He typed the last word, rolled out the paper, stuffed it into an envelope. There might be a few typos, a few sentences that could be smoothed out, but he would let the editors address that.
When he thought about all those dead boys, Americans and Japanese both, he was less concerned with sweating the details of a misplaced comma.
“I either need some coffee or some sleep,” he announced to no one in particular.
After that, it would be time to find his next story. He’d heard rumors that the infantry division that had been fighting here on Guam would be sent to the Philippines, to a place called Leyte. Lay-tee, it was pronounced.
He wasn’t about to put that news in his story and give anything away to the enemy, just in case the censors missed it.
But he could sure as hell pack his typewriter and hitch a ride to Leyte.
More supplies poured onto the island. Now that the airfield was open, crates were being flown in from other bases around the Pacific. Yet more supplies landed on the beach. Pretty soon, it seemed like the island might be in danger of sinking under the added weight. If there was one thing America was good at, it was producing stuff in endless quantities.
Out at the airfield, a soldier worked shifting crates. He had missed all the fighting and felt sheepish about it. All the other guys were getting the glory, and he was getting a sore back and a sunburn.
He jumped back in alarm at the sight of a small snake slithering out from a gap in the crate he had just moved.
“Holy cow!” He reached for a shovel to deal with the snake, but it was already zooming across the sand and into the jungle.
If only he’d been a little quicker with that shovel, future generations of islanders would have given him all the medals he wanted.
The unwelcome hitchhiker was a venomous brown tree snake. Though relatively harmless to humans, the snake proved to have an appetite for tropical birds and their eggs.
With no natural predators, millions of the snakes would eventually overrun the island, wiping out the native birds and even clogging up electrical transformers and plumbing systems.
“Darn snake,” the soldier said, shaking his head and getting back to work.
Deep within the jungle, a handful of Japanese soldiers pressed deeper into the mountains. Caught behind American lines, they had opted to keep fighting rather than surrender or launching a pitiful banzai attack, as many of their comrades had done. Instead, their plan was to wage a guerilla war, keeping hidden in the hills.
“We must not disappoint the Emperor,” said Sergeant Yokoi. Lean and wiry, he was a man of few words, but his face conveyed determination. The Emperor had commanded them to fight, and that was what they would do until ordered otherwise.
Occasionally, they heard American planes overhead, but they were screened from view by the dense canopy of trees. Here in the jungle, everything seemed to be alive and green. Looking around, Yokoi thought with satisfaction that there was everything a man needed to survive, if he was willing to live by his wits and make sacrifices. They dodged a few small Chamorro settlements — already, the local population that had been liberated by American forces was returning to their farms and villages after having been rounded up by the Japanese more than two years before.
“This will do,” Yokoi announced, having arrived at a remote clearing. The men made camp. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The soldiers staged raids against the Americans and even the civilian villages, mostly stealing whatever they could eat. The warfare took its toll. Men died from their wounds or were killed outright. Some, such as Yokoi, found it was better to survive on their own, but they kept in touch with the others. One by one, those men succumbed to the jungle or simply surrendered.
But not Yokoi. For him, those months turned into years, and the years into decades. Still, he managed to survive and even to carry out his duty as a soldier by harassing the enemy.
One day in 1972, being a much older man than he had been when he first entered the jungle, having grown thin and weak, he found himself captured by two Chamorro fishermen. For Yokoi, the war was finally over. He had survived in the jungle, refusing to surrender for nearly twenty-eight years after the American victory.
He returned to Japan and was hailed as a national hero. But Yokoi did not care for the new Japan, with its fixation on making money and its refusal to honor the past. He moved to the countryside and lived out the rest of his days, his nights filled with vivid dreams of the island jungle.
With tears in his eyes, Private Egan wrapped Whoa Nelly in a blanket and carried her remains to the freshly dug grave.
“Here you go, girl,” he said, his voice cracking. “You can rest easy now.”
Gently, he laid her in the grave, then gave a silent prayer of thanks. There was no doubt in his mind that she had died protecting him. Given half the chance, he would have done the same for her.
Now that the bulk of the fighting was over, the burial details were busier than ever. The bodies of the fallen were being interred in the red dirt of Guam. Ben Hemphill was already buried here, along with Ingram.
As for the dead Japs, they were bulldozed into mass graves — or simply left to rot.
To be sure, the American soldiers weren’t alone in having given their lives fighting for control of the island. Dozens of dogs had gone along with the troops to alert them of Japanese attack and even to sniff out the enemy. It was dangerous duty. Of those dogs, twenty-five had died in combat. They were buried, alongside the troops, in a corner of the cemetery.
Egan straightened up. Soldiers had been assigned to bury the dead, even the four-legged ones, but Egan shook his head as one of the workers stepped forward. He took the shovel from the soldier and bent to the task of filling in the grave. Egan didn’t mind, despite the tropical heat. He thought that it was the least he could do for Nelly.
He was soon sweating freely, the sweat running down his face to mix with his tears.
What was left of Patrol Easy was camped in a dugout on the beach. They had rigged a scrap of canvas overhead to keep off the worst of the tropical sun. Despite the heat and the blazing sun, the beach offered a constant breeze and a respite from the clouds of insects that swarmed them in the jungle. Alphabet and Rodeo napped, while Yoshio read a paperback by Rex Stout. Tony Cruz was long gone, the Chamorro guide having returned to his family now that the island was liberated.
With the battle won, most of the men on the beach had their shirts off because of the heat, their skin turning a darker shade of bronze day by day. Philly had gone a step further and stripped all the way down to his skivvies, although he’d put his boots and helmet back on. Deke thought his buddy looked ridiculous, but that was to be expected where Philly was concerned.
“Not so bad,” Philly remarked, lounging on the sand. “If we had a few cold beers and some broads, I’d almost think I was at the Jersey Shore.”
“I reckon you’d better rest up while you can,” Deke replied. Sitting on the beach might be just fine for Philly, but Deke was getting bored. Growing up on the farm, Deke had never sat anywhere for long. It didn’t feel right to him. He was getting antsy. “We’ll be heading out on patrol before you know it. They say there are still a few Japs out there.”
“Those people just don’t know when to give up.” Philly shook his head. “Say, why don’t you take your shirt off? It’s hot as hell, in case you haven’t noticed.”
It was hot, Deke thought. After a moment’s hesitation, he took off his shirt. He left his broad-brimmed hat on to shade his face. He was lean and well muscled, although his torso bore angry red scars that stood out in sharp contrast against his pale skin. Liberated from the sweaty, dirty uniform, he welcomed the feel of the sun and the breeze on his bare skin. It felt good to be alive — something Deke hadn’t thought in years.