Tough Guys Die Hard

by Len Levinson

The news traveled from command post to command post, and finally, at 0345 hours, Lieutenant Nobujiro Ono approached the tent in which General Adachi slept, surprised to see light seeping from underneath the tent walls. Lieutenant Ono entered the tent and passed through the outer office area, pushing aside the tent flap that provided some privacy for General Adachi.

  Lieutenant Ono was surprised to see General Adachi at his desk, hard at work. General Adachi became aware of Lieutenant Ono’s presence and looked up.

  “What are you doing here?” General Adachi asked.

  “Communiqué from the front, sir. There appears to be a buildup of enemy strength in front of the Katsumata Regiment.”

  General Adachi furrowed his brow. “What kind of buildup?”

  “No one can say for sure sir, but Colonel Katsumata has placed his regiment on alert.”

  “Hmmmm,” said General Adachi. “I see.”

  General Adachi lit a cigarette and wondered what to do. It would be tragic if the Americans attacked him before he had a chance to implement his brilliant plan and attack them. He even felt a moment of panic over this, but the panic subsided and he realized the Americans were no more prepared for a major attack at that point than he was, and if they were going to attack, it wouldn’t be much of an attack.

  He looked down at his map. The Katsumata Regiment was in the center of his line, the spot from which he wanted to launch his own attack. He didn’t want the Americans upsetting anything in that area; otherwise he’d have to formulate new plans. The Americans must be kept out of that area at all costs.

  Well, not at all costs, he thought. There are limits to what we can do. But we must keep them on their side of the river for the time being, if we can.

  General Adachi looked up at Lieutenant Ono. “This is what you will tell Colonel Katsumata. You will tell him to meet force with force, and prevent the Americans from capturing any territory on our side of the Driniumor. Tell him not to overdo anything or commit too many troops to stop a mere patrol or raiding party. I want him to maintain his regiment pretty much intact right where it is to the extent that he can. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Put the order in writing for my signature. Then have it hand-delivered to Colonel Katsumata. You may use a desk in the outer office to write the order.”

  “Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

  Lieutenant Ono left the general’s office and sat at a desk in the outer office, writing the order on a sheet of paper. Meanwhile, General Adachi puffed his cigarette and scowled. He’d been drafting the most brilliant attack strategy of his career, and now he hoped the Americans wouldn’t do anything to screw it up.

  Butsko trudged back to the recon platoon, a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. He could see leaves fluttering in the moonlight, and nearby the mighty Driniumor River rushed past on its way to the sea. He followed the trail around a big bush, and ahead was the recon platoon, eating C rations out of cans. Butsko trudged closer to them, heading toward his pack and his own C rations.

  “Eat fast,” he said to them. “We gotta move out pretty soon.”

  “Guess who’s back?” Frankie said, eating cold beans and pork with his GI-issue fork.

  “Who?”

  A big hulk of a man got up on the other side of the clearing. He had round mountainous shoulders and a big round head with little hair on top.

  “Well, I’ll be goddamned,” Butsko said, veering toward the man, “if it ain’t the downright Reverend Billie Jones.”

  The Reverend Billie Jones held out his hand. “Hiya Sarge.”

  “Hello Billie,” Butsko said with undisguised joy, because the Reverend Billie Jones was from the old recon platoon, the one that had hit the Guadalcanal Beach two years earlier and kicked the shit out of the Japs on New Georgia and Bougainville.

  They shook hands. Billie was an inch or two taller than Butsko and wider in the shoulders, but Butsko was bigger across the chest. Butsko also had bigger biceps and a bigger gut.

  “How ya feeling, Sarge?” the Reverend Billie Jones asked. “I saw ya limping just now.”

  “I’m all right,” Butsko said. “Nothing to worry about. How about you?”

  “Just a couple cuts. I’ll be okay if the stitches don’t break. You know Private Yabalonka?”

  “I heard of him,” Butsko said as another brute of a man arose from the jungle floor.

