GOODBYE, SOUL BROTHER or The Cavalry of Ten Thousand Horses - I: The Green Hell / 9: Dulce Et Decorum Ain't For Everyone

A brave, just existence? Really? A greater reason is purpose; purpose is never existentially brave or just, but ambitious, neutral, determined and leads all who adhered to their purpose to the Great Above where

 

* * * * *

 

the colonel now resided.

Of course. He’d been born halfway to heaven and half better than none. Goddamn born with wings, the colonel. “He’s only half ours,” Papa Clem always said. And now, if the dispatch received by the el tee were to be believed, he looked down from a pillar of cloud upon the still existing mortals as easily as he’d looked down upon the faults and foibles of men while he’d lived among them, looked down as easily as he’d had upon the tops of their heads.

What to do?

The colonel is dead?

Lef-rye-lef hada lef-rye-lef to (Zev’s) Major Treat’s quarters, lef-rye-lef, to report the colonel’s death. A lesser troop commander would’ve passed the buck to a subordinate. Capt. Shuvee was many things: business like and exacting, smooth and popular. Buckpasser he was not. On the contrary, he was a buckfinder. And what he found he never passed but accepted as his cross to bear. A particularly heavy burden that second morning of November as he lef’d-rye’d-lef-d to report the colonel’s death to Major Treat. He made up his mind to be brief, say it like it is, make his report and leave. Ball’s in your court now, sir. Brevity, the soul of wit and Ernest Hemingway’s key to great writing. That was the plan. But would it work with the witless major? The captain wondered if it was not a flaw he’d brought upon himself. Really, when a man had to suffer such exchanges as:

Zev, “Major, I need more requisition forms. How do I get them?”

“Sir, you need to submit a requisition form.”

“How do I get one?”

“Through requisition, sir.”

“Don’t just stand there, major. See to it that more have been requisitioned.”

Anyone wit would be worn down. Dulled. Sure, Zev had proved bold, really bold at war command, but commanding at Fusaichi . . . well. And there’d been:

“Sir, the men are complaining about their cocks being sick.”

“Their cocks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How are the men?”

“Sir . . . their cocks are sick. “

“I didn’t ask you about their cocks, major. I want to know about the condition of the men.”

“. . . their complaining about sick cocks, sir.”

“Don’t just stand there, major. Snap to it and verify if their cocks are really sick or if they just need to stop their complaining.”

“Sir, it isn’t a visual sickness. I can’t see if their cocks are sick.”

“How do they know their sick?”

“They feel it, sir. It’s a special feeling.”

“How does it feel, major?”

“I don’t know, sir . . . my cock isn’t sick.”

“Snap to it, major, don’t just stand there. Have Fager feel your cock for sickness.”

Yep, uh-huh, indeed, uh fur muh tiv, have no doubt: Zev had been boonified. The perfect example of Zev’s influence on the major was when the major had reported to him at the mess hall, “Sir, excuse me for interrupting your breakfast - ” ham and eggs, waffles, biscuits and gravy “ - but you should know that we’ve found KILROY SAT HERE at your quarters.”

“I’m not at my quarters, major, I’m at the mess hall. Do you mean that KILROY SAT HERE?”

“No, sir, KILROY SAT THERE.”

“Sat where?”

“There, sir.”

“Here?” - examining his chair.

“No, sir, there,” gesturing with his head in the direction of Zev’s quarters.

“Don’t just stand there, major. See to it that he’s no longer sitting there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll wait here.”

. . . like communicating with a FuPeg.

Major Treat said, “Yes, sir,” and, summoning his inner FuPeg, mouthed in his head, I’ll fuck off now.

 

* * * * *

 

If the Japs hadn’t bombed the bejesus out of Pearl Harbor the captain might very well be a writer now instead of being en route to reporting dreadful news to an inept commander. His mother, Alice Carneal-Shuvee, had determined to raise a reader. And she had, but her darling boy killing another mother’s darling boy hadn’t been part of her determination. She’d been one of them mongering for peace in the firm belief that men menstruate by shedding other people’s blood. A native Bostonian who’d lived near the Boston harbor, she’d married Gabriel Charles Shuvee because he could be controled. Marital bliss, fuck it; marital mind control. And with him she’d determined to raise the future generation of mongering peace lovers. But there’d only been her one darling boy. And he’d forfeited his college education to enlist. Undrafted. Smoothly went down to the nearest Armed Forces Induction Center and been promptly stamped with approval for war service. Gabriel Charles Shuvee had done his damndest to do the same, but, being near-sighted in one eye and downright blind in the other, he’d been rejected because, while his Pollard’s vision would’ve been just fine during the American Revolutionary War when a man had to see the whites of the enemies’ eyes to see em good enough to shoot em, during the latest war to end all wars his vision constituted a handicap. There ain’t no Bunker Hill in the latest war. Probably most would bless their blind luck for not being fit and ready to fight, but not so Gabriel Charles Shuvee who’d wanted to support his son, his darling boy, by following his lead. Not usually a vulgar man, he’d complained, “It’s bullshit. Exempted, really? I am an able-bodied man.” But his body, Alice Carneal-Shuvee had reminded him, had only been able to give her one child and that child had volunteered to kill someone else’s. And so she’d controled his mental stamina to try again.

