Aces & Eights
by
Tom Sheehan
Compulsive
excitement filled
Sergeant Charlie
Twohig, down to
his toes. Ledo,
at this end of
the Burma Road
, was not a scavenger’s
post with a limited
amount of personnel;
it was an army
metropolis burgeoning
even in the darkness
with a kind of
stateside activity.
The muffled sound
of a laboring
engine crawled
out of a nearby
valley, sounding
as if it were
under wraps, promising
more engines up
the line with
the sometimes
slow hum of war.
From the edge
of night he heard
the tom-tom of
a hammer beating
on sheet metal.
Night guards,
bent on their
watches and patrols,
loomed as hulking
giants working
thick shadows.
The heat, floating
down out of another
valley, at first
did not seem to
bother Charlie
Twohig. Noise
and activity meant
people and people
meant money and
money meant gambling.
The long haul
from North Africa
had been worth
the trouble; the
pigeons, his resolute
mind said, were
ready for the
taking.
Into
his bunk he crawled
and felt a slight
but not new discomfort.
His throat was
dry and he needed
a drink and an
itching sensation
began to crawl
on his hands with
the purchase of
a seven-day itch.
His heart, he
swore, was pumping
faster than ever
and he convinced
himself it was
more of the excitement.
A strange heat
was subtilely
making way in
his body.
Private
Jake Breda twisted
in the bunk above
him. Twohig wanted
to talk. “Hey,
Jake, you awake?”
“Yuh,
Sarge.”
“You
ever been really
excited, Jake?
I mean so bad
you got sick from
it.”
“Sure,
when I got married.”
“Right
at the altar?”
“Hell,
no, Sarge. When
I closed the door
behind me at the
motel. What have
you got to be
so excited about?”
“I’m
in a streak, Jake.
I never felt this
way in my life.
It ain’t
I won so much,
but I haven’t
lost since that
blackjack game
in Ceylon .”
“What’s
it feel like?
I never felt really
different when
I was winning.
Never parleyed
much to begin
with, so can’t
tell by me.”
“Jake,
I swear my hands
are sweating for
a deck of cards
right now. Hell,
I wished it was
morning. I wish
it was tomorrow
already. I swear
I’m going
to win big, so
big it’s
burning a hole
right through
me.”
Breda
dropped a hand
down the side
of the bunk. “Give
me a smoke, will
you, Sarge.”
Twohig was for
the moment a suddenly
accessible sergeant.
“Sure,
Jake, keep the
deck. God, I’m
burning with excitement.
I wish I didn’t
have to sleep
at all. Tomorrow
I’m going
to line me up
some real good
ones. Blackjack,
that’s what
it’s going
to be. Black jack.
I can’t
lose. I can’t
lose. Tomorrow,
all day, it’ll
be twenty-one,
twenty-one, twenty-one.
I’m in the
groove.”
He
fell asleep dreaming
of getting hit
and hit and hit
with aces and
deuces and treys
and coming up
twenty-one every
time out of the
gate. He did not
see a king or
queen all night.
Twenty-one, twenty-one,
twenty-one.
Parts
of the journey
that brought him
here to Ledo,
at the end of
the world in upheaval,
clamor everywhere,
came across his
memory with unusual
clarity, with
unusual color.
He didn’t
think much about
Ohio , and only
knew the new uneasiness
in him as irregular.
Odds be damned!
*
* *
Weeks
earlier they had
been at sea. Sergeant
Charlie Twohig,
long, lean and
dark, with a mysterious
ailment, as yet
unknown to him,
threatening to
work its way into
his consciousness,
leaned against
a metal bulkhead
of a lead LST
and felt the heat
sinking into his
back, blacksmith’s
iron if anything.
The perspiration
falling off his
brow he had long
been aware of
and continually
tried to dismiss
its presence by
constantly shuffling
a deck of cards,
a veritable extension
of his hands…fingers,
hands, cards,
money, they were
partners forever.
Behind
him where he gazed
the uncoupled
train of LSTs
moved with a cumbersome
plodding out of
the Suez Canal
and into the searing
brightness of
the Red Sea .
The indignant,
hot and worried
cargo was a company
of Graves Registration
men that, already
in the first flush
of dawn, felt
the slamming of
solar heat, the
huge and imponderable
hammer of it.
To a man they
had heard and
believed the waters
before them boiled
under an hour
of sun. There
was much evidence
about them: with
explosive quickness
of a flare the
sun had popped
up over Asia and
dark welts were
maps on their
fatigues. It was
impossible to
sit still and
let sweat crawl
a horde of ants
over the skin,
yet it was just
as difficult to
move about on
the boats or find
a piece of shade.
And the worst
was yet to come.
It was like a
sore throbbing
elsewhere.
Behind
them the flat
oblique shadows
of the LSTs lay
on the waters
of the Red Sea;
ahead of them
was half the company’s
final target,
India and Burma
and the dead.
The other two
platoons, under
Captain Redmond,
were to continue
on to China .
At both ends of
the Burma Road
the dead needed
to be buried.
Corporal
Tally Biggs sat
beside Charlie
Twohig and eyed
the deck of cards.
He said, his head
at a condescending
angle, “You
know, Twig, if
I never saw you
with a deck of
cards I’d
of thought you
were naked.”
Biggs pronounced
naked as if it
were nekid, and
he had the ungracious
habit of speaking
with little lip
movement, watching
guard perhaps
on any commitment.
An inconsistent
green in his eyes
likewise operated
under a controlled
guise. Biggs was
not easy to like,
and found few
fast friends,
if any at all,
in the ranks of
comrades.
“Hell,”
Twohig said with
his Midwestern
drawl, “if
I didn’t
have a deck of
cards to fondle,
you know I’d
be bare ass. You
wanna cut low
card for a buck?”
