“Only if you come back in a bodybag. Besides, you can only die once, so what difference does it make how many copies you sign?”
UDF soldiers on the front line had a tradition. The day before an operation, they’d sneak into the PX and make off with some liquor. Drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. The shot they gave you before battle broke down any acetaldehyde left in the bloodstream. But if you were caught, they’d bring you up before a disciplinary committee-maybe a court martial if you screwed the pooch real bad-after taking stock of inventory once the fighting was over and everyone was back on base. Of course, it was hard to court-martial a corpse. Which is why we’d all leave notes before the battle explaining how the robbery had been our idea. Sure enough, when the investigation started, it was always some poor sap who’d got himself killed who had masterminded the whole thing. It was a good system. The people running the PX were wise to the racket, so they made sure to leave out some bottles that wouldn’t be missed too much. You’d think they’d just go ahead and give everyone a few drinks the night before a battle-for morale’s sake, if nothing else-but no, it was the same old song and dance every time. Good ideas don’t stand a chance against good bureaucracy.
I took the paper from Yonabaru. “Funny, I thought I’d be more nervous.”
“So soon? Save it for the day, man.”
“What do you mean? We suit up this afternoon.”
“You nuts? How long you plan on wearing that thing?”
“If I don’t wear it today, when will I?”
“How about tomorrow, when we roll out?”
I nearly fell out of bed. For an instant, my eyes settled on the soldier lying on the bunk next to mine. He was flipping through a porn magazine. Then I stared up into Yonabaru’s face.
“What do you mean, tomorrow? They postpone the attack?”
“No, man. It’s always been tomorrow. But our secret mission to get hammered starts tonight at nineteen hundred hours. We drink ourselves blind and wake up with a helluva hangover in the morning. A plan not even HQ could fuck up.”