by Bob Mayer
Morticia came by with the coffee pot. Kinsman nodded and she topped him off. She raised an eyebrow at Kane, as if asking for an invite to listen and he gave an abbreviated shake of his head because he feared where this was going. She slid off, not particularly happy.
“We had to jump into the rubber boats,” Kinsman said. “The landing plan, of course, went to shit. The only good thing was that the wind and current was toward the island. Otherwise we’d have been scattered to hell and gone. Crawford and Roosevelt were on my boat.”
Kane noticed that Kinsman was rubbing his thumb over the lip of his coffee mug.
“Our engine wouldn’t start. Most wouldn’t. We paddled like hell for the beach, but all we had was a compass heading. We were only a half mile out but couldn’t see anything. Then we could hear the surf on the shore and finally see the white foam. Roosevelt thought we were close and the water was shallow enough. He ordered Crawford to go over the side to help pull us in.” Kinsman laughed bitterly. “He went over and under. Should have let him drown, but I didn’t know the future. I reached over the side and all I could get a hold of was his hair. Pulled him back in the boat by that.”
Kinsman fell silent for a few moments, then resumed the tale. “We hit the beach. The plan had been two separate landing sites, pincer movement, all that fancy officer stuff. What we had was a cluster of Raiders in one spot. But we did as we were trained. Moved off the beach and into the bush and trees. Everyone kept expecting a Jap machinegun to open up on us but there was nothing. Really weird. I was on the radio, talking to Yaz, keeping Roosevelt and Carlson in touch, even though they were probably only a couple hundred yards apart instead of on separate beachheads. I knew more than everyone but the CO and XO since Yaz and I were the link between them. Turns out one squad was missing and we didn’t know if they’d drowned or landed somewhere else.
“Then someone fucked up. We’d have taken the Nips by surprise, as planned, except some idiot was clearing his BAR and it went off. Nothing like a burst of automatic fire to announce your arrival. Squads and platoons were scrambled and there wasn’t time to stop and sort it out. We moved forward and started taking incoming.”
Kinsman poured some more sugar in his coffee, semi-aware of what he was doing. “I’d seen dead people before. But not like that. The first guy was a sergeant, this All-American type. He’d have looked great on a recruiting poster, but not after his chest got ripped open by a Nambu machinegun. But what really messed us up until we figured it out was the snipers in the coconut trees.”
“Nobody looks up,” Kane said.
Kinsman nodded. “Yeah. We learned that the hard way. Got to the point where we’d spray those trees. Sometimes even time it and throw a grenade up so that it went off at the highest point. That was kinda dangerous, but those sons-a-bitches took out a number of guys. Carrying the radio, some of them took special attention to me. I had a round bounce off the side of my helmet—” he paused and looked at Kane’s scar.
“AK-47 round,” Kane confirmed the wound. “Another quarter inch and I wouldn’t be sitting here. My radioman had been hit just before me.”
“Ever look at it that as another quarter inch the other way and you wouldn’t have been touched at all?” Kinsman asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Roosevelt was cool as a cucumber, though. He had that handset and was relaying orders, giving updates, calm as could be. I’ll give him that. He didn’t scare easy. Problem was, we didn’t know how many Japs we were going up against. The attack stalled out. Then there were two small ships that a couple of scouts spotted coming into the lagoon, bringing reinforcements. Ol’ Carlson got the subs to fire their deck guns at ‘em even though they didn’t have line of sight. He told the skippers they damn well knew where the lagoon was so just shell. Both ships were hit and went down, so that was good luck.”
The pay phone rang and Kane excused himself. “Yeah?”
Sophia Cappucci didn’t waste words. “Bunch of fucking retards at that place. They were kicking up to the West Side Boys, but since Damon miraculously disappeared, they got no one. Definitely not from my side of things,” she added, meaning the Mafia. “Why’d you want to know?”
“They beat up a friend of mine,” Kane said. “And I don’t think they’re gonna stop.”
“So you’re gonna make them stop?”
“Could I borrow Matteo?” Kane asked in a moment of inspiration.
