Peleliu, 1944
Peleliu, 1944
Outside the wind ripped up off of the Atlantic, rattling the windows in their casings. Ken sat in a chair, reading a book on Okinawa. His father was in the Commander’s office, and winter had truly settled in around the Groton Submarine Base.
The Commander’s assistant worked away on a new computer and an old man sat in a chair to the left of the Commander’s door. The old man was short, his clothes neatly pressed and his shoes shined. His white hair was clipped close to the skin and he glanced at Ken over the top of a magazine called Leatherneck.
The man closed the magazine and put it down on the small table beside his chair.
“What are you reading, son?” the old man asked.
“Typhoon of Steel, sir,” Ken answered, politely closing the book.
“How old are you?”
“Ten sir.”
“And you’re Mike’s boy?”
“Yes sir.” Ken answered.
“Of course you are,” the old man smiled. “You read a lot?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good, good.” The man took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his breast pocket, put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, then, put the pack and the lighter away. He exhaled and looked at Ken through the smoke. “You know why I smoke, son?”
Ken shook his head.
“Because of those damned islands, including Okinawa.”
Ken felt his eyes widen. “You were there?”
The old man nodded. “I carried a flame-thrower. Napalm. Had to corkscrew and blowtorch those little slant eyed bastards out of their holes.”
The assistant looked up from his computer, saying, “John.”
“Ah hell,” the old man said. “What in the hell am I supposed to call those Nip fuckers? Imperial Japanese soldiers?” the old man asked. “Fuck that,” he said, stabbing the cigarette at the assistant. “Besides, he’s Mike’s boy. I’m sure he’s heard worse.”
The assistant sighed, shook his head and returned to his work.
“Anyway,” the old man said, turning his attention back to Ken. “When I was on Okinawa I carried the flame-thrower. God damned heavy weapon. I was only a hundred pounds in my boondockers, and when that pig was full, she weighed right around seventy pounds. Big old bomb strapped on my back.
“Lost a few friends to those blowing up,” the old man said softly. He looked at his cigarette, then, smiled. “You know what, though?”
“No sir, what?” Ken asked.
“It was worth the risk.” He nodded to himself. “Those fuckin’ Japs were terrified of that God damned thing. You could hear’em hollarin’ in their holes and their boxes when they knew I was coming.”
The old man leaned forward.
“You see, we worked in teams. Couple of rifleman and a BAR man would put down some suppressing fire on the Jap position, then another guy with a satchel charge or grenades would work his way up and toss the explosives into the gun port. Now,” the old man said, his voice dropping low, “when that happened, I’d follow right behind them and cook those little bastards.”
The old man grinned to himself, settling back into his chair once more. “See, my kid brother was killed at Tarawa. Those yellow bastards needed to pay. And that’s where the flame-thrower came in.
“Most guys thought I was nuts, but I knew how afraid the Japs were of it. And I hope that they felt the same kind of fear my brother felt wading through that fucking water into machinegun fire.
“Christ,” the old man said, smashing the butt of his cigarette out in the ashtray beside him. “I must’ve fried hundreds of the bastards. Maybe a thousand. Maybe more.”
“Really?” Ken asked.
“Really,” John said as he lit another cigarette. “Anyway, where the hell was I?”
“The cigarettes, sir. Why you smoke them,” Ken said.
John smiled. “That’s right. You’re bright and polite. Speaks well about your father, son.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ken said.
John waved the thanks away, took a pull off of the cigarette, then he held it in front of him, looking at the glowing tip and the smoke curling up from it. “I started smoking these ‘cause of the smell of death,” John said. “Not the ones I cooked, but the others.” He put the cigarette back into his mouth, smiling. “Well, those others, son, they got up to a hell of a stink.”
“John,” the assistant said.
Both Ken and John looked over at the Commander’s assistant.
“Maybe you shouldn’t say any more?” the man said to John.
John narrowed his eyes and stabbed the cigarette at the man. “Mind your business, you fucking squid. He’s a smart boy.”
The assistant raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, what the fuck do you know,” John grunted, looking back to Ken. “He’s just pissy ‘cause I won’t tell him anything. Your father, son, he knows. He’s been in it.” He finished the cigarette, grinding the butt out in the tray. “But yeah, picked up the habit because of those damned Nips. Helps to calm my nerves, too. I don’t sleep much, son, not much at all.”
Ken and John sat there for a moment, the sound of the assistant typing filling the silence.
“I remember things now,” John said, nodding. “I do. Things that I’d thought I’d forgotten. Terrible things.” John lit another cigarette, looking up at the ceiling as he exhaled. “At Peleliu the Japs cut us apart as we landed. I saw Tommy get cut in half by a nambu, and I swear some of the Skipper’s brains ended up in my mouth.
“Getting off of that beach and into the coral was hard as hell, son,” John said, looking at Ken. “Your friends get hurt and you want to help them. And you get scared. Terribly scared. You just want to hide, but you don’t. No,” John said, shaking his head. “You’re a Marine. You do what you’re taught to.
“Get off the fucking beach.”
“On Peleliu is where I first smoked,” John said. “There were so many dead that they couldn’t be buried right away. The heat on that damned island,” the old Marine shook his head.
“Hard work,” he continued, “lugging that bitch into position. Cooking the nips in their holes.”
Ken held the book tightly, listening. He watched John smoke, his eyes half-closed.
The assistant cleared his throat and John and Ken looked over at him.
“Did they stink as they burned?” the sailor asked.
“The Nips?” John asked.
The man nodded.
Ken looked back to John, a faraway smile on the old man’s face.
“No,” John said. “Not at all. Kind of smelled like a pig roast. Just made me hungry.”