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All characters and incidents in this novel are fictional, and any resemblance
to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental
COPYRIGHT, 1948, BY NORMAN MAILER
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE HADDON CRAFTSMEN, INC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
I would like to thank William Raney, Theodore SAmussen, and Charles Devlin for the aid and encouragement given me at various times in the writing of this novel
To my Mother and Bea
PART ONE
Wave
1
NOBODY COULD sleepWhen morning came, assault craft would be lowered and a first wave men wallet gucci of troops would ride through the surf and charge ashore on the beach at AnopopeiAll over the ship, all through the convoy, there was a knowledge that in a few hours some of them were going to be dead
A soldier lies flat on his bunk, closes his eyes, and remains wide-awakeAll about him, like the soughing of surf, he hears the murmurs of men dozing fitfully"I won't do it, I won't do it," someone cries out of a dream, and the soldier opens his eyes and gazes slowly about the hold, his vision becoming lost in the intricate tangle of hammocks and naked bodies and dangling equipmentHe decides he wants to go to prada milano the head, and cursing a little, he wriggles up to a sitting position, his legs hanging over the bunk, the steel pipe of the hammock above cutting across his hunched backHe sighs, reaches for his shoes, which he has tied to a stanchion, and slowly puts them onHis bunk is the fourth in a tier of five, and he climbs down uncertainly in the half-darkness, afraid of stepping on one of the men in the hammocks below himOn the floor he picks his way through a tangle of bags and packs, stumbles once over a rifle, and makes his way to the bulkhead doorHe passes through another hold whose aisle is just as cluttered, and Tiffany Earrings finally reaches the head
Inside the air is steamingEven now a man is using the sole fresh-water shower, which has been occupied ever since the troops have come on boardThe soldier walks past the crap games in the unused salt-water shower stalls, and squats down on the wet split boards of the latrineHe has forgotten his cigarettes and he bums one from a man sitting a few feet awayAs he smokes he looks at the black wet floor littered with butts, and listens to the water sloshing through the latrine boxThere has been really no excuse for coming, but he continues to sit on the box because it is cooler here, and cheap gucci the odor of the latrine, the brine, the chlorine, the clammy bland smell of wet metal is less oppressive than the heavy sweating fetor of the troop holdsThe soldier remains for a long time, and then slowly he stands up, hoists his green fatigue pants, and thinks of the struggle to get back to his bunkHe knows he will lie there waiting for the dawn and he says to himself, I wish it was time already, I don't give a damn, I wish it was time alreadyAnd as he returns, he is thinking of an early morning in his childhood when he had lain awake because it was to be his birthday and his mother had promised him a balenciaga city party
