Henry waited.
Pearce started again. She says, Dear John: This is going to be a very difficult letter for me to write. I wish I did not have to write it. But I think it would be unfair of me not to tell you. John, I am in love with Ronnie Coulson. He is a 4-F but I love him very much. I plan to marry him very soon. As a matter of fact we are getting married tonight. I made up my mind last night. When you get this letter we will be man and wife. Don’t write to me anymore. I know that you will be very happy without me and I wish you every possible success and happiness in the years to come.
Silence. Henry said, That’s all?
Yours sincerely, Louise Rapp.
And that’s it?
Well, that’s all she wrote. What do you think, Henry? You think she still loves me?
Henry considered, leaning on his mop handle and staring out the open window at the drill field. He thought of Wilma Fetterman. He thought of Mary Kovalchick. He thought of Lou Ann and Rosemary and Donna and Betsy and Mary Jane McElhoes. Johnny, he said, you been screwed, blued and double-tattooed.
Henry loved guard duty. He loved the General Orders: (1) To take charge of this post and all other government property I can get away with; (2) To walk my post in a military manner; and (3) To take no shit from the company commander.
He loved the V.D. movies.
He loved the Saturday morning inspection: loved to display his full-field equipment for Captain Kotzwinkle. Rifle on the right (from the captain’s point of view); then the handsome new gas mask on its case, then the six cans of C rations, then the Iron Pisspot (or helmet), then (above) his articles de toilette—cake of unused soap (Palmolive in olive drab wrapper), the comb (bristles pointing down), toothbrush (bristles to the right, pointing down), the razor blades, the safety razor (head to right), toothpaste tube (full, unsqueezed), the shaving brush (centered), the tiny canister of salt tablets, the open haversack, the bayonet (uncased), the canteen (open), the canteen cup, the mess gear (fork in middle, tines forward and up), the cartridge belt with canteen cover (attached), the first-aid packet (sealed) and, top row, his neatly folded shelter half (half a pup tent), his raincoat, his extra underwear, his tent cord (coiled), his entrenching tool and his five little tent pegs all in a row (points forward).
Henry loved rifle inspection. Loved it when the captain stood before him, followed by the platoon leader, and Henry snapped open the bolt of his rifle, jerked his head for a glance into receiver and chamber, thrust the rifle out and the captain snatched it with a rattle of metal and wood, peered into bore (lovingly cleaned and polished by Henry), thrust it back at him, murmured “Good work, soldier” and moved on. Henry tingled with pride. He loved the captain, that grave gray-eyed gray-haired man hedged about with the untouchable sanctity of an officer. (An enlisted man must never, never, NEVER touch an officer, instructed Sergeant Bell. Why not, Sergeant Bell? Because if you do, Private Lightcap, God will strike you dead. And if He don’t I will.)
Yes, Henry loved his rifle. He loved his bayonet—the firm heft of it in his hand, the carbon steel blade, the sleek blood groove—but best of all he loved his rifle, the U.S. Cal. .30, M-1 (Garand), a gas-operated clip-fed self-loading shoulder weapon.
Men, said Sergeant Bell, this here wee-pon is called the M-1. This is a good wee-pon and the purpose of this here wee-pon is to kill folks with. You all remember that. Now how do you go about killing folks with this wee-pon? Pay attention….
He loved the target range.
Ready on the right. Ready on the left. Ready on the firing line. (Pause.) Commence firing.
Henry lay in prone position, loop sling tightened, body at forty-five degrees to line of aim, legs well apart, cheek against stock, eye close to rear sight. Right forefinger inside trigger guard, he aligned his smoke-blackened sights with the base of the bull’s-eye five hundred yards away, exhaled slightly for steadiness and squeezed the trigger. Slowly, gently. Shooting for record. The butt plate jolted against his shoulder.
Call your shot, said his coach, Lieutenant Kelly.
Bull’s-eye, three o’clock. Sir.
They watched the target sink into the pit, vanish, then rise. The white disk marker came up and hovered for a moment before the black disk of the bull’s-eye, the spotter a touch off-center, to the left. A five at nine o’clock.
Very good, Lightcap. But check your windage. See the flag? We’ve got a nine to ten mile-an-hour wind coming from the right.