If it was not
the sun lighting
up his eyes, it
was the thought
of a gamble, of
odds being folded
up in someone’s
camp and might
as well be his.
Biggs
read him clearly.
“No siree!”
he said. “Not
for three cuts
to your one. I
owe you up to
my ass now and
I ain’t
getting in any
deeper.”
Always he’d
worried about
making some outward
sign of the cowardice
lodged within
his thin frame.
It made his voice
soft and entreating
as he said, “Twig,
couldn’t
we get torpedoed
out here? Christ,
but we’re
moving slow, ain’t
we? Couldn’t
they up and stick
a fish right in
us?”
“Torpedoes
is for boats,
not for these
little lake-crossing
barges. What you
really got to
worry about is
getting strafed
by some Heinkel
or Junkers or
a Stuka, or maybe
getting dive-bombed
when you ain’t
got your life
belt on.”
Twohig loved to
pull the string
that tied Biggs’
guts together.
“Cut!”
He held the deck
out. The blue
bicycles of the
top card caught
the sun.
Biggs,
aware of Twohig’s
constant taunts,
had spent much
of the night dwelling
on the idea of
swimming in the
cauldron of the
Red Sea . He hated
fish and he hated
blood and he didn’t
know how to swim
in the first place.
“I ain’t
cutting, Twig!
Not three to one
I ain’t
cutting.”
The deep green
of his eyes had
retreated to a
thin, watery green
and he moved his
wrist to mop away
sweat lingering
at the edges of
his eyes. “I
don’t care
how hot it gets,
I ain’t
getting nowhere
out of this belt.
All’s I
can do is keep
my head from going
under if we was
to get thrown
in the drink.”
Twohig
moved one shoulder
away from the
bulkhead and a
wisp of air was
sucked in behind
his back. “Life
belts are no good
against sharks,
Tally. They’re
the real butchers
of the sea. They
tell me sharks
can amputate a
leg quicker’n
a doctor can with
an electric saw.
Cut!” The
blue bicycles
again.
“Ain’t
no sharks in these
waters! Nothing
lives in these
waters, nothing
at all!”
“Don’t
be stupid, Biggs.
I suppose you
never heard of
the balance of
power. You must
be pretty dumb
not to know about
that.”
“What
the hell’s
that got to do
with sharks? That’s
only about countries
lining up against
each other in
bunches to keep
out of war. And
I ain’t
cutting!”
Slowly he shook
his head at Twohig
and smiled a treacherously
deceptive smile.
“Yuh,
and it’s
all about little
ones getting eaten
by big ones. It
keeps order in
things like they
don’t need
traffic cops or
anything. They
just go on and
anything small
in the way of
big ones gets
eaten up. Maybe
they do have traffic
cops here. I’d
guess that’s
what
you’d call
sharks. They eat
up their share
of smaller fish
and anything foreign
that gets in the
water, and you
know what, Biggs?”
“What?”
“If
you was to fall
in the water when
we got dive bombed,
you’d be
foreign. Cut!”
The bicycles were
rolling.
The
deck of cards
was there in front
of him, the rolling
stock. “Trey
of spades!”
Sweat ran over
Biggs’ face
but he smiled
that thin despicable
smile of a caricatured
rat.
“Deuce.
You owe!”
Upward in Twohig’s
sweaty hand the
two of hearts
lay and a thin
blotch of pink
was evident on
the white of the
card.
Angrily,
Biggs said, “You’re
a lousy gambler,
sergeant. I’m
the only guy in
the whole outfit
you can beat.”
Great desire to
punch the sergeant
rushed on him,
but he knew he’d
probably get thrown
over the side
if he hit him.
“Someday
I’ll beat
your ass, but
good,” and
he could see his
fists smashing
away at Twohig’s
face the way Henry
Armstrong could,
or the way Harry
Greb used to throw
them in the barrooms
in New Orleans
when he was training
for fights. His
father always
said Harry Greb
was a real, real
tiger, standing
in the middle
of a bar and yelling
out, “I’m
Harry Greb and
I can kick the
crap out of any
man in here,”
and going ahead
and doing it,
his training routine.
Twohig
tired of Biggs
and wanted to
move on to new
entertainment.
In front of him
Captain Redmond’s
big ears were
fire red and sweat
was a shadow that
covered his whole
shirt. Beneath
the captain’s
arms it seemed
darker still,
dark like patches
on tire tubes.
Twohig was willing
to bet the captain
was wearing a
tie. With the
deck clutched
in his hand he
moved his left
shoulder and saw
steam come up
from behind his
back. With his
left foot he nudged
the fruit crate
Redmond was sitting
on.
Redmond
turned around
and looked at
him. The knot
on his tie was
still tied under
the oversized
larynx, his eyes
were bulging as
though the sockets
had loosened their
properties and
the oversized
lower lip was
more a piece of
extra flesh than
an integral part
of his mouth.
Twohig did not
like the captain,
not from the outset;
he was ugly and
a phony to boot.
Why didn’t
the man wear his
glasses outside
the orderly room?
If he only knew
how much they
improved his appearance.
“Sorry,
Captain. Guess
I need to stretch
a bit.”
Twohig loved to
play games with
him as much as
with Tally Biggs.
Biggs’ money
he liked, but
the captain was
more fun and he
relished the idea
of toying with
an officer. The
idea of the India/Burma
assignment caused
him some minor
dread, and it
was lucky, he
thought, that
the captain was
going on to China
with the first
two platoons.
Twohig
the gambler knew
what the captain
would say, knew
him like a book
he did. Would
he never get tired
of mouthing the
same pet phrases?
“That’s
quite all right,
sergeant. We all
of us need some
stretching, but
the road ahead
is a long one
and we must make
the best of it.”
