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Show Flying - 139 CHAPTER XI Forever banished from the Systems Control Van, John Henry walks in the night along the east end of the Fifty-third's perimeter, in the coastal hills near San Luis Obispo. M-l carbine slung on his right shoulder he patrols his assigned hundred yards of hillside, from the latrine down by the dirt road where post 11 ends to the patch of brush halfway up the hill where post 13 begins. Back and forth and back and forth, unloaded carbine on his shoulder and empty ammo clip tucked in his cartridge belt. All for practice, since the maneuver doesn't start until morning. At dawn the Marines land. Until then all is quiet. Up and down his bit of hillside walks John Henry, picking his way with care for it is a moonless night and there are chuckholes and clumps of grass to trip the unwary. Up and down the hill for two hours, then four hours of sleep in the guardhouse tent, then up and down the hill for two hours more. A twelve-hour tour altogether, then twelve hours off, then it starts all over again. For the duration of the exercise. That's what we do with fuck-offs like you, said the First Sergeant when John Henry left the Company Commander's office. Permanent guard. Not so bad, actually. A predictable and settled way of life, and not uncomfortable as long as the nights don't |