Finn rolled his eyes, but his smile was proud.
“That’s big talk,” Everett said.
“You got a picture?” Murray asked.
He did, in the inside pocket over his heart, right where Will had seen him slip it when they left California. Will watched now as he pulled out the little photo, fingertips careful against the edges. Leena looked stunning, giving the camera a look that walked the line between worldly and sweet, that small secretive smile that said she knew so much more about you than you knew about her. Finn took a moment to return that smile, staring at her, then schooled his features and turned the picture toward the lantern light.
When Murray reached for it, Finn said, “Don’t bend it,” in a way that had Murray retracting his hand.
“She’s real pretty,” Murray offered, smiling.
“How’d an ugly dog like you get a girl like that?” Murkowski asked.
Profile gold in the lamplight, stray lock of dark hair falling onto his forehead, Finn looked escaped from the silver screen. “I dunno,” he said, smile small and pleased. “Just a lucky bastard, I guess.”
///
“Immunization,” Will was told.
He reached into the pocket of his dungarees and pulled out his immunization record. “We got ours at Camp Pendleton before we came over.”
The doctor shook his head. “Son, we don’t carry records out here. It’s safer to just treat everyone.”
Will slid the card back in his pocket and rolled up his sleeve.
May 1951
“Mama’s Easter ham,” Finn said, a look of rapture on his face. “With the brown sugar and honey glaze. And the cloves. And scalloped potatoes on the side.”
“You’re eating ham right now,” Will said, motioning toward the can in Finn’s hands.
Finn glanced down at his ration meal of ham and limas and his nostrils flared. “Will, the next time you compare my mother’s Easter ham to this shit right here, I might have to slap you.”
“Slap me?” Will said with a grin.
“As a gentleman. To signal a duel.”
Will laughed quietly to himself, glad of the sound in his ears, and Finn’s company. They’d marched all day, and they were covered in powdery yellow road dust; Will could feel it in the corners of his eyes every time he blinked. His feet and back ached, but this was nice. Resting, telling stories.
“I miss my ma’s spaghetti,” Murray said with feeling. “Ain’t nothing like it.” He looked at the can of “spaghetti” in his hands like it had offended him.
“What do you miss, Ski?” Finn asked.
Murkowski scowled at his boots. “I don’t like this game; it’s making me hungry.”
They all laughed.
It was as their laughter died down that Will heard it: the rustle of leaves in the underbrush.
He froze, and his squad mates went still in response.
“What?” Finn whispered.
Will set down his meat and beans slowly, carefully, not making a sound. His M1 was propped up against his pack and he leaned sideways to reach for it. The others did the same. The gun was bigger than Murray, but they’d learned his wiry little arms were stronger than they looked.
The rustle sounded again, unmistakable footsteps in the underbrush behind them.
They got to their feet, and it was Finn who tipped his head and led the creeping party toward the thicket. He signaled Murray and Murkowski to stay put – in case they flushed someone out toward the road – and they looked grudging, but nodded.
Will fell into his usual place in his best friend’s shadow and they ducked under a low limb and into a tangle of vegetation. Their boots made noise, there was just no way to prevent that. But louder was the pounding of his heart in his ears, blurry and urgent as fear overtook him. This march was all about ferreting out pockets of North Koreans, and they might be walking right into one. It could be dozens of men. A hundred. It could be–
Finn pulled to an abrupt halt and Will bumped into his back, hooked his chin over his shoulder so he could see what lay ahead.
“Kids,” Finn hissed, and it was.
Two tiny Korean children stood in front of them, black hair falling into their eyes, their clothes in tatters and their arms and legs crusted with dirt. They were young, younger than ten, probably, and Will couldn’t tell their gender.
“Fuck,” Finn whispered. Then he crouched down and said, quietly, “Hi there. You guys lost?”
The children edged back a step, and Will saw that their shoes were coming apart; their toes peeped through the ends.
“They don’t speak English.”
