by Chris Glatte
He read the letters over and over until he thought he could recite them from memory. It wasn’t the content, but the fact that she’d touched the paper he held. He could smell her. He could imagine her wry smile as she wrote about the doctor and his imagined inadequacies. It was like she was sitting right beside him, and it was intoxicating.
Sergeant Levy came into the house and saw him sitting there. Carver put his finger to his mouth and gestured to the shut curtain leading to the bedroom. He whispered, “I moved our stuff to the other room. Sergeant O’Connor’s sick, been puking all day. We don’t wanna sleep near him tonight. He’s asleep. Expect he’ll be better in the morning.”
Sergeant Levy shook his head. “That’s a damned shame to be sick on your day off.” He pointed at the well-worn letters. “Looks like you found your letters. They came this morning.”
Carver smiled and nodded. “Like a little piece of heaven.”
Carver didn’t see O’Connor until the next morning. He hadn’t been out of the room once, not even to pee or shit. He’d reported him sick and made sure he wasn’t slated for any duty. He’d had nearly twenty hours to grieve, but now it was time to get up and get ready for the next shitty battle. Carver had no idea what he’d find inside the room. He was sure it wouldn’t be pretty, but he had to get him moving, or he really would get sick.
Sergeant Levy was sitting on a chair cleaning his rifle, with parts spread out on the table. Carver knocked on the wall and pulled the curtain. He pushed past it quickly and entered the darkened room. The smell of sweat, stale breath and musty clothes hit him and he crinkled his nose.
O’Connor was sprawled on the bed, his long body filling the space entirely. Carver didn’t think he’d moved from the day before. Is he in a coma? He took a few steps and stood on the side of the bed. O’Connor’s eyes were shut, but he could tell he wasn’t sleeping. “Time to get up and get some food, soldier.”
O’Connor opened his eyes. They were red rimmed and bloodshot. He looked at Carver and shook his head. “Not hungry.”
Carver grit his teeth. He’d never seen O’Connor so out of it. It made him uncomfortable. He decided the only way to get O’Connor out of his slump was a swift kick in the pants. His voice was gravelly, as he barked. “Out of the rack, Sergeant. There’s a war on.”
The tone and direction acted like a starter button. The long hours being yelled at during basic were instilled deeply in all soldiers’ psyches. O’Connor sat up without realizing it and swung his feet onto the floor. The moment passed, though and he slumped his shoulders and glared at Carver. “Fuck you, Carver. I ain’t going nowhere till I’m good and ready.”
It was too late for Carver to retreat now. “Get off your ass, or I’ll kick it for you. Men are depending on you for their very survival and I’m not gonna let you let ’em down. Now get on your feet!”
he yelled the final sentence and Sergeant Levy stuck his head in the room. “You still sick, O’Connor?”
O’Connor looked confused, but before he could react Carver barked. “He’s not sick. Sickness has passed. It’s traveled its course and now it’s time to get up.”
O’Connor glared, and Carver could see raw hatred seething from his eyes. It startled him momentarily, but he ignored it and continued barking. “Get your shit together, and be in the dock area at … “ he looked at his watch, “1300 hours. That’s an hour from now. Plenty of time to pull that tampon out from between your thighs.” He turned and strode out of the room without looking back. He pushed past the stunned Sergeant Levy.
An hour later Platoon Sergeant Carver was standing at the docks discussing the upcoming debarkation from the docks. They’d be leaving in the morning, rejoining the rest of the 164th Regiment as they assaulted the beaches on Negros Island. Negros was a much bigger island than Bohol and had many more Japanese. By all accounts it looked like it would be a bloody battle. Nothing like the Bohol operation. The brass expected casualties, but the island had to be liberated. It was the final major island in the Talisay region.
Men and machines hustled around the docks loading crates that had been offloaded only days before. Howitzers that hadn’t fired a shot on Bohol were being hoisted and secured in the holds of rusty ships. The ship they’d offloaded from was anchored off the docks ready to sweep in and take the GIs to the next shit-hole island.
