The Nearly Complete Works, Volume 2

by Donald Harington

  We Japs volunteered to patrol inconspicuously that “improved” road to the south, and to notify McPherson the instant we saw or heard any approaching tanks. There was one lofty spot on the Swain road known as Piney Gap where you could not only see the road as it continued a mile farther south but you could hear any engines coming along that road for miles away. This patrol gave me another sense of déjà vu, reminding me of that time we’d staked out the Dinsmore trail to prevent the Allies’ abduction of Gypsy. But like that time, day after day went by without any sign of anybody coming on that road. I took advantage of the lull to consider bringing out an Extra of the Star. Ella Jean, my assistant, urged me to. But I realized that when the actual battle began, we might have to bring out an Extra every day. In an inspired stroke of genius, Ella Jean and I decided that for the duration of the “occupation” of Stay More, our newspaper would become a daily, and we even put that into the title: The Stay Morning Daily Star. I couldn’t have done it without her, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that she was better at lettering the copy onto the master sheets than I was, because her hand was neater. She also lettered for me a card that boldly proclaimed PRESS and I took to wearing it pinned to my shirt everywhere I went, especially when I was interviewing engineers for stories. Just as Ernie Pyle would have done, I made a point of finding out those engineers’ hometowns and even their street addresses, and whenever I wrote a story about one I included such information. At first the soldiers weren’t too cooperative, or they teased me, poking my press card and saying things like, “Well, I pressed but nothing happened.” But once they’d seen an issue of the Daily Star, they changed their tune, and some of them bought extra copies to send to friends and relatives back home. I wasn’t the only one getting rich; the whole economy of Stay More was surging, and even Lola Ingledew’s old store, hardly ever patronized any more, was selling out its dusty remaining merchandise.

  It was during Willard’s shift patrolling the south road at Piney Gap that he detected the first far-distant sound of some big machine one evening after supper. I was on my way to relieve him when he came running hard and didn’t even pause when he panted at me, “They’re coming!” and I tried to keep up with him as he ran all the way to the samurai’s bivouac.

  McPherson and his men were ready to go, as they had been for days. Ever since the arrival of Major Evans and the engineers, who had brought along a good supply of K rations for them, they had abandoned their pleasurable habits of dining with the Stay Morons and had remained in their bivouac, where Sergeant Harris, who had had to tell poor Miss Jerram he couldn’t see her again until the fighting stopped, led them in constant calisthenics, judo practice, alertness drills, whatever. Now they were all dressed in Japanese combat uniforms, complete with those funny Jap caps and amiage kyahan, laced leggings. They didn’t need any commands, spoken or signed, to move out.

  Because they didn’t want to pass through the village, Willard and I led them on a shortcut that crossed Dinsmore Hill east of the hermit Dan’s place and then crossed Banty Creek at a spot where stepping-stones kept your feet dry, and gained the Banty Creek road to move westward to its intersection with the Swain road south. At that intersection, McPherson thanked us but told us we couldn’t go any further with them. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “If I have my way about it, there won’t be any of this that you’ll be able to watch. But you’ll hear it. Go find yourself a good seat. The front porch of the hotel would be the best place.” And then they were gone into the gathering dusk.

  Willard and I moseyed over to the porch of the Ingledew house that had been the hotel and was now headquarters for Major Evans, who was sitting in a rocker after supper smoking his fancy briar pipe with a couple of his staff, a sergeant and a corporal. Our old friend Lieutenant Bosco was also there. “Hey, Japs,” Major Evans said to Willard and me. “What’s up?”

  “Nanimo,” I said: nothing, and Willard also said “Nanimo” although he didn’t quite pronounce it correctly. We sat on the porch too; there were plenty of chairs. We watched the lightning bugs coming out, and I considered telling the major that those were mosquitoes with flashlights, but decided he didn’t have any sense of humor at all. After a while, I said, “We were wondering, could you tell us, since all the ammunition is fake and doesn’t hurt anybody, how does the umpire know when one of the tanks is hit by a shell or something that would have blown it up but didn’t really blow it up. I mean—”

  “A good hit,” said Major Evans with exaggerated patience, “will leave a temporary yellow mark if it’s antipersonnel, and a temporary red mark if it’s antimateriel. Does that make any sense? Instead of real bullets or shells, there’s some soaplike stuff with colored dye in it.”

