David scowled, reluctant. “You be careful, Max.”
“You too. Get going.”
David took off, and Max shimmied on his forearms toward the closest body, but he didn’t recognize what was left of the man. When the gunfire paused, he struggled to his feet, breath hissing through his teeth at the pain in his thigh. He checked unsuccessfully for a pulse on another man then moved on again, knowing time was running out. He couldn’t stay out here alone for long; he had to get to the rendezvous. The pain from his leg suddenly knifed through the rest of him, and he stumbled onto one knee. Come on, he told himself. It’s just a cut. You’ll get worse if you stay here.
“Max.”
Richie lay thirty feet away, flat on his back.
Max didn’t hesitate. Steeling himself, he rushed to Richie, flinching and dodging as bullets rained around him. Hang on, Richie. His friend’s face was smeared black and bloody, and his green eyes were dim with pain. Gasping at the burn in his own leg, Max dropped to the ground and took in Richie’s wounds, swallowing back his grief. Richie’s arm was mangled and pulsing blood, he had a long, deep gash under one eye, and his trousers were slick with blood. Max knew immediately that there was little he could do for him. Not here, anyway.
But Richie’s red-rimmed eyes stared up at him, so old and so very young all over again, and so full of trust.
Max lowered his face to his friend’s. “I can’t lie. It’s bad.”
“I know.”
“I’ll do what I can,” he promised.
The arm was Richie’s worst injury by far, and it was really bad. A grenade had done this. Bone, muscle, tissue, all of it mashed together from halfway down his upper arm to what was left of his fingers. Max scrambled to stop the bleeding, furtively watching for enemy soldiers as he worked, rocked by explosions and hunted by random machine-gun fire. He had to get Richie out of here. Normally the army would have set up a field station to take in the wounded, but there had been no chance to do that. That’s when Max remembered the old cement tunnel near the bunker. It wasn’t guaranteed safe, but it could at least provide some kind of shelter.
“Richie,” he said, but Richie’s eyes were closed, his jaw slack.
Max jammed his fingers against his friend’s neck, searching for a pulse, then relaxed slightly. It was there, just weak. He’d lost consciousness, which was a blessing. When there was a lull in the gunfire, Max grabbed Richie’s good arm, hauling his dead weight backward, the way he’d come. The movement jarred Richie awake, and he screamed, reaching for his wounded arm, but Max couldn’t stop.
“Hang on, Richie. Don’t touch your arm. Just gotta get you under cover.” Shooting started up again, and Max dropped onto his stomach beside Richie. “We’re almost there.”
Richie howled, every tendon in his neck strained. “It’s too much!”
Max grabbed for his pack, searched through it, then closed his hand around one of the five tubes of morphine tartrate. Richie never felt the needle go in, but Max saw its effect almost immediately.
When the gunfire moved off, Max resumed his mission, and when he finally reached the tunnel, he discovered he wasn’t the first one there. Someone had thought of its protective walls already, and half a dozen men clustered inside, most of them badly wounded. Others stood guard.
The man who seemed to be in charge directed Max to a spot near the back, eyeing Richie as he went. “We’ll stay here as long as we can, then we’ll take him to St. Stephen’s.”
Max reluctantly lowered Richie to the ground. St. Stephen’s College hospital was in Stanley, at the very south end of the island, and Max had serious doubts that Richie could wait that long before having something done. He was pale as ice, his breathing catching as he laboured through the pain.
Max hesitated, feeling sick. He knew what he had to do to save Richie, or at least to try. He’d done it once before at the hospital in Kingston. But he could never have imagined doing it in this humid, filthy environment with enemy soldiers firing on them. And never, ever to a friend.
“I can’t save your arm,” he told him. “There’s not much left of it. It’s gotta come off.”
Tears squeezed from the corners of Richie’s eyes. “Just don’t leave me, Max. Don’t leave me here to die.”
“I’m right here, Richie. I won’t leave you.”
