by James Jones
Everyone at Makapoo knew all about the roadguard, naturally. Soldiers like to study with a professional eye and speculate over their own official dispositions which so vitally concern their very lives, whether they can do anything about them or not. So at Makapoo the men understood everything about the roadguard, about the tactical blunder which had occasioned it and for which it was a coverup, and about the new tactics which when inaugurated would make of the roadguard a veritable death trap suicide mission. The five men, one of them a BAR man, would be stationed at all times at the culvert at the foot of the rise where the road curved down the cliff. And should a landing ever be effected their job would be to hold off any patrols until the demolition could be blown behind them. After that they would be on their own and could try to get back to their unit as best they could. Everybody knew what that meant. That was why it was called a suicide mission, and why the men on it had to be volunteers.
Oddly enough, knowing all of this, every man at Makapoo wanted to volunteer for the roadguard and it was considered an enviable assignment. The reason was not hard to find. Apart from the fact that the roadguard allowed them to live outside the hated wall of wire, all the trucks and cars that went to market in the city used this highway. And in addition to their unpleasant duties with future Japanese patrols, they also had orders to stop and search all vehicles which used the road, for evidences of sabotage. Almost immediately, once the roadguard began operating, fresh fruit, bananas, candy bars, bottles of Coca-Cola and Seven-Up, even that rare, precious fifth of whiskey now and then, began to make their appearance within the position’s isolating ring of wire. But if the position as a whole benefited in a small measure, the five men on the roadguard itself lived like kings. And for the first time since the war began, the Makapoo personnel—five of them, at any rate—were able to enjoy that new, lavish, civilian love of soldiery and get themselves adopted, as all the unisolated beach positions had done long ago with nearby homes. Almost at once each of the five chose, or was chosen by, his favorite daily produce trucker who brought him little things from home, in addition to the samples of his produce. Perhaps even more important they, the five, could talk to people, as distinguished from soldiers. Almost unlimited people. And some of them were females. Talking to females was better than nothing, although it made the grinding hunger stronger afterwards. There was not a single man below the first three grades at Makapoo who was not willing to risk the far-off future of potential Jap patrols, in order to partake of these small, but to them luxurious, benefits of now.
It was as the envied commander of this small but exclusive group of luxurious livers that Mast’s squad leader came around to Mast with his proposition. Tall, quiet, sensitive—and intelligent, although he did not get further than first year high school in his native New England town—Buck-sergeant Thomas Burton was a good squad leader. He came up to where Mast was sitting on his rock outcropping, put his foot up on the rock, and leaned on his long leg looking hesitant and embarrassed.
“Want to talk to you.”
Mast, immediately suspicious, looked back at Burton’s level gaze with narrowed eyes.
“Yeah? What about?”
Mast had not forgotten how Winstock, another noncom had trapped him when he was sitting just like this, alone.
“About that pistol of yours,” Burton said.
He got no further. Mast got up immediately and started off without a word, toward people.
“Hey! Wait a minute!” Burton protested. “Come back here.”
Mast stopped and turned to look back at him nervously. How did one protect oneself against noncoms, who could order one to do things?
“My pistol hasn’t got anything to do with you. What do you want to know about my pistol?”
“Take it easy, take it easy. Come on back here,” Burton said soothingly. Carefully, he did not move.
Still Mast hesitated.
“Look, I know all about what Winstock tried to pull on you,” Burton said. “Anybody with an ounce of head could see he conned you into turnin’ your pistol over to him to turn in, and then kept it himself. I wouldn’t pull anything like that on you, Mast. Hell, you know that.”
“How did you find out about that?” Mast said sullenly, refusing to look at him.
“I figured it out,” Burton said. “That’s all.” He took his foot down from the rock slowly as if he were in the presence of a frightened wild creature. “You stole it back from him that night, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Mast said reluctantly.
“I figured. Pretty smart. Took a lot of guts too.”
“What do you want?” Mast said abruptly, unflattered.