“Why?”
“I want to make them stop but, it’s a business opportunity. They can kick up to you for, well, protection.”
Sofia laughed. “You’re a funny guy, Kane. Matteo will be there in thirty minutes. You two play nice.” The phone clicked off.
Kane returned to the booth. “Sorry about that.”
Kinsman stretched out his back and grimaced. “I could give you a blow by blow of the entire day, but essentially it remained a mess. That lost squad had actually landed at the second beachhead. They hit the Japs from behind. But even with that, things were pretty much stuck. The Nips did do one Banzai charge although that early in the war we didn’t know what it was. Came charging at us just before nightfall, fixed bayonets, coupla officers with their Sammy swords. We blew them away. But Carlson, he never ordered us to advance. I could pick up some of the grumbling coming to Roosevelt from the junior officer, but he never complained to Carlson. I guess the old man was afraid of over-extending what he had and he knew the Japs might well have been reinforced on the other side of the island. Plus, we were getting off the island that night. Or so we thought.”
Kane noticed that the last of the breakfast crowd was gone. Morticia was wiping down the counter. He didn’t check his watch, having a good idea how long it would be before Matteo showed up.
“Most of the small engines on those piece of crap boats hadn’t worked on the way in and they sure weren’t going to work on the way out. And we hadn’t counted on the surf. When it got time to skedaddle, we kept trying to launch and every boat would get flipped. Guys lost their weapons, their gear. Hell, some guys were naked after getting pounded into the coral. All cut up. I think one or two boats made it out to the subs that night, the rest of us got slammed back on the beach. Couple of guys tried swimming for the subs. Never saw one of them again. Whether he drowned or sharks got him, who knows. We were getting kinda desperate as the night wore on.
“We’d taken casualties and had wounded. Most of us didn’t have our weapons any more. My radio had been soaked and didn’t work. The only way to make commo with the subs was morse code with flashlights, but even that was sketchy. And Jap planes were buzzing around. They were dropping bombs on the island but also trying to take out the subs. So they had to submerge. There was no way we could try during daylight the next day. We hoped we could make it the next night. If the subs even hung around. There was a good chance they were already headed back to Pearl.”
Kinsman fell silent.
Kane and Mac waited on the old Code Talker.
“Carlson held a meeting. That’s something he did differently than the other commanders. He got input from everyone. Not just the officers but the senior noncoms too. He asked us what we should do? Pretty much everyone wanted to get off the damn island. Carlson listened and didn’t say anything. Then he said thanks and sent them back to their units. He sat there with Roosevelt. Yaz and I and Crawford were nearby, because we were part of the headquarters element even if our radios didn’t work. I don’t think the two officers noticed we were there; they’d gotten so used to us being around.”
Kinsman paused once more. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “A couple of guys had suggested surrender. They had a point. Most of us were unarmed. Those who did have weapons were low on ammo. The Japs would just keep landing more troops. We couldn’t be certain if the subs were still out there or if they’d already headed back to Pearl. After all, they were in enemy waters. What if a Jap destroyer showed up? Carlson hashed all that over with Roosevelt. Asked his opinion. Roosevelt said that we should fight to the death. Go
tta give him that, but he also knew if he were taken by the Japs it would be a huge propaganda coup. But if he died fighting, hell, he wasn’t carrying ID on him. Maybe the Japs wouldn’t know who they’d killed?
“Yaz and I weren’t happy about that. We’d all heard stories about what had happened in the Philippines after MacArthur hauled ass and they surrendered. The Japs didn’t treat prisoners well. Hell, we’d planned on killing anyone who surrendered to us. This was before we learned the Japs didn’t surrender. They’d rather die first.”
Kinsman paused as Morticia came by. “Last call on the coffee, but I’ll leave the pot on.”
They all took a refill. She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the three veterans alone in the diner.