  “Yellow if it hits people, red if it hits tanks?” Willard said. “Okay, but how does a grenade know whether it’s hitting people or tanks?”

  “Different kinds of training grenades,” the major said. He was slouched in his rocker in a bored attitude. But suddenly he snapped into an upright, alert position. “Speak of the devil! Was that a grenade?” He looked at his men.

  “Sounded like one, sir,” the sergeant said. “Far off.”

  All of us listened, and slowly but increasingly other sounds drifted out of the distance through the gloom. “Browning fire,” the major said. “And another grenade. Rifles. Was that a bazooka? Hey, mortar!”

  We were all looking toward the south, and the sky down that way, or rather the mountainside, was illuminated by the light of a flare. And then another flare. It was spectacular, almost like watching fireworks exploding in the sky. Not that I had ever seen fireworks. But I had watched meteor showers.

  “Jesus!” the major said, and then his ears really perked up and he said, “Do you hear tanks?”

  “Yes sir,” said the sergeant, and the corporal nodded too, and Willard and I both nodded also. Not that I had ever heard tanks, but Willard had, earlier this night.

  “Get the jeep!” the major said, and the corporal ran around behind the hotel and returned with the jeep. The soldiers piled into it and took off down the south road. Bosco stayed behind.

  “I sure do wish we could mosey down thataway too,” Willard said.

  But we just had to sit there, for a long time, listening to all of that gunfire and the explosions and the rumbling of the tanks. The noise had alerted everybody in Stay More. The whole platoon of engineers were out of their tents, Doc Swain was on his porch, and kids were approaching from every direction, along with Miss Jerram and many others.

  Sammy Coe ran up, asking, “Has it started?”

  “Sounds like it,” Willard said. “But it’s still a long way up the road yonder. I thought it was supposed to happen right here in the village.”

  “McPherson ambushed ’em,” I said, with more exultation than I’d felt in a long time. “He wouldn’t let ’em get anywhere near the village.”

  My analysis, I was pleased to discover and to report in the next day’s Daily Star, was right on target. McPherson’s samurai had indeed ambushed the whole convoy of tanks, jeeps, and trucks coming from Camp Chaffee, the elite troops of the 715th Tank Batallion, 16th Armored Division.

  When all the shooting stopped, the jeep returned to the hotel. Major Evans was swearing obscenely as he got out of the jeep and just stood there in the road with both of his hands on his hips as if somebody had stolen his favorite toy.

  “Who won?” Willard had the audacity to ask.

  “Won?” Major Evans said. “It’s still top of the first inning, and the score is already twelve to nothing, Japs.”

  Another jeep pulled up, and a captain got out. He saluted the major and said, “They caught us by complete surprise, sir. We couldn’t get a shot off. That wasn’t in the script.”

  “Fuck the script!” said the major. “If this were really Kyushu, Stoving, your whole outfit would be wiped out. The Japs won’t take prisoners. At least McPherson was nice enough to take prisoners. Here he comes.”

  Another jee
p pulled up, driven by our friend Corporal Rucker, with the lieutenant in the back. I assumed they had commandeered the jeep from the enemy.

  McPherson jumped out, saluted the major (with a Japanese salute) and then offered his hand to the captain. “Good game, Burt. Kind of short, but I like them that way.”

  “Fuck you, Mac,” Captain Stoving shot back. “The game hasn’t started. That was just a warm-up, and you haven’t scored a point yet.”

  Major Evans said to Captain Stoving, “I’m afraid he has. Quite a few points. In fact, according to the rules, you are so dead you’ll have to wait two days for replacements.”

  “That’s not fair, sir!” Captain Stoving was nearly whining. “If I’d had any idea we’d get waylaid before arrival, I’d have sent scouts on ahead. And if I’d used my scouts, there’s no way Mac could have taken us.”

  “Let’s do it over again,” McPherson suggested, “and you can use your scouts this time.”

