A Desert in Bloom, page 21
April 1945
SS Western Victory
Nakagusuku Bay, Sea of Japan
The Western Victory lay at anchor off Okinawa, beyond the reach of shore batteries and nestled in amongst the destroyers and Navy escorts. Radar pickets surrounded the merchant ships to guard against aerial attacks and the occasional lone submarine. The big cruiser St. Louis was nearby; the constant barrage from her six-inch guns made a steady drumbeat in the background. Despite the pickets, there were waves of Kamikaze attacks to reckon with; one long day saw over a thousand Japanese planes downed by the American fleet.
After the convoy settled in, a regular shift of amphibious landing craft sped out to the cargo ships, braving the Japanese guns on the overlooking cliffs. Once loaded, they’d return at breakneck speed, resupplying the Marines that were fighting their way inland. The men on shore called it the Yangtze Express. The Western’s crew and the Navy stevedores settled into a steady rhythm, slowly and methodically emptying the Victory ship’s enormous cargo holds. Occasionally, the Captain would let some of the crew go ashore with the landing craft, ‘so the men could steady their legs’.
The Higgins boats were unloaded on shore by a battalion of Negro Marines, who had to resupply the combat forces even when they fell under heavy fire. Johnny Washington made friends with their crew and was a regular on deck whenever the marines were aboard.
The Captain gave the stevedores his standard safety speech: respect the rail, police your butts, and never forget the cost of a single mistake. Drop a fuse or a stray cigarette down the wrong hatch and there’s little chance of escaping the consequences.
“It’s bad enough the whole Japanese Empire wants us dead, without some yahoo doing it for them. God favors the feeble-minded,” the Captain had said. “But not at sea.”
Most of the work was uneventful, with all the good-natured ribbing that goes on between the various services. There was gratitude for coffee and meals taken in the mess, and some of the visitors took notice of the hot water piped up from the boilers and requisitioned a quick shower.
Three weeks into the cargo operation, a tall Marine master sergeant came out to the Western on one of the landing craft. He and two other marines carefully rigged a boom line around a heavy burden wrapped in canvas. Once aboard, they summoned Johnny Washington, who called for Dave Bailey and one of the mess hands.
“Dang, Chief, if that ain’t the biggest pig I ever saw.” Dave had seen desert javelina and wild boar in Grass Valley, but this beast was beyond anything he’d ever imagined. Stretched out, it was seven-feet long and weighed in at over 400 pounds. Armed with jagged 6-inch tusks, the great beast was an Inoshishi boar from the island’s jungle forest.
“That thing damn near killed us all last night,” the sergeant drawled. “Until we took a Thompson to it. And I weren’t so sure that was gonna’ stop it.”
The machine gun had made a kind of Swiss cheese out of the boar’s head.
“We heard it coming out on patrol. I thought it was a bear, ‘til the damn thing charged us.” The sergeant poked its hairy flanks with his boot. “Stay dead.”
“Sarge here thinks we can bar-b-que it,” said one of the men. “But we could sure use some help.” He looked longingly at the chief cook. “Nothin’ but c-rations in our camp.”
“Yeah, we figured maybe you could cook it for us, and we’d trade you for some of the native hooch.” The sergeant shot a glance at Johnny and then Dave.
Dave had heard about shochu; distilled by the locals from sweet potatoes, it was said to pack a considerable punch. He exchanged a smile with Johnny Washington.
“That’s a big pig. Take some time to do him.” Johnny gave his baker a knowing wink.
“Just how much of that tater whiskey have you got?” asked Dave.
The sergeant laughed. “We got a cart full. But I wouldn’t call it whiskey, more like turpentine mixed with brown sugar. But it’ll sure spin your motor.”
Johnny looked the carcass over, calculating the time to butcher, season and cook. “Give me two days, and we’ll have you some ham. Good and plenty, done up right.”
Dave spoke under his breath. “Can you cover for me, Chief? I’d like to go ashore, help collect the hooch.” Dave had been looking for an excuse to get off ship, ever since they’d lost Bob Fisher.