It
was Redmond clear
as a phony bell.
Just another echo.
Christ, if that
ain’t just
like him, thought
Twohig. He can’t
talk without any
of them damn sickening
words…we
all of us, as
if he really belonged;
the road ahead…make
the best of it.
Just another broken
record from officer
country.
A
licorice sensation
ran through Charlie
Twohig, and a
fluttering joy
swam in his head.
It was game time:
“What is
the road ahead,
sir? We all of
us heard some
scuttlebutt back
there,”
he said, pointing
over his shoulder
back to the African
horizon now a
low cloud on the
rim of the sea,
“but I’m
sure we could
do with some reviewing.”
It was not a successful
attempt, though
he had chosen
his words carefully.
The homely bastard
had hardly blinked
his eyes.
When
the sergeant had
kicked his box,
Captain Redmond
had been deep
thought about
his gambling non-com.
Inside his shirt
pocket, probably
now soaked from
the sweat, was
a letter from
Twohig’s
wife. There would
be no need of
reading it again
for he had memorized
its contents.
It was evident
she was a more
intelligent person
than Twohig, though
hardly as devious,
and he had read
between the lines
the love she had
for the mad gambler.
As for himself,
he had never had,
owned or partaken
of a woman for
any extended period
of time, though
he knew how deep
the hooks of a
good, true love
went. The thought
that he might
help this woman
had built a new
spirit in him,
but he was destined
to go to China
after the split-up
in Ceylon . A
deep desire prompted
him to do what
he could. It would
make him feel
good inside, this
call beyond duty.
“We
break at Ceylon
, Sergeant. First
and second platoons
go with me to
China . Third
and fourth go
with Lieutenants
Tozzi and Milano
to Diamond Harbor
at Calcutta .
The
Guinea Brigade,
thought Twohig.
If we could ever
get to Rome or
Naples , they
might get something
done for us. What
the hell use are
two damn Guineas
out in India ?
They might as
well be on the
moon.
“What’s
our course after
Calcutta , sir?”
Twohig was irritated.
What the hell
made Redmond think
he was so damn
smart. Anybody
who ever read
anything knows
about Diamond
Harbor . Damn
the sweat! It
was making him
blink as it ran
into his eyes
and he’d
be damned if he
ever wanted an
officer to think
he was forced
to blink when
stared down.
Redmond,
though he sweated
profusely, did
not mind the heat.
For a long time
he had conditioned
himself to do
without comfort
and had forced
himself into extreme
exposures, both
of the body and
of the mind. For
eighteen months
he had been without
a woman and he
was still able
to think of them
with great sensitivity
and imagination.
Even among the
married men of
his command, no
other could say
the same. When
his time came
(he felt the slight
rocking of the
craft as a warning
of a growing need),
he would really
enjoy his fling.
Searching for
a woman would
be an adventure.
Of course, his
looks would hold
off some women,
but they would
be arrogant and
unworthy. A man
had more to offer
than looks. When
he looked at Twohig
he wondered what
his wife looked
like. Somehow
he had formed
a picture of her;
big of bust and
hip, blonde hair,
blue eyes, skin
like buttermilk,
and tremendously
good in bed. That
she was intelligent
was unquestioned.
That had been
divined from her
letter. Her use
of negatives was
clue enough, and
the way she slid
into comfortable
alliterations
made him think
of her reading
poetry on a morning
porch by the sea
or a wide lake,
by herself.
The
dark, brooding
eyes of Twohig
were focused on
him. Realizing
the contempt behind
them, Redmond
exerted his station.
It would never
do to let Twohig
know he was either
aware of his intentions
or that he was
reacting to an
enlisted man’s
barbs. “From
Calcutta, the
Black Hole, you’ll
go to Dacca, Tripura,
Silchar, bypass
the Khasi Hills,
to Sylhet and
on to the far
corner of Assam,
ending up at Ledo.
His eyes were
locked onto Twohig’s
eyes.
Smart-ass!
I read Kipling,
too. Does he think
no one but him
ever read? “Do
we go near Cooch-Behar,
sir?” That
ought to stir
his almighty ass.
“I
don’t believe
so, Sergeant.
From my recollection
of the map I think
Cooch-Behar is
in the western
part of Assam
.” Maybe
the interrogating
sergeant would
take the hint
and not push it
any more. He’d
be able to spell
correctly more
Indian names than
Twohig could think
of: Dibrugarh,
Sadiya, Tinsukia,
Sibsagar, Mahiganj,
and he’d
even throw in
Saikoa-ghat for
a plum. The map
of Assam and Burma
burned in his
mind just as clearly
as the letter
from Twohig’s
wife. At the moment
he had the incredible
feeling of being
unable to separate
them.
“Begging
your pardon, sir.”
Twohig said, as
he felt an irking
sensation swim
through his body,
“but I’m
willing to bet
that Cooch-Behar
is…”
Redmond
cut him off. “I’m
not a betting
man, Sergeant,
as we all must
know by this time.”
His hand waved
in the air as
if brushing the
whole episode
away. “It
really isn’t
too all important.”
The letter was
important and
he wanted to get
his mind back
to it. Introducing
Tozzi and Milano
to its contents
was a thought
that had not previously
entered his mind.
As the craft rocked
the little wings
of memory started
to flutter in
his groin, and
he was aware of
a slight sense
of hopelessness
for the whole
situation. Neither
Tozzi nor Milano,
both seemingly
good young officers
though as yet
untried, could
hardly begin to
understand the
woman who had
written the letter.
She loved with
a deep and abiding
love. Well, maybe
they could see
that, but the
rest would be
a mystery to them
and the fact that
she could be good
in bed would never
enter their indecent
young minds. It
would only be
time and chance
that would force
him to reveal
the letter, to
enlist their aid,
but that bore
on the unthinkable.
