Heroes Don't Run

by Harry Mazer

  I was outside, sitting on the porch railing and sipping the coffee, which was really strong and tasted really bad, when the screen door slammed.

  “A good time to be up,” my grandfather said. He was wearing overalls and heavy work boots. He sat down in the faded green rocker, and it creaked and squeaked.

  “‘Morning, Grandpa,” I said.

  “‘Morning.”

  “You sleep okay?” I asked.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Me either.”

  “Uh-huh.” He nodded. “Thinking, were you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I was.” I looked down into the coffee cup and realized I’d drunk the whole foul-tasting mess.

  “Same as me,” he said. “Thinking. Thinking can keep you awake. I was thinking about your father, and you, and”—he motioned with his stump arm—“and this,” he said. “This thing here. Maybe you won’t believe it, Adam, but I’m not sorry. It was a terrible time, and it changed my life, but it’s my life. Uh-huh.” He rocked. “My life. And it is what it is.”

  I was leaning forward, listening to him. He was old, and he was wise. I waited for him to say more. Maybe he’d say something that would make me feel better about being stuck here for the next year, about doing things the stupid way I’d done them. But he just sat there rocking for a while, nodding, and not speaking. Until, finally, he said, “You got any more of that coffee?”

  “It’s not very good.”

  “Don’t matter. You want to fetch me a cup?”

  I went inside and poured the rest of the coffee into his mug, which he always left in the same place near the sink. “You want milk, Grandpa?” I called.

  “Sugar,” he said. “Two heaping spoons of sugar.”

  I brought the coffee out and handed it to him, then seated myself again on the railing. “What do we have to do here today, Grandpa?”

  “Oh, same as always. There’s always work to be done on a farm. But you”—he took a big swallow of coffee and patted his mouth with the back of his hand—“you got something to do. You got to go back to Syracuse and sign yourself up for the service.”

  “You’ll sign, Grandpa?”

  “Maybe not today. It’s going to rain, and I got to rake the hay and start bringing it in.”

  “I’m going to work with you, Grandpa. We’ll do everything.”

  “Good. And maybe in a few days, we’ll drive down to Syracuse.”

  “And sign the papers?” I said again.

  “That’s what I said.”

  A week passed, and we still hadn’t gone to Syracuse, and I was going nuts. I was reminding my grandfather every day that he’d promised to take me down to Syracuse, but every day there was something else that had to be done. I was afraid he was just putting me off.

  The following week school started for the kids in the area. The school bus went right down Grandpa’s road, and I should have been on it, but Grandpa didn’t say anything. I wrote Mom a long letter about my trip across the country and about Grandpa and his friend, Doris. Not a word about joining up or school.

  One rainy day we were in the house having breakfast after we finished morning chores. “Grandpa,” I said. “Are you going to take me to Syracuse?”

  “Oh, ja,” he said.

  “Let’s go then,” I said. “Let’s go right now. I’ll get the truck.”

  “The barn, there’s a leak—”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll fix it. We can throw a piece of canvas down for now, okay?”

  By the time we left, it was almost noon. Grandpa let me drive all the way down Route 11. He took over when we reached the city. He steadied the wheel with his stump arm and shifted gears with his right hand. It was something to see.

  We did go to Syracuse, but Grandpa drove so slow, we almost got to the recruiting office too late. And then, when they sent us to have the papers notarized at the bank, it was closed.

  “We’ll come another day,” my grandfather said.

  “No, Grandpa! We’re doing it today.” I made him drive back to the marine office. “This is my grandfather,” I said to the recruiter. “Why do we need a notary? You can see him sign the paper.”

  The recruiter looked at the paper, then he looked at my grandfather, and at me again. “Okay, lad,” he said. “The marines want you.”

  I was ready to leave for boot camp that minute, but I had to take a physical, and that would be the following week. The next few days we worked on the roof. Grandpa was bringing shingles up and I nailed them down. During a break, he asked me if I’d told my mother I was joining.

  “After the physical,” I said, “when I’m really sure.”

