by Len Levinson
Bannon spooned some pork and beans into his mouth and noticed movement in the grass and dead leaves near Frankie's left foot. Turning in that direction, Bannon leaned forward and froze at the sight of a black scorpion about five inches long.
“Don't move, Frankie!” Bannon said.
“Whatsa matter?”
“I said don't move! Shut your eyes!”
Frankie wanted to make a wisecrack, but he heard the urgency in Bannon's voice and closed his eyes. Bannon looked around for something to kill the scorpion with, and the closest weapon was one of Frankie's boots. Bannon reached gingerly for the boot, so as not to scare the scorpion, while the rest of the men nearby realized something was going on with Frankie and Bannon.
“You two posing for animal crackers?” Hotshot Stevenson asked.
“Shaddup!” said Butsko, who'd spotted the scorpion.
Bannon raised the boot in the air, and the scorpion must have noticed something, because he scurried out of the way and jumped onto Frankie's big toe.
Frankie flinched. “What the fuck is that?”
“Freeze,” Bannon said.
“What's on my fucking toe?”
“Don't worry about it.”
“Whataya mean don't worry about it? What is it?”
“It's just a little scorpion, that's all.”
“A scorpion!”
“Don't move. You don't wanna scare him.”
“A scorpion?” asked Frankie.
“Just don't scare him.”
Frankie broke out in a cold sweat. He'd attended many lectures on jungle survival where the instructors had spoken about the deadliness of scorpions.
“Get the son of a bitch!” Frankie said through pinched lips.
Bannon didn't know what to do. If he smashed the scorpion with Frankie's boot, the scorpion might sting Frankie before he died and then Frankie would die.
“Stay still,” Bannon said.
Frankie turned whiter than an aspirin tablet, and his eyes darted around nervously. He thought of poison working its way through his body and ending his sex life forever. “Get the fucker,” he said through clenched teeth.
Bannon was poised with the boot, ready to strike. The scorpion waved its lethal tail from side to side menacingly and appeared to be sniffing Frankie La Barbara's big toe. Maybe it was getting ready to stick its tail in someplace. Bannon realized he'd better do something quickly. All he could think of was to swat the scorpion off Frankie's foot.
“Close your eyes,” Bannon said.
“What you gonna do?”
“Just close your eyes.”
Frankie closed his eyes and tried to keep himself under control, although he thought he might be dead at any moment. Bannon took aim with the boot, intending to knock the scorpion off Frankie's foot. He'd have to be fast, because if the scorpion saw the boot coming, it would sting Frankie. Bannon licked his lower lip and got ready. He took a deep breath and took a swipe at the scorpion.
The scorpion suddenly became aware of a huge mass flying at it and froze in fear. The boot slammed against the scorpion and Frankie's foot, knocking the scorpion to the ground. The scorpion got to its feet and ran for cover, but it didn't get far. Bannon's boot came down on it, crunching it against the grass and dead leaves, flattening it out.
Bannon raised his foot and looked down at the mangled, gooey scorpion on the ground. “Got ‘em!” he said.
Frankie opened his eyes. “Thank God.” He looked at the dead scorpion. “You motherfucker!” Frankie picked up one of his boots and beat on the dead scorpion until it was barely distinguishable from the floor of the jungle.
Butsko and the others walked over to see what had happened.
“A scorpion crawled up on Frankie's foot,” Bannon explained to the men.
Everybody looked at Frankie on his hands and knees, pounding the ground with his boot and cursing viciously.
“All right, let's settle down,” Butsko said to Frankie and the others. “Finish your chow and get ready to move out. And watch out for scorpions and shit. This island is even worse than Guadalcanal.”
THREE . . .
They fell behind schedule and didn't reach the Wahai River until late in the afternoon. Longtree, still on the point, heard the rush of water long before the river was visible through the jungle, and when he came to its banks, he saw that the river was wide, swift, and probably quite deep.