Capt. Shuvee kept close control of the dispatch. A perfect officer, but not a perfect man, he wanted to unburden himself. Mornin’, cap’n. Mornin’, trooper, the colonel’s dead. Pace, quickened; smoothness steady. Lef-rye-lef hada lef-rye-lef. Under skies of thunder. Lef-rye-lef hada lef-rye-and he nearly stepped on – not a FuPeg turd – but a songbird fallen dead from a bough. Without, the captain was sure, feeling sorry for itself. Like good ol’ D.H.L., he’d never seen a wild thing sorry for itself. And here he was, among men, moping around, disillusioned. Sorry for themselves. He covered the feathered body with leaves which were promptly blown into disarray by strong, yet willowy wind. He imagined that the bird had imagined itself as a war bird, an oiseau de guerre with military plume, green bright plumes, each an awesome feather. All creatures live in pursuit of dreams.

His pursuit of (Major Treat’s) Zev’s quarters became shorter and shorter with every lef and rye and Captain Lex Shuvee, his smoothly moving 6’00” body (the height of the classic hero) paused: not to avoid a FuPeg Turd, not to attempt a burial with leaves, but to exchange a smile and a bow with “little Mike,” full of native charm and native knowledge. A remarkable forester and, presumably, the son of an old forester, he’d used his forestry skills to gather native wood for the building of the Fort Marcy Church and the radiotelegraph “room,” the latter built first and according to FuPegese standards. Wood was gathered without de-forestation. FuPegs did not take; they borrowed. Sowed that which they reaped. Shared. Every meal was communal. Never did a FuPeg eat alone like Major Treat. Like John. The former ate alone in his (Zev’s) quarters, the latter at the stables. FuPegs seemed to exceed and excel in woodcraft, in borrowing instead of taking, in adapting. Ain’t they adapted to the troopers? Sure as shit, they had. Adapted and tried to ingratiate. Absolutely worshipped. What was a trooper in Fusaichi? Rock star sans a star guitar (instead a M one rifle) and nearly every one had a FuPeg groupie doll. Say, trooper, who’s your favorite Fusaichi lady? Why she’d be that itty bitty pretty thing over there. No FuPeg female had the curves n curls of Sarah Lynx, but each had a soft charm and pretty ways and the troopers, so big, so handsome, had the cleanest bodies and filthiest minds, the highest morals and the lowest morale than any group of animals (human or otherwise) that the FuPegs had ever seen.

The FuPeg ladies who laid with them were marveled by the hair on their chests, the strength of their thrusts, their size and endurance. Say, trooper, don’t thrust too hard, that little gal is so tiny and narrow you might split her in half. HOO-ah! And what did they get in return, the female FuPegs? - candy, real candy, not the medicinal kind prescribed by the doc; a trooper often combed his fingers through her straight thick black hair in gratitude or made a promise to love in a language she didn’t understand so it was, from the start, a broken promise; a trooper might pat her, stroke her, give her a grateful smack on her flat yellow small ass, or he might give her a parting kiss or, better yet, a particular item from his uniform, from his kit, to mark her, claim her, identify her. And he’ll see her again. And awake again to another sunny morning of green sunglow. She’ll giggle at him, bow to him just like he’s any other trooper. This will affect him. When he has her again he will split her in half. Or he won’t. She’s just a fucking FuPeg. Ain’t worth splitting. Ain’t she? Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, uh fur muh tiv, and if a trooper is willing to die for his country, ain’t he willing to split a FuPeg for it? For the sake of Fusaichization? For her own goddamn good?

 

* * * * *

After seeing “little Mike” the captain saw a native beauty, no curves, no curls, all straight and small and pretty and pretty does a lot when a man’s only option is to do without. This FuPeg never smiled or giggled or bowed; her shyness prevented all that. Her straightness stiffened, her smallness shrunk. And Capt. Shuvee, smooth charmer with a sweet, smooth soul, disarmed her with a wink and a smile. Did he ever split her? Her: a member of the subspecies of the nonhuman animal species. Just a shimmer of a species. Shimmering gold, no; shimmering yellow. Yellow pussy = a sick cock. The captain’s cock ain’t sick. He wants to tear his teeth out, wants to split a female FuPeg, to . . . this shit is crazy, this FuPeg shit everywhere, the stink of it, the existence of it, their existence in Fusaichi. Dense and crazy and stinking green. A masterpiece of craziness, a green hot mural of madness. And the colonel is dead. Is this Fusiaichi from the dead colonel’s perspective? Is this Fusaichi? Is this death? If it is there’s a simple substitution: have the time of your life, for dulce et decorum, kill an unsaveable FuPeg, split a tiny yellow thing by thrusting her in half. For your own goddamn good. Because you’re in Fusaichi, trooper, and the colonel is dead. Dead everywhere. Alive nowhere. Somewhere he is being mourned. But not in Fusaichi because the evening shadows haven’t taken over and the squadron doesn’t know about his unbeholden death. The angels, though weeping and the poets, though silent, the squadron remained unknowing.