Pacific Nights

After finding the approximate location marked on the map, Mike hacked away the lower branches of the trees, creating a bubble in the overhead canopy that sheltered the area. They'd be hidden from above and had plenty of room beneath it.

They spent the rest of the day bringing supplies to the site, dividing the food between them and setting up the tents. One was considerably larger than the other. When Hamilton remarked on it, Mike just snorted.

"Officer's quarters." He held back the flap, inviting Hamilton inside. "Your suite, Professor. It ain't the penthouse, but for the next three months, it's home." He grinned around his cigar.

Hamilton's mouth twisted as if he fought a smile. "I'm not an officer. Not really. Are you sure?"

"You're the closest thing we got to it." Mike pointed to the smaller one-man tent. "Now this tent? It's got enlisted written all over it."

Hamilton looked as if he was going to say something else. Then he shrugged and stowed his gear inside. When he came out, Mike had returned with one of the crates and a shovel.

"I'm going to dig the latrine."

"Oh, I never thought of that." Again that surprised tone, as if Mike didn't have the brains to think about making a proper toilet for them to use. First thing they taught you in the corps. Build the latrine. Enlisted men's work, that's for damn sure.

"I'm sure it would have come to you the first time you needed to take a crap."

The professor cleared his throat. "I'll get the radio set up. Can I use the other crate as a table?"

"Sure. Just don't bust it up."

Hamilton nodded.

Mike left and headed down the path they'd created bringing the supplies in and out. He'd seen the perfect spot on one of the many trips they'd made. At a place where the trees thinned just off the path, he began digging. After the first foot, he took off his shirt and hung it on a branch.

The sweat clung to him as he worked, the tight foliage acting like an oven. No tropical breezes here. Oh yeah, this was fucking paradise. At hip depth, he climbed out and began to work on the crate he'd brought. He'd left the lid at camp, and now he worked on busting open a circle in the bottom of the box.

He sat on the ground to do the finish work, chipping away at the wood with his knife, smoothing out the boards by whittling away the unneeded wood. Absorbed in his work, he didn't hear Hamilton coming down the path.

"You're pretty handy with that thing."

Mike looked up. He held up the knife. "This? Yeah, I guess." He shrugged.

"Is the latrine finished?"

Mike looked up, shifted his cigar, and grinned. "Why? Plan on christening it?"

Hamilton blushed and nodded. "I could just use the jungle, if it's not ready."

"Naw, it's done. Just making sure there's no splinters to stick in your delicate ass." He smirked at the professor. "I'm sure there must be some guy who'd hate for that to happen."

He waited for the professor to respond to his implication, but the man just stood there and stared at him, as if he didn't get what Mike was trying to say.

Mike placed the crate over the hole, leaned into it, and settled it into the dirt. Then he stepped back. "Your throne awaits, my liege." He made an elaborate bow.

"Thank you, Sergeant."

Mike picked up his shirt and his tools and started down the path. He spoke over his shoulder. "Guess you've never shit on anything that wasn't the finest porcelain." Not like him. His family had shared a bathroom with three other families in their third-floor apartment in Philly.

He imagined the professor had lived in one of those fine mansions where there was a bathroom for every bedroom and an extra just for show.

Mike got back to the camp and stuck his head into Hamilton's tent. In one corner was the crate, the radio sat on top, with a notebook and pen next to it. His gear was stowed neatly and his bedroll had been laid out.

"Seeing how the other half lives?"

Mike pulled his head out of the tent and straightened. "Just checking if you needed anything."

"If I need anything, I'll let you know. Until then, I'd appreciate it if you'd stay out of my tent." With that, he ducked inside and the flap fell closed.

"Sure. You just make sure you don't wander into mine in the middle of the night," Mike shot back, pissed at being dismissed as if he were one of Professor High Class's servants.

The flap opened and Hamilton charged out. "Just what the bloody hell is it you're trying to imply, Sergeant?" His pale eyes burned as they narrowed at Mike.

"I just don't want to wake up in the middle of the night with your hand on my dick."

The professor raked Mike with an icy stare. "Rest assured, Sergeant, that won't happen," Hamilton sneered, not bothering to hide his contempt.

Mike's hands fisted. "It better not. I'm not a fucking queer." He glared back.

The professor's gaze traveled up and down Mike's length. This time it was hot, intense, and incredibly uncomfortable. "Really?" His eyebrow rose in a careful climb.

Mike came toe-to-toe with him. "Just get this straight. We're stuck on this fucking island for the next three months. We'll get along just fine if you keep your hands to yourself."

"You're making a lot of assumptions, Sergeant."

"I don't think so." Mike shook his head. The man hadn't denied it, hadn't confirmed it either. He repressed the urge to pummel the guy, beat him with his fists.

Instead, he reached out and pushed Hamilton, knocking him to the ground.

"Stay away from me!" Mike spun on his heels and strode off down the path, leaving Hamilton lying on the ground, staring up at him with wounded blue eyes.

Shit. Mike hadn't meant for that to happen. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. If Hamilton had been a real officer, instead of some special military pretend officer, Mike would be escorted to the brig as soon as they got picked up. He might still be arrested if the professor squawked.