  I went back to Syracuse by bus for my physical. I thought I might be a little underweight, but I passed everything. I was classified 1A.

  A marine captain in a splendid uniform swore in a bunch of us. “In about two weeks,” he said, “you new recruits will receive a letter telling you where and when to report. Have a bag packed, because you won’t have a lot of time. Don’t bring much money or anything valuable, just your toothbrush and a change of socks. The marines will provide you with everything else. Welcome aboard!” He saluted us, and we saluted back. On the bus back to the farm, I was so happy, I could hardly see straight.

  Two weeks later to the day, the letter to report arrived. Grandpa and Doris saw me off at the bus stop on Route 11.

  It was hard to say good-bye to my grandfather. “Grandpa, thank you.” I wanted to say more, really thank him for signing for me. For understanding. For letting me go. For everything.

  He rapped me on top of the head with his stump, the way he used to when I was a kid. “Use your noodle. Don’t stick it up like a cuckoo bird and get it shot off.”

  “Yeah, Grandpa, I’ll remember. I’m not going to get hurt.”

  On the bus I looked out the window till I couldn’t see him anymore. Then I turned around and looked forward and thought about where I was going.

  A bunch of us recruits were housed overnight at the Hotel Syracuse. The next morning we reported to the lobby at 7:00 AM—in marine time, 0700. We were counted and checked off, then lined up outside by the sergeant and counted again.

  Then we marched down the middle of Washington Street to the railroad station on Erie Boulevard. “Close it up,” the sergeant kept yelling. “Close it up.”

  We were all still in civvies—civilian clothes—carrying our suitcases and satchels, so people on the street couldn’t really tell we were marines, but I thought they knew. I marched with my head up, my back straight, trying to keep time, but there was no cadence and we all kept banging into one another.

  Once we were finally on the train, I dropped my suitcase on a seat, then navigated the aisle, saying hello to everyone. “Pelko,” I said, shaking hands. And the other guys said, “Smith.” “Weslowski.” “Kaplan.”

  I offered my hand to the sergeant, but he ignored it. “When do we get our uniforms, sir?” I asked.

  He glanced at me. “You got a seat? Sit down.”

  That cooled me off. I sat and looked out the window as the train picked up speed. Then I took out the Big Chief tablet I’d bought at the drugstore along with some other things and moistened the tip of my pencil.

  October 10, 1944

  Dear Mom,

  Don’t be mad at me, but I joined up. No, not the navy. The marines. Grandpa signed for me. Don’t be mad at him. It’s not his fault. I made him do it. I kept pestering him till he said yes. I passed the tests, Mom. They said I was in perfect shape, eyesight (20/20!) and everything. I’m on a train right now, with some great guys, on my way to boot camp in Parris Island, South Carolina. These guys on the train with me are from all over the East.

  Mom, I know I told you I was going to stay with Grandpa, and I’m sorry I had to lie to you. But I couldn’t wait till I was eighteen, like you wanted me to. Don’t worry about school, Mom. Before I left Bakersfield, I had a talk with Mr. Leesum, the principal at my school, and I promised to come back after the war and finish up.
I looked Mr. Leesum in the eye and gave him my word, Mom, so you know I’m going to do it.

  As soon as we’re through with boot camp, they say we’re going to the Pacific, which is where I want to go. That’s where Dad is. You know what I mean. This is for Dad. That’s why I had to join, Mom. That’s why I couldn’t wait. I’ll write you and Bea pretty soon again, so you better write me back. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay. So don’t be sad and don’t be mad at me.

  Your devoted son,

  Adam

  The train traveled east, picking up more recruits as we went. They got on in Albany and then in New York City—we got a whole bunch of recruits from all over New England.

  I sat down in the dining car with two kids from Schenectady. Roy King was a really positive guy, and Andy DeMatteo seemed to enjoy disagreeing with everything he said. They were friends. “We signed up together,” Roy said.

  “What are you talking about?” Andy said. “You didn’t sign up till I told you I was in. Where you from, Pelko?”

  “Bakersfield, California.”

