by Len Levinson
Butsko opened his eyes and saw Tronolone’s boot raise in the air above his face. He knew he had to do something fast. The boot came down, and Butsko spun away. Tronolone leaped after him, kicking him in the ass, on the back of the head, and as Butsko rolled over, kicking him in the stomach.
Now Butsko was getting mad, and fresh adrenaline pumped into his arteries. He bared his teeth and growled like an animal, willing his mind into hot focused concentration, jumping to his feet.
Butsko still was dizzy as he raised his hands and saw Tronolone advance toward him.
“Shit,” Tronolone said, “you ain’t tough at all.”
Tronolone threw a left jab, hoping to set up his right hook, but this time Butsko ducked underneath the blow, and the jab flew over his head. Butsko hooked Tronolone in the left kidney, then the right kidney, and then the left kidney again. He stepped back, jabbed Tronolone in the face once—twice—three times, snapping back Tronolone’s head every time. Butsko brought his right cross over Tronolone’s left fist, connecting with his forehead, and now Tronolone back-pedaled, dodging his head from side to side as Butsko threw more punches, connecting with half of them. When Tronolone raised his fists to protect his head, Butsko went downstairs and pounded his ribs.
Tronolone realized the fight was taking a turn for the worse, so he lashed out with his foot to kick Butsko in the balls. Butsko jumped backward and grabbed Tronolone’s foot in his hands, then raised it up in the air.
Tronolone collapsed onto his back and Butsko leaped forward, intending to land with both of his size twelve combat boots on Tronolone’s face, but Tronolone rolled out in the nick of time and Butsko landed on the grass instead.
Tronolone jumped to his feet. Blood trickled out the corner of his mouth. He wished he still had his switchblade, but the MPs took it away when they locked him up in the stockade. He looked around on the ground for something to use as a weapon, but nothing was there. He hadn’t been issued a bayonet yet, so he couldn’t use that.
Butsko moved in on him, set to finish him off. He threw two quick jabs at Tronolone’s head, but Tronolone managed to avoid both of them. While they were close together, Tronolone tried to knee Butsko in the balls, but Butsko sidestepped and received the blow on his thigh. Then Tronolone got smart and tried for a more modest target. Butsko punched him in the mouth at the same moment he kicked Butsko in the shins.
The punch knocked Tronolone on his ass, while Butsko jumped up and down on his right foot, holding his left foot in his big hands. Tronolone shook his head and tried to wake up, and Butsko tried to determine if he could walk on his left foot. He found that it hurt every time he took a step.
Meanwhile, Schlegelmilch was sneaking up on Sergeant Plunkett from behind. Plunkett, like the rest of the GIs, was watching the fight intently. Schlegelmilch reached down and pulled Plunkett’s bayonet out of its scabbard, tossing it to Tronolone.
“Use it!” Schlegelmilch shouted.
Tronolone focused on the bayonet lying on the ground beside him. He picked it up and rolled over onto his hands and knees, preparing to stand. Butsko tested his foot again and found that it would hold him up reasonably well. Tronolone stood and waved the bayonet in the air. It caught a ray of the sun and glinted as if a diamond was studded on its blade. Butsko saw the bayonet in Tronolone’s hand.
“Why, you sneaky fucking cocksucker,” Butsko said.
Tronolone beckoned for Butsko to come closer. “C’mon,” he said. “I’m gonna carve you a new asshole.”
Butsko reached to his cartridge belt and pulled out his Ka-bar knife. “I’m gonna kill you,” he said matter-of-factly.
Sergeant Plunkett stood up on the sidelines. “I think you two’d better stop this shit before somebody gets hurt.”
Butsko replied out the corner of his mouth. “Stay out of this, Plunkett.”
“If you kill him, they’ll court-martial your ass.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”
Tronolone sniggered. “He ain’t gonna kill me anyways. I'm gonna kill him.”
Both men circled each other, waving their blades from side to side. Tronolone believed he had an advantage, because he considered himself a great shiv artist. He’d been stabbing people since he was fourteen years old. He threw the bayonet from his left hand to his right hand and back again, trying to fake Butsko out.