Max didn’t have a lot of time, and he didn’t have the right instruments. He pulled out what he had, then shoved a folded leather strap into Richie’s mouth.
“Bite down hard,” he said.
Richie passed out almost immediately, and Max was glad of it. As he worked, cutting the remaining tissue, severing the bone, he tried not to remember running the bases with his old friend, chasing each other through the neighbourhood, wrestling just for the fun of it. He needed to focus, to remember his training, not his past. When the worst of the rough surgery was done, he bound the wound as tightly as he could, then tossed the ruined limb deeper into the tunnel before moving on to Richie’s leg. The bleeding there had stopped for now, and Max saw it was a superficial gunshot wound, not too different from his own. He taped it up then moved to the deep shrapnel cut on Richie’s cheek. As he did that, Richie’s eyes opened, tired beyond words.
“Is it done?”
“I did the best I could.”
Richie blinked up at him. “I know, Max. You always have.” His voice was low, slurred by the morphine and the pain. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Max managed, his voice cracking as he pressed his forehead to Richie’s, praying to God they would both survive. “We’re okay now, you and me. And we’ll be home soon. You’ll see Barbara and your girls, and we’ll have lots of stories to tell them.”
Richie hesitated, then he blinked, sending tears down both sides of his face. “Reach into my jacket pocket,” he said hoarsely, tilting his head toward it. “Take out the envelope.”
Max dug inside, trying not to jar Richie too much, then he pulled out an envelope that had obviously been folded and unfolded many times.
“It’s for my family.” Richie swallowed. “I need you to send it for me.”
His heart twisted, and he had to force words through his throat. “You can send it yourself.”
“I know I can count on you, Max. Please.”
Max tucked it into his own pocket, by his heart, praying Richie was right.
A couple of soldiers squatted beside them then carefully lifted Richie onto a stretcher.
Max held his friend’s tortured gaze. “You’ll be okay, Richie. I’ll see you at St. Stephen’s, all right?”
“We got him,” one of the men said. “Get back out there and do what you have to do, soldier. We’ll get him and the others out if we can.”
Max watched them carry Richie away, his chest constricting with loss. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to get moving. He peered through the hanging smoke, listening for threats and searching for an opening. The enemy seemed to have cleared out, in pursuit of Max’s friends, giving him an opportunity. When he was sure it was safe, he darted out then stopped short, disoriented. It all looked the same: the jungle, the darkness, the smoke, and the bodies scattered everywhere, their blood smeared black in the early, dappled sunlight. He didn’t know which way to go. Then he heard a burst of bullets, and he turned toward the sound, running as fast as he could. Along the way, he recognized landmarks and picked up his pace, closing in on the rendezvous location. Finally, he stumbled into the clearing, and Arnie and David rushed to him, their faces smeared with dirt and sweat.
“What took you so long?” Arnie asked.
He told them about Richie, and their faces fell. They might not have been close, but they’d grown up with Richie. He was one of them, and now he was on the way to the hospital in grave condition. He might not survive. Suddenly everything was too real.
“We’re going into the Wong Nai Chung Gap,” David told Max as they prepared to start moving again. “Up in the hills. The plan is to stay as high a
s we can and fire down on the Japs.”
Arnie frowned at his leg. “You okay on that?”
“Just a scratch,” Max replied. “Let’s go.”
* * *
The Japanese offensive was relentless, the shelling worse every hour. For days, they forced the Royal Rifles inexorably south, climbing the tangled, scrub-covered mountains after them, plunging into the rocky ravines, always in pursuit. Laden with weapons, ammunition, and what wounded they could carry, Max and the others fought back. He adjusted to the constant agony ripping through his leg, reminding himself he had no choice; he must run or be killed. And every day, every night, and every mile, he thought of Richie, remembering the trust in his old friend’s eyes. Had he made it to the hospital? Was he still alive?
Max’s confidence fell every time they lost another man. In brief intervals between the noise of battle, he heard the agonized screams of wounded soldiers cut suddenly short.
Bayonets, he thought, horror vibrating through him.