Butsko and the others caught up with him, and Butsko took out his map. “It doesn't look this wide on the map,” Butsko said. He gazed at the river; it was forty yards wide, with whitecaps showing where it surged over boulders. The men could walk across it if it wasn't too deep.
“Gladley!” Butsko said.
“Hup, Sarge!”
“Leave your equipment and weapon here on the shore and wade out there to see how deep it is.”
“Hup, Sarge!”
Gladley took off his pack and laid it on the grass embankment. Butsko had selected him because he was the biggest man in the platoon and the least likely to be swept away by the current. Gladley laid his submachine gun on the pack, handed his Bulova watch to Bannon, and stepped into the water.
It was cool and felt wonderful as it seeped into his boots and soothed his hot, sweaty feet. The water rushed against his shins, and he held his arms far out to balance himself on the slippery rocks. He stepped forward gingerly and the water rose to his knees and thighs. Taking another step, his foot slid over some loose stones and he lost his balance, toppling sideways into the water. He held out his hand to stop himself and cut the heel of his palm on the jagged edge of a rock.
Catching his balance, he stood up, blood streaming down his wrist.
“Fuck-up!” Butsko murmured.
Gladley decided that he might as well swim out toward the center of the river, now that he was wet anyway. He dived into the water, splashing like an elephant, and swam clumsily away from shore. After several strokes he stopped and stood up; the water rose to his chest. He swam another ten yards, stood, and sank beneath the surface of the water.
Butsko waved for him to come back. The river was obviously too deep there and the only thing to do was look for a narrow place where they could cross. Gladley came up out of the water, his hand still bleeding, and Hotshot took out his first-aid kit and looked for an appropriate bandage.
Butsko figured the river would get narrower toward its source, so he decided to lead the men in that direction. It wouldn't be smart to move along the shoreline, because they'd be visible to Japanese patrols on the other side; therefore, it was necessary to travel through the jungle parallel to the river.
Hotshot was working on Gladley's cut, and they had to wait until he was finished. “Take a break,” Butsko said, sitting on a rock.
“Time for chow?” Gladley asked, because he was always hungry.
“Not yet,” Butsko said. “We'll break for chow when we get on the other side.”
The men smoked cigarettes as Hotshot bandaged Gladley's hand, and then they moved out again, making slow progress because the ground near the river was swampy and their feet sank in to their ankles with every step. To make matters worse, there were many more mosquitoes near the river, and they swarmed around the soldiers so thickly that it was like walking through heavy rain. Huge red welts were raised on their faces by the mosquito bites, and the citronella did no good whatever.
In the heat and stench, his face stinging from mosquito bites, Bannon fantasized about vanilla ice cream. He saw himself sitting in a cool restaurant surrounded by dishes heaped high with vanilla ice cream. He imagined eating the stuff with a big spoon, letting it freeze his tongue and slide down his throat; it was so sweet and delicious—just what he needed. When he finished one dish he would eat another and then another. When the dishes all were empty, he imagined diving into a mound of vanilla ice cream six feet high with his mouth wide open, gulping it down as it closed around his body, chilling him out, making him feel wonderful.
He tripped over a log and fel
l on his face in muck that was the consistency of shit and smelled about as bad. Frankie La Barbara grabbed him by his shirt collar and the Reverend Billie Jones took hold of his belt, pulling him to his feet.
Bannon wiped his face with his hand and spat some muck out of his mouth. He swore that when he returned to civilization he was going to take all his money to where ice cream was available and gorge himself with vanilla ice cream.
The river twisted and turned, narrowing slightly. The sun sank on the horizon and Butsko could see that it would be dark before long. It looked like they wouldn't get across the Wahai River that day, and the men hadn't had dinner yet. They'd soon have to find a place to bivouac for the night. He held up his hand.
“All right, let's break for chow!” Butsko said. “Who wants to volunteer to find us a bivouac for the night?”
No one said anything.
“Okay, Bannon, you just volunteered. Get going.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“The rest of you take a smoke break,” Butsko said.
