And Then We Heard the Thunder

by John Oliver Killens

  Samuels put his hand on Solly’s shoulder. “We understand each other, Corporal. We’re in this thing to make a better world for all of us to live in. I’m a Jew. I don’t say I know what you folks are up against. I mean I don’t know precisely, but—”

  Samuels’s hand was like an iron weight on Solly’s shoulder. He got up and moved away.

  Samuels said, “I know how it is, but don’t feel guilty about Corporal Scott. He’s the type that always stands in the way of progress.”

  Solly said quietly, “Don’t worry about me, Lieutenant. I have no qualms whatever about typing up those charges. It’s all in a day’s work.”

  Samuels stared at him for a moment. “Good enough.”

  Solly said quietly, “I have the proper attitude about anything and everything.”

  CHAPTER 4

  His ass was dragging the natural ground, in the poetry of his good friend, Bookworm Taylor. This was exactly how Solly felt. He was physically pooped and his head felt like it would pop wide open. All day long he had been getting out this report and that roster and the company payroll and running from battalion headquarters to regimental and back to the company, and then at about three-thirty in the afternoon, when his mind was so tired it felt like somebody had on roller skates and was jumping up and down on top of his brain, his boy, his buddy, Lieutenant Samuels, had remembered Solly saying he wanted to get out in the field with the men once in a while and not get piles from sitting on his behind in the orderly room all the time, and he had come into the office and told him here was the break he was looking for, and gave him permission to take the rest of the day off from the office and join the men on the obstacle course. And he had chinned-up and bitten his stiff upper lip and said, “Very well, sir,” or “Thank you, sir,” he didn’t remember, and left the orderly room and put a pack on his back and an unloaded rifle in his hand and had gone with the rest of the men to jump ditches and crawl on his stomach and climb over ten-foot walls and under barbed wire and hurdle bars and fall in a creek and almost drown, which wasn’t part of the drill of course. Everybody else jumped over the creek. He was out of condition. He, Solly Saunders, former track star and of college basketball fame.

  He sat on his bunk and his mind made a tired hazy picture of Millie and New York City hundreds and hundreds of miles away, in another country, it seemed. Maybe it was in another world. He stretched out on his cot and closed his eyes and breathed heavily like he had been running up a long steep hill all the days of his life. He didn’t feel like thinking and he didn’t feel like talking to Bookworm or anybody else in Camp Johnson Henry.

  “Man!” the Bookworm said, looking up from the newspaper he was reading. “You don’t be can tell me nothing—Tojo is kicking gobs of crackers’ asses! You hear what I say!”

  Solly acted as if he were fast asleep, even though he knew the Bookworm would not be denied. He would keep talking to himself and moving around and rattling the newspaper and making a lot of other unnecessary noises until he got some kind of response out of Solly. He knew Solly wasn’t asleep and Solly knew that Bookworm knew. Solly’s tired mind wandered away in time and space, and he did not hear Worm’s ranting and raving any longer. The letter from Millie on the day before, telling him she wasn’t worried about him adjusting to Army life, and success and becoming an officer and onward and upward and all that . . . Sometimes she got on his nerves with the officer-success routine. She oversimplified the process. She was trying to keep herself occupied, so she wouldn’t remember every minute of the day that he wasn’t there. She had thought of doing either one of three things: some volunteer work for the Red Cross, be an air-raid warden, or work as a volunteer hostess at the Stage Door Canteen. She had decided that the last alternative was where she could do the most significant job for the war effort in terms of building the GI’s morale. She was sure he would agree with her choice. She met so many lonesome soldiers down at the Canteen and every time she danced with one she thought of him . . . . It was damn sweet of her to think of him as she danced with another soldier . . . .

  Against his will he wondered about Scotty, who had gotten thirty days in the stockade. What kind of a place was the post stockade? Whatever it was like, Scotty could blame nobody but himself. If anybody had begged for it, it was Abraham Lincoln Scott. He was a masochist—very sick character in his head.

  “Them Japs are kicking asses and taking names. And what I mean, they don’t play no favorites. Generals, colonels, sergeants, every living pinky hole is sucking wind! That’s what I’m talking about!” Worm had worked himself into a sweating frenzy. He seemed to be waging a filibuster with the paper he held in his hand.

