Not that Beech minded hanging out with Ira. Hell no. The guy attracted attention wherever he went. And he was so modest he hardly said two words in a whole night. So people began talking to Beech instead. Beech was a tech sergeant and war correspondent. He told the war stories that people wanted to hear from Ira, but that Ira would never talk about. After a few drinks, it didn’t matter who was talking. Everyone was a hero by that time. And the booze flowed, so Beech was happy. And Ira was happy.
Except Beech didn’t think Ira was so happy. Oh well. Nothing he could do about it. The only one Ira would talk to was “Doc” Bradley, and Bradley wasn’t really a drinker.
So that left the two of them. Two little Injuns, he thought, and giggled. Snippets of the song ran through his head. Four little Injuns up on a spree / One got fuddled and then there were three / Three little Injuns out on a canoe / One something, something, and then there were two. He couldn’t remember the rest.
“Hey, Ira.” He reached across a man who was in the middle of telling a story and grabbed the Pima by the shirt sleeve. “What happened to the three little Injuns?”
Ira glared at him. Oh boy. He must be drunker than he’d thought.
“Never mind,” he said, trying to pat Ira’s sleeve, placate him. He turned to the storyteller he’d interrupted. “Do you know what happened to the three little Injuns?”
The guy shook him off. “Buddy, I think you’ve had enough.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he slurred. Then, “Oh shit.” He got up and tried to get to the restroom before he tossed his cookies all over the bar floor. He didn’t make it.
Then Ira was pulling him out of the bar.
Beech bent over in the street, heaving his guts out. “Must have been something I ate,” he croaked.
Ira didn’t say anything.
After a minute, Beech stood up and wiped his mouth. “You know, I actually feel better.” He could feel a little spring coming back into his step. “Hey! Look over there.” He pointed to the warm glow of another barroom.
But Ira had already seen it and was heading toward the inviting lights.
“Geez, wait up, buddy,” Beech said.
They elbowed their way up to the bar, and the same drama from the other bar — from all the other bars on this tour — started all over again: “Aren’t you the guy from Iwo Jima? I wanna buy you a drink!”
Ira was entering that maudlin stage of his drinking. He couldn’t tolerate company, but he did want the free drinks. He made himself as small as possible at the back corner of the bar. He watched the bartender’s brogans as the man walked back and forth, hustling drinks. He wished he could just curl up on the floor behind the bar, alone with all the liquor bottles. Just sit on the floor. The rats could keep him company. There must be rats, because there was a box of rat poison, the skull and crossbones warning anyone who came near.
That’s not what a real skull looks like, he thought, hunching lower. A real skull has blood on it. And hair. And pieces of brain leaking out.
And there are men screaming all around. And huge explosions as mortar shells rock the island.
The Pima Indian hears a fellow member of Easy Company calling out the password. “Studebaker! Studebaker!” But that’s yesterday’s password. “Chevrolet! Goddammit, I can’t remember! It’s me! It’s me, Early.”
The Indian doesn’t know whether the forgetful marine gets to live or dies because the next thing that happens is three of the “prowling wolves” attack him and two of his buddies. General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, the commander of the Japanese forces on Iwo Jima, has given this name to his teams of stalking, crawling night-murderers — the dancing shadows feared by every American fighting man on the island.
The Japs are ruthless. They think it’s a big honor to die in combat. Ira just knows it’s him or them, and it ain’t gonna be him. He shoots the one who’s attacking him in the head. The round smashes the Jap’s face and leaves his teeth lying on the ground.
The Pima marine wants to be sick, but he’s distracted by something even worse than the dead jack-o’-lantern in front of him. A marine is wrestling with an enemy soldier, but he’s losing because they’re not really wrestling. The Japanese soldier is stabbing him.
“Mom, he’s killing me!” the marine cries. “Mom!”
The Indian’s eyes flickered. “I’m coming to help you!” he called. He reached out and grabbed the guy’s arm.
“Easy, easy,” the man told him. “I just got this here tattoo.
It’s a beaut, ain’t it? Mom in a heart, that’s what I wanted. And that’s just what I got.” His jacket was off, his shirt sleeve rolled up to display his newest artwork.
Ira squinted. There were two hearts, its seemed, and two Moms. His heart rate slowed down. “Nice,” he said. Or tried to say. He couldn’t be sure he got the word out. The guy was talking to somebody else now, anyway. It didn’t matter.
He was tired of this bar. In fact, he was sick of this two-bit joint and everybody in it. He pushed up from his bar stool and staggered to the door. Somebody came up behind him, and he whirled, ready to throw a haymaker, let this guy’s teeth wind up on the floor, like the Jap’s.
The man looked frightened. “You forgot your jacket there, buddy.” He held it out to Ira at arm’s length.
The Indian grabbed it out of the man’s hand. Who did he think he was, anyway, following him around? His mom?
He let out a howl, like a wolf in pain. It sounded so good he did it again. It was a mistake, though, because he was attracting attention.
“What are you looking at?” he yelled at the crowd beginning to form outside the bar. “Go back inside.”
He turned on his heel and strode away.
Keyes Beech caught up with him. “Ira, Ira, take it easy, man.”
Ira shrugged him off and kept going.
“Where you heading? It’s cold. Come on, let’s go in here. This looks like a quiet neighborhood joint. Nobody’ll bother us here. See? I’m going in. Come with me,” Beech coaxed. He opened the door and motioned Ira in.
The Indian was going to keep walking, but then he thought, What the hell, and went in.
It was a workingman’s bar. Sawdust on the floor. Men in caps and thick jackets. Men who looked like Mike.
Mike Strank is the best platoon leader a guy can have. He understands his marines, and he takes care of them. The Indian respects him. Reveres him. All Mike’s men do. And even though the Pima doesn’t speak much to anyone, he’s practically a chatterbox with Mike. He can tell Mike anything. Mike doesn’t judge. He just loves his men back by being the best leader he can be and doing everything he can to keep them safe. That’s why they’ll do anything for him.
Mike was born in Czechoslovakia but passed through Ellis Island when he was three. He has the strong bone structure common to Eastern Europeans that keep them looking young, even in their old age. Mike’s most prominent feature is a pugnacious chin.
The Indian walked up to a man standing at the bar, his hands wrapped around a beer glass. The man wore a cap and had a defiant chin. The Indian peered at him. “Mike?” he said in a small voice.
“Look, I don’t know you,” the man said, keeping his eyes on his beer. He had an accent.
Ira’s head snapped back. “Sorry,” he said.
Beech pulled him to the other end of the bar. “What are you doing, huh? You want to get us thrown out of here?” he hissed.
Ira looked down but didn’t speak.
“Here, sit at the table. I’ll get you something.” Beech shoved the Indian into a chair.