“Carlson made his decision just after daybreak. The Japs were probing our perimeter and we could hear seaplanes landing in the lagoon bringing reinforcements. He asked for a pen and piece of paper, which Crawford was carrying in his gear. He’d never even tried to leave the island with the rest of us, hanging with the rear guard and with Roosevelt. He still had all his stuff. Crawford gave it to Carlson. The old man wrote a note surrendering to the Japanese. Yaz and I couldn’t believe it. We could tell Roosevelt was pissed. Crawford too.” Kinsman looked from Kane to Mac. “We were young and dumb. Now that time has gone by, I see it was the wisest choice at the time given the options and what we knew of the Japs. Carlson wanted to save as many of his men’s lives as possible. He gave the note to Yaz. Told him to fashion a white flag and go forward and find the Japanese commander.”
Kinsman leaned forward. “That surrender note? Never been made public. Was never mentioned in the after-action report. After all, we were heroes when we got back. Heroes don’t ever think about surrendering. But Yaz had that note and a white flag and he did what he was ordered. He headed down the beach, figuring being in the open gave him a better chance of getting seen with the white flag by the Japs before they opened fire.”
Kinsman’s eyes glistened. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was watching Yaz. Roosevelt and Crawford were talking low, behind me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. But I know what it was when—” he paused, took a breath— “Crawford shot Yaz after he’d gone about thirty yards past our perimeter. In the back of the head. Blew his brains out.”
The three men sat in silence, the only noise the clatter of pots and dishes being washed in the kitchen.
“I guess that was Roosevelt’s answer to Carlson’s surrender decision,” Kinsman said. “Implemented by Crawford. Turned out to be mostly right as most of us got off the island that night. A handful of guys were left behind. Told you—some were taken and beheaded, so if we had surrendered it probably wouldn’t have gone well for us. We were treated like heroes when we got back to Pearl. Medals passed out. They even made a movie about it. But Yaz? He was left on that stinking island along with our other dead, rotting in the dirt.” Kinsman looked Kane in the eyes. “You wanted to know what kind of man Crawford is? Now you do. Roosevelt took care of him after that. I heard he set him up in business after the war in Texas. I imagine they still exchange Christmas cards.”
“I’m sorry,” Kane said. “I’m assuming Yazzie doesn’t know Crawford killed his father?”
“What do you think Crawford would’ve done to me if I’d told Yazzie that? If I’d told anyone about the surrender note? Remember, being on that mission was a big deal for everyone. A ticket punch. One of those young officers made a couple of stars in the Corps not long ago. The surrender is something no one wanted public then or now. But only me, Roosevelt and Carlson know about Crawford shooting Yaz. Everyone else thought it must have been the Japs. And that turned everyone against surrendering, because they figured if the Japs were going to shoot a man carrying a white flag in the open, that wasn’t an option.” He shrugged. “Yaz was just what do they call it? Incidental?”
“Collateral damage,” Kane said.
“Yeah.” Kinsman was exhausted. “In the big scheme, it wasn’t much of anything compared to some of the things I saw later in the war. Tarawa. Saipan. But the first friend you lose in combat is . . .” He trailed off, not finishing.
Kane stared at the green nylon band on his wrist faintly stained with Ted’s blood. He thought of taking over Ted’s platoon and all the new faces.
Mac spoke up. “You don’t make friends again. Not with anyone in the unit. Especially not with the new guys.”
Kinsman nodded at him. “That’s true.”
Kane looked to the right as the kitchen door swung open and Thao entered. “Dai Yu?” He had the canvas kit bag in one hand. It contained his crossbow, the Swedish K submachinegun and other assorted goodies.
“I know about not making new friends in combat,” Kane said to Mac and Kinsman. “But you got to hang on to those that survive.”
11
Friday Afternoon,
12 August 1977
HELL’S KITCHEN, MANHATTAN
Kane said goodbye to Kinsman and Mac, who wandered off to find a bar, then he asked Thao to remain in the diner and meet Plaikos when he arrived, much to the Montagnard’s chagrin. Kane made a quick call to Pope, asking the former newspaperman to dig up what he could on Crawford and James Roosevelt. All that accomplished, Kane stood on the corner of Washington and Gansevoort. A big black Caddy, the car of choice of mobsters, smoothly pulled to the curb.
