Keeping Your Head Down
John B. Mahaffie
At the base of the Iwo Jima hill, the sounds of gunfire cracked in from three directions. PFCs Al and Tom shuffled their backsides lower in the divot at the base of the dunes, scrunching themselves down. Tom lit a Lucky Strike without offering one to Al, who he knew had run out. Al tried not to think “asshole” about his pit mate.
“What are those clowns doing up there?”
“I dunno, fixin’ to get shot, far as I see it.”
“They oughta take cover.”
“They’re dumb asses.”
There were shouts from up higher, and the two men saw a guy from the newspapers, in flak jacket and fatigues, trot up the hill.
“Now that photographer idiot is going up there too.”
“Anything to get the shot, right? Did you see that fella during the firefight day before yesterday?”
“It’s the same guy,” Al said, pointing upslope.
“Yeah well, the idea is to get the shot that is all in the newspapers. And the newsreel guys too, want that glory, and how many have got killed? Lots anyway. Least we have our M1s,” he said, tapping on his rifle.
Tom smoked off his cigarette and stabbed out the butt in the sand.
“Sarge called for six men, I kept my head down, like you gotta.”
“I think he got four maybe, what idiots were gonna volunteer for that?”
“United States Marine Corps idiots.”
“Right.”
“I’m kinda tired of this shit. So what, they plant the flag. It’s the fighter planes and the destroyers and the bombing that all add up. It’s killing Japs.”
“Well Sarge is a patriot, is all.”
They couldn’t see the men on top of the hill. The little hill where the men went was about 4 or 5 hundred feet, and Al and Tom, down below, were on the--they hoped--safe-from-shelling side of it. But Sarge and the other men, and now the photo guy, had gone right on up.
After a bit, the men came back down, lit with exhilaration and slapping the camera guy on the back.
The Sarge was scowling, but still looked pleased and proud. “It ain’t about the photograph,” they heard him say.
Al and Tom joined the celebration, but hung back from the other men. The flag-raisers tried to wave them over, holding up a flask of whiskey one of them had somehow come up with.
Al shook his head. And Tom ignored them. He was looking out toward the sea, and tapping out another cigarette.
“When do you reckon they’ll get us off this fucking island?” he said so only Al could hear.
John B. Mahaffie
At the base of the Iwo Jima hill, the sounds of gunfire cracked in from three directions. PFCs Al and Tom shuffled their backsides lower in the divot at the base of the dunes, scrunching themselves down. Tom lit a Lucky Strike without offering one to Al, who he knew had run out. Al tried not to think “asshole” about his pit mate.
“What are those clowns doing up there?”
“I dunno, fixin’ to get shot, far as I see it.”
“They oughta take cover.”
“They’re dumb asses.”
There were shouts from up higher, and the two men saw a guy from the newspapers, in flak jacket and fatigues, trot up the hill.
“Now that photographer idiot is going up there too.”
“Anything to get the shot, right? Did you see that fella during the firefight day before yesterday?”
“It’s the same guy,” Al said, pointing upslope.
“Yeah well, the idea is to get the shot that is all in the newspapers. And the newsreel guys too, want that glory, and how many have got killed? Lots anyway. Least we have our M1s,” he said, tapping on his rifle.
Tom smoked off his cigarette and stabbed out the butt in the sand.
“Sarge called for six men, I kept my head down, like you gotta.”
“I think he got four maybe, what idiots were gonna volunteer for that?”
“United States Marine Corps idiots.”
“Right.”
“I’m kinda tired of this shit. So what, they plant the flag. It’s the fighter planes and the destroyers and the bombing that all add up. It’s killing Japs.”
“Well Sarge is a patriot, is all.”
They couldn’t see the men on top of the hill. The little hill where the men went was about 4 or 5 hundred feet, and Al and Tom, down below, were on the--they hoped--safe-from-shelling side of it. But Sarge and the other men, and now the photo guy, had gone right on up.
After a bit, the men came back down, lit with exhilaration and slapping the camera guy on the back.
The Sarge was scowling, but still looked pleased and proud. “It ain’t about the photograph,” they heard him say.
Al and Tom joined the celebration, but hung back from the other men. The flag-raisers tried to wave them over, holding up a flask of whiskey one of them had somehow come up with.
Al shook his head. And Tom ignored them. He was looking out toward the sea, and tapping out another cigarette.
“When do you reckon they’ll get us off this fucking island?” he said so only Al could hear.
