Green Hell

by Len Levinson

  Bannon spat at the ground. He knew the answer and it bothered him. There was something about the war he liked. The excitement and adventure made him feel more alive than he'd ever been in his life, and he was pleased to be part of an elite unit, the recon platoon of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. It made him feel superior to other men, and this detachment, selected from the recon platoon, was a superelite unit.

  But on Guadalcanal, in the comfort of his wife's arms, he'd forgotten what it was like to be in constant fear of his life. Now he was on a Jap-infested island and there were no American lines to run toward, as there were during the fighting on Guadalcanal. He was caught between the Japs and the sharks, and the jungle there on New Georgia looked even thicker than the jungle on Guadalcanal.

  Bannon felt tired and depressed. He looked at his watch; it was one o'clock in the morning. He hated the fucking war with renewed intensity. Frankie La Barbara was right: It was just a real estate grab and had nothing to do with him. But he was there, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was with his buddies and he knew they were good men. Butsko was the best soldier he'd ever seen. I'll have to make the best of it, Bannon thought. I'm stuck here and there's nothing else I can do.

  Butsko raised his hand and they all stopped, holding their submachine guns tightly, wondering if Butsko had heard something.

  “We'll spend the night right here,” Butsko said. “Find yourself someplace to sack out. I'll take the first shift on guard.”

  Bannon looked around, and all he saw was jungle. There was no grass, no clearing, no nothing. They'd have to sleep like wild animals in the tangled underbrush and maybe wake up next to a crocodile. They'd brought no pup tents with them, so they just looked around for a flat piece of ground and lay down.

  Unfortunately there were no flat pieces of ground. Rocks, vines, roots, and muck were everywhere. They could move the rocks out of their way, but the other stuff just stayed there. The soldiers rubbed citronella onto their faces and hands and stretched out on the ground, closing their eyes. Some fell asleep quickly, but others tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable, exhausted but excited about being behind enemy lines.

  Butsko heard them shuffling around as he smoked a cigarette and sat in the darkness. Unlike his men, he wasn't particularly afraid of the danger of being behind enemy lines, because the worst thing that could happen to him would be that he'd be killed, and he had nothing special to live for. He didn't think that life was all that great. He wasn't even afraid of being taken prisoner by the Japs, because they'd captured him twice before, and he'd not only survived, he'd managed to escape too.

  Death and pain didn't worry Butsko, but failure did. He was a professional soldier and took pride in his work. There was no room for error when you were behind enemy lines. And he didn't have much to work with. He'd picked the best men in his recon platoon for this operation, but that wasn't saying much. They were a bunch of dizzy kids who could fight well but otherwise were lazy and quarrelsome. Probably the best thing you could say about them was they had guts where guts were required and did whatever he told them to do, although sometimes they argued about it first.

  Butsko puffed his cigarette and wondered what he'd do when his cigarettes ran out, because he only had four packs with him. Things would get rough when the cigarettes ran out. Nothing was worse than a bunch of GIs on nicotine withdrawal.

  Butsko savored the cigarette and looked around at the dim, dank jungle. It was a miracle that anybody would fight for such a place, but many men had fought and died for such places already. Butsko had spilled his own blood at Bataan and again on Guadalcanal. He knew the score and was ready for the worst.

  He finished his cigarette, fieldstripped it, and then debated with himself whether to light another. He knew he should go slowly on the cigarettes, but what the fuck, they were going to be gone soon no matter how much he rationed them. When they were gone, they were gone. He'd worry about that then.

  Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out his pack of Luckies and lit another. Inhaling deeply, he sat with his back against the tree, listening to the sounds of the jungle and wondering if they could reach that ammo dump in the Vanguna Valley the next day.

  TWO . . .

  It was a hot sticky night, and at dawn the temperatures rose. Frankie La Barbara opened his eyes and saw a spider crawling over a leaf a few feet in front of his nose. He drew back, raised his fist, and then stopped himself, because if the spider was poisonous, he might kill it and himself at the same time. While his fist was in the air, the spider scurried away and hid underneath a rotting log.

