“They’re up the hill!” Mutt shouts, pointing with his rifle. “Take cover!”
They scurry around the backside of trees, or lie squeezed up next to fallen trunks. What they should do: retreat slowly, from tree to tree, back down the hill to safety. Because fighting a well-fortified, well-armed enemy positioned on higher ground is a losing proposition. They must retreat.
But they don’t.
They hunker down. Then slowly, inch by inch, foot by foot, tree by tree, like men possessed, they press forward. Up the slippery slopes, cold mud sliding under their uniforms, sludging along their skin.
Until the Germans, even those on higher ground and better armed, find themselves staring at the wild, obsessed eyes of a mud-covered soldier throwing himself over the rim of their machine-gun nest and spraying bullets with a manic cry. Or watching a live grenade land into their artillery station, and rolling casually against one of their German boots. Or peering through the scope of the Walther G43 sniper rifle only to land on another sniper with his rifle pointed right back; a curious Kaugummifresser, this one, in an American uniform but why is there a Japanese face on—
Until the Germans find themselves overrun and overmatched.
By dusk, the 442nd has captured that hill.
But there are many more hills between them and the Lost Battalion. They covered only two miles today. Still three more to go. Three more miles into the heart of wet dark cold hell.
* * *
The next day, even worse. Hails of bullets gush down the hillsides in a waterfall of death from concealed positions with clear lines of fire. Mortar shells rain down on them, the explosions hellacious thunderclaps that rattle their skulls, shake the ground. German snipers take down those cowering on the backsides of trees.
All day the ground shudders, trees explode, sending out rocks, bark, hot metal shrapnel; all day men die.
But like yesterday, the 442nd push forward. Toward the Lost Battalion. Retreat not an option.
* * *
Night descends in the dense forest, cold, inky, heavy, black. Alex is alive. He did not expect to be. Others have died, their dying screams still echoing in his ears. But here he is, heart still beating, digging out a slit trench as best he can with his helmet. Mutt and Teddy beside him, Teddy digging with a trenching knife, Mutt with an empty mess kit.
They dig until exhaustion claims their wrecked arms. Alex, the skinniest of them, squeezes in and scrapes out space at the bottom for their legs, giving the trench an L shape. Without that, they’d be sitting cramped all night with kneecaps pressed up against their chins. They sit on their helmets, the bottom of the trench already filled with freezing water.
They break out their K rations. They eat the cold beans and stale bread grimly, dutifully. A long, savage day; they covered only one mile. Tomorrow, they’ll have to cover two miles to reach the Lost Battalion. They try not to think about this.
The shelling begins an hour later. The ground rocked, tree trunks exploding and spraying out blades of white-hot metal and wood shrapnel. A soldier, on his way to a pond to refill empty canteens, leaps into their trench for shelter. The canteens rattling behind him like shaken bones.
At least the darkness conceals them. The Krauts are only guessing. The hours pass slowly with nothing to do but sit in their slit trenches, eyes heavy, backs screaming, while explosions rip the forest apart, hoping that the shells don’t come any nearer, that the tree bursts stay on the other side of camp, or better yet, move farther afield.
* * *
Alex opens his eyes, not sure if he’s actually slept. His left foot is a cauldron of heat. The pain like scalding hot water being poured on his foot.
“Braddah,” Mutt says sleepily in the dark, eyes half opened. “You okay?”
Alex is not. He has trench foot, a condition caused by the constant exposure to cold and moisture. He knows without even having to look that the skin on his foot is wrinkled and gooey-soft, the tissue beneath infected.
“I’m fine,” he says, wincing.
“Want me to take a look?”
“Nah. Probably can’t even yank it out of my boot, it’s that swollen. Besides, don’t wanna be caught barefoot if they surprise-attack.”
Mutt lights a Camel and takes a long drag. He holds it out to Alex. “I got lots more, brah.”
Alex takes it, nodding his thanks.
