by Len Levinson
“On your feet!” he said. “Let's go over there and see if those Japs got something for us to eat.”
“Eat!” shouted Homer Gladley, jumping up. “You think there might be something to eat over there!”
“Calm down, you fucking chowhound.”
The men gathered around Butsko eagerly, thinking about food. The Japs had to have some food over there, even if it was just rice. Butsko turned away from them and descended the hill, and they followed him like little ducks following then-mother. It was easy going down, but then they had to bend forward and dig in their toes to climb the hill where the Japanese antiaircraft gun was. All of them were thinking about rice and canned fish and sake, because they knew those were the things the Japs ate, and the mental images of the food gave them energy, almost as if they'd eaten it already.
They maneuvered their way up the hill, grunting and breathing heavily, and approached the summit. Butsko motioned with his hand, indicating that they should spread out and be quiet. They formed a skirmish line and advanced toward the gun emplacement. They saw the long cannon pointed toward the sky, and faint trails of smoke. All over, fresh bomb craters pockmarked the top of the hill, and numerous trees had been blown apart or knocked down. They saw some sandbags, and Butsko motioned for them to stay where they were while he went forward to see what was going on.
Butsko approached the gun compound stealthily, holding his submachine gun ready to fire. He would have liked to have thrown in a few hand grenades for his calling card, but he and his men were out of hand grenades. He'd have to do this the hard way.
He raised his feet slowly and put them down silently as he moved closer to the gun compound. Stopping, he listened for dangerous sounds but could hear nothing except some faint moaning from inside. He moved over the final several yards, crouched low behind the sandbags, paused, then raised his submachine gun over the top and took a look.
The side of the bunker where the Japs had lived was caved can of sukiyaki. Hotshot Stevenson had a can of fish, and the Reverend Billie Jones gulped down a can of stewed lichee nuts.
“Don't get sick,” Butsko said between mouthfuls, “and save some for later. We've still got a long way to go before we're off this island.”
The men nodded as they continued to stuff their mouths with food. A few feet away the dead Japanese soldier bled onto his tatami mat, and the smell of smoke hung heavily in the air.
EIGHT . . .
Lieutenant Karuma approached the native village nestled in a valley five miles from the camp. He and his men had made good time because there was a network of wide, worn-down trails between the village and the camp, and Lieutenant Karuma thought it wouldn't be surprising if natives or Americans had used the trails to blow up the ammunition dump the night before.
Lieutenant Karuma was in a worse mood than usual, due to the bombing attack. He was in constant contact with his camp via radio; it had taken a terrible shellacking. His headquarters had suffered a direct hit and didn't exist anymore. The motor pool had been damaged and so had the mess hall. A few of the barracks had been blown to shit, and the road that led to Munda Point had been bombed so badly that it was impossible.
As a full-fledged paranoic, he thought the bombing raid had been directed principally at his camp, although it had only been a secondary target. He also thought natives had given the location of his camp to the Americans, despite the fact that it was clearly visible from the air.
He was furious, and the closer he came to the village, the madder he became. Children playing in the jungle took one look at his angry face and ran away screaming. The thatched roofs of the huts came into view and Lieutenant Karuma licked his lips with anticipation, because somebody was going to pay for the damage done to his camp.
He and his men marched into the village, and the natives ran to their huts, closing the rattan doors. Mothers hugged their children, and fathers tried to be brave, although they had nothing to fight with except spears and a few old guns, which would have little effect against concentrated Japanese firepower. The men knew the Japanese soldiers weren't in their village for any good reason and that misery soon would befall them.
“Halt!” shouted Lieutenant Karuma.
His men stopped in front of a row of huts.
“Right face!”
The men turned to face him.
“Bring all the men in the village out here where I can see their ugly stupid faces!” Lieutenant Karuma said. “And if any resist, use whatever force you consider necessary! Bear in mind that too much force is preferable to not enough! Also get me their idiotic flea-bitten chief! Get moving!”
