“No,” said Perko as he gestured for Christian to follow him outside. He stopped Jack from following them out the door and walked with Christian a hundred feet away from the bunk. “Your parents . . . they might be dead,” he said clearing his throat. “I’ve never given news this way. It’s always the reverse. Sending the dispatch to the parents that their son has died, not telling the son that the parents have died. Could have died,” he said, correcting himself. He looked to Christian for an emotional reaction, but Christian stood there stoically, listening, holding tightly to the word could.
“We got news over the wire this morning that the British bombed Pforzheim late last night,” said Perko. “Similar to the campaign on Dresden.” That aerial assault had taken place just weeks before. “They won’t talk of casualties in the papers, and besides, we don’t get papers out here anyways. But I remembered your parents are in Pforzheim and I got some specifics over the wire. They’re saying a quarter, maybe half the population of the city was killed. Are your parents right in Pforzheim?” he asked, his usual gruffness gone.
“Not in the inner city,” said Christian, trying to picture his grandparents’ house, which he’d only been to once. “But not far.”
“That could make the difference,” said Perko, clearing his throat.
“When will we know who died?” asked Christian. “Will they release a list of names?”
“Since it’s Germans who died, we won’t be getting a list of names at all. Meaning the Army, America, anyone. I’m afraid you’ll most likely have to wait until the war is over to find out about your parents, unless there is someone in Germany who can write and tell you. But even if there is someone, a relative, the chance of them getting a letter through is low. Especially with you being out here. It will be tough.”
“Thanks for your honesty, sir,” said Christian, saluting his officer and walking away.
“I’m real sorry, Lange!” Perko called after him.
As soon as Christian turned toward the barracks, he saw Jack running toward him.
“They bombed Pforzheim last night,” said Christian as Jack grabbed his arm. “The Royal Air Force. Perko said maybe half the town was killed, maybe less, though. They’re not sure, and they’re not going to be sure for a long time.”
“Jesus, kraut,” said Jack. “Your whole goddamned family is holed up there.” He paused and then let go of Christian’s arm, backing away. “Kraut,” he said again, stunned. “Inge is there, too.” His stoic face fell and he started screaming and punching the side of their makeshift bunk until every knuckle was bleeding.
Christian watched him, wishing he could do the same thing, feeling the terror building up in him, but he just stood there, stock-still, just as he had when he was fired upon, or when the FBI had walked into his house.
“Am I an orphan at nineteen?” he asked Jack flatly, once he’d stopped assaulting the wall. “Or am I just some sad bastard whose parents died.”
“You don’t know that they died,” said Jack, wiping his hands against his pants. “But you can always feel like an orphan. Just because I’m over eighteen now doesn’t mean I went from being an orphan to being an adult man whose parents happen to be dead. I still feel like the world wronged me too early.” He fell silent and closed his eyes in exhaustion. Christian had never heard him speak with so little bravado.
“I’d be angrier than you are,” said Christian, looking out at the spot where Perko had just given him the news.
“You don’t think I’m angry?” said Jack, lifting his bleeding hands, his eyes still shut.
“I don’t,” said Christian. “I think in every way, you’re above us all.”
A month after the bombing of Pforzheim, a cousin in Berlin managed to get a letter to him in the Philippines with the help of the INS, who had kept tabs on Christian’s whereabouts. Helene and Franz Lange, along with his grandparents, had died.
Three days after Perko gave Christian the telegram, he was on a boat from Leyte to Okinawa, Jack trying to hold him together, the American flag cracking in the wind behind them.
*
Meat and potatoes. Good meat—a thick, bloody steak—and mashed potatoes with butter. That’s what Christian and Jack ate on the boat the night before they landed on the main island of Okinawa in April.
This time, Christian was not scared of the fight. After a week on the island, tired from pulling a trigger so many times, he looked down at his hands and realized he had become numb to killing Japanese soldiers. It would come back to haunt him later, he was sure—the stunned faces, the rows of black eyes staring at him, peering at death. But for now, he felt as lifeless as the bodies he’d leveled.
On May 8 came the news that Germany had surrendered. On Okinawa, and everywhere the American and Allied soldiers were stationed, victory was celebrated. Now, Perko reminded them, pausing their revelry, they just had to defeat Japan.
By the beginning of June, the Seventh had been fighting in Okinawa for more than two months. Somehow, Christian was still alive, Jack was next to him, and they were both still fighting in the intense heat, through a weight of despair.
On their seventieth day of fighting, Christian and his unit were hit by yet another onshore assault.
“You want to stay alive?” said Jack, as Christian crouched down in his foxhole. “Stop bobbing your head out of the bunkers like a dolphin doing tricks. My hand is gonna get blown off because I have to shove you down every single day.”
“For someone who didn’t plan on enlisting, you sure have taken a liking to this soldiering crap,” said Christian.
“I know,” said Jack, shaking his head, soaked in sweat. They’d all agreed that the hellish heat in Okinawa was the worst they’d ever experienced. The pounding sun of Leyte felt like winter compared to the jungles of southern Japan. “It’s disturbing. Maybe I just need people telling me what to do, like in the Children’s Home. Over ten years in that dump, and I can’t think for myself anymore.”
“You’re a much better soldier than I’ll ever be,” he said, remembering what he’d done in the Philippines.
“That is definitely true,” said Jack. “Because you’re awful. But right now, I won’t hold it against you. Losing your parents, not knowing about Inge. It’s total shit. So I’ll keep pushing your head down, and you just keep on going.”
Christian nodded and felt for the piece of wood in his pocket—the toothpick that Jack had made from the cross that Dave put up on Kwajalein. Jack’s shoe had become too big a good luck charm. In battle, he traded it for a crudely whittled toothpick.
“But if you’re like this wherever we end up next,” Jack warned, “I’m just going to let you die.”
“Where we end up next?” said Christian. “How long have we been in this shithole? Over seventy days? The war is ending soon. It has to.”
“That’s what we said after Leyte,” said Jack. “So is this the end?”