Free The Million-Dollar Wound by Max Allan Collins Page A

near the edge of the hole.
    Heavier and heavier, the rain came down, turning from blessing into curse; the shelter half began to leak, water running in along its sides, the earthen floor of our home turning into a muddy mess. I was starting to chill, now, hugging myself, shivering.
    Barney was rubbing his knee.
    “Nice weather for arthritis,” I said.
    “Ain’t it.”
    Then, like all tropical downpours, this one ended as abruptly as it began. We sat under the shelter half, pigs in a wallow, listening to fat droplets finding their way down off the trees above, landing on the tenting like bird droppings.
    The wounded, except for D’Angelo, were sleeping, or whatever it was they were doing. I was smoking. I lit one up for D’Angelo and passed it to him; he nodded thanks and sat quietly smoking. My chills had stopped. I felt the fever taking hold again, but by now that seemed only natural. I couldn’t remember what it was like not to have a fever.
    “I wonder if I’ll ever see Cathy again,” Barney said.
    Did I mention Barney married his pretty blond showgirl just before we left San Diego? Well, he did. She was a gentile, so they had a civil ceremony. I stood up for him. He was writing her General Delivery, Hollywood, almost daily. But he hadn’t got any mail from her, yet.
    “Still not a single one,” he said. “My God, d’you suppose maybe she was in an accident, knocked over by a hit-and-run driver or something?”
    “She’s fine. Service mail’s always snafued, you know that.”
    He kept rubbing his knee, a little pile of grenades next to him. “If by some miracle I stay alive and get back to the States, back to Cathy, I swear the first thing I’ll do is kiss the ground, and never leave the good old U.S.A. again.”
    The U.S.A. That sounded so far away.
    It was.
    “Ma and Ida and my brothers and my ghetto pals,” he was muttering. “I’m never going to see ’em again, am I? Rabbi Stein’ll read a funeral service over me, but who’ll say Kaddish ? I don’t have any sons.”
    I wanted to comfort him, tell him not to give up, but the fever wouldn’t let me. I was having my own thoughts, now.
    “Funny thing is,” he said, “I got into this to fight the Nazis, not Japs… I’m a Jew.”
    “No kidding,” I managed.
    “So are you.”
    I couldn’t find a wisecrack; maybe one wasn’t called for. Anyway, I wasn’t up to it. I saw my father. He was sitting at the kitchen table with my gun in his hand. He lifted it to his head and I said, “Stop!”
    Then Barney’s hand was over my mouth; he was shaking, wild-eyed. His .45 was in his other hand. We were still under the shelter half. D’Angelo was awake, alert, automatic in hand; the two Army boys were too, similarly armed. Not Monawk—he was slumped, breathing hard.
    His mouth right on my ear, Barney whispered: “You passed out. Be quiet. Japs.”
    We could hear them walking, twigs snapping, brush rustling. They couldn’t have been more than thirty yards away.
    Barney took his hand off my mouth, just as I was getting my .45 off my hip.
    Then Monawk awoke, in pain, and screamed.
    Barney clasped a hand over the Indian’s mouth, but it was too late.
    A machine gun opened up.
    D’Angelo dove for Monawk as if to strangle him, but Barney pulled him off.
    The machine gun chattered on, swinging in an arc.
    That meant they’d heard us, but hadn’t spotted us.
    “Bastard’s gonna get us killed,” D’Angelo whispered harshly. Monawk, barely conscious, was confused, to say the least; then his eyes shut as he slipped away again.
    Soon mortar shells began to land all around, and bullets zinged at us, as machine guns swept the area. It’s all pretty hazy after that; images floating in a fever dream; one of the soldiers takes a hit in the arm but sucks in his howl and doesn’t give us away; a slug creases Barney’s ankle; bullets flying everywhere; Monawk starts to scream again, but then is quiet, a bullet with his name on it finds its way