Green Hell

by Len Levinson

  Butsko lowered his binoculars and wondered how to destroy the ammo dump. He would have to use the element of surprise, and that meant he'd have to stage the operation at night, but he just couldn't charge across the camp and up the side of the mountain. He'd have every Jap in the area after him before he and his men even got close to the cave.

  Somehow they'd have to sneak up on the cave, and the only way to do that would be to go up into those hills and then down at the cave. The Japs didn't have much security around the encampment, but surely they had guards at the cave. All armies guarded their ammo dumps.

  “We'll have to circle around the camp and climb that hill,” Butsko told his men. “I think the shortest way is to our right. Let's get going. Long tree, take the point.”

  It took them all night to work their way around the camp and get into the foothills. Just before dawn they found a flat area that was high and dry in a part of the jungle where the foliage wasn't thick and there weren't many bugs. They ate K rations for breakfast and looked like jungle creatures themselves, for they were filthy and unshaven and their uniforms were worn and torn from contact with sharp branches and rocks.

  “You guys'll have all day tomorrow to sleep,” Butsko told them, as he chewed on a K ration cracker. “Tomorrow night we'll move out again, and we ought to reach that ammo dump around midnight. We'll blow it up and then get the fuck off this shithole island, got it?”

  The men nodded as they munched their crackers and hoped it would all be as easy as Butsko said.

  The next day, while the soldiers from the recon platoon were sleeping, Lieutenant Karuma drove out to the antiaircraft installation where the soldier had been knifed to death the night before. The gun crew was commanded by Sergeant Tadashi Shiba, a stern old career soldier, and Lieutenant Karuma interviewed Sergeant Shiba in the little hut where the sergeant lived with his men, all of whom had been told to get lost so Lieutenant Karuma and the sergeant could talk in peace.

  Lieutenant Karuma and Sergeant Shiba sat on tatami mats in the gloomy little hut, and Lieutenant Karuma offered the sergeant a cigarette, which the sergeant accepted.

  “Did the dead soldier have any enemies that you knew of?” Lieutenant Karuma asked, lighting Sergeant Shiba's cigarette with his lighter.

  Sergeant Shiba puffed the cigarette and blew smoke into the air. “None at all.”

  “You're sure?”

  “Sure I'm sure. Private Taiho was a very popular person.”

  “But perhaps someone owed him a lot of money?”

  “I don't believe so.”

  “I assume a certain amount of gambling took place here.”

  “Some.”

  “Did Private Taiho usually win when he gambled?”

  “Sometimes he won and sometimes he lost, like the rest of us.”

  “Hmmm.” Lieutenant Karuma puffed his cigarette. A suspicious person by nature, he was wondering if perhaps Sergeant Shiba had killed Private Taiho. Perhaps Lieutenant Karuma should question some of the other men in the gun crew.

  “May I ask a question, sir?” Sergeant Shiba said.

  “By all means.”

  “Why have you come here to inquire about whether or not someone owed Private Taiho money? Do you think one of us killed Private Taiho?”

  Lieutenant Karuma took a drag on his cigarette. “It's possible.”

  “But, sir,” said Sergeant Shiba, “Private Taiho was killed by natives.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because we found footprints of American boots in the mud near where Private Taiho was killed, and as you know, many of the natives on this island have been supplied with weapons and equipment by the Americans.”

  Lieutenant Karuma leaned toward Sergeant Shiba, his eyes wide open. “You're sure those footprints were made by American combat boots!”

  “Yes, sir. They were nothing at all like the footprints made by the boots we wear.”

  Lieutenant Karuma leaned back and was assailed by two waves of paranoia at the same time. He thought that Sergeant Shiba might be lying, and he also thought that American soldiers might be loose in the area as he'd originally feared.

  “Can I examine those footprints?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. A lot of people have been tramping around out there, but some of them must be visible.”

  Lieutenant Karuma narrowed his eyes. “I don't suppose you've been doing any of that tramping around out there, have you Sergeant Shiba?”

