And Then We Heard the Thunder

by John Oliver Killens

  “We just met a nice American gentleman about your complexion by the name of Mr. James Crow,” Solly said. “And he gave us a little old orientation about what it is we’re fighting for and with musical accompaniment. And now we’re just about ready to lay down our lives for freedom and democracy.”

  The lieutenant looked from Solly to Jimmy to Worm and back to Solly. “Mr. James Crow? What are you talking about?”

  Solly told him in a restrained voice what had happened down at the superstructure. Samuels’s tan face reddened, and he said it was a damn shame, and he was going to do something about it or know the goddamn reason why.

  “Be sure to tell us the reason, Lieutenant, when you find it,” Solly said sarcastically.

  The next morning right after breakfast the entire 913 Amphibious Company of the Fifteenth Amphibious Regiment marched over to a wide sprawling motor pool where they saw their first amphibious vehicles. The motor officer, Lieutenant Graham, climbed into the Duck (officially named DUKW) and faced the men of 913. He was a sturdily built dark-haired officer who came from somewhere out of Jersey and sounded like he came from Joisey. He told them they were special men, and the Duck, “this very vehicle I’m standing in, has revolutionized the whole approach to island warfare. This Army truck with a boat built around it can come out of the water and run on land.” He paused. “In a few weeks you have to master this vehicle on land and sea. You have to know it inside out and backwards and forwards, and we don’t have a minute to waste. They don’t need us tomorrow. They need us now, yesterday. That’s why you’re special men—Amphibians.”

  That’s why they got a special PX for you, Solly thought. Because you’re so goddamn extra special.

  The motor officer seemed to be carried away by the sound of his salesmanship. “That’s why 913 has to be on the ball,” he shouted. “That’s why you have to be the best damn company in the best damn regiment in the best damn division in the best Army in the whole damn world.”

  So now you know—that’s why they treat you so damn special!

  The next few weeks were ten times as frantic as the Reception Center at Fort Dix. Everything in a state of emergency. Everybody jumping up and down. From before daybreak to far into the night they were on the run from one thing to another. Duck convoys roaring along the lush coastline and into the foaming sea. Civilians scratching their backsides to see fifty black monsters come suddenly raging out of the ocean and tearing off down the highway. This was a particularly awesome experience at night, when they did their mock invasions and maneuvers. When they neared the shore with lights off and the Duck motors and propellers kicking up the phosphorescent foam of the ocean’s edge, and the Ducks themselves looking more like sea monsters than ever, and as they hit the beach the men would yell: “AH-GIBBI-DEE! AH-GIBBI-DOH!” whatever the hell that meant, and take off down the highway to the camp, lights dimmed and motors roaring to wake up the ever-sleeping dead.

  The days raced by so fast, most of the time you didn’t know what day it was. And they were so crammed filled with swimming lessons and rifle range and convoys and drilling and calisthenics and judo and infiltration course and orientation, there was hardly time to think of anything or anybody. Not even Fannie Mae or Millie. Latrine-rumored slogans flew thick and fast, a dime a dozen. Now we’re going, now we’re not. Get on the ball or on the boat. Don’t be late for the Golden Gate. Alaska here we come. Fall in—fall out—forward march and on the double. Sometimes about three o’clock in the day, with the men’s tongues hanging out and their hindparts dragging the ground and a couple of backs sprained by jujitsu, Sergeant Buck Rogers would tell his platoon, “Take ten, men. Take a break, take a smoke, take anything but a crap, we don’t have that much time to ass around.” He was the field sergeant with a sense of humor. When once in a while a poor soldier did stand up for his rights and wander or stumble into the latrine and fall asleep on the stool, he would inevitably dream another dream of embarkation to some faraway exotic land where all was peace and it was “Study War No More.” More than half of the rumors were dreamed up in this warm and homelike atmosphere. Remember Pearl Harbor on the way to Honolulu. We’re going to bust India wide open and look out for the Burma Road. One of the longest-lasting rumors was that they were going back across the nation and join a task force to open the Second Front in Paris. Every time a whistle blew another rumor hit the breeze. The Yanks were coming some damn where.