  Sometimes Solly could stand in the midst of raging hell and not be there. His Army life so far . . . He was doing all right in the orderly room in spite of Scotty. By now he was doing all of the first sergeant’s work. Solly did the Morning Report, the Sick Book, the K.P. roster, the Guard Duty roster, the payroll, the company files, and all of the other responsibilities the regimental commander delegated to the company commander, who delegated them to the first sergeant and the first sergeant on to Private (Acting Corporal) Solomon Saunders, and that was the end of the line. But he did not mind it really, and he liked the first sergeant, and he got along with Lieutenant Samuels. Even liked him maybe. Millie was forever nagging him about getting ahead and becoming a lieutenant and then a captain, there was no stopping a person with his good looks, his ability, his personality and education, she reminded him in every letter. And yet he was still an “acting” corporal instead of actual. Every day Lieutenant Samuels assured him he had nothing to worry about. “You just stick with me, my friend, and you and I will move mountains together even in Georgia. We’ll have them singing ‘Yankee Doodle.’” Samuels was all right. He just got on Solly’s nerves sometimes.

  Sometimes Samuels helped him with the office work, especially with the company records. Just the other day he told Solly he was doing a hell of a good job. He put his arms around Solly’s shoulders. “Anything you want—name it.”

  Solly said he’d like to have his wife on the post just as the officers had their wives to go home to every night . . . . If Millie were here now—as tired as he was this weary night—if he could go home to her every night, she could caress his weary body, she could feed his physical hunger, she could soothe his tired mind . . . . He was lonesome. So damn lonesome.

  “Old Tojo’s feet must be glued to Mr. Charlie’s pretty pink poopy!” Bookworm shouting like he just got religion.

  “Are you blowing your stack? Over there raving like a goddamn lunatic. Them Japs going to kick your big fat ass the same way if they catch up with you.” Solly recognized Buck’s voice like a brassy bass horn, and he closed his eyes even more tightly.

  “The good Lord made ‘em and the Japs don’t pick ‘em. Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn! They don’t discriminate!” Bookworm acted as if he hadn’t heard Buck Rogers say anything and was totally unaware of his existence. He laughed out loud to himself and slapped his knees. He was on stage with a soliloquy and having himself a ball.

  “They’ll pick you if they get hold of you, you stupid sapsucker. Your hindparts ain’t made outa gold and it ain’t built no different from the rest. Just bigger and fatter and makes a wider goddamn target.” Buck laughed aloud, exaggerating his laughter and stomping his big fat feet like a prancing race horse. And other men were laughing now.

  “Not me!” Bookworm finally looked around and acknowledged Buck. “I ain’t mad with them Japs and I know good and well they ain’t got nothing against me. I’m gonna tell the man, I love the Japanese people. But it do do your heart good—ain’t that right, Solly? Every time you pick up the paper you see where the crackers are giving ground, running like hell with their shirttails out. And if you a deep thinker and a Race man like me and Solly and can read between the lines, you know it’s really worser than they say it is. Tell him what I say, Solly. Tell this bubble-eyed fool something.”

  “They can put you in j
ail for that kind of talk,” Buck said. “After all, you are an American soldier. I admit you’re a poor damn excuse, but yet and still you wear the uniform, even if it does look like hell on you.” Buck laughed and stomped his feet again.

  If they would just take their crazy argument and carry it downstairs to the latrine or some other appropriate place, Solly thought. Anywhere—as long as they took it away from his bunk. He could make it easily in this Army if he could go home to Millie every night. Miss Branton reminded him so painfully of Millie it made his stomach hurt . . . . Scotty was a fool to think that he could beat the whole damn Army of the U.S.A.

  “We ain’t no soldiers, tell him, Corporal Solly. You a Race man. Talk to this antique fool. We’re in the service department of the Army. Don’t you know this regiment is a service outfit, ass? I thought you at least had that much sense. Any old fool knows that colored people join the service and white folks join the Army.”

