by Len Levinson
He turned around, walked across the porch, and jumped to the ground. The kids gazed at him in awe as he marched over the sidewalk to the street, followed by Lieutenant Norton.
Lieutenant Ono walked into General Adachi’s office. General Adachi stood at his map table, looking down at geographical demarcations. “What is it?” he said to Lieutenant Ono.
“I regret that I must inform you, sir, that we’ve lost radio contact with the Southern Strike Force.”
“When did you receive your last transmission from them?”
“At eleven hundred hours this morning, sir.”
“In that case, we must assume that Colonel Sakakibara and his men have fallen in battle.”
“Perhaps they’ve only fallen out of radio contact, sir.”
“Extremely unlikely. Please direct General Kimura to report to me immediately.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Ono turned around and walked swiftly out of the office. General Adachi gazed at his map for a few moments, sighed, and returned to his desk, sitting heavily on his chair.
It was all over now. That was clear to him. The attack by the Southern Strike Force had been the last sizable military operation that he could mount. He assumed that Colonel Sakakibara had killed many Americans before dying honorably for the Emperor. Now the Eighteenth Army could attack no more, except piecemeal here and there to irritate the Americans. General Adachi had no hope whatever of making a dent in the American defenses now.
General Adachi sighed and lit up a cigarette. He felt strangely calm, and his stomach didn’t bother him the way it had in the past. He felt as though a great responsibility had been taken away from him. No one could expect any military victories from him now. The Americans would either advance and try to wipe out him and his men, or they’d stay where they were and let him and his men starve to death in the jungle.
The Eighteenth Army has been a tragic Army, he thought sadly. He recalled the many battles in which it had fought, and the many defeats it had suffered. He’d always been under-strength and lacking supplies except at the beginning, but those battles had been lost too. Luck had not been on the side of the Eighteenth Army. General Adachi was convinced that he’d done his best. If he had everything to do all over again, he would have done it all the same way.
“Sir?” said a voice on the other side of the tent flap.
“Come in,” said General Adachi.
A short officer with a deeply lined walrus face entered his office. He was Brigadier General Tatsunari Kimura, General Adachi’s executive officer. General Kimura approached his desk and saluted.
“Please be seated,” General Adachi said.
General Kimura sat on the chair.
“The Southern Strike Force has been wiped out,” General Adachi said. “The time has come to move my headquarters farther west. I would like you to take charge of the move and determine where we should go.”
“How far would you like us to move back?” General Kimura asked.
“You may make that decision yourself. It is possible that the Americans will push forward and attempt to annihilate our remaining soldiers, so I’d like my headquarters to be far enough back so that we won’t be bothered by any of those skirmishes. On the other hand, I’d like to be close enough so that I can be in touch with my men.”
“You may rely on me to find an appropriate position, sir.”
“Excellent. Do you have any questions?”
“It is possible that you could be evacuated by submarine, sir,” General Kimura said. “Would you like me to make the necessary arrangements?”
“I wish to remain with my Army.”
“I quite understand, sir.”
“These are difficult times, General Kimura. So many brave men have died. General Tojo has resigned. How the Emperor must be suffering.”
“A great tragedy, sir. Everything has gone against us. But Japan is not a very large nation. The Americans and British drove us to war.”
“We had no choice,” General Adachi agreed. “If we didn’t fight, we would have appeared to be a nation of sniveling cowards. Better to die than be a coward.”
“The Americans and British are swine. They want to own everything.”
“They will never own us. Only our Emperor owns us. Please return to your office, General Kimura, and plan our strategic relocation.”
“As you wish, sir.”
General Kimura arose, saluted, and marched out of the office. General Adachi puffed his cigarette and stared into space. What a strange and terrible war, he thought. I wonder what history will say of it?
Private Victor Yabalonka opened his eyes. He heard buzzing in his ears and felt as though he weighed a thousand pounds. Where am I? he wondered. Am I still alive?
He focused on the top of the tent and realized he still was in the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters. That meant he was alive, although he didn’t feel alive by much.
He moved his head to the side and saw soldiers lying on the ground inside the tent. The walls of the tent were rolled up and it was gray and damp outside. Yabalonka felt a deep pain in his chest, and his head was spinning. He could barely move his arms and legs. He realized the buzzing was a man’s voice nearby. Turning to the other side, he saw a chaplain saying a prayer over a wounded soldier.
Yabalonka blinked and recognized the chaplain as Father Sheehy, the Catholic priest assigned to the division. Father Sheehy was in his forties, bald on top of his head, with his sidewalls graying. He had a long thin nose like a finger and his skin was pink. Yabalonka couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but it sounded like a religious ceremony of some kind.
Yabalonka remembered the Bible he’d carried in his shirt pocket, and how it had stopped two Japanese bullets on two separate occasions. But it hadn’t stopped the bullet that got him. The first two times he’d been lucky, but the last time his luck had run out.
I wonder if I’m gonna die, he thought. He felt alone and miserable, not aware that Lieutenant Breckenridge and Private McGurk had visited him while he was unconscious. He wanted to live but somehow didn’t think he had the strength to pull through. He felt as though Death was defeating him a little more every moment. I’m gonna die, he thought. I wonder what it’s like to be dead?
