Tales of the South Pacific - James A. Michener [192]
"That little Jewish photographic officer you had?" I asked, sick at the stomach.
"He's dead," the man shouted. He jumped up. "The old man's dead. The cook's dead. But Harbison is back in New Mexico." He shouted and started to cry.
"Knock it off!" a Marine colonel cried.
"The man's a shock case," I said. The colonel came over.
"Yeah. He's the guy from the transport. Fished him out of the drink. Give him some morphine. But for Christ's sake shut him up. Now where the hell is that extra .50 caliber ammo?"
The reports dragged in. We were exactly where Alligator said we should be. Everything according to plan. That is, all but one detail. Casualties were far above estimate. It was that bastard Hyaichi. We hadn't figured on him. We hadn't expected a Cal Tech honors graduate to be waiting for us on the very beach we wanted.
"We'll have to appoint a new beach master," a young officer reported to the Colonel.
"Ours get it?" the colonel asked.
"Yessir. He went inland with the troops."
"Goddam it!" the colonel shouted. "I told Fry a hundred times..."
"It wasn't his fault, sir. Came when the Japs made that surprise attack on the flank."
There was sound of furious firing to the west. The colonel looked up.
"Well," he said. "We lost a damned good beach master. You take over tomorrow. And get that ammo in and up."
I grabbed the new beach master by the arm. "What did you say?" I whispered.
"Fry got his."
"Tony Fry?"
"Yes. You know him?"
"Yes," I said weakly. "How?"
"If you know him, you can guess." The young officer wiped his face. "His job on the beach was done. No more craft coming in. We were attacking the blockhouse. Fry followed us in. Our captain said, 'Better stay back there, lieutenant. This is Marines' work.' Fry laughed and turned back. That was when the Japs hit from the cliffs. Our own rockets wiped out some of our men. Fry grabbed a carbine. But the Japs got him right away. Two slugs in the belly. He kept plugging along. Finally fell over. Didn't even fire the carbine once."
I felt sick. "Thanks," I said.
The colonel came over to look at the man from LARU-8. He grabbed my arm. "What's the matter, son? You better take a shot of that sleeping stuff yourself," he said.
"I'm all right," I said. "I was thinking about a couple of guys."
"We all are," the colonel said. He had the sad, tired look that old men wear when they have sent young men to die.
Looking at him, I suddenly realized that I didn't give a damn about Bill Harbison. I was mad for Tony Fry. That free, kind, independent man. In my bitterness I dimly perceived what battle means. In civilian life I was ashamed until I went into uniform. In the States I was uncomfortable while others were overseas. At Noumea I thought, "The guys on Guadal! They're the heroes!" But when I reached Guadal I found that all the heroes were somewhere farther up the line. And while I sat in safety aboard the LCS-108 I knew where the heroes were. They were on Kuralei. Yet, on the beach itself only a few men ever really fought the Japs. I suddenly realized that from the farms, and towns, and cities all over America an unbroken line ran straight to the few who storm the blockhouses. No matter where along that line you stood, if you were not the man at the end of it, the ultimate man with his sweating hands upon the blockhouse, you didn't know what war was. You had only an intimation, as of a bugle blown far in the distance. You might have flashing insights, but you did not know. By the grace of God you would never know.
Alone, a stranger from these men who had hit the beaches, I went out to dig a place to sleep. Two men in a foxhole were talking. Eager for some kind of companionship, I listened in the darkness.
"Don't give me that stuff," one was saying. "Europe is twice as tough as this!"
"You talk like nuts," a younger voice retaliated. "These yellows is the toughest fighters in