The Caprices (8 page)

“What do you think?” asked Francino.

Burns cocked his head and looked off to the right. “I got a feeling.”

Francino crouched deeper.

“But I can’t hear nothing.”

“Still . . .” Francino looked down to where the trees rimmed the vines. Cole had the other men moving carefully into the open. Francino could feel their unease. Cole, Frankel, Smith, Lescault, and Dove. The sun was beginning to burn through the mist.

Frankel was the first to fall. At first Francino thought Frankel must have hit some wire from the way his head jerked back and his stomach swung out. Francino was still trying to figure out what had happened when he felt Burns’s hand hard on his arm pulling him down. Only then did Francino realize that he had stood up and was standing in clear view of whoever had felled Frankel. Then he was lying on his stomach. His rifle was ready although he wasn’t. Burns was shooting at something saying, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” The target seemed to be moving. Francino tried to clear his mind.

A flying insect brushed his ear with her wings and Francino thought of the Angel of Death.

A purple, fist-shaped cloud hovered above him.

“Where are they?” yelled Burns.

Where were who?

There was sputtering fire below them. Someone (Lescault?) was screaming; he was hurt. But Burns and Francino were climbing. They were moving fast, like animals, on all fours. Burns moved ahead. Neither man spoke but Francino could hear each pull of Burns’s breath, although his ears were filled with silence. They moved through the vines. The brush clattered and snapped. Small animals took to the trees, rattling branches high above them. Birds screamed in alarm. Francino scrambled under the trunk of a tree. The soles of Burns’s boots were more worn on the inner edges and Francino tried to think if Burns was knock-kneed, but he could not remember. They moved upward still.

Burns, sweat pouring off his forehead, turned to Francino and said, “They let us go. They let us go because they knew we were scouts and that the rest of the squad would be moving behind us.”

Francino’s and Burns’s safe passage had lured the other men into the open. Francino had never considered that, despite his confusion, he had been part of a plan. He was still dazed, under the impression that the two men had encountered a pocket of chaos, all of it accidental and beyond reason.

“We’ll wait here,” said Burns.

“Before we circle back and join the others?”

“The others? They’re all dead.”

Francino pondered this. “Then what will we wait for?”

Burns thought they should pick a direction and start walking, which was logical and dangerous for the same reason. The area had no clean battle lines; you could be at an Aussie checkpoint, continue on and find yourself face to face with the Japanese, only to fight your way through to the Dutch. They were on a checkerboard and at this point in the game, Burns wasn’t sure whose square they were sitting on. Since their platoon had just been decimated, the area appeared to be under Japanese control. It was probably a good idea to move on and to move on soon.

“That’s not a plan and I’m not a gambling man,” Francino said to Burns.

“Then what are you? You’re not much of a soldier.”

Francino had responded with silence.

“I saved your life back there.” Burns lifted his shoulders. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be on your way back from New Guinea to Little Guinea.”

Francino laughed. “I think I owe my life to the Japanese.”

“To the Japs?”

“Yes,” said Francino. “For missing.”

Burns shouldered his rifle and spat. He nodded to Francino and Francino obliged. He walked over to their prisoner and shook him. The man woke up and struggled to his feet.

“We’re moving,” Francino said, then smiled to himself. He could have sworn that there was a flicker of recognition in the Jap’s eyes, a resentment that betrayed an ego, someone not beaten down by fear. The man scuttled to his feet. Francino cut the rope on his wrists.

“He does anything, I’m holding you personally responsible,” said Burns.

Francino looked at their prisoner. His eyes were watery, rimmed with yellow crust. “He’s almost dead,” said Francino.

Francino tried to stay alert, but his mind wandered and sometimes the sound of snapping twigs seemed too normal to pull out the usual register of noises. Maybe Burns was right. Maybe he was a bad soldier. Maybe he was too aware of what he was risking to be a good soldier. He kept thinking of Corporal Shedelsky after the bullet got him right above his left ear. Shedelsky had survived, but Francino found him late one afternoon wandering around in nothing but a pair of socks. Shedelsky had an umbrella, borrowed from a startled native who was watching with a nervous smile. Francino pictured himself dancing off a ship in his socks, his umbrella dangling, his sister and mother
waiting open-mouthed. Head injuries scared Francino almost more than dying.

