Barney volunteered.
“You dumb schmuck,” I whispered to him.
“Fine, Private Heller,” the skipper said. Whether he heard what I really said, or truly misunderstood me, I’ll never know.
Whatever the case, his “fine” meant I was on the fucking patrol, too.
So was D’Angelo, and a big dockworker from Frisco named Heavy Watkins; also a short kid from Denver named Fremont and a Jersey boy we called Whitey, both of ’em right out of high school. There was also a big Indian guy named Monawk. I don’t know where he was from or what he did for a living before the war.
And soon the seven of us were stalking into the daytime darkness of a jungle held by Japs.
We didn’t crawl on our bellies, but we stayed low. Low enough for the bugs and scorpions to crawl on our clothes; low enough for kunai grass to cut us. The liana vines, with their nasty little fishhook barbs, reached down to try to hang us. There was no way to move quietly through underbrush and overgrowth like this and I kept thinking about that 1st Marine’s advice about trip wires, knowing any given step could be the end.
“Hey, Ross,” D’Angelo called out, in a harsh whisper. “Those bastards are real close.”
We all looked over at him; the good-looking Italian kid from the South Side was bending down, holding a turd in the palm of his hand, like his hand was a bun and it was a sausage.
“It’s still warm,” he said, very seriously.
Barney and I exchanged glances, wondering if this kid had been on the Island too long, already.
Then, as we started pressing forward, D’Angelo said, in an effort to build support for his case, “It has to be Japanese. It smells Japanese.”
Now we knew he was going Asiatic on us.
That was when we heard the machine gun.
It was nearby, but not aimed at us.
We settled in behind various fat-trunked trees or logs uprooted from artillery shelling, a man or two behind each; Barney and me together behind a massive tree.
“Who the hell’s he shooting at?” I whispered.
“We’re the only Americans this far forward on this side of the river,” Barney whispered back.
“Well, he doesn’t seem to be shooting at us.”
The sound of it was growing louder, though.
A smile cracked my face. “He’s fishing. He’s sweeping the woods in a three-quarter circle, hoping to hit something.”
“It’s getting louder.”
“I know,” I said, and took a grenade off my belt.
When it seemed to me the machine-gunning had grown loud enough, I pulled the pin and leaned out and pitched.
There was an explosion and a scream, followed by silence.
We pushed on.
For a couple more hours, trudging through the dank jungle, the sun beginning to beat mercilessly down through the trees on us, we patrolled. We saw no more Japs.
Another guy from the platoon, Robbins, found us around four o’clock.
“Take another half hour,” he said, “and then you’re supposed to report back to the skipper.” And he headed on back.
We were just starting back when Monawk nudged my arm.
“Look,” he said.
It was the first thing he’d ever said to me.
But it was a worthwhile comment: he was pointing to the advance patrol of Japs, at least double our number, moving toward us through the jungle.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said to Barney.
He waved back toward Heavy, Fremont, and Whitey, who were over to our right. Just parallel to the Jap patrol.
Who spotted them.
And opened up a machine gun on them.
Bullets danced across Whitey’s chest and as if in response Whitey did a little dance himself and dropped into the brush, blood splurting out of his chest wounds like three or four men spitting tobacco. We ran to him, keeping low; the Japs hadn’t seen us yet, and Whitey had fallen out of their sight.
Heavy, Monawk, and Fremont were right there with Whitey, too. I didn’t know what the hell had become of D’Angelo.
“I’ll be damned,” Whitey breathed. “I’m still alive.”
“You got the million-dollar wound, kid,” I said, smiling at him, reassuring him. “You’ll go home for sure.”
“Looks like…the war’s over for me,” he said, smiling, his eyes cloudy.
“Let’s make a stretcher for him,” Heavy said, “out of our dungaree jackets.”
“Yeah,” Fremont said, “we can try and carry him back.”
We improvised a litter, and Barney and I took all the rifles while Heavy, Monawk, and Fremont, bending low in the brush, carried Whitey. We moved slow, making as little noise as possible. No sign of the Jap patrol. Maybe they figured they got us. Maybe they moved on.
We’d got about fifty yards when machine-gun fire bup-bup-bup-bup-buped across our flank.
Heavy and Monawk screamed, one unified searing scream of pain-they’d taken the slugs across the legs, and the litter bearing Whitey capsized and Whitey spilled out into the spiky brush. Fremont drove for cover as another spray of machine gun chopped up the landscape. He howled sharply, and then was silent.
Barney and I were flat on our bellies, mosquitoes buzzing happily around our faces. Sweat was running in my eyes and my mouth, salty sweat. My mouth tasted as putrid as this goddamn jungle. Life was less than wonderful, but I resented the men with machine guns out there trying to end it for me.
They hadn’t spotted us, I didn’t think, but they were arcing their machine-gun fire around, bullets cracking, snapping all around.