Carver was watching the hive of activity. Nearby, Lt. Swan talked with Captain Flannigan about who knows what. Flannigan’s probably trying to figure out how to take credit for Bohol. He caught a fast movement out of the corner of his eye. He instinctively crouched and felt someone bowl into him. He sprang up and launched the body backward with his shoulder. He turned with balled fists and saw O’Connor’s seething red face. O’Connor spewed hatred “You no good piece of shit.”
Carver stepped back and held up his hands. He nervously looked toward the officers but they hadn’t seen the attack. “Calm down O’Connor. I had to say those things to light a spark under your ass. You have to pull yourself together, there’s no time to mourn. We sail in the morning.”
O’Connor was breathing hard. “Easy for you to say. Your woman’s alive and well. Sending you scented letters from somewhere nice and safe, while mine’s rotting in some jungle grave.” Before Carver could do speak, O’Connor lunged again, but this time he faked going right and Carver crouched to tackle him, but O’Connor sprang left and hit Carver with a left cross that left him seeing stars. O’Connor didn’t hesitate, he reared back again and repeated the left cross, connecting again.
Carver shook off the second bell ringer and stepped away as O’Connor swung with his right and narrowly missed. He saw O’Connor over-extend, and took the opportunity for a right jab that slammed into the side of O’Connor’s chin. O’Connor shook his head and faced Carver who had both hands up like a boxer.
A crowd of soldiers saw the action and quickly surrounded the pair. It didn’t take long until money was out and betting started. Carver was a heavy favorite, but the quicker O’Connor was known as a scrapper and tightened the odds a bit.
Both men were bleeding from their lips. O’Connor kept his fists low and danced around the ring. “I’m gonna kill you, Carver.”
“Give it your best shot, son.” O’Connor feinted left and when Carver went to defend, shot in low to the right. He got under Carver’s right hook and put two upper cuts into Carver’s hard belly. O’Connor sprang out of the way and jabbed a quick left that landed on Carver’s nose, sending a spray of blood.
It wasn’t the first time Carver had his nose broken, but the pain searing through his head crazed him. Keeping low and well covered, he moved in like an unstoppable tank. O’Connor darted around left and right landing punches that lost their power against Carver’s arms. Carver kept moving forward waiting for his chance, absorbing blows. O’Connor feinted left again, trying to get beneath and into Carver’s belly again, but Carver was ready and didn’t bite. O’Connor committed to the move and came in low. He was met with Carver’s hard left hook. The blow snapped his head back and he stumbled away. He didn’t have time to block the right cross that slammed into his jaw and sent him to the ground.
He was on his knees, his breath blowing in gasps, blood bubbles popping like thin bubble gum. The tank that was Carver moved forward for the coup de grace. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like a crazed demon from hell.
He stepped over O’Connor and bared his bloody teeth. He had his fist cocked and ready to deliver oblivion, but he staid his hand when he saw the pain in O’Connor’s eyes. It wasn’t the physical pain of being beaten but the pain of loss. It was like a switch had been thrown. The rage melted, and he only saw his friend in agony before him. He kneeled and put his arm around O’Connor like a father giving his son condolences after a heartbreaking football game loss.
O’Connor spit blood and shook off Carver. “Get off me,” He sputtered. He stood and swayed, scowling at Carver. “She’s gone. She’s fucking gone. I might’ve saved her if you’d let me g
o with her. You fucking killed her.”
The crowd went silent, not having a clue what he was talking about. Money stopped exchanging hands. Carver was about to speak when the crowd split and Captain flannigan and Lieutenant Swan burst into the center. Flannigan looked at both bleeding men. “What in the Sam hell is going on here?” No one spoke. Flannigan pointed at O’Connor. “You some kind of crazy man? You attacked the Platoon Sergeant. I’m gonna court-martial your ass. You hear me Sergeant?”
Lieutenant Swan touched Flannigan’s arm and whispered in his ear. “We need every veteran NCO we can get our hands on. Taking O’Connor out of the line won’t do us any good sir. We’re already pretty thin.”
