“Are they any less dead that way?”
“Um-no.”
“Well, then.” Instead of rubbing Charlie’s nose in it some more, Esther changed the subject: “If we’re finally on the Continent, that means we can see the end of the war, even if we can’t touch it yet. And if the war looks won, that makes Joe Steele’s chances for a fourth term better.”
“Looks that way, yeah.” Charlie figured Joe Steele would win the election in November unless the Nazis invaded Massachusetts-maybe even then. He might not get the most votes, although, with the war going well and more jobs than there were people to fill them, he was likely to. But whether he did or not, he would be recorded as winning. The people who counted ballots were in his pocket. Or enough of them were, in enough places in enough states.
“Dewey for the Republicans this time?”
“Looks that way,” Charlie said again. “If their mustaches were running, Joe Steele’s would win every state.”
His wife giggled. “You’re right about that. Say what you want about Joe Steele, but he’s got a real mustache. Dewey looks like a lounge lizard. You can’t take him seriously.”
“I sure can’t,” Charlie said. He suspected part of the problem was that he and Dewey were about the same age. He still wanted to think of the President as something like a father. A father couldn’t be the same age you were.
Of course, Joe Steele was the kind of father who took his country behind the woodshed with a strap. You had a tough time loving a father like that. People had always had a tough time loving Joe Steele. But they respected him, and he kept them on their toes.
Sarah came in to hear the last of that exchange. She seemed bigger and more grown-up every time Charlie looked at her. How did she get to be six? he wondered with a father’s bemusement. “What’s a lounge lizard?” she asked.
Charlie and Esther looked at each other. “You used it,” Charlie said. “You explain it to her.”
“Thanks a lot.” Esther gave him a dirty look. She screwed up her face as she thought for a second. Then she said, “It’s old-fashioned slang-”
“Are you and Daddy old-fashioned?” Sarah broke in.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” Esther said, which set Charlie laughing. She went on, “It’s old-fashioned slang for someone who hangs around in bars and thinks all the girls are in love with him because he’s so wonderful.”
“But he really isn’t?” Sarah wanted to make sure she had things straight.
“That’s right.” Esther nodded. Charlie made silent clapping motions. She’d done better with the explanation than he could have.
Patrick wandered in after her. He was carrying a picture book. He climbed up into his father’s lap and said, “Read!” At two, he still talked like a telegram-the fewest words that would get the job done.
“Okay,” Charlie said. “This is the story of Curious George and the Man with the Pink Pantaloons. They-”
He didn’t get any further. “Read right, Daddy!” Pat said irately.
“Sorry,” said Charlie, who wasn’t. He’d played this game with the book ever since they got it. It made things more fun for him and drove his kid bonkers. Who could ask for better than that? “Well, anyway, Curious George and the Man with the Orange Socks-”
“Daddy!”
“Okay, okay. Now the Man with the Yellow Hat”-Charlie waited for Pat to smile in relief, then sprang his sneak attack-“knew that George was a curious little hippopotamus, and he-”
“Daddy!”
* * *
Mike smoked cigarette after cigarette as the amtrac rattled toward the next island. This one was called Saipan. The punishment brigade had spent more than six months waiting for another call. They had replacements for every casualty they’d taken on Tarawa. Mike wondered whether the new guys, who didn’t know what they were getting into, were more or less nervous than the ones who’d lived through Tarawa and seen the kind of fight the Japs put up.
Mike didn’t know the answer. He did know how nervous he was. The Japs wouldn’t give up, no matter what. They fought till you killed them, and you had to be goddamn sure they were dead. You called them slanties and slopes and yellow monkeys so you wouldn’t have to remind yourself they were men, and tough men at that.
Everything from destroyers to battleships to bombers had given Saipan a once-over the past few days. You wouldn’t think an ant could have lived through that pasting, let alone an army. But they’d hit Tarawa with everything but the kitchen sink, too. As soon as soldiers got close enough for the Japs to start shooting them, they did. Mike figured it would be the same way here.
He spat out the butt of one Camel and lit another. The best he could hope for, he figured, the absolute best, would be to lose something like a foot or an arm and not be able to fight any more. Otherwise, they’d keep throwing him in till he got killed or the war ended, and the war didn’t look like ending any time soon.
Was it worth it? he wondered. If you had it to do over again, would you still have written those stories about Joe Steele? Years too late to worry about it now, of course. One thing was plain: he’d underestimated how ruthless the man could be. He’d taken it for granted that the First Amendment and the whole idea of freedom of the press shielded him from anything a politician might do. He’d never dreamt he-or the country-would run into a politician who cared no more for the First Amendment than he did for the rest of the Constitution.
Then the amtrac’s belly scraped on sand. The water drive stopped. The tracks churned. A bullet slammed into the steel, then another one. Mike stopped caring about the Constitution, too. All he cared about was living through the next five minutes-with luck, about living till tonight.
Down thumped the steel unloading door. “Get out!” yelled the sailors who crewed the ungainly beast. They wanted to get out of there themselves, and who could blame them?
Mike yelled like a fiend when he charged onto the beach. It wasn’t to scare the Japs. It was to unscare him a little bit. He saw jungle ahead, more than he’d seen on Tarawa. That just meant the little yellow men here had more hiding places. They’d know how to use them, too.
Next to him, a guy from his squad folded up like an accordion and added his screams to the din all around. That could have been me, Mike thought. A bullet tugged at his trouser leg like a little kid’s hand. It pierced the cotton, but not his flesh. If that was anything but dumb luck, he couldn’t see what.
A couple of Americans with a machine gun sprayed bullets into the bushes ahead. You didn’t want to run in front of them, or they’d shoot you, too. Mike swerved to the left.
A Jap with a rifle popped up out of nowhere right in front of him. They stared at each other in horror for a split second, then fired at the same time. They couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards apart, but they both missed. Shooting when your heart was pounding two hundred beats a minute and your mouth was dry with fear was no easy test. The Jap frantically worked the bolt on his Arisaka. Mike just pulled the trigger again. The semiautomatic M-1 fired. The Jap clutched his chest. He managed to get off another shot, but it went wild. He fell back into whatever hole he’d popped out of.
Of course, if Mike’s first shot had been the last one in the magazine, it would have popped out with a neat little clink-and the Jap would have plugged him instead. One more time, the luck of the draw.
He crawled up to where he could see the opening in the ground the Jap had come from. He threw in three grenades, in case the son of a bitch had company in there.
Fighter planes raked Saipan with heavy-caliber machine guns and rockets. Bombers dropped more high explosives on the Japs’ heads. The fleet offshore kept pounding away with everything up to fourteen-inch guns. And the American soldiers had tanks and flamethrowers along with their other toys.