The men turned and charged toward the huts, kicking down the doors, pushing their way inside and kicking children out of their way. They pointed their rifles and bayonets at the men and grunted, indicating that they should go outside. The natives who didn't move quickly enough got rifle butts across their faces or bayonets stuck into their asses. Women who tried to intervene were knocked to the ground. Wails and screams filled the air as natives were thrown out of their huts, and Lieutenant Karuma watched with his arms crossed over his chest, smiling faintly. Chickens screeched and fluttered their wings, trying to get out of the way of the marauding Japanese soldiers, and some of the children became hysterical, crying and running about, wringing their bands.
The men of the village were herded at gunpoint and bayonet point into a cluster in front of Lieutenant Karuma, who looked at them haughtily. The men were young and old, trying to be brave in front of their women but terrified within.
Standing next to Lieutenant Karuma was Corporal Taguchi, a short, powerfully built soldier who had been a businessman before the war and had traveled throughout the Solomon Islands, buying copra and selling farm implements, pots and pans, and anything else the plantation owners and natives wanted. He could speak the native dialects fluently and was used by the Japanese army as an interpreter.
Two soldiers dragged the chief of the village before Lieutenant Karuma. The chief was an old man with gray hair and a gray beard, spindly arms and legs, and as haughty a manner as Lieutenant Karuma. Corporal Taguchi had known the chief before the war, respected him, and didn't like to see him treated in such a humiliating manner. The two soldiers let the chief go and he stood straight with tremendous dignity, glaring into Lieutenant Karuma's eyes.
Lieutenant Karuma stared back and an electric hatred crackled between them. Lieutenant Karuma was enraged that a man he considered an illiterate savage would look at him that way. He'd pay for that soon enough.
Lieutenant Karuma turned to Corporal Taguchi. ‘Tell them all that they are my prisoners and we will take them back to our stockade. We will keep them until they tell us where the American soldiers are. Go ahead, tell them that.”
Corporal Taguchi translated the message, and when he was halfway through, he was stopped by a commotion behind the huts. Sergeant Mitsui and another sergeant appeared, holding two western women by their arms, pulling them toward the clearing.
“Look what I found!” said Sergeant Mitsui, throwing one of the women toward Lieutenant Karuma.
The woman tripped and fell at Lieutenant Karuma's feet, and he looked down at her. She had blond hair and was slender, and Lieutenant Karuma imagined that western men would consider her pretty. She appeared to be in her early or mid twenties.
The other woman was in her fifties, with straight graying hair cut short, and built on the sturdy side.
“Ask them who they are,” said Lieutenant Karuma.
“I speak Japanese,” said the older woman. “We are Australian missionaries.”
“You look like spies to me.”
“We're not spies. We're missionaries.”
“Well,” said Lieutenant Karuma, “you may be a missionary, but this one here”—he kicked some dirt on the blonde—'doesn't look like a missionary.”
“Well, she is.”
“Tell her to stand up.”
The older missionary told the younger one to stand, and she got
to her feet, pulled her hair out of her eyes, and looked at Lieutenant Karuma. She wore tan slacks and a white blouse, while the older missionary wore a light-blue dress. Lieutenant Karuma thought the younger woman had a decent figure for a western woman, although he thought her legs too long, and she didn't have enough meat on her bones.
“What are your names?” Lieutenant Karuma asked the older missionary.
“I am Miss Brockway and this is Miss Corby.”
Corby, thought Corporal Taguchi. He'd heard of an old prospector on New Georgia named Corby, who was said to have been a hermit who lived in the mountains and searched for gold. Could this woman be related to him? Corporal Taguchi thought it best to keep his mouth shut about it.
Lieutenant Karuma cleared his throat. “We're taking these natives hostage,” he said to Miss Brockway, “and we're taking the both of you, too, until we are told the location of the American soldiers on this island.”
“I know of no American soldiers on this island,” Miss Brockway said.
“You're lying.”