They’d taken the prisoner the day before. Francino’s rifle had been propped against a tree and Burns was off attending to his fourth bodily function of the last hour. Despite his iron side, Burns lacked Francino’s iron stomach. Francino was watching the progression of a column of ants along the jungle floor. He found himself naming them, starting with Cole and then Lescault. The ants were unaware of Francino. He gently placed a rock in the middle of their path, and they quickly circumvented it, with no thought to the cause of their detour. Francino leaned back from his squat into a sitting position. His socks were damp and he thought he should take them off and let his feet breathe for a while. He began to untangle his laces and had one of his boots half off when he heard Burns’s low, frightened voice.

“Jesus,” Burns said.

Francino looked up quickly. A Japanese soldier was standing no more than six feet from where he sat. His rifle was closer to the Japanese soldier than it was to him. Burns raised his rifle to the man’s head.

“What are you doing?” said Francino.

Burns ignored him.

“What are you doing?” Francino repeated.

“Francino, I came here to kill some Japs.”

“He’s not armed.”

The soldier slowly turned around. He looked to Burns, raising his hands in surrender.

“He’s surrendering,” said Francino.

“No, the Japs don’t surrender. He’s rigged.”

“Rigged?”

“He’s got a grenade or something. He’s gonna blow himself up and us too.”

Francino had managed to take his boot off at this point, and was now standing. He took a good look at the soldier, who was
very thin and looked to be in his early twenties. His clothing was torn in patches and his eyes were milky, clouded.

“I think he’s sick,” said Francino.

“So what?”

“Save your bullet. If we can get him back to camp, he might be useful. He must have come from somewhere.”

“And?”

“He’s got to have some information.”

Burns laughed. “You want to take him prisoner?”

“Yeah,” Francino looked at the Jap. “Prisoner. Prisoner,” he said. He clasped his wrists a few times mimicking handcuffs.

“Might make more sense if you did what the Japs do, just slice his head off. He’d understand that.”

“I’m just following regulations. Either he’s surrendering, or he’s friendly. I think he’s surrendering.” Francino looked squarely at Burns. “If you want to shoot him, go ahead.”

Suddenly, the Japanese soldier sat on the ground. He crossed his legs like a schoolchild and looked warily first at Burns, then at Francino.

“We should get going,” said Francino.

“I don’t like this,” Burns said. “There’s something wrong here. No Jap walks out of the jungle and surrenders. What makes you think that he’s alone?”

Francino nodded almost imperceptibly.

They’d been waiting for an ambush ever since. Burns was convinced and then not convinced that the Japs were following them with the intention of eating them. Cannibalism, said Burns, was commonplace in Japanese society. Ever since the start of the war, the Japs had supplemented their diet with Allied flesh. That’s why, when you killed a Jap and checked his rations, there were only rice balls, no meat. They didn’t need to carry it, you see. They liked it fresh. Francino was of the opinion that starving troops didn’t carry any rations at all.

“Who told you about the Japs eating people?”

Burns licked his lips. “Jimenez. He lost his best buddy.” Burns sensed protest. “Yes he did. Yes he did.”

“All right. What happened?”

“It’s like what happened to us, only different. I think there were a couple of other guys. Yeah, there were four of them, got cut off, then outnumbered. The Japs didn’t kill anyone. They tied them up.”

“Did they get the pot boiling?”

“No,” said Burns. He looked over at the prisoner. “I swear, that fucking Nip is listening.”

Francino shook his head questioningly.

“He is.” Burns squinted in suspicion and the prisoner grew deeply solemn.

“They didn’t kill anyone . . .”

“Not one,” said Burns. “Then they took out the knife.”

“Yeah?”

“They cut strips off the guy’s leg while he was still alive. Something terrible, that. He was screaming and screaming. They was just carving the steaks right off the guy’s thigh.”

“What was his name?” asked Francino.

“I told you that. Jimenez.”

“Not Jimenez. The guy who was getting carved into steaks.”

“I don’t know. I think his name was Velasquez.”

“Velasquez?”

“Well, he’s dead, so who cares?” Burns lifted his two meaty hands to an uncaring God. He left the hands hovering in the air between him and Francino.

“Why didn’t they kill him? Why didn’t they kill Velasquez?”

