by Len Levinson
Bisbee looked at the woman. She had high cheekbones and a mouth like a rosebud. Bisbee speculated that she’d probably be a great blowjob. He wondered if she was the Japanese officer’s wife or just his girl friend. A tiny spark went off in Bisbee’s demented brain and he dived on the officer’s right hand, holding it up.
Sure enough, on the fourth finger was a gold wedding band. A grin spread over Bisbee’s baby face as he positioned his Ka-bar over the finger and crunched it down, chopping off the finger. He pulled the gold band off, slid it on his own fourth finger of his right hand, and it fit perfectly.
A Japanese voice hollared nearby. Bisbee glanced up and saw a Japanese soldier running toward him, cursing him out. Bisbee leaped to his feet, drew back his arm, and threw the Ka-bar knife. The Japanese soldier dodged out of the way, and the knife sailed past him. The Japanese soldier resumed his charge, and Bisbee was weaponless, but that didn’t mean he was defenseless. The Japanese soldier drew closer and Bisbee dived through his legs, did a somersault, and landed beside his knife. He picked it up, spun around, and hurled it at the Japanese soldier, who was turning to face him again.
The knife slammed into the Japanese soldier’s chest. He dropped his rifle and wrapped his fingers around the knife, trying to pull it out, but he was hemorrhaging and lost consciousness, falling to the ground. Private Bisbee walked toward him, bent over, and pulled out the knife, wiping it on the Japanese soldier’s shirt. Then he opened the Japanese soldier’s mouth, and right in front was a gold tooth.
Bisbee smiled as he pulled the pliers out of his back pocket.
Private Theophilus Hampton opened his eyes. At first he didn’t know where he was. He stared up at the tops of the jungle trees and became aware that he had a monumental headache. His face hurt too, and then he remembered everything. Captain Mason had hit him in the face with his Colt .45. The Japanese had been attacking. What the hell happened?
Hampton rolled over and got up on all fours like a dog. He looked ahead and saw a swarm of American and Japanese soldiers fighting hand to hand only about a hundred yards away. The sun shone brightly on the jungle, and a carpet of dead bodies lay on the jungle floor. The wounded wailed and cried for assistance. Some struggled to get up but didn’t get far.
I’m getting out of here, Hampton thought. He rose to his feet and then vertigo struck him, the jungle spinning around, and he fell to his knees again. He touched his face lightly and could sense that it was tender. Dried blood was on his cheeks and chin. His lower lip felt as if it were split.
I've got to get out of here, he said to himself. Pulling out his canteen, he drank a few swallows and then poured some over his head. That made him feel better, and he picked up his rifle, attempting to stand again.
It worked. He was on his feet and the dizziness was mostly gone. He’d give anything he had for two aspirin and a comfortable bed with clean sheets. Hey, he thought, maybe I can go back to the hospital. They’ll take care of me there and I won’t have to fight in this goddamn war.
He glanced around and saw no Japanese soldiers. Holding his rifle in his two hands, he trotted back toward the Driniumor River, away from the fighting. His eyes darted from side to side, because he didn’t want to run into any Japs. He’d never fought a Jap hand to hand in his life and didn’t want to start. He wondered if he could have Captain Mason court-martialed for hitting him with his Colt .45. Officers weren’t supposed to strike enlisted men. Maybe I can start court-martial proceedings that will take me out of the war for a few months.
Hampton was in a hurry and didn’t bother to take normal precautions. He ran across an open clearing to save time, thinking of clean hospital beds and the ministrations of beautiful nurses, when blam—a bullet shot right through his brain.
One moment Hampton was alive, the next moment he was dead. Tumbling to the ground, he lay still, the top half of his head blown off. If he’d taken the trouble to put on his helmet before he ran away, it wouldn’t have happened. Hampton had been a silly son of a bitch all his life and that’s what killed him.
A squad of Japanese soldiers emerged from behind the bushes and trees that surrounded the clearing. They’d been advancing toward the main fighting when the American soldier came running toward them, and they shot him down. They approached his body and looked down at it. A Japanese sergeant dropped to his knees and searched the body for important papers, but found nothing except a wallet with pictures and some money inside. The sergeant threw it all away. He wasn’t a thief like Bisbee. Then he perked up his ears.
“I hear something!” he said.
His men heard it too, and dropped down to the ground. The sounds of hundreds of boots slogging over the ground, and bodies passing through the jungle, came to them from the direction of the Driniumor River. The sound was faint, and perhaps ordinary urbanized ears wouldn’t have detected them, but the Japanese soldiers were longtime combat veterans, and their ears were sharp.
The Japanese sergeant knew Japanese soldiers couldn’t be coming from that direction. They had to be Americans.
“Let’s get out of here!” he said to his men.
They jumped up and ran into the jungle, heading in a southerly direction away from all the fighting.
THIRTEEN . . .
General Clyde Hawkins jumped down from his jeep and marched smartly toward the stairs of the wooden hut that was the headquarters and command post for the Persecution Task Force at Aitape. He climbed the stairs, crossed the wide veranda, and entered the orderly room.