  Frankie looked around. Everybody was asleep except Hotshot Stevenson, who was the lookout. Hotshot waved at him and Frankie waved back, then collapsed onto the ground again to get as much sleep as he could before Butsko moved them out again.

  He closed his eyes but couldn't conk out. He was too tense and nervous about being on an island that was totally held by the Japs; it was a rude sudden change from Guadalcanal and those nurses with suntanned legs and freckles on their faces. Frankie had spent a lot of time with nurses and doctors, because his nose had been broken in several places in the fierce hand-to-hand fighting that marked the close of the Guadalcanal campaign. He was afraid he'd be disfigured for life, but they'd mended the nose and it was only a little out of line, with a slight bump in the middle.

  Frankie had jet black hair and big dreamy eyes. Women had always been attracted to him, and some said he resembled the actor Victor Mature. He was from New York City and his father and uncle were in the Mob. He had been in the Mob, too, doing odd jobs and supplying muscle if it was needed, and whenever he had time off he cheated on his wife. Then he was drafted, and the next thing he knew he was charging up the beach on Guadalcanal.

  “All right, you guys,” growled Butsko. “Drop your cocks and grab your socks.”

  The men moaned and grumbled as they picked themselves up off the ground. Their uniforms were plastered to their bodies due to sweat and ground water, and their mouths tasted like shit. Billie Jones got onto his knees to say his morning prayers. He had a bald spot on top of his head and had deeper lines in his face than the other men, because he was older than all except Butsko. Although he'd been a preacher before the war, he liked his whiskey and women. Butsko picked him for the mission because he supplied maturity and common sense, and he also was a ferocious fighter.

  The men opened packs of K rations and had breakfast. While Butsko ate he studied his map, dropping a few cracker crumbs onto it and flicking them away with his forefinger. After breakfast Butsko let them smoke cigarettes. Birds chirped in the trees and insects buzzed around them. Numerous insects of all types crawled on the ground, and occasionally a lizard showed its mottled head. The jungle was alive with multitudes of living creatures, all struggling against each other to stay alive.

  “Saddle up,” Butsko said, folding the map. “Let's move it out. Longtree, take the point.”

  The men thrust their arms through the shoulder straps of their packs and picked up their Thompson submachine guns. They lined up and Longtree moved into the jungle in the direction indicated by Butsko. The others waited until Longtree got out of sight, and then Butsko moved his hand forward.

  In a single file the men followed Longtree into the jungle. Their boots sank ankle-deep into muck, and bugs ate them up alive. They were covered with sweat and all were starting to smell a little ripe. Stubble grew on their chins and none had got enough sleep during the few hours Butsko let them rest.

  The sun rose in the sky and the day became hotter. Slowly they worked their way through the dense jungle as branches and leaves clawed at them. They had to watch the ground carefully so they wouldn't trip over rocks and roots and tangled vines. Sometimes the jungle was so thick that they had to get down on their hands and knees and crawl underneath bushes.

  Bannon had read about New Georgia before coming on the mission and knew that many natives lived on the island. He wondered why they chose to remain in suc
h a horrible place when they had boats and could leave. What in the hell was wrong with them? He wouldn't stay a minute in such a place if he didn't have to. He'd also read that, like Guadalcanal, the main business of New Georgia before the war was the sale of copra, which was derived from coconuts. In addition the island was supposed to have vast alluvial gold fields, but very little gold actually had been found.

  At the head of the column, around twenty yards in front of the others, Corporal Sam Longtree slithered noiselessly through the jungle. He moved much more quickly than everybody else, so he had to stop himself every several minutes and wait for the rest to catch up. During his rest periods, he climbed the nearest tree to get a look at the terrain ahead and listen for Japs.

  Now he felt he was leaving the others far behind him, so he stopped and leaped into the air, grabbing the branch of the tree next to him. He raised himself, swung around, and sat on the branch, raising his binoculars to his eyes and looking around.