Butsko watched him carefully as he circled around like a panther. Tronolone didn’t know it, but Butsko was a far more accomplished shiv artist than he. Butsko had killed countless Japanese soldiers with knives. It had been his job for a long time.
Tronolone was happy. He was certain he’d kill Butsko. He danced around on the balls of his feet, because speed was more important than power in a knife fight. It really didn’t take much strength to push a knife into a man’s stomach. Position was everything. Tronolone bounded from side to side, and Butsko watched him like a hawk, making minute movements with his hands, shifting his weight slowly.
Tronolone darted in close to Butsko and took a swipe with his bayonet, but Butsko bounded backward, and the point of the bayonet swished past his cartridge belt.
“Almost gotcha that time,” Tronolone said gleefully.
“Almost don’t mean shit,” Butsko replied.
They reversed direction and circled the other way. It was a deadly dance of death, and Sergeant Plunkett wanted to call for help, but Butsko had told him not to and he didn’t want to countermand orders. Plunkett was sure somebody would be killed soon, and then they’d be hell to pay. The platoon area would be crawling with officers and MPs. The shit would really hit the fan.
Tronolone thought he’d get cute again. He tossed the bayonet from his right hand to his left hand and then back again, but he didn’t fake Butsko out. Butsko’s mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes were like the slits in the turret of a tank. Tronolone shifted direction and tossed the knife into his left hand, and Butsko whipped out his foot, kicking the knife into the air. Tronolone looked up helplessly, watching his knife fly away, and a split second later he felt the cold blade of Butsko’s knife against his throat.
“Hi there,” Butsko said.
Tronolone’s eyes bugged out of his head. He saw Butsko standing in front of him, holding the point of his blade against Tronolone’s Adam’s apple.
“I said hi there,” Butsko said.
Tronolone didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.
“Remember me?” Butsko asked. “Didn’t you say you were gonna carve me a new asshole.”
Tronolone didn’t answer. Butsko applied pressure to the knife, and a dot of blood appeared around the blade.
“I just asked you a question,” Butsko said.
“I forgot what it was,” Tronolone replied, and he wasn’t lying.
“Aren’t you the guy who said you were gonna carve me a new asshole?”
“Who me?” asked Tronolone.
“Yes you.”
Tronolone swallowed hard. Butsko chortled.
“You know what I oughta do now?” Butsko asked.
“No,” Tronolone replied.
“I oughta carve you a new mouth.”
Sweat poured down Tronolone’s face. He thought he was going to die. He wondered if he could knee Butsko in the balls, but realized Butsko could cut his throat first.
“You wanna die?” Butsko asked.
“No,” said Tronolone, a catch in his voice.
“What you got to live for, scumbag?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, if you don’t know, I guess I’ll just have to kill you.”
“Pussy,” said Tronolone.
“Who’d fuck you?” Butsko asked.
In ordinary circumstances Tronolone would have said Your mother, but he wasn’t in ordinary circumstances. “Somebody,” Tronolone said.
“What else you got to live for, scumbag?”
“Baseball.”
“You like baseball?”
“Yeah.”
“Wha
t else you like?”
“Lasagna.”
“No shit?” Butsko said, still holding the knife to Tronolone’s throat.
“No shit,” Tronolone replied.
“You’re awfully close to not having any of those things anymore, you know that?”
Tronolone nodded.
“Can’t hear you,” Butsko said.
“I know it,” Tronolone replied.
“What is it that you know?”
Tronolone coughed, because his throat was so dry. “I know that I’m awfully close to not having any of those things anymore.”
“Now you’re getting smart,” Butsko said. “If you had this knife right now, would you kill me?”
Tronolone didn’t dare lie, but he didn’t dare tell the truth either. Butsko prodded the point of the knife into his throat.
“I just asked you a question,” Butsko said.
Tronolone was so scared he was ready to faint. “I’d kill you,” he admitted.
“I know that,” Butsko said, “but guess what?”
“What?”
“I ain’t gonna kill you.”
“No?”
