Yes, she’d just go ahead and play out the string. Because it kept getting better, didn’t it? Optima futura. That pretty much said it all.
Prowling wolves
by Liz Martínez
Chicago, Illinois
The Pima Indian huddles on the ground in the foxhole, his M1 rifle propped upright between his legs. He is awake and watchful while his fellow marine, Bill Faulkner, curls up nearby, getting some shut-eye. The darkness is pervasive, and he sees what he thinks might be shadows. Or maybe they aren’t. He keeps his ears open, straining to make sense of the rustling noise. Other marines? The enemy? There isn’t any way to tell.
The most important thing is not to fall asleep. He’s responsible for keeping himself and Faulkner safe. He has to stay awake. It’s not a problem for him, though. If he gets sleepy, he just concentrates on the smell. In the two days they’ve been on Bougainville, the marines of Easy Company have been pinned down in their foxholes in a monsoon, then trapped under the scorching sun. They all stink.
He turns his head, trying to match shapes to the rustles he hears. He can see better in the darkness out of the corner of his eye than by looking at objects straight on. The change of position causes the stench to hit him again. Not just his own rank body odor, but the smell of blood. And guts. And decaying bodies. Already, there are bodies ready to be shipped home. Young men who knew they’d be the lucky ones to make it back to America — but they’d figured on doing so alive.
He glances over at Faulkner. He’s glad his buddy is able to get some sleep, but he can’t figure out how the guy can do it. The adrenaline courses through his own body, keeping him from ever really sleeping. This isn’t new. Even back home on the reservation, he could hardly rack up any sack time. Instead of adrenaline, feelings of guilt, remorse, and shame would torture him in the nighttime. Not over anything specific. Or rather, over everything. A white man’s purposeful slight. A buddy who made a thoughtless remark. Anything, really. During the day, he could find ways to cope. But at night — that was different.
He turns his head again to try to see what’s going on in the darkness around them. He doesn’t hear or see anything, but he strains to listen and penetrate the darkness anyway.
He feels an abrupt thud that reverberates down his arms, and he hears screaming right next to him. The adrenaline courses through his body at full speed. He doesn’t know what just happened, but his rifle seems to have a mind of its own, jerking and pulling out of his hands. He grabs it back by reflex.
All of a sudden, he realizes what’s going on. An enemy soldier tried to sneak up on him, and when he moved to attack, impaled himself on the Indian’s bayonet at the end of the rifle.
He yanks the rifle back, pulling the bayonet out of the Jap’s stomach. He’s running on animal instinct now. He picks up the rifle in both hands and punctures the enemy soldier’s body over and over. He’s stabbing the man with his bayonet, but the man keeps moving. He knows he must kill him or be killed. So he keeps thrusting. Again and again, he heaves the rifle downward, pulls it back, hurls it into the man’s body.
He is so consumed with his own personal combat that he’s in another world. “Chief, stop! He’s dead. You killed him. Knock it off!”
He can hardly hear the other marine over the roar in his ears. He’s barely aware of the guy’s hand gripping his shoulder, shaking him. “Ira. Ira!”
His lids popped open. Sergeant Beech’s fingers squeezed his shoulder at the nerve point, sending the pain radiating down his arm. The Indian twitched to shake the sergeant’s hand off. Beech gripped him by the upper arm to lift him to his feet. The roar of the audience’s applause subsided as Rene Gagnon sat down next to Ira on the dais again. Gagnon shot him a disgusted look and turned back to his dessert.
The Indian stood up, stretched, and opened his mouth in a huge yawn. The audience responded in kind. They looked like a sea of goldfish swimming toward the surface for food. Beech grinned. This gave him a kick every time it happened.
He shoved Ira toward the microphone. “Tell ’em...”
But the Indian knew what to do. He stood before the microphone and confronted the audience of Chicagoans who had turned out to see the heroes. His mouth always got dry at this point. He was never a man to use many words, and his vocabulary seemed to abandon him in front of a crowd.
“I hope you buy lots of war bonds,” he said.
He sat down again.
The crowd in the hotel ballroom erupted in applause and cheering. Ira wasn’t really aware of them. He was busy looking around. Beech knew what he wanted and leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Later, chief.” He patted the Indian’s shoulder reassuringly.
Ira didn’t want to wait until later. He needed some booze now. He was thinking about how to attract the waiter’s attention without attracting the attention of the audience. He barely heard Bradley, now at the microphone, denying they were anything special.
“We’re not heroes.” Bradley gestured to himself, Gagnon, and Ira Hayes. “We just put up a flag. The real heroes are the ones who died fighting on Iwo Jima. Please buy war bonds to honor their memory.”
The crowd went wild. The band started up again, and the room exploded in a cacophony of chatter, laughter, and music.
Beech slapped Ira on the shoulder. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go.”
Ira got up eagerly. Keyes Beech was always ready to bend an elbow.
Gagnon sneered. “What’s the matter, chief? Can’t wait to start drinking again? Fuckin’ drunken Indian.” He muttered the last part.
Ira went cold, then hot. His fists curled.
Then Bradley poked Gagnon. “Hey, come on. Ira’s working as hard as we are. Lay off.”
Beech steered Ira away from the dais, and it was over. “Don’t listen to him. This bond tour is getting to all of us. He’s just blowing off a little steam. Hey, a buddy of mine tipped me about this great bar in the Loop. Let’s go check it out.”
Ira didn’t say a word. He just followed Beech out of the hotel, listening to the sergeant’s nonstop chatter. He had no need to talk. Beech said enough words for both of them.
Ira didn’t feel at home anywhere, but he felt the least uncomfortable in a bar. Just walking inside, inhaling the familiar bar smells — old beer overlayed with cigarette smoke — made the churning in his stomach stop. The act of sitting on a bar stool gave him that relaxed feeling. Then he gripped the glass in his hand, and even before the first swallow, he felt at peace.
The whiskey had just begun spreading its comforting warmth in his stomach when it started.
“Hey, aren’t you that guy from the picture?”
“You’re a hero, man. Lemme buy you a drink!”
“Look who’s here — he’s one of the ones who put the flag up! Bartender, this marine’s money’s no good tonight!”
Beech loved it. His job was to chaperone the three flag-raisers as they toured the country on the 7th War Loan Bond Drive, raising money for the boys overseas. But Bradley was a pretty straight arrow, and Gagnon, with his movie-star good looks, had no trouble fending for himself. Ira was the one he had to babysit. The Indian was likely to wander off somewhere and get into a fight, then not remember how to get back to the latest hotel in the latest city. Or even remember which city he was in.