Where Death Lives
Art Rosch
I
was dead. The last thing I heard was
the vicious whine of a shell that hit the beach about ten yards to my left,
between me and the empty Higgins boats floating like toys in the surf. The black sand erupted and something ripped
through my helmet and threw me forward onto my face. For a while it was dark and quiet; it was a beautiful
relief. A minute ago I had been so
scared that I was afraid I'd wet my pants, or worse.
Now it was over. Just like that: boom! Over.
It
seemed like a long time, the sweet blessed dark. It seemed like a year of rest and peace. I fought my sense of returning
awareness. No! I'm dead!
I know it! Why would I want to
return to Iwo Jima, why would I want to be anywhere near this unspeakable
war?
First
there was utter confusion as the light began to return. Where was I? What was happening? Then
I righted myself as if I had been thrown into a roaring surf. I knew which way was up. I knew which way I had to go.
My
body lay with half its face buried in the sand. I could see one eye. It
was still open but nothing moved. The
iris no longer reacted to the changing light.
The muscles were utterly still.
I felt a tearing and complete sorrow.
That used to be me! And now,
it’s…what is it? It’s not me. I won’t be living and moving inside those
muscles and sinews, not any more. A
piece of shrapnel had sliced open the helmet and pierced the body’s skull.
I
died fast, at least there was that. One
second I was a lieutenant in the Marines. The next, I was up here, above the beach,
floating.
My pathetic little
carbine had been flung barrel first into the sand. It stood canted at an angle: my first grave marker.
Well,
Sam, here you are. You’re dead. You got forty feet up Iwo's black sand before a shell splinter popped your head
open.
I realized that
this was the crucial moment, this was Samuel Podolski’s crisis.
A consciousness still existed that
was ME. I knew I was dead. I had prepared myself for this moment. When I was a teenager I had thought about
becoming a priest or a monk. I had read
all kinds of books. I had imagined my
death a hundred thousand times. I was
curious, not morbid. I was just a kid.
Then
the war came and changed everything.
Now I was a lieutenant in the United States Marines. Instead of leading souls to God, I led men
into combat.
This was not a book. This was real, this was Death. Above all things, I knew I had to get this
right. I had to die right; I was like a
bell that had been struck and must ring true.
Voom! Some force grabbed me and lifted me into the
air until I hovered about a thousand feet above the beach. I could see everything. Shell bursts, tracers, fire from ships, fire
from marines, fire from Japanese bunkers.
Deadly projectiles flew from dugouts and log-covered rat-holes. It was completely silent. I saw the scrambling dots of marines along
the landing zones. They were still
falling out of the Higgins boats. Some
of them didn't even make it to the surf.
They were frozen on the edge of the landing craft with their arms
dangling. Oh, dear God! Such carnage!
The
sea was paved with ships. The little
island was a heap of black, red and orange, the colors of erupting sand and
dirt, wreathed with fire. It was just a
rock with a couple of airfields. There
was barely any vegetation. A little
scrub, torn up branches, and a five hundred foot rise they called Mount
Suribachi. Artillery barrels poked from
camouflaged emplacements. A flash of
light, a puff of smoke and the barrel disappeared in its recoil. The shell
exploded down on the beach. Return fire
pocked around the enemy gun but it had vanished. This was happening all over the island, the vanishing guns, the
futile return fire.
My
last living thought had been about my guys, the men in my company. Thorne, Willis, Zelazny, Frier, almost two
hundred others. MY guys. My responsibility.
I
had been looking back over my shoulder when the shell hit. I saw Sergeant Poston slogging up the sandy
slope, his arm wind-milling to wave the troops forward. His face was a mask of murderous rage and
terror, his mouth was gaping wide and his tongue was thrust out but he was
still going, he was running as fast as he could and waving his squad forward. The hot deep sand made the act of running a
scuttle towards complete exhaustion.
The heat was fierce. There were
no clouds in the sky, just smoke and flying debris. It seemed like the whole island had come alive and was trying to
kill us.
Now
I could move freely through all this chaos.
I could look at a place and be there instantly. Sergeant Poston had brought four other
marines into a little rise of ground where their eyes could just peer over the
barrels of their rifles to return fire.