Henry turned his windage knob one point to the right—four clicks. His next shot was centered. Zero. And the next. And the next. After nine shots he had a perfect score: 45. One more to go. Pleased, the lieutenant fed him another cartridge. You’re doing good, Lightcap. Damn good. One more in the bull’s-eye and we’ll wrap this up.
Henry wanted that Expert’s medal so bad he could taste it. If Will could do it he could do it. He grinned at the boy on his right, Herbert Waxler. A flinch shooter, involuntarily closing his eyes and jerking the trigger when he fired, Waxler was missing most of his shots. Waxler hated Germans; but he feared guns. A paradoxical, self-contradictory position. Waxler would not qualify and Henry gloated because Henry did not like Waxler; nobody liked a pompous young man who used the word feces when he meant shit. He saw Waxler staring with resignation at the red danger flag—Maggie’s drawers—waving once again across his target. Another clean miss.
How you doing, Herbie?
Lieutenant Kelly spoke quietly but sharply in Henry’s ear. Mind your own business, Lightcap. Concentrate on your target.
Yes sir. Henry chambered his final round, closed the bolt, took a deep breath, exhaled partially and centered his sights on the target. The target in his sights.
Now, the lieutenant whispered, squeeze…that…trigger.
Slowly, with love and care, Henry squeezed his trigger. Whump! went the rifle. He did not flinch.
Waxler fired at the same moment.
Call your shot, Lieutenant Kelly said.
Dead center, Henry said.
Happily, coach and student watched Henry’s target being lowered into the pit, then saw it reappear. Much too quickly. The red flag fluttered across the target. A total miss. They gaped in surprise.
You didn’t blink, did you Lightcap?
No sir. No sir.
They heard a cry of joy on their right. The white disk marker was centered on the bull’s-eye of Waxler’s target. Waxler’s first, last and only perfect shot.
Lightcap, said Lieutenant Kelly, you fired at Waxler’s target.
Henry, his rifle still in aiming position, looked across his sights. God, Lieutenant—you’re right. That’s what I did.
Excessive pride, Lightcap. Hubris. See what it cost you? The lieutenant glanced quickly up and down the firing line, then slipped Henry an extra cartridge. Cheating a bit. Here you go. Quick, shoot, before they lower your target.
Henry loaded, aimed, fired. Too quickly. His target went down, came up. The red disk spotter rose with it, indicating a four at six o’clock.
The range commander shouted through the P.A. system: Cease firing. Clear rifles.
Henry had missed a perfect score at five hundred yards by one point. Lieutenant Kelly was disappointed; Henry was angry. He stayed angry through the remaining trials, through the kneeling, sitting, offhand and rapid-fire shooting, and ended his afternoon on the range three points short of qualifying as an Expert. He had to be content with the Sharpshooter’s rating. Once again Brother Will had beaten him.
But Henry loved the Army, all the same. He loved the night patrols. He loved crawling through barbed wire under a low ceiling of live machine-gun fire. He enjoyed the twenty-mile march with full field pack, the bivouac in the rain among the chiggers, mosquitoes, water moccasins and rattlesnakes, the tactical training on the surprise-target range where cardboard Japs with bucktooth grins popped suddenly from foxholes and Henry blazed away, shooting from the hip as he and his platoon marched forward in ragged skirmish line.
Henry failed to love only one course i
n his basic training. That was the weekly information and education class—the I&E. Henry did not love First Lieutenant Manning, from regimental headquarters, who warned Henry and his comrades, week after week, that life was serious, that the military was in earnest, that someday soon he and his buddies would be loaded aboard a troopship for the Far Pacific and launched with a nation’s official blessing into the mad adventure of their first and terminal amphibious assault. Into the red mouth of the Setting Sun.
In late July, at the last meeting of the class, Lieutenant Manning concluded his lecture and asked for questions from “the men.” Nobody spoke. Even Herbert Waxler had nothing to say. A troubled silence lay upon the one hundred teenage boys of Dog Company. The lieutenant was about to leave when Henry rose from his bench in the bleacher seats and dared to ask the one question that had been uppermost in his mind for seventeen weeks. Standing at attention, as required, and framing his thought pro forma, Henry said, Lieutenant Manning, sir?
The lieutenant paused. Yes?
Henry swallowed, palms sweating, and said, Why?
Why what?
