by Len Levinson
The Japanese soldier lost consciousness and dropped to the ground. McGurk stepped forward and saw a Japanese officer pointing a Nambu pistol at him, squeezing the trigger. McGurk roared like a crazed beast and rushed toward the Japanese officer, unnerving him, making the pistol shake, and the trigger moved its final sixteenth of an inch, sending the firing pin forward.
Blam! The bullet whacked into McGurk’s left pectoral muscle and was stopped cold by his massive ribs. The impact slowed McGurk down, but the pain only made him madder. He swung the BAR down and smashed the Japanese officer’s head to smithereens. The Japanese officer fell onto his back, and McGurk jumped with both his feet onto the Japanese officer’s face, demolishing his nose, busting up his teeth. Then McGurk stomped him in his rage and pain as blood leaked out of the bullet hole in his pectoral muscle.
McGurk spun around and swung his BAR wildly, fracturing the back of the skull of a Japanese soldier who was about to stick an American soldier with his bayonet. The American soldier was Tronolone, whose rifle and bayonet had been knocked out of his hands thirty seconds before. He’d been staring up defenseless at the Japanese soldier, certain he’d be killed at any moment, and now suddenly the Japanese soldier was dead, falling down on top of him.
Tronolone deflected the Japanese soldier’s rifle and bayonet out of the way, and the Japanese soldier fell on top of him. Tronolone pushed him off, grabbed his rifle and bayonet, and got to his feet.
He looked around and the first thing he saw was McGurk beating the shit out of Japanese soldiers with his BAR. McGurk just plowed through the Japs, smacking them on the right and left with his BAR, and Tronolone watched for a few seconds, transfixed by all the mayhem.
Tronolone loved mayhem, violence, and murder. He hated the world, and all he wanted to do was kill and destroy. This was his big chance to do just that, and it was all legal. With a cry of joy Tronolone rushed toward a Japanese soldier whose back was to him. Tronolone thrust his rifle and bayonet forward, impaling the Japanese soldier, who shrieked horribly, reaching around with his hand to plug the hole, and Tronolone batted him in the head with his rifle butt, shattering his skull.
The Japanese soldier dropped to his knees, and Tronolone kicked him in the ass. Then Tronolone turned to the right and saw a Japanese soldier charging toward him, holding a rifle and bayonet. Tronolone and the Japanese soldier both lunged at the same moment, and their rifles clashed against each other. They drew back and lunged at the same moment again, and once more their rifles clashed, doing no damage to each other.
Each of them took a step backward. They glowered at each other and knew one of them would be dead within a very short period of time. The Japanese soldier wore a full beard and was skinny from lack of proper nourishment. Tronolone was also bearded, but he ate like a pig whenever he had the chance. Tronolone feinted with his rifle and bayonet, but the Japanese soldier didn’t fall for it. The Japanese soldier then feinted with his rifle and bayonet, and Tronolone did fall for it. He raised his rifle and bayonet to parry the thrust that never came, and then the Japanese soldier swung his rifle and bayonet around and smashed Tronolone full in the face with his rifle butt.
Tronolone saw stars and staggered backward. He tripped over the arm of a dead American soldier lying on the ground, and fell on his back.
Tronolone wanted to get up. He knew his life was in grave danger. But the world was spinning around him and he barely knew where he was. The Japanese soldier drew back his rifle and bayonet and then thrust it forward, burying the bayonet in Tronolone’s chest.
Tronolone was engulfed by pain. His right lung was punctured and air rushed out, making a sound like a fart. Tronolone went limp on the ground. His heart stopped beating. The party was over.
The Japanese soldier felt no great elation. He’d been fighting hand to hand for five years, practically nonstop, and it was as normal and common to him as adding up numbers is to an accountant, or fucking Johns is to a whore. He placed one foot on Tronolone’s chest, pulled out his bayonet, and looked up to see who else he could kill.
He was startled to see an American soldier rushing toward him, blood oozing from his mouth and soaking his torn, bedraggled shirt. This American soldier was none other than Private Phillip T. Crow, formerly a craven coward, now a homicidal maniac.
Crow was crazed by pain and horror. His personality had done such a massive flip-flop during the past hour that he didn’t even know who he was. He charged the Japanese soldier, screaming at the top of his lungs, spitting blood everywhere, and the Japanese soldier placed his left foot behind him, bracing for the inevitable collision.