“Come on back here and sit down.”
“No.”
“Come on. I just want to talk to you. I got a proposition to make you,” Burton said. “That’s all. About your pistol.”
“I don’t want any propositions about my pistol,” Mast said. It was almost a wail. “I don’t want any propositions about anything. I just want to be left alone. I just want me and my pistol to be left alone together.”
“I wouldn’t try to beat you out of your pistol,” Burton said, “come on back here. Look, did I ever say a word to you about your pistol? I’ve known about your pistol ever since we first hit this crummy position, haven’t I? And did I ever try to make you turn it in or anything like that? I never said a word to you about it, did I?”
“No, that’s true,” Mast said reluctantly.
“Then come on back here and sit down, damn it,” Burton said. “It won’t hurt you any to listen to me. Won’t hurt you to talk about it.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it,” Mast said, but he came back toward the rock. “I don’t even want to think about it. Everybody gets on me about my pistol. Everybody tries to steal it off me, or beat me out of it, or everything. I don’t want to talk about it, or think about it, or fight about it, or anything else. I just want to be left alone with it. Is that too much to ask? Is it?”
“Sit down,” Burton said.
Mast did.
“Now don’t say anything. Just listen to me,” Burton said. “Don’t talk, just listen. That’s all you have to do. That won’t hurt you any. Okay?”
“Okay,” Mast said.
“Okay. Now look. Here’s my proposition,” Burton said. He hesitated and the embarrassed look came back over his face. “See, I’ve made a lot of money at poker the last few days,” he said by way of explanation, and then plunged on: “Here’s my offer. I’ll give you a hundred and fifty dollars cash. And I’ll put you on the roadguard.”
“For my pistol?”
“What else? Sure for your pistol.”
Mast listened, but the words no longer had much meaning before this munificence. “On the roadguard?” he said vapidly.
“Sure. I can do it. All I have to do is tell the lieutenant one of the guys ain’t doin’ right and ask to have him relieved. Put you in his place.”
“Well . . .” Mast said idiotically. It was a tremendous offer. A hundred and fifty dollars was almost five months pay for a private 1st class. “But, on the other hand,” Mast blurted, answering himself aloud, “what good is money? There’s no place to spend it except playing poker. I’d probably lose it all back in a week.”
“Save it,” Burton said. “Very likely they’ll start giving us passes again in a month or two. Then you’ll have it to take to town with you.”
“Yes, but on the other hand, they might not give us passes.”
“Okay, maybe they mightn’t. But being on that roadguard is nothing to turn your nose up at, believe me.”
“Yeah. I know that. Everybody wants on it,” Mast said thoughtfully. “But why,” he said after a moment; “why didn’t you make me this offer before? when it first started? Instead of waiting till now?”
Again the look of hesitant embarrassment passed over Burton’s face. He shrugged. “I had various favors to pay off to different guys,” he said shortly.
“Well, but is
that fair?” Mast said. “To kick a guy off, after you’ve put him on?”
“Why not? The favor’s paid. I put him on.”
“How do I know you wouldn’t do the same thing to me?”
“Look. Let’s get something straight. Let me explain something to you,” Burton said urgently. “I would never kick somebody off the roadguard just to do myself a favor and get something I wanted. The guy I’m kickin’ off needs to be kicked off. He’s not been doing his work right, and he’s been messing around too much. I see no reason why I shouldn’t do myself a good turn too, though, as long as I’m doing my job right. The same holds true for you. If you didn’t do your work well, I’d kick you off too. But if you did, you’d stay.” Nevertheless, in spite of the extreme logic of his statement, there was still that faint look of embarrassment on his face, which Mast could sense, as if Burton hadn’t quite convinced himself.
“Why does everybody want my pistol?” Mast said, almost plaintively.
“Well, why do you want it yourself?” Burton said.
“I don’t really know. I guess it’s because of those Samurai sabers. I got a hunch—a very strong hunch—it might save me from one of them someday. And I want to be saved. I guess it makes me feel more comfortable.”