But the man made him so fucking mad. "Steam coming out of his ears" mad.

He reached the beach and looked out. Blue-gray sky and dark green water as far as he could see. They were all alone deep in enemy territory.

Mike sat on a fallen tree, pulled out his knife, and drew shapes in the sand. The old neighborhood soon appeared, his building nestled in between the other brownstones. He added the tree that grew out of the circle in the sidewalk in front of his house. A couple of kids playing on the stoop.

His mother leaned out of the window on the third floor and yelled at him to stop making so much noise, he'd wake the baby. For as long as he'd been a kid, there'd always been a baby.

He laughed and drew a baseball flying through the air, a bat in his brother Jan's hand. Jan was dead now. Killed in France two years ago.

Mike stared at the scene. Blinked. Then he leaned over and wiped it out with his hand.

Just as it had when he was a kid, drawing had soothed him. Taken the anger and frustration he'd felt and transformed it into something beautiful.

He should apologize to the professor. Mike didn't know what had gotten into him, but he did know one thing.

He didn't like the way he felt about Hamilton.

* * * * *

When he got back, Hamilton was in his tent with the flap down. The universal signal for "leave me alone."

"Professor? I'd like to apologize." Mike, working the cigar clenched between his teeth, stood in front of the tent with his hands shoved into his pants pockets.

No reply.

Well, what did he expect? He'd call the man a queer and pushed him down. Even if he was a queer, he'd had no right to say that or do that. No matter what, Mike was enlisted. Professor Hamilton was…well, he was not enlisted. And officers and enlisted don't mix.

He turned away and went to his own tent. He looked through the supplies and found the first aid kit. Mike removed his shirt and tried to reach the wound on his side.

He could touch it but not see it. His fingers came away smeared with a little blood. It wasn't bleeding as badly as before. He'd have to get the professor to look at it. He crawled back out of his tent. This was not what he'd wanted to do.

"Professor." He cleared his throat. "I need your help." He held the bandages, a rag, and his canteen of water.

Hamilton opened the flap and stepped out. "What is it?"

"I can't reach…" He turned and showed the professor his wound.

"Damn it, man, why didn't you say something sooner?" Hamilton was at his side in a few long strides. "Sit down and let me take a look at it."

Mike sat on a fallen log, and Hamilton knelt next to him. "Give me the water and a clean rag." Mike passed it to him. He poured some water on the rag and then began to clean the long gash. "It's not too bad. It's stopped bleeding."

"That's good." Mike grunted as Hamilton wiped dried blood from his skin, careful to keep the rag between Mike's skin and his hand.

"Sorry." Hamilton flashed him an uncertain smile.

After he'd cleaned it, he put on the bandage. "That's it. We'll keep an eye on it for infection."

Mike nodded and stood. "Thanks."

"Actually, I could use your opinion." Hamilton stood next to him. "That rib is bothering me. Can you tell if I've broken it or just cracked it?"

"Sure. Let me see it."

Hamilton unbuttoned his shirt and draped it over Mike's tent. He raised the undershirt he wore, and exposed his lean side and one perfect pink nipple.

Mike swallowed. Checking the rib would mean touching Hamilton. Running his hand and his fingers over the man's skin. Shit. Why should that matter? It didn't.

Mike touched smooth skin, warm and pleasant, and he felt as if just the touch of it could soothe him.

He pressed along the bottom rib. "This one?"

"Yes." Hamilton grimaced.

"Here?" Mike pressed and Hamilton grunted.

"Yes."

Mike felt around a bit more, his fingers pressing and assessing the rib and the way it moved beneath his fingers. He stole a final caress, then stepped back.

"Cracked, not broken."

Hamilton sighed. "Good. It aches like the devil, but I'm glad I don't have to worry about it being broken."

"I could wrap you up," Mike offered.

"No, just a waste of bandage. We may need it later."

"Sure."

"Thank you, Sergeant."

"You're welcome, Professor."

They'd seemed to reach an easy peace, and Mike would settle for that. The jungle had darkened, and the wind moved the canopy above them.

"Guess it'll be night soon."

"No fires, right?"

"That's right. We can't risk them. The smoke would be seen for miles at sea, and it would lead the Japs right to us. Besides, it'll be raining before long."

"Then I'll just turn in." Hamilton turned away and ducked back into his tent.

Mike went back to his and crawled inside. He pulled out a ration can and opened it. Tonight he'd eat a tin of canned meat. He took a bite of the stuff and chewed. It might have been corned beef. Since they couldn't light a fire, the dried soup and cigarettes they packed in these things were useless. That left lots of chewing gum, hard candy, and ration bars. He mixed some dried lemon powder into his canteen and drank it down. Three fucking months of rations. Well, less than that. About two months, if they didn't eat three meals a day.

Maybe there was some fruit or something else they could eat on the island.

There was always fish, but he hadn't found any fishing gear in the supplies. Who doesn't pack fishing gear for someone stuck on an island?

Those boys back at the base were dumber than shit.

He snorted and rolled over. Chomped on his cigar, then removed it and placed it on top of his gear.

Thought about steaks, hot dogs, and ice cream.

It started to rain.

His tent leaked.

Prison would have been better.