Besides, it would
deprive him of
aiding her all
by himself. She
had written to
him, the company
commander. It
was strictly his
responsibility.
The
train of squat
craft were now
riding easily
over a sea of
slow, even swells
and the sexual
impact of their
motion made Redmond
think about finding
a girl among the
Ceylonese
before he headed
off to China .
Ceylon seemed
much more romantic
than China . He
pictured a mysterious
dark-eyed beauty
standing above
him. Her subtle
undulations would
match the motion
of the sea.
Except
for the oppressive
heat and an occasional
alarm when an
aircraft came
into sight over
the flat, hot
sea, the trip
to Ceylon was
routine. Neither
submarine nor
surface craft
threatened them
and Twohig managed
to bite into Tally
Biggs’ bankroll
for thirty-two
dollars. Captain
Redmond fidgeted
and sweated the
whole way, as
did his command,
but he was frustrated
in devising a
plan to aid Sara
Twohig. The woman
was well worth
assisting and
he couldn’t
help but think
that her bed,
in the privacy
of darkness, was
lonely and pathetic,
and certainly
bore amends.
The
big excitement
at the harbor
on the northern
tip of Ceylon
was neither a
big blackjack
game for Twohig,
nor Redmond ’s
seduction of a
beautiful and
young Ceylonese
secretary on the
second night.
The excitement
was Captain John
Tracker who met
them when they
landed. He, and
not Redmond, was
to go on to China
because headquarters
found out that
he had lived there
for five years
when a boy. Redmond
could not have
been more pleased.
Even while he
was making love
to the olive secretary
with hair as black
as midnight and
a scent about
her that moved
soft wings in
his nostrils,
he was thinking
about Sara Twohig
in that lonely
bed in Ohio.
On
the last day of
June, with the
monsoons in season,
the –nth
Graves Registration
Company split
into two sections
of two platoons
each, and the
section headed
for Ledo in Assam,
with Redmond in
command, left
Ceylon at twilight
and moved out
into the Bay of
Bengal. This side
of Africa they
had buried their
first dead, one
of their own,
Corporal Eddie
Akins, who had
followed a girl
away from the
compound on the
fourth day. The
next day his body
was discovered
by a patrol, stripped,
slashed, and impaled
on a crude bamboo
rack tied to a
tree. Thousands
of burials, and
many of them much
dirtier than Akins’,
lay ahead of them,
they knew to a
man. Redmond struck
Akins’ name
from the company
roster.
At
dark the bright
constant stars
shone as fragmentary
neon in the sky
and occasionally
a piece of that
same substance
shot across that
black overhead
in the slightest
of arcs. Water
slapped quietly
at the craft,
the tide rolled
easily under them,
and the whole
night took on
the pallor of
mystery and injustice.
Twohig thought
about his big
blackjack game,
Biggs shivered
in the heat as
he remembered
Akins hung up
on the bamboo
rack, and Redmond
entertained pictures
of Twohig’s
wife alone in
her bed, thinking
of her not wasting
any more time.
The rest, Tozzi
and Milano included,
tried to envision
a quiet retreat
high in the mountains
near Ledo where
nobody died and
nobody cared.
Diamond
Harbor revealed
little of eastern
romance and Redmond
thought it particularly
dirty and mismanaged.
Every conceivable
size, shape and
description of
sea-going vessel
was clustered
in and around
the harbor in
immense confusion.
Commercial and
enterprising Calcutta
was full of hunger
and he had no
idea how human
bones with no
flesh on them
were able to stand
together. The
one night his
command spent
in Calcutta ,
and the one night
Redmond dared
not approach a
woman for fear
of disease, he
stood under the
arches of Chowringee.
The abominable
pageant before
his eyes turned
his stomach. Starvation
was all around
him; destitution,
ulcerous and malodorous,
was everywhere
in every eye he
saw. It was a
slice from an
unbelievable movie
come for the taking.
The war, somehow,
seemed cleaner
and more just,
and he found himself
anxious to get
to it, to its
fragmentation
and incendiaries,
to its riotously
free blood and
its depths of
concussion, to
its burial plots
and impermanent
markers.
The
long trip from
Newport News to
North Africa,
across the Mediterranean,
down the Canal,
across the Red
Sea (bypassing
Bombay where originally
they were to have
debarked but which
had been changed
by some big shot
sitting at a desk)
to Ceylon, up
the Bay of Bengal
and into Calcutta,
had taken two
months. For a
long time it had
seemed as if he
did not have a
command. Anxiety
to get to Ledo
and set up his
post worked on
him and he was
excited and grateful
when they left
Calcutta after
such a brief stay.
By
wide gauge and
narrow gauge railway
they traveled
inland. The country
was rugged, and
moving out of
Bengal and into
Assam it became
more rugged as
were the people
of Khasi, Naga
and Lushai Hills,
looking as if
they could wage
a war on their
own. At any minute,
the dark eyes,
the dark faces,
the ready scabbards!
Box-boarded
and nearly vacuumed
of breathable
air the rickety
trains moved on,
perhaps to stay
a day and a half
in one place while
repairs were being
made, or stocking
materials in another.
It was a long
journey and it
brought them to
the lap of the
war with each
unsure mile of
travel. Biggs
shivered. Twohig
gambled. Redmond
kept at a distant
seduction, the
blonde hair and
flared hips and
the white thighs
at conjunction
with his peripheral
vision, the voice
making itself
heard in the deepest
night beside the
lake, the moon
more than promise.
Twohig’s
luck had suddenly
and dramatically
changed with the
big blackjack
game in Ceylon
. He could not
lose. And to those
to whom he had
previously lost
much of his money
could not keep
themselves from
playing. Only
Biggs sat the
games out, irritated
by Twohig’s
luck, hoping it
would end suddenly
in one cut for
the whole pie.