  “We’re already here!” Stoving said. “We’ve finally arrived to start the exercise, which is all we were trying to do! Do you know how many days it took just to find this place? If the visiting team is arriving for the game, you don’t send out the home team to beat them up while their bus is coming into town!”

  Major Evans said, “Gentlemen, you’re both forgetting this isn’t a game. You can’t do anything over again. This is war. And as in love, all is fair.”

  A long column of soldiers was coming across the Banty Creek bridge, their hands raised behind their necks while McPherson’s men with rifles escorted them. Dozens of them. No, hundreds. Corporal Rucker turned his jeep so its headlights illuminated their arrival. Most of the prisoners had blobs of yellow on their uniforms, which meant they were dead, or wounded, or at least captured, one and all. Sergeant Harris stopped the column in front of the hotel, and ordered them to stand at attention in rows with their hands still raised. Some of those guys looked really scared, as if their captors actually were Japanese. Sergeant Harris certainly looked like a terrible vicious rempei gakari gunso in his uniform. He gave McPherson the Japanese salute and said, “One hundred eighty-three POWs sir. What shall we do with them?”

  McPherson turned to Major Evans. “When we invade Kyushu, sir, the Japanese will take no prisoners.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Burt,” Major Evans jerked his thumb at Captain Stoving.

  “Okay, Sergeant,” McPherson said, “Jusatsu suni. Shoot ’em.” Sergeant Harris summoned his BAR man, Corporal Quigg, and they prepared to mow down the rows of POWs. “No, wait,” McPherson said. “Burt, I’ll make you a deal. How about a pack of cigarettes per hostage.”

  “Aw hell, Mac,” Captain Stoving said. “Even if you shoot ’em all, I get ’em back tomorrow, don’t I, Major Evans sir?”

  I had never seen Major Evans smile before, and what he was wearing now was more like a smirk. But he said, “Day after tomorrow, according to the rules. And when you get ’em back, they’re not these men, who are dead, but ‘replacements.’ And you lost every one of your fucking tanks, didn’t you?”

  “He didn’t hit my M-7,” Stoving pointed out, but he was hanging his head.

  “Excuse me,” Major Evans said. “You lost eleven out of your twelve tanks. Take your two dead companies and bury ’em, and when you get ’em exhumed, tell ’em a thing or two about defense.”

  “Better luck in the second inning, Burt,” McPherson said. “I’d invite you up to my place for a sip of Chism’s Dew, the best whiskey on earth. But you won’t ever find my place.”

  “Wanna bet?” Stoving said, and turned on his heel and got back into his jeep. Then he noticed his one hundred and eighty-three dead men, still standing with their hands behind their necks. He turned to Major Evans. “Can I have my men back? Is the exercise over for tonight?”

  “A pack of cigarettes per man, is it?” said Major Evans.

  Later McPherson told me that actually he and Captain Stoving were pretty good friends. They’d known each other for more than a year, and had once roomed together in BOQ at Camp Chaffee. BOQ, he said, stood for Bawdy Oldmen’s Quonset, but when I asked if I could quote that in tomorrow’s Daily Star he said actually it just stood for bachelor officers’ quarters. McPherson and Stoving had started out together as second lieutenants, but Stoving had been promoted to captain because he was a “brownnose.” I didn’t know that word, and wondered if the brown was like the red or yellow marks used in fake ammunition. Stoving was from Arkansas; his father owned an insurance company in Little Rock. That ought to have made me proud of him, as I was proud of all the Arkansas soldiers that Ernie Pyle had mentioned in his columns. But I was a Jap and Stoving was a Yank and I was rooting for McPherson’s samurai to win the exercise that they were supposed to lose. The company of engineers, who had been making bets among themselves on the outcome, with the odds heavily in favor of the Yanks and their tanks, were so overawed by McPherson’s ambush of the Yanks’ arrival that they were now betting on the Jap rangers. I posted the betting odds in my daily.