“Are you a Catholic?” asked a voice above him.
Yabalonka looked up and saw Father Sheehy hovering above him, looking like a strange friendly buzzard.
“Can you hear me, soldier?” Father Sheehy asked gently.
Yabalonka took a deep breath. “I can hear you,” he replied in a rasping whisper.
“Are you a Catholic?”
“I used to be.”
“Would you like to receive Holy Communion?”
“I’ve fallen away from the church,” Yabalonka said laboriously.
“You can always fall back,” Father Sheehy told him. “It’s as easy to fall back as it is to fall away.”
“I don’t believe in God, Father.”
“Then who made the world, soldier?”
“The world made itself.”
“How can anything make itself? Did you make yourself?”
“No.”
“Nothing can make itself. Only God can make things.”
“I can’t believe that, Father. I’m sorry.”
“I can offer you communion anyway.”
“That’d make me a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I’m only here to offer you the body of Christ. Are you familiar with the argument of Pascal?”
“Who?”
“He was a French theologian. He said that if you pray to God, and he doesn’t exist, you haven’t lost anything except a little of your time, but if you don’t worship God, and he does exist, you just might lose eternity. So from a practical point of view, it’s better to worship God once in a while. Do you get my point?”
“I don’t know, Father,” Yabalonka said in a quavering voice, “but I think I’m gonna die.”
�
�That may be so, my son. I’m not a doctor and I don’t know. But if you think you’re going to die, it might be best to make your peace with God, just in case.”
Yabalonka was overcome by sadness. It was as though he had no strength left, and all he had to give the world were his tears.
“All right,” he said, “I’d like to receive communion.”
Father Sheehy took a roll of white satin fabric out of his knapsack, kissed it, and hung it around his neck. Then he pulled out his little black book, opened it up, and crossed himself.
He muttered in Latin, and Yabalonka wondered why he’d agreed to receive communion. He really didn’t believe in God, and Pascal’s argument sounded like bullshit. But Yabalonka felt lonely and frightened. He was happy to have the human warmth that Father Sheehy was giving him, and the ceremony was somehow comforting. It reminded him of when he was a young boy in Chicago, where he’d been raised, and his mother had made him attend church regularly. He’d even been a choirboy for a while; those had been good days.
Father Sheehy intoned the prayers, and Yabalonka recalled how happy he’d been when he was a child. His father had a good job and everything had been fine, but then the Depression struck and the bottom dropped out of his world. His father lost his job and Yabalonka had to quit school. He left home and bummed around the country, riding the rails, and finally wound up in San Francisco, where he managed to get a job as a longshoreman.
He heard Father Sheehy’s voice, and looked up at him. The old priest seemed to really believe in what he was doing. How can he believe that superstitious stuff? Yabalonka wondered. If there was a God there wouldn’t be any wars.
Yabalonka had a dizzy spell, and lost consciousness for a few moments. When he opened his eyes he saw the holy wafer in front of his face. The wafer was in Father Sheehy’s hand.
“Can you hear me?” Father Sheehy asked.
“Yes Father.”
“The body of Christ,” Father Sheehy said.
Yabalonka stuck out his tongue and Father Sheehy placed the wafer upon it.
“May the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ bring us to everlasting life,” Father Sheehy said.
Yabalonka closed his mouth on the wafer, and Father Sheehy muttered more prayers. He made the sign of the cross over Yabalonka, smiled, squeezed his wrist, and gathered up his equipment.
“Good luck, soldier,” Father’Sheehy said.
Yabalonka nodded. Father Sheehy stood and stepped out of Yabalonka’s field of vision. Yabalonka was alone again, with the wafer melting on his tongue. The body of Christ, Yabalonka thought. How can anybody believe that piece of bread is the body of Christ?
Then he became aware of a strange phenomenon. He realized that he felt a little better. It wasn’t anything big, he hadn’t been completely cured; no tremendous miracle had occurred, but he did feel a bit lighter and a little happier. He analyzed his feelings and realized it wasn’t his imagination; he actually did feel perceptibly better.
Now why is that? he wondered. He didn’t want to be superstitious and say that God made him feel better, but he didn’t want to be a stubborn idiot and try to convince himself that he didn’t feel better when he knew that he did.
Again, he had to remind himself that it was no tremendous healing. He didn’t feel as though he could get up and return to full frontline duty again, but his spirits had improved somehow. That was an empirical fact that he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was just the ordinary human contact with Father Sheehy, Yabalonka thought. Maybe what I’m feeling has nothing whatever to do with religion.
He closed his eyes and savored the wheaty wholesomeness of the sacrament on his tongue. It tasted earthy and sweet, chasing the awful bitterness of medicine out of his mouth. He went limp on the ground and relaxed, not bothering to fight the pain and weakness that threatened to drown him. I’m tired of fighting, he thought. I’m just gonna let anything happen that happens.
He took a deep breath and exhaled air out of his lungs. Then he sucked in a fresh draft of air. The pain seemed diminished now that he was more relaxed. What the hell am I fighting for all the time? he asked himself. If I’m going to die, I’m going to die, and there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about it. And if there is a God, at least I’ve received Holy Communion.
