by Len Levinson
“Anybody ever hear anything about old Bayonet Bannon?”
“Last thing I heard, he was in a hospital stateside.”
The two men were silent for a few moments, thinking about old battles and lost comrades, the time they took Kokengolo Hill on the island of New Georgia, the day they hit the beach on bloody Bougainville.
“Jesus,” said Butsko, “when’s this fucking war ever going to end?”
“Maybe it’ll never end.”
“There ain’t even a recon platoon anymore.”
“There’ll be another one,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “It’ll just have new men, that’s all, and some of us old-timers’ll go back, one after the other, pretty soon.”
“I hate new men,” Butsko replied. “You have to take time to figure them out, and that’s a pain in the ass. I’d rather be stuck with the fuck-ups I know rather than the fuck-ups I don’t know.”
“You can handle it. You always have.”
Butsko sighed. “Yeah, I know. I always do, but I don’t like it. When I meet this new bunch I’m really gonna kick ass and break balls until they shape up, and if they don’t shape up, I’ll ship their asses out.”
SEVEN . . .
At two o’clock in the afternoon a jeep and a truck came to a stop in front of the command post of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. Pfc. Nick Bombasino drove the jeep, and beside him sat Colonel Hutchins. In the backseat was Butsko, who climbed out with his field pack, which was now lighter than before because half a fifth of Old Forester was gone.
Colonel Hutchins stepped to the ground, adjusting his steel pot on his head, and Sergeant Koch ran out of the command post tent.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“We’ve had a mess here while you were gone, sir! One of your new men nearly drowned Corporal Dinkel in a pot of tomato soup!”
Colonel Hutchins couldn’t suppress a grin. “What new man?”
“McGurk. The big one.”
Colonel Hutchins turned to Butsko. “He’s in the recon platoon.”
“What he do?” Butsko asked, not sure that he heard right.
“He threw Dinkel into a pot of tomato soup.”
“Jesus,” Butsko said.
“Oh he’s a real tough one,” Colonel Hutchins said. “Where's McGurk now?”
“He’s with Sergeant Plunkett and the rest of the recon platoon in their platoon area.”
Colonel Hutchins turned to Butsko again. “Maybe you’d better go over there and take charge.”
“Yes sir,” said Butsko, but he didn’t sound too happy about it.
Butsko slung his pack over his shoulder and walked away.
“Hey—wait a minute!” Colonel Hutchins said. “Ain’t you forgetting something?”
“What?” asked Butsko.
“Your pack.”
“Oh yeah,” said Butsko.
“Take it into my office.” Colonel Hutchins turned to Sergeant Koch. “Get your clerk out here and tell him to help the driver carry Sergeant Snider into my office.”
Sergeant Koch’s jaw dropped open. “You’ve got Sergeant Snider on that truck?”
“You bet your ass I have.” Colonel Hutchins looked at Butsko. “Let’s go.”
Colonel Hutchins entered his command-post tent and pushed aside the flaps to his office. He went inside and sat behind his desk. Butsko followed and opened the pack, taking out the full bottle of Old Forester.
“This one’s for you, sir.”
“You’re a good man, Butsko. Now get on out there and pull that recon platoon together. I want to send out a patrol tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
Butsko turned and walked out of the office, passing a medic and Pfc. Levinson carrying the unconscious Sergeant Snider on a stretcher. They laid the stretcher on the floor and lifted Sergeant Snider, placing him on top of the cot Colonel Hutchins usually slept on. Pfc. Levinson returned to his desk in the outer office, and the medic, whose name was Lamm and whose rank was corporal, bent over Sergeant Snider, feeling his pulse.
“He really should remain in the hospital, sir,” Corporal Lamm said.
“Get outta my way!” Colonel Hutchins said.
Corporal Lamm stepped back. He was soft-muscled with short, spiky blond hair and a pink complexion. Colonel Hutchins opened the bottle of Old Forester and walked to the cot. He dropped to one knee beside Sergeant Snider and poured a small quantity of bourbon onto his lips.
“Sir,” said Corporal Lamm, “you really shouldn’t—”
“Shaddup,” said Colonel Hutchins. “When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it.”
