Michael went up the chain of command at Camp Elliott, trying to get reassigned. He applied for pilot training. At the beginning of the war, pilots had to be college graduates, but the rule was changed so that anyone with a 117 on his college entrance exam was eligible. Michael took the test, got a 130, but nothing happened. After one of the many times he stood at attention for a four-hour shift outside Admiral King’s office, Michael managed to get a word with him. The admiral promised to look into it personally. He even sounded optimistic about a transfer to the European theater. Nothing came of it. Michael was there a year but it felt like ten.
Finally it dawned on him that the admiral’s clerk filled out all the admiral’s paperwork and signed most of it. Michael noticed the clerk’s taste in music and arranged front-row seats at the Hollywood Bowl for the clerk and his wife to see the one and only Mr. Johnny Fontane.
Days later, Michael was reassigned to a combat battalion.
It shipped out on a converted luxury liner, painted battleship gray and fitted with guns. The troops were packed on that ship for weeks. They were almost in the harbor before there was any official word they’d be going ashore at Guadalcanal.
The fighting had been going on for months, Jap cruisers still lobbed shells onto the beach at night, and there were still pockets of resistance, including hundreds of men in underground tunnels, but the battle was all but over.
The beach at Guadalcanal was a junkyard of burned vehicles of all kind-tanks, jeeps, amtracs-but when Michael first set eyes on the place, with all those green coconut trees and white sand, it still looked to him like a tropical paradise, minus the girls.
Michael climbed down the cargo nets into a Higgins boat. He heard shelling in the distance, but no one shot at him as they landed. When he reached the beach, he tripped on something soft and went flying. He got up and ran for the tree line. He dove for cover next to a heap of tangled fencing wire and a pile of blackened corpses. The stench wasn’t so much a smell as a taste-burned, decaying meat, far up the nose and back in the throat. Michael looked back at the beach and realized that what he’d tripped on was a body, too.
The Japs left their dead to rot or wash out to sea. Those corpses were the first dead bodies he’d ever seen outside a funeral home.
The salty Marines who greeted the new troops seemed identically filthy, bearded, and tired. They said little. All the loud talk the new arrivals had done in their clean uniforms suddenly seemed like boys playing cowboys and Indians. Those men were warriors. When they took Michael on his first patrol, he blasted away at every rustling leaf. They just smirked and kept humping through the jungle. When they hit the dirt, Michael hit it, too. He could be sure a split second later there’d be tracers, bullets, shells, bombs-something coming to kill him.
Michael’s second day on Guadalcanal, he was on sentry at the perimeter of the airstrip. He heard a plane coming. A Navy Hellcat, scraping the treetops and spewing smoke. The pilot crash-landed a hundred yards away. The plane burst into flame. Michael broke into a sprint to try to help the pilot out of there. By then two jeeps full of people had pulled up, and Michael’s platoon leader, Sergeant Hal Mitchell, yelled at him to get back. The flames were too hot. Their fire truck had been bombed. The equipment they used instead could have barely put out a campfire. Michael could see into the cockpit. The pilot, trapped and screaming, looked right at Michael and begged to be shot. Michael gripped his rifle, but his sergeant gave no orders. The screams stopped soon after that. Michael needed to get burn treatment just from standing nearby.
Victory was declared at Guadalcanal a week or so later. The Marines who’d done most of the fighting were rotated out, sent home or at least for some R and R in New Zealand. The replacement troops were left behind to secure the island. On the map Guadalcanal’s just a dot, but it’s a hundred miles long and twenty miles wide, heavily forested with rough terrain and the destruction left behind by a battle that went on for months. Not to mention all the caves.
The caves were a nightmare. Dead bodies of course, deep crevices full of sewage, biting ants an inch long, rats the size of raccoons. The Marines went into the caves in groups of four plus a Doberman. Michael loved the first dog, but after a couple of them got blown up by booby-trapped corpses, he stopped getting attached.
Michael himself captured a grand total of one Jap, emaciated and near death. He propped the man up. The Jap pointed at Michael’s Ka-Bar. “Knife,” he said. He pantomimed shoving it in his guts. Michael wouldn’t give it to him. The man looked relieved.