They looked around. Nobody wanted to sit in the muck, so they leaned against trees and took out their cigarettes, lighting them up. Meanwhile Bannon moved into the jungle and headed for the high ground, where it would be drier and less buggy. His feet were soaked and mud was caked on his trousers up to his knees. He made his way through the slimy jungle as insects buzzed around him and drank his blood. A leech fell onto the back of his neck so lightly that he didn't even feel it, and the little brown creature proceeded to feast on his blood.
The ground inclined upward, and Bannon rose gradually from the damp tangle of the riverbank. The ground became firmer under his feet and the vegetation thinned out. Shafts of sunlight fell to the jungle floor and reminded Bannon of a cathedral he'd visited once in Austin. He came to a plateau that was dry and fairly pleasant, and then, stepping around a tree with a trunk as thick as his own body, he saw at the far end an oblong clearing twenty feet long with a huge gray boulder twice as tall as he was.
On either side of the boulder were two smaller stones. It was weird to see them there, because no other boulders were around. Bannon thought he'd climb to the top of the tallest boulder to see what the terrain was like in that vicinity.
He moved toward the boulders and then suddenly stopped cold. He'd heard something in the jungle, the sound of foliage being moved. Bannon thought it might be his imagination, or a faint breeze trembling a branch, or maybe an animal passing by. But such sounds could not be ignored. Bannon wishing his submachine gun and held it in his hands as he moved his head around and tried to pinpoint the area that the sound had come from.
He heard the sound again; it was coming from his right. Bannon crouched low behind the boulder. The sounds became louder. Bannon had enough jungle experience to know that human beings were moving about in his vicinity. He crept from behind the boulders and moved silently into the jungle, heading in the direction of the sounds. Butsko would want to know who was in the jungle, how many there were of them, and what they were doing.
Bannon stopped and crouched low. The sounds appeared to be heading toward his left. He estimated that whoever was there would pass in front of him. He crouched lower and became aware that something was on the back of his neck. Reaching around, he touched the leech and became pissed off because he couldn't get rid of it just then. He had to remain still and let the creature suck his blood for a while.
Bannon saw the jungle move to his right, and the pale green cotton cloth of a Japanese soldier's shirt became visible to him. The soldier came into view, carrying an Arisaka rifle and wearing baggy pants and leggings, a soft cap on his head. The soldier glanced around furtively as he advanced through the jungle, and a few seconds later another Japanese soldier appeared.
One by one the Japanese patrol came into view. There were nine of them traveling in a long file. Bannon knew he could take a few of them out of the ballpark with his submachine gun, but he couldn't get the rest of them in the first burst, and then what? Better stay still and report back to Butsko as soon as he could. He hoped that the guys down on the riverbank wouldn't make any sudden noise, such as Frankie laughing out loud at something, or an argument erupting suddenly, or Butsko losing his temper and chewing somebody out.
The Japanese patrol passed by in front of Bannon, and he wondered what they were doing on that part of the island. Were they stationed in the vicinity, or were they patrolling from a base far away?
One by one the Japanese soldiers were swallowed up by the jungle to the left of Bannon, and Bannon was proud of his buddies in the recon platoon, because they hadn't made any loud noises. They were a bunch of fuck-ups and maniacs, but they knew how to behave when the heat was on.
After the Japs were out of sight and far away, Bannon turned around and scrambled swiftly down the incline toward the bank of the river. He saw the recon platoon milling around amid the trees, and they looked up at him as he approached.
“Japs!” he said.
“Where?” asked Butsko.
Bannon pointed up the hill. “Over there. Nine of them. Heading that way.”
“Everybody down,” Butsko said.
They all dropped to their knees.
“Hey,” Frankie La Barbara said to Bannon, “you got a leech on your neck.” Frankie touched his lighted cigarette to the back of the leech, which recoiled instantly, withdrawing his mouth from Bannon's flesh. Frankie flicked the leech away and it fell to the ground, where he bashed it with the butt of his submachine gun, causing Bannon's blood in the leech's swollen body to squirt in all directions.