“No. Ask me why not.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need you, Tronolone. Your country needs you. There’s a war on. I’m going out on patrol tonight, and you’re coming along with me, because you just volunteered, right?”
“Right.”
“There’s one more thing, Tronolone. Ask me what it is.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t think you learned your lesson yet, have you?”
“Yeah,” said Tronolone, watching Butsko’s knife arm warily. “I learned my lesson.”
“Naw, I don’t think you have, because I really haven’t made you afraid of me, have I?”
Tronolone didn’t want to admit it, but he figured he had to. “Yeah, I’m afraid of you.”
“No you’re not, because I haven’t really hurt you yet. I’m gonna have to hurt you so you’ll respect me, right?”
“Wrong,” said Tronolone.
“Naw,” Butsko told him. “If I turn you loose right now, you’ll think you got away with something, won’t you.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes you will, and you’ll probably try some shit with me again sometime when my back is turned, won’t you?”
“Who me?” asked Tronolone, although that was exactly what he had in mind.
“Yes you,” Butsko said, “and that’s why I can’t let you off easy, because if I hurt you, you’ll think twice about starting some shit up with me again. But if I don’t hurt you, you’ll think maybe you can get away with something.”
“Naw,” said Tronolone, “I’m not that way.”
“You fuck-up,” Butsko said, “I can read you like a book.”
Butsko stepped to the right and lowered the knife while hurling a short, hard punch into Tronolone’s stomach. The punch landed in the softest, most delicate part of Tronolone’s stomach, doubling him over, and Butsko then kneed him in the face, knocking him dizzy. Tronolone dropped to his knees and shook his head, trying to wake up, and Butsko kicked him in the face, causing Tronolone to fall onto his back.
Tronolone tried to get up, and Butsko kicked him in the ribs. Butsko stomped him on the nose, kicked him in the ear, and jumped with both feet on his stomach. He jumped back to the ground and kicked Tronolone in the ribs, and when Tronolone rolled onto his stomach to protect himself, Butsko kicked him in the ass. Tronolone groaned and whined, and Butsko didn’t like the sound of it so he kicked him in the head again, and that put out Tronolone’s lights for the time being.
Tronolone lay still on the ground. Blood from the cuts on his face dribbled onto the ground. Butsko looked up at the others.
“Now there’s one other person around here who needs to get his ass kicked,” Butsko said.
His eyes fell on Private Schlegelmilch, who’d thrown Sergeant Plunkett’s knife to Tronolone, and Schlegelmilch got the picture real fast.
“No!” screamed Schlegelmilch, turning around, preparing to run away.
But Butsko was already charging like a wildman. Schlegelmilch took three steps and was just picking up speed, when Butsko dived through the air and tackled him, bringing him down.
Schlegelmilch kicked and squirmed and tried to get away. Butsko rolled away from him, leaped to his feet, grabbed Schlegelmilch by his shirt, and held him up in the air.
“No!” said Schlegelmilch.
Butsko’s fist smashed into Schlegelmilch’s face, and Schlegelmilch heard bells and birds. He was flung backward by the force of the blow and landed against the trunk of a tree. Butsko was on him like stink on shit. He punched Schlegelmilch in the mouth. He punched him in the stomach. He punched him in the mouth again, and Schlegelmilch fell to the ground. Butsko stomped his face and kicked his ribs a few times, then took a step back. Schlegelmilch lay still on the ground as if he was dead.
Butsko turned around and faced the others. “Who’s next?” he asked.
Nobody said a word. Nobody moved a muscle.
“Good,” Butsko said, “because I get tired of kicking the shit out of nitwits and scumbags. Sergeant Plunkett!”
“Yes Sergeant!”
“Take these guys to the armorer and get them weapons. Get a BAR for McGurk, an M 1 for yourself, and everybody else gets an M 1 too. Any questions?”
Plunkett looked at Tronolone and Schlegelmilch. “What about them two?”
“Take ‘em with you. I don’t wanna look at ‘em anymore.”
Plunkett told McGurk to carry Tronolone, and McGurk lifted him as though he were a feather.