  “Why, yes, sir, I have. I'm in charge here, you know, and I had to examine the area.”

  “How very convenient for you.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “It afforded you an excellent opportunity to obscure the tracks.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Never mind. Please take me to that area at once!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Both men rose, put on their hats, and marched out of the hut. They passed the antiaircraft gun, and the soldiers manning it looked at them curiously, wondering what was going on. They were all a little jumpy, because they realized any one of them could have had his throat cut the night before instead of Private Taiho.

  Lieutenant Karuma and Sergeant Shiba approached the spot on the muddy trail where Private Taiho was killed.

  “There are some of the footprints of American combat boots right there, sir,” Sergeant Shiba said, pointing.

  Lieutenant Karuma knelt down and examined the footprint.

  “Right next to it, sir, is the footprint of one of our boots.”

  Lieutenant Karuma could see the difference easily, but he wondered whether Sergeant Shiba might have an American boot stashed away someplace and had used it to cover up his crime.

  “There's another American footprint over here, sir.”

  Lieutenant Karuma got up to look and realized this boot was smaller than the other one. It was unlikely that Sergeant Shiba could have acquired two different boots and had saved them for months just so he could kill Private Taiho. That left only two possibilities. Either natives wearing American boots or American soldiers themselves had been passing through the area.

  What had they been up to?

  Butsko awoke at midday and growled like an angry bear, because he felt terrible. The atmosphere was hot and sticky, his mouth tasted like shit, and he had a headache.

  Rolling over, he saw the other men sprawled in the grass throughout the area, trying to sleep. Frankie La Barbara was sitting underneath a tree, smoking a cigarette. Butsko thought he'd have one, too, so he took one out from his pack of Luckies, lit it up, and walked toward the Japanese encampment in the valley. Leaning against a tree, he could see soldiers walking about and the Japanese flag waving on top of the flagpole.

  The sight of the flag made Butsko mad, because he'd been in the Philippines when the Japs attacked the islands in December of 1941, a few days after Pearl Harbor. Butsko had been among the embattled defenders of the Service Command Area on the Bataan Peninsula, had been taken prisoner by the Japanese, and was on the notorious Bataan Death March. Unlike many of his buddies, he'd survived it and had been a POW in a camp on northern Luzon for two months, where he was beaten by the Japanese nearly every day until he finally escaped in a boat and was picked up by natives who turned him over to the US Navy.

  Butsko had also been a POW for a short time on Guadalcanal, and the Japs had worked him over then too. Now he hated Japs with a passion, and he hated their ugly meatball flag. He ground his teeth together in rage as he thought of Japs punching and kicking him, laughing while they were doing it.

  Movement down in the encampment snapped him out of his reverie. It was a car speeding into the clearing, turning a corner on two wheels, and screeching to a halt in front of a building in the center of the camp, the same building that a vehicle had sped toward the night before.

  That must be where the head honcho lives, Butsko thought, taking a drag on his cigarette.

  Major Uchida lay on the cot in his office, smoking a cig
arette and blowing smoke at the ceiling. He'd finished the book he was reading, and now there was nothing to do except daydream about beautiful geisha girls disrobing in front of him. He wished he could go to Tokyo on a furlough and walk through the Shimbashi quarter in a smartly tailored uniform. The geishas would swarm around him like bees around a flower, for he believed himself to be a handsome man. He closed his eyes and imagined himself lying in bed with a geisha and running his hands over her smooth skin while she kissed his lips and played with his dork.

  There was a knock on the door, and the beautiful geisha girl evaporated into the air.

  “Who is it?” he demanded.

  “Lieutenant Karuma.”

  Major Uchida frowned, because the young eager lieutenant always was bothering him about something. Captain Uchida sometimes thought that Lieutenant Karuma had a screw loose someplace inside his head.

  “Come in!” Major Uchida said, sitting up and straightening the front of his shirt.