“Well, you can pretty nearly bet the others feel like you do,” Burton said. “That’s always a safe bet, I’ve found. You notice the Topkicker has one, in addition to his rifle. So does old Sergeant Pender.”
“Sergeant Pender’s had his since the first World War.”
Doesn’t matter. He’s got it. And so does everybody else who can get themselves hold of one. I see no reason why I shouldn’t have one too, if I can get one. You know yourself, Mast, that it’s always the squad leaders and the officers that those Jap officers head for. We’re more of a target than you privates. I could give you a lot of yak about me having responsibilities to my men and all that guff, and it wouldn’t be entirely untrue either. But it ain’t really the main point. The main point’s that I want to be saved out of this war just as you or anybody.”
“And so you want to buy my chance of being saved away from me.”
“Sure, if I can. And don’t forget, I’m offering you a higher price than anybody else around here could.”
“Yeah, okay. And then what’ll happen to me when we get into combat?”
“Hell, Mast, this outfit may never get into combat. We may sit the whole war out guardin’ this island. And it’s damned unlikely the Japs will ever try to invade it now. And if that happens, if we do stay here, well, I’m just out and you’re ahead, that’s all. I’m just gambling with you, that’s the size of it.”
“Some gamble,” Mast said unhappily.
“If the outfit did go into combat, there’s no reason why you should have to. With your education,” Burton said. “Being a high school graduate and all, you could go into the orderly room or get yourself a good desk job, even, in personnel or someplace else in the Rear Echelon. Any time you wanted.”
“Yeah, everybody tells me that. Everybody that wants my pistol, anyway. I don’t want a job in the Rear Echelon. I’m not yellow.”
“But maybe you’d be helping the war effort better if you did.”
“To hell with the war effort. I’m not yellow. I may be scared, but I’m not a coward.”
“Well, that’s up to you,” Burton said. “I think you’re silly. Not to take advantage of a safe deal like that.
“Anyway, just don’t sell my roadguard short. It’s a hell of a good deal. Hell, we’re even cookin’ our own meals down there now. We get hamburger every day off those people. Steak, every other day. And we’ve always got some whiskey around. Don’t think my roadguard ain’t a good deal.”
“Yeah. I know that,” Mast said unhappily.
“Take some time to think about it,” Burton said. “Don’t make up your mind right now. I know it’s a tough decision. I’ll come back later.” He got up off the rock outcropping where they had both been sitting, nodded brusquely, and started off. But after he had gone a few yards, he stopped and turned back.
“Don’t think I didn’t think a long time about it before deciding to make you an offer like this. But I don’t think it’s bad or dishonorable. Otherwise I wouldn’t do it.”
There was a look almost of appeal in Burton’s level gaze, but Mast was too immersed in his own unhappiness to respond more than feebly.
“Yeah. I guess so, too. Well, I’ll let you know.”
Without answering again, as though he knew it to be useless, both for his appeal and for an answer, now, to his proposition, Burton turned and started on. Mast watched him go, thinking angrily that Burton had no right to force a decision like this on him. Lately, since he had got it back from Winstock, thought of his pistol and his awareness of his responsibility to it occupied more and more of his time, attention, and his energy. There was almost nothing he did or said now that was not at least partially concerned with the pistol and how to protect it. And now this was being forced upon him, too.
Because he was angry, Mast was able to believe his opinion of Burton had undergone a considerable lowering, and he clutched this idea to him gratefully to strengthen his indignation and resolve. His own squad leader, whom he had looked up to and respected! Even if he hadn’t used force or coercion, Burton nonetheless was guilty of a grave moral infraction in using his rank for personal gain. And Mast did not intend to absolve him, whether he ever spoke of it to him or not.
On the other hand, there was the roadguard, enticing him, just waiting there for him. And Mast would have loved dearly to be on it. In the end it was his strong moral resolve not to be party to any such act as Burton had suggested, not to be responsible for getting some poor guy who didn’t deserve it kicked off the roadguard, that sustained him.