  Yabalonka was as tall as the Reverend Billie Jones and as husky as Butsko. He wore a bandage on his left cheek and had a tiny nose that looked ridiculous on his big face.

  “Hi,” said Butsko. He could tell from Yabalonka’s name that Yabalonka was a hunky like Butsko was, but that didn’t mean Yabalonka would get any special favors.

  “Hello,” replied Yabalonka.

  “They tell me you’re a good man,” Butsko said.

  Yabalonka shrugged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough. Finish your breakfast, because we got things to do today.”

  Butsko turned around and walked toward the spot where his pack was. He sat down, took out a can of C rations, and held the label up to the moonlight. The label said that sausage patties were inside, and sausage patties smelled like dog food. Most GIs considered sausage patties the worst of all the C rations, but Butsko got out his can opener and pried off the lid. He yanked his spoon out of his back pocket and dug in.

  He gulped the sausage patties down, and they were cold and greasy, even worse than usual. But Butsko was in a fairly good mood. He had two of his best men back in the recon platoon, and that was a nucleus he could build on. The new men would learn from the old dogfaces. That’s the way it was supposed to work anyway. And Yabalonka was supposed to be a good man too. Maybe Butsko would get through the day in one piece.

  Butsko finished the sausage patties, tossed the can over his shoulder, and took a drink of bourbon. He clicked his teeth and looked toward the east, but there was no sign of the sun yet. That was a good deal as far as he was concerned. The darker the better.

  “All right you fuckheads,” Butsko said, “on your feet!”

  The men stood and put on their packs. They slung their rifles over their shoulders and put their helmets on their heads, hanging around in the middle of the clearing as Butsko walked over.

  “Let’s have a column of ducks,” Butsko said. “Hurry up—I ain’t got all day.”

  The men grumbled and muttered as they formed two columns. Sergeant Plunkett took his position at the front of the column, and Frankie La Barbara was back with his squad. Butsko glanced at the faces of the men, and they all were dirty, glum, and needed shaves. He knew their mouths tasted like shit, because that was the way his own mouth tasted.

  “All right,” Butsko said, “let’s move it out.”

  The men shuffled their feet and moved in the direction of Easy Company.

  The jeep stopped at the edge of Easy Company and Colonel Hutchins jumped down to the ground. He carried his submachine gun slung over his shoulders and his helmet was low over his eyes. The canteen on his cartridge belt bobbed up and down on his fat ass whenever he took a step.

  He made his way through the throngs of men eating C rations for breakfast and finally found Captain Mason sitting in a foxhole with Lieutenant Colonel Francis Lechler, the commanding officer of the Second Battalion.

  “Morning sir,” said Colonel Lechler.

  “Morning,” replied Colonel Hutchins. “What’s going on here?”

  “All set to move out,” said Captain Mason.

  “Good,” replied Colonel Hutchins. “Glad to hear it. Just thought I’d stop by to see you off. You know what you gotta do?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s all I wanna know.” Colonel Hutchins looked around. “Butsko here yet?”

  “Should be here any minute.”

  Colonel Hutchins looked at his watch. It was quarter to four in the morning. The attack would begin in fifteen minutes. Everything appeared to be in readiness. Captain Mas
on and Colonel Lechler returned their attention to the map they’d been examining.

  “Here comes Butsko,” somebody said.

  Colonel Hutchins turned to the left and saw Butsko leading the recon platoon into the clearing. The men stopped and dropped to the ground, and Butsko resumed his movement, making a beeline for the hole where Captain Mason and Lieutenant Colonel Lechler were sitting. Bustko’s shoulders were drooped and his head hung forward. He hadn’t had his morning coffee yet.

  “Morning Butsko,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  “Morning sir,” Butsko replied. “You know where the coffee is around here?”

  “No I don’t. I just got here myself.”

  Captain Mason looked up from inside the foxhole and pointed to his right. “The coffee’s thataway.”

  “Thanks,” Butsko said.

  Colonel Hutchins looked at Butsko. “All ready to go?”

  “I’m ready but I don’t know about them stockade characters you gave me.”