Corporal Lamm stepped back. He was in a very strange situation, unique in fact in his military career. Colonel Hutchins had virtually hijacked him out of the division medical headquarters. On the cot Sergeant Snider opened his mouth and Colonel Hutchins poured more bourbon inside. Sergeant Snider moaned and opened his eyes.
“Where am I?” he asked, slurring the words.
“You’re with the people who care about you the most,” Colonel Hutchins replied, patting Sergeant Snider tenderly on his shoulder.
Butsko walked toward the recon platoon area, clicking his teeth together. The sun was high in the sky and the heat was unbearable. Sweat poured off Sergeant Butsko’s body, plastering his uniform to his skin. His sleeves were rolled up over his massive bicepses and the top four buttons of his shirt were undone. Slung from his shoulder was the M 1 rifle he’d picked up from the armorer.
Butsko was in a shitty mood. He knew he had to transform a bunch of losers and criminals into the new recon platoon, and he didn’t relish the task. The only reason he’d returned to the recon platoon was so he could be with his old buddies, but they all were gone. He had nothing but new men to work with, and had to take charge immediately if he wanted to be effective; but he was in rotten physical condition due to three months of inactivity in the hospital on Oahu. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to whip the new men into line.
He came to the recon platoon area and stormed past the tents. In the center of the clearing was a bunch of men sitting around cleaning weapons.
“Who’s in charge here?” Butsko hollared.
Everybody looked up at him, trying to figure out who he was. Sergeant Plunkett lazily drew himself to his feet. He was short and heavyset, and his helmet was too big for him; hanging low over his ears and eyes. Butsko recognized him immediately as being one of the sergeants in the Twenty-third Regiment, although he couldn’t place his company.
“What are you doing here!” Butsko demanded.
“I’m the acting platoon sergeant,” Plunkett replied.
“Oh yeah?” Butsko said. “Well you ain’t the acting platoon sergeant anymore, because we don’t need an acting platoon sergeant around here! We got a regular platoon sergeant, and that’s me!”
Everybody looked Butsko up and down. Private Tronolone sneered. Sergeant Plunkett and a few other men who’d been transferred to the recon platoon yesterday from other units in the regiment knew who Butsko was, because Butsko had a reputation for getting into trouble. The new men from the stockade had never heard of him before. He was just another mean, ugly-looking sergeant to them.
“Who threw Corporal Dinkel into the soup today?” Butsko demanded.
Private McGurk raised his hand. “Me.”
“On your feet!”
Private McGurk drew himself to his full height, and Butsko was amazed because McGurk just kept coming. When McGurk was erect, Butsko had to look up at him. It gradually dawned on Butsko that McGurk could kick the shit out of him, but Butsko was committed to his course of action and couldn’t turn back now.
Butsko placed his fists on his hips and leaned toward McGurk. “Who do you think you are, McGurk!”
“Was hungry,” McGurk replied, looking down at Butsko.
Butsko felt like David facing Goliath. “This is the United States Army, McGurk. We don’t throw cooks in the soup in the United States Army
. Got it?”
“Was hungry,” said McGurk. “Wouldn’t gimme food.”
Butsko had dealt with many soldiers of all kinds during his Army career, and realized McGurk was a giant without a brain in his head. The only way to deal with such a person was treat him like a big attack dog, and that meant giving him simple commands, patting him on the head when he did a good job, and scolding him when he fucked up. Butsko would have to gain the big monster’s confidence.
“Well,” said Butsko, “a soldier needs his chow so’s he can go on killing Japs. That cook shoulda fed you, but you shouldn’t’ve thrown him in the soup. Next time something like that happens, you come see me, and I’ll take care of it. Got it?”
“Yup,” said McGurk.
“Good. Make sure you remember it. Siddown.”
McGurk blinked stupidly and dropped onto his ass.
