“Where’s all the gooks?” Cakes asked, and Burtoni finally noticed the most obvious difference. The Koreans who lived in the 33rd’s little camp town went to bed early, but there were always workers and sellers hanging around, kids running errands, the occasional slicky boy looking to boost anything that wasn’t nailed down. At the 8011th, he didn’t see a single Korean face.
“You got the eagle eye, Cakes,” he said, and Cakes laughed, started to say something back, and then just stood still, his mouth hanging open. Dames, dead ahead.
Burtoni got an eyeful of the pair. The one on the right was blond but older, probably in her thirties, and had a sharp look to her, like she was just waiting to dish out some knocks. They got closer, passed beneath one of the buzzing lights, and Burtoni caught the gold leaf. Jeez, but she was a major!
The other one, though. The gal walking with her was soft and curvy and doe-eyed, her dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail. She was a second looey and a bona fide honey.
“Fazangas,” Cakes breathed, just when they got in earshot.
“Go chase yourself, Private,” snapped the pretty one, hardly looking at them. Her voice was music. Major Blondie gave them a shriveling glare as they passed.
“Forget about him, ma’ams,” Burtoni said, turning to call after them. “His mama dropped him on his head.”
The gals kept walking but the angel glanced back. Burtoni smiled his best smile and her lips were twitching when she turned away.
“What are you, stupid?” Burtoni asked Cakes, who was inspecting their departing back sides, his mouth still hanging open. “You gotta be a gentleman you wanna make time.”
“I got time UTA,” Cakes said, in his ridiculous accent: ah got tahm. “All I need’s a share crop.”
Cakes was disgusting. Burtoni shook his head. He’d make a point of asking around about the dark-haired angel, though they’d likely be on their way back to camp early in the morning. Even seeing her again was a long shot.
“Fazangas,” Burtoni muttered darkly, and slapped the back of his hand against Cakes’ chest. “You should shut up more, you know that?”
“You shut up, ya wop,” Cakes rumbled.
McKay had stopped and was waiting for them, his face somber. Right, Young. Burtoni sighed and started walking again. His heart had been stolen away for a minute, but he was recovered. There’d be more nurses in with the patients and it was still early, barely 19:30. After they saw Young, he’d ditch Cakes ASAP and see if he couldn’t make some magic happen.
Admin was behind the surgery at the southwest corner of the compound and West headed that direction, wondering if Sanderson had changed. Anything was possible. He wasn’t keen on seeing the man again but wanted to ask about the refugees they’d run across earlier. Common sense told him that Cakes was right; either the whole thing had been a setup or the North Joe had threatened the ragtag family, made ‘em target bait… but his gut still said something else. If he didn’t ask, he wouldn’t sleep. Addison and Kelly had been his guys, they’d been good men.
Robert Sanderson. Eight years before, West had been a PFC to Robert’s silver eagle for a brief but memorable push in the first weeks of 1945, taking territory back from the German army after their Christmas offensive. More than half of the guys West had started out with were KIA by then and the rest of ‘em got assigned to a command under Captain Sanderson, who’d had his ranks blown to shit on Boxing Day. Thanks to the captain, West lost three more buddies on a frozen street in some nameless little village east of Weiler. Sanderson ordered them to check the bodies of some dead soldiers and blammo.
West could understand a mistake – could sympathize, even, having made a few of his own – but Sanderson hadn’t owned up. In fact, he had fallen all over himself to pass the buck to one of the dead men, a sergeant called Richie Mullens. West had respected the hell out of Sergeant Richie, who’d been with him since near the beginning, who’d literally kept him alive when he was still Johnny Raw. Sanderson had insisted that he’d given the order based on the sergeant’s advice, which everyone knew was applesauce; the Sarge would have known better. Before anyone could get too worked up, Captain Sanderson had discovered some pressing business at the rear line and West had been folded into an infantry division headed southwest.
The camp lights hummed, illuminating the few people he passed in murky yellow-white – a young man on crutches with his left lower leg missing, a trio of nurses, a slouching doctor in a Hawaiian shirt. The cool air felt good, waking him up a little, but it smelled like ashes.
Admin was in the last Quonset hut, ahead and on his right. As he approached, a tall, balding man in fatigues stepped out, a tiny silver leaf pinned to his collar. He had the same broad, clueless face that West remembered. All the lines were etched deeper.
West stopped in front of him and saluted.
“At ease,” Sanderson said. “What’s your name, Sergeant?”
“West, sir.”
“Did you need something, son?”
Sanderson wasn’t ten years older than West, which put him at forty, maybe. He was still a big time operator, all right, real officer material.
“Sir, I’m over at the 33rd under Colonel Swift. We were on a patrol today and ran across some locals, said they came from the 8011th. A boy and his grandparents. We were ambushed and one of my guys ended up here, shot in the stomach.”
Sanderson nodded. “You’ll want to talk to Captain Anthony, he’s our chief surgeon. He oversees all of the patients.”
“Yes, sir. I was wondering if you noticed them leave the camp, though. The boy said he did cleaning for the officers.”
Sanderson made an impatient sound. “They’re all gone, son. The whole village bugged out two days ago. Every last one of ‘em.”
West blinked. “Why?”
Sanderson shook his head. “Why do these people do anything? They said there were lights on the hill, they packed their kits and started walking.”
“Lights? Sir?”
Sanderson gestured to the north. “The trees, up on that ridge. Last few nights there have been lanterns up there, those yellow paper jobs, swinging back and forth. I sent some of the boys out to look-see, but all they found was footprints in the mud. HQ says it’s nothing, a superstition.”
The priests are waving their lanterns.
“Did they say what the superstition was?”
Sanderson looked at his watch, his demeanor telling West that their reunion was almost over.
“Oh, some gobbledygook about going home,” Sanderson said. “Seems like it worked.”
The lieutenant colonel looked at West, seemed to see him for the first time. He narrowed his eyes. For the briefest of seconds, West imagined punching his teeth in.
“Well, I hope your boy makes it,” Sanderson said, dismissive, gave a brief, false smile and then walked past him.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” West said automatically. He didn’t fully trust himself to turn around and follow Sanderson so he kept walking south, past the last camp structures, a storage unit, a supply shed. The village behind the MASH was close, less than a quarter mile away.
West passed the last string of security lights and stepped into the dark but went no further, studying the sad clusters of huts. No fires burned beneath the little houses, no lamps were lit; nothing stirred. Empty doorways yawned like black eyes. Scant light from a rising moon cast an eerie, pale ripple across the thatched roofs.