  Laughing came from all over the second floor now, and Solly heaved a silent sigh. He knew he was in for a slight siege. That’s all there was to it. The Bookworm had an audience and the show must go on and on and on. And the next time he went to the Post Exchange he was going over to the soda fountain and say, “Good evening, Miss Fannie Mae. You remind me so much of my wife. I declare you do. And how would you like to take her place while I’m in this lonesome place?”

  He swallowed her deeply into his belly. Just thinking about it jokingly gave him warm chills and funny sensations. And it didn’t do any harm just to think about her jokingly. Deep deep in him he missed Millie.

  “They training us how to serve the white soldiers,” Bookworm continued. “Course that suits you fine. Your first name should have been Uncle and I don’t mean Sam.”

  “Harriet Beecher Stowe!” Lanky Lincoln yelled from across the barracks.

  Solly stood up from his bunk and yawned and stretched till his whole body trembled in a nervous relaxation. He hadn’t been over to the Post Exchange in a couple of weeks. Worm went every night like happily going home from work. Worm was hopelessly in love with the lady soda jerk.

  Buck turned to him. “Will you kindly tell this sawed-off puddinghead he can’t be walking around rah-rahing the Japs while they’re killing our red-blooded American soldiers, threatening the land of the free and the V for Victory and the home of the brave and all that shit, and the Arsenal of Democracy? Maybe he’ll listen to you, Corporal Solly.”

  “Our country—” The Bookworm laughed. “I bet goddammit you bet not let any of these Georgia pecks hear you claiming this country.”

  Solly stood tall and slim and straight and held his cap against his heart and closed his eyes—”That government of the people, for the people, and by the people shall not perish from the earth . . . . Amen—”

  “Lanky Lincoln’s great grandpappy—Abraham Lincoln,” somebody shouted.

  “Cut out the B.S., Corporal Solly, and tell this little jughead son-of-his-mother’s-misbehavior something for his own good,” Rogers insisted.

  Solly said, “All jokes aside, Bookworm, you don’t have a leg to stand on with that Japanese B.S. of yours. First of all, you are an American citizen, you’re old enough to vote, and you’re in good health and apparently you meet all the other draft requirements of the American male—”

  “Apparently! Uh-uh. I ain’t got nothing to do with that! Apparently!”

  “Somebody musta seen Bookworm in the old swimmin’ hole,” Buckethead Baker said.

  Lanky Lincoln said, “Leave it to a lawyer, boy. I sure am glad me and Solly good buddies. I’m going to write a poem for you, Solly. Don’t get mad with me.”

  “Tell him about that mess, Corporal Solly,” another soldier yelled.

  Bookworm stood at attention and bowed his head in mock reverence. “All right, your honor, I confess everything. Go ahead and have me shot at sunrise.”

  “Furthermore,” Solly continued, “there is no need of your Bee-Essing yourself about Tojo just because he’s colored. Look at all the Chinese people he’s killed. This is not a racial war. This is a war of democracy against fascism pure and simple, and if you’re for Tojo, you’re for Hitler. That’s all there is to it. And Herr Schicklgruber says that a Negro is lower than an ape. Don’t take my word for it, read Mein Kampf.”

  “He must’ve known Bookworm personally,” Buck said. “Course he’s wrong about him being lower than an ape. Worm is an ape.” He began to laugh and howl and stomp his feet and he lay down on Bookworm’s bunk and rolled over onto the floor and kicked his feet like he was riding a bicycle and kept on laughing. Everybody was laughing now excepting Bookworm, who stared at Rogers in disgust and shook his angry head.

  “It’s dangerous to have a no-tail bear running around loose,” he said to the hysterical Rogers. The laughter simmered down to a whimpering from Buck still lying on the floor. Worm stared at Rogers and looked around at the rest of the men. “Damn all this shit! Who started this stupid argument anyhow? Come on, Solly. Let’s go over to the PX and see what’s cooking. To hell with this clown!”

  “I can tell you without moving a step. Nothing’s cooking.” Solly stretched out on his bunk again. “And you’d better stop rah-rahing Tojo or you’re going to be cooking. You keep talking that crap in front of the good Corporal Buck and he’ll have you up for a general court-martial.” And I will have to write the charges.