Little did he
realize that Twohig,
when he was taunting
him and taking
his money, was
the only one in
the whole command
who paid any attention
to him. The bastard,
he hoped, would
die or go broke.
In one hand dead
of cards. It would
be worth the sight.
The
intolerable heat
of July in northern
India sat in the
cars of the old
train like a curse
and some of the
troops slowly
realized that
the Red Sea really
had not been too
bad. What they
did not know,
of course, was
that a march was
in front of them,
A long, back-breaking
march when the
tracks disappeared
at the foot of
a hill, an omen
of the end of
civilization.
Redmond
spent his time
talking to Tozzi
and Milano, instructing
them about Hindus
and Moslems and
the hill tribesmen
they would be
posted among.
He wanted his
command to work
without incident
among the native
populace. Slowly
blossoming in
him was an inveterate
fear of the wild
and unspoiled
hill tribesmen,
some of whom he
might have to
exert authority
over. That in
such a diverse
command of nearly
one hundred men,
two people should
have the same
basic fear was
not implausible.
Biggs hated Negroes,
Indians, foreigners,
immigrants, mulattos,
Catholics and
Jews. He hated
them and he feared
them, and in the
eyes of the natives
along their route
of travel he suspected,
with some cause,
a smoldering hatred
of himself. Even
against the most
decrepit looking
amongst them,
Biggs feared he
might not be able
to protect himself.
The
–nth Graves
Registration Company,
cut in half, walked
the last sixty-two
miles to Ledo,
the beginning
of the Burma Road
. During the long,
agonizing march,
Twohig continued
to bet and continued
to win. He flipped
coins, he bet
on the most ludicrous
things that only
chance governed,
and he won. A
provincial legend
was growing in
the ranks. He
was becoming as
big as the war.
All
the while Redmond
wanted to read
Sara Twohig’s
letter again and
again but he was
afraid to take
it from his pocket,
afraid it might
fall into the
gambler’s
hands. The return
address on the
top of the letter
was burned into
his brain: 8017
River Drive ,
Conneaut , Ohio
. For a moment
he could not recall
if the address
was really on
the face of the
envelope. That
thought upset
him. Surely the
mail clerk would
have noticed it.
Redmond suddenly
realized he knew
Sara Twohig as
well as any man
and she could
never be so stupid.
So elated was
he with this declaration
that he was tempted
sorely to pull
out the letter
and read it. But
caution again
denied him the
opportunity. And
Charlie Twohig
continued to move
among the ranks
looking for something
to gamble on,
letting the legend
grow.
From
the time they
left the train,
Ledo proved to
be four days away.
They pitched camp
at the first call
of dusk each day
and many of them
fell exhausted
to their sleep.
Most slept, but
Twohig dwelled
in the luxury
of his changed
luck, Biggs thought
about dying and
getting stuck
like Akins was,
and Redmond went
through a ritual
of promising Sara
Twohig all the
help she needed.
When he did sleep,
the ugly, toadish-looking
commander dreamed
often about Ohio
, a little town
against the side
of the lake, a
voice smoldering
in the darkness.
The
nights were wide
and black without
any light on the
horizon and legions
of stars moved
majestically overhead.
No less than the
insensitive Biggs,
who twice volunteered
for interior guard
duty because he
was afraid of
getting stabbed
in his sleep,
moaned under the
imperial beauty.
It
was in the midst
of the tall darkness
of the third night,
when the company
was pitched in
the foothills
of the Naga Hills,
that Redmond found
his answer for
Sara’s letter.
It would take
some doing on
his part to set
it up and it would
also take, as
the main ingredient
of his scheme,
a particular type
of individual
he had no doubt
was on the roster
of every outfit
in this man’s
army. The next
move was to find
that man. Surely,
without telling
Tozzi and Milano
any details, he
could enlist them
in this pursuit.
Strangely, as
if he had succeeded
already, a surge
of joy swam in
his blood and
he leaned back
against a tree
on the side of
a hill and lit
a cigarette. The
night, with ease,
he found particularly
beautiful. It
was high and wide
and quiet, and
he was alone.
A fragrance of
Ceylon twisted
in his nostrils.
The girl who had
cried Tai! Tai!
in his ear had
been well worth
the wait. Against
the tree he slept
without dreaming
about Ohio .
They
arrived at the
bamboo city of
Ledo near dusk
on the fourth
day of hiking.
Twohig was seven
hundred and twenty
dollars richer
than when they
had hit Ceylon
. Biggs was near
complete exhaustion.
His changeable
green eyes were
red and burning
and he was thankful
the sun had disappeared
behind a hill.
Tozzi and Milano,
both whose feet
were raw and blistered
and who listened
with odd attention
to the captain’s
strange request,
had special missions
to perform. Redmond
could hardly wait
to have his command
post set up. He
hadn’t worn
his glasses since
the company had
left North Africa
, except to sneak
secret looks at
Sara’s letter.
Business
as usual, he thought,
was at hand.
That
business was burials.
Several times
a day formality
would be the key
word, a touch
of the civilized
world that was
otherwise non-existent
about them. Formality
meant full dress
uniforms, bearers,
firing squads
and Taps. It was
the saddest part
of war, the departure,
but, like the
fighting and the
dying, Redmond
knew it would
become routine.
Familiarity, he
thought, bred
callousness, not
contempt. Anyway,
you hardly knew
the man you had
to bury.
At
Ledo the accommodations
were just as Redmond
envisioned. They
were assigned
to a small compound
of bamboo huts;
one for the orderly
room, one for
officer’s
quarters, three
for the men, and
one for himself.
