Chapter 6
There are three battalions in the force attacking Beach Red,
plus complements of artillery, combat engineers and
mmmseveral armored elements.
The detachment is to advance to a designated assembly point,
dig in and wait for further orders to push on.
Your platoon is deployed to right and left of you
in open-squad columns, with six feet between each man.
Everyone is tense and soberly dignified — like a solemn procession
of the Benevolent and Protective Order of the Sweaty Palm.
Up ahead, Yanks appear and vanish between clots of vegetation,
and rifles extend their sharp-nailed fingers and crack their knuckles.
Fierce rebuttals result and machine guns cry out, "Da-da-dat! Da-da-dat!"
the Garand exclaims "Kapow!" and the 4.2" mortar adds "Palot!"
while the bazooka terminates the discussion with an irrefutable "Phoosh!"
Your brain is a pincushion stuck full of pricking reminders.
Get on the ball! Look around for cover and concealment!
Think of what you're going to shoot at. Think! Think!
Will you know a Japan when you see the bastard?
What did that intelligence officer say on board the ship?
He said that you could expect anything. Anything at all.
Okay, so it's anything. Anything that's about five feet three,
wearing a pair of shorts and maybe a speckled shirt
or pajamas or maybe a full uniform or maybe nothing.
Anything that's stocky of build, with almost no perceptible waistline,
that moves around with a shuffle rather than a stride
and that has rubber-soled canvas shoes on its feet
in which the big toe is separated from the others.
Anything with yellow skin inclined toward hairiness, and buckteeth
and a pair of squinting eyes slanted toward the nose
and characteristic odor like the smell of wild animals.
Watch it! There is a spurt of Japanese rifle fire
and Bill Shearer, off to one side, staggers and crumples.
Private Whitney shouts, "The goddamn sons of bitches are underground!"
and you drop on your face, clinging to earth.
Don't move. Don't lift your head. Japs usually fire high.
Your belly deflates itself and lies flat against your backbone.
You hear bullets slashing leaves and ripping bark from trees
and the slugs penetrate the wood with a vibrant sound
and you wonder if it is the same with flesh.
Listen. Can you tell where the shots are coming from?
Your helmet has fallen over your eyes. Raise it slightly.
Look around. See that pile of coconut fronds over there?
That's it! Watch it quiver with muzzle recoil. That's it!
Lloyd, on your right, fumbles for a hand grenade and
his voice is grated, "Let's blast 'em! Let's blast 'em!"
Your fingers feel along your waist and extract a grenade,
pressing the release lever against your hand. Get set now.
Twist your neck. Take out the pin with your teeth.
Loosen the lever. Prop yourself up with a stiff arm
and toss it wide. Watch it arch end over end,
merging with others thrown simultaneously toward the heap of rubble.
They land near the target. One rolls a few feet.
Then they explode and the doors of hell clang open.
The men are up, rushing forward with their pieces poised.
A dark silhouette squirms from the hole and wriggles away,
and rifles count quicktime cadence. It slumps and lies still.
Egan reaches the debris of the position and he pukes.
Others stand staring with their mouths open and eyes glazed.
You feel ill and fevered and reality has become hallucination
And hallucination is the only thing that has become real.
You have stumbled into history and can't get out.