Flannigan put his fists on his hips and considered. He nodded. “You’re out of Able Company, soldier.” He let that sink in. He stepped in front of O’Connor and poked his chest with his finger. It took all of O’Connor’s thin self-restraint not to remove the finger from his hand. “You’re no longer a sergeant … corporal.” He turned to Swan. “See he’s demoted. You fill it out and I’ll sign the paperwork.”
Swan nodded. It wasn’t what he wanted to happen, but at least O’Connor wasn’t headed to Leavenworth.
90
Sam Santos wanted to return to the fighting in the jungle. He’d helped bring the critically wounded Major Cruz out and delivered her to the hospital. She’d lost consciousness halfway back. When they rushed her into the hospital, she still wasn’t awake. The last Sam saw, the Army doctor was ordering her onto the operating table. As a Filipino nurse pulled the curtain, he heard the doctor say, “There’s no pulse and she’s not breathing. We need to operate.”
The curtain was pulled and the door shut. Sam knew he’d never see his school teacher turned guerrilla, again. He felt an ache grow in his heart. He made up his mind. He needed to return to the jungle and kill his brother, Berto. He was responsible for so much pain and suffering. He had to pay.
Despite his despair he felt his belly twisting in hunger. He veered toward the chow hall. As he was passing a tent, he saw a GI running from soldier to soldier asking them something then running to the next man. He recognized the soldier, it was Charlie from the radio room. He’d met him before he led the GIs into the Japanese rear. Charlie’s eyes lit up when he saw Sam.
“Sam! There you are. You’re just the guy I was looking for.” He trotted over to him and placed his big hand on Sam’s small shoulder. He could feel the strength of his grip. “I’ve got someone on the radio, asking about a guer - I mean a Filipino officer. A major. A woman, I think. Major Cruz?”
Sam dropped his head and felt a tear forming in the corner of his eye. He looked up at Charlie and shook his head. “I think she’s dead. The doctor said she doesn’t have a pulse and wasn’t breathing.”
Charlie stepped back, surprised by the boy’s sudden grief. “Sorry kid. This war stinks.”
Charlie trotted off to the communications tent and Sam dragged himself to the chow hall, looking for a free meal before he retraced his steps into the jungle. The Americans were always willing to feed him with their great tasting food that never seemed to run out. He hoped there’d be mashed potatoes and butter again. He’d had a large helping last time and he still remembered it as one of the greatest experiences of his young life.
The chow hall was nearly empty. It was between lunch and dinner it seemed, but an American saw him peeking into the kitchen and recognized him. “Hey, how you doing?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You want something to eat?” Sam nodded. “Sure, sit down. There’s leftovers from lunch.”
Sam marveled at the American’s generosity. He thought their country must be very rich indeed to have so much food all the time. The cook brought a heaping plate and placed it in front of him. He stared at the mass with his mouth open. It was more food than he’d seen on one plate in his whole life. “Thank - Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.” He gestured to another GI coming through the door. “Looks like you’ve got company.”
Sam looked up and saw an officer taking off his hat. He hailed the cook. “You got anything leftover, Corporal? I missed lunch.”
“Of course, sir. No problem.” He pointed at Sam’s diminishing pile. “You want as much as I gave him?”
The officer shook his head and patted his belly. “Nah, I’m not a growing boy anymore. Half that’ll do.”
“Sure thing Major.” The cook spun and reentered the kitchen. Sam could hear dishes clanging.
The major stood beside the table Sam sat at. “Mind if I join you?” Sam sprang to his feet and tried to swallow a mouthful of food. He couldn’t speak but nodded his head and saluted. The major returned the salute with a smile and pulled a chair out and sat. He blew out a sigh and wiped his brow. “Your country’s hot compared to mine. Not used to it.”
Sam finally swallowed what he was chewing. He sat down and asked. “Are you new here, sir?”
He stabbed a piece of meatloaf and brought it to his mouth, inspecting it. “Yeah, kinda. I was here a while ago but got wounded on Guadalcanal.” Sam looked at him, not understanding the word. “It’s an island we took from the Japs.” He decided the meatloaf was edible and shoved it into his mouth. After he swallowed he continued. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen, sir. I fight with the Filipino Army.”