At first, like nearly all the men on that caves detail, Michael saw it as a salvage operation. He learned to field-strip booty from a dead Jap faster than you could pull out your watch and check the time. Back at camp, the market for these things was flooded, and the best items left the island with the Marines who’d done most of the fighting. But an enterprising man can find a way. For Michael Corleone, it was the native people. Any gear that was useful in the home was easy to sell locally. Michael traded a lot of what he found for fresh fish. All Marines love a brother in arms who can improve on the lousy food, especially in a war zone.
One morning, though, Michael woke up and saw a pet cockatoo he’d gotten from a native for a carton of smokes get swallowed whole by one of those rats. He shooed the rat out of the tent, and when he did he looked up and saw the biggest spiderweb he’d ever seen, stretched between two coconut trees. The spider had caught a seagull in it. The gull was wrapped up, and the spider was eating it. Also, another dog died. Some days go that way. They were about to blow one last cave and go back to the base camp when Michael noticed a crayon drawing on the ground. It struck him as odd that some Jap was in here passing the time coloring a picture. Michael bent over. There was a whole stack of drawings. The one on top had an airplane in the sky with a meatball on the side and smiling people on the ground waving up at it. There was one of a family at a dinner table with an empty place setting, one of a princess, and several more of ponies. Just a regular little girl drawing pictures of ponies to send to her daddy, who probably died fighting a war whose course he couldn’t have changed one way or the other. Michael smoothed them out and set them down. He gave the signal to blow the cave.
He got back to camp and heard that Sicily had been liberated. Michael Corleone never again took anything off the enemy that he didn’t need for his own survival.
Compared to a lot of others, Michael’s battalion had it easy on Guadalcanal. They fared well during skirmishes on some of the surrounding islands, too.
Peleliu was another story. They were going in first. Cannon fodder.
The convoy that loaded onto the ship for the invasion looked like the Okies heading west. Every inch of the deck was crammed with men and machines, stacked high and covered with a patchwork of tarps. The heat was unbearable, a hundred and ten in the day and ninety at night. There wasn’t enough room below for everyone to sleep. They bunked on the deck, in or underneath trucks, anywhere they could find shade. Michael only pretended to sleep. Even the saltiest veterans on the ship looked pale and shaky.
By the time Peleliu came into view all there was to see was a wall of smoke and flame. Dozens of battleships pounded the island with sixteen-inch shells that sounded like airborne freight trains. Cruisers peppered it with smaller mortars. Soon the sound of all the guns bombarding Peleliu became one deafening thunder. The noise felt like it was pressing down on him. The whole ship throbbed with it. The air smelled like diesel fuel. The invasion force piled into amphibious tractors and Higgins boats and squatted down below the gunwales.
They went right into the middle of it. The air was full of the snapping of bullets. The smoke was so thick Michael couldn’t imagine how the driver knew where to go. Michael felt the amtrac scrape coral. Sergeant Mitchell shouted the order to hit the beach. Michael jumped out and ran. Everything was smoke and chaos. He was aware of men falling all around him and screams of pain, but he kept his head down and hit the deck alongside two other Marines behind a fallen tree. U
p and down the beach, amtracs exploded and burned and sometimes men staggered out of them and were cut to pieces by machine-gun fire. Michael saw the deaths of at least a hundred of his brothers in arms. Men he loved and trusted, and he was not, even then, a man much given to trust. But all he felt was nothing. A blur. He’d been shot himself, on the side of his neck. Just a nick, but it bled like mad. Michael had no idea until the man beside him, a corporal from Connecticut named Hank Vogelsong, asked if he was all right.
In combat, no one ever really knows what’s going on. Somewhere far behind them was a colonel in charge of all this who didn’t know which way their guns were pointing. Someone Michael didn’t know and who’d probably never lay eyes on him had decided he was expendable. Not Michael personally. It’s not personal, just war. And Michael was a pawn. All he tried to do at Peleliu was not die. Nothing smart or brave. He was just luckier than the thousand other guys from his division who died that day.
