by Len Levinson
“Butsko, I don't like you—you know that?” MacDoughal said as he stepped up to the pit and unbuttoned his fly.
Butsko puffed his cigarette and leaned from side to side. “Yeah, I know that, and I don't like you either. I never met an officer in my life who was worth a fiddler's fuck.”
“Yeah?” said MacDoughal, pissing into the latrine.
“Yeah,” replied Butsko.
“Well, you wanna know what I think?” MacDoughal said.
“I got a funny feeling you're gonna tell me,” Butsko replied.
“I think you're a big fucking baboon, that's what I think. You're not good enough to be an officer and you know it, and that's why you don't like officers.”
“Naw,” said Butsko, “I don't wanna be an officer. I'd rather have a sister in a whorehouse than a brother as an officer. The reason I don't like officers is because they're all stupid fucking assholes like you.”
“Yeah?” said MacDoughal.
“Yeah,” replied Butsko.
“I don't like you, Butsko—you know that?”
“I know it because you told me already.”
Lieutenant MacDoughal buttoned his fly and walked toward Butsko. “Your problem,” he said, “is that you've got no brains.”
“Your problem,” Butsko replied, “is that you got piss in your blood.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Somebody ought to teach you how to talk to officers,” MacDoughal said.
Both men were standing face-to-face, breathing alcoholic fumes into each other's nostrils. Butsko had to angle his head to look at MacDoughal, because MacDoughal was taller than he was and broader, but MacDoughal had a big gut and a lot of flab on him. Butsko knew he could cut him down to size in no time at all.
“Why don't you teach me how to talk to officers,” Butsko said, “and we'll see how far you get.”
MacDoughal grinned. “I don't wanna hurt you, Butsko. You're tough, but you're not that tough.”
“You're a fucking coward,” Butsko replied. “You wanna teach me how to talk to officers? Well, here I stand.”
“I could get into a lot of trouble for beating up an enlisted man,” MacDoughal said.
“It's just you and me here, jerk-off. Do what you gotta do or get the fuck out of my sight.”
“You're asking for it, fella.”
“Kiss my fucking ass.”
MacDoughal took a step back and raised his fists. Butsko spit out his cigarette, turned sideways to MacDoughal, and raised his fists too. MacDoughal undulated in the moonlight, and Butsko blinked because he was seeing double. When he opened his eyes again he saw a fist directly in front of his face.
Ka-pow!
Butsko felt as if he'd walked into a deuce-and-a-half truck going ninety miles an hour. His knees buckled but he didn't fall. MacDoughal clobbered him again and Butsko lunged forward and caught MacDoughal in a bear hug, holding on tight and trying to clear his head.
MacDoughal grunted as he tried to break loose, but Butsko had his arms clamped to his sides. The bells stopped ringing in Butsko's head and he felt ready to go at it again. He threw MacDoughal to the side and stepped backward, raising his fists again.
“C'mon, you big galoot,” Butsko said. “Let's go.”
MacDoughal advanced, deriving confidence from the blood dripping from Butsko's nose. He feinted with a left hook and then threw a right jab, but that put him hopelessly off balance, and Butsko caught the blow on his shoulder, stepping closer and throwing an uppercut to MacDoughal's stomach.
The blow shook MacDoughal, but he didn't keel over or let it show. Butsko hooked to MacDoughal's head and MacDoughal blocked it, elbowing Butsko in the mouth, and that made Butsko really mad. Butsko stepped back and wiped the blood from his nose. MacDoughal followed him, pushing out a left jab that he hoped would set up a right haymaker.
Butsko dodged the jab and saw the haymaker coming. He ducked and it flew over his head, and while MacDoughal was swung halfway around, Butsko threw his own powerhouse right, which connected with the side of MacDoughal's head. MacDoughal staggered back a few steps and Butsko followed him, hammering him in the stomach. When MacDoughal lowered his guard, Butsko punched him in the mouth.
MacDoughal knew he was in trouble and swung wildly. Butsko stood toe to toe with him and swung back. Their punches got in each other's way, and they looked like a couple of drunken bums—which they were—but then Butsko leaned back and MacDoughal's fist whistled past his nose. MacDoughal's momentum turned him to the side and Butsko hooked him hard to the stomach.
That one hurt, and MacDoughal's knees sagged. Butsko punched down and hit MacDoughal on the top of the head. MacDoughal tried to cover up, and Butsko hit him with crosses and hooks on the sides of his head. When MacDoughal moved his hands back to protect those areas, Butsko slammed him in the nose and blood spurted out.
“C'mon!” Butsko said, dancing from side to side. “C'mon!”
MacDoughal shook his head to clear out the cobwebs. Butsko wound up and threw a right lead, his best punch, and it connected with MacDoughal's forehead, MacDoughal went sprawling backward and Butsko hit him a final shot on his jaw.
MacDoughal went down for the count. He lay on the ground, moaning, trying to get up. Butsko caught a whiff of the stink from the latrine and got the devilish idea to throw MacDoughal in. It would be the ideal place for an officer, because all of them were full of shit.
But Butsko didn't feel up to it. He was too tired and he didn't want to humiliate MacDoughal too much. If you humiliated a man too much, you'd have to watch your back for the rest of your life. MacDoughal couldn't raise himself and passed out cold on the ground.
“You fucking scumbag!” Butsko muttered as he stumbled away from the latrine. He took out another cigarette and lit it, blowing smoke into the air. He made his way through the jungle like a drunken bear, while the moon cast eerie shadows all around him and every bush had a thousand eyes. He saw the radio shack; the light was out; Captain Eadie must have gone to sleep. All was quiet on Segi Point. Even the birds were sleeping, and Butsko could hear the waves crashing on the beach beneath the plateau.
He returned to the area where the recon platoon was bivouacked. Homer Gladley was snoring like a buzzsaw. Bannon lay curled up like a little boy underneath a tree, his head on his pack, and Longtree slept on his stomach not too far away. Frankie La Barbara wasn't there, but Butsko knew he was with Joanna someplace. He'd seen the way they'd been looking at each other and knew they'd get down to it the first chance they got.
Butsko found his pack, arranged it like a pillow, and lay down, puffing the butt of his cigarette. The stars twinkled in the sky above, and Butsko felt at peace with himself. He'd accomplished all he was supposed to do on New Georgia, and he'd kicked an officer's ass. The next day the submarine would come and take him back to Guadalcanal, where he and his men would be congratulated and permitted to rest for a while until the brass figured out another dirty job for them. He wondered where the next one would be.
One's as bad as another, he thought as he stubbed out his cigarette and rolled over, closing his eyes. The warm night covered him like a blanket, and in minutes he was sound asleep, snoring even louder than Homer Gladley.