  The door swung open and Lieutenant Karuma virtually leaped into the room. He looked at the desk, became confused because no one was sitting behind it, glanced around, and saw Major Uchida getting up from his cot.

  Lieutenant Karuma saluted. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have important information! There are Americans on this island!”

  “Nonsense,” Major Uchida replied breezily, strolling across the room and dropping onto the chair behind his desk.

  “But I've seen the proof with my own eyes! There are the footprints of American combat boots around the spot where the artilleryman was stabbed last night!”

  Major Uchida narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw them myself.”

  “You haven't been hallucinating, have you?”

  “If I have been, then the sergeant in charge of the artillery battery has been hallucinating too.”

  “I see. Very interesting. Hmmm. But I still don't think there are American soldiers on this island, because if there are, they would have done something by now.”

  “They have done something. They've killed one of our men.”

  “I mean something big.”

  “Maybe they haven't been here long enough to do something big.”

  “Have a seat, Lieutenant Karuma.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Lieutenant Karuma sat on one of the wicker chairs in front of the desk, and Major Uchida fingered his mustache thoughtfully. “They were probably natives wearing American combat boots. I wonder what they were up to.”

  “If they were natives, sir, I think we ought to round up about a dozen of them and kill them in a public place to set an example. We can't have natives wandering around in American combat boots killing our men.”

  “No, of course not,” Major Uchida agreed, “but I don't think it's a good idea to slaughter a dozen of them. That might make them angry and vindictive, and they might make more trouble for us than they have already.”

  “They should be permitted to get away with this, sir!”

  Lieutenant Karuma was extremely agitated, his eyes popping out of his head and his complexion blotchy. Major Uchida thought the young officer was on the verge of losing his mind.

  “Calm down, Lieutenant.”

  “We can't let them get away with this, sir!”

  “There's nothing we can do about it.”

  “We can kill some of them and set an example!” Lieutenant Karuma screamed.

  “Listen to me, Lieutenant,” Major Uchida said soothingly. “We're at war, and we have to expect casualties. There's nothing we can do to prevent casualties, but there is something we can do to keep casualties low. If we kill some natives in reprisal, they'll immediately kill more of my men, and then we'll kill more of them, and they'll kill more of us, and so forth. I want to keep the natives as quiet as we can. The man who was killed last night died due to his own incompetence. If he was a good soldier, he wouldn't let a native get that close to him. He should have challenged the native, and if the native didn't respond properly, he should have shot him down.”

  Lieutenant Karuma nodded in agreement. “That's true. The artilleryman deserved to die. But we can't let the natives get away with it!”

  “We'll pay them back some day in another way, but right now I don't want any more trouble on this island than I've got already.”

  “Actually, sir, to tell you the truth, I don't think it was a native who killed the artilleryman. I think it was an American soldier. I think there are large numbers of American soldiers on this island, preparing for an invasion.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “We must at least take precautions.”

  Major Uchida thought for a few moments. “The Americans are going to invade this island sooner or later; there's no doubt about that. But I doubt very much that American soldiers are here already. If they were, we would have known about it, believe me. However, I agree with you on one matter: We must take precautions. If natives are roaming around close to our camp, we'll have to be more careful. Double the guard and place the installation on alert. If any more natives feel like assaulting our soldiers, we'll be ready for them. Anything else?”

  “I still think there are Americans on this island, sir. I almost can smell them, sir.”

  “You're probably smelling your own armpits. It wouldn't hurt you to take a bath, Lieutenant Karuma, but first do as I've ordered.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You may leave.”

  Lieutenant Karuma stood, saluted, and marched out of the office.

  As night fell on New Georgia, Butsko stood behind a tree and looked down at the military installation through his binoculars. He'd seen a lot of activity throughout the afternoon but had no idea what it meant. Trucks had driven up and down the hill to the ammo dump, and he didn't know whether that was unusual. Soon, when it was completely dark, he'd lead his men across the hill system to the ammo dump, storm it, and blow it to high heaven.