  “Just kick ‘em in the ass, and they’ll move.”

  “I’ll give ‘em my standard pep talk after I get some coffee.”

  Butsko returned to the recon platoon and led them to the big tank where coffee was dispensed by a cook from Easy Company. It was hot and black, and you had to provide your own sugar and powdered milk from your C-rations pack. Butsko drank it straight, and the caffeine pepped him up considerably. His heart beat faster and his face flushed due to the rise in his blood pressure. He led his men back to the spot where they were on the edge of the Easy Company bivouac, and then he gave it to them as they sat on the grass and drank their coffee.

  “Now, listen to me,” Butsko said. “We’re going across that river in about fifteen minutes, and there ain’t gonna be no if’s, and’s, or but’s about it. We’ll probably meet some Jap resistance on the other side. It might be heavy or it might not be so heavy—it’s hard to say. But you can bet your ass on one thing: Sooner or later it’ll get heavy if it isn’t heavy at the beginning. The Japs aren’t gonna let us walk around over there like we own the place. Sooner or later they’ll try to stop us, and that’s when we separate the men from the boys in this here recon platoon. Everybody understand what I’m talking about so far?”

  Nobody said anything. Schlegelmilch had a sneer on his face. Crow looked scared to death. Hampton tried to act tough, but it was obvious that he was acting. McGurk appeared to be confused. Tronolone’s face had so many cuts and bruises, it was difficult to discern an expression.

  Butsko took a few gulps of coffee, and it tasted similar to kerosene. “The First Squad will remain as it was under Sergeant Plunkett,” Butsko said. “The Second Squad will have a new squad leader as of right now. He will be Pfc. Billie Jones.”

  “Me?” said the Reverend Billie Jones, pointing his thumb in toward his chest.

  “Ain’t you Pfc. Billie Jones?” Butsko asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “No but’s. You’re the new squad leader of the Second Squad, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  Frankie La Barbara’s feelings were hurt. He hadn’t wanted to be the squad leader of the Second Squad, but was surprised at being demoted so quickly. “What about me?” he asked.

  “You got a new job,” Butsko said. “From now on you bring up the rear in this platoon. If anybody tries to retreat without orders to retreat, I want you to shoot the son of a bitch, got it?”

  Frankie La Barbara widened his eyes. “Are you serious?”

  “You better believe it.”

  Frankie looked into Butsko’s eyes and saw the determination there. Butsko meant what he was saying. Frankie felt like he was getting a promotion instead of a demotion. “I gotcha Sarge.”

  “You’d better, because we got some people in this platoon who don’t want to fight, and I want them to know as of right now that if they don’t fight they’re gonna die, so they might as well fight, because that’s the only chance they got. Any questions?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “Good,” Butsko said. “That’s all for now. Enjoy your coffee, because it might be the last coffee you ever get in your lives, you fucking bastards.”

  On the other side of the Driniumor, Colonel Yukio Katsumata sat in his tent, looking at the map on his desk, while his chief of intelligence, Major Tadashi Honda, leaned over the desk, studying the map also.

  Major Honda pointed at the map. “The enemy activity appears to be centered right here.”

  “I don’t want to take any chances,” Colonel Katsumata replied. “I want the entire regiment pulled back one thousand yards, except for a screen on the Driniumor. When Americans cross the Driniumor and make contact, I want to be informed immediately. The screen should give way before the American advance, and we’ll try to draw the Americans into a pocket. Then we’ll go to work on them. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Transmit the order to all units.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Major Honda marched out of the office. Colonel Katsumata leaned over the map and sipped a tiny cup of green tea. He had a thin, sallow face and long Fu Manchu mustaches that extended an inch below his chin. The veteran of many losing battles, Colonel Katsumata hoped he wouldn’t lose this one too. It all depended on how many men the Americans sent across the Driniumor, and how much help General Adachi would give him if the Americans attacked in strength.