Somehow that thought amused him, and he laughed. It wasn’t a great uproarious laugh because he was whacked out on a variety of drugs and chemicals, but it definitely was mirth and it raised his spirits even higher. What’s the use of worrying? he thought, remembering the old patriotic World War One song. It never was worthwhile. So pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.
He smiled as he lay on the ground. The pain didn’t seem so terrible anymore. It existed, but it was almost as if it had nothing to do with him. It was just there, like the tent, the ground, and the gray day outside.
The sacrament continued to melt on his tongue, and his saliva carried it down his throat. What if there really is a God? he thought. Maybe He really does exist. Nobody can say for sure that he doesn’t. All I know is that Father Sheehy made me feel better, and if he comes around again I’ll take that biscuit again. What the fuck. Why not?
The face of a woman appeared above him, and for a moment Yabalonka thought she was the Virgin Mary.
“How’re you feeling, soldier?” she asked. She wore Army fatigues and evidently was one of the nurses in the medical headquarters, but Yabalonka had never seen her before.
“I think I feel a little better,” he told her, speaking thickly because part of the wafer still was on his tongue.
“Good for you,” the nurse said. “It’s time for you to get another shot.”
“Shoot away,” Yabalonka mumbled.
The nurse wiped his forearm with a swab of cotton that had been soaked in alcohol. She jabbed the needle in, pressed the plunger slowly, and watched the morphine enter Yabalonka’s vein.
“Didn’t faze you at all, did it,” the nurse said.
“No ma’am. I’m getting used to it now.”
She pulled the needle out. “Get some rest, soldier.”
“Hey tell me something,” Yabalonka said.
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“Am I gonna pull through?”
“I haven’t got your medical records in front of me,” she said, “but you seem to be doing all right. You just said you were feeling better, didn’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Always trust your instincts, soldier. They’ll never let you I down.”
The nurse walked away and the morphine hit Yabalonka’s brain. He felt dizzy and closed his eyes. His breath became regular and he swallowed the remaining bits of the wafer that had been on his tongue. The morphine carried him away and he felt as though he was floating in the air. Who knows, he thought. Maybe she really was the Virgin Mary. Then he went slack on the ground, drifting off into a deep drugged slumber.
The big sign on top of the factory said:
MCBRIDE AIRCRAFT CORPORATION
Smoke hooted out of chimneys on top of the roof, and a terrible clatter issued forth from inside. The factory was surrounded by a wire fence, and soldiers stood in guardhouses next to the gates.
“Pretty soft duty, I bet,” Butsko said, as Lieutenant Norton drove the o.d. green Chevrolet into the parking lot.
“What’s soft duty?” Lieutenant Norton asked.
“Them guards over there.”
Lieutenant Norton glanced out the corner of his eye. “Yeah I guess it is.”
“You know what I’d be doing if I was one of them guards?”
“What?”
“I’d be fucking every dame who works in the factory.”
Lieutenant Norton found a parking spot and steered the Chevrolet into it. Butsko realized what he’d just said, and his face turned red. He thought one of those guards must be fucking Dolly. He knew somebody was fucking her. Dolly just wasn’t sitting on that thing. She was using it, unless she wasn’t the Dolly h
e used to know.
“A leopard never changes its spots,” Butsko said.
“What was that?” Lieutenant Norton asked, hitting the brakes.
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“I don’t see anybody else around here.”
“I was talking to myself.”
“I always knew you were a psycho case.” Lieutenant Norton pulled up the emergency brake, turned off the ignition key, and looked at Butsko. “You’ve been good up until now, but I don’t want any trouble when you see your wife. If you lay a hand on her or anybody else in there, I’m gonna put you in the stockade and throw away the key.”
“Oh yeah?” Butsko said.
“Yeah.”
Both men got out of the car. Lieutenant Norton walked around to Butsko’s side, and together they made their way to a sign that said: GATE 17. The sun shone brightly in the sky and in the distance Butsko could see the San Fernando mountains. The closer they came to the factory, the louder the racket became.
“How can anybody work in a place like that?” Butsko asked.
“Beats the hell out of me, but it’s not as loud as an artillery bombardment.”
“Artillery bombardments don’t go on every day around the clock the way this place does.”
“I sure do feel sorry for those people in there,” Lieutenant Norton said.
They strode toward Gate 17 and saw a sign that said: POLICE POST. The sign was fastened to a wooden guardhouse painted white, beside a wire fence fourteen feet high. Butsko wondered who that fence was supposed to be keeping out. A simple pair of wire cutters could make an opening big enough for the entire Twenty-third Regiment to pass through.
Lieutenant Norton walked toward the guardhouse and knocked on the door. It was opened from the inside, and a second later somebody inside shouted: “Ten-hut!”
Lieutenant Norton looked inside the tiny guardhouse and saw two soldiers and two chairs. The soldiers stood stiffly at attention, and they were older men, the kind who performed duties on the home front while younger men went to the real front.
Lieutenant Norton cleared his throat. “Sergeant Butsko and I want to go into the factory,” he said.
