It was late October — fall — but in New Guinea things were green. It was as if that first startling instant of spring — when the trees started popping out little-fisted leaves and the ground was spongy with thaw — had been stalled and then expanded; the brief spring second here was repeated over and over, multiplied within itself and then replicated in a riot of leaves, steam, and fungus. The trees stretched against the very dome of sky. The air was compressed until it dripped down your face. Francino pushed his glasses back up his nose and the column drew to a halt. Sergeant Cole was nervous. He drank some water and squinted around at the men, even though the sunlight wasn’t strong.
“I need a couple of scouts,” he said.
Burns had volunteered and somehow it had been decided that Francino would join him. Francino couldn’t figure out if Burns didn’t like his hesitant manner or the fact that he was Italian or both. Burns wasn’t too bright. At first Francino ignored him, but week after week in close quarters had worn down Francino’s indifference. Their animosity had become undeniable.
Francino and Burns pushed through the undergrowth and circled around some kind of knoll. Francino looked to the edge of the trees. He and Burns had trampled a wide path. If there were Japanese hiding in the dense vines at the edge of the trees, Burns and he would see them, or evidence of them, from where they stood.
“What do you think?” asked Francino.
Burns cocked his head and looked off to the right. “I got a feeling.”
Francino crouched deeper.
“But I can’t hear nothing.”
“Still. .” Francino looked down to where the trees rimmed the vines. Cole had the other men moving carefully into the open. Francino could feel their unease. Cole, Frankel, Smith, Lescault, and Dove. The sun was beginning to burn through the mist.
Frankel was the first to fall. At first Francino thought Frankel must have hit some wire from the way his head jerked back and his stomach swung out. Francino was still trying to figure out what had happened when he felt Burns’s hand hard on his arm pulling him down. Only then did Francino realize that he had stood up and was standing in clear view of whoever had felled Frankel. Then he was lying on his stomach. His rifle was ready although he wasn’t. Burns was shooting at something saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” The target seemed to be moving. Francino tried to clear his mind.
A flying insect brushed his ear with her wings and Francino thought of the Angel of Death.
A purple, fist-shaped cloud hovered above him.
“Where are they?” yelled Burns.
Where were who?
There was sputtering fire below them. Someone (Lescault?) was screaming; he was hurt. But Burns and Francino were climbing. They were moving fast, like animals, on all fours. Burns moved ahead. Neither man spoke but Francino could hear each pull of Burns’s breath, although his ears were filled with silence. They moved through the vines. The brush clattered and snapped. Small animals took to the trees, rattling branches high above them. Birds screamed in alarm. Francino scrambled under the trunk of a tree. The soles of Burns’s boots were more worn on the inner edges and Francino tried to think if Burns was knock-kneed, but he could not remember. They moved upward still.
Burns, sweat pouring off his forehead, turned to Francino and said, “They let us go. They let us go because they knew we were scouts and that the rest of the squad would be moving behind us.”
Francino’s and Burns’s safe passage had lured the other men into the open. Francino had never considered that, despite his confusion, he had been part of a plan. He was still dazed, under the impression that the two men had encountered a pocket of chaos, all of it accidental and beyond reason.
“We’ll wait here,” said Burns.
“Before we circle back and join the others?”
“The others? They’re all dead.”
Francino pondered this. “Then what will we wait for?”
Burns thought they should pick a direction and start walking, which was logical and dangerous for the same reason. The area had no clean battle lines; you could be at an Aussie checkpoint, continue on and find yourself face to face with the Japanese, only to fight your way through to the Dutch. They were on a checkerboard and at this point in the game, Burns wasn’t sure whose square they were sitting on. Since their platoon had just been decimated, the area appeared to be under Japanese control. It was probably a good idea to move on and to move on soon.
“That’s not a plan and I’m not a gambling man,” Francino said to Burns.
“Then what are you? You’re not much of a soldier.”
Francino had responded with silence.
“I saved your life back there.” Burns lifted his shoulders. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be on your way back from New Guinea to Little Guinea.”
Francino laughed. “I think I owe my life to the Japanese.”
“To the Japs?”
“Yes,” said Francino. “For missing.”
Burns shouldered his rifle and spat. He nodded to Francino and Francino obliged. He walked over to their prisoner and shook him. The man woke up and struggled to his feet.
“We’re moving,” Francino said, then smiled to himself. He could have sworn that there was a flicker of recognition in the Jap’s eyes, a resentment that betrayed an ego, someone not beaten down by fear. The man scuttled to his feet. Francino cut the rope on his wrists.
“He does anything, I’m holding you personally responsible,” said Burns.
Francino looked at their prisoner. His eyes were watery, rimmed with yellow crust. “He’s almost dead,” said Francino.
Francino tried to stay alert, but his mind wandered and sometimes the sound of snapping twigs seemed too normal to pull out the usual register of noises. Maybe Burns was right. Maybe he was a bad soldier. Maybe he was too aware of what he was risking to be a good soldier. He kept thinking of Corporal Shedelsky after the bullet got him right above his left ear. Shedelsky had survived, but Francino found him late one afternoon wandering around in nothing but a pair of socks. Shedelsky had an umbrella, borrowed from a startled native who was watching with a nervous smile. Francino pictured himself dancing off a ship in his socks, his umbrella dangling, his sister and mother waiting open-mouthed. Head injuries scared Francino almost more than dying.
They’d taken the prisoner the day before. Francino’s rifle had been propped against a tree and Burns was off attending to his fourth bodily function of the last hour. Despite his iron side, Burns lacked Francino’s iron stomach. Francino was watching the progression of a column of ants along the jungle floor. He found himself naming them, starting with Cole and then Lescault. The ants were unaware of Francino. He gently placed a rock in the middle of their path, and they quickly circumvented it, with no thought to the cause of their detour. Francino leaned back from his squat into a sitting position. His socks were damp and he thought he should take them off and let his feet breathe for a while. He began to untangle his laces and had one of his boots half off when he heard Burns’s low, frightened voice.
“Jesus,” Burns said.
Francino looked up quickly. A Japanese soldier was standing no more than six feet from where he sat. His rifle was closer to the Japanese soldier than it was to him. Burns raised his rifle to the man’s head.
“What are you doing?” said Francino.