by Len Levinson
Butsko rummaged through his pack and realized he had rations left for only another day. Then he and his men would have to start living off the land, and from what he'd seen, the pickings would be awfully slim. But he and his men had been on short rations before and had come through okay. They wouldn't be on the island longer than three or four more days, or at least that's what he hoped.
Butsko sat on his haunches and ate his ration of sausage patties. Although he and his men were almost twenty-four hours behind schedule, he figured they were doing all right. This Jap trail that Longtree had found would probably lead right into Vanguna Valley, where the ammo dump was located. It should be smooth sailing from there on, except for the danger of Jap patrols.
After lunch and cigarettes the men moved out again. After an hour and a half Longtree spotted the bridge up ahead. Butsko motioned for him to go forward and check it out, while the rest of them took cover in the jungle. Longtree crawled forward in the jungle beside the trail and made his way to the bridge. No one was guarding it as it swayed gently from side to side in the wind. Below, about two hundred yards down, was the Wahai River rushing out to sea. The bridge stretched across the river to a green hill on the other side, and behind the hill was the blue sky with a few puffy clouds floating by.
Longtree returned to Butsko and told him what he'd seen.
“I didn't see any Japs around,” he said. “I think we could go across now.”
Butsko shook his head. “Forget about it. There might be a Jap on the other side of the river, taking a piss or something, and all he has to do is look up and see us. We'd be sitting ducks up there. No, we'll go across tonight. We might as well find a nice quiet place right now and get some rest.”
Butsko led them into the jungle until he found a secluded spot on land that was fairly level and dry. The men took off their packs and stretched out on the ground to get some sleep, but they didn't get much. It was too hot and there were too many bugs. Also, they weren't that fatigued. Yet.
FOUR . . .
It became cooler after sunset. Owls hooted in the trees and monkeys chattered around where the GIs were trying to sleep. Butsko told them to get up for chow, and once more they took out K rations and dined. Butsko went up ahead to reconnoiter the bridge, and he hung around for a while to see if there was any Japanese activity. There wasn't. He went back to the camp and told the men to saddle up.
They returned to the trail and proceeded stealthily to the bridge. A half-moon floated in the sky above their heads, and the stars sparkled like diamonds. The jungle pulsated with the sound of crickets so loud it drowned out the footsteps of the soldiers. Finally they came to the bridge, swaying gently in the breeze.
“We wanna get across fast,” Butsko told them. “We can't get caught by the Japs up there. We'll move out two by two, at ten-foot intervals. If anybody falls, it's tough shit: He gets left behind. When we get to the other side, take cover and wait for me to tell you what to do next. Any questions?”
“What if we come under fire while we're on the bridge?” Bannon asked.
“Fire back and keep going. Anything else?”
Nobody said anything.
“Okay, let's go.”
Longtree and Hotshot Stevenson went first, followed by Homer Gladley and Billie Jones, Bannon and Frankie La Barbara; Butsko brought up the rear. The bridge jiggled wildly and swung from side to side as they moved across it, and with every step Bannon thought he'd fall through the open space to the rushing waters below. The bridge was shaped like a V, with a thick braiding of vines on the bottom and vine webbing up the sides to the two railings. The braided vines on the bottom twisted and wrenched from side to side violently as the men stepped across it, and it was difficult to see in the darkness.
Bannon's worst fear came true: When he put his foot down, the braided vine wasn't there and one foot slipped through the opening. He fell to the side, and that made his other foot lose its grip. Clutching wildly at the vines, he caught himself before he dropped through the opening.
His desperate movements nearly knocked Frankie La Barbara off the bridge. “Hey, what the fuck you doing?” Frankie said.
“Shaddup!” Butsko told them.
“I'm stuck!” Bannon said, struggling to get loose.
