A medic. All right. Maybe he'd heard that last time they met; it sounds more familiar than the name, anyway. He doesn't really know what to say to it. Willard hadn't spent much time with medics; there'd been a few encounters, sure, and a visit to a hospital, but doctors and medics were two different breeds. He can't figure that the medics had it easier than anyone else, or that fixing guys up made up for the shitstorm going on around them. Shoot one guy, stitch up another; it makes as much sense as anything about the war.
He could ask questions about it, ask the guy how he'd found being a medic, but that might open up more questions about his own work. So Willard only nods. All right.
Ginsberg's question catches him, too. There should be an easy answer - somewhere, there must be an easy answer - but the idea has him flummoxed.
Time.
Time like the first tour, the real tour over there. Time when time had meant something and he'd counted just as close as any other man. How many days left. How many mornings of praying to God or command or chance that he'd see the sun set again. How many times opening his eyes to darkness and wondering whether it was night or death.
Time like after, time like the days back in the U.S. with his wife (when she was still his wife; he saw her a week ago and it should have impacted more than it had, though he does remember the scent of her hair), when he shivered just as much as he'd ever done over there and counted days until who knew what. He'd counted them obsessively, days back in the country, days until... days until... What? Until something happened. Until he could really wake up or feel safe again. Until he was home.
It hadn't happened. Time had kept passing and he'd come no nearer to that endpoint. Lost faith in the prospect of an endpoint and so signed up again. He'd counted down the days before departure and then the days spent in Saigon, and then the numbers had finally begun to unravel. On the river, time had become unsteady, a swell that defied the usual tick of hours. One day had turned into two had turned into half a week and at the same time seemed to fill only the space of an hour. If time was loose on the river, it vanished completely in the compound. There he'd known the forward creep of life only through the rise and fall of his own breathing and the occasional intrusion of another voice, the Colonel's most of all.
Where there was no time. Where time stood confounded by existence itself. '...between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act...'
Willard still isn't certain how long he had been in the compound or on the river. He'd been told, of course, but the number hadn't seemed right and had quickly slipped away. And when he tries to calculate for himself, no matter how hard he tries to pin down dates and numbers, he can't seem to make sense of it. Everything just stretches and runs together.
He's tired of trying to count it out or pin it in time. Let command keep their knowledge and their records. For Willard, piecing that borderless eternity into units of time won't solve or silence anything.
He looks away, catching up with himself again. "Shit, it doesn't matter."
"Who knows what time means over there." Or over here, though maybe that isn't the case for Ginsberg. Time should mean something. Help make all of this shit into something like sense.
Forget about that.
Willard nods toward Ginsberg's drink, trying to shift the conversation just for a moment. It isn't a total redirection, and he's not exactly trying to avoid anything; he just needed a change of pace. Or thought it might be not be a bad idea.
"What the hell're you drinking, anyway?" His voice suggests a hint of jest, though Willard isn't very good with jokes. He doesn't know the words for them and can't seem to shape his speech to fit the right patterns. He tried, anyway.
no subject
He could ask questions about it, ask the guy how he'd found being a medic, but that might open up more questions about his own work. So Willard only nods. All right.
Ginsberg's question catches him, too. There should be an easy answer - somewhere, there must be an easy answer - but the idea has him flummoxed.
Time.
Time like the first tour, the real tour over there. Time when time had meant something and he'd counted just as close as any other man. How many days left. How many mornings of praying to God or command or chance that he'd see the sun set again. How many times opening his eyes to darkness and wondering whether it was night or death.
Time like after, time like the days back in the U.S. with his wife (when she was still his wife; he saw her a week ago and it should have impacted more than it had, though he does remember the scent of her hair), when he shivered just as much as he'd ever done over there and counted days until who knew what. He'd counted them obsessively, days back in the country, days until... days until... What? Until something happened. Until he could really wake up or feel safe again. Until he was home.
It hadn't happened. Time had kept passing and he'd come no nearer to that endpoint. Lost faith in the prospect of an endpoint and so signed up again. He'd counted down the days before departure and then the days spent in Saigon, and then the numbers had finally begun to unravel. On the river, time had become unsteady, a swell that defied the usual tick of hours. One day had turned into two had turned into half a week and at the same time seemed to fill only the space of an hour. If time was loose on the river, it vanished completely in the compound. There he'd known the forward creep of life only through the rise and fall of his own breathing and the occasional intrusion of another voice, the Colonel's most of all.
Where there was no time. Where time stood confounded by existence itself. '...between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act...'
Willard still isn't certain how long he had been in the compound or on the river. He'd been told, of course, but the number hadn't seemed right and had quickly slipped away. And when he tries to calculate for himself, no matter how hard he tries to pin down dates and numbers, he can't seem to make sense of it. Everything just stretches and runs together.
He's tired of trying to count it out or pin it in time. Let command keep their knowledge and their records. For Willard, piecing that borderless eternity into units of time won't solve or silence anything.
He looks away, catching up with himself again. "Shit, it doesn't matter."
"Who knows what time means over there." Or over here, though maybe that isn't the case for Ginsberg. Time should mean something. Help make all of this shit into something like sense.
Forget about that.
Willard nods toward Ginsberg's drink, trying to shift the conversation just for a moment. It isn't a total redirection, and he's not exactly trying to avoid anything; he just needed a change of pace. Or thought it might be not be a bad idea.
"What the hell're you drinking, anyway?" His voice suggests a hint of jest, though Willard isn't very good with jokes. He doesn't know the words for them and can't seem to shape his speech to fit the right patterns. He tried, anyway.