Washington nodded quietly. “Best be careful, Davey.”
Dave turned to the marine. “Mind if I come along - to protect our investment?”
“If I were you, I’d stay put. At least out here, you can see them coming.” The sergeant scowled. “But it’s your butt, if you want to tag along.”
Dave figured he’d crossed the whole Pacific Ocean without losing his ass. He might as well get it blown off on land.
“Take your big knife to that thing, Mr. Washington. I’m gonna’ get us some sippin’ whiskey.”
* * *
Kakazu Ridge, Okinawa Island
Fox Company, First Marines
The Marine supply lines snaked through rice paddies and deep ravines for two miles, ending at the base of a fortified ridge. A full battalion had been hunkered down in the valley below it for weeks. Dave kept close to the master sergeant’s ammo squad, slogging through the intermittent rain. They were making for a small outpost behind the main lines, where weather-beaten men took a brief rest from the long battle for the island.
Dave was uncomfortable in a way he hadn’t been for the entire war. He’d seen plenty of blood before, and more than a few men killed at sea, but the certain nearness of the conflict was constant here.
On their way to the camp, Dave had seen a young girl approach some soldiers by the side of the road. The girl seemed to be begging for food, until one of the soldiers went to her - and she released the grenade she was hiding. The explosion blew the girl to pieces, along with the hands of the man who had offered her his meal.
There were screams and the howls of angry men, and tourniquets and morphine and red mud and vomit. One soldier wept as he kicked the leftover body parts into a ditch. The pieces washed downstream like crimson leaves in the muddy water.
His party had kept on walking, dodging the foxholes that cut across the old gun emplacements. There was very little conversation, just the sound of boots and the labored breath of marching men. A corpsman ran by on the path, followed by a rush of other men.
After about an hour, they reached a small clearing with a few tents and a makeshift camp. The marines tossed down their heavy packs. Some broke out letters or simply closed their eyes, disappearing in place.
The sergeant told him to take a seat while he fetched a local villager. An old man in a tattered grey robe returned with him. Bent over by age and arthritis, he moved with sticky deliberation. The sergeant asked him to retrieve the shochu. The old man replied in broken English that he couldn’t manage it by himself.
“Boston, go with Shen-jen here, and fetch the juice wagon.” The marines had found the earthen jugs in an abandoned village and hidden them in the bush.
A young private shuffled to his feet. The afternoon sun was close to the western ridge as they wandered out of camp.
By the time they returned, it was nearly dark.
“We’ll take you out come morning, Mr. Bailey. Meanwhile, make yourself at home.” The sergeant gestured to a broken stump that had found new life as a camp chair. Some of the other men had built a small fire and were heating round tins on a wire grill.
“Far enough off the line for a small fire, but we still have to post pickets, so don’t sleep too deep. We may have to move out anytime.”
Dave sat down and glanced around the camp. It was rough-hewn, the kind of camp that men cobbled together when they might have to leave at a moment’s notice. Packs were broken down and stowed carefully, rifles perched alongside. Some of the soldiers were already asleep, some just dozing, waiting for the next patrol. Dave felt distinctly out of place.
One marine sat off to the side of the fire, cleaning his weapon. The freshly burnished pieces were tossed into his open helmet. He eyed the sergeant. “Old Shen-jen says the Japs are telling everybody on the island we’re murderers, that we’ll rape their little children, their daughters and their wives. Tear their limbs off one by one.”
Another man fingered his combat knife. “I might too, if I get the chance.”
The sergeant spat into the fire; spittle crackled into mist on the hot grill. “You’re black and they’re brown,” replied the sergeant. His voice was low and harsh. “Now you tell me, what’s the difference?”
He looked right at Dave. “We don’t kill civilians, not if we can tell that’s what they are. And hell, that ain’t so easy all the time.”
Dave felt grateful to be stationed out to sea, where the ships had flags and even the airplanes had pictures painted on their sides. “At Saipan, we heard a thousand Japs jumped off a cliff into the ocean.” He tossed some small sticks into the fire, one at a time. “Took their babies and their children, too. I guess Old Tojo told ‘em they’d get a better seat in heaven if they all died that-a-way.”