Crow shoved his rifle and bayonet forward, aiming for the center of the Japanese soldier’s chest, and the Japanese soldier easily parried the thrust to the side, bringing the butt of his rifle around to smash Crow in the face as he’d smashed Tronolone in the face; but Crow was moving forward quickly, and he kneed the Japanese soldier in the balls.
The Japanese soldier was paralyzed by the sudden overwhelming pain, but he didn’t drop his rifle. He held on to it tightly, knowing it was his only hope. But he couldn’t move. He had a double hernia and the pain made him dizzy. Crow punched the Japanese soldier on the jaw with his rifle butt, and the Japanese soldier became even dizzier.
Crow took a step backward to see what he could do. It appeared to him that the Japanese soldier was basically defenseless, so he straightened out his rifle and bayonet, took aim, and ran the Japanese soldier through with such power that the end of Crow’s bayonet stuck out of the Japanese soldier’s back.
The Japanese soldier’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Crow pushed the Japanese soldier onto his back and then tugged his rifle and bayonet, but it wouldn’t come loose. Crow pulled his rifle and bayonet again, but still it was clamped in by the Japanese soldier’s ribs. Crow rammed a round into the chamber of his M 1 rifle, flicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger.
The M 1 fired, blowing a hole in the Japanese soldier’s chest, blood and lung tissue flying in all directions. Crow yanked on his rifle and bayonet, but still it was lodged in the bloody mess that the Japanese soldier’s chest had become.
Crow didn’t know what to do for a few moments. He’d tried everything he could think of, but of course he wasn’t thinking too clearly then. His gums ached, he bled from fourteen cuts and nicks, and a bloody battle raged all around him. His mind was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions and warped considerations, but he had enough clarity left to bend over and pick up the dead Japanese soldier’s rifle and bayonet, so he’d have something to fight with.
“Banzai!” screamed a voice in front of him.
Crow looked up and saw a Japanese officer rushing toward him, swinging his samurai sword in wild loops over his head.
“Yyaaaaahhhhhhh!” hollered Crow as he charged the Japanese officer, aiming his rifle and bayonet at the Japanese officer’s belly.
The Japanese officer raised his samurai sword over his head and gritted his teeth, then swung down with all his might at Crow’s head. Crow raised his rifle and bayonet to block the blow, and sparks flew as the samurai sword struck the barrel of the rifle.
The samurai sword was made of better steel than the barrel of the Japanese rifle, and the Japanese rifle was dented badly. The Japanese officer drew back his sword and swung sideways at Private Crow’s ribs, and Crow dropped the-damaged rifle, diving for the Japanese officer’s wrist.
Crow’s fingers clamped onto the Japanese officer’s wrist, and Crow pushed hard to the side, making the Japanese officer lose his footing. The Japanese officer sprawled onto the ground, and Crow landed on top of him, both his hands still wrapped around the Japanese officer’s wrist.
The Japanese officer swung wildly with his free hand, and punched Crow in the mouth. The blow hurt Crow, but it didn’t faze him otherwise. It only made him madder. The Japanese officer punched again, and Crow raised his shoulder, blocking the blow. Then Crow angled his elbow down and plunged it into the Japanese officer’s fac
e. It smashed against the Japanese officer’s nose, breaking bones and cartilage. The Japanese officer loosened his grip on the samurai sword and Crow dived onto it. He picked it up, holding the handle in his right hand and the top of the blade in his left hand. Like a chef chopping onions in a fancy restaurant, Crow pushed the blade down to the Japanese officer’s throat.
The Japanese officer saw death coming at him. All he could do was raise his hands and try to stop it as blood welled out of his nose and covered his face, but the blade of the samurai sword came down inexorably. Its blade pressed against the palms of the Japanese officer’s hands, cutting to the bone, and the Japanese officer tried to hold off his own samurai sword, but Crow grinned fiendishly with his toothless mouth, his eyes glittering with madness, and leaned all his weight on the sword.