  He couldn't see much because he wasn't high enough. Only the thick wall of sweltering jungle was visible to him. He thought about climbing to the top of the tree, but that would take too long. Butsko told him to be the point man, and if Butsko wanted him to climb a tree, he'd tell him.

  Longtree took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, already damp from the perspiration sopped up in his back pocket. The jungle was so hot, it was difficult to breathe. It was like sitting in the middle of a green shimmering hell.

  At first it felt as if somebody had placed his hand on Long-tree's neck, and Longtree jerked his head around to see the green and brown skin of a gigantic snake! Longtree's eyes bulged and he jumped to the ground, but the snake followed him down and dropped on top of him, wrapping its twisting coils around him, squeezing hard.

  It happened so fast that Longtree didn't know what hit him. One moment he was sitting on the branch, and the next moment he was on the ground with a huge snake crunching him to death. Longtree's arms were pinned to his sides and he couldn't draw his bayonet. He could shout but he was afraid he might draw the attention of Jap patrols that might be in the area.

  The snake was huge, nearly four times longer than Longtree. It was a specie of constrictor, and it gradually tightened its grip on Longtree, who twisted and struggled to no avail. The gigantic reptile worked its head around and looked Longtree in the eye, flicking out its threadlike forked tongue at him. Long-tree tried the old Indian trick of hypnotism, trying to stare the snake down, but the snake seemed to grin at Longtree as he crushed Longtree's body within his coils.

  Longtree's eyes were popping out of his head and he felt the pressure of blood against his skin. He thought his ribs would crack at any moment, but still he didn't cry for help because he didn't want to betray his buddies to the Japanese. “You fucking snake!” Longtree muttered, lunging forward, trying to bite the snake on the snout, but the snake pulled back and flicked its tongue once more at Longtree.

  Longtree heard something crack in his spine and thought he'd come to the end of his road. He was going to the Happy Hunting Ground a little sooner than he'd expected. His eyes filled with black ink and he felt himself fainting. Then he heard a shout.

  Looking up, trying to focus, he saw Butsko and the others running toward him. Butsko had his bayonet out, and the snake was so surprised that it loosened its grip. Butsko took careful aim, because he didn't want to stab Longtree by mistake, and jammed the bayonet into the snake's neck.

  The snake had a tough hide, and the blade went in only an inch, but it hurt, and the snake stuck out its tongue as its tail lashed through the air. The snake loosened its grip on Longtree and tried to uncoil quickly, because he wanted to get away.

  Butsko stabbed again, burying his bayonet in the snake's belly. Frankie La Barbara jabbed his bayonet into the snake's left eye, and Homer Gladley chopped off the snake's tail with his machete. The snake went insane with pain and snapped like a bullwhip as it unwrapped itself from Longtree.

  “Let it go!” Butsko said.

  The snake unraveled itself, blood oozing out of his tail, eye, neck, and belly. It looked around with its one good eye and saw all the strange two-legged creatures facing it. Turning the other way, he headed for the jungle, crawling weakly, wondering what had hit it when everything was going so well.

  “Get it, Homer!” Butsko said.

  Homer Gladley approached the snake on its blind side, raised the machete high in the air, and brought it down with all his strength. The machete flashed through the air and swack, the snake was minus a head. The snake's body tied itself up in knots and the snake's head closed its good eye and stuck out its tongue for the last time. Homer Gladley took a step back and smiled. He was six foot two, weighed nearly 250 pounds, and had shoulders like two mountains.

  Butsko knelt over Longtree. “You okay, Chief?”

  Longtree lay with his eyes and mouth open, breathing heavily. “I don't know.”

  Hotshot Stevenson, who'd received special medical training for this mission, felt Longtree's ribs to see if any were broken. “Does this hurt?”

  “You're fucking right it hurts!”

  “What happened?” Butsko asked.

  “That fucking snake jumped on me when I wasn't looking.”

  “I never saw a snake that big in my life,” said Frankie La Barbara.

  Butsko looked at Longtree. “Can you stand up?”

  “But, Sarge,” Hotshot Stevenson said, “if he's broken something, he shouldn't be moved.”