No one spoke for a few minutes. The flames ate the sticks away to hot, red stalks. Dave lit a cigarette and closed his eyes.
As a boy, his dad had told him about returning from the first big war in Europe. How he’d gone to Tulsa to celebrate Memorial Day with a few of his war buddies, and a riot had broken out; somebody said a black boy touched a white woman in an elevator - and a mob tried to lynch the kid. Two or three hundred black folk were murdered and a whole section of colored town burned to the ground. His father said it made him ashamed to be a white man.
Surrounded by colored men, some no older than he was, they were all trespassers in a land where none of them were welcome.
Dave opened his eyes. The camp was quiet, broken only by the crackling of burning coals. In the firelight, everyone looked the same.
“Here. You didn’t come all this way for nothing.” The sergeant pulled a canvas-covered canteen out of his pack. He poured some amber liquid into a tin cup. “Take a pull on that.”
Dave sniffed the cup. The odor bore a slight resemblance to kerosene. He took a careful swig.
“Whoa…” Dave cleared his throat. “That does have a kick to it.” The liquor burned warm down his throat, then crawled up to his voice box, growling hot. Dave gave the sergeant a broad smile.
“Sweet potatoes, just like Thanksgiving.” The sergeant poured another dollop into Dave’s cup. “I think old Shen-jen himself might be the brewmaster. He’s downright protective of the stuff.”
Dave nodded. This time he took a smaller sip. Once accustomed to the taste, it was really quite pleasant.
“We can’t keep them jugs out here on the line, or we’d all end up drunk and disorderly. I’m glad to be rid of the stuff.” The sergeant put the canteen back in his pack. “Well, most of it, anyway.”
Sitting near the edge of camp at dawn, Dave watched the soldiers go through the everyday motions of war and peace. One man cleaned his rifle, another took a cold-water shave. One broke the crusty slag off his boots, another made the ritual reading of a letter from home. The master sergeant sat upright against his pack, holding a fixed stare on a worn photograph.
Dave mentioned he was hungry. Someone offered him a dusty tin of k-rations. He tried to be polite, but couldn’t get past a couple of half-hearted mouthfuls. He put the can away quietly.
Two young marines were out in the middle of the road, batting a weathered ball around with a fat bamboo stick. The old villager was there, with a two-wheeled cart full of palm fronds and clay pots. Shen-jen was pleading with the sergeant and motioned to the earthen jugs. They argued for a moment and the sergeant walked away.
“Boston, grab that hooch, and get it out of here.”
The sergeant pulled Dave aside. Dave started to ask a question, but was cut off with a look. “Time to go.” He motioned for Boston to help with the cart.
Dave could see the old man, down on his knees by the side of the road. Maybe he mourned for his island, or maybe for the life he once knew.
“This is how it is.” The master sergeant quickened his step. “It might be a Jap, or an old man or a little kid. But it’s all the same fucking war.” The sergeant turned to go. “Get back to your ship as quick as you can.”
Boston prodded Dave in the ribs and gestured toward the road below. A rifle platoon had gathered with a staff sergeant and a 1st lieutenant. Dave could barely make out the sound of the lieutenant’s voice.
“There will be no more fraternizing with the local natives, no exchange of trade goods, and especially no consumption of island beverages, including fresh water, unless treated or boiled.” The lieutenant seemed upset.
Boston gestured again. Dave picked up his rucksack and followed him into the bush.
“Sarge says to get you down to the landing lickety-split.” The private spoke rapidly under his breath. “On account of we got new orders this morning.” The young man took hold of the cart and started pulling.
Dave followed as silently as he could.
“Big doings on the island, some kind of crazy Jap offensive or something.”
The long howl of an accelerating SBD Banshee drowned out the rifleman’s voice; the scout plane was streaking low over the treetops. Dave hurried to keep up with the young marine.
“There’s a boat waiting, when you get back, just toss the meat in there along with some fresh ammo - those guys’ll get it to us.”
