Beech revived enough to try pulling him off the policeman. “Ira, enough! Leave him alone!”
Flanagan rolled himself into a ball to make a smaller target. If he could just get to his gun... He managed to unsnap his holster. He touched the grip of his pistol. Almost there... Then, fireworks. Then, darkness.
The adrenaline coursing through Beech’s body rendered him instantly sober. He wrestled with the Pima for possession of the cop’s gun.
The Indian is in the foxhole with Franczik when a flare explodes, lighting up the night. Two enemy soldiers are slashing the guys in the next hole with bayonets. They run over there to aid their fellow marines.
One of the Japs hurls a grenade at them. It’s a dud, but it strikes Franczik in the head, and he goes down. The Indian reaches inside Franczik’s shirt to pull out the .45 he knows his friend keeps hidden there, but the Jap is right on top of him.
He punches at the enemy soldier and wrestles with him for possession of the handgun. Blood covers the gun, and it’s slippery in his hand. He may not be able to hold onto it, but he won’t give up. They go back and forth over the .45.
A tug of war for the gun.
“Ira, stop it! Let go!”
Beech grabbed for the policeman’s gun again. The Indian was still engaged in mortal combat. He wouldn’t loosen his grip. But Beech had sobered up, and Ira’s body hadn’t yet processed all the alcohol he’d consumed that day.
With a final tug, Beech managed to pull the weapon away from the Pima marine. The gun went off.
“Shit!” Beech cried. “Why isn’t the fucking safety on on this piece of shit? You okay, Ira?”
Ira didn’t say anything.
Beech scrambled to his feet and jerked Ira up. “Yeah, you’re okay. Thank fucking Christ.”
Ira looked down at the spreading pool of blood.
“Oh my God,” Beech said. “Oh fuck.”
The blood pools all over the ground. It sinks in, staining the dirt. There are so many dead and wounded that there’s nothing else to smell besides the coppery scent of blood and the stench of decaying bodies.
The Pima Indian crouches down, trying to duck rounds that he can’t begin to guess the origins of. The enemy is hidden, and bullets seem to originate from nowhere and everywhere.
He sees blood pouring out of the man in front of him. He presses the man’s jacket against his chest wound. “You’ll be okay,” he reassures him. But he knows he’s lying.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots one of the prowling wolves coming toward him. “Over there!” he shouts. He grabs a gun out of another marine’s hands. He hears rounds exploding everywhere. It’s impossible to tell whether what he’s hearing is his own gunfire or not.
“Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod ohmygod.”
Beech came around behind the Pima and yanked his jacket down to immobilize his arms. “Ira, we have to go. Now.”
He shoved him toward the street, but not before the Indian spotted the two men lying on the ground. “What happened?” he asked, craning his neck to look.
Beech gritted his teeth. “You were here. You know what happened.”
The Indian became desperate. “No! I don’t know. Tell me. Please, please, tell me.”
“The cop got shot,” Beech said shortly. “The other guy saw what happened. Now let’s go.” He shoved the Pima away and frog-marched him down the street.
Beech looked up and saw dawn beginning to peek out of the sky. He had to get this guy back to the hotel and cleaned up for the dog-and-pony show this morning.
As they passed a sewer grate, he shoved the Indian ahead of him and dropped the gun down the hole.
Five blocks later, the Indian asked, “What happened to the other guy?”
Beech didn’t answer.
“Beech?”
“What?”
“What happened to the other guy?”
“What other guy?” He was stalling.
“There were two guys on the ground back there, and I’m pretty sure they were both dead. Who was that other guy, and how did he get that way?”
“Ira, you were there. I was there. There’s nothing else to say.” He stopped walking and jerked the Indian around to face him. “I mean it. You are never to mention this again. Do you understand?”
“No. Why won’t you tell me?”
Beech stared at him. “You kidding me? I don’t know anything that you don’t know. Now, you’re to keep your mouth shut about tonight or we’re gonna have some real problems.” He grabbed the Indian below the collar of his shirt and shook him. “Understand me?”
The Pima just looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded and said, “Yeah.”
Beech let him go. “Good.”
Outside the hotel, they passed a poster for the 7th War Loan Bond Drive. It was fastened to a light pole and it danced in the breeze. The Indian looked at the photograph of himself and five others raising the flag on Mount Suribachi. He, Gagnon, and Bradley were the only survivors. The other three were killed in the battle that raged on after they planted the flag. Every time he saw the photo, another little part of his heart withered and died. He missed his buddies from Easy Company, most of whom were gone now.
“I wish Joe Rosenthal had never taken that picture,” he said. “Then I wouldn’t have to be on this crummy tour.”
“Yeah, well, he did and you are,” Beech said sourly. “Now you have to get in there and clean yourself up in time to go raise the flag again at Soldier Field.”
“I already raised the flag on Iwo. Why do I have to do it again?”
“Because they built a replica of Suribachi, and you heroes have to reenact the flag-raising so people will buy more war bonds, so the marines who are still fighting have a half a chance of surviving. Get it?”
They entered the hotel in silence. Beech said, a little friendlier now, “I’ll take you up to your room, help you get cleaned up.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to.”
“I said I’ll take you up.”
The Indian didn’t respond.
Beech checked his watch. “Never mind. We don’t have time anyway. Come on.”
He led the Indian down to the staging area. Gagnon and Bradley both shook their heads when they saw the shape he was in. Bradley looked at Beech, exasperated. Wasn’t Beech supposed to keep an eye on Ira?
Gagnon stepped over to the catering area and came back with a bucket of ice water. He poured it over Ira’s head. “Maybe this’ll sober you up, you fuckin’ drunk.”
“Jesus, Rene. You didn’t have to do that,” Bradley said.
“Yes, I did. Look at him.”
“Enough,” Beech snapped. “The Cadillac that’s going to drive you around Soldier Field is here. Make sure Hayes sits in the middle so he can’t fall out. And Hayes — you drag your ass up that papier-mâché mountain and you plant that flag. And don’t fall down. Do you understand?”
The Pima marine shook the water off himself like a dog and said nothing.
Beech had watched the whole dog-and-pony show, and unless you knew what a mess Hayes was, you couldn’t tell he was out of it. He always tended to be a little on the sloppy side anyway.
And Beech would be the first one to catch any flak if the brass was upset with the performance of any of the heroes. No news was good news.
But that didn’t prevent him from almost having a nervous breakdown. He kept running down to the street to see if there were any extra editions of the Chicago papers highlighting the murder of a policeman and a civilian.
The copper was one thing. Hayes had grabbed for his gun, and Beech had had no choice but to get involved. Too bad the guy bought it, but Beech had to protect Hayes. And himself.