“I’d like to see General Hall for a few moments if he’s available,” General Hawkins said to the sergeant major who sat at the big desk.
“Yes sir.”
The sergeant major picked up his telephone and pressed a button. He spoke into the telephone, listened, said something else, and hung up. “He’ll see you right now, sir.”
“Excellent.”
General Hawkins opened the door and entered the office of Major General Charles P. Hall, commander of the Persecution Task Force, who sat behind his desk, a pipe with a long curved stem sticking out of his mouth. The air in the office was filled with the rich odor of Prince Albert tobacco.
General Hawkins approached the desk and saluted. “I thought I’d report personally on our little escapade this morning.”
“Have a seat and tell me all about it.”
General Hawkins sat on a chair in front of the desk. General Hall leaned back and placed his fingers on the pipe in his mouth, removing it and blowing a spume of smoke into the air. He had thinning gray hair combed across the top of his head, and a weatherbeaten face.
“Well,” said General Hawkins, “we met stiff resistance over there almost immediately.”
General Hall raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t think the Japs were that strong.”
“They are.”
“Then we’ll have to proceed more cautiously than I’d planned. What were your casualties?”
“I don’t have the exact figures yet. Probably not too bad.”
“Any problems?”
“None at all.”
General Hall smiled. “Then the operation was a success. We know that the Japs are still kicking, and it didn’t cost us a helluva lot. Care for a drink, Clyde?”
“Don’t mind if I do, General.”
General Hall picked up his phone and spoke to his sergeant major. Then he hung up and puffed his pipe, but it had gone out. He lit it again, making noisy slurping sounds, his head disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke.
“Well,” he said, “I think we’d better attack the Japs before the Japs attack us. Keep patrolling in front of your sector so that we know at all times what the bastards are doing. I think I can get a major attack under way in about ten days. Your division will be able to move out in force by then, won’t it?”
“My division stays ready to move out in force, sir.”
General Hall’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. He liked frontline division commanders who were always raring to go, like General Hawk
ins. There was a knock on the door.
“Come in!” said General Hall.
A private first class entered the office, carrying a tray on which was a bottle of Scotch, two glasses, a small pail of ice, and a bottle of club soda. The private first class poured two drinks and served them to the officers, then retired discreetly.
General Hall placed his pipe in his ashtray and picked up one of the glasses, raising it high in the air. “To victory!” he said.
General Hawkins raised his glass high, too, and winked. “To victory!”
Both officers drank their highballs as sunlight poured through the windows. They could hear the faint sounds of battle far, very far, in the distance, but paid little attention. They both thought it was a wonderful morning. They’d elicited the information they wanted, and it was no skin off their asses. Now they could devote themselves to a really major offensive and maybe finish off the Japs for good on that part of New Guinea.
Lieutenant Ono burst into General Adachi’s office. “Sir, the Americans are retreating!”
General Adachi was surprised, and then he smiled. “Magnificent!” He looked down at his map. “How were our casualties?”
Lieutenant Ono frowned. “Fairly heavy, I understand. In fact, it’s not clear why the Americans are retreating.”
The smile vanished on General Adachi’s face. “Why isn’t it clear?”
Lieutenant Ono dropped into the chair in front of General Adachi’s desk and leaned forward. “From what Colonel Katsumata told me, he ambushed the Americans in accordance with your directives. His forces greatly outnumbered the Americans, but the Americans fought well, and then they were reinforced. Finally they retreated back across the Driniumor.”
“I wonder why they pulled back?” General Adachi mused.
“Maybe they thought they were outnumbered.”
“But they weren’t outnumbered, were they?”
“No sir. Not after their reinforcements arrived.”
General Adachi scowled. He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, blowing smoke at the ceiling of his tent, trying to figure out what had happened. Why had the Americans attacked and then retreated when instead they could have exploited the gains they’d made, or at least stopped and dug in, maintaining their salient as a jump-off point for future operations.
At an earlier point in his career, General Adachi would have guessed that the Americans had been scared away, but he knew the Americans well now, and they really didn’t scare that easily. They had retreated for another reason. What was it?
He tried to put himself into the American commander’s shoes, and then it came to him instantly. He banged his fist on his desk. “It was only a reconnaissance in force!” he said.
Lieutenant Ono thought about that for a few moments. “Ah soo,” he replied, seeing the light.
“Of course!” General Adachi exclaimed. “They wanted to know what our strength was, after the past few days of fighting, so they launched a bogus attack to see how we’d respond.”
Lieutenant Ono made a dismal smile. “Well, we responded all right. Now they know.”
General Adachi raised his finger in the air. “But that’s not so bad. They will be careful in the future. It will take them awhile to mount a major operation against us, and perhaps we can strike first!”
General Adachi looked down at his map. He knew by heart where his troops and equipment were. Closing his eyes, he estimated how soon he could attack. He lacked transport, so everything would have to be moved to the front by hand. Perhaps he could employ native labor to help out.
He realized he’d need at least a week to prepare, but certainly not more than two weeks. That was a long time, and it was possible that the Americans would attack first. He felt a sharp pain in his upper stomach—his ulcers. He’d acquired them due to long-term nonstop anxieties similar to the ones he was having just then. If the Americans attacked him first, the Eighteenth Army would be finished.