“No shit.” Finn waved them forward. “Come on, y’all, and we’ll get something to eat. You know, food?” He mimed spooning something into his mouth.
The children’s dark eyes flickered across them, then darted to the underbrush around them, white-rimmed and frightened as wild ponies.
“How’d they even get out here?” Finn wondered aloud. He made one more try, reaching toward them. “Hey, it’s alright. We won’t hurt–”
They darted, sliding through the foliage quick and graceful as the rabbits back home.
Wait, Will thought, but Finn leapt after them and it was too late to do anything but follow him.
Will tried to mark their path visually, searching for landmarks. A bent branch here, an inexplicable red leaf there. They hopped over a fallen log and he tried to catalogue its exact dimensions; it had a distinct knot at the end. But he knew it was futile. By the end of this headlong rush, even if they caught up to the kids, there was a good chance they’d be hopelessly lost. And they didn’t even have their packs! Disaster loomed.
And then hazy daylight flashed through the branches and they stumbled the last few paces into a clearing, momentarily blinded by the sun.
The children had stopped just in front of them, frozen. Will could hear them breathing, tiny fast sounds of panic. And then he saw why.
Five North Koreans sat around the charcoal dregs of a doused campfire.
Only one of them was armed, a Russian carbine laid across his lap. The others surely had knives, but were empty-handed, fingers clutching at air as they stared at the newcomers with total blank surprise. A small pile of packs and supplies sat beyond their circle; the muzzle of another carbine jutted from the shapeless mass.
“Holy fuck,” Finn said in a calm, level voice, and then he leapt into action.
The man with the carbine went down with two quick shots from Finn’s M1. Another headed straight for their gear, and Will picked him off, a shot to the back of the head that sent up a shower of blood, and bone, and brain matter.
“Get down!” Finn told the children, and shoved them into the dirt, just as the other three North Koreans converged on them with knives.
They didn’t want to do it. They were afraid – Will could see it in the vast fields of white in their eyes, the color of underbellies and surrender. This wasn’t their fight, but that of someone meaner and stronger that held their leashes. And so they attacked, and their war cries were screams of terror. They carried knives against M1 rifles, and it was over quickly, the staccato cracks of gunshots and wet thumps of bodies opening in dangerous places.
The bodies fell, and two best friends from a little town in Virginia stood over them. They were sad things, those corpses, malnourished and shod in sandals.
The children cowered in the dirt at Finn’s feet, clinging tight to each other and whimpering.
Will searched his friend’s face for shock, or trauma, and found a grim resoluteness instead.
“Why do people always gotta take shit from other people?” Finn said under his breath. “Why can’t they just leave people alone?” He reached down and tugged at one of the kid’s arms. “C’mon, let’s go get some grub.” His voice sounded very tired.
“Maddox! Murdoch!” Murkowski’s voice reached them. And then their names again, from Corporal Caldwell.
“Found another pocket!” Finn called back.
&n
bsp; Will spared one last look for the bodies, and then looked at his rifle, still warm in his hands. And his hands…were steady.
///
Corporal Caldwell and then Sergeant Bradshaw congratulated them on their initiative, and the elimination of North Koreans who could have snuck up on their rear flank during the march.
South Korean police were embedded with the platoons, a means to teach them combat skills and English, and the children were sent to them for translation. They were both little girls, sisters, and said their family was dead. They’d seen men who looked like them – not white men – cut their father’s throat and beat their mother over the head with the butt of a gun. They’d fled.
Sergeant Bradshaw gave them a can of C-ration spaghetti to share and had them escorted to camp.
June 1951
Will turned twenty-one in South Korea. His division was in reserve, so his squad celebrated the occasion with warm beer. When dark fell, and their heads were pleasantly fuzzy from alcohol, the tent full of warm lamplight, it didn’t feel quite so far from home.
“No!” Hertz shouted, laughing until he was red in the face. “I don’t believe that! Ha! Maddox, you asshole!”