  The first week at Fort Ord he got one letter from Mama, three from Millie, and not a scratch from Fannie Mae. In the second letter from Millie she suggested that she might come out to California to see him one last time before he took off for God-knew-where-or-how-long. In the third letter she told him she had inquired about train reservations and expenses, and she had made arrangements for a leave of absence from her job. He lay on his cot in his little brown hut and imagined how it would be to have her there for his last days. To have her to come home to each night at the end of his last weary days, crammed filled with obstacle courses and back-breaking judo and convoys and motor maintenance and office work and every damn thing else you could jam-pack into eighteen waking hours. Part of the time you were half asleep. He imagined her waiting for him each night over in Fort Ord Village, which was a temporary housing project for non-commissioned officers, located halfway between the camp and Monterey. Imagined her in her entirety, and a sweet warmth moved over the length of his body. And she was his wife and he had no right to fashion dreams with anyone but her. It would be a good thing to have Millie come out with their baby in her tummy. They said it was great to make love to a pregnant woman. And he would have one last chance to prove to her his love for her. What he desperately needed was to prove it to himself. But how in the hell could he send for her when he never knew from one day to the next when they would get their shipping orders? He got up off his bunk and put on his shirt and went to find his Great White Buddy.

  Samuels was a big help. He told Solly that as a non-com he was entitled for his wife to travel to see him pullman-class at the expense of the Army of the U.S. His Great White Buddy would take care of the details the very next morning. But as to the question of when they would be moving out, nobody knew but God and maybe General Buford Jack. That was the risk he would have to take. Mrs. Saunders might come three thousand miles just for the long hot trip. By the time she arrived her soldier husband might be on the boat heading where? God only knew and General Jack.

  Solly went back to his hut. He would write her tonight and tell her to catch the first thing smoking. It would be wonderful to have her. It would be—But suppose she got there and he was gone? He lay on his bunk and broke into a cool damp sweat. It would be hell for her to come all that distance just to find him gone, address unknown, just an Army Post Office number. He couldn’t do this to her. Could not do it to himself. The thing to do was to wait till after tomorrow, after he and Samuels got the papers in order, and then he would sit down and write her and put it up to her, the pros and cons and the likelihoods, and she would make up her own mind, and he hoped she would come anyway. Maybe he would phone her tomorrow night. It would be good to be with her again, even via long-distance. He closed his eyes and fashioned her face. Fashioned her long slim autumn-golden body, the special taste of the breath from her lips, the particular smell of her body that was hers and only hers and hers and hers and hers—and suddenly everything in hell paid a visit to the company street.

  He heard the shouting outside and footsteps running past his hut down toward the bottom of the street, and “Scotty!” and “Goddamn Old Rose!” and “Scotty!” A soldier stuck his head inside. “Come on, Corporal Solly. Your man is tearing his ass again!” Solly pretended he was asleep. To hell with Scotty. He wanted his image of Millie. Scotty was a private-first-class goof-off. Millie, darling, I want you to come and be with me. I want to hold you next to me. Someone ran into the hut.

  “Come on, Solly!”

  I want you, Millie—want you—

  Bookworm jerked him to his f
eet.

  Solly said, “To hell with Scotty! If he wants to act the damn fool, let him. I have more important things to think about.”

  Worm said, “Come on, Solly. Don’t be chickenshit!” And pulled him toward the entrance of the hut, and he found himself against his will running downhill with the Bookworm, as the huts continued to empty. Some of the men with sticks in their hands and some with knives and one of them with a baseball bat. By the time Solly and Worm got down to the bottom, a crowd had gathered from other Duck companies as well as from the 913. And Technician Fifth-Grade Scott was sounding off in his inimitable style.

  He was in the midst of the enlisted men along with two big hefty MPs and Captain Strausman, company commander of the 915th Duck Company, and regimental officer of the day. From the jukebox in the brightly neoned Post Exchange, Bing Crosby was singing pretty and outside leaves of trees were dancing, as Scotty sabotaged the setting. Everything so picturesque.