Crow had the leverage on his side, and the Japanese officer knew he was in a whole world of trouble. The blade of his samurai sword cut into the bones of his hand as it sank ever closer to his throat. The Japanese officer bucked like a wild mustang, trying to throw Crow off him, but Crow held on with his knees like a rodeo rider and pressed down hard, eager to kill the Japanese officer, because deep down Crow hated officers even more than he hated sergeants, and it didn’t matter to him whose uniform the officer was wearing.
The Japanese officer knew he was finished. He watched the blade inch nearer his throat, and thought of all his ancestors in heaven looking at him, expecting him to die with honor. The Japanese officer performed a quick mental check of his action and saw that it was impeccable. He concluded that he was in fact dying with honor, and that’s all that a Japanese officer could hope for.
“Banzai!” shouted the Japanese officer, and then the blade cut into his throat. The blade was razor-sharp and sliced easily through the outer skin, but then it came to the throat gristle and its progress slowed down. The Japanese officer felt his death come in minute fractions of an inch, but still he tried to hold back the blade with his bloody hands. The blade cut the strands of his throat gristle and finally made it through to the air passage itself.
That was it. Air whistled out of the hole and blood shot like a geyser onto Crow’s face. The Japanese officer’s strength left him, and he couldn’t hold back the blade anymore. It cut his throat in two and drove back to the part of his spine that connected his head to the rest of his body.
Blood oozed and spurted before Crow’s fascinated eyes. Crow took a deep breath and pushed down again with redoubled effort. The blade of the samurai sword cut through the Japanese officer’s spine and then passed easily through the remaining scrap of flesh underneath it. The Japanese officer’s head was severed from its body and rolled a few feet away.
Private Phillip T. Crow was exhilarated. He couldn’t take his eyes off the spectacle of death in front of him. Never could he have imagined that one day he’d chop off another man’s head, but he’d done it. His mind had snapped during the past hour, and now it was cut completely loose from its moorings.
Crow bent over, picked up the head, and looked at it, holding it level with his own head. He gazed into the eyes on the head, which were wide open, staring back at him. Blood dripped out of the bottom of the head. Crow’s hands were slimy with blood, and there was blood on his face, clothes—everywhere. The Japanese officer’s mouth was open and his tongue stuck out. Blood rolled down his tongue and fell in drops to the ground.
Crow examined the Japanese officer’s head as if it contained the secret of the meaning of life. The Japanese officer had been so alive, so full of vitality only minutes ago, but now he was dead, his head cut off, a threat to no one anymore, and his soul—where was his soul?
Crow wondered about the Japanese officer’s soul, as hand-to-hand battle clattered and clanged all around him. He wondered if the Japanese officer’s soul was headless as it traveled through eternity, and indeed, what was a soul anyway? Did it have corporeality or was it just a vapor, a puff of wind, a charge of electricity?
Crow gradually had been losing his mind ever since he’d been drafted into the Army, and now it was completely gone. He was oblivious to the Japanese soldier creeping up on him from behind, aiming his rifle and bayonet at Crow’s back. Crow had been obsessed with death from his first day in the Army. He’d thought about it constantly, was afraid of it continually, lived with it steadily, dreamed about it at night, and now it had completely defeated his mind.
Crow had killed many men on the battlefield that morning, but he was no soldier. He didn’t have the soldier’s instinct for self-preservation. He hadn’t killed for God or country or even to save his own worthless ass, but because he had become insane. Everything becomes its opposite after a while, and Crow had become transformed from an ex-embezzler afraid of death to a psychotic killer who was in love with death. He had lost touch with the reality of his situation as he stared at the head of the dead Japanese officer.
Crow had met his enemy—death—head-on, and discovered that he loved his enemy. Fear had become love. That which he’d hated had transformed into that which he wanted to do. He was thrilled to have overcome death itself, wielding it like a tool. He was grateful to death for becoming his buddy, his ally, his comrade-in-arms.
So grateful was he that he brought the Japanese officer’s head closer and kissed it on the lips, tasting the Japanese officer’s blood, and at that moment the Japanese soldier creeping up on Crow plunged his bayonet into Crow’s back. Crow saw a brilliant white flash in front of his eyes, and the heavens opened up before him. The sudden pain thrilled him, and he had an orgasm although he didn’t even have a hard-on.