Once enough of them made it across the beach, they were able to advance inland and start stacking rocks and debris so they could return fire. Enemy fire slowed, but still Michael was pinned down that whole first night. They’d apparently given up on those banzai attacks Michael had trained for, and there was never any chance to mow them down.
At first light, Sergeant Mitchell organized an assault on the ridge where most of the shooting was coming from. Michael and ten others made a run for it, about fifty yards to a clump of trees and scrub. Two were killed and two more were wounded before they got there. An American tank advanced to the other side of the ridge, and it drew fire the way tanks always do. Then the shooting stopped. They were twenty feet from the crest of the ridge. Hal Mitchell sent three men with automatic rifles and two with flamethrowers up to the crest. As they were about to scorch it, the Japs opened fire. Sergeant Mitchell ordered Vogelsong and Michael to help him get the wounded out of there and retreat. As Michael covered them, Vogelsong and Sergeant Mitchell carried one of the wounded men back to where Michael stood. As they were going back for the other one, an 80mm mortar killed him and wounded Vogelsong and Mitchell.
Later, when he was questioned about what he did next-both by his superiors and later by a reporter from Life magazine-Michael couldn’t explain what had possessed him to come to get his brothers in arms, or how he got out of there alive, either. Maybe there was too much coral dust from the mortar. Maybe they thought they’d already killed all the foot soldiers and were focused on taking care of the tank, which they blew up as Michael was charging their bunker. Michael had no training at all on that flamethrower. He just grabbed it without thinking and recoiled as a fat tongue of flame shot over the ridge.
There was machine-gun fire from a cave to his right, and Michael felt like his leg had been shot off. He fell and scrambled for cover-alone at the crest of the ridge, a sitting duck. The odor of burned flesh and napalm was horrible. He had a bullet in his thigh and one that went through his calf.
Right in front of him were six enemy soldiers with their eyes boiled out and their lips burned off. Their skin was mostly gone. Their muscles looked like a sketch from a science book.
Michael was pinned down for only twenty minutes before the Japs in that cave were taken out, too, and a corpsman covered head to toe with blood came over that ridge and got Michael out of there. He’d had whole years go by faster than those twenty minutes.
He had no memory of how he got from there to Hawaii.
His first thought when he came to his senses was that his mother must be worried sick. He wrote her a long letter, and he sweet-talked a nurse into picking out something as a gift to send along. The nurse chose a coffee mug with a map of the Hawaiian Islands painted on it. The day Carmela Corleone got it-along with the news that her son was coming home-she filled it with wine, raised the mug, and thanked the Virgin Mary for answering her prayers. From then on, each time she passed Michael’s photo on the mantelpiece, Carmela smiled.
Michael and Hal Mitchell both recuperated. Hank Vogelsong wasn’t so lucky. Right before he died he told the corpsman he wanted Michael Corleone to have his watch. When it arrived, Michael, who barely knew the man, wrote to Vogelsong’s parents, told them how brave Hank had been under fire, and offered to give them his watch back. They wrote back and thanked him but said they wanted him to have it.
While Michael was still in the hospital, he learned that he’d been accepted for pilot training. He was also promoted to second lieutenant. But the promotion was just symbolic, and he never did go to flight school. That was the end of Michael Corleone’s first war.
Just before Michael was discharged, a reporter from Life magazine came to interview him. Michael, who presumed that the story had been set up by his father, thanked the reporter for his interest but said that he was a private person. He already had a medal and he could do without the attention. But Admiral King personally told Michael to do it. Good for morale, he said.
Michael was photographed in a uniform that fit. The story ran in a special issue about the American fighting man. Audie Murphy was on the cover. On the facing page was James K. Shea, the future president of the United States.
Book VII. January – June 1961
Chapter 22
V IA A MAZE of intermediaries, Nick Geraci had been told to come in. To see the Boss. Geraci had a pretty good idea what it was about. He’d suggested the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Too public, he was told. Don Corleone couldn’t possibly risk doing anything that would make his appointment to the presidential transition team any more controversial than it already was-especially the day before the inauguration. It would have to be in the car, a limo.