Will felt his own face warming and ducked his head. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Did you or did you not hurl all over the poor girl’s shoes?” Murkowski asked through his chuckles.
“I had the flu!”
“Then cancel the damn date!” Hertz and Ski shouted in unison, roaring with laughter.
Will sighed. “That would have been rude,” he mumbled into his beer.
Finn elbowed him. “Will’s too much of a gentleman to cancel on a lady, isn’t that right, pal?”
“Ugh,” he said, and drained the last of his beer.
Harcourt got up to go fetch everyone a refill, Ski and Hertz pelting his backside with empty cans.
As the conversation broke up, Finn leaned in closer, shoulder pressed tight to Will’s, their knees bumping. His breath smelled like beer, and the play of light and shadow from the lantern carved his face in strange relief. He looked older, suddenly, years older, his smile sharp-edged and feral where before it had been cocksure and relaxed. Will had the sense of looking at a Halloween mask version of his best friend – just for a moment, a flicker of surprise that faded when Finn tucked his face in close beside Will’s ear.
“All kidding aside, though,” he said, voice loose and rough from drinking in a way that raised gooseflesh down the back of Will’s neck. “Happy birthday, brother.” He clapped Will on the back and his hand lingered. Just a second. When he pulled back, Will saw the glaze of lantern light across his dark eyes, and couldn’t read what was in them. It troubled him.
“Thanks,” he said, giving Finn’s shoulder a little knock with his own. “Going on an adventure halfway around the world – what more could a guy ask for on his birthday?” he tried to joke, voice falling flat.
A frown plucked at Finn’s mouth, troubled and sad. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly, just for the two of them. “I never shoulda dragged you over here.” His hand landed on Will’s knee and squeezed hard.
Will covered it with his own hand, felt the chapped skin at Finn’s knuckles. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I came all on my own.”
“I’m still sorry.”
“You don’t have to be.”
Raucous cheers greeted Harcourt’s return, and Finn pulled back. As he slid out of the light, Will caught a glimpse of the emotion he hadn’t been able to see up close: Finn’s face looked like it had the day of James’s funeral.
///
Will came to this conclusion about the Chinese troops: they weren’t as big as the Americans, weren’t as well fed, weren’t as well outfitted, weren’t as ready for battle…but they were scared shitless of their commanders. They’d rather throw themselves at Americans than risk offending their communist leaders, so that’s just what they did.
“Get down!” Bradshaw hissed, and the second their heads were below the fallen log, the air exploded with the rattle of machine gun fire.
It was a nice thick log, old hard wood, but Will could feel the rounds hitting the other side of it, stripping away bark, snapping off limbs and leaves. Wood debris flew around them like shrapnel. A ceaseless thunkthunkthunkthunk of bullets, chewing the log to pulp.
Sergeant Delmore Bradshaw, who they all called “Del” in non-combat situations, was a composed, thoughtful man. Quiet, he preferred reading the books his wife sent from home to conversing with the rest of the boys, but it never came across as antisocial or unfriendly. He had a peaceful face, one that made you feel instantly reassured, and Will was glad to have him as a section sergeant.
But let the enemy fire on them, and the man turned into a lion.
“Get down,” he repeated, shouting above the noise of gunfire. The top of the log exploded in relentless showers of wood pulp just above his head. Will noticed, the way he always seemed to notice unimportant shit during tense moments, that Bradshaw’s air mattress was sticking up above the log. “Don’t put your heads up or they’ll blow ‘em off!”
Crouched in the dirt beside Will, Finn muttered, “I’m damn sick of getting shot at with Russo guns. How many motherfucking countries does it take to put together one damn army, huh?”
In the crowd of ten men hugging the dirt, Will spotted Murray clutching at the rosary he wore beneath his dungarees, rocking side to side with his eyes shut, praying.
“Murkowski!” Bradshaw shouted. “You ready with your bazooka?”
“Yes, sir!”
