Fields of Fire Read online

  He and two friends went to one of the many bars. It was dark and close inside, smelling of musted alcohol and people sweating. The girls marched over to their table and one of them sat on his lap and dug her rump meaningfully into his crotch and he screamed in agony: for all her practice, she had sat on him wrong. When he howled she marched away in a huff. He left the bar, feeling embarrassed and naive.

  By his third day on Okinawa, Hodges took to staying in his BOQ room for hours, pensively studying his Combat Leader's Notebook. He put off drunkenness until a more decent hour: after lunch.

  ONE thing about the Officers’ Club manager, mused Hodges through his drunkenness, the son of a bitch may be skating Nam, but he sure as hell knows how to hire some nice-looking women.

  Their costumes were kind of stupid, really. Full dresses, bobby socks and tennis shoes. But they were cute. Somehow innocent after the terrors in the village. He liked the way they walked. They seemed conscious of every step they were taking, every muscle movement, as they went about their tasks.

  She put his plate down in front of him. He thought he felt her breast against his shoulder. Vague, velvet pressing. Hard to tell. She smiled self-consciously and he squinted, focusing on her name tag. Yup. Same as a minute ago. Mitsuko.

  “Hey, thanks, Mitsoooko.”

  “MITS-ko.” It was the third time she had corrected him.

  “Whatever. Hey. Did anybody ever tell you you're nice-looking?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “That's what I thought.”

  She smiled patiently, as if she were waiting for the next predictable line. He noticed then how young she was. He had been watching her for three days, sitting at tables under her care, throwing inane comments at her along with the others. Like pennies in a well, he mused. How many half-drunk officers have made a pass at her today? Hey. That's a damn good line.

  “How many Marines have bothered you today?”

  “Oh, no date Marines!” She smiled shyly, almost innocently.

  “Well, that's not what I meant.” He shook his head, laughing at himself in frustration. Great line, Hodges. You went and called the girl a whore. “Do you like to dance?”

  She smiled tentatively, too unsure of her English to interpret his question at face value. She cocked her head, waiting for a punch line. He decided he liked the way she looked. Her small-boned, oval face, with its turban of black hair, looked regal. Well, cute, anyway.

  “No, I just mean dance. You know—” Hodges bounced in his chair—“dance.”

  “It's awright.” She walked away, over to the next table to take an order.

  He lit a cigarette, stumped. Why the hell her, anyway? Half the waitresses seemed eager to date Marines. He tapped his ashes into the ashtray. She's too young. Can't be more than eighteen. But damn it. She walked by, carrying two platters.

  “Hey, Mitsooko. Dance with me tonight, O.K.?”

  “MITS-ko. No can do, bobaloo.”

  Another penny in the well. But she left him with a taste of pretty smile. She passed him again on the way back to the kitchen. “Your food is cold. You better eat!”

  Unsolicited comment. Motherly. Major score. He ate slowly, and finally was the only one left at any of her tables. She seemed aware of him as she cleared the other places, much as a cat remains intent while seemingly ignoring a possible attacker. He lit another cigarette, watching her. Finally she came to his table.

  “You finished?”

  “Dance with me. Tonight.” She pondered him, frustrated and innocent. She looked around for help. “Come on, Mit-sko, please. I go to Vietnam in a couple days.” The line failed: everybody in the room went to Vietnam in a couple days. “Don't you like me?”

  “I'm engaged.” Her response was obviously rehearsed. “Okinawa boy.”

  “Whooppee-doo.”

  “What?” She smiled quizzically.

  “American word for ‘so what?’ Come on.” He rose to his feet, his face eager. “Let's go dancing, all right?” He grasped her shoulder. “You'll love it.”

  She seemed embarrassed. She glanced around to see if anyone else was watching. She turned to walk away. “No-o-o-o.”

  “I won't bother you any more.”

  “What?”

  “Go dancing tonight and I won't bother you any more. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Not ever. O.K.?”

  She smiled humorously, then shrugged. “O.K.”