Though there was
no tap water and
no air conditioning,
he had read enough
about India and
the northern heat
to have installed
on his hut the
thick mesh screens
that were called
khus-khus tattie.
Woven from the
fragrant khus-khus
grass, the screens
were placed over
both door and
window and kept
moist by having
water thrown over
them. When the
wind blew through
the mesh, it would
carry moisture
into the room
and sometimes
reduce the temperature
inside by as much
as ten degrees.
To perform the
wetting-down operation
Redmond hired
a small native
boy, Azard Phanitar,
who looked strangely
Mongolian and
not unlike some
American Indians
he had seen. Azard
was a scrawny
but faithful twelve-year
old who performed
similar duties
for other officers.
He liked the particularly
ugly officer who
had approached
him and did not
look as American
as the others.
Lt.
Peter Milano returned
an hour after
their arrival
in Ledo. The man
the captain wanted
was in a nearby
outfit. No contact
had been made
by Milano, but
of the man’s
qualification
there was no dispute.
All along Redmond
had known that
Milano would find
his man sooner
than Tozzi. Hadn’t
Milano taken nine
years to get his
college degree?
It was one of
the reasons that
Redmond liked
Milano the better
of the two. He
was a plodder,
not a flash in
the pan as was
Tozzi, and not
a ninety-day wonder
at that. Redmond
knew he could
trust him without
question.
Redmond
had his glasses
on. He looked
different and
talked differently.
“You’re
sure, aren’t
you, Pete?”
It was the first
time he had ever
called the lieutenant
Pete.
“No
question about
it, captain. He’s
the kind of guy
you’re looking
for. I could have
checked him out
more, sir, if
I knew what you
had in mind.”
“Now,
now, Pete, time
enough for that.
How about having
a drink with me.
I have a bottle
right here. The
office looks quite
proper, doesn’t
it? It’s
about time we
had a sense of
uniformity around
us. Kind of nice
to get back to
work, wouldn’t
you say?”
His smile came
over the full
lips. The bottle
was Ballantine
Scotch.
While
they talked the
rest of the company
was getting situated.
Twohig, having
dumped his gear
in the farthest
corner of a hut
most distant from
the orderly room,
and escaping Biggs
by doing so, set
out to increase
his capital. Lady
Luck sat on his
shoulder and he
wanted her there
for the long ride,
trying not to
let her change
her fickle mind.
Biggs, having
lost his chance
to bunk near the
only man in the
outfit who paid
him any mind,
sought out the
newest man, Private
Kranske, and bunked
beside him. When
Biggs dropped
his gear, and
said, “Mind?”
Kranske only nodded.
Biggs had no talent
at all in wearing
his corporal stripes.
The outfit, down
to the last man,
often wondered
in what kind of
outfit Biggs’
stripes had been
earned.
Dawn
kicked open the
door of a furnace,
but Twohig, as
soon as he had
set his section
in motion, sat
down to his first
blackjack game
since Ceylon.
He won and he
won big. No one
could touch him.
The aces fell
on kings and queens,
on tens and jacks;
treys fell on
nines paired.
Invincible he
felt and took
great risks. But
he continued to
win. Even when
his eyes became
blurry and he
was not sure sometimes
what cards lay
face down in front
of him, he could
not lose. Pain,
the sole intruder,
came like slivers
or small arrows
in the back of
his neck. He thought
it was anxiety
and believed it
to be a sign of
the big streak.
Fate or Lady Luck
had kissed him
a big French kiss
and he dare not
put it aside.
“Hit
me again.”
A five to make
it three of a
kind. “Kick
it once more.”
There couldn’t
be a face card
in the whole deck.
Trey for eighteen.
“Again.”
The big one for
nineteen. Not
enough. “Kick.”
Big deuce. “All
mine, man. All
mine.”
On
and on he went
for a whole week
and walked like
a banker from
one game to the
next. Redmond
had tabs on him
the whole time
and even had an
idea that Twohig’s
winnings were
as astronomical
as reputed to
be. But Redmond
, with incredible
foresight and
the great deal
of knowledge gleaned
from Sara’s
letter, sat and
waited.
The
one thing he did
not know was Charlie
Twohig was seriously
ill. But not even
Charlie Twohig
knew that. Luck
and hot blood,
Twohig believed,
went together
like two fat people
dancing, uncomfortable
but together.
When
at the end of
the brutal days,
Twohig lay soaking
in his bunk and
strange formations
were working in
his blood, Captain
Redmond thought
about Sara Twohig
and how her mail
would soon improve.
Those first nights,
when the demon
of heat struck
at him in wholesale
measure, Redmond
dreamed he stood
over Sara Twohig
and smiled down
at her. There
was no end to
the good that
a man could do
for a woman.
Business
came. The dead
and the dying,
like lost legions
in a forest of
night, called
with frightening
rapidity. The
range of the –nth
Graves Registration
Company was far
and wide and it
was not uncommon
to see one of
their number climb
into a jeep with
a rubber bag,
a shovel and a
record book and
set off for a
long trip. At
times it was a
fighter pilot
that had flown
his craft into
the side of a
mountain. Other
times it was the
pilot and co-pilot
of a larger craft
that had crashed
with a planeload
of coolies when
the engines failed
over the hot Indian
hills. The company
dressed and undressed
daily, served
as bearers, marked
records in triplicate,
played Taps, lowered
chilled bodies
into permanent
and semi-permanent
graves, and otherwise
found their roles
in the global
war that raged
wildly around
them.
But
Charlie Twohig
goldbricked.
“Captain,”
Lt. Tozzi said,
his voice hardly
masking his hatred
of Twohig, “it’s
a friggin’
shame if we let
Twohig continue
the way he is.
Hasn’t done
a day’s
work since we
hit this place.