  “Naw, we don’t like it!” Scotty roared. “Hell naw! Here you goddamn people ‘bout to send us somewhere south of west-hell to do your dying and you have the goddamn nerve to build a canteen in pissing distance from our tents and dare us to put our foot inside . . . . That ain’t right, not worth a damn!”

  “Tell ‘em about that mess, Scotty!” Worm shouted as he shoved Solly through the crowd toward the lionhearted soldier.

  Captain Strausman said, “Told you to shut your gawdamn mouth, soldier.” He was a little over six feet and looked like a college fullback. His voice was a curious mixture of German brogue and Southern accent.

  “Don’t raise your voice at me!” Scotty screamed. “Don’t you raise your voice at me! We gon use this Post Exchange or rip the sonofabitch apart!”

  Solly being shoved by Worm, they reached Scotty just as another white officer, a major, made his way from the other side of the mob of soldiers. Solly looked at the little angry-mad soldier and unwillingly felt a warmth of something indefinable. Almost without knowing he put his hand on Scotty’s shoulder. Scotty turned quickly and then a smile broke over his face. “I know you with me, Corporal Sandy,” he said calmly. He turned back to the red-faced captain and went into his rage again.

  The major said, “Just a minute, soldier.”

  And Scotty swung around to do him in. “Who in the—?”

  “All right, soldier,” the quiet-voiced major said. “All right, I think I know what the problem is. I’m Major Stevens, and I’m from Boston, Massachusetts, and I am not prejudiced against your people.”

  Scotty stared at the major and stood at attention and pulled off his cap and saluted him. “All right, Cap’n, sir, I’ll listen to you, but this Georgia mother-fucker is naturally got to go,” Scotty said, pointing to the apoplectic Strausman no more than one arm’s length away from him.

  Strausman said, fuming, “Major, this soldier is guilty of insubordination and inciting a—”

  The major said, “All right, Captain, we’ll see what’s what. The first thing to do is to disperse the mob.”

  Scotty said cagily, “You ain’t gon trick me, are you, sir? You from Boston—”

  “You have my word, soldier. You’ll get nothing but fair play from me. Now let’s go, fellows. Back to your company areas. Break it up now.”

  One of the MPs said, “Come on, break it up.”

  The men moved around and scraped their feet and grumbled but did not go anywhere.

  Scotty said officiously, “Everything’s under control now, com-rads. Colonel Stevens is a man of his word. He’s a Northern stud. We’ll be in the Canteen by tomorrow night.” Some of the men cheered, others still grumbled, as they began to give ground slowly and move away.

  The major said, “Now, Captain, you and I and the corporal can go over to post headquarters and see if we can’t get to the bottom of things. I happen to be the base adjutant.”

  Strausman said, “I’m aware of that fact, sir, but—”

  Scotty said in his humblest manner, “Can I make one last request, Major, sir?” It was the first time he called the major by his proper rank.

  The major said, “What is it, soldier?”

  “Can we take Corporal Sandy here with us? We in this thing together, and he can explain it heap better than me. He’s an educated man like you, sir, and he’s the company lawyer and the company clerk and all that kind of jive.”

  Solly thought angrily, how in the hell did I get into this mess? The major turned to him. “Are you a part of this disturbance, Corporal?”

  He answered heatedly, “Yes, sir.” What else could he say? Could he say: No sir, white folks, I ain’t in this colored mess? He should have stayed in his tent like he’d wanted to. Should have stayed there with his Millie.

  The major said, “All right then, but let’s get going.” The major was obviously anxious to get away from the mob of soldiers, who had not completely broken up, and as long as he stayed there with Scotty and Strausman, there was the chance they would collect again. When Solly and Scotty moved away with the officers, the Bookworm and a few of the soldiers followed. The major turned on them. “All right, men. As you were. Get back to your company area.” Worm and Larker and the others halted. Worm looked to Solly. Solly’s anger almost choked him as he said in a trembly husky voice, “Everything’s under control.” Worm’s eyes asked Solly a million questions. Then he turned back and the others reluctantly followed suit.

  They rode through the coolish night toward the other side of the camp with a full moon sifting golden through the palm trees. Scotty and he sat in the back of the jeep like they were being chauffeured.