  “You should have joined there,” Andy said. “There’s a marine boot camp in San Diego. That’s near Bakersfield, right? I was out there. My cousin lives in San Diego.”

  “I’m glad you signed up here,” Roy said. He was inspecting the silver. “This is real silver, can you believe it?”

  “Real silver?” Andy said. “You crazy?”

  “Why not?” Roy said, “We’re in the marines. Marines get the best. Am I right, Adam?”

  “Is this seat taken?” a tall, bony kid said.

  “Sit down,” Roy said. “We’ve been holding it for you.”

  “Ben Bright,” the new man said, but the way Roy and Andy went at each other, it didn’t matter.

  We all ended up sitting together, our seats turned so we were facing one another. We passed the hours talking, playing cards, and sleeping. We kept picking up more recruits.

  At nine o’clock a Negro porter came through the car handing out pillows and blankets. We pulled the seats apart and lay them flat so each side of the car was like one long platform.

  Roy had been saying all day that we were going to have Pullman berths. Andy gave him the needle about that. “Where’s my deluxe Pullman berth, bacon boy?”

  “This is perfect,” Roy said, stretching out.

  With our shoes off, and stretched out with our feet in each other’s faces, the jokes started about who had the smelliest feet. Roy and Andy fell asleep, but Ben and I stayed up, talking. About this and that. About nothing, really.

  “You hunt?” Ben asked me.

  “I used to, with my father. Rabbit and pheasant.”

  “My father is morally opposed to killing animals. He didn’t even want me to join the marines.”

  “He didn’t stop you, though?”

  “Couldn’t. Me and guns.” Ben half smiled. “That’s my disease. Guns, hunting. The stalking is the part I like best. I once spent three days in the woods, stalking a deer.”

  “What did your mother say about you joining?”

  He shrugged. “My mother’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “I guess I could say the same thing.” And I told him about getting my grandfather to sign for me.

  Ben nodded. “Took the reins in your own hands. That’s the way. We’ve got to make our own decisions.”

  I liked Ben. He reminded me a little of Davi.

  It was late and I couldn’t get comfortable. Lights kept flashing in my eyes, and there was a clanging at every crossing. As I finally sank into sleep, I told myself I was going to be the best marine there ever was.

  Early on the morning of the third day, we reached Port Royal, South Carolina. We straggled off the train, hungry and shading our eyes from the sun. We sure were a bunch of tired guys.

  A line of stake trucks was parked along the tracks, and a bunch of big, tough-looking marines was waiting for us. “All right, meatheads, shake it up,” one of them yelled through a bullhorn. “Move! Get the lead out! Baggage in the baggage truck. Then get in those other trucks.” He pointed. “Move! Come on, you dumb critters. We haven’t got all day. What are you, a bunch of thumb-sucking babies?”

  We scrambled up into the trucks. They packed us in like cattle. “Where are we going?” someone said.

  “It’s hot as hell,” another guy said.

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  Ben, Andy, and I were together. As the trucks jostled away from the station, I caught a glimpse of Roy’s curly head in the truck ahead of us.

  “Look at him,” Andy said. “What are you doing over there, Roy?” he yelled. Roy looked around.

  When we entered the sprawling marine camp on Parris Island, I was right at home. Parris Island was like all the naval bases I’d grown up around. It was all familiar—the gates, the guards, the even rows of low buildings. This was my father’s world. My world now.

  We unloaded in an open field and lined up. Names were called off. “Abbott … Andrews … Branch … Brennan …” A tough-looking two-stripe corporal quickly separated us into training platoons. I looked around for the other guys.

  “Hey, turkey neck!” The corporal’s hot, shiny face was up against mine. “I said eyes front.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Shut your face,” he screamed. “Did I give you permission to talk? Get out here, you.” He yanked me out of line. “You stand at attention and don’t move till I give you permission.”

  I stood there, my face burning. I wanted to turn, catch somebody’s eye, maybe wink, because this was so unfair, but I didn’t dare move. It was hot, and the sun was bright and in my eyes. I was afraid to even blink.