“All right,” Butsko said, “pay attention, you rotten fucks. This is the way it’s gonna be from here on out. I’m in charge here and I’m not taking any shit. Any man who gives me any shit will be in a whole world of trouble. When I tell you to do something, I want you to do it immediately, without any back talk, without any fiddle-fucking around. If I say go, I want you to go, and if I say stop, I want you to stop. From now on, your ass is grass and I’ve got the lawnmower. I don’t believe in MPs and court-martials. Fuck MPs and court-martials. If I have any trouble with you guys, I’ll take care of you myself, hand to hand and man to man.” Butsko looked directly at Private McGurk. “And if I can’t take care of you hand to hand and man to man, I’ll take care of you with this.”
Butsko unslung his M 1 rifle and leveled it at the men sitting before him on the ground. He swung the barrel from side to side so it would aim at everybody personally at least once.
“You guys get the picture?” Butsko asked.
Nobody said anything.
“I just asked if you got the picture!”
They all nodded or made affirmative grunts. Butsko lowered his M 1 and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He looked away for a moment and somebody snickered.
Butsko snapped his head back. “Who did that?” Butsko asked.
Nobody answered.
Butsko looked at Sergeant Plunkett. “You hear who did that?”
“Nope.”
“Well,” Butsko said, turning back to the others, “it appears we got a scumbucket here. We’ve got somebody here who doesn’t have the guts to stand up and speak his mind like a man. We got somebody here who’s like a snake in the grass, or a weasel, or a fucking sewer rat. We got somebody here who probably jerks off too much and his mind’s gone soft. He’s probably a fucking fairy. He probably likes to play drop-the-soap-in-the-shower and hide-the-baloney.”
Butsko went on, insulting the man who’d laughed at him behind his back. He knew the man would start squirming before long, because the man knew the other guys close to him had heard him and would consider him a coward for not identifying himself.
“He’s probably the kind of guy,” Butsko continued, “who sniffed girls’ bicycle seats in civilian life. He’s the kind of fucking creep who couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse even if he had a fistful of twenties. I got no respect at all for a man who’d insult another man behind his back. I hate weaklings and cowards. I’d rather have one man like McGurk here, who isn’t afraid to throw a cook into a pot of soup, than have a hundred weaklings and cowards like the man who just laughed behind my back.”
Private Tronolone’s face was red with embarrassment and anger. Butsko’s tactics were working, and Tronolone knew that several of the other guys were aware Butsko was talking about him. And Butsko wouldn’t stop. He kept hurling out the insults.
“The guy who just laughed at me behind my back is probably a Jap at heart,” Butsko said. “He’s the kind of fucking skunk that bombed Pearl Harbor and bayoneted unarmed American soldiers on the Bataan Death March. Back in the States he probably fucked his mother and went down on his father. He eats shit and barks at the moon. I bet when he goes out on a three-day pass he wears ladies’ clothes, because he isn’t a man.”
Butsko spotted the heightened color on Tronolone’s face. Tronolone shifted position uneasily, bit his lips, sniffed the air nervously. Butsko was putting him down worse than he’d ever been put down in his life, and it was extremely embarrassing. Tronolone knew he had to do something fast if he wanted to salvage his reputation among his buddies. Every word out of Butsko’s mouth undercut Tronolone’s status as a tough guy and a slick dude. Finally Tronolone could take it no more.
“Aw, blow it out of your ass,” Tronolone said to Butsko. “Who the fuck do you think you are anyway, just because you got all those stripes on your sleeve. You’re so full of shit, it’s coming out of your ears.”
Words cannot express how happy Butsko was at that moment, because Butsko was a frustrated man. For the past few months he’d been in an Army hospital, and he had to be a nice guy. But that wasn’t his true nature. Deep down he was angry and violent. And now at last he had a chance to express all the rage pent up inside him.
“Well,” Butsko said, “it looks like I finally smoked the rat out of the woodpile.” Butsko looked menacingly at Tronolone. “What’s your name, ratface!”
“That’s for me to know and for you to find out, you ugly son of a bitch.”
Butsko turned to Sergeant Plunkett. “What’s his name?”
“Tronolone.”
“Did you say Provolone?”
“No, I said Tronolone.”
Butsko returned his gaze to Tronolone. “On your feet, cock-sucker.”
“Fuck you,” Tronolone said.
