I’m not going to die today. Today is not my day to die.
Maxson had crawled from his foxhole, in shock now or dead, not moving at all. A jagged piece of bone jutted out from a frayed sleeve, black with blood, where his right arm had been. Karras moved past Maxson, looked up toward the buzz of an engine and the whir of props. Two B-25s rose over the hills and descended into the valley, flying above the coconut palms. Black bombs dropped from beneath the planes, the bombs tottering as they fell. The edge of the jungle erupted in sudden flame. Then the planes strafed the clearing as they passed overhead. Men dove for cover, were shot, or fell to their stomachs shaking, all of them illuminated from the bomb flames that rose like torches in the gray afternoon light. Karras dropped the spent .45 from his hand and ran.
He leaped into a foxhole where Harper sat hunched over his machine gun. Karras put his boot to Harper’s side, pushed him away. A clean, black star sat square in the middle of Harper’s forehead. Below his useless helmet, the back of Harper’s head was pulp.
Not today. I’m not going to die today. Goddamnit, man, look at me. Look at me! I haven’t even got a scratch.
Karras laughed.
The bombing had been like setting fire to a beehive. Karras could hear the rest of them coming out of the trees now, running across the field. The Japanese were shooting into foxholes as they ran, then jumping in, thrusting with their bayonets.
Karras put his hand out of the hole, pulled the machine gun in with him. He took the feed belt from the cartridge box, unraveled it, and draped the belt back over his shoulder. Within the confines of the foxhole, it was very hot. He wanted to be out. In the hole, he found it hard to breathe.
Not today. Not in this tiny hole, with someone running by, shooting down at me. Shooting down at me like some kind of animal. Not in this hole. Not today.
Karras pushed off with his legs, lifted the machine gun into his arms, cradled it. He sprung from the foxhole and landed on his feet, landed as softly as if he had jumped into water. He breathed deeply as the rain cooled his face.
They were there, running toward him now, four of them, less than thirty yards away. The crazy screaming bastards were charging, fire flashing from the muzzles of their guns. Karras heard himself hum as his finger locked on the trigger. Puffs of white moved across a perfect azure sky as gulls glided down through the smoke and ejecting shells of the weapon dancing wildly in his arms.
The men before him jerked and fell. Their uniforms ripped open where red flowers bloomed on their khaki-mustard chests.
Three
Washington, D.C
1946
8
Peter Karras woke to the gnawing sound of “Baby Snooks” on WTOP coming from the radio on his nightstand. He reached over and turned the damned thing off, adjusting his eyes to the fading light of the room. Had he been sleeping all afternoon? And if he had, well, why the hell not? He draped a forearm over his eyes, and began to drift back off. Then he remembered: the fights. Me and Joe’ve got tickets to the fights. Archie Moore, no less. He swung himself up, sat on the edge of the bed, and rubbed his eyes.
In the bathroom, Karras took a long leak, then lathered some Barbasol on his shadow and shaved. He could hear Eleni’s off-key voice coming from the kitchen, singing along to a Perry Como record — “Dig You Later (A Hubba, Hubba, Hubba)” — that she had bought over the weekend at Super Drugs on 13th and H. At least it wasn’t the new Vaughn Monroe, a record she had brought home the same day. Karras had had it up to there with Monroe.
He showered, and when he came out Eleni was singing the Como all over again. Karras could smell her cooking now, a chicken roasted in a pan of manestra. He was going to have to disappoint her about dinner. He had a busy night ahead of him, and she’d have to understand.
Karras looked in the mirror as he ran a little Vitalis through his dirty-blond hair, combing it back. Twenty-four years old, and already a little gray in the temples. Like his old man, who was nothing but gray now with a yero’s white moustache. Anyway, it didn’t stop Karras from getting the looks as he walked down the street. If he had grown up in a different place, and if not for the prominent black mole near his mouth, he maybe even could have been a movie star. He was that kind of handsome, he knew. And not the loverboy, loved-boy, Tyrone Power kind of handsome. More like John Hodiak. Yeah, like a blue-eyed Hodiak. He always liked that guy.
Karras put on a powder-blue shirt, and with it a blue serge suit with pleated trousers. He found a maroon tie decorated with gold diamonds outlined in blue, the blue the same shade as the suit. He laced on a pair of cordovan wingtip brogues, fresh out of the box from the Hahn’s at 14th and Park Road, and checked himself out in the door mirror: sharp, and ready to go.
Karras went out to the kitchen and came up behind Eleni, who stood over the stove, stirring the orzo in the pan. She wore a print housedress, her brown hair down and fluffed about her shoulders. Her plump, swollen ankles pushed out on the strap of her sandals. Karras put his arms around her waist, felt her relax.
“How’s it going, sweetheart?” he said. He bent forward and kissed the raised pink birthmark on the side of Eleni’s neck, brushing his lips on the two or three hairs which grew from it, tangled in a clump.
“It’s goin’ good now,” she said, shifting her thick body beneath his fingers.
“You better be careful, listening to that Como all day. You might fall in love with him.”
“I’ve got enough to keep me busy right here with you.”
“Don’t forget it.” Karras rubbed a hand across her belly. “You feelin’ okay?”
“I threw up a little this morning. But I’m all right.”
“Good. It’s going to be fine.”
“I know it.” She moved the wooden spoon around in the manestra. “We’re gonna have a good dinner tonight, Pete.”
“It’s going to have to wait till I get back,” he said, and as he did she stiffened beneath his grip. She did not turn around.
“Why, Pete? Why can’t you eat something before the fights?”
“Me and Joe got to go see somebody first. Business, is all it is.”
“Business,” she said, with a toss of her hair.
He brought his hand up to her right breast, rubbed it slowly until her nipple hardened beneath the cloth. He pushed himself into the small of her back.
“Pete,” she said, “I want to you to stay.” He caught a side glimpse of her frown, but the edge had left her voice.
“Save it for me, sweetheart. Keep it all warm for me till I get home.” He kissed her on the side of her mouth, tasted the grease from the chicken. He rubbed the grease off with the back of his hand.
Karras walked to the door, lifted a deck of Luckies and a book of matches from an end table that stood there, slipped them into the inside pocket of his jacket. He took his black topcoat off the rack and shook himself into it.
“Wait a second, Pete,” said Eleni from the open kitchen. She was spooning some manestra into a black pot.
“Aw, no, I’m not goin’ anywhere with that. I’m not walkin’ down the street in my best suit, carrying a katsarola.”
“It’s for your mother. I told her you’d run it by.”
“All right, damnit. Give it to me.”
“What’re you gettin’ so sore about?”
“Nothin’. Just give me the pot.”
Eleni crossed the room, put the pot in his arms. She gave him another kiss.