Everybody thinks
he’s got
it made and we’re
a bunch of dummies.”
Redmond
sat back in his
chair, heard the
splash of water
on the khus-khus
tattie, waved
his hand as if
he were brushing
off flies. “He’s
all mine, Lieutenant.
Twohig’s
all mine! He’s
one problem in
this company that
I’ll deal
with in my own
way.” The
mysterious grin
was again on the
ugly face and
Tozzi thought
he looked more
like a sneak thief
each day. Redmond
was hiding something
from him and it
was not right.
He was, after
all, his right
hand man, as he
considered himself.
Redmond
saw the hurt-puppy
look on Tozzi’s
face. “Rest
easy, Lieutenant,
Twohig’s
in the best possible
hands,”
and his sly grin
further agitated
the young officer.
All the young
lieutenant needed
was a parting
word.
“Luck,
Lieutenant, is
not what makes
the world go round.
You remember that.
Luck is for the
birds, as they
say.” His
large over-exposed
eyes stared into
his empty glass
and a malicious
joy swam in them.
Again Tozzi thought
Redmond the ugliest
man in the world.
On quick heels
the young officer
turned and left
the orderly room.
Luck!
Luck! Luck! Redmond
could not hate
any other word
in the language
as much as Luck.
Luck did not bring
the good pilots
over the Hump.
It was guts and
ingenuity. And
Luck did not bring
his women to him.
Far more important
was his ability
to discover what
they really wanted
from a man. What
they wanted, he
gave them, and
he patted the
letter in his
breast pocket.
Without ever meeting
Sara Twohig, he
knew what she
wanted. He reminded
himself to make
a note that Tozzi
should never be
recommended for
a command of his
own.
In
the middle of
their third week
in Ledo and when
the heat was fiercer
than ever before,
Charlie Twohig’s
streak was still
intact. GIs from
all over came
to see him play
and went away
with awe and disbelief
riding on their
faces. None of
them noticed that
the big winner
Charlie Twohig
was a pathological
museum operating
on the compulsion
of sheer distress
because time might
be running out
on him. None of
them, or Charlie,
knew the germs
and microbes gathering
force in him were
bent on his annihilation.
Infantrymen passing
to or from the
front lines through
Ledo envied him
and believed he
of all men had
it made. A legend
was continuing
to build and they
carried it to
the lap of the
war with the usual
hyperbolic descriptions.
Neither did the
nights and the
impenetrable darkness
swimming like
dark thick webs
cramp his style
or his luck.
Merrill’s
Marauders, henchmen
of intrigue and
sudden hits and
compelling bravery
who passed between
the two tea plantations
where the company
was located (in
the darkness like
Sicilian vespers
being replayed)
had their own
challenger who
dropped half his
platoon’s
money into Twohig’s
hands, then passed
silently on to
a Burmese destiny.
And
Redmond waited.
Little disturbed
him. The war floated
around like a
host of discernible
balloons in a
wind that did
not touch him
directly. Sara
Twohig was in
his blood as strong
as the unseen
enemies were in
her husband’s
blood. Even the
appearance of
the legendary
Doctor Gordon
Seagraves, with
his corps of nurses
and native doctors,
failed to attract
his attention.
Redmond just knew
that the war was
cleaner and more
just than it appeared
to eyes other
than his.
In
their sixth week
in Ledo, Twohig
lost his first
game. The tall
sergeant, a stranger
to Graves Registration,
announced himself
to the gambler
at dusk of the
eventful day.
His name was Paul
Cask and he was
thin as a weed
with a potential
of fibrous energy
latent about him.
He had a high
forehead and the
thin lines of
his eyes almost
merged above a
sharp nose. Those
who watched him
play swore he
hardly drew a
breath, saw his
lack of expression,
saw the steady,
quick hands at
the cards.
Now
it was that goldbricking
Charlie Twohig,
fully aware of
the aliens in
his body, did
not allow himself
a visit to the
aid station. Fate
needed such small
impetus to alter
her choices.
“How
come you ain’t
been by before,
Cask?”
“Busy.”
Cask had Biggs’
habit, barely
moving his lips
when he spoke.
Twohig had not
liked him from
the start.
“Been
winning?”
“Some.
We have turns.”
Cask was cold
and emotionless.
Twohig knew the
contrast, for
the fever was
on him once more.
The pain of it
was in little
digs at the back
of his neck and
thousands of pygmy
spears pierced
his skin. For
the first time
in a long while
he thought about
Ohio and being
captured in Sara’s
arms. It all seemed
so far away, so
unreal, as if
it had never existed
at all. Azard
Phanitar, the
scrawny little
houseboy, sat
in a far corner
and stared at
him. In his young
but knowing mind
he was aware that
Twohig was a battleground
of unseen but
powerful forces.
Too often he had
seen the eyes
of the foreigners
when the sickness
came. He did not
know how to tell
the big money
man. He was only
a boy, after all,
and this was a
man’s war.
Cask
won steadily and
a violent hatred
toward him built
in Twohig. “What’s
your job, Cask?”
“I’m
in the motor pool.”
“Know
what my job is?”
Twohig’s
eyes were burning
and he thought
he was back on
the Red Sea .
“No.”
“G.R.,
that’s Graves
registration.
We bury guys.
Sometimes in just
a raincoat when
a bunch of guys
get hit in one
place and we can’t
get them to a
cemetery in the
rear. Know how
we identify the
bodies?”
“Dogtags.”
Cask’s eyes
had not even moved.
He looked like
an Aztec statue.
“How
we use them is
the trick. Know
the one with the
groove in the
edge?”
“Yuh.
Know it.”
Twohig’s
eyes were redder
and far more irritating.
“That one’s
the clincher.”
He laughed forcibly.