He saw the fear and hopelessness building in his friends every time they were forced to leave their dead and wounded behind, including Gander. Their ferociously loyal dog had rushed in and retrieved a grenade that rolled into a group of injured soldiers. He’d run off, putting as much space between them and him, sacrificing himself to save those seven men. Loyal to the end.
One night, Arnie, David, and he crowded into a shallow trench high on a hill, savouring a few minutes’ rest while Max was the lookout.
“God, I’m hungry,” David said.
They’d run out of food on the second day of their retreat and had to forage. Worse, the Japanese had taken control of the water supply. David reached to the side and yanked a leaf out of a bush, grimacing as he chewed.
While the others rested, Max swept his binoculars slowly across the hill below. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement, but he was so tired he wasn’t sure if his mind was playing tricks. He swung the binoculars back, squinting hard, then spotted men slithering out from the trees, seventy yards below them on the slope.
“We’ve got company,” he whispered.
David and Arnie immediately dropped into position, lying on their fronts, and Max joined them, still scouting between the shrubs.
“I count five. They haven’t seen us.”
Moving slowly to stay invisible, the three friends trained their rifles on their quarry. Max quietly slid a shell into the chamber and took his safety off.
“This has to be quick,” he murmured. “Make sure you have them lined up before you fire. We don’t want to attract attention. Ready?”
On his signal, the three of them fired as one. Max heard Arnie swear as he missed his first shot, but they had the jump on the Japanese; two of them fell right away. The other three had dropped and were firing back. The boys reloaded and fired, and Max brought down his second mark, but this time David missed, and Arnie shouted, “Jammed! I’m jammed!”
Two Japanese soldiers were left, and they were running, closing in on the boys’ position fast. Max’s mind slipped into focus, factoring in the enemy’s direction and speed, and his gun became an extension of himself. Reload, fire! When the first man fell, Max adjusted, zeroing in on the remaining soldier. Reload, fire!
Then there was nothing left but the echo of gunshots and the hanging smoke.
“We got ’em,” David whispered, patting Max on the back.
Max could only nod as adrenaline pounded through him.
David grinned, his teeth white in his filthy face. “You haven’t lost it, Max. You got four out of five. Those boys just experienced the firepower of Harbord Playground’s finest.”
“Ha,” Max said, wishing he could laugh. “Just don’t ask me to run bases. My leg’s killing me.”
David’s smile faded when they saw Arnie crouched in the brush, curled into himself.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he gasped. “We’re going to die in these mountains.”
Max knelt beside him, one arm around Arnie’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. Just breathe. We’re going to make it out. We’ll be back home before you know it.”
Arnie’s panting slowed as his panic began to ease, but a new sense of fear burned in Max’s chest. He knew Arnie’s terror. He’d seen it in David’s eyes as well, and he felt it twisting in his own soul. They were falling apart a little at a time.
What if this was it, he wondered, a shuddering cold jarring through him. What if none of them were getting out of here alive?
* * *
By Christmas morning, the remaining ragtag members of C Force had retreated from the mountains, worn threadbare after two weeks of fighting. Their destination was Stanley Fort, at the south end of the island, where they collapsed with exhaustion, lying flat on their backs on the cement floor of the fort.
“Think we’ll ever get home?” David croaked.
Max rolled his head to look at his brother-in-law’s profile. Like the rest of them, David was streaked with dirt; some was clumped into his beard. No one had shaved in a week. Hell, no one had taken off their boots.
He started to answer, but David was already asleep.
An hour later, Sergeant Cox emerged from a meeting with the other remaining senior officers, and Max noted the tight set of his jaw. He was not happy about what he was about to tell the men of D Company.
“At one p.m., we will retake Stanley Village,” he said, pointing to a building on his map, set behind the village graveyard.
“In broad daylight, sir?” Max asked, his voice hoarse.
Cox reluctantly met their bloodshot eyes. His tongue went to the crack in his lip, which opened up every time he spoke. Max knew that from his own.