  Well, whatta you know, mused Hodges. The perfect line. Promise to leave 'em the hell alone and they'll do anything, even go out with you.

  He waited for her in front of the club, smoking cigarettes and pondering his days of drunkenness. What the hell has all this got to do with Vietnam? He decided that it was a Marine Corps plot to make everyone frustrated enough that they would want to get into Vietnam. Must be it. And damn it, it sure as hell works.

  Gliding shadow on the sidewalk. She had shed the absurd bobby socks and was dressed in Western clothes, a skirt and blouse. The first thing he noticed as she approached was her legs. They were well shaped, slim, an apparent rarity among Okinawan women. Hodges grinned, dismounting the fence he had been sitting on. Dig it.

  She walked up to him, obviously uneasy. She did not smile or even look at him as he called a taxi and opened the door for her. She moved to the other side of the seat. He scooted over next to her. Her perplexity was fresh and innocent. He was not terribly experienced in such matters, but she was making him look like a regular cavalier.

  Hodges called to the taxi driver. “Koza.” He remembered a dance hall from a few days before.

  The taxi left the Camp gate, and wound down a crowded road, through the lighted, sign-drunk village. Kin village, mused Hodges, was nothing but a gate ghetto. He tried a few questions about sights on the streets, Japanese signs, pawnshops, steambaths, all the Conqueror's amenities. He found her incredibly shy. She attempted gamely to answer, but it was convoluted and intense, a mix of Japanese and English and American slang. He caught something about how Camp Hansen had once been “a tousan’ farms,” but could not decipher the rest.

  They left the city and struggled southward down small hills, fighting a myriad of winding curves, and soon were driving along the beach road, which ran at the edge of the long, thin island. He watched the white sand in the gloomy light. She pointed to the silent surf from the taxi's dark.

  “Good swim. Officer beach. No Okinawan.”

  IT wasn't any louder or dirtier or cruder than it had been two nights before. It only seemed that way. Hodges ushered her in past scores of groping couples, Okinawan girls and American men, to a table in back of a large, packed dance floor. An Oriental band imitated the Rolling Stones, too loudly and obnoxiously, on an elevated stage.

  She had tightened up the moment she had realized where Hodges was taking her. She insisted on moving all the way to the rear of the room, to a virtually hidden table. Hodges bought them each a soft drink. The music was beginning to sober him up. He studied her under the flashes of a strobe light. Her eyes were low and she was so refreshing. He felt a deep, protective affection for her, and began to comprehend his mistake in taking her to the club. He sensed that, somehow, he had insulted her.

  The band relented from its wailing fuzztones and played a slow song. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Dance.”

  She stared at the couples on the floor. “No.”

  “Come on. That's what we came for.”

  They moved slowly along the edge of the dance floor, not really a part of it. He felt comfortable in her arms. She was deceptively curved underneath the loose clothes she wore, and strong. He felt like smothering her to him, poring over her body as some of the other dancers were doing, but he thought that it might make her cry. She was deeply upset. He chided himself. Way to go, Casanova. You really scored.

  The song ended and he felt alone, adrift with her in a world that was hostile to them both. He put an arm around her and pulled her to him, she not resisting, and kissed her. She merely allowed herself to be kissed, not r
esponding. Then she demanded that they leave.

  THEY caught another taxi back to Camp Hansen. He was depressingly sober now, sobriety assuring him of the true distance between him and her, but also convincing him of his deep attraction to her. As they pulled away from the nightclub he smiled apologetically across the seat to her.

  “Terrible, O.K.? Sorry.”

  He watched her in the taxi's dark, she looking straight ahead out at the narrow road, and he felt the ache of losing her. He kissed her again but still she did not respond one way or the other. She merely allowed herself to be kissed.

  She had a long conversation with the driver. Her face became lit and she appeared amazed, incredulous. She translated bits and pieces to Hodges in apparent politeness, lest he feel excluded. A murder. Boy killed two shopkeepers with an ax. American boy. No. Okinawan mother, American father. No father.