  A buck sergeant, a three striper, sprang up on the back of a truck and addressed us. “My name is Sergeant Bessie. I’m your DI, your drill instructor.”

  He was neat and trim. He wore a garrison hat and starched shirt. He had creases down his pants, and a baton under his arm. He had that soft southern way of talking, but he was about as soft as a porcupine.

  “You will address me as Sergeant Bessie. When you see me, you salute, and you call me sir. The same goes for Corporal Peeler.” He pointed his baton at the red-faced marine who’d screamed at me. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m God, and Corporal Peeler is the apostle Peter. Listen carefully to every word we say, because if we catch you screwing up, I promise you, you’ll wish you were never born.”

  As he spoke, I felt every word was directed at me. I was out there alone. I stood straight, eyes front. I wanted to prove to him that I wasn’t a screwup.

  “What you learn here is going to save your life,” Sergeant Bessie said. “If you’re fortunate enough to survive these next weeks of training, you’ll kiss the ground I stand on.”

  While Sergeant Bessie was talking, Corporal Peeler strode back and forth in front of us, stopping frequently to thrust his head at someone and fix him with a fierce look.

  Sergeant Bessie tapped his baton against his palm. “If I had my way, I’d ship you all back to whatever holes you crawled out of, but there’s a war on, and I’m sworn to deliver battle-ready marines. I’m going to turn you useless lumps of dirt into marines or kill you trying. When I’m done with you, your own mothers won’t know you.”

  He paused, looking us over. Finally he said, “Corporal Peeler, take charge.”

  “Back in line,” Corporal Peeler ordered me. “Atten-shun!” he shouted. “Keep your eyes front and your mouths shut.” He marched us one way across the field and then back. Back and forth. “Hup, two, three, hup, hup. Where’d you learn how to march,” he bellowed.

  It was a mess. Guys running into the man in front, guys taking long steps and short steps, and one guy who kept turning right when Corporal Peeler called left. Corporal Peeler pulled him out of line and handed him a rock. “What hand is that?” he yelled in his face. The guy was so nervous he gave the wrong answer. “You moron,” Corporal Peeler screamed, “you don’t even know your left from your right.”

&n
bsp; We marched and marched and marched some more. I thought it was never going to end, but at last he marched us to the mess hall.

  The marines lined up outside greeted us with catcalls. “Here come the mama’s boys….” “Look at the hair….” “Comb it while you’ve got it, Mac….” “You’ll be sorry.” They kept it up, telling us how green we were and how bad things were going to be for us. Later I found out that some of them had arrived only days before us.

  Corporal Peeler was almost our friend, pointing out where the head was where we could wash up, and then marching us into the mess hall and showing us where we would sit and where we had to line up for our food. “Take all you want,” he said, “but what you put on your tray, you eat.”

  “Yes, sir!” we shouted.

  The food was good. We had our pick of toast, pancakes, eggs, sausage, and home fries. I was so hungry, I took some of everything, even the white glop they called grits. I didn’t like it. When we lined up to stack our trays, I saw that Roy had covered his grits with ketchup. “Some wise guy told me that was the way they ate it down here,” he said.

  One of the mess hall marines, a big guy, watching us emptying our trays, stopped Roy. “Eat that,” he said, and made Roy lick up the grits, doggy style.

  I scooped my grits fast and swallowed them before he saw my tray.

  Quartermasters were next. We formed a line again and were issued supplies—two sheets, two blankets, two pairs of regulation dungarees, two shirts, and one dungaree jacket that they called a blouse. That was just the beginning. More stuff was piled on top of what we were already carrying: shorts, a web belt, a sea bag, a poncho and boots, measured by eye and tossed to us.

  “Not boots. Boondockers, meatheads,” the supply guy said. He had a pencil stuck behind his ear, like a store clerk. “Boots is what you are.”

  Trying to keep all that gear together, we marched to our barracks, a two-story wooden building. We had to climb the ladder (not stairs) to the second deck (not floor) and a long, narrow room, where we were each assigned a bunk and footlocker.