“Here’s the choice, fellas. We attack or wait here like lame ducks.” He lifted his chin. “Except it’s no choice at all, is it? We’re Canadians. We don’t give up.”
No one answered, so Cox dropped his shoulders slightly, and Max saw what this was doing to him. Their sergeant looked almost transparent with wear.
“I’ve never lied to any of you, so I’m not gonna start now,” Cox said, his voice more subdued. “The truth is, they don’t expect many of us to survive this day.”
Arnie lay on the floor nearby, listening. At that, he rolled onto one elbow. “Sir, that’s goddamn pleasant news on Christmas morning.”
Max smiled while the entire unit applauded. Leave it to Arnie to hang on to his sense of humour to the last. But inside, dread rolled through Max at the cold, hard facts of Cox’s news.
David wasn’t laughing. “Whoever makes it out of this has to tell the wives,” he said after Cox had moved on. He was blinking hard. “I’m not sure which would be worse.”
I’ll keep him safe, Max had promised Hannah long ago in a letter. He’d never broken a promise to her before. Was there anything he could do to keep this one?
We’ll get out of this, Max tried to say, but the words stuck in his throat, burning there.
The next hour or so was spent in near silence. No one complained, and no one begged to be excused from the battle. They were all in this together, and Max felt their resolve just as he felt his own. He cleaned his weapons, stocked up on grenades, then, resigned to his fate, finally fell asleep.
When the time came, D Company quietly followed Cox, staying low and ducking into a ditch across the road from the village cemetery. But the Japanese spotted them within seconds, and the machine guns started up, drowning out the thundering of Max’s heart.
“We have to go in fast and hard, and making lots of noise. They won’t expect that,” Sergeant Cox yelled from the end of the line.
Max scanned the graveyard, noting the Japanese soldiers positioned all over it, surrounded by superior weapons and what looked like limitless ammunition. Beyond them stood the target, a series of what appeared to be empty houses. Max couldn’t conceive of any scenario in which the Canadians could reach those houses, but Cox was right. What choice did they have? Behind him, David and Arnie were checking and rechecking th
eir clips. They’d have only five shots before they’d have to stop and reload. No one could afford a jam like Arnie had suffered the other day. That done, they looked to him, and a terrible sadness stretched between the three friends. What would be left of them when this was all over?
“Fix bayonets,” Cox called.
Then all at once they were charging, screaming like banshees, firing their precious ammunition. When they got closer, the bayonets came into play, then Max used his fists, roaring with fury with every punch. They heard a shout, then, incredibly, the Japanese started to fall back and flee toward the row of houses.
“Go after them!” Cox shouted.
And then Max was running with the rest of them despite the constant stab of pain in his leg, tossing grenades into the houses, feeling the whoosh of heat burn his skin as they exploded. He reached down to grab a tommy gun someone had dropped, and his whole body shook as he shot the walls of the houses apart.
“We’re doing it!” David yelled as they sprinted toward the next group of houses. “We’ve got them on the run!”
A madness seized Max, and he whooped with laughter, running for all he was worth. If this was it, if this was to be Max’s final battle, then he was taking as many enemy soldiers with him as he could. With David and Arnie at his side, he turned a corner and came upon an unprepared Japanese platoon, and the three of them instinctively mowed the enemy down.
Just ahead, the targeted houses looked wide open, and Max careened through the door of the nearest one, hunting for the Japanese. Through the smoke, he spotted enemy soldiers scrambling out of a back window. He gave chase, lifting his gun once more, then he froze when he spotted movement to his left.
“Grenade!” he screamed, wheeling back toward the entrance, shoving Arnie out ahead of him. The three of them tumbled out the door, deafened by the explosion.
“Grenade!” he heard foggily from nearby.
Still stunned, they watched men pour out of the next house just before it exploded, then fell to the ground with the impact. They staggered back to their feet, but the Japanese were there, shooting every one of them down. The enemy had regrouped, and they were like hornets, furious at the invasion.
Letters Across the Sea Page 17