A second pause. Well sir, you tell us the Japs have lost nearly all their empire, their navy is destroyed, their air force is gone, the home islands are under blockade and the people are starving. Looks like they lost the war.
Almost. What’s the question, Private?
So—why? Why do we have to invade Honshu? Sir.
Final pause. Lieutenant Manning said, Remember Pearl Harbor, soldier? As we did the Alamo? We are going to invade Japan because—the lieutenant’s voice rose suddenly in pitch, becoming harsh, strident—Why? Because we must invade Japan in order to achieve complete final absolute and unconditional victory. He glared at Henry Lightcap. That’s why, soldier.
Silence. For a moment.
But sir, thought Henry—but the words came out aloud—that’s insane. We’ll get killed.
Silence again. The lieutenant stared at Henry as if Henry were a strange, repulsive, unidentifiable insect crawling from the lieutenant’s soup. Then he turned to First Sergeant Bell. Take that man’s name, Sergeant. See that he gets some special information and education this evening.
Yes sir. With pleasure, sir.
Henry spent three hours that evening, after regular duty, at close-order drill (solo) under the personal supervision of Corporal Hinton. Henry carried his rifle and wore his steel helmet, cartridge belt, canteen, gas mask and full field pack. Fifty pounds.
Halt. Ry-aht…face! Awh-dah…harms! Henry stood at rigid attention, facing Corporal Hinton. Sweat poured in rivulets, in streams, down the boy’s despairing exalted martyr’s face. He stank with sweat. His heavy green fatigue suit was black with sweat. While Corporal Hinton, cool and comfortable in starched pressed bleached-out khaki, an overseas cap perched jauntily on his potlike head, faced Henry with pleasure and conviction.
Pravvit Lat-cap: what is the fust an’ mos’ imPOtent doodee of the soljah?
Obedience, Corporal Hinton.
Thass raht. An’ when may a soljah question an odah, Pravvit Lat-cap?
Absolutely never, Corporal Hinton.
Thass raht. Now: when you-all is odahed t’ march t’ shore on that Honshu Owl-lan’ whut will y’all do?
I will march ashore on Honshu Island, Corporal Hinton.
An’ will y’all question that odah?
Never, Corporal Hinton.
Nevah?
Absolutely never, Corporal Hinton.
Corporal Hinton looked at his wristwatch. The time was 2130 hours. The sweet stinking Alabama twilight stretched about them like a patient etherized upon a table. Fireflies drifted from point to point in discontinuous noncontiguous flight, like neutrinos, through the dark corridors among the trainee hutments. Mad crazed kamikaze June bugs smashed themselves with joy against the lighted windows. From Hutment B, Henry’s squad room, came the fluttering sound of playing cards. Poker. Corporal Hinton checked his watch again and contemplated, with satisfaction, the glaze-eyed and trembling Henry Lightcap. He drew himself up for the final order: Pravvit Lat-cap…dee-ass-missed!
Beaten on the outside, defiant on the inside, Henry staggered back to kennel. He’d learned his lesson. Never give information to the enemy, directly or indirectly. He and Ken Wolfe agreed privately, as privates, that they would never invade the home islands of Japan. Not personally. When ordered to the Pacific theater they would go AWOL. Hide out in the Smoky Mountains, build a cabin high in the forest, live off bear meat and poke greens. Or maybe better, tag along with the troops as far as Seattle, then sneak off into British Columbia, Alaska, the Yukon, marry Eskimo squaws, never come back. Never come home. The penalty for desertion—if caught—might be death. But the penalty for obedience was definitely death and in that respect they were already caught. They told no one else of the secret war plan, not even their close friends Earl Kinter and Johnny Pearce. Two was enough. Three was dangerous.
The secret Lightcap—Wolfe agreement was reached late at night during latrine duty, on the same day that Truman-Stalin-Atlee at Potsdam repeated the Allied ultimatum to Japan: unconditional surrender or total destruction. This message our leaders called “an appeal for peace.”