Crow fell forward onto his face, dying. The Japanese officer’s head rolled out of his hands. Behind him, the Japanese soldier pulled back his bayonet, and Crow’s blood spurted out after it. Blood soaked Crow’s body, and semen filled his pants. He had overcome his fear of death, but it had cost him his sanity and his life. He died with a stupid smile on his face.
The Japanese soldier behind Crow raised his rifle and bayonet, then turned around.
Blam!
A bullet from a Colt .45 blew his head apart. The bullet was fired out of a service pistol in the hand of Captain Mason, the stalwart commanding officer of Easy Company, who was not insane at all and in no hurry to come to terms with death.
Captain Mason carried his Colt .45 in his right hand and his Ka-bar knife in his left hand, which was covered with blood and gore, as was the knife itself. Captain Mason didn’t charge forward like a madman; he stepped forward cautiously, selecting his targets as carefully as he could, considering the rampant violence taking place all around him. A Japanese soldier appeared in front of him, looking to his left and then to his right, his eyes finally falling on Captain Mason. Then his eyes opened wide.
Blam! The bullet from Captain Mason’s Colt .45 shot through the Japanese soldier’s chest, and the Japanese soldier’s knees buckled underneath him. He fell in a clump to the ground, and two Japanese soldiers jumped over him, rushing toward Captain Mason, lunging at him with their rifles and bayonets.
Blam! Captain Mason shot the Japanese soldier on the left in the belly, and the Japanese soldier tripped over his own feet. Shifting his aim to the right, Captain Mason squeezed the trigger again.
Click!
The Colt .45 was empty, and Captain Mason had no time to reload. He set his jaw grimly and stood his ground, timing the Japanese soldier coming in. The Japanese soldier thrust his rifle and bayonet forward, and Captain Mason batted it away with a backhand swing of his left hand. Then Captain Mason stepped forward inside the Japanese soldier’s guard and socked him in the face with his Colt .45. The blow staggered the Japanese soldier, and Captain Mason plunged his Ka-bar knife into the Japanese soldier’s stomach.
Blood poured out onto Captain Mason’s hand. He pulled the knife out and the Japanese soldier collapsed at his feet. Reaching into the pouch on his belt, Captain Mason pulled out another clip of bullets. He ejected the empty clip, fed in the fresh one, pulled back the slide, and let it
go. The Colt was loaded with seven more bullets, and they were big fat bullets designed to stop anything.
A crowd of Japanese soldiers, carrying rifles and bayonets, closed in on Captain Mason. He raised the Colt .45 and pulled the trigger—blam! Blam! Blam!—blowing three of them away. Holding the Colt .45 steady, he fired—blam! Blam! Blam!—causing three more Japanese soldiers to bite the dust.
But there were two Japanese soldiers remaining, and they lunged forward with their rifles and bayonets at the same time. Captain Mason jumped backward to get out of the way, and fell against a group of American and Japanese soldiers trying to kill each other. Trying to catch his balance, he raised his Colt .45 as the Japanese soldiers pushed their rifles and bayonets toward him again. Blam—he shot the Japanese soldier on the left between the eyes, and the top of his head blew off. He aimed at the other Japanese soldier and pulled the trigger once more.
Click!
The Colt .45 was empty again, and there was nothing Captain Mason could do except drop the fucking thing and his Ka-bar knife as well, freeing his hands and grabbing the front of the Japanese soldier’s rifle.
The Japanese soldier’s momentum carried him forward, and he almost butted heads with Captain Mason. The two men looked into each other’s bloodshot eyes and saw the hatred, fury, and excitement of combat to the death. The Japanese soldier jutted his face forward and tried to bite off Captain Mason’s nose, but Captain Mason pulled his head back, catching a whiff of the Japanese soldier’s fetid breath from the Japanese soldier’s wide-open mouth and rotting teeth.
The Japanese soldier tried to pull his rifle and bayonet out of Captain Mason’s hands, but Captain Mason was a very strong man, much stronger than he looked. The Japanese soldier couldn’t free his rifle, so he kicked Captain Mason in the balls, but Captain Mason dodged to the side in the nick of time and received the blow on his hip. Captain Mason then stepped forward and kneed the Japanese soldier in the balls, but the Japanese soldier pivoted slightly, Captain Mason’s knee connecting with the Japanese soldier’s thigh.