  Hodges mentally shrugged it off. He could not understand their excitement. She noticed that he seemed unmoved and touched his knee, intense. He shrugged to her, smiling ironically. “One murder?”

  “No no no. You no understand. Okinawan never kill. This is terrible!”

  “Must have been the American in him.” It was supposed to be a joke. She withdrew her hand and ignored him, continuing to converse with the driver.

  The taxi turned off the beach road and groaned up the short steep hill and entered the island road. In a few moments they were driving through Kin village again. They rode along the lighted street, the sign-drunk buildings depressing him now. Mitsuko spouted another command to the driver and he nodded once and pulled over to the Camp gate.

  She smiled with effort, warm yet distant. “Taxi take me home. I pay. Good night.”

  Her face was only inches from his and he stared beyond the careful smile into eyes that were confused and innocent, and somehow hurt. What a bummer, mused Hodges. How the hell can I understand? Three days and it's Vietnam. How the hell can I try to understand? It can't be like this.

  He touched her shoulder. “I can't leave you here.” He gestured out into the streets. “Too many crazy Marines. Let me take you home.”

  She said nothing but her unchanged expression told him no. They sat close, staring at each other, each waiting for the other to capitulate. The driver stared courteously out the front window. Marines passing by the car on the way in from liberty elbowed each other and smiled at the figures in the car.

  The nudging Marines finally tipped the scales. Mitsuko turned to the driver and spoke a low command and he nodded once again and drove off into the village. They bounced a few blocks and turned onto a dirt road, following it behind the street. The car stopped beside a stairway which led to a group of second-floor apartments that fronted on the street.

  Hodges checked the fare and started to pay the driver. She protested again. “No. You take taxi back.”

  He ignored her, paying the driver. The taxi departed. He turned to her, smiling uncertainly. “I'll walk back. It isn't far.” They stood under the stairs, looking at each other's image in the dark. Finally she gave him a small, confused smile and turned away. She began to walk up the stairs.

  “Sorry. Good-bye.”

  He followed quickly, astounding himself with uncharacteristic boldness. He took her shoulder and stopped her and she turned around, angry, somehow insulted, but he needed her too much to worry about her insult. He pulled her to him, first gently and then tightly, kissing her and pushing her into the guardrail. Finally she responded, ever so slightly, not even wanting to.

  He squeezed her and spoke soft words that she did not understand and then kissed her again, less clumsily than before. She kissed him back, a portion of her innocence crumbling with great remorse, admitting his attractiveness. Then she stared at him with a curious, examining look.

  He held her and discovered that his eyes were wet. “Please.”

  She did not invite him. Nor did she ask him to leave. She merely turned and walked slowly up the stairs. He watched the golden legs ascend the steps and felt insane, controlled by their measured motion. He followed her.

  She unlocked the door and left it open, still not looking back for him.

  He entered her apartment, closing the door and walking through the kitchen after her. She stood in the other room, facing away from him, still not acknowledging his presence. He placed both hands on her waist, standing behind her, holding it as carefully as fragile china.

  He did not ask and she did not answer. Neither of them needed to. When she reached up and turned out the light they both understood. She stood with her back to him and pulled a long pin out of her hair and it fell straight and black and silky down her back. He gathered it in his hands and pressed it into his face and it was soft and clean and he kissed it, holding it that way. Then he gently pulled on it, turning her around, and lifted her face, her eyes still looking down, not meeting his, and he kissed her.

  He held her that way for a long time, careful not to force himself on her, wondering at the fullness of her mouth, trying to understand that part of him that was exclaiming that this was perhaps the most beautiful moment of his life. He experienced the firmness of her back and hips and then the surprising fullness of her breasts. He marveled at the shyness of her response after she had finally committed herself so completely to him.

  Then she slowly broke away from him, still not saying a word, and left the room. He stood awkwardly for a moment, watching after her. The hard white of a streetlight flashed on her as she re-entered the room but it was soft and gold and black where it touched her. She did not return to him, though, did not even look at him. Instead she knelt on the floor of her little room and folded down the futon that was her bed.

