Burns ignored him.
“What are you doing?” Francino repeated.
“Francino, I came here to kill some Japs.”
“He’s not armed.”
The soldier slowly turned around. He looked to Burns, raising his hands in surrender.
“He’s surrendering,” said Francino.
“No, the Japs don’t surrender. He’s rigged.”
“Rigged?”
“He’s got a grenade or something. He’s gonna blow himself up and us too.”
Francino had managed to take his boot off at this point, and was now standing. He took a good look at the soldier, who was very thin and looked to be in his early twenties. His clothing was torn in patches and his eyes were milky, clouded.
“I think he’s sick,” said Francino.
“So what?”
“Save your bullet. If we can get him back to camp, he might be useful. He must have come from somewhere.”
“And?”
“He’s got to have some information.”
Burns laughed. “You want to take him prisoner?”
“Yeah,” Francino looked at the Jap. “Prisoner. Prisoner,” he said. He clasped his wrists a few times mimicking handcuffs.
“Might make more sense if you did what the Japs do, just slice his head off. He’d understand that.”
“I’m just following regulations. Either he’s surrendering, or he’s friendly. I think he’s surrendering.” Francino looked squarely at Burns. “If you want to shoot him, go ahead.”
Suddenly, the Japanese soldier sat on the ground. He crossed his legs like a schoolchild and looked warily first at Burns, then at Francino.
“We should get going,” said Francino.
“I don’t like this,” Burns said. “There’s something wrong here. No Jap walks out of the jungle and surrenders. What makes you think that he’s alone?”
Francino nodded almost imperceptibly.
They’d been waiting for an ambush ever since. Burns was convinced and then not convinced that the Japs were following them with the intention of eating them. Cannibalism, said Burns, was commonplace in Japanese society. Ever since the start of the war, the Japs had supplemented their diet with Allied flesh. That’s why, when you killed a Jap and checked his rations, there were only rice balls, no meat. They didn’t need to carry it, you see. They liked it fresh. Francino was of the opinion that starving troops didn’t carry any rations at all.
“Who told you about the Japs eating people?”
Burns licked his lips. “Jimenez. He lost his best buddy.” Burns sensed protest. “Yes he did. Yes he did.”
“All right. What happened?”
“It’s like what happened to us, only different. I think there were a couple of other guys. Yeah, there were four of them, got cut off, then outnumbered. The Japs didn’t kill anyone. They tied them up.”
“Did they get the pot boiling?”
“No,” said Burns. He looked over at the prisoner. “I swear, that fucking Nip is listening.”
Francino shook his head questioningly.
“He is.” Burns squinted in suspicion and the prisoner grew deeply solemn.
“They didn’t kill anyone. .”
“Not one,” said Burns. “Then they took out the knife.”
“Yeah?”
“They cut strips off the guy’s leg while he was still alive. Something terrible, that. He was screaming and screaming. They was just carving the steaks right off the guy’s thigh.”
“What was his name?” asked Francino.
“I told you that. Jimenez.”
“Not Jimenez. The guy who was getting carved into steaks.”
“I don’t know. I think his name was Velasquez.”
“Velasquez?”
“Well, he’s dead, so who cares?” Burns lifted his two meaty hands to an uncaring God. He left the hands hovering in the air between him and Francino.
“Why didn’t they kill him? Why didn’t they kill Velasquez?”
“So he wouldn’t go bad. They kept him alive so he wouldn’t rot.”
Francino listened to the sound of his own breath and calmed himself. Even as a story, this was horrifying. Even as a superstition, it was a terrible thing to fear.
Francino was still trying to figure out why the prisoner had delivered himself into their custody. Burns was right. The very act of surrender was not Japanese. He also found the man’s silence suspicious. He never protested anything, or attempted any kind of communication. He never insisted in Japanese or responded in any way to their questions. His very ease in their company added to Francino’s suspicion. Why was the prisoner calm, resigned? Francino studied him as he marched ahead.
Burns came up close behind Francino. “I’ve seen you looking at him,” he whispered. “You feel it too.”
Francino stopped. He looked at Burns’s worried face. “Why are you whispering?” he said.
“You know why,” said Burns. He tilted his head, swinging his eyebrows in the direction of the prisoner.
Francino shrugged and began walking.
Burns was offended. “Francino, listen to me. Francino.”
Francino stopped. He looked at Burns over his shoulder.
“We’re on the same side, you dumb Wop. You’re no better than me.” Burns lifted his shoulders and set his jaw. “Fuck, I even saved your life.”
“What is your problem?” said Francino. “You’ve been gunning for me ever since I got here.” He regarded Burns carefully. “Is it just me, or is it all Italians?”
“It might just be you,” said Burns. “Or it might just be Italians.”
“I’m not going to get drawn into an argument with you,” said Francino.
“Cut your losses.”
The Japanese prisoner coughed again, and Burns and Francino fell silent. Francino nodded at him and raised his eyebrows to Burns. Burns shrugged his shoulders.
They marched the next hour in tense, silent agreement.
Burns seemed to be struggling with something. Francino had seen it in his frowning, his frequent looks back at him, even though Francino had ignored all of his stares. He didn’t want to invite him over, but Burns was determined. He came in close to Francino and shook his head heavily, to make it unmistakable that something was really bothering him.
“You ain’t done nothing,” he said.
“What?”
“We can’t be falling apart like this.”
Burns’s voice was barely past a whisper and Francino had to listen carefully. He wanted Burns to stop talking. He’d enjoyed the hour of estrangement, which in his opinion was preferable to a reconciliation.
“Italians have good food,” Burns said. “Nice-looking women.”
“Why don’t you just shut up?” said Francino. He marched quickly ahead with the pretense of checking on the state of the prisoner. “Let’s stop.”
The prisoner fixed his sad, waning eyes on Francino and to Francino’s surprise, shook his head. “Do the Japs shake their heads?”
“What?”
“Do they shake their heads?” Francino demanded.
“What do you think I am? The Jap ambassador?” Burns looked almost wounded. The past four days of marching had made him sensitive and moody.
Francino took a sip from his canteen. “So why do you hate Italians?” he asked, resigned.
“Well, a lot of Italians I just don’t like,” said Burns. He seemed to be relieved of a great weight. “There’s only one I hate.”
Burns waited expectantly.
Francino took a deep breath. “Mussolini?”
“No,” said Burns. From the look on his face, he didn’t seem to know who Mussolini was. “DiMaggio.”
“Joe DiMaggio?”
Burns nodded solemnly.
“No one hates Joe DiMaggio. Joltin’ Joe. The Yankee Clipper. Fifty-six-consecutive-game batting streak. MVP in ’41.”
“MVP, with a batting average of.357. When Ted Williams—”