“Fuck me?” said Butsko.
“Yeah, fuck you.”
“You’d better get on your feet, Provolone, or I’ll start kicking your ass where you are right now.”
“Throw away that rifle and then I’ll get up.”
Butsko unslung his gun and held it up. “I don’t need this to fuck you up. I could fuck you up with one hand tied behind my back.”
“Big talk.”
Butsko clicked the M 1 on safety, so it wouldn’t go off by mistake. Then he walked a few steps toward Sergeant Plunkett and handed it to him.
“Hold this for me, willya, Plunk.”
Sergeant Plunkett nodded and accepted the rifle. Butsko took off his fatigue cap and handed it to Plunkett too, then hitched up his belt and walked toward Tronolone.
“Let’s get this over with, creep.”
Tronolone smiled wickedly as he rose to his feet, his harelip making him appear grotesque and fearsome. He was shorter than Butsko, with hard, compact muscles, and he wasn’t a nice guy. He was a tough guy and something of a sadist. He was the one who’d shot his company commander, but luckily for him his company commander didn’t die.
“How do you want it?” Tronolone asked.
“Rough and tumble,” Butsko replied. “No rules.”
“You must be crazy.”
“Anytime you feel froggy, Provolone, you just go ahead and jump.”
“My name ain’t Provolone,” Tronolone snarled, bending his knees and pointing them outward, stalking toward Butsko.
Butsko watched through narrowed eyes, his heart filled with joy. Now at last he’d have a chance to kick some ass and get rid of the tension building in his chest and zapping across his mind. He’d rather fight a Jap, but Tronolone would have to do.
Tronolone raised his fists and turned sideways, presenting a smaller target to Butsko, who measured him and decided he’d be no problem. Tronolone advanced sideways, not dancing, not on the balls of his feet. He was the kind of fighter who liked to keep both feet planted solidly on the ground, so he could put more power into his punches.
Butsko was the same kind of fighter. He didn’t dance or fuck around either, because tough guys don’t dance. They wade in and get things over with, one way or the other.
Butsko waited for Tronolone to come to him. His right foot was planted behind him, and his fists were ches
t-high. Butsko’s heart beat wildly, and he felt alive for the first time since he’d been wounded two months ago on Bloody Bougainville.
Tronolone closed the distance. His harelip was a bad one and made him look positively hideous. On top of that he had a mustache like black steel wool. His eyes were bloodshot and looked like the insane eyes of a man-eating ape. Butsko waited for Tronolone to come closer, hoping Tronolone would throw the first punch, because Butsko preferred to lay back and counterpunch.
Tronolone feinted with his left hand, and Butsko raised his right hand to protect his head, but Tronolone went downstairs with his left and hammered Butsko in the kidney, an extremely sensitive spot. Butsko expelled air and lowered his elbow to protect that region from another blow, and Tronolone smacked him upside his head.
My timing’s off, Butsko thought as he threw a left jab to stop Tronolone from coming in, but Tronolone dodged to the side and hooked Butsko in his left kidney. Again Butsko expelled air and lowered his elbow to cover up, and again Tronolone punched him in the face.
Butsko had a head like a block of concrete, and he wasn’t dazed at all, but he was disgusted with himself for being a punching bag for Tronolone. He decided to go on the offensive, throwing another jab at Tronolone’s head, but Tronolone leaned to the side and slipped the punch, then shot forward a jab toward the pit of Butsko’s stomach.
Butsko’s stomach didn’t have its normal musculature, because he’d been lying around a hospital for the past couple of months, and Tronolone’s fist sank in almost to the wrist. Butsko doubled over with pain, hugging his stomach with both his arms, and Tronolone put everything he had into a big looping uppercut, catching Butsko full on the mouth, straightening Butsko up. Then Butsko fell backward onto his ass, sprawling flat on the ground.
Butsko had a head like a block of concrete, but he wasn’t invincible. He’d taken a powerful shot and his head was full of cobwebs. He tried to get up, but somehow his body wouldn’t do what he wanted it to. He wondered what had gone wrong.
“Stomp him!” shouted Schlegelmilch, the rapist.