“We stick
the groove between
two of the top
teeth, and then
know what?…we
kick his damn
jaw shut!”
Cask
stood up. “I’ll
be back tomorrow
when you feel
like playing instead
of talking.”
Spinning on his
heels, he left
quickly.
Twohig
kicked the table
over after he
had gone. “Just
who in the hell
does he think
he is!”
Biggs,
on the sidelines,
knew a moment
of joy. “Tall
and mean, Twig.
Just tall and
mean and cool
as hell, all’s
he is.”
“Just
keep your damn
mouth shut, Biggs.
I’m going
to spend the night
planning your
day tomorrow.”
Azard Phanitar,
in the far corner,
knew only too
well how Twohig
was going to spend
his night.
A
half dozen times
Cask came back
and he continued
to win. The games
went from blackjack
to five-card draw
to stud poker.
Twohig went into
a panic and the
word spread and
the infantry grinned
and said, “When
your number’s
up, you can’t
do much about
it.” Twohig
was but another
fatality of the
war. His bankroll
was being tapped
by Cask. When
he could, he got
into other games
and won, but Cask
alone had the
evil eye on him.
Twohig was unable
to refuse him
a game.
Cask
became the fulcrum,
the point of balance,
and when Twohig
won, there came
Cask quietly and
coolly to take
his money.
The
sicker Twohig
became, the harder
he fought the
disease. And the
more he won from
other hands, the
more Cask took
from him. Never
a fist was raised
at their table,
but Twohig would
scream at his
opponent. “If
you ever die out
there, you son
of a bitch, I
hope you rot and
never get a grave."”
”Don’t
you want to kick
my jaw shut, Twig?”
The cold face
without expression
looked back at
Twohig with complete
disregard.
For
nearly two months
Twohig fought
his disease and
Cask. At times
he had no knowledge
of how he fared,
so immense his
hatred and the
compulsion to
win. Around him
war was a great
unknown that did
not involve him,
and Sara had long
ceased to be.
She had never
been real. It
was only a dream.
Reality was a
deck of cards
and a man named
Cask who never
flinched and never
held back.
And
one night the
war came for real.
Lt. Tozzi, so
often on the sidelines
talking to Corporal
Biggs, came into
Twohig’s
hut and said,
“Sergeant,
we just got a
call. A man went
over the rim in
a jeep at Ketchi.
I think it’s
about time you
had a mission.
You’ve been
goldbricking enough.”
“Hell,
Lieutenant, I
ain’t feeling
too good. I think
I’ll have
to go on Sick
Call in the morning.”
“You’ll
take this trip,
Sergeant, and
that’s an
order.”
Tozzi was unable
to mask his hatred
of the sergeant.
“I’m
sick, I tell you!
I ought to go
on Sick Call right
now.” Now
it was he knew
the pain as a
fierce and frightening
enemy.
Tozzi
could not hold
it back. “You
go out there and
get him, Twohig,
and bring him
in. It’s
your friend Cask.”
The
gambler leaped
from his bunk.
“I ain’t
going nowhere
on the face of
this earth to
get that bastard!
He can rot for
all I care.”
His face was in
Tozzi’s
face and colored
with hate. No
one could make
him go out there
and bring in that
rotten bastard.
Biggs
broke the game
wide open as he
leaped off his
bunk. Tozzi could
not hold him back.
The rat began
to scream. “Big
gambler! Big stupid
gambler! Don’t
you now who the
hell Cask is?
He’s a real
pro. The old man
sicced him on
you! Your old
lady’s broke
and the old man
sicced him on
you.”
“Shut
up, Biggs, before
I kill you!”
Now the pain came
with weird intensities
and fully known
in his head. The
needles behind
his eyes began
to jab!…
jab!… jab!
Biggs
had been target
long enough, Hadn’t
he been played
for a sucker as
long as he could
remember. “You
got taken, big
gambler. You got
taken! Can’t
you see it? You
got taken. Cask’s
all pro. The old
man picked him
out. Your old
lady wrote to
him.”
Who
wrote to who?
What was he talking
about? “Who
wrote?”
“Your
old lady. She
wrote to Redmond
.” His old
lady? Sara? How
long ago was she…how
far away? What
was Biggs saying?
Sara, Sara so
good in bed, what’s
happening? His
eyes were killing
him and the rat
Biggs stood in
front of him staring
into his eyes.
The pain was shattering
behind his eyes.
“She
wouldn’t
do that to me…she
wouldn’t.
I don‘t
believe you. So
help me, Biggs,
I’m going
to kill you.”
He stepped toward
him and Tozzi
saw murder in
Twohig’s
eyes.
“It’s
true, Twohig.
Your wife wrote
to the captain
and he arranged
the whole thing.
He knew you couldn’t
beat Cask all
the time. He’s
been sending the
money home to
your wife, every
dime that Cask
won.”
Charlie
Twohig lay down
in his bunk and
the fever and
the pain leaped
at him and he
thought he could
never stand it
through another
night.
After
midnight, with
an insane idea
in his mind, Charlie
Twohig the gambler
took a rubber
bag and a shovel
and climbed into
a jeep. Next day
a patrol found
them, Cask and
his retriever,
on the side of
a hill. Twohig
had gotten the
body halfway up
the hill. The
entrenching shovel
was stuck in the
ground and Cask’s
body was pushed
against it so
it couldn’t
roll down the
hill. Twohig lay
on top of the
body and the fever
and the dreams
were gone.
Redmond
at first was disturbed.
He had no idea
that Twohig was
sick. Then he
realized: it was
his piece de resistance.
He had helped.
She would be grateful
and receive him
properly. He went
to sleep dreaming
about Ohio, the
lake, the smoldering
voice, only after
he realized luck
truly did exist.
©
2008 by Tom Sheehan
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