  Actually, the exercise was not exactly in the singular, McPherson explained to me; it wasn’t to be thought of as a single battle won or lost. Rather, it was a series of “problems,” and he was careful that I understood that a problem is not necessarily a difficulty but a question to be solved, as in a math problem, just as “exercise” is not necessarily calisthenics but an engagement between two opposing teams in a war game. The ultimate problem for the Yanks, and the final inning of the game, was to find and destroy the Japs’ bivouac. But before then, the Japs had to defend the village not just once but repeatedly, from each direction of the compass, and during the night as well as in broad day, and also in the middle of a hard rain, if we could only get one. It had been dry for a long spell.

  Larry Duckworth was having fits of glee because the Yanks had chosen for their bivouac the broad meadow across the road from the Duckworth’s house, south alongside Swains Creek. It had once been the site of an Osage Indian camp, and in the days before we became Allies and Axis we had played cowboys and Indians in that big meadow. Now the field, which had already had its first mowing of hay, was the home for two companies of the 715th Tank Batallion under Captain Burton Stoving. There were twelve enormous tanks parked there, mostly M-4 Shermans, some of them with howitzers in tow, but also a huge M-6, and the peculiar M-7. There were also jeeps and trucks and a few motorcycles. There were three dozen tents, and latrines, and everything. During the two days that they were required by the umpire’s rules to remain dead or regroup or whatever they were supposed to do, those two companies of armored troops had built themselves a little city on the south edge of Stay More, and all of us kids, Yanks and Japs alike, spent a lot of time watching them in wonder. That first day we watched them give their tanks a bath in Swains Creek to wash off the red marks that indicated they’d been hit and destroyed by grenades, mortar, or the bazooka.

  Before the next problem was due to start, which was an assault on the village from the south by the battalion of the Yanks and their tanks, Captain Stoving met with Major Evans and Lieutenant McPherson to protest the Japs’ use of the bazooka. He claimed that the Japanese did not yet have the bazooka in their arsenal, and therefore if McPherson wanted to be strictly “realistic,” he could not use a weapon that the Japanese did not possess. McPherson claimed that the bazooka was his “handicap” against the vastly superior forces of Stoving’s tank companies. But Major Evans ruled in Stoving’s favor, and McPherson was required to stow the bazooka and give his champion bazookamen, Privates Nilson and Hewes, the Japanese .80 antitank rifles instead. McPherson told me an extra reason he was peeved by the decision: the bazooka had got its name because a radio comedian of the 1930s, Bob Burns of Van Buren, Arkansas (not far from Camp Chaffee), had had a weird musical instrument of that name and shape. “It may not be Japanese,” McPherson said, “but it certainly is Arkansas,” I quoted those words in my editorial in the next issue of the Daily Star in which I protested Major Evans’ de
cision, and I titled the editorial “Japs Unfairly Deprived of Best Weapon,” and I made sure that Major Evans got a copy of that issue.

  With the total population of Stay More now running close to four hundred, with all the soldiers, I had a rough time printing enough copies of my paper to meet the demand. One “press run” on a gelatin board could not exceed fifty copies before it started dimming out. But sweet Ella Jean solved the problem by simply making duplicates, or rather quadruplicates, of each of the hand-lettered purple master sheets. That was a lot of extra work for her, and, since we were now rolling in loose change from the sale of all those copies, I insisted on paying her a salary.

  “I don’t need ary salary,” she said, unmindful of the rhyme. “But I sure could use a kiss.”

  I was stunned. No, at first I just thought she’d said something hilarious, and I laughed uproariously, but then, when I determined she was serious, I was speechless with the wonder of it. I stared at her. There was nothing on earth I’d rather do than kiss her. I had never kissed a girl before, but I had imagined it, I had dreamed of it, I had even licked a couple of my fingers and pretended they were lips and pressed my mouth against them. Now here we were, in the newspaper office, nobody else around, Latha somewhere out on the porch, and all I had to do was do it. “Are you all right?” a voice asked me, and I had to shake my head to clear it to realize that a real voice hadn’t spoken, it was just good old Ernie Pyle taking care of me again.

  “Do you mean me?” I stupidly asked Ella Jean.

  She ought to have said—she had every right to have said—something dismissive, like “No, I was just a-talking to myself,” or “Actually I was thinking of Cary Grant,” or even “I’d druther kiss a frog than you.” But she did not speak at all, which was the beauty of it. She simply gave her lovely head the slightest but clearest of nods.