  He returned to his men, who were eating the last of their K rations. Butsko sat next to his pack, took out his own last can, opened it up, and proceeded to gulp the beans down. Nearby Frankie, Bannon, and Homer Gladley were shooting craps for payday stakes. The Reverend Billie Jones was reading his Bible, his favorite pastime, and Butsko thought Jones ought to have it memorized by that time. Hotshot Stevenson, the best marksman in the recon platoon, had disassembled his M 1 and was cleaning it with a rag he'd brought along with him.

  Time passed slowly, and Butsko smoked the last of his cigarettes. He thought of Betty Crawford, the nurse at the hospital on New Caledonia, where he'd recuperated after taking a Jap slug in the chest. He'd had a brief bittersweet love affair with her and wondered what she was doing just then. She'd been a nice girl, clean and wholesome, maybe the best thing that had ever happened to him, but she was engaged to marry somebody else, and Butsko wasn't in her future at all. Butsko didn't think he was good enough for a nice girl like Betty Crawford, but often he thought about her anyway.

  Finally it was dark, but not dark enough to suit Butsko. No clouds were in the sky, and the half-moon shone too brightly, but it was time to move out.

  “Let's saddle up,” he said.

  The men grumbled as they got to their feet, and Frankie La Barbara put his dice away. They hoisted their packs to their backs and slung their submachine guns over their shoulders, checking their ammunition, making sure nothing was hanging loose.

  “Hit it,” said Butsko.

  They lined up and headed toward the ammo dump. It was tough going because they were on an incline. They had to hang onto branches to keep themselves from falling down, and it wasn't long before all of them had sore ankles from walking at a slant. They had to get down on their hands and knees in steep spots, while below them in the camp the light bulbs on the poles glared into the night.

  Often they glanced down into the camp, to see Japanese soldiers moving about or trucks driving around. It was peace
ful and quiet down there, but it wouldn't stay peaceful for long. They expected to get near the ammo dump in about two hours, and then the fun would start. Their legs and backs ached due to the difficult terrain, and they hoped they'd have enough strength left to do the job when the time came to storm the cave.

  Lieutenant Karuma lived in a hut much smaller than Major Uchida's, and he was pacing the floor, balling up his fists and unballing them, in a state of mild frenzy because he felt deep in his bones that something terrible was going to happen that night.

  He thought Major Uchida was a fat old fool who didn't understand the seriousness of the situation on New Georgia. The Americans or natives were up to something—that much was clear—and they were awfully close to the encampment if they were able to kill that artilleryman the previous night. If Lieutenant Karuma had been in charge, he would have put about twenty natives before a firing squad to show them who was boss. And if there was another incident, he'd shoot forty of them. If you wanted to be effective with natives, you had to rule with an iron fist.

  And he wouldn't just double the guard; he'd triple it. He'd put the entire post on a war footing and send out more patrols to find the American soldiers or natives or whoever was out there. He'd post bulletins in all the villages that any natives who helped Americans would be shot, along with their entire families. Lieutenant Karuma believed Major Uchida was a weakling. He couldn't understand how he'd got his commission in the army. All he did was read novels and eat, and he was too fat already. Major Uchida wouldn't have lasted a week in the cadet detachment where Lieutenant Karuma had been trained.

  Lieutenant Karuma had been a sensitive young student before he'd become a cadet, but they'd beat that nonsense out of him pretty quickly. Tough sergeants clobbered the cadets with clubs almost daily, and a number of cadets had committed suicide because it was too much for them. But Karuma had held out to the end and never buckled once. In addition to the punishment, they had to attend numerous classes and get high grades on examinations. Meticulous inspections were held every morning, and often the cadets had to perform backbreaking labor all night. The beatings were unmerciful. Karuma had been knocked cold many times, and he was slightly deaf in his left ear. It was believed that such training produced tough officers capable of handling any hardship, and that was true, but unfortunately it didn't encourage flexible independent behavior. It wasn't supposed to. An officer like Lieutenant Karuma was supposed to obey orders and fight to the death, and that was all.