  He noticed that he had begun to tremble. He dropped his clothes where he stood and joined her on the futon, losing his fears and loneliness in the solace of her warmth. Still she was shy, almost passive, but she was mercurial warm when he entered her and she spoke for the first time then, a sharp groan and a lovely word that he did not understand because it was a Japanese word. But he needed no translation.

  Then it was over and they still held each other, almost as if both were in shock at their intimacy. He took her hair and wrapped it behind his neck, enveloping them inside the soft black cocoon that her hair made. She laughed softly, her face still fresh and innocent and bright, and he felt that he was somehow experiencing an emotion that had eluded him before, that was not supposed to be a part of him. Not there. Not then. But he felt it and he remarked to himself that he would do almost anything to preserve it.

  He noticed it then, on the futon. She saw that he was staring at it and stood quickly, donning a happy-coat, making such a simple thing as that a poem. Then she gathered the sheet and carried it out of the room.

  He held his head, laying back on the futon. Oh, wow. I didn't know there was such a thing any more, not on Okinawa. She re-entered the room and went into the kitchen, where she put on a pot of tea. He watched her movements, stunned. Her hair was down around her shoulders, framing her oval face. She was ignoring him again.

  A virgin! All the way to Okinawa to learn the ways of sultry, sloe-eyed Oriental women, and he'd happened on a virgin. It explained a lot of things to him. He walked up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. She stared into the teapot as it steamed, taking no apparent notice of his hands.

  “Mitsuko. This was your first time.”

  She turned around and faced him. She seemed embarrassed, compromised. She nodded.

  He shrugged helplessly. “Mine, too.”

  HE walked loose and powerful on his way back to Camp Hansen, taking long strides in the middle of the street, avoiding shadowed pockets of buildings where Americans skulked with gutting knives, waiting to split a man's belly for the dollars in his wallet. He reached the camp gate and listened to the bar tales of the others coming in from liberty, all the cruel clichés about Oriental women. He thought of the groin-grinding bar girls of two days before, and for the first time understood the sad part of Mitsu
ko's stare that kept accusing.

  STREETLIGHT’S hard light on the far wall, soft breasts pressed against his middle. How could she have such breasts beneath the unrevealing cloth of waitress uniforms? American songs on the radio. Japanese radio. Armed Forces Network. Don't ask why. Don't ask how. Don't ask forever. Love me now.* Love breaks over green tea that he loaded down with sugar. “Teach me to write your name, Bobby. I show you mine in Japanese.” And in the daytime, he still drinking at the club and she ignoring him, lest she be marked as a participant in the festival of lust. “I love you, Mitsuko. No, really. Really, I do.” “Go back to sleep. Three days you go Vietnam.”

  HE lay on his back in the large, stark room, his head against his seabag, smoking a cigarette. He had tried to sleep but the ceiling lights were brutally bright, and besides he was too keyed up. In an hour, at midnight, the room full of solemn, shaved-headed men would depart for Vietnam. An aviator Captain and a First Sergeant sat across from him, conversing easily. The Captain carried a new guitar. He was going back for the second time. He was telling the First Sergeant about how he got his Distinguished Flying Cross. He spoke of Vietnam with a studied familiarity that for some reason irritated Hodges. The First Sergeant was drunk. He was returning from emergency leave, after burying his wife. Foreign names rolled off his tongue like syrupy spit. Quang Tri Phu Bai Da Nang Hue … They both talked too loud and with too much certainty, as if they were competing for the admiration of the ninety-odd boots who sat miserably around them. Hodges thought about asking them to shut up, then tried to block them out.

  He had spent three hours in her apartment, from the time she was off work until he had to leave to catch the bus for Kadena Air Force Base with the others. It had been their fourth night together.

  Mit-sooo-ko. He had decided not to shower. It seemed like such a final act to wash her off him. He could smell her on his hands and in his hair. He loved smelling her and he knew that the odor would soon vanish in the muck of what awaited him. He wondered if he would ever see her again, if he would ever make it back to Okinawa. He hoped deeply that he would, and that somehow it would be soon.