Mutt rubs the ball of his hand into his eye. “So damn tired but can’t sleep. Keep hearing them sounds, you know? The screams.” He takes out another cigarette, lights it up, careful to keep the flame below the rim, out of sight from German scopes. Around his ankles, floating in the puddle of rainwater, five or six butts float like sickly water lilies.
A faint drizzle, fine as mist, sprinkles down.
At the end of the trench, someone shifts. The soldier with all the empty canteens. He’s from the 100th Battalion, he’d told them. Fighting since Salerno, over a year ago. He grunts; a moment later comes the hollow sound of water trickling into metal. He’s pissing into his helmet. Finished, he tosses it out, then scoops muddy water from the trench bottom into the helmet. Swishes an expert swirl before flinging that out. Slaps the helmet back on, and is asleep almost immediately, lines of dirty water trailing down his face and neck.
“That’ll be us someday,” Mutt whispers, staring at the soldier. “Seen everything, feel nothing no more. Nothing on your conscience. Can see death all day and then sleep like a baby all night.”
Alex closes his eyelids. Sticks his tongue out to catch raindrops.
“I’m glad Belinda dumped me,” Mutt says unexpectedly, his voice low and soft.
Alex opens his eyes. “What?”
“Belinda. I’m glad she said no.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I proposed. She said no. Got her Dear John letter a few days ago.”
“No way.”
Mutt pulls his rifle against his chest. A condom is wrapped around the muzzle end with a rubber band to keep dry the ammunition inside. “I’m glad. No, really. Because when I get back to Hawaii I’ll be, you know, this different guy. A brute. An animal. Like that lolo chump”—he points to the snoring soldier at the end of their trench—“and nothing like the decent young man she remembers me as.”
Alex shifts his position in the tight quarters. “You’re still the same, Mutt. I mean, you stink right now. And you look horrendous. But you’re the same guy.”
Mutt takes a long drag on his cigarette, flicks the short butt to the bottom of the trench. “We’ve all changed, brah.” He pulls out another smoke. “How’re things with your girl?”
“What girl?”
A small taut smile crosses Mutt’s lips. “Right.” He lights his cigarette, looks at Alex. “The girl you talked about once. In that bar in Hattiesburg.”
Alex shrugs.
“Come on, brah,” Mutt says. “I see you take out that ragged piece of paper every day. The drawing of that girl. I see the way you look at it.”
Alex leans his head back. “Her name’s Charlie.”
“Charlie?”
“Yeah. She’s French. From Paris.”
A moment passes.
“Why you never talk about her?”
Alex stays quiet. Rain falls harder now, filling the air with a static hiss. After a minute, he speaks quietly, his voice barely audible. “We wrote to each other all the time. For years. Shared everything about our lives. But it’s been two years since I last heard from her.” He shuts his eyes. His eyelids feel impossibly heavy, and he can feel a wetness gathering behind them. A minute passes, and another, and he finds himself speaking again.
“On my worst days, I think she’s gone. As in, dead.” He shakes his head. “Or maybe she’s still alive. I don’t know.” He touches the breast pocket of his shirt, feels the slight bulge of folded paper in a waterproof pouch. “Maybe that’s why I keep looking at this drawing. It’s my way of keeping her alive. That make sense? It’s like, the day I don’t look at her is the day
she finally…”
In the distance, a mortar strikes. But it is far away, the sound muted.
Alex takes off his helmet, tilts his head up at the pouring rain. “She seems so far away. Not just her. But my whole life back on Bainbridge Island. The strawberry farm. My school. My dog. Everything that once made me happy. They feel a million miles away and a billion years ago. Like none of it was real.” Raindrops pellet his face, cold and hard, mixing with his tears and making rivulets that flow down his cheeks, his neck. “Even my parents. And my brother, he’s never written back to me, not a single letter. Honest, some days it feels like … none of them ever existed.” He looks at Mutt. “I’m a terrible person, aren’t I, Mutt?”