Butsko looked at Bannon. “Did you find a bivouac?”
“Yeah, but it's close to where those Japs were.”
“How close?”
“Twenty, thirty yards.”
“That's too close. They might come back that way. We'll have to find another spot. This time we'll all go together. Move it out, and no unnecessary noise.”
Butsko led them away from the riverbank and up the incline. They moved slowly and silently because of the Jap patrol in the area. Bannon showed them the clearing he'd found, and then they examined the trail left by the Japanese soldiers. Crossing the trail, they advanced into the jungle fifty yards and found another small clearing. Butsko ordered them to set up camp there for the night and told Sam Longtree to take the first shift of guard duty, posting him between the bivouac site and the trail left by the Japanese patrol.
The night passed without incident and they got up in the morning at the crack of dawn. They had K rations for breakfast, smoked cigarettes, broke camp, and headed back to the river. Upon reaching it, they turned left and headed upstream, hoping to find a narrow place to cross.
However the river didn't narrow appreciably, and as the morning progressed Butsko began to worry. They should have crossed the river the day before; now it was almost noon and they still weren't across. They were falling behind schedule, and that meant they'd have to rush the more dangerous part of their mission. Perhaps they should try to swim across the river and drag their equipment and weapons behind them on a raft.
Up ahead, Longtree raised his hand and waved it from side to side. He'd spotted something and was signaling to the men to be quiet. The men dropped to their stomachs in the muck at the river's edge, and Butsko crawled forward to discover what Longtree had seen. Longtree was standing at a point where the river turned, and when Butsko came abreast of him he looked around the bend and saw, to his astonishment, a bridge made of vines stretching from a hill on one side of the river to a hill on the other side.
The bridge had evidently been made by natives, because Butsko had never known the Japs to construct anything like it. The patrol that Bannon had seen must have used the bridge to get across the river. The big question was whether Butsko and his men could use it. He thought it unlikely that the Japs would have such a bridge guarded around the clock. He and his men would be able to get across the bridge after nightfall.
Butsko sat on a damp, rotting log and took out a ciga
rette to help him think better. He lit it up with his Zippo and figured it would take a few hours for him and his men to rig up a decent raft and pull it across the river, and it would almost be night by then anyway. Why go through all that trouble when they could use the bridge? They were falling behind schedule, but Butsko would worry about that later. Right now he had to get his men across the river safely, and there appeared to be no better way than the bridge.
“Come on with me,” he said to Longtree.
They walked back to where the other men were waiting, and Butsko told them about the bridge. He ordered Longtree to take the point again and lead them toward the bridge. Long-tree moved into the jungle, and the rest of the recon platoon followed him.
After an hour of tough going through the thick jungle, Longtree came to a narrow winding trail covered with tracks less than a day old. He looked to his left and right and listened, but no Japs were around. The others caught up with him and saw the trail.
“It probably goes to the bridge,” Butsko said.
“Japs have been on this trail within the last twenty-four hours,” Longtree told him.
“Must have been the bunch Bannon saw.”
Butsko decided to follow the trail and see if it indeed led to the bridge, but they'd have to be careful.
“All right, let's move it out,” Butsko said. “Longtree, take the point. Bannon, bring up the rear. Everybody stay the fuck awake, because Japs use this trail.”
The men took their positions and moved out. The trail twisted and turned as it made its way through the jungle, and the men moved over it cautiously, looking and listening, holding their submachine guns in their hands, ready for anything.
They passed over the top of a sunny hill and then down into a glen so overgrown with foliage it was almost like night. The trail disappeared in a swampy area, but Longtree picked it up again on the other side and they continued along. At two o'clock in the afternoon Butsko told them to take a break, and they moved off the trail into the jungle, where they found a little clearing and took out their packs of K rations.
