When he returned, he discovered that the other soldiers were in the middle of a fresh round of verbalizing disdain for the chubby GI.
“Who the hell let you into the army, anyhow? Your mama should have done us all a favor and—”
The soldiers fell silent when Deke entered, but not for long. “Are you lost, soldier? What the hell do you want?”
The soldier might have said more, but he shut up when Deke gave him a look. Maybe it was the scars, but something about Deke’s presence could change the mood in a room. Just from the way that he carried himself, it was clear that he was a veteran.
“I reckoned that I’d help this fella sort out his gear, since you all don’t seem to know your ass from a hole in the ground.”
One of the veterans stepped forward. “That’s big talk from a—”
Deke set his back foot and made a fist, figuring one good punch in the throat would take care of business — he never had been one to fight fair. But it didn’t come to that. Before the other soldier got any closer, one of his buddies reached out to stop him.
“Hey, I recognize you,” the soldier said to Deke. He didn’t add that it was hard not to recognize Deke, what with his scars. “You’re that sniper. I heard about what you did. Weren’t you one of the guys who got sent in ahead? No offense, buddy.”
Deke dropped his fist.
“You’ve already been there? What’s it like?”
“’Bout the same as everywhere else. Hot, jungle thick as hair on a dog, and full of Japs.”
The soldiers didn’t look happy to hear it, but Deke wasn’t going to sugarcoat it. “Doesn’t sound good,” agreed the soldier who had stopped the fight before it could happen.
“What do you think are his chances?” Deke jerked a chin at the chubby young recruit, talking about him like he was a steer up for auction.
“Flip a coin.”
“Sounds about right.” Deke reached for the kid’s mess kit and tossed it aside. Thirty seconds later, he had cut the soldier’s gear by half. Deftly, he assembled the remaining gear into a solid haversack that wouldn’t rattle. He picked it up and shoved it into the other man’s chest. “Here you go. At least now your pack won’t get you killed.”
“Thanks,” the green bean managed to stammer.
Deke looked around at the other soldiers, who appeared sheepish, realizing that Deke had just done what they should have done themselves. “We’re all here to fight the Japs,” he said. “Just keep that in mind. Five minutes after hitting the beach, if he ain’t dead, this kid is gonna be as much of a veteran as any of us.”
At that, Deke turned and left. He didn’t feel any better. The anxiety hadn’t left him. He realized that the only cure for that would be when his boots hit the sandy beach and he was back in action.
Similar scenes were playing out across the ship. Some wrote last-minute letters home, letters that might arrive weeks after they were dead and buried in the foreign sands.
Men were lined up to spend a few minutes with the chaplains, to get their souls right with the Lord and say a few prayers that might comfort them. It didn’t matter if the men were Protestant and the chaplain was a Catholic priest, or vice versa. Prayer was prayer, and God was God. As the old saying went, there was no such thing as an atheist in a foxhole.
The only lines that were bigger were at the heads. Every man was trying to empty his bowels before he had to do it on the beach with hot metal flying at him. The toilets were all in a row, no privacy of any kind, but the GIs were long past caring about that. They had lost their privacy the day that they enlisted.
A few of the more punctilious men were lathered up, standing at the sinks and shaving as they would before a big date. They knew that it might be their last chance at hot water and a razor for a long time.
Starting at three o’clock in the morning, the men had been roused for what was termed as the “Dead Man’s Breakfast.” The navy cooks had outdone themselves by serving up huge amounts of steak and eggs, fried potatoes, toast and bacon, canned juice, and coffee. The early-morning feast was intended to last the soldiers through the day. After that, they would have to rely on their rations, which was hardly an appetizing thought. The C rations had been designed with sustenance in mind, but not flavor.
The men ate in shifts at long tables, or standing up, in the strange twilight of the red lamps used to light the mess deck. The red light was designed not to interfere with their night vision, while the dimness was meant to hide them from any prowling Japanese in the air or on the water. Unfortunately, the Japanese Air Force was far from completely wrecked, and there were still threats of Betty bombers, or worse yet, new waves of kamikaze attacks that were so hard to defend against.
It was hard to say whether the lighting helped or hurt the appearance of the food. The smell of hot grease, frying potatoes, salt, and coffee was delicious enough, but not entirely welcome in the middle of the night. Some men were too queasy to have much of an appetite.
“What is this?” Rodeo griped, glaring reproachfully at the heap of scrambled eggs that had been reconstituted from powder. They had a slightly greenish cast in the dim lighting. “We don’t even get fresh eggs?”
“Where would we get fresh eggs?” Alphabet pointed out. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean. Do you see many chickens around here?”
“Aw, quick your bellyaching, you two, and eat up,” Philly said to the rest of Patrol Easy, which had found a space at one of the long tables. His philosophy on taking advantage of anything free that the military offered extended to the food. “There’s no telling how long this chow will have to last us.”
“Dead Man’s Breakfast,” Rodeo said.
“Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.”
“What would make it into good luck?” Rodeo grumped. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“How about you just shut up and eat your eggs? And give me that bacon if you don’t want it.”
Officers walked around the room, hurrying the men along to make space for more hungry soldiers.
Finally, one of the officers stood on a bench to speak. He wore combat gear just like the men, so it was clear that he would also be making the landing this morning. Sergeants barked for attention. Once the mess had quieted to a dull buzz, the officer stated: “Listen up, men. You eat while I talk.”
Nobody argued with that. The men turned back to making short work of their plates while the officer spoke.
“I’m not going to lie. The Japs are ready for us. This won’t be easy. But you’ve trained for this. A bunch of you have already taught the Japs an important lesson on Guam and maybe some other places. That lesson is that we win and they lose, no matter what.”
If it hadn’t now been a quarter to four in the morning, the officer might have gotten a cheer out of that one. This morning, all that he got were a few grunts of acknowledgment.
“The Filipino people have been awaiting this day for three long years. A bunch of them are US citizens, same as you. We’re not going to disappoint them, are we?”
“No, sir!” a sergeant shouted into the silence. Nobody else joined in.
The officer went on, unfazed. He was a veteran of a few fights himself, and he knew that the men were listening, that they expected this pep talk. But hot coffee and bacon took precedent this morning. He was aware that, deep down, every man already knew what he was expressing, down to his core, but somebody had to say it out loud.
“But you’re not just fighting for the Filipinos. You are fighting for the United States. You are fighting for the man on your left, the man on your right. That’s all I’ve got to say. Godspeed and good luck.” He paused. “Oh, and one more thing, boys. Kill some Japs!”