Below is a brief excerpt of, Angry Pug Serials Presents: Kilroy Was Here, Iwo Jima. February 22, 1945 by Glenn Hawkins. Be warned, it is from the explicit Full Flavored edition. (Story in Progress. Copyright protected.) Neil Crutchfield, Photographer Neil slid the point of the sword deep into the American soldier’s belly. He had to really lean against the handle, but eventually it poked out the dead man’s back with a stomach churning pop of pressure. Neil straitened the American’s M1 Garand, careful to keep the bayonet still halfway inside the Japanese soldier’s chest from slipping out again. Now it looked as if the American died with his rifle shouldered. Neil angled the Japanese soldier’s chin toward his chest so he faced his boots, which would have been downward if the dead man had been standing. Forcing both of the Japanese soldier’s eyes closed was easy. It gave the subtle impression of one unable to look upon his killer. But it took a couple drops of glue to hold the American’s limp eyelids up. Neil tried not to think about the texture of the drying white sclera as he rolled the pupils straight. Centering the men in his sights brought a rush of excitement. The story was simple, Brave American bayoneting Japanese Warrior to death despite already dying himself. It was both relatable and obvious, as all good art should be. A recent criticism against his integrity still chewed away at the back of his mind as he adjusted the camera’s tripod. Such an unfair accusation. It wasn’t like he killed the men himself, he reasoned. He just helped show people truth in an image they could understand. To do that it was important that his audience see the scene as he saw it, not necessarily how it specifically happened. “Eat your heart out, Rosenthal,” Neil cursed into the wind. Satisfied he had met his goal for a “heroic soldier,” he used his best weapon, the pilfered military issue Speed Graphic, to capture American Courage and Yellow Fear. It wouldn’t win a Pulitzer, but he was confident it would grace the cover of either Time or Life, as the best of his other photographs had. Either way, millions would see these two and feel the heroism and sadness of war. It might even be the image that captures the spirit of Iwo Jima. During a poker game among the press corps the night before the invasion, Joseph Rosenthal had called Neil reprehensible after hearing how he helped scenes to reveal their truth. Rosenthal refused to hear any argument on the subject and walked away from the game. “People back home crave a personal connection to the war,” Neil had said to the remaining journalists. “They want to see what their fathers and sons have seen. It helps give finality when their men don’t come home. And we all know the papers will not publish the real face of war with all its splattered brains and shit stained trousers. It isn’t lying.” “Stop trying to bullshit fellow bullshitters,” a man across the table had said, but unlike Rosenthal this one seemed more concerned with his cards than defending the illusion of integrity. “If it ain’t true, it’s a lie.” “No it isn’t, because the smart ones back home know newspaper and magazine photos are more art than reality. And the dumb ones wouldn’t care if they did know.” “Justify it all you want Neil, but you’re doing whatever sells. Just like the rest of us. So spare us the artsy-fartsy shit and play. It’s your bet.” “I raise you a hundred and fifty cartons of Camels against that half-track you extorted from the motor pool.” Everyone else had instantly folded with that bet. “Is it my fault people understand the world better through make believe than reality?” The unrelenting noise of battle hurt Neil’s ears as he moved to the next corpse. From the lack of blood it looked as if the lucky boy had died instantly. A bullet had caught him high in the chest. Neil rummaged through his model’s pockets and found a letter and picture sealed safe in an expensive gold cigarette case with silver inlay. Whoever this guy was, he was wealthy. Well, he had been wealthy. With a series of grunts, Neil pushed and pulled him into a sitting position, pressing his back against fallen tree. He moved the man’s hands so they rested palms up on his lap, picture visible in his left and the letter in his right. The scene didn’t work. Lack of trauma made it look as if he was sleeping. Neil found a discarded combat knife. Keeping the cuts shallow, he marked the man’s face to mimic a spray of shrapnel. A little smeared blood here, few cuts in the clothes there, and voila! “Tragic solider.” Effective for the masses, but it didn’t grab Neil as he expected. No title came to mind. Before setting up the next picture he listened to the nearest fighting. None of the shots or explosions were close enough to worry about so he felt safe. Well, relatively safe since even small arms fire could easily cross the island’s eight square miles. For an instant he felt a pang of longing for the trenches of the Great War. The insanity of the desire to return to those open, festering graves pierced deep. “How mad is our world where such wants could be possible?” Neil asked the dead man, and realized that was the title. The photo and letter fit easily back into the cigarette case, and the case fit easily into Neil’s back pants pocket. Capturing the return of the letter and picture to the young lady to the war widow would make a nice bookend for The Madness of Our World. The “dismembered soldier” was the last picture on his to do list. There were not many magazines who would print the true nature of war in all its horror, but there were a couple that always bought and printed his work. Those shots were always the ugliest, but someday people would be strong enough to see, understand, and remember why they would have to do everything under God’s sky to keep war from happening again. Unfortunately this skirmish had been hand-to-hand and small arms fire. No explosives or heavy artillery, so no missing arms or legs. But there were those shiny, expertly crafted Japanese swords. He took one and held it high over one of the Americans laying face down. Neil made sure to pick the one with the thinnest thighs. “I found your truck,” a familiar gruff voice shouted from the tree line. “Think it’s totaled, though.” “Howey?” Neil asked. “Drop the katana or I’ll drop you.” Kilroy kept his gun muzzle down but Neil was certain the threat was real. Neil stabbed the sword into the sand and left it standing. It horrified him seeing Kilroy in the middle of a meat grinder like Iwo Jima. It was like using the best professional camera for beach vacation photos of someone else’s family. He gave the other men a critical once over. None were injured, but most of the men who had been traveling with his half-track were missing. “Now it’s a party!” Neil said, hoping his cheery tone hid his darker mood. “You even brought a magician.” “Were you about to cut that man’s head off?” Frank asked. He glanced around the other corpses with that too observant illusionist’s eye of his. Stage magician was an entertaining use of his talents, but a waste all the same. He would have made an excellent photographer. However, if anyone could understand the need and value of Neil’s art, it would be Frank Chandman. “Of course not,” Neil answered. “Just his leg.”
Posted on: Sun, 29 Sep 2013 18:06:15 +0000
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