  “How're we gonna know if he's broken something?”

  “I'll examine him.”

  Hotshot reached down to feel for broken bones, but Longtree pushed his hand out of the way. “I think I can stand up. Somebody give me a hand.”

  Bannon held out his hand; Longtree took it and was pulled to his feet. Longtree ached from head to toe but didn't feel the sharp pains of broken bones. He took a deep breath; his ribs felt bruised but not seriously damaged. He took a few steps and waved his arms around. “Hell, I'm okay,” he said. Turning around, he kicked the snake's head, and it sailed into the jungle like a football.

  “You sure you're all right?” Butsko asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Maybe we'd better take a break.”

  “I don't need a break.”

  “Well, I do.”

  Everybody sat down except Longtree, who paced back and forth and swung his arms. He was an Apache warrior and no snake was going to lay him out. Meanwhile Butsko looked at the snake. He knew that in a few days, when their rations ran out, they'd have to eat things like that snake, and maybe worse. He wouldn't mind, but he wondered if the others could bring themselves to eat snake steak.

  The men smoked cigarettes, and Butsko took out his map. He estimated the distance they'd traveled since morning and figured they'd come to the Wahai River in late afternoon. Then he'd be able to get his bearings more accurately. The Japanese camp was about ten miles west of the river, and Butsko was approaching the river from the east.

  “Let's hit it,” Butsko said. “Bannon, you take the point this time.”

  Bannon jumped up and moved west. “Hup, Sarge.”

  “What about me?” Longtree asked.

  “You can take a rest.”

  “I don't need a rest!”

  “You need a rest if I say you need a rest—got it?”

  Longtree frowned. “Hup, Sarge.”

  “Line it up and move it out,” Butsko said.

  The men got into position as Bannon disappeared into the jungle. He carried his submachine gun ready to fire and couldn't stop thinking about the snake. He'd never seen anything like it in his life. Guadalcanal had been a hellhole, but it hadn't had any snakes like that.

  The sun rose in the sky and came directly overhead, burning with its fullest intensity. Clouds of smelly vapor rose from the floor of the jungle, choking the men and making them nauseous. The heat sapped their energy and dried their mouths. The soldiers made their way through the jungle, fighting the heat,
branches, and vines.

  Butsko wanted to keep going, but he didn't want to push his men too hard. At one o'clock in the afternoon he thought he'd better let them take a long break. If he didn't reach the ammo dump that night, he would blow it up the next night. There was no great rush. If General MacArthur didn't like it, he could go fuck himself.

  “Take a break!” Butsko said, “and be sure to swallow your salt tablets!”

  The men collapsed onto the ground, and Butsko walked past them quickly, because he wanted to catch up with Bannon and stop him. He plunged into the jungle, following Bannon's trail, holding his arms up so the branches wouldn't scratch his eyes out.

  Bannon heard him coming and stopped. He hid behind a tree and watched Butsko plowing through the jungle like an angry gorilla.

  “Looking for someone?” Bannon asked when Butsko came abreast of the tree.

  “What're you think you're doing, asshole?”

  “Just waiting for you, Big Sergeant.”

  “We're taking our lunch break. Come on back there.”

  Bannon followed Butsko back to the part of the jungle where the other men were taking K rations out of their packs. Bannon sat next to Frankie La Barbara, who'd removed his boots and socks so that he could dry out his feet. Bannon didn't feel like taking off his own boots, because his feet would swell and he wasn't sure he'd be able to get the boots back on afterward. He took off his pack, pulled out a can of pork and beans, and took off the lid with his tiny GI-issue can opener.

  Frankie was eating a can of corned beef hash like a kid eating ice cream. Bannon couldn't help smiling, because Frankie was so like a little boy. If Frankie wanted something, he took it, and if he didn't like something, he never hesitated to say so. He was a creature of impulse, never giving any deep thought to anything. The nurses on Guadalcanal were all crazy about him, although all he did was drag them into the bushes and fuck their brains out. Maybe that's basically what women want from men, Bannon thought. Frankie certainly doesn't give them much romance.