Frankie bent over Bannon to help him, but then the bridge was jolted again by somebody else, and Frankie lost his balance. He fell over Bannon, muffled the scream in his throat, and reached out blindly for something—anything. His right hand caught a vine, but the rest of him fell through the hole. A split second later he was swinging in the air like a monkey, holding the vine desperately with his right hand.
“You fuck-up!” Butsko growled, catching up with them. He reached down and grabbed Frankie, hauling him up. “Asshole!” Then he grabbed Bannon and pulled him to his feet. “Moron!”
Bannon and Frankie sheepishly rearranged their equipment and set out across the bridge again. Peering ahead, they could see that Longtree was almost to the other side. Bannon hoped and prayed that no Japs were around. If any Japs fired at them, it would be a disaster.
Step by step the soldiers traversed the bridge. Longtree reached the other side and bounded into the foliage, taking cover as Butsko had ordered. Hotshot was next and he dived underneath a bush, holding his M 1 rifle ready, looking back to see how the others were doing.
Homer Gladley made it to safety a few moments later, followed by the Reverend Billie Jones. Next came Bannon and Frankie La Barbara, both of them afflicted with fresh bruises and rope burns, and finally Butsko jumped from the bridge to the hill, burrowing into the underbrush.
They lay still for several moments as the bridge swung from side to side in the moonlight. Butsko heard nothing except the usual racket that the bugs and birds made.
“Okay,” he said, “let's move it out.”
Once more Longtree took the point and the recon platoon hit the trail. It was eleven o'clock in the evening and they were getting tired, but Butsko wanted to make contact with the Japanese encampment before dawn. The trail snaked through the forest and they moved along cautiously, because they knew that Japs were on that side of the river in force.
Shortly after midnight they came to another trail, and Butsko had to decide which way to go. He took out his map and compass, got underneath his poncho, turned on his flashlight, and tried to reach a sensible decision, but one path looked as good as the other to him.
He turned off the flashlight and threw off the poncho. “Longtree!”
“Hup, Sarge!”
“See if you can figure out which of those trails is getting the most action.”
Longtree got down on his hands and knees and examined the footprints on the trails. It soon became clear to him that the trail on the right had been used the most. He told this to Butsko, who sent them down the trail.
They'd traveled only a half-mile when Longtree heard a Japanese patrol coming toward them. He signaled back, and the GIs took cover in the bushes. Several minutes later the Japanese patrol came by, and Butsko wanted to mow them all down, but that would tip off the other Japs that the recon platoon was on New Georgia. He didn't want them to know anything until the ammo dump was blown up.
After the Japanese patrol was out of sight and hearing range, the recon platoon returned to the trail. They walked on it for another mile, and then Longtree came to an intersection with three other trails. He got down and examined the trails; all three of them had gotten a lot of use lately.
“I don't know which would be best,” Longtree told Butsko.
Butsko didn't know, either, but he figured either one of them would do. Obviously they were getting closer to the Jap encampment, and sooner or later they'd have to run into it.
Butsko pointed to the center trail. “That way.”
Longtree took the point again and they moved down the trail. It was straight for twenty yards and then turned sharply to the right. Longtree swung around the corner and suddenly had the eerie feeling that something was wrong.
/> “Yuto?” said a voice in the darkness.
Longtree stopped cold, and his heart pounded like the engine of a motorcycle.
“Yuto?”
Longtree knew he had to get that son of a bitch before he started screaming for help. He walked toward the voice, as he heard the sound of the recon platoon coming up fast behind him. The shit was going to hit the fan any moment if he didn't do something quickly.
“Gunso?”
Longtree saw the rough outline of a figure in front of him and lunged at it, swinging the butt of his submachine gun around. It connected with the Jap's head and the Jap let out a gurgle as he dropped to the ground. Longtree grabbed him underneath his arms and dragged him into the bushes.
The recon platoon approached with Butsko in front.
“In here,” Longtree said.
Butsko stooped, turned, and headed for the bushes. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Shhhhh.”
Butsko looked down and saw the unconscious Jap. Longtree took out his jungle knife and calmly slit the Jap's throat.
