The men nearby laughed. They knew just what he meant.
“Well, you can put in that article that you’re talking to Billy Smith from Little Creek, Virginia.”
Pyle’s keen ear picked up that the young man had a tidewater drawl.
“Pleasure to meet you, Billy,” Pyle said, extending a hand. The two men shook. It helped that Pyle was one of the oldest men on the beach. It gave him an almost fatherly appearance, or, at least, that was how the soldiers typically reacted to him. “How do you like island life so far, son?”
Billy just laughed. “It’s all right, if you like sand, coconuts, and Japs,” he said. “Other than that, there ain’t much to recommend it.”
The other guys laughed as well, then added their two cents.
“And don’t forget the leeches!”
“Or sunburn.”
“Hey now, what about trench foot!”
Pyle just shook his head and made notes as the men had fun identifying challenges that they had lived with on Guam. Soldiers liked to gripe, which they couldn’t do so much with an officer. Some of their gripes would make it into the article. Some of Pyle’s reporting from Europe had gotten pretty dark, to the point that he’d had to take a leave of absence and return to the United States for a while.
Pyle understood that people loved to read about the long-suffering soldiers still getting the job done. There was an honesty in his reporting about what the boys in the field faced.
“How long have you been in the army, Billy?” Pyle asked.
“I joined up as soon as I was old enough, about a year after Pearl Harbor,” the young soldier said. “I figured they couldn’t win the war without me.”
Billy’s comment made the other soldiers laugh. “Yeah, yeah,” one of them said. “Did ya ever think that maybe your girlfriend was just trying to get rid of you and talked you into enlisting?” That brought more laughter.
It was hard to see it, but these men had gone through a lot, just a few days ago. They had all been fighting for their lives against the Japanese, who were a ruthless enemy. The evidence showed in their gear, which was now battered and scratched, but clean, oiled, and well maintained. The soldiers’ lives depended on that, as they all well knew.
Their boots were scuffed, and their uniforms showed various tears, stains, and even blood spatters. They had washed them out as best as they could in the salt water of the sea, putting them back on stiff from the salt.
The combat that they had seen was also evident in their faces, which had deep lines and creases, far more than someone their age should have. They had grown hard in order to survive.
One or two men in the small group simply sat quietly and stared, their eyes alone telling the story of what they had seen. Pyle knew better than to ask these men any questions, and he left them alone. He had seen the same look on the faces of many young men in Europe. Now, here were these shell-shocked boys in the Pacific.
He knew the feeling, having experienced it himself after the horrors that he had seen. This was the toll that war took, wounds that couldn’t be bandaged or even seen.
Another soldier spoke up, bringing Pyle’s thoughts back to the present. “Listen, Ernie, you tell those folks back home that we are going to lick the Japs and will be back home in time for the Fourth of July.”
“What’s your name, son?” Pyle asked.
It seemed like a simple question, but he had recently battled with the US Navy to allow him to use individual sailors’ names. Navy officials had relented to an extent, allowing Pyle special dispensation to use names. That permission did not extend to other war correspondents, which was a policy that the self-effacing Pyle did not agree with.
The US Army, however, was fine with him using the soldiers’ names, just as he had done while reporting the war in Europe, and he jotted down what the young soldier told him.
“Well, sir, I’m Jimmy Jones from Augusta, Georgia.”
Pyle nodded. “I’ll put that in the article, Jimmy, although I’ve got to warn you — you might get a promotion for that quote.”
The other soldiers laughed, and Pyle moved on down the beach. It was the same everywhere. He could have almost made the quotes up, and who would know the difference? But that wasn’t how he did things. He was here to tell their stories.
Where they were going next wouldn’t be any kind of cakewalk. The scuttlebutt had it that they were headed to the Philippines. Pyle was always in search of a good story, so he traveled to the next destination, just as the troops did, eating the same chow and sleeping in the same cramped, overheated bunks.
That was just fine by him. He wondered sometimes if he would make it out of this war alive. He knew it was the same thought on every man’s mind on this beach. They were united in their goal of victory, but they were also united by their doubts and fears.
Finally, there was some activity on the beach. The process of moving troops off Guam to the next operation was long and slow. A makeshift quay had been constructed for loading the men onto the transport ships. Smaller boats would take them to the vessels offshore, mostly the navy’s cargo attack ships and attack transport ships, known as AKAs and APAs. Pyle knew from experience that these would be jammed with men and gear before making the long voyage to their next destination.
He grabbed his duffel bag and started to move along with them, struggling under the weight. The bag was extra heavy because it contained his prized typewriter. Pyle didn’t carry any weapons, unless you counted a penknife that he used to sharpen pencils. He’d always been a little embarrassed that right after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Pyle had tried to join the navy but had been rejected for being too frail and unfit.
He was surprised when the weight in his hand suddenly lightened. He looked over to see that a couple of soldiers had grabbed hold of his duffel and were carrying it for him.
“No need to do that, fellas,” he said.
“We’ve got it, Ernie,” one of the men said, a burly soldier who threw the duffel over his shoulders as if it weighed nothing. “You just tell our story. Let people know what we did here, and why some of my buddies died.”
Pyle nodded. That was just what he planned to do.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Deke woke early enough to watch the streaks of morning light fill the sky. He couldn’t say exactly what had woken him so early. Something tugged at his mind, maybe the remnants of a dream or possibly a premonition, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His rifle lay right beside him, within easy reach.
He did know that he had woken up with his hand clenched tightly around his new knife. He gave the knife in his hand a rueful smile. The war was supposed to be over on Guam, more or less. But the jungle was still full of Jap infiltrators who would be more than happy to sneak up and cut your throat while you slept. One thing about the Japs — they loved to operate at night.
There was no going back to sleep, so he sat up and watched the morning arrive. If he’d been a smoker, this would have been a good time for a cigarette. Instead, he took a deep breath of the fresh, salty air that had just blown in across several thousand miles of ocean. He welcomed the clear air, now that the burial details had cleared most of the dead Japanese away.
You had to give the Pacific Ocean its due, he thought — it was hard to think of anyplace else on earth with such spectacular sunrises, starting with a slow dawn that filled an endless horizon with all the soft colors of mother of pearl. The softness did not last long. Soon, the rising sun burst above the sea: hot, sharp, angry, red. It was no wonder that the Empire of Japan had chosen the rising sun for its symbol. In the Pacific, the rising sun looked both beautiful and powerful.