BooksBarbecue
Back The Preserve
Chapters (56)
  1. Front Cover
  2. Half-Title Page
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright Page
  5. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  6. 1.
  7. 2.
  8. 3.
  9. 4.
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. 9.
  15. 10.
  16. 11.
  17. 12.
  18. 13.
  19. 14.
  20. 15.
  21. 16.
  22. 17.
  23. 18.
  24. 19.
  25. 20.
  26. 21.
  27. 22.
  28. 23.
  29. 24.
  30. 25.
  31. 26.
  32. 27.
  33. 28.
  34. 29.
  35. 30.
  36. 31.
  37. 32.
  38. 33.
  39. 34.
  40. 35.
  41. 36.
  42. 37.
  43. 38.
  44. 39.
  45. 40.
  46. 41.
  47. 42.
  48. 43.
  49. 44.
  50. 45.
  51. 46.
  52. 47.
  53. 48.
  54. EPILOGUE
  55. AFTERWORD
  56. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

“Wading onto some island.”

“Forest.”

“Jungle.”

“All leads to the same.”

“We been through the grinders enough to know the bad feeling coming on.”

“That something just ain’t right,” Lett said.

“Yep,” Jock said. “So, why don’t neither of us have the feeling right now?”

Lett had to shake his head. “I don’t know. I sure hope it’s not because we like this too much. That we need it back.”

“Maybe that’s the angle, Lett. Maybe this is all we know. All that is natural to us.”

Lett turned to Jock. “The angle?”

Jock shrugged. “I just mean, that it’s part of the treatment they’re giving us. That we realize this is natural to us.”

They sat a while in silence, looking inside the brown mouths of their beer bottles. Jock added another grunt. “I was thinking, as you know: I figure maybe this is our leg up. Mine, anyways. Like I was saying before. I—”

The young captain rushed back inside, filling the doorway with alarm. Before he could get a word out a tall man pushed him aside and strode inside to them.

They shot up saluting, their folding chairs sliding backward, one tipping over.

“At ease, men.” Five-Star General of the Army, Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers, and onetime Field Marshal of the Philippine Army Douglas MacArthur stood before them, hands on his hips.

“Do find your seats, please,” General MacArthur added in a soft voice.

The men gathered around the man by forming a three-quarter circle of chairs without anyone prompting it, as if initiating the gesture were whispered to them all. They sat erect; hands flat on their thighs. The general found a chair, and he pulled it around to complete the circle. Facing them, nodding, smiling faintly. Lett found himself two men away from him. MacArthur pulled off his famous stitched cap, pushed his hair down, pulled out a platinum cigarette case, and offered smokes all around. Some accepted, saying thanks.

“Where’s the corncob pipe, General?” said one in an upbeat voice worthy of a newsreel.

MacArthur chuckled. “That MacArthur is for the cameras, son.”

They laughed. Some lit up, the rest intending to keep the cigs as souvenirs, Lett figured. They were Pall Malls. “This your favorite smoke, General?”

“My preference is whatever they have in the PX, son.”

The general was pushing seventy, with sun and age spots and visible veins to show for it, but the sparkle in his eyes was that of an Olympic athlete winning his first medal. This surprised Lett. It wasn’t like the man with the hard CO stare in the photos at all. He found all their eyes with his, one at a time, and when he found Lett’s, Lett could not look away. The gaze was too warm.