“I'm not lying.”
Lieutenant Karuma took a menacing step toward her. “Don't you dare talk back to me!”
“I merely told you that I wasn't lying, and I'm not.”
Lieutenant Karuma wanted to draw his samurai sword and cut her down, but he couldn't do that to a woman. He turned to Corporal Taguchi. “Finish your translation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Taguchi resumed the statement Lieutenant Karuma had made earlier, and Lieutenant Karuma looked at Miss Corby's rear end as she walked to the side of Miss Brockway. If that young one's a missionary, I'm an elephant, Lieutenant Karuma thought. She looks like the kind of woman who's been around.
Corporal Taguchi finished his statement and looked at Lieutenant Karuma.
‘Tell them,” Lieutenant Karuma said, “that we're going to kill one hostage every day until we get the information we require about the Americans and that we're going to begin right now.”
Corporal Taguchi blinked. “Kill one a day, sir?”
“You didn't hear me, Corporal Taguchi?”
“But, sir, if you start killing natives like that, you'll unite them all against us. There are many natives on this island, and they could be most troublesome.”
“They're too troublesome as it is,” Lieutenant Karuma said. “I think they'll settle down once the heads start to roll. Now translate my statement the way I said it. I'm not interested in your foolish opinions.”
Corporal Taguchi faced the natives and translated the statement, seeing them stiffen and look at each other with concern. Some of the women standing nearby covered their mouths with their hands. Corporal Taguchi finished the translation and turned to Lieutenant Karuma.
“Anything else, sir?”
“Not just yet,” Lieutenant Karuma replied, drawing his sword.
Miss Brockway stepped forward, her face contorted with emotion. “Now see here!” she said in Japanese. “You just can't kill people like that!”
“Shut up!” shouted Lieutenant Karuma.
“I won't shut up! You have no right to do this! These natives are innocent! You are contravening the rules of war!”
“I make my own rules of war,” Lieutenant Karuma replied. He looked at Sergeant Mitsui. “Seize their chief and lay him facedown on the ground!”
‘No!” yelled Miss Brockway, moving toward Lieutenant Karuma.
Two soldiers grabbed her arms and pulled her back.
“You're a bloody beast!” Miss Brockway shouted, kicking her legs and trying to work loose from the soldiers who held her. “You're not a soldier, you're a killer!”
“What do you think a soldier is?” Lieutenant Karuma said to her. He was tempted to chop her down, but again, she was a woman, and he thought he would look bad to his men if he killed a woman in front of them.
Meanwhile Sergeant Mitsui and another soldier grabbed the old chief and forced him to lie on the ground. The old man didn't struggle and tried to maintain his dignity, although he knew he was going to die. Lieutenant Karuma gripped the handle of his samurai sword with both hands and raised it high above his head.
The old man's face was in the dust, and the soldiers were twisting his arms painfully. “Justice will win in the end,” the old man muttered, but the only Japanese soldier who could understand him was Corporal Taguchi.
Lieutenant Karuma took a deep breath, held it, and swung the sword down.
“No!” screamed Miss Brockway.
Lieutenant Karuma's sword whistled through the air and clunk, it lopped off the chief's head, which rolled away from his body, blood gushing from his neck. An elderly native woman ran forward and fell on the chief's body. Women cried out; the men were stunned.
“You're a filthy beast!” Miss Brockway shouted.
“Watch your mouth or the same thing may happen to you,” Lieutenant Karuma replied darkly. He dropped the sword into its scabbard and looked at Sergeant Mitsui. “Take our prisoners back to camp.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Mitsui shouted orders to his soldiers, who in turn shouted at the native men and pushed them with their rifles. Two other soldiers told the women to get moving. The soldiers and prisoners headed toward the jungle in a large amorphous mass, with the two women at the rear of the procession and Lieutenant Karuma last of all, his eyes drawn repeatedly to the svelte figure of Miss Corby. The crowd narrowed as it came to the jungle trail, and soon the natives in the village could no longer see them.
