A Walk in the Sun Page #4

to get hurt. No need at all.

He got it, anyway.

What are you going to do if

Halverson doesn't come back, Porter?

How do I know?

- They'll be sending the planes over soon.

The planes come over,

we'll take a powder.

Halverson can...

- Take a powder where?

Try and find that farmhouse.

The sun will be up soon.

Even at nine o'clock in the

morning, in the sun, I'd still be.

Why?

- Don't ask me why.

That's the way it is.

- You guys kill me. You kill me.

Sergeant, I want a discharge.

I'm all fought out.

In the last war,

they sent a guy to France.

It's all there was to it. They sent

him to France, then he went home.

Simple. Real simple.

But what do they do this time?

Do they send you to France?

No, they do not send you to France,

they send you to Tunisia,

then Sicily, then Italy.

Who knows where they'll

send you after that.

Maybe we'll be in France next year,

around Christmas time, maybe.

Then we'll work our way east.

Yugoslavia. Greece. Turkey.

No, not Turkey.

All I know is in 1958,

we're gonna fight the Battle

of Tibet. I got the facts.

Kill that!

- So I want a discharge.

A honourable discharge.

I've done my share. The next

guy can pick up where I left off.

You tell 'em, Jack.

- I hear planes.

I guess I was wrong.

I thought I heard them.

They'd probably be ours, anyway.

They'd better be. We've got

enough guys in the air force.

There goes Jerry's gun.

Told you. Eight minutes.

It should have been you, Rivera.

Always, it should have been you.

It always is me.

Archimbeau, go take

a look down there.

Every dirty job in the army

is my personal property.

Nobody's going to shoot you.

Go on your gut.

- Why the gut then?

Because I said the gut.

You kill me.

Butt me.

Last pack.

- Get your filthy hands off it.

Ask and I'll give.

You call that claw clean?

My own dirt I can eat.

Match.

They are kind of dirty.

A man's hands never

seem to get clean, even if

you don't touch nothing.

Just stay dirty.

It's sort of a special kind of dirt.

G.I. dirt.

Bet one of them criminologists

could take a sample out

of a guy's fingernail,

put it under his microscope

and say, "That's G.I. dirt."

The dirt's always the same colour,

no matter what country

you're fighting in.

Funny thing. I wonder why.

Say! Never saw that fella

'till he moved!

Camouflage.

See, I bet that's what G.I. dirt is.

Camouflage.

Think I'll write Frances

a letter about that.

Dear Frances...

- I can't see the beach or the water.

It's all stopped. No shouting,

no firing, no sound of motors.

The war is over.

- Smells like rain.

- See if you can smell me a plane.

A little while ago, the place was

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