  Solly whispered angrily, “I told you before—next time you want to act the damn fool, leave me out of it!”

  Scotty looked at Solly with an angel’s innocence and said, “Beg pard-dron?”

  Solly thought, if I had a gun, they’d lock me up for homicide. Justifiable.

  As they walked into the major’s office, Scotty whispered to Solly, “You do the talking for us, Corporal Sandy. I done tore my ass already.”

  “For us!” Solly almost shouted. A half an hour ago he had been lying on his sack in the quiet of his hut with Millie on his mind, his soul and body and minding his own business, and here he was thirty minutes later in the adjutant’s office at post headquarters, and into something up to his ears and he didn’t hardly know what it was he was into or the how-comes or the what-fors or the where-fores. The next time he heard Scotty’s name called he was going to run like hell in the other direction. Ever since he came into the Army it had been he and Scotty, as if they were inevitably chained together and never for better, always for worse.

  The major sat behind his desk. Captain Strausman said, “Major, this is really an affair of regimental jurisdiction. I think—”

  The major said, “I think I’m qualified to determine the proper jurisdiction, Captain.”

  Strausman said, “Yes, sir, but this man here, Scott, is a notorious troublemaker. His record shows—”

  Solly looked at Scotty standing there with his hat in his hand, the barest hint of a contemptuous smile on his lips. There was a madness in his eyes and an almost overstated purpose in the settle contours of his face. Scotty’s truth was suddenly clear to Solly. This was where he lived, and he would not give an inch of ground to a living ass. You trespassed at your peril. This was his manhood.

  “Why don’t we hear from the men first, Captain? As fellow officers you and I can go over their stories after they’re gone. Fine. Now then what’s your story, Corporal?”

  He was talking to Solly, and Solly thought, what is my story? He stared at the major and what right did Scotty have to put him on the spot like this? He wanted to say, I have no story. I’m just an innocent bystander, judge, your honor.

  Captain Strausman said, “All right, boy, we don’t have all night. This wasn’t any business of yours anyhow, till you butted into it.” The captain’s voice was a red-hot poker digging into the smoldering ashes of his memory, stirring hot sparks into a flame, remind
ing him what his story was. He remembered painfully vividly the jail in Ebbensville and the muscles in his thighs began to dance. For us—for us. Scotty, you’re goddamn right. For us! Thank you, Scotty! It’s Worm’s story, Clint’s story, Jimmy Larker’s and Buck’s story, my story, even Buckethead Baker’s story.

  “I beg your pardon, Captain,” he said in a voice that camouflaged the anger raging in him. “I believe this is my business from the beginning to the end.” My story whether I want it to be or not. I cannot duck it any longer.

  The major said, “Go right ahead, Corporal.”

  “Yeah,” Scotty said, “tell it like it was. Don’t hold back nothing.”

  Solly said, “Major, sir, any day, any hour, any week, we men in the Fifteenth Regiment will be shipping out to some faraway place to fight and maybe die for our great country and for freedom and democracy.” He could no longer smother the heat in his voice nor the fire building in his face and shoulders.

  “We are called upon to die on foreign soil for something we’re constantly denied right here at home in our own our native land.”

  Scotty sounded like a brother shouting deep from the Amen Corner. “Talk pretty for the people, Corporal Sandy.”

  “You will speak when you’re called upon, soldier,” the major said to Scotty.

  Solly felt the angry coals being heaped onto the fire, building in his stomach now. At the same time he felt an overpowering frustration. “Here we are supposed to be fighting against the racist theories of Hitler and we find the same theories holding forth in our own so-called democratic Army. The wonder is that the Negro soldier is not a hundred times more bitter.”

  “Get to the point, soldier,” Strausman said.

  “I’m dealing precisely with the point, Captain, to the best of my ability.” He breathed deeply and continued. “It is a cruel act, sir, to bring us three thousand miles from home to train us to die and to put that supermarket right in our backyard and tell us it’s too good for us.” His voice was trembling, his face perspiring but somehow dammit, he felt good.