Kane waited a moment, but no door opened. The passenger window powered down.
“Get the fuck in,” Matteo said.
Kane entered and indicated the cast. “How’s driving with that thing?”
“Fuck you.”
Matteo pulled into traffic and accelerated hard, throwing Kane back in the seat. “Should I buckle up?” Kane asked.
“I ain’t gonna crash,” Matteo said.
“Right.”
The positive aspect of riding with Matteo was he didn’t make small talk, not exactly Kane’s forte. They rode the rest of the way up the west side of Manhattan to Hell’s Kitchen, which was just above the rail yards which Matteo’s boss, Sophia Cappucci, was using Kane to negotiate with Roy Cohn who repped Donald Trump, developer, in order to get a piece of the action for the building of a convention center. It occurred to Kane that while the City was pretty big, it was actually very connected in many intriguing ways on a certain level. He wasn’t sure if that level was above or below, but given recent events, he leaned toward it being closer to hell than heaven. Which reminded him: “Hey, Matteo, do you know why they call this area Hell’s Kitchen?” Kane asked, violating his own small talk instincts in favor of Father Benedict’s history lesson.
Matteo glanced over at him as he leaned on the horn and shouted a curse in Italian at the bus in front of them while flipping an unseen middle finger inside the shaded windshield confines of the car. Matteo didn’t say no, so Kane leapt into the void.
“There are several theories, but the one I like is that Davy Crockett said that whenever he met an Irishman from New York City they were worse than savages and too mean to swab hell’s kitchen.”
Matteo laughed, transforming his face into something almost human. “Davy Crockett? I liked that show. What’s his name? Fess Parker? And the Irish? Yeah. Fuck them.”
Kane decided to quit while he was ahead, given it was just a story and not accurate. Matteo seemed to like it.
Sofia’s muscleman pulled the Caddy in front of a rundown garage.
“Can you give me a minute before coming in?” Kane asked, feeling the shadow of The Magnificent Seven plan that hadn’t worked to perfection in Boston.
“Yeah. Sure.”
As he left the Caddy, Kane wondered briefly whether Matteo could count to sixty. Despite the heat all the doors leading to the garage were closed. The sound of power tools echoed out of the brick building. Kane pulled open a door and entered. Whatever the police raid had been, it certainly hadn’t put the place out of a business. A half dozen high end cars were in various stages of disassembly. Four men were hard at work on a Mercedes. Th
ey didn’t notice Kane in the din of power tools and their focus on the car.
Kane went to the row of switches and flipped them off, plunging the garage into darkness, except for some sun struggling through dirty skylights thirty feet up. The power tools whined to silence.
Kane turned the lights back on. “Hey!”
The four exchanged questioning looks, then walked up to him, stopping in a semi-circle.
“What do you want?” the apparent leader, a fat, gray-haired man asked.
“You guys hurt a friend of mine. Kid named Ryan. He brought you a Cadillac last month for disposal. He didn’t rat you out, so leave him alone, please.”
Fattie wasn’t buying it. “The cops told us he was the rat. Why would they say that if he wasn’t?”
It was a good question that would require a lengthy and complicated answer, which Kane wasn’t in the mood to give. “The cops told you that because someone else told them about this place and wanted the Kid, Ryan, in trouble for other reasons. Just leave him alone.”
“Who the fuck are you to come in here and tell us what to do?” Fattie asked as one of the men picked up a large wrench. Another had a small sledgehammer in hand. The third in the supporting cast of fools held a crowbar. Fattie didn’t hold a tool but had a conspicuous bulge underneath his dirty shirt.
“I’m assuming my wonderful powers of persuasion will not suffice?”
“Fuck you,” Sledgehammer said as he swung his weapon of choice.
Kane ducked it and hit the back of the man’s elbow, accelerating the swing as the hammer slammed into the steel door behind him with a solid thud. The sound of the elbow buckling was sickening; if anyone was empathetic enough to care.