Which cinched it: they were going to kill him.
In a situation like this, though, there’s no choice but to go where you’re told. It’s a part of the life. Geraci knew that a long time ago. A wiseguy who’s called in, if he’s smart, is like a lawyer preparing a case. You anticipate every question you might get asked and hope for the best. If you’re able to talk your way out of it, walk away pissed off, not grateful.
Asking to bring his guys along for the ride would arouse suspicion. That was out. Packing a gun or a knife was a bad risk. If he’s searched, he’s done for. Even if he’s not, there’s not much chance he’d have enough time to whip out a concealed weapon at the moment of truth.
He waited all morning at a corner table in a tavern on First Avenue along with Donnie Bags, Eddie Paradise, and Momo the Roach. A few connected guys milled around outside. A row of pallid men from the neighborhood drank breakfast at the bar. The place was owned by Elwood Cusik, a boxer who’d done enforcer work for the Corleones.
Michael had tried to kill him once before, and Geraci had retaliated beautifully. He’d used Forlenza to let Russo know what was going on with Fredo and down in Cuba; after that, Geraci hadn’t had to lift a finger. Fredo had unwittingly betrayed Michael, over nothing. Anyone could see that Cuba was unstable and going to blow. Yet Michael was so blinded by the millions he could make as an almost-legitimate businessman there that he had allowed himself to get sucked into a situation where he’d killed his own brother. His wife had left him over it, took the kids, and moved a continent away. He’d lost two capos-Rocco and Frankie Pants, both rivals of Geraci’s-fighting over an empire in Cuba that was destined never to exist. If there really was a fate worse than death, Geraci had inflicted it on Michael Corleone.
As he waited, Geraci tried to figure out how Michael could have learned about this. He was at a loss.
Two hours late, Donnie Bags, near the window, signaled that Michael’s limo was there. The Roach and Eddie Paradise flanked Geraci as he crossed the sidewalk. He was ready for anything. He pictured his daughters’ faces. And he reached for the door handle.
“Hello, Fausto.”
“Don Corleone.” Geraci got into the car alone and climbed into the seat facing Michael. Al Neri, behind the wheel, was the only other person in the car. “You have a nice trip?”
Geraci nodded to the Roach, who closed the do
or. Neri put the car in gear.
“Outstanding. You should go up again. These new planes practically fly themselves.”
“I’ll bet,” Geraci said. One of Michael’s thank-you gifts from Ambassador M. Corbett Shea had been a new airplane. “I have dreams that I’m flying. Funny thing is, they’re never nightmares. But once I wake up, I can’t even imagine being a passenger again. Hey, congratulations, by the way. Next best thing to having a paesan’ in the White House.”
“It’s just the transition team,” Michael said. “I only served as an adviser. One of many.”
Over the years, the Corleones had granted the Sheas many favors, including several that had helped get the new president elected. In return, Michael had asked for this appointment. Geraci had it on good authority that Michael had never met face-to-face with anyone in the new administration. It was understood that he would participate in name only. All Michael wanted was the credibility the appointment gave him.
“Think we’ll live to see it?” Geraci said. “An Italian in the White House?”
“I’m certain of it,” Michael said.
Geraci had positioned himself on the seat so that Neri would have to stop the car before killing him. There didn’t seem much chance that Michael would do the job himself. If it happened, it would happen someplace they took him, probably by men waiting for him there. “I hope you’re right, Don Corleone.”
“Just Michael, okay? We’re old friends, Fausto, and I’m retired now.”
“That’s what I hear.” The rumors that Michael was going legit had been swirling around for years and intensified after Shea’s election. “But I didn’t think we had retirement in this thing of ours. Whatever happened to ‘You come in alive and you go out dead’? We all swear to that.”
“I swore to it, and I’ll uphold it. I’ll always be a part of the Family my father built,” Michael said. “But my relationship to it will be the same as it is for some of the men my father’s age who’ve served us well and moved to Florida or Arizona. Men from whom we ask nothing.”
The Godfather returns Page 41