excerpt
“Look, Eddie,” he whispered, “the sun is just rising. It’s behind
us. In a few minutes it’ll be in their eyes. It’s the only help we’re
gonna get.” He took a succession of deep breaths as he thought.
“You’re the best B.A.R. man I’ve ever seen. You cover me. Satchel
charge is too heavy to run with. I’ll take the grenades. Keep the
M-1 ready in case your B.A.R. clips run out.”
“Shit, Sarge,” Krotz hissed, “it’s all uphill. They can see right
down your throat.”
“You just keep ’em worried about getting their heads shot off.
I”m going to the left a little, but not much. We gotta keep that sun
in their eyes.”
“Shit, Sarge.”
“You said that. Just do your best work with that thing.”
All that Spanger recalled about his assault was flaming pain
when the slugs tore into his shoulder, the Japanese gunner who
tried to slap the grenade away as it exploded, the cloud of debris
and flesh. The men from C Company who took them to the medics
told him that he dragged Krotz 200 yards to the beach. His Silver
Star commendation mentioned two machine guns. He thought
there was one. Every night during his six months in the hospital on
Treasure Island, he saw Riley Patterson’s blood pumping out of his
chest, down his side, into the mud. He felt the heat and the wet air
and woke up sweating.
When the Navy docs had him back together, the Corps made
Darwin a master sergeant and put him in charge of a military police
unit at the San Diego recruit depot. After the war, he came back to
the valley, back to Phyllis and Brad, the son he had never seen,
back to the police department. Two days following his 41st birthday,
Pete Torgerson appointed him chief.
The band behind the platoon was half a block up the street,
playing the Marine Corps hymn. He almost saluted, but shook his
head to clear it and made his way back to the cruiser. Life was okay,
Spanger thought. Some nights he didn’t see Patterson at all.
As he was about to pull away from the curb, the chief saw
Poodie James emerge from the crowd along the avenue …
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