He told Burton his decision the next day at noon chow, and the Sergeant only listened and then nodded in silence.
“I suppose there’s no chance of my getting on the roadguard any other way?” Mast asked.
“Nope,” Burton said. “I told you. When I relieve anyone I’ll make damned sure it won’t be you who’ll replace him. But if you ever change your mind, the offer still stands. I’ve put the hundred and fifty away and I don’t intend to spend or lose it. I want that pistol damn bad. So just remember, the offer’s still there if you ever want it.”
And so Mast had a new thing to live with, one that certainly did not make his life any the more pleasant. Day by day, unhappily, Mast went about his various jobs with the knowledge that he could be on the roadguard living in comparative luxury, any time he wanted to change his mind and sell the pistol.
Eight
IN A WAY, ironically enough it was Burton’s refusal to accept Mast on the roadguard on any other terms than surrender of his pistol which was responsible for what was probably the most pleasant experience Mast had during his whole time in Hawaii. At least, it was pleasant for most of its time. Because it too endangered Mast’s pistol, momentarily.
A few weeks after the inauguration of the roadguard, the strategy-planners of the Hawaiian Department discovered—or at least decided to cope with—another loophole in their network of defenses along the Koolau Range which ended in the cliff at Makapuu. This was a little-known and very difficult pass through the mountains a few miles inland known as Marconi Pass. Actually it was a little more than a low place, a slight saddle, in the main ridge, but due to rockfalls and the accumulation of detritus it was possible to climb it from the steeper Kaneohe side. In 1940 a picked squad of infantry had proved this without casualty or injury, as a tactical exercise. This Marconi Pass being the only possible point of crossing between Makapuu and the celebrated Pali, at which point the range turned north and became less dangerous to the city, it was decided to put a permanent four-man patrol up there with two machine guns; two MGs and a few cases of grenades, it was believed, could handle any number of enemy troops attempting to make the climb. Mast’s company was picked to provide the men because its sector of
beach was nearest to the pass, and for logistic reasons of his own the company commander chose to send the men from the Makapoo position. Mast was one of them.
Old Makapoo, so familiar in all its discomforts now to everyone, had changed considerably in the weeks since the origination of the roadguard. After a personal inspection by high officers of the staff, it had been decided that the position was undermanned and orders were sent down to the commander of Mast’s company to increase the complement by half a platoon. These two squads, the orders said, were to come from the company reserve at Hanauma Bay. So Makapuu Head was at least a little bit rejuvenated, by an influx of two squads of deeply disgruntled men who did not at all enjoy leaving the quiet peace and swimming of the command post for the storm and wind and tentless rocks of Makapoo. It was, in actual fact, good for the position, but all Mast himself could see through depressed eyes was the arrival of nineteen more men (all squads were understrength) who would want to relieve him of his pistol.
But in addition to this and, to the men on the position at least, of more importance, the company commander had seized the opportunity of the inspection to point out to the inspecting brass the conditions under which his men had been living for the past two months. As a result, after a couple of weeks, as though reluctantly, trucks began to arrive from time to time with stacks of two-by-fours, or stacks of raw pine tongue-and-groove, kegs of nails, bags of cement, paper, tar, and hammers. Mast, along with a large number of others, suddenly found himself engaged in learning by practice the trade of carpenter. There were, it turned out, to everyone’s surprise, several former professional carpenters at Makapoo, masquerading in the guise of infantrymen. And old Sergeant Pender, at one time or other in his twenty-eight years in the Army, had learned this trade along with a dozen others. Under his direction the former carpenters were put in charge, and the men at Makapoo began to build for themselves the shelter nobody else had found the time to build for them. By the time the orders concerning the Marconi Pass patrol arrived, the concrete-in-nailkeg foundations were laid, the beams and joists were laid, the studding was up, most of the rafters were set, and the siding was beginning to go on.
