the trucks or were slammed against the wooden guardrails, but the knocking around did not affect the marines’ high spirits. They whooped and hollered, shattering the early morning stillness of the villages along the way. Lights winked on in some of the squat, cement-block huts. Once, an angry woman appeared in a doorway and yelled something. We did not understand the words, but her meaning was clear. A rifleman responded in pidgin Japanese, “Hey, mamasan, GI okay, joto okay. Number-one skivvy honcho, tachsameo.”
    The happy warriors. They all sounded as if they were a little drunk. And they were, though it was on the excitement of the event rather than on alcohol. Their battalion had accomplished no mean feat. Without warning or preparation, it had made itself ready for a major combat operation in less than eight hours. Now that that was done, they were free to enjoy the adventure, the sense of release from the petty rules and routines that had governed their lives until now. It was intoxicating to be racing through the darkness toward the unknown, toward a war in a far-off, exotic country. They were done with drills, inspections, and training exercises. Something important and dramatic was about to happen to them.
    We had another long delay at Futema. The troops dismounted and stacked arms on a field next to the runway. Sitting back to back or lying with their heads on their packs, they rested on the grass. Cigarettes glowed in the predawn darkness. Battalion HQ had temporarily set up shop in the base operations room. Having nothing else to do, I went in for a Coke. Bedlam reigned. Phones rang, staff officers and clerks bustled around with messages in their hands. Colonel Bain, a big man whose flak jacket made him look as bulky as an NFL tackle, said to someone on the telephone, “Well, they’d better let us know if we’re going or not.” Christ, I thought, don’t tell me it’s just another flap. A captain whom I had not seen before came up to me and asked if I was doing anything. I made the mistake of telling him I wasn’t.
    “Good. This is a vehicle manifest, and this,” he said— unnecessarily, I thought—“is a piece of chalk. I want you to find these vehicles and mark their centers of gravity with the chalk. Make a cross and put a
CG
under it.”
    “Yes, sir. But how’m I supposed to know where the center of gravity is?”
    “It’s marked
CG
in yellow paint. You’ll find it.”
    I considered asking the next logical question: why did I have to mark the centers of gravity when they were already marked? But I had been in long enough to know a peremptory order when I heard one.
    I had just started this weighty assignment when the by now familiar command to mount up echoed across the field. The centers of gravity would have to remain unmarked. I ran back to my jeep, only to find it occupied by a staff major. The exalted one handed me my pack, with an expression that seemed to say, “Rank hath its privileges, brown-bar.” I found room on a six-by with Gonzalez’s squad, who responded cheerfully to the democratic leveling of their platoon commander. “Hey, the lieutenant’s comin‘ along with us enlisted scum,” one said. “Make a hole for the lieutenant.” They cleared a path through the maze of gear. I moved to the front and flopped down against the rear of the cab. There was the smell of rifle oil, sweat, boot leather, and canvas. The truck engines started again. “Hot damn, movin’ out,” said Gonzalez, whose left foot would soon be mangled by a land mine.
    A big buck sergeant strode past our