“Where'd he come from?” Butsko asked.
“I was walking along and I ran into the son of a bitch.”
Just then they heard a voice in the woods not too far away. Then they heard another voice.
“Uh-oh,” Butsko whispered.
The GIs heard the voices and dropped down, moving into the bushes at the side of the road. Butsko wondered if they'd stumbled onto the Japanese encampment. He and the others couldn't go anywhere until they found out what was in the woods over there.
“Longtree, check that out.”
“Yo.”
Longtree crawled into the jungle, heading toward the sound of the voices. As he moved along he heard more Japanese conversation. The Japanese soldiers made no effort to muffle their voices; evidently they had no idea that Americans could be in the vicinity.
Longtree came to the edge of a clearing, and the long barrel of an antiaircraft gun came into view, silhouetted against the night sky. So that's it, Longtree thought. We've walked into an artillery emplacement. He reconnoitered the area and his evaluation was confirmed. There was just one gun and one crew to man it. The main Japanese encampment must be nearby, and when the American planes came to bomb, these antiaircraft gunners tried to shoot them down.
Longtree crawled back to Butsko and told him what he'd discovered. Butsko was tempted to go in with his men and wipe out the gun emplacement, but he couldn't try fancy stuff like that until he'd got his main objective—the cave filled with ammo—out of the way.
“Okay,” he whispered, “we're gonna have to stay off the trail from now on. The Jap camp is somewhere around here and we'll probe for it.” He pointed straight ahead. “Longtree, you go that way and see if you can find it.” He moved his finger forty-five degrees to the left. “Bannon, you reconnoiter over there.” He turned toward the right. “Frankie, you go this way. And for Chrissakes, be careful, all of you. Got it?”
Longtree, Bannon, and Frankie La Barbara nodded.
“We'll all meet at the last trail intersection at oh-two-hundred hours. Don't get lost. Move it out.”
The three designated soldiers moved off into the jungle, heading in the directions indicated by Butsko. They faded into the night and Butsko brought the rest of the men back to the last trail intersection and then into the jungle nearby, where they'd hide and wait for the others to return.
Frankie was surprised that Butsko had selected him for the reconnaissance job, because Butsko never had told him to do anything on his own before. Now it was weird to be alone in the jungle, with no boss, no buddies, and only his submachine gun and knife to keep him company.
He slipped through the jungle silently, holding his submachine gun in both hands, stopping every ten paces to listen and look around. He was tempted to move quickly and get his job over with, but if he moved quickly, he'd make too much noise. However, if he was too cautious, he wouldn't cover enough ground and get back in time.
A half hour later he came upon another antiaircraft battery and he circled around it noiselessly, hearing the soldiers in their bunker telling stories and laughing like a bunch of GIs. The jungle was still noisy with insects and birds, and occasionally in the distance he could hear a wild dog barking at the moon, but gradually Frankie became aware of new sounds.
At first they were like the ordinary sounds of the jungle, but as he moved forward he realized he was hearing men's voices and the engines of vehicles. Then he saw dots of light in the jungle ahead. Getting down on his stomach, he crawled forward and the light became brighter. The jungle was glowing straight ahead, and after another hundred yards he realized he was approaching the Japanese encampment.
He slowed down because he knew guards must be in the vicinity. Creeping silently along, he saw electric light bulbs on top of poles. He heard a truck drive from left to right in front of him. There's got to be a guard someplace around here, Frankie thought. I'd better be careful. He crawled forward, digging his elbows and knees into the ground, and as he drew closer to the light he saw the encampment take shape in front of him.
It was easy to see because so many lights were on. Evidently the Japanese soldiers felt safe; if they heard American planes coming they could douse the lights. Frankie lay underneath a bush at the edge of the gigantic clearing and looked around for guards but couldn't see any near him. Several wood shacks were in the clearing, and there was one large building with trucks and jeeplike vehicles outside; it must be the motor pool. Behind the clearing was a mountain, and Frankie knew from the briefing on Guadalcanal that somewhere in that mountain was the ammo dump.