When the news of Hiroshima reached Alabama, Henry’s first reaction was a thrill of joy, followed by an immediate sense of relief. But he and the others were at once reminded by the officers that the war must go on. Henry felt depressed. On August 9, Nagasaki Day, things looked up again. But again they were reminded that Japan had not yet surrendered. His spirits sank. Again. On August 10, with the Soviets invading Manchuria, Japan offered to surrender. Henry felt better. But their officers pointed out that Japan was not yet actually occupied by American forces nor the treaty of peace signed. Henry worried. (The officers were worried too—peace looming over them.) On September 2 the armistice was formalized in Tokyo Bay. Henry felt better. The Japanese had been allowed to keep their filthy emperor after all, which had been, as we later learned, the only sticking point for months. On September 3 American forces occupied Tokyo and fanned out over Honshu Island, meeting no resistance anywhere. The emperor had spoken: Shit, he snarled, and sixty million sheep squatted and strained. Henry felt he could relax. But then the officers began talking about the deadly menace of Communist Russia; evidently the war, in one form or another, was meant to continue. Henry worried again. Perhaps the war would go on forever. And after Russia, what? Who then would be the enemy? China? But China was ours. But there was still Yugoslavia to worry about. And Bulgaria. And Albania. Henry felt sad. He was becoming a worrier.
In early September, after a two-week furlough at home, things took a turn for the better. Henry and friends were shipped not to the Pacific but to Italy on a converted Italian liner called La Mariposa—the butterfly. In Naples, Italy, as a member of the Army of Occupation (the chief occupation being a wild black market in cigarettes, C rations, peeps, jeeps and nylon hosiery), Henry acquired a mistress, learned to ride a motorcycle, discovered pizza pie and grand opera and finally began to enjoy the endless war. Why not? Might as well. All governments need enemies.
Only one thing would bother him a little in the years to come. Whenever he remembered the early days of August 1945 and his conspiracy with Ken Wolfe to desert the Army of the United States, he felt a sense of shame. A sense of shame that faded gradually with the decades but never left his memory. Shame about what?
That thrill of joy on August 6?
That was half of it. But the other half was the same old trap: how could he even have considered letting those other guys—his friends, his buddies, his mates—invade Honshu Island without him? Without Henry? He could not have done it. Never. Not that they needed him; they’d have managed to die without Henry’s help. But maybe he needed them.
That’s how they get you.
A man by himself hasn’t got a fucking chance.
9
Into the Past
Eastward, eastward, at seventy miles per hour, engine loping, keeping my eyes peeled, my
eyeballs skinned, for the highway patrol. Remembering that my operator’s license expired six months ago, I lift my heavy boot off the gas pedal at the top of the grade, shift into Mexican overdrive—neutral—and let the old truck coast down the east side of the continental divide. She rocks and rattles over the patches in the asphalt, wheezing, clanking, slowing to sixty, fifty, forty, surrendering (as we all must) to friction and entropy.
Should avoid these main highways. Must remember not to forget. Stick to the secondary roads from Albuquerque on. Yes sir.
My “irritable colon” is acting up. You might call it that. I take the first exit east of Prewitt, turn again up a dirt lane across a cattleguard into a bunch of junipers. Stop. The midget forest. My dog roams about, sniffing rabbit sign. I dig a cathole on the south side of a happy juniper and squat among the sun-dried cow pies. All forms of excretion are pleasant, said James Joyce. Not always true. I inspect my stool for signs of mortality: it’s loose, structurally weak. Unsound. Much too dark.
Too much fear and panic in my viscera. The cold chilblains on my heart. How can one little wo-man, one little wif-mann, do this to me? Me, Henry Lightcap, six feet four inches of bone, hair, hide, gristle and nerve and it all turns to jelly when a girl barely old enough to wipe her nose walks out on me.
I cover the hole. Still squatting, I discover I’ve forgotten to bring any paper with me. I reach up, break off some bunchy handfuls of juniper and wipe myself clean in the ancient Navajo manner. Rough but adequate. Scratchy but—curiously refreshing.
Blue lupine, purple owl clover and golden desert marigold bloom at the side of the road. Such lush splendor. Such abundant faith. Such suchness. Next time use flowers.
The wind rushes through the wing windows as Solstice and I race through the badlands, the coal-black lava fields, toward the town of Grants, New Mexico. WELCOME TO THE URANIUM CAPITAL OF AMERICA says a billboard on the outskirts. We’ll see about that. Looks more like a fanbelt capital to me. I stop at the first Serve-Ur-Self station for gasoline and a seven-course lunch: pack of beef jerky and a sixpack of beer. God is great, God is good/let us thank him for our food.