The old woman continued to sob over the decapitated body of her husband. Another woman, much younger, called out the name of a boy, and he ran toward her. He was eight years old, with curly black hair and big brown eyes, and he looked up at her as she spoke with him and pointed toward the east. He nodded solemnly; she bent down and kissed him, and then he ran off in the direction she'd indicated, disappearing into the jungle.
Their bellies full and their packs stuffed with canned Japanese food, the GIs trudged through the jungle, making their way toward Segi Point. The sun was low on the horizon, making the jungle even darker than it normally was. Butsko thought he should press on through the night and put as much distance as possible between his men and the Japs.
They'd been on the move for a few hours and Butsko thought he ought to give them a brief rest. ‘Take a break!” he said.
The men dropped to the ground, and the first thing they did was reach for their packages of Japanese cigarettes, which weren't as strong as American cigarettes, but they'd do. They lit the cigarettes and smoked quietly, because they were too tired to talk.
Long tree, who'd been on the point, lay on the ground and covered his face with his hat in an effort to keep some of the bugs away. He puffed his cigarette and his mind drifted back to the reservation in Arizona where he'd worked on a farm with the other young men. At night the old men would tell stories of the great days of the Apache people.
He lay still and listened to the sounds of the jungle. Monkeys scurried in the branches above, birds chirped, insects buzzed around. The wind rustled the branches and leaves, and he wondered if he'd ever make it back to the reservation and hear those wonderful old stories again.
Something crackled in the jungle not too far away; it wasn't a normal jungle sound. The wind wasn't blowing hard enough to break a branch, and the jungle had no animals heavy enough to break a twig lying on the ground. But it could be something else. Longtree raised his head and wrinkled his long hooked Indian nose, listening for the sound again.
He heard it again; it was a very suspicious sound. He raised his hand and waved it in the air, indicating to the others that they should remain quiet. He pointed at the woods in the direction of the sound, so they'd know where the problem was. Looking at Butsko, he pointed to himself, and Butsko nodded, giving him permission to investigate.
Longtree had already taken his pack off, so he would be able to travel light. Getting up, he moved in a crouch toward the sound he'd heard, placing his feet down
gently and silently. Then he heard the sound again. Something was moving around out there, and it sounded like a large creature. Longtree crouched down and listened carefully. He heard the noise again. Raising himself a few inches, he slipped through the jungle, moving branches and leaves carefully so that they'd make no sound. After going twenty feet, he stopped again and listened. He heard the noises again; they sounded like a man walking through the jungle. Longtree figured out the path the man was taking and moved to intercept him.
Creeping through the jungle, Longtree figured it was either a native or a Japanese soldier who was the point man for a patrol farther back. If it was a patrol, he hoped it wouldn't be too big. He hoped they'd be able to knock it out as easily as they'd knocked out the other patrol the previous night.
Something moved in the jungle straight ahead of Longtree, and Longtree ducked behind a tree, hiding his body completely, but he couldn't see whoever was out there. The tree was wide, and Longtree was able to sling his submachine gun and take out his Ka-bar jungle knife. If the person was a Jap, and he came close enough to Longtree to see him, Longtree would have to kill him before he could sound the alarm. If the Jap didn't see Longtree, he'd just let him go by and then return to Butsko and pass along the information.
The person came closer. Longtree held his knife in his fist with the blade pointing straight up into the air. The person muttered something in a deep guttural voice, and Longtree tensed. The person stepped closer. He was almost abreast of the tree now. Longtree saw a leg wearing brown pants come into view and then was astonished to see before him a man wearing the uniform of a US Air Corps pilot!
The pilot saw Longtree out of the corner of his eye and spun around, reaching for his Colt .45. Longtree dropped his knife and dived for the pilot's hand, holding it tightly, the forward motion of his body knocking the pilot to the ground. The pilot fell on his ass and Longtree landed on top of him. Longtree looked down at his face.
