“Sir, we have one badly wounded man,” Trent said. “Do you have a bunk we could get him in?”
“Put him below in my cabin,” Jack said. “Mauer, show them where, and break out whatever medical supplies they need. Kowal, get those cans of peaches and pass them around.”
The peaches were a hit. Trent opened a can with his Ka-Bar and offered it to me. I wasn’t hungry. Kaz took it and tried to get me to eat, but I told him later. I slung my rifle and went below deck to look for Jack. I found him standing outside his captain’s quarters, which contained one bunk and a tiny desk. Luxurious for a PT boat. In it, a corpsman was removing the wounded man’s field bandage, dirty and caked with blood. It looked like shrapnel wounds to the chest, probably in that last barrage. He was a kid. Not even twenty years old, by my best guess. They all looked younger stripped of their helmet, web belt, and gear. A kid with freckles and a dirty face.
His breathing was ragged, a small pink bubble forming on his lips with each breath. His eyes opened, and he tried to speak. His mouth would form a word, but nothing came out. Then a sudden gasp, a gurgle, and he was gone, his lips holding that last word hostage forever.
Jack smacked the bulkhead with his palm and went up on deck, cursing under his breath. He checked in with his executive officer on the bridge and walked among the marines lying everywhere, accepting their thanks, asking how they were doing. He clapped Kaz on the shoulder, gracing him with that grand smile. Even though that kid’s death got to him, it wasn’t something he could show the world. It wasn’t so much that his smile was a lie. It was a mask.
I wandered along, not wanting to talk. Finally, we both ended up on the bow, wind snapping at our faces. Jack was silent. I knew the death of the boy in his bunk would haunt him much as the death of his crewmen had. There was nothing more he could have done, but it seemed to add to the burden of responsibility he felt so keenly.
“I thought you were done for when you didn’t come back to the boat,” he finally said. “Glad to see you’re both okay.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“What happened? With Porter, I mean.”
What happened? How to explain it? That he’d been a hero, a fraud, a cold-blooded killer, a liar, a con man, and that I shot him?
“The Japs got him,” I finally said. True enough.
“Killed him, or got ahold of him? I heard some of the marines talking about men being tortured. Trent said you found his lieutenant.”
“Yeah,” I managed. “The Japs got hold of him, Jack. But the end was quick, that’s all I can say. All I want to say.”
“Christ,” Jack said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “It’s a hell of a goddamn war we have out here. I never imagined it would be anything like this.”
“Me neither,” I said, our eyes meeting. Whatever beef I’d had with Jack and his family, this war had put it all in perspective, burned away the pettiness, eliminating any need for forgiveness or recriminations. Nothing mattered but what we’d shared out here; nothing in our past could compare with what the Solomon Islands had done to us. Death, terror, beauty, joy, and sorrow were daily offerings from the gods of the South Pacific. It was a new beginning, or the perfect ending. Either way was fine with me.
I looked away, not trusting my emotions. I stood at the rail, feet braced against the heavy roll of the PT crashing through the waves. The rifle hanging from my shoulder grew heavy as the strap dug into my flesh. I took it off, holding it with both hands, feeling the weight of the thing, its heft and perfect balance, the beauty and solidity of this lethal tool, wood and steel smelling of oil and gunpowder. I swung my arms, threw it overboard, and watched it disappear into the seething and sullen sea.