“So he wouldn’t go bad. They kept him alive so he wouldn’t rot.”

Francino listened to the sound of his own breath and calmed himself. Even as a story, this was horrifying. Even as a superstition, it was a terrible thing to fear.

Francino was still trying to figure out why the prisoner had
delivered himself into their custody. Burns was right. The very act of surrender was not Japanese. He also found the man’s silence suspicious. He never protested anything, or attempted any kind of communication. He never insisted in Japanese or responded in any way to their questions. His very ease in their company added to Francino’s suspicion. Why was the prisoner calm, resigned? Francino studied him as he marched ahead.

Burns came up close behind Francino. “I’ve seen you looking at him,” he whispered. “You feel it too.”

Francino stopped. He looked at Burns’s worried face. “Why are you whispering?” he said.

“You know why,” said Burns. He tilted his head, swinging his eyebrows in the direction of the prisoner.

Francino shrugged and began walking.

Burns was offended. “Francino, listen to me. Francino.”

Francino stopped. He looked at Burns over his shoulder.

“We’re on the same side, you dumb Wop. You’re no better than me.” Burns lifted his shoulders and set his jaw. “Fuck, I even saved your life.”

“What is your problem?” said Francino. “You’ve been gunning for me ever since I got here.” He regarded Burns carefully. “Is it just me, or is it all Italians?”

“It might just be you,” said Burns. “Or it might just be Italians.”

“I’m not going to get drawn into an argument with you,” said Francino.

“Cut your losses.”

The Japanese prisoner coughed again, and Burns and Francino fell silent. Francino nodded at him and raised his eyebrows to Burns. Burns shrugged his shoulders.

They marched the next hour in tense, silent agreement.

Burns seemed to be struggling with something. Francino had seen it in his frowning, his frequent looks back at him, even though Francino had ignored all of his stares. He didn’t want to
invite him over, but Burns was determined. He came in close to Francino and shook his head heavily, to make it unmistakable that something was really bothering him.

“You ain’t done nothing,” he said.

“What?”

“We can’t be falling apart like this.”

Burns’s voice was barely past a whisper and Francino had to listen carefully. He wanted Burns to stop talking. He’d enjoyed the hour of estrangement, which in his opinion was preferable to a reconciliation.

“Italians have good food,” Burns said. “Nice-looking women.”

“Why don’t you just shut up?” said Francino. He marched quickly ahead with the pretense of checking on the state of the prisoner. “Let’s stop.”

The prisoner fixed his sad, waning eyes on Francino and to Francino’s surprise, shook his head. “Do the Japs shake their heads?”

“What?”

“Do they shake their heads?” Francino demanded.

“What do you think I am? The Jap ambassador?” Burns looked almost wounded. The past four days of marching had made him sensitive and moody.

Francino took a sip from his canteen. “So why do you hate Italians?” he asked, resigned.

“Well, a lot of Italians I just don’t like,” said Burns. He seemed to be relieved of a great weight. “There’s only one I hate.”

Burns waited expectantly.

Francino took a deep breath. “Mussolini?”

“No,” said Burns. From the look on his face, he didn’t seem to know who Mussolini was. “DiMaggio.”

“Joe DiMaggio?”

Burns nodded solemnly.

“No one hates Joe DiMaggio. Joltin’ Joe. The Yankee Clipper. Fifty-six-consecutive-game batting streak. MVP in ’41.”

“MVP, with a batting average of .357. When Ted Williams—”

“Ted Williams?”

“Ted Williams batted .406.”

Francino was silenced.

“If it wasn’t for all the songs and the radio coverage—what does that have to do with the game? If the guy’s so fucking graceful, give him a tutu.”

Francino was too shocked to laugh. Burns was nodding again, maybe to his patron saint or whoever it was who seemed to agree with him wherever he went, whatever generous spirit kept Burns feeling justified. It was because of this—the incomprehension on his part—that Francino didn’t realize that the prisoner had stood up and was walking toward them. The prisoner stopped just short of the end of Burns’s rifle, which was now readied, and said, “You an idiot.” The prisoner was shaking with emotion and his hatred of Burns showed clearly in the spite and accuracy of his words. “Joe DiMaggio is the greatest player, even Ted Williams say that.”