Frankie felt proud of himself for finding the Japanese camp. Butsko would be happy when he reported its location. Maybe Butsko would remember and make him a corporal when they got back to Guadalcanal. Frankie hoped Bannon and Longtree wouldn't find the camp. Frankie wanted all the glory for himself.
Frankie pulled back out of the bush, and just then a small car appeared on a road that entered the clearing from the jungle. The car drove into the clearing and stopped in front of one of the buildings. The rear door opened and a soldier jumped out, running up the steps of the building.
He's in an awful hurry, Frankie thought. I wonder what's eating him.
Inside the building, seated behind his desk, was Major Hiroyuki Uchida, reading a novel called Udekurabe, the romantic tale of a geisha who falls in love with one of her patrons. Uchida had first read the novel as a student at the university in Kyoto, for the novel was quite old, published in 1918, but the supply of books was meager on New Georgia, and Major Uchida had to make the most of what was available.
Major Uchida was a stout middle-aged officer with a thin mustache, the kind of reader who could become so immersed in a book that he forgot where he was. The shack that was his headquarters and office had disappeared, and he was in the Shimbashi geisha quarter of Tokyo, hearing the koto music, smelling the fish and chicken roasting in the restaurants, and looking at the beautiful geisha girls walking along, fanning their powdered faces.
There was a knock on the door. For a moment Major Uchida was confused; he didn't know where he was. Blinking his eyes, he looked up from his desk and saw the photograph of the Emperor hanging on the wall. “Come in!”
The door was flung open and Lieutenant Ejiro Karuma burst into the office. Twenty-one years old, thin as a rail, and nervous as a squirrel, he stood at attention in front of Major Uchida's desk and saluted.
“Sir,” he said, “a soldier with the Third Antiaircraft Battery has been found stabbed to death!”
“Who did it?” Major Uchida asked.
“We don't know who did it.”
“I imagine you'll have to conduct an investigation to see who killed him.”
“An investigation?” Lieutenant Karuma asked incredulously. “But, sir, the man obviously was killed by enemy infiltrators! Who else would do such a thing? There probably are American commandos on this island even as we speak, and they mig
ht be close to this encampment.”
“Nonsense,” replied Major Uchida. “If Americans were here, our patrols would have run into them by now. Our soldier was probably killed by someone in his unit, someone he'd quarreled with. Perhaps it was a gambling debt. Tomorrow you'll have plenty of time to get to the bottom of the matter. You shouldn't be so distraught, Lieutenant Karuma. This sort of thing happens all the time in the Army. You know how it is: Young men who are lonely and far away from home sometimes get a little rambunctious, and there are guns and knives lying all over the place. Calm down. Get some sleep. Tomorrow you'll find out it's just as I've said.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“You may go.”
Lieutenant Karuma saluted, turned, and marched out of the office. Uchida smiled as he lifted his book off the desk. Lieutenant Karuma was young and a little high-strung, but he'd learn. He'd be a good officer someday if he'd just settle down.
Major Uchida focused on the page of his book, and the Shimbashi geisha quarter came back, with its atmosphere of love and intrigue, and the beautiful girls dancing in their long, flowing dresses.
FIVE . . .
Butsko and the recon platoon hid at the edge of the clearing and looked at the Japanese encampment that stretched before them. That was their objective; they'd finally made it, and they were only twenty-four hours behind schedule.
Butsko peered through his binoculars at the hills and mountains behind the camp. The Air Corps observers had drawn a map that showed the location of the ammo dump relative to the buildings of the camp, and in the dim light of the electric bulbs Butsko could see the dark shadow that was the mouth of the cave. It was small and sandbagged, and the cliffs around it were pockmarked with bomb craters, but the American bombers had been unable to knock out such a small target.