Japanese soldiers were invisible.
One
of the Marines with Poston took a bullet right through the forehead. It was Shelby Franks. He was a good kid, a hard working farm boy
who dropped out of high school to fight for his country. Now he was dead. He had passed from life to death in a fraction of a second.
I
watched intently. I saw a misty form
coalesce over the boy’s body and it was his spirit. It was nearly transparent but it was him, Shelby Franks. His face was full of terror and
confusion. I heard the first sound
since I died. I heard Franks screaming.
His spirit-form, his ghost, whatever it’s called was running back and
forth howling “Mommie, Mommie, Mommie!”
A
wave of calm descended through me like a blessed mist. It was warm and comforting like a mother’s
embrace. It brought me knowledge.
As
I watched the poor kid screaming, running back and forth yelling for his
mother, I knew that I was there to help.
I didn’t know why I could help; I just could.
I
floated next to Franks’ ghost and put my ghostly hand on his ghostly shoulder.
It wasn’t like touching flesh. It was like feeling cotton.
“Shelby,”
I said, and a voice came from my mouth, a voice more feminine than my own. “Shelby,” I said, “everything’s okay. You’ll be all right.”
The
boy stopped his ragged dance and looked at me with frightened innocence.
“Mom?”
he asked, his voice swollen with hope.
“No,
son, I’m not your mom. I’m Lieutenant
Podolski. Everything’s going to be
okay.”
He pointed at his body lying prone and still, with its face pressed into the dirt. The hands were still fixed to the rifle’s stock and trigger. “But I’m dead!” He wailed with a terror that made his voice sound like a shredded piece of fabric.
He pointed at his body lying prone and still, with its face pressed into the dirt. The hands were still fixed to the rifle’s stock and trigger. “But I’m dead!” He wailed with a terror that made his voice sound like a shredded piece of fabric.
“I
know, I know.” I touched his shoulder
again, and it seemed as though some of my calm flowed into the cottony feel of
his ghost-form. “You’re a Marine,
son. Those are the breaks. You did your duty and fought bravely. That’s
all anyone can ask.”
The
form trembled and turned away from me.
“I can’t be dead, no! I
can’t! It'll kill my mom! Who's gonna take care of her after the war?”
He
floated back towards his body and seemed to dig at it like a dog digging for a
bone. He tried to push his ghostly
presence back inside the body but it was no good. He threw himself down and bounced away. The dead body rejected him.
He
looked back at me and then was at my side.
“Mommy,” he said, “I think I’m hurt real bad. I need your help.” He put his ghost-head into my chest and
embraced me.
“Shelby
Franks,” I said gently, “I am Lieutenant Podolski, I’m not your mother. You just died on the beach at Iwo Jima. It’s best that you accept this."
He
recoiled from me, floated backward.
“You’re the devil!” he screamed.
“You're lying! You’ve come to take me to Hell!”
He turned and tried to run but he didn’t go anywhere. His form changed from moment to moment. He slipped through the ages of his life,
from being a newborn infant to a boy, then a teenager and finally a Marine at
war. His countenance looked alternately
angelic and cruel. It was the same face
but it bore so many marks of both good and evil that it oscillated from great
sweetness to the horridly vicious. Then
it settled into the face of the soldier I knew and he returned to me and said
with infinite sadness, “I AM dead, right?
I won’t be going home. But I’m
still like this!” He gestured with his
fingers to indicate his ghostliness. He
seemed to look inward, deeply inward.
“I
think I’ll be going to Heaven. I was a
good kid. I wasn’t perfect but I went
to church. I helped my mom on the farm
after my dad died. I was a good kid.”
“I
know you’ll be going to a good place,“ I told him, as truthfully as
possible. I didn’t know where anyone
was going. I didn’t know where I was
going. I had a sense that the realm of
Death may be a bit more complicated than Heaven and Hell.
“Private
Franks!" I barked, asserting my officer's authority. “You're a Marine! Square yourself away! You
still have duties to perform.”
He
seemed to flush with embarrassment, then straightened himself and saluted. “Sir! Yes sir!” he cried.
“Go
and find other marines who have died.
Just be calm and comfort them, and tell the truth as you see it. This is your new assignment.”