  Buck had gotten up from the floor and was sitting on the side of Bookworm’s cot. “You damn right I’ll have him court-martialed. I’ll have him shot at three in the morning. Wait a minute—that would be too dark. Nobody would be able to see the target.” Buck started to laugh and stomp again all by his lonesome.

  “Aw, ain’t nobody studying about smiling Buck Rogers. A handkerchief-head faggot, he volunteered so he could look at naked asses. That doctor at the Reception Center had his number. And he ain’t got that nice fat round-eye for nothing either.”

  “Watch that shit, soldier,” Buck said in the midst of the laughter.

  “Come on, Solomon Saunders, Junior,” Worm said. “I ain’t never seen nobody like you in all my born days. Just sit on your dead ass on your fart-sack all the time, looking at the floor or up at the ceiling or writing letters. You better wake up and live. Let’s go over to the PX and have a couple of short ones.”

  “All right already,” Solly said. “But you might as well let the facts hit you in the face. Hitler and Tojo and the governor of Georgia are on the same damn team. All three of them’re against you and me. And it makes no sense to root for one and throw brickbats at the others.”

  Rogers stared at Solly in open admiration and laughed and shook his head. “You’re a smooth mother-lover with that Hitler-Tojo jive. I got to give you credit, poppa. Everything fits into the scheme of success of Solly Saunders—the education, the personality, the horse-shit propaganda. How long you been making everything fit everything else? The bullshit, the facts, the fiction, the ambition—You’d make a helluva psychoanalyst.” He had come close up to Solly and was talking only for his ears to hear. Solly backed away disgusted.

  “Get away from Solly, you queer,” Worm said contemptuously. “He ain’t no uncle tom like you. He’s a Race man from way back. What I mean, he’s proud of the Colored Race. All except one member of it.”

  Rogers did not take his eyes from Solly. “You’re a Race man from way back, all right. And you been racing ahead of the field a long time. And you aim to keep your distance.”

  “Get the hell out of my face,” Solly said to Rogers.

  On the way over to the Post Exchange Solly felt he had to explain his change of mind to his buddy. Every night for the last two weeks Worm had asked him to go the Post Exchange and Solly had refused. “Bookworm, doggone, boy, I sure was glad you suggested that we go to the PX tonight. Anything to get out of that lunatic asylum.”

  “The whole frigging Army is a booby hatch,” Worm said. “The trouble with you, you’re too damn serious. You better learn how to wear this world like a loose
garment. You don’t know how long this war gon last.”

  Solly didn’t say another word till they reached the Post Exchange. He kept remembering what Buck Rogers said. There was one soldier who always made his flesh crawl.

  When they got there they headed straight for the counter where the lady was, smiling her pretty dimples as beautiful as ever, and all kinds of soldiers hanging over the counter and skinning their jaws in her face. They stood there for a couple of minutes before the Bookworm gained her attention. She came over to them like they were long-lost friends or lovers.

  The joint was leaping with GI desperadoes, and the jukebox blasting eardrums with “Blue Birds Over the White Cliffs of Dover.”

  “Oh,” she said to the Bookworm while she stared at Solly Saunders, “I see your friend finally paid us another visit. We’re deeply honored, Corporal Saunders.”

  He had only seen her a couple of times in all his life. “How’ve you been?” He smiled his crooked nervous smile and made much in his mind of the fact that she remembered his name.

  “Just fine,” she said laughingly. “Just fine.” Her eyes were even warmer darker deeper than his image, and her full and curvy mouth was much too much and her soft breathing bosom against her blouse made him hot all over. And it was all because she reminded him of Millie.

  “Yep,” the Bookworm said boastfully. “He’s the company clerk, my buddy is. Very very busy man. He’s really the one in charge of the company. The Army couldn’t make a move without him.”

  Solly said, “All right, Private Joseph (No-Middle-Name) Taylor, tell the lady what you want and stop taking up all of her time with the yackety-yack.” Millie’s mouth was smaller than Fannie Mae’s and her eyes were not as black.

  “The same as usual,” Bookworm said, “and the same thing for my buddy.” And when the lady turned her back, he loud-talked: “She knows what I want, daddy. I’m here every night. One of these days she’s gonna let me take her home.”