“The second they stop, I want you–”
And suddenly it was silent. Either they were out of ammo, or there wasn’t another belt to feed nearby. Or they thought they’d–
A twig snapped, a small muffled sound fifty yards out.
“They’re coming,” Will whispered.
Bradshaw nodded.
In a flurry of movement that defied physics, Ski scuttled up to the log on bent knees, fitted the bazooka over the top, looked once, quickly, and fired.
Boom.
Bradshaw peeked over first, hand held out to hold the rest of them at bay. Then he nodded and stood. “Good job, kid.”
“Yes, sir.”
They walked up the hill and found the gun, which was indeed a Russo as Finn had said. The Chinese had run out of ammo.
“Take it or spike it?” Finn asked, and Will could tell by the gleam in his eyes he’d like to have it, a Russian gun in place of a Russian scalp as a trophy.
Bradshaw shook his head. “It’s too heavy. Spike it.”
Finn did the honors, grim-faced.
That night when they made camp, Bradshaw said, “Well, shit.” Everyone crowded around and saw that his air mattress looked like a very large dog had got hold of it, chewed full of holes. And covered in splinters to boot.
///
Bradshaw had an idea. A good one…but a risky one. Risky, Will had learned, was a Marine specialty.
They were dug in on the side of a hill, holding the Chinese troops on the other side at bay after having surprised them that morning. Bradshaw had been on the radio for an hour, trying to get a mortar section to their location, but the mortars were busy elsewhere.
“Damn it,” he muttered, and spat a dirt-colored glob of saliva into the grass. They’d been kissing soil for hours now, firing off blind rounds with the bazooka to suppress any advance. “We gotta shake it up.” He stared at his boots a moment, head tilting side to side, then nodded, decision made.
Will watched this from the next foxhole over, a flutter of excitement that tasted a little of fear in the back of his throat. Throughout his time in Korea, he’d learned that excitement and fear affected his bloodstream the same way…but that he wasn’t scared to death like he’d always thought he’d be. Something strange had awakened in him, something dormant and previously unknown. As it turned out, the animal that slept beneath his ribs was a predator; it had fangs and small, mean eyes. It kept him quick, and al
ert, and forceful when he needed to be. It protected his brothers in arms.
It was that animal that reacted when Bradshaw looked over at them and said, voice low, “Maddox, Murdoch, I want you two to stay put.” He explained the plan to them, and Will felt Finn vibrate beside him, his own animal quivering in anticipation beneath his skin. Maybe it should have been strange that the corporals and sergeants always allowed them to work together, but their superiors had come to see their bond as an asset. They worked well together, and the NCOs were smart enough to step back and let them continue to do so.
“Yes, sir,” Finn said, corner of his mouth twitching. Not a grin, but almost.
The company packed their gear, climbed out of their foxholes, and began a slow, deliberate march back down the hill, and on down the road. Will twisted to look over his shoulder, remembering that walk when he’d taken it earlier, knowing exactly at which point the Chinese on the other side would be able to see the retreating Marines. The company disappeared from sight, yellowish puffs of dust clouding around their boots and settling slowly back to the road in their absence. Then they were gone, and it was silent.
Will glanced over at Murkowski and Hertz, crowded together in their own foxhole. Glanced back at Finn, who returned his look with a feverish one of his own. Four of them. Just four. They had no idea how many Chinese there might be on the other side of the hill.
Sweat beaded at Will’s temples and in his hair, slid down the sides of his face and trickled down into his collar. He felt it pool at his tailbone and resisted the urge to shimmy away from the sensation. Finn’s breath seemed a physical, humid thing inside their foxhole, swelling and swelling against the dirt until Will felt the pressure of it inside his head. Scraggly trees shaded them, and gave them visual cover. Just ahead of them, the flat plateau of the hill, rock-studded and deeply rutted from rainfall, shimmered with heat mirages. Naked and exposed.
Walking Wounded Page 16