“Can carry the other one too,” McGurk said.
“Okay—carry him,” Sergeant Plunkett said.
McGurk lifted Schlegelmilch and carried him under his left arm. Tronolone was under his right arm. McGurk followed Sergeant Plunkett toward the armorer’s tent, and the rest of the platoon fell in behind McGurk. Butsko watched them go, lighting up a cigarette.
Butsko sat against a tree, and felt pretty good. It always did wonders for him whenever he beat the shit out of somebody. He felt ten years younger, and knew he hadn’t lost any of his fighting spirit in the hospital. That was good to know. He’d also established himself as someone to be feared among the new men in the recon platoon, and Butsko learned long ago that rule by fear and intimidation was always the best way to control young soldiers.
“You fuck with the bull—you get the horns,” Butsko muttered with satisfaction as he puffed his cigarette.
At the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters, Pfc. Frankie La Barbara entered a small office inside a tent and saw a curly-haired officer wearing thick spectacles sitting behind a desk. Frankie marched up to him, stopped, saluted, and said: “Pfc. Frank La Barbara reporting, sir.”
“Ah yes, La Barbara,” Captain Granger said, shuffling papers on his desk. “We’re returning you to your unit for light duty.” He found the document he wanted, stamped it, and handed it to Frankie La Barbara.
Frankie refused to take it. “Light duty!” he yelled. “But I’m too sick for light duty! I lost a lotta blood! I can barely walk around!”
“You’re dismissed,” Captain Granger said. “Get the hell out of here.”
“But sir,” Frankie pleaded, clasping his hands together as if praying in church, although he never went to church, “please sir—I’m not ready to go back to my platoon, because they ain’t gonna care whether or not I’m on light duty. They’re gonna put me on full duty, and I’m too weak. I’ll get killed.”
“I said you’re dismissed,” Captain Granger told him, not bothering to look up from the papers he perused on his desk.
“Please sir—please gimme one more day here, so’s I can recuperate. Just one day. That’s not asking too much, is it?”
Captain Granger looked up at him. “Get out of here, will you, La Barbara?”
“Just one more day, sir,” Frankie begged. “I been fighting Japs
for years. When I sleep at night I dream about Japs coming at me. During the day Japs really are coming at me. I got combat fatigue and shell shock and everything else. Just gimme one more day to recuperate. That ain’t much to ask, is it?”
Captain Granger sighed. He wasn’t a career officer, having been drafted just as Frankie had been. What the hell, he thought. Why not?
“Okay La Barbara,” Captain Granger said. “Give me the chit back.”
Frankie handed him the piece of paper. Captain Granger changed the date with his pen and initialed the change. He gave the paper back to Frankie.
“Stay out of trouble, La Barbara.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll never forget this, sir.”
Frankie turned around and ran out of the office before Captain Granger changed his mind. I’m so fucking smart, Frankie said to himself when he got outside. I can con anybody out of anything.
Frankie didn’t have to return to the recon platoon until noon the next day. He wondered what to do with himself. How great it was not to be with the recon platoon, doing dangerous things. Maybe I should try to fuck a nurse while I got the chance, he said to himself.
He knew where the nurses’ quarters were: a complex of walled tents just northwest of where he was. He took three steps in that direction, when a familiar voice called out to him.
“Frankie!”
Frankie turned around and saw the Reverend Billie Jones. “Hi, Reverend.”
“Hi, Frankie. Where you going?”
“Just taking a walk. How ya doing?”
“I’m on my way back to the company. The doctor sewed me up and put me on light duty. Hey, you hear about what happened to Shilansky?”
“No, what happened to him?”
“They’re shipping him out. He’s got blood poisoning.”
“He has? But I was just talking to him a little while ago and he was fine.”
“He ain’t fine now. He’s got blood poisoning. I just saw him. He’s sick as a dog.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“No I ain’t.”
“Where’s he at now?”
The Reverend Billie Jones pointed in back of him. “Second tent over.”
“Jesus, I can’t believe it,” Frankie said. “I was just talking to him and he was okay. I’d better go see him.”