“This war,” he said grimly, shaking his head. “Why did we ever get into this war?”
“Well,” replied Major Honda, “it seemed like an awfully good idea at the time.”
Butsko was limp on the stretcher, shot full of morphine. The medics had bandaged his hands, leg, and left arm, and now he was being carried to a deuce-and-a-half truck that would deliver him to the division’s medical headquarters.
Colonel Hutchins stood beside the deuce-and-a-half as the wounded soldiers were loaded aboard. He patted the wounded men on their heads or shoulders, telling them they’d done a great job, trying to raise their morale. When he saw Butsko he nearly shit his pants.
“You again!” Colonel Hutchins said. “Can’t you stay out of trouble?”
“Guess not,” Butsko said dizzily. “I ain’t even been back to the front for twenty-four hours, and already I’m on the way to the fucking hospital.”
Colonel Hutchins looked at the soldiers carrying Butsko’s stretcher. “Set him down over here.”
The soldiers carried Butsko to the spot Colonel Hutchins had indicated, and placed the stretcher on the ground. Colonel Hutchins knelt beside Butsko, lit a cigarette, and placed it between Butsko’s lips.
“Thanks,” Butsko said.
“How bad was it out there?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Hell on earth,” Butsko replied. “Sergeant Plunkett is dead, and so’s half of his squad. Most of those guys you got out of that stockade are dead too.”
“At least they died for their country.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit.”
“What if you were the mother of one of those guys?” Colonel Hutchins asked. “Would you rather have your son as a dead hero or a live coward with a dishonorable discharge?”
“It was bad enough being their platoon sergeant. What a bunch of plug-uglies.”
Captain Mason approached them, his shirt torn to shreds, bleeding from a dozen cuts all over his body. His face was filthy, he’d lost his helmet, and a cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth.
“How’s Butsko?” he asked Colonel Hutchins.
Butsko raised his head. “If you want to know how I am, why in the fuck don’t you ask me?”
“I saw you lying there and I thought you were unconscious.”
“Smoking a cigarette?”
“I didn’t see the cigarette. You sound like you’re still full of fight. You wanna go back over there?”
“Not me,” Butsko said.
Captain Mason turned to Colonel Hutchins. “I wanna put Butsko in for the Distinguished Service Cross.”
“That’s okay by me,” Colonel Hutchins said. “What’d he do?”
“Lotsa things. I’ll have to write ‘em all up.”
“I’ll pass the chit along to General Hawkins,” Colonel Hutchins said.
Butsko looked up from the stretcher. “Guys like me never get the DSC.”
“Why not?”
“Because only nice guys get the DSC.”
“Maybe this’ll be a first.”
The driver of the truck walked up to the two officers. “I gotta go to the hospital now,” he told them.
“Help me with Butsko,” Colonel Hutchins said.
The driver bent over and picked up one end of the stretcher. Colonel Hutchins lifted the other end. Together they loaded Butsko onto the truck.
“Take it easy, buddy,” Colonel Hutchins said to Butsko.
“Keep your hands off the nurses,” Captain Mason added.
Butsko looked back at them. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, “because I’ll be far away from the Japs. Maybe you’d better worry about yourselves.”
The driver put up the tailgate and jumped into the cab of the truck. He started the engine, shifted into gear, and drove away. Colonel Hutchins and Captain Mason watched the truck disappear around a bend in the road.
“I’ve never seen anything like him,” Captain Mason said.
“He’s a real pisser, ain’t he?” Colonel Hutchins replied.
“So
here you are,” said Lieutenant Beverly McCaffrey.
Lieutenant Breckenridge sat with his back against a tree and looked up at her. She wore clean green fatigues and looked as though she’d just taken a bath.
“Hi,” he replied.
“You don’t look too happy.”
“I’m not.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
She knelt beside him. “C’mon, you can tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I bet I know what’s bothering you. Your regiment was in an attack this morning and you’re worried, right?”
“Right.”
“You shouldn’t worry about things you can’t do anything about.”
“I know, but everybody does.”
She grabbed his hand and stood up. “C’mon, let’s go for a walk.”
He got to his feet, his hand still in hers, and then he became embarrassed and pulled his hand away. Soldiers were all around the area and it didn’t look proper.
“Where should we go?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter.” She pointed vaguely toward the jungle. “That way’s good enough. You can walk all right, can’t you?”
“I’ll have to take it a little slow.”
“If you get weak, you can lean on me.”
“I don’t think you could hold me up.”
“I’m stronger than you think.”
He looked at her, and her hair was like spun gold in the sunlight. The individual strands were extremely fine, almost invisible, and her face was nicely tanned. The bags that had been underneath her eyes and the lines around her mouth had been erased by a good night of sleep. She wore no makeup and appeared fresh and pure. Lieutenant Breckenridge felt that old familiar stirring in his loins.
“Lead the way,” he said.
“You’re the big bad platoon leader,” she replied. “You lead the way.”
He looked around and saw a path. He didn’t know where it went, but who cared where it went?
“This way,” he said, limping forward.
