Mistina Bates - Indian Country Noir

The Indian was going to keep walking, but then he thought, What the hell, and went in.

It was a workingman’s bar. Sawdust on the floor. Men in caps and thick jackets. Men who looked like Mike.

Mike Strank is the best platoon leader a guy can have. He understands his marines, and he takes care of them. The Indian respects him. Reveres him. All Mike’s men do. And even though the Pima doesn’t speak much to anyone, he’s practically a chatterbox with Mike. He can tell Mike anything. Mike doesn’t judge. He just loves his men back by being the best leader he can be and doing everything he can to keep them safe. That’s why they’ll do anything for him.

Mike was born in Czechoslovakia but passed through Ellis Island when he was three. He has the strong bone structure common to Eastern Europeans that keep them looking young, even in their old age. Mike’s most prominent feature is a pugnacious chin.

The Indian walked up to a man standing at the bar, his hands wrapped around a beer glass. The man wore a cap and had a defiant chin. The Indian peered at him. “Mike?” he said in a small voice.

“Look, I don’t know you,” the man said, keeping his eyes on his beer. He had an accent.

Ira’s head snapped back. “Sorry,” he said.

Beech pulled him to the other end of the bar. “What are you doing, huh? You want to get us thrown out of here?” he hissed.

Ira looked down but didn’t speak.

“Here, sit at the table. I’ll get you something.” Beech shoved the Indian into a chair.

The sergeant returned to the table with two beers and drank half of his in one swallow, as though it were his first of the evening, instead of his seventeenth. “We’ll just sit here for a little while, huh, Ira? It’s a good place just to have a few beers.”

It was a quiet place. Every man in there had his own story, and they were all keeping mum. They were just minding their own business after putting in a day’s manual labor at the docks or the slaughterhouses.

Then something happened to fracture the silence. The two marines didn’t know what set it off. Not being regulars, they didn’t know the politics of the place. But somebody obviously stepped out of line because a man crashed into their table, landing with his head practically in the Indian’s lap. As the guy attempted to stagger to his feet, the back of his head slammed into the Pima marine’s chin. The Indian punched his enemy in the stomach.

The guy cries out, bent double. Mike is trying to lead the Indian and several other marines across a dangerous strip of ground. But Boatwright takes a bullet in the stomach. The impact slams him into a shell hole. The others scramble for cover. The sniper fire is unceasing.

Mike bends down on one knee, surrounded by his beloved troops. He’s drawing a plan in the sand to show the marines how to get out of there safely.

But he doesn’t get a chance to speak. A shell explodes, ripping his heart out.

He was lying facedown.

The Indian crouched over him, sobbing. “Oh, Mike! Mike!”

Rough hands pulled him up, shoved him away. “Don’t you think you’ve caused enough trouble, buddy?”

“Just go before you get what’s coming to you.”

Then — “Jesus, Hayes, you can’t even have a beer without all this drama. Let’s get the fuck out of here before we have to take on the whole bar.”

Good old Beech, bailing his ass out again.

It was cold, but the Indian wasn’t aware of the weather. Or much of anything else. He could hardly see straight, and what he did see came in pairs. He felt pretty good, though.

Then he spotted it. It loomed ahead, mocking him. This was the cause of all his troubles. He ran toward it. He was going to pull it out of the ground and get rid of it, once and for all.

The Pima grasps the piece of drainage pipe he and Franklin Sousley found at the top of the mountain. It weighs over a hundred pounds, and they have to drag it over so the flag Gagnon is carrying can be tied to it. Then they all have to hoist up this pole and plant the fucking flag in the ground. Some dumb officer wants to keep the Stars and Stripes that’s already flying for his own personal souvenir of the invasion of Iwo Jima. So now he and some other guys from Easy Company have to drag ass up the hill and take down a perfectly good flag, just to put up a new one.

They’re already on a mission to run telephone wire and batteries up the mountain, so why not have them replace the flag while they’re at it? The brass are always sending marines on stupid errands.

The pole is heavy, but he and Sousley are battle-toughened marines. They can do what needs to be done.

He grabbed the pole and tugged with all his might. This time, he wouldn’t plant the flag. There would be no photograph of him and his buddies sticking the goddamn thing into the top of Mount Suribachi. He yelled as though the pole could hear him, his voice filled with grief. “You son of a bitch! I hate you! I hate you!” Tears streamed down his face.

The copper was walking his beat when he heard a cry. He quickened his step. At fifty-two, John Flanagan was beginning to feel a little creaky. But he couldn’t leave the job. Who would replace him? All the young, able-bodied fellows were off fighting in the European theater or the Pacific or some damn place. The Chicago Police Department needed him. Besides, what would he do with himself? Police work was all he knew.

This hour of night, this part of town, he figured the yelling was coming from some guy who had too much to drink. There was a festive air in town these last couple days, what with the war bond tour and all the Hollywood entertainers who were participating so they could get their names in the papers. Flanagan smoothed his small mustache and pulled himself up to his full five foot six inches.

Sure enough, there was some idiot hanging off a streetlamp, screaming his head off. Flanagan reached down instinctively to check his weapon. He swiped his left sleeve down over his star. He didn’t even notice he was doing it, he’d had the habit so long. Wearing a gleaming star on his chest had been a point of pride since he’d joined the force, and he had developed the unconscious routine of shining it up before any potential confrontation.

“All right, what’s the problem here?” he bellowed. He didn’t know why, but drunks seemed to lose their hearing during the course of a night’s imbibing. He’d learned early on that if you don’t shout at a drunk, you won’t get through to him.

The idiot didn’t respond. Just kept banging his fist against the streetlamp and cursing it out.

As he got closer, Flanagan could see that the guy wore a uniform. Great. Another drunken marine. He let out a small sigh.

Then he realized it was even better than he’d thought. The drunk idiot had a friend with him. Another marine. This one looked three sheets to the wind too, but at least he was quiet. He was crouched on the ground.

Now Flanagan could see what the guy was doing. Why did he always have to get the drunks who puked? He hoped he wouldn’t get any vomit on his uniform this time. His wife would have a fit.

“What’s going on here?” he called out in his best basso profundo. “What did that streetlamp do to you?”

The idiot didn’t pay any attention to him. He sighed again. Louder. Stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips.

“All right, listen up! Step away from that lamp and you won’t get hurt. You hear me?”

It wasn’t working. The idiot was still lost in his own world.

Flanagan crossed his arms, then almost jumped out of his skin as he realized that the idiot’s buddy was standing right behind him. The guy had sneaked up on him like a thief in the night. He whirled around and dropped his hand to his holster. Then he realized there was no threat.