‘I guarantee he can’t answer this one. Because he’s the real feather merchant in this joint.’
The young man looked at me, and his eyes betrayed uncertainty and a trace of fear, but he couldn’t back down. “First, ahh, First Marines, like I told ya!”
I spat, “Wrong! Chesty was with the Seventh Marines on Guadalcanal and only commanded the 1st Battalion. Jimmy Webb ran the Seventh until Vandergrift relieved him and gave the regiment to the exec, Amor Sims.
“Worst of all for you, the Seventh didn’t even land with the rest of us because they were stuck on Samoa. They didn’t show up until more than halfway through September, after that first big fight in the hills south of Henderson Field!”
“Semper Fi, Mac!” Smith barked with a huge smile.
I answered with a friendly wave. ‘What the hell did I just do? Damned if I know, but it sure felt good!’
Smith addressed the people at the table and the other onlookers. “A Marine regiment is always known by its number, such as the First Marines, the Fifth Marines, and so on. A division like the First Marine Division is always described by its full name. Or simply the First Division, if we’re only talking about Marine divisions.”
In my dark corner, I admonished myself for stupidly shooting off my mouth, but I hadn’t felt that good in forever.
Smith declared, “This fella is typical of the guys that watch the newsreels, listen to the radio, read the books and magazines, and want everybody to think they were out there. Why anybody would wish Guadalcanal or any of those other damn islands on themselves is beyond me.”
‘Smith handles himself well. No wonder they those pinned bars on him.’ Sadly, I again recalled all those battlefield commissions after Peleliu and Okinawa.
Loudmouth counterattacked, “I was there, damnit! Just because I’ve maybe forgotten some details…”
I cut him off with, “Okay, maybe you forgot.” Smith and I both laughed at that absurdity, and I continued, “Tell me this: what did you weigh when we you landed?”
Stunned, he asked, “What…? My weight…? Why’s that…?”
“Simple question. What did you weigh in your skivvies before you landed on Guadalcanal?”
“Ah, let’s see…umm, one-forty… maybe one-forty-five,” he responded tentatively.
With a predatory smile, Smith took up my line of questioning. “Did you leave with the rest of the division? Or did you get evacuated with wounds?” Smith’s easygoing yet authoritative style was typical of mustangs–enlisted men with a battlefield commission.
“I was there until… we left. In ahh, you know… in, I guess… in December,” Loudmouth said, the last word sounding like a question. My profession taught me that liars do that.
“Okay, so, what did you weigh when you went aboard ship?” Smith queried.
Loudmouth shrugged slowly. “Oh, maybe the same. Maybe a few pounds more. Why?”
We both guffawed, and Smith said, “Hell, you were the only one to gain weight on that damned island. Except maybe the rats. They got fat eating the Japanese dead.”
I said, “The Corps muscled up my poor, skinny ass to a whopping 148 and handed me a BAR. When we went aboard the transport to depart Guadalcanal, I weighed about 125, give or take a pound or two. And I was in better shape than some.”
Loudmouth’s eyes widened, and he looked like he wanted to run. As his lies were exposed, his friends looked embarrassed.
Smith gave me an encouraging wink, and I continued, “Me and most of my platoon couldn’t climb the scrambling nets to board the transports without help, even wearing just our tattered dungarees and the little bit of 782 gear that hadn’t rotted off our skinny asses. The Navy even slung some of us aboard in cargo nets using winches.”
I stared at him, forcing him to look away. “Months of jungle fighting, sleeping in muddy holes, being shelled and bombed by the Jap navy, mosquitos the size of a Dauntless, eating crappy food in half rations, malaria, dysentery, dengue fever, heat rash, jungle rot, no sleep, and working like stokers in the furnaces of hell left us in awful shape,” I said.
“Did I miss anything?” I asked Smith.
With a wry smile, he replied, “That covers it, unless ya’ wanna add rain and flies.”
Then, Smith added, “My luck ran out in late October. While picking up rations for my squad, a Jap gun up in the hills we called Pistol Pete got lucky. I was evacuated with shrapnel wounds, and they patched me up in time to make Cape Gloucester.
“When they flew me to the hospital on Efate in the New Hebrides, they told me I was twenty-nine pounds underweight.” He lit another smoke, took a deep drag, and blew a lazy smoke ring at the bare bulb. “Life on Guadalcanal did that to everyone, from the Brass on down.”
Facing a much-subdued Loudmouth, Smith said lowly, “Nothing personal, Kid, but go look in the mirror. You ain’t the same as us who were there–it’s in our eyes and manner. We can’t relax like you and your friends can.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at me. “Fellow back there knows what I mean. Honestly, I’m jealous of people like you who didn’t have to live that nightmare.” He sincerely added, “I’m also thankful you didn’t.
“Hell,” he laughed drily, “nothing left over from the war makes any sense to me. You can’t just leave it out there when you come home.”
He looked at me, and I agreed. “He’s right.”
I added, “I don’t begrudge anybody not being on Guadalcanal or those other islands. What I don’t like is that you are lying about being there. You’re claiming the valor, camaraderie, and brotherhood, which are the only good things that came out of that insanity. You have not earned that right.”
An awkward, subdued silence settled over the room.
I continued, “If you weren’t there, you could read all the books and articles, watch all the newsreels, and listen to us unlucky bastards that were. Try as you might, you still cannot imagine what it was like. Your stories are based on what you’ve read, newsreels, and war pictures, and you insert yourself into them. He and I can’t describe what we saw and lived because words can’t do it. You can’t describe the indescribable.”
Smith nodded slowly, leaned against the bar, and stared into the distance. He spoke lowly, and the room became quieter, deathly still. “The smell. I dream about the smell that’s unique to carnage, Kid. And if I catch a whiff of something foul that smells remotely like that… something clicks,” he snapped his fingers, “and… Boom! I’m right back there. I can’t explain it.”
He shook his head and exhaled loudly. “Now, go home and pray, Kid. Thank God that you weren’t there. And pray for us guys that were.”
He handed Phil some bills and coins. “Buy the Kid’s table a beer or two.” He peeled off two more bills and said, “Hell, set up the room.” Nodding at my indistinct form, he added, “Especially that Marine back there.”
Spent, Smith slid onto the barstool and stared into his beer, his cigarette forgotten. A tendril of ash grew and slowly succumbed to gravity. The harsh shadows hid his eyes, but I knew the look because it covered my face, too.
We were nowhere near Houston–no, we were back on that damn, stinking island. That lying little bastard dragged us back there, and that’s what angered me so. He picked away the scab without knowing. He opened those boxes where we shoved the horror, insanity, and pain, and it all spilled out.