Dave wondered how anything could make its way through the growing chaos he saw along the road. A dusty row of truck transports suddenly appeared, behind them long columns of men marching as if out of nowhere.
Both men attacked the bush trail, pulling and pushing the cart in turns through the thick muck. After a short trek, they reached a small landing, built alongside a muddy-brown creek that emptied into the sea. One of the canvas-covered motor launches that ferried ammunition was tied up at the dock.
“Stow that aft, and make it fast.” The motorman spoke with urgency. He wrapped a woven pull cord around the outboard motor. “We shove off in one minute.” The pilot jerked sharply and the motor sputtered back to life. Dave could hear the low boom of a distant battery, persistent shellfire rising above the motor’s rumble. Dave jumped into the stern and started packing jugs as quickly as Boston could hand them off.
The young marine passed across the last jug and offered his hand. “Good luck out there.”
“Thanks, Boston,” Dave clasped his hand firmly, then untied the spring line and pushed away from the dock. “But best keep your luck. You need it worse than I do. You and everyone else on this damn island.”
The motorman rocked the throttle hard and the launch pulled away, throwing a rooster-tail wake behind it. Dave fell back into the rail, but his stomach remained where it was.
Zig-zagging downriver, the cargo launch made a poor target for the Japanese guns above. The motorman kept her full-throttled all the way across the breakers and out to the Western Victory. For a spare jug of sweet potato wine, the stevedores made short work of the cargo exchange: a score of clay jars for two dozen tightly wrapped bundles of spice-baked ham and barbecued spare ribs.
Come nightfall, the shochu flowed freely in the larder, in the ships mess, and some said on the bridge deck itself. The poker pots were the largest that Dave had ever seen, and he swore that he could hear women singing in the companionways. Dave won double his month’s wages that night, and Johnny Washington filled an inside straight worth well over a thousand dollars. Even Skyler Dicks was there, laughing alongside his old nemesis.
Dave thought it was a night to remember and started to look for Bob Fisher, until he remembered that Bob was no longer aboard.
July 1945
Wellton, Arizona
Alone on her back porch, Madeline Spain watched the sun go down in silence, waiting for the sound of a car on the driveway, or for any sound at all. It was well past the time Lawrence usually came home, and long past time when he’d call to see if she needed anything from the store, or to tell her that he had extra duty at the airfield.
It was so lonely in town now; Huey was at Radium Springs taking the consumption cure, and her daughters were away in San Diego, working for the War Department. She’d left the hotel in the charge of employees, none of them family, and she couldn’t bring herself to check on them as frequently as she once had.
It was as if time itself was slowing down; she longed for the company of her old friends. Anyone, even Sam Kingston, with his scurrilous gossip and incessant whistling. A training accident took Sam, right after Pearl Harbor. Wellton had sacrificed so many of her own: Bill Gale, Artemio Cabrero, Mago and Ernie Vasquez. And Freddy. Of all the young men, only Sven Jorgensen was left in town - still bucking hay with his one good arm. Madeline considered the Swede’s lost limb a small price to pay for escaping that hideous conflict.
In the quiet of the evening, she thought about Ernie, about the time the Bailey boy had nearly crippled him in that stupid feud of theirs. Davey had continued to visit now and then, roaming about the town and the desert with his ragtag friends - handsome, lighthearted, and entirely unreliable. The boy had inherited his father’s charms, but none of his steady purpose.
I wonder if this godforsaken war has claimed him, too.
Like everyone else, the Baileys had left for the promised land of California. How she hated that state, with all its highways and bright colors and slick promises. It had robbed her of so much she loved: her children, her friends, and now, her modest sensibilities.
Dozens of soldiers passed through Wellton every day, but they were nameless and faceless. She refused to get to know them, so aware that with all their vitality, they were still fragile, like glass, destined to be broken on the hard rock of war. They descended on the hotel like locusts, ordering drinks and steaks and anything else they could get their hands on that wasn’t Army ration, laughing out loud in their immortality.