“Sir! Yes
sir!” Again he saluted. We looked around us, at the battlefield,
which was still wreathed in eerie silence.
There were ghosts rising from bodies in all directions. Not all the dead were alone. Various forms had materialized around them. Some looked like the parents and
grandparents of these boys; some looked evil and taut with malice. Most of the dead were simply alone, rising
like smoke from their lifeless bodies.
A great wail slowly broke through the silence. It was made of the various calls for solace.
“Mommie,
help me. Mama, mama, mom!” The sad tender music of mother-longing filled the
battlefield. All these boys were
reaching for their greatest comforter.
Other cries rose from the slope.
“Oh lord Jesus, help me. Christ,
oh Christ! Adonai, Aylee Adonai! Dear
God dear god I’m so scared.”
The
shape of the world suddenly changed. An
amphitheatre was forming, the walls of the beach curved upward, the ocean
arched overhead, the hard rock of the island’s interior, the bulk of the
mountain, all of it became a great bowl.
Inside this bowl the spirits of the dead ran in all directions, bumping
into one another, confused.
I
stayed where I was. I seemed to be at
the center of the bowl.
“Lieutenant? Lieutenant?” A voice supplicated and a cottony hand fell upon my
shoulder. I recognized Corporal
Williams.
“Yes,
Corporal,” I responded. The corporal
did not forget his salute. I returned
it. "At ease, Corporal," I
said. He relaxed and took position at
my side.
“We’re
dead, ain’t we, sir?” Williams stated.
“Yes,”
I answered.
“Shit!”
the corporal cursed. Then he looked
sheepish. “Maybe I shouldn’t be cursing
in this place…whatever this is…at least it’s goddam quiet. Aw shit, I did it again. Uh..Sir.”
I
tapped him on the chest with my cottony hand.
“I don’t think you’ll be judged for a few curse words, corporal.”
Williams
relaxed. “Guess not. Bigger things are happening, huh?”
“Yeah,”
I said. “Bigger things than a few curse
words.”
The
two of us sat together and spirits came to us.
I saw so many of my guys, far too many.
The battle was terrible. Their
spirits came in various conditions of confusion and denial. I simply told the truth. We were dead. I didn’t know what would happen next, but it would be okay.
Time
and space were elastic. An hour passed
in a second. A minute passed in a
month. I found myself going from soldier
to soldier. I was being moved by a
greater force, a force that used me as if I were a doctor making rounds. It carried me to the place I was needed.
Colonel
Waterford refused to believe he was dead.
I found his body covered by a tarp while his spirit raged at his junior
officers. “Get those men off the
beach! Where’s Kline? He should have suppressed fire from that
fucking mountain!”
None
of his staff heard his voice. It was
driving him crazy. He reached
impulsively for the forty five strapped to his hip but his hand came up with a
nebulous object, something that looked like a gun but was not a gun. It slipped through his fingers and he
scrabbled in the sand, cursing with frustration.
I
approached and performed my best salute.
“Sir!” I said. “Lieutenant
Podolski
reporting with an urgent
message. Sir!”
"Well,
what is it?" shouted the Colonel.
"Sir. You are dead, sir. Killed In Action." I showed him the body under the tarp. He refused to accept the truth. He looked around for an MP. “Someone arrest this idiot!” he bellowed.
No
one heard. I began to see cracks in his
composure. He carefully smoothed them
over and continued howling orders. It
took me a long time to settle him. He
couldn't accept the fact of his death.
He raged and complained. “Who left that corpse here?” He pointed to his own body. “Somebody take it away for fuck’s sake! It's beginning to stink.”
There was nothing
more I could do.
When
the spirits of the first Japanese soldiers began to drift into our expanding
circle, many marines instinctively reached for weapons. There were no weapons. When they tried to fight with their hands,
it was impossible to grip the cottony substance of the enemy.
Next to me, the spirit of Corporal Williams said, “Aw fuck it. Look at ‘em, sir. They’re just kids, like our guys. Just kids who got killed fighting for their country. What a waste!” He made a full turn, looking at whatever he saw. I didn’t know if he saw what I saw, but his
next statement endeared him to me forever.