“You’re a soldier?” Sam nodded and picked up his M1 carbine that was leaning on the table.
The major nodded. “You fought the Japs?”
Sam returned the weapon carefully. “Yes, sir. I helped take back Cebu City. I killed many Japs.” To prove it he held up his arm and showed him two wristwatches strapped to his thin upper arms.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Trophy hunter, huh?” Sam nodded proudly. “By the way, you can call me Toby, or Major Toby if you like.” Sam repeated the name, testing how it felt in his mouth. Major Toby pointed at Sam’s pile of food. “You better finish that or the corporal will be angry.”
Sam looked at him like he was crazy. “Of course I’ll finish it - it’s food.” The major laughed and Sam scooped great heaps into his mouth until it was gone.
“Where’s your unit, Sam?”
Sam replied. “I’m under Major Cruz … “ he stopped and shook his head. “I mean I was. Now that she’s dead, I guess I don’t know who I’m under. Maybe just Felipe.”
Major Toby stalled the fork halfway to his mouth. “Major Cruz? I don’t recognize that name.”
“She was my English teacher. She became part of the resistance soon after the Japanese invaded. She was a great fighter.”
Sudden recognition filled the major’s face. “Ah, I think I know who you’re talking about.” He shook his head. “She’s not dead.” He grabbed his collar, fingering a small gold pin. “See this?” Sam leaned forward and studied the small golden pin. It was two snakes wrapping around a center pin and facing themselves at the top. There was a set of large wings coming off the top of the pin. “That means I’m a doctor. I was just in the operating room making sure Major Quinn didn’t need any assistance. They got her breathing again and she’s stabilizing. He dug the bullet out.” He smiled at the wondrous look on Sam’s face. “She’s not out of the woods yet, but her chances are good.”
The news that Major Cruz was still alive filled Sam with joy. He went back to the hospital but she was still in surgery. He wasn’t able to see her. He wondered what he should do. He looked for the men who’d helped him bring her out of the jungle but couldn’t find them. He wondered if they’d already gone back to the fighting. Now that he had a full belly, he decided it was time to get back himself.
He checked his M1 was loaded and ready. It had become like another part of his body the last few days. He found himself talking to it sometimes when he felt scared at night in the jungle. He patted its well-worn stock and slung it over his shoulder. “Time to get back to work, old friend.”
He retraced his steps. The arduous task of hauling the major out on the stretcher had been a long, slow process. T
here were scars on the land where they’d had to slide the stretcher along the ground. It had taken two full days to get her out. He thought she’d surely die before they got her down but couldn’t go any faster for fear of making her injuries worse. She lost a lot of blood and he could see splashes of it along the trail. Without the burden of the stretcher he moved much faster now.
Despite his speed, he didn’t make it back to his comrades before the sun set and the jungle went black. He didn’t relish spending the night alone. He ate a half loaf of bread the cook had given him and drank half his water. He found a soft spot of grass and matted it down. He slept fitfully, waking up every fifteen minutes to unknown jungle sounds. He gripped his carbine tightly and thought about all the night animals that could be stalking him.
When it was light enough to see, he continued his trek. He came across the rest of his comrades at mid-day. They’d moved deeper into the jungle from the spot the major had been shot.
He’d been challenged by the rear guard, who quickly recognized him and called out his name happily, like an old friend. It felt good to be back amongst his comrades.
He found Felipe at the center of the camp. When he saw him, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. Felipe smiled back. “Sam, you’re back. How’s the major?” Deep concern creased his forehead.
“She’s alive. I thought she’d died, but I talked to a doctor who said she’d probably live. I tried to see her before I left but she was still in surgery.” He shook his head and looked at the ground. “I thought she’d die on the trail. It was not easy getting her out of the jungle.”
Felipe put his broad hand on his shoulder. “You did well to get her out, and you saved many others with your quick action at the ambush.”
“Have there been anymore ambushes?”
