Fiction: Blue Hawaiian

By Nick Matsas

 

 

Regardless of whether Jacob lived or died, Robbie felt a curious double feeling: he was envious, and at the same time, relieved that it was not he who drank the contaminated water. Jacob was so sick he could not move unless Robbie dragged him, which was not ideal. It was 115 degrees, and heat exhaustion had taken more troops than combat on the coral island of Peleliu, and if he didn’t die, Jacob would be sent to a hospital far away. Somewhere safe, like Australia, where they first met boarding the attack transport that brought them to this coiled suicide note of coral, malaria, and mangroves, where images of home grew in the shade, and starry-eyed soldiers mistook an artillery barrage for the dinner bell, and last night was no different. The Japanese love the dinner bell, and wore the uniforms of American dead and infiltrated American lines, wreaking havoc upon the ordinary, and separating Jacob and Robbie from their company.

“We’ll never be thanked for this,” said Jacob.

“They never said there was a reward,” replied Robbie.

And for the first time since landing on Peleliu’s postcard beach, there was silence. The sun was making its way through the canopy, and the vomit on Jacob started to dry, but it did not attract flies. Robbie harbored a suspicion that the insects were waiting for them to die. He wanted to tell the flies he was ok, but the same could not be said for his friend. Was he going insane? He tried to remember the last time he ate. He knew it was a C-ration because he ate the same thing as Jacob, and it was all over his chest. However, Robbie did not drink the water brought to them in oil drums. He wondered how many more were sick. Dying of thirst, drinking from oil drums, which was some dumb officer’s idea to supply the front line with something to drink, while the bastard and the rest of the brass enjoyed coffee in the morning and whiskey at night. No wonder so many soldiers had gin in their canteens, thought Robbie, until Jacob grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to his pale face.

“I’m dying.”

The jungle began to wake up and hiss, and yet they saw nothing but one another: the urgency in Jacob to live and the fight in Robbie to tread above his melancholy.

“You’re not dying.”

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, asshole. I’m fucking dying.”

“You’re sick! You’re in a lot of pain, but it takes days to die from what you got!”

“What do I got, Robbie? What do I have? Go on, tell me, asshole?”

Robbie stuttered, and Jacob mocked him, repeating the stutters and involuntary shoulder movements.

“I, I, I. You, you, you.”

Robbie shut up and stared at Jacob’s yellow eyes as his sick friend released him and then the tension in his body, signaling to the world that he no longer gave a fuck. They were propped against a fallen tree, lying in the mud. Neither smoked, and thus, had everything given to a soldier by its government.

“What I do for a blue Hawaiian,” said Jacob.

No smile of his was innocent. Neither were the thoughts that produced them.

“Hey, Robbie.”

“Yeah.”

“We’re going to fucking die. You know that?”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually? Listen here, buttercup, we’re dying today, asshole.”

 “Why do you got to talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know what?” said Robbie. “I should just leave you here and find the company.”

Jacob nodded, and cocked the pistol he stole from a sleeping sergeant. He pressed the barrel to his temple. Click. It was not loaded. Robbie looked for something to throw, something that would hurt, but all he could find were leaves, and so he threw the half-dead leaves at his dying friend, most of which missed or landed on his muddy legs.

“Why are you so angry?” asked Jacob. “You’re so angry all the time. I’m the one who should be angry. Why are you angry?”

Robbie bit his lower lip.

“They’re going to ask where we went.”

“Who cares?”

“They’re going to throw us into the brig, and you’ll die in a cell on a boat that brought you here to fight.”

Jacob smiled.

“To kill the Japanese!” 

Color had returned to Jacob’s face, though not much. His buzzed blonde hair and broad cheekbones still made him look like every high-school football captain in America. Robbie worked on the school newspaper, and looked it. When they met in Australia, it was over a mutual understanding that Blue Hawaiians get you fucked up, not football or writing, and fucked up they got, often waking up next to each other in some strange bed.  Jacob smiled and told Robbie that, “During this war. Girls are going to be hard to come by. We got to look out for one another. Help each other, you know what I mean?”

Robbie did and hoped someone would know what they meant. Robbie had a secret that only Jacob knew about, and it was the reason for his envy of Jacob getting sick enough to leave battle: he wore women’s pantyhose and a bra under his uniform. The thought of getting shot and surviving terrified Robbie, but he also wanted to go home, and getting shot was one way of traveling back early. They kissed until they could laugh again, then amused each other with the Blue Hawaiian stories they could remember until the sun no longer pierced the jungle canopy, and like the sky, Jacob’s face grew dark, and Robbie felt dark. Afraid.

“We got to find the company,” he said. “We should have been doing that this entire time!”

“Look at me, Robbie. Where am I going? I can’t stand, and your puny ass can’t carry me a hundred yards, let alone a few miles. Go.”

“What?”

“Go.”

“Leave you here? I’m not doing that.”

“What did I say? I’m dying today. Go. Tell my mother I was instrumental in capturing this piece of shit island.”

“Jacob? No.”

“No, what? I’m starting to suspect…”

“Jacob.”

“What?”

Robbie walked over and knelt. They kissed one last time. 

The following morning, Jacob was woken by the company. 

“Where’s Robbie?” 

The officer removed his hat and said nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

Nick Matsas is a published author and plumber. His work can be found in Discretionary Love, Aquarium Drunkard, and 3Elemental Review. His plumbing can be seen in hospitals and assisted living facilities. He was born in Chicago and lives in Los Angeles.