“You
know,” he said, “from this vantage point, war looks like the stupidest most
moronic thing in the whole fuckin’ world.”
I
noticed that in the sky above the huge amphitheatre of war there were hordes of
spirits. They were tumbling about, all
in a confused mass. They seemed to be
trying to descend to the level of the beach.
They stopped one another. Light
spirits with wings of gold reached for the rising souls of the young soldiers. Demons with black fangs tripped them, held
them, obstructed them, wrestled with them.
More
and more soldiers came to join our mass of spirits. Japanese and Americans sat quietly speaking. Language was no impediment. They understood one another.
It
seemed like we were caught between two wars.
The angels and devils competed to get past one another. I looked farther up and saw an orb of light
that was brighter than a trillion suns.
It was burning with sweet ferocity, yet it did not blind or sear. It was light and it caused everything to be
what it was. It took no sides.
One at a time, the
spirits in the air passed through their own conflict and drifted down, to float
near a soldier. Many of the angelic
spirits came. Some of the devils came
too, but not so many. Each one chose a
soldier. The spirits extended their
wings, or claws, and took the soldiers.
The angels lifted their charges towards the light. Holes opened beneath the hooves of the
demons and they carried their assigned souls down and down, into the earth's
crust. Gradually the pairs of spirits
disappeared. They faded away, vanishing
over and through the bowl that was Iwo Jima.
The battle was
ending. Flame throwers were mopping
up. The bowl of the island grew
transparent. I could see inside Mount
Suribachi with its many caves and tunnels.
Charred Japanese bodies lay stiffened in grotesque postures. Blackened bones of clutching hands pushed
into the air. They would stay buried
there forever.
It seemed as if
only a few minutes had passed. The
shape of the island had been changing from that of a bowl to one of a flat
plain. It was an endless desert with
but a few pebbles to mark off the distance to the horizon. A ragged line of Japanese soldiers were
huddled together, tiny, far away. Near
to me, a fortress stood, with walls that extended into the sky. It was a monstrous battlement, with ten
thousand flags waving. It bristled with
guns and spears, arrows and vats of boiling oil.
I knew what would
happen. I knew because it was as
logical as fate. There was no caprice,
no irony to it. Only a terrible dignity. The Japanese stood proudly, waving their
curved swords. A man stood among them,
taller, more proud, more dignified. He
was dressed like all the others except for his high boots and the open white
shirt collar over his tunic.
He was the
general, Kuribayashi. He seemed to be
miles away but I heard him speak. His
soldiers looked to him with great love and devotion.
He was talking to his men, though something more
intimate in his diction told me he was speaking to his family, to his son.
“My life is but a lantern, glowing in the
wind.” Those were his last words.
Banzai! The
solders charged the huge fortress, waving their swords with great
ferocity. In response, the massive
thing seemed to swallow deliberately and then spit a giant bomb. This bomb struck the oncoming soldiers and
vaporized them instantly.
The battle was over. I was all but alone. Here
and there, I could see the living but they were becoming more tenuous as the
ghosts became more real. The spirits
from the final charge were taken by a great Samurai ghost, a creature of
impeccable composure. It wore an
elaborate helmet with antlers of carved ivory.
The General bowed to the Samurai spirit. It bowed in return. There
was flash of light, as if the sun had gleamed on a sword blade. The soldiers vanished.
I sat quietly.
The Great Light, that light as powerful as a trillion suns, the light
that did not burn but healed, came closer.
It drew itself out of the heavens and approached. As it did so there coalesced yet another
form, another being. It was dressed in
ordinary civilian clothes. It walked on
the ground, coming forward until I could see it plainly. I had an odd sense that I was looking at my
own twin. The being was so much like
me, yet different in many ways. It was
both male and female. It radiated such
peace of countenance. If I could chose
to be anyone, I would chose to be this being who now put its arms around me.
“Samuel,” it said, “you’re ready. You’ve done well. It’s time to go.”
“Yes,” I said, “It’s time to go.”
I allowed the being to absorb me in its embrace. I felt more complete than I had ever
imagined it was possible to feel. This
being was myself and not myself. It was
something I could call soul, or spirit, or any of a myriad names.
It rose into the sky and carried me towards the light of
a trillion suns.
