Cryptonomicon

Chapter 9 GUADALCANAL

The marine raiders' bodies are no longer pressurized with blood and breath. The weight of their gear flattens them into the sand. The accelerating surf has already begun to shovel silt over them; comet trails of blood fade back into the ocean, red carpets for any sharks who may be browsing the coastline. Only one of them is a giant lizard, but all have the same general shape: fat in the middle and tailing off at the ends, streamlined by the waves.

A little convoy of Nip boats is moving down the slot, towing barges loaded with supplies packed into steel drums. Shaftoe and his platoon ought to be lobbing mortars at them right now. When the American planes show up and begin to kick the shit out of them, the Nips will throw the drums overboard and run away, and hope that some of them will wash ashore on Guadalcanal.

The war is over for Bobby Shaftoe, and hardly for the first or last time. He trudges among the platoon. Waves hit him in the knees, then spread into magic carpets of foam and vegetable matter that skim along the beach so that his footing appears to glide out from under him. He keeps twisting around for no reason and falling on his ass.

Finally he reaches the corpsman's corpse, and divests it of anything with a red cross on it. He turns his back on the Nip convoy and looks up a long glacis toward the tideline. It might as well be Mt. Everest as seen from a low base camp. Shaftoe decides to tackle the challenge on hands and knees. Every so often, a big wave spanks him on the ass, rushes up between his legs orgasmically and washes his face. It feels good and also keeps him from pitching forward and falling asleep below the high-tide mark.

The next couple of days are a handful of dirty, faded black-and-white snapshots, shuffled and dealt over and over again: the beach under water, positions of corpses marked by standing waves. The beach empty. The beach under water again. The beach strewn with black lumps, like a slice of Grandma Shaftoe's raisin bread. A morphine bottle half-buried in the sand. Small, dark people, mostly naked, moving along the beach at low tide and looting the corpses.

Hey, wait a sec! Shaftoe is on his feet somehow, clutching his Springfield. The jungle doesn't want to let go of him; creepers have actually grown over his limbs in the time he has lain there. As he emerges, dragging foliage behind him like a float in a ticker-tape parade, the sun floods over him like warm syrup of ipecac. He can see the ground headed his way. He spins as he falls—momentarily glimpsing a big man with a rifle—and then his face is pressed into the cool sand. The surf roars in his skull: a nice standing ovation from a studio audience of angels, who having all died themselves, know a good death when they see one.

Little hands roll him over onto his back. One of his eyes is frozen shut by sand. Peering through the other he sees a big fellow with a rifle slung over his shoulder standing over him. The fellow has a red beard, which makes it just a bit less probable that he is a Nipponese soldier. But what is he?

He prods like a doctor and prays like a priest—in Latin, even. Silver hair buzzed close to a tanned skull. Shaftoe scans the fellow's clothing for some kind of insignia. He's hoping to see a Semper Fidelis but instead he reads: Societas Eruditorum and Ignoti et quasi occulti.

“Ignoti et… what the fuck does that mean?” he asks.

“Hidden and unknown—more or less,” says the man. He's got a weird accent, sort of Australian, sort of German. He checks out Shaftoe's insignia in turn. “What's a Marine Raider? Some kind of new outfit?”

“Like a Marine, only more so,” Shaftoe says. Which might sound like bravado. Indeed it partly is. But this comment is as heavy laden with irony as Shaftoe's clothes are with sand, because at this particular moment in history, a Marine isn't just a tough s.o.b. He is a tough S.O.B. stuck out in the middle of nowhere (Guadalcanal) with no food or weapons (owing, as every Marine can tell you, to a sinister conspiracy between General MacArthur and the Nips) totally making everything up as he goes along, improvising weapons from found objects, addled, half the time, by disease and the drugs supplied to keep diseases at bay. And in every one of those senses, a Marine Raider is (as Shaftoe says) like a Marine, only more so.

“Are you some kind of commando or something?” Shaftoe asks, interrupting Red as he is mumbling.

“No. I live on the mountain.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you do up there, Red?”

“I watch. And talk on the radio, in code.” Then he goes back to mumbling.

“Who you talkin' to, Red?”

“Do you mean, just now in Latin, or on the radio in code?”

“Both I reckon.”

“On the radio in code, I talk to the good guys.”

“Who are the good guys?”

“Long story. If you live, maybe I'll introduce you to some of them,” says Red.

“How about just now in Latin?”

“Talking to God,” Red says. “Last rites, in case you don't live.”

This makes him think of the others. He remembers why he made that insane decision to stand up in the first place. “Hey! Hey!” He tries to sit up, and finding that impossible, twists around. “Those bastards are looting the corpses!”

His eyes aren't focusing and he has to rub sand out of the one.

Actually, they are focusing just fine. What looked like steel drums strewn around the beach turn out to be—steel drums strewn around the beach. The natives are pawing them out of the sucking sand, digging with their hands like dogs, rolling them up the beach and into the jungle.

Shaftoe blacks out.

When he wakes up there's a row of crosses on the beach—sticks lashed together with vines, draped with jungle flowers. Red is pounding them in with the butt of his rifle. All the steel drums, and most of the natives, are gone. Shaftoe needs morphine. He says as much to Red.

“If you think you need it now,” Red says, “just wait.” He tosses his rifle to a native, strides up to Shaftoe, and heaves him up over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Shaftoe screams. A couple of Zeroes fly overhead, as they stride into the jungle. “My name is Enoch Root,” says Red, “but you can call me Brother.”