  Colonel Katsumata knew that his regiment existed mostly on paper. He’d taken huge casualties during the seesaw battle of the past few days. Moreover his regiment still wasn’t completely reorganized. He hoped and prayed the Americans weren’t about to launch a major attack, because he didn’t think he could handle it.

  We’ll find out all the answers soon enough, he thought, sipping his cup of tea. If the battle goes against us, all we can do is die like good Japanese soldiers.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Time for your medication, sir.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge opened his eyes. He saw the orderly towering above him, shining his flashlight on his tray of medication. The orderly lowered a tiny paper cup to Lieutenant Breckenridge and then handed Lieutenant Breckenridge a cup of water.

  Sleepily, Lieutenant Breckenridge accepted the medication. He lay on a cot in a hospital tent with other officers. Enlisted men slept on the ground in other tents. Lieutenant Breckenridge dropped the three pills into his mouth.

  “Heard your regiment is going across the Driniumor this morning,” the orderly said.

  “They are?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked, the pills in his mouth.

  The pills were bitter. He washed them down with the water.

  “That’s what I heard,” the orderly said.

  “Who told you?”

  “Somebody from your regiment who passed by here today.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge handed back the cups. The orderly moved on to the next officer. Lieutenant Breckenridge lay back and looked at the roof of the tent. The Twenty-third was going across the Driniumor again. Why weren’t they getting a rest? They’d been chewed up during the past few days. Didn’t they deserve a rest?

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning. He wondered what his old platoon was doing just then. At least it had Butsko to lead them. But he should be there too. What if something came up that Butsko couldn’t handle?

  Lieutenant Breckenridge wanted to be with his platoon. That wasn’t because he was a great heroic soldier or anything like that, but they were almost like members of his family, his blood brothers. He felt that they needed him. One more gun and one more bayonet could sometimes make a big difference. And one good brain could turn the tide of a battle. Butsko might be a great noncom, but he wasn’t as smart as Lieutenant Breckenridge, or at least that’s what Lieutenant Breckenridge thought.

  I'm in pretty good shape right now, Lieutenant Breckenridge thought. I can walk on my leg. Maybe I should get the he
ll out of here. There’s nothing to do around here anyway.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge had his uniform on, and his boots were underneath his cot. He could find a rifle and a helmet someplace, and maybe catch a ride to the front. He could hear vehicles coming and going on the road near the hospital tent. Surely one of them was going to the Twenty-third Regiment.

  He waited until the orderly finished his rounds and left the tent. Then Lieutenant Breckenridge sat up and pulled on his combat boots. He laced them and tied bows at the tops. Then he stood up and waited to see if he got dizzy, but he didn’t get dizzy.

  Shit, I’m all better, he thought. Then he took a step and felt the pain in his leg. It wasn’t a terrible pain, but it hurt anyway. Twenty stitches were sewn into that leg. But that wasn’t so bad. He could still walk on it.

  It was dark inside the tent. Cots were lined up against the two longest walls, the feet of the bunks pointing toward the aisle between them. Lieutenant Breckenridge hobbled over the aisle and came to the front of the tent, stepping outside.

  The moon shone high in the sky, casting a spectral glow over everything. Trucks and jeeps rolled past on the road. He limped toward the road, his leg hurting more. Finally he stopped. He had to admit to himself that he couldn’t fight on that leg. He could get around fairly well, but he wouldn’t be able to carry a full field pack on a long march or double-time very far.

  “You okay?” asked a soldier walking by.

  “Yes I’m okay!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said angrily.

  “You don’t look okay. Lemme give you a hand.”

  “I said I’m all right.”

  The soldier walked away. Lieutenant Breckenridge felt woozy. He realized he wasn’t able to fight or lead men. He’d become a casualty in no time at all. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out a package of cigarettes. Placing a cigarette between his lips, he lit it with his Zippo. He looked at the trucks and jeeps rolling over the road, heading toward the front. It wouldn’t be difficult to hitch a ride, but what would he do when he got to the front? Pass out? He’d be a bother to everybody. He might as well stay where he was.