Hot Lead and Cold Steel

by Len Levinson

  The Mosquito wanted desperately to survive the war. He knew that the odds were against it, but he had to try. Never had he felt so alone in his life, because he could discuss his inner thoughts with no one. All the others wanted to die for the Emperor. The Mosquito wasn't a religious man, and he didn't believe in the divinity of the Emperor, who was just another man as far as he concerned, while the royal family was just a family business. He didn't want to die for the Emperor or anyone else. He wanted to live somehow.

  He didn't know how he could do it. When the Americans attacked next time, they'd turn Kokengolo Hill into a huge crater filled with corpses, and his corpse would probably be among them.

  But maybe not. Perhaps there'd be a way out. If there was, he'd find it. And if not, he'd just die like the lowlife everybody believed he was. He rolled onto his back and rested his head on his hands. Better get as much sleep as I can, he thought. I'll need every bit of strength I have when the Americans attack tomorrow.

  Frankie La Barbara opened his eyes and didn't know whether he was dreaming or not. A woman in an Army uniform stood in front of him, pointing a camera.

  Click!

  Frankie flinched. “Where the fuck am I?” he asked.

  The woman turned away, fingering a knob on the camera. Her armband said: PRESS.

  A man materialized out of the fog, and he wore a similar armband. He carried a note pad and pencil in his hand.

  “What's your name, soldier?” he asked, steel-rimmed glasses over his eyes.

  “What's going on here?” Frankie asked, dazed. He was shot full of morphine but could feel the ache in his stomach. He recalled being bayoneted by a Jap in the jungle southeast of the Jap airfield.

  “We're war correspondents,” the man said with a smile. “We'll get your picture in your hometown paper, maybe. What's your name?”

  “Frankie La Barbara.”

  “Your rank?”

  “Buck private.”

  “Where you from?”

  “New York City.”

  The correspondent wrote it all down. “Good luck, soldier,” he said, moving away.

  “Where the hell am I?”

  The man disappeared. Frankie felt numb all over. Even his brain felt numb. He focused on the OD-green canvas wall of a tent. I'm in a tent, he thought. I wonder if I'm gonna die. Somebody groaned nearby. Through the numbness Frankie could feel the throbbing ache in his stomach. I hope it's not too bad. Just bad enough to get me shipped the fuck out of here.

  He blinked his eyes. A young woman wearing an Army uniform stood in front of him, black hair curling out underneath a fatigue cap crooked on her head.

  “Are you real or am I dreaming you?” Frankie asked.

  She smiled. “I'm real.” Taking his wrist, she looked at her watch.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Your field medical unit.”

  “This is still New Georgia?”

  “Yes, but you'll probably go to Guadalcanal tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Am I hurt bad?”

  “Not that bad.”

  “Will they ship me back home?” Frankie asked eagerly.

  She could hear the desperate desire in his voice. “I don't think so.”

  “Shit,” Frankie said.

  “I know how you feel.”

  Frankie looked at her, and she had the features and coloring of an Italian like himself. “You a guinea too?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Boston.”

  “I'm from New York What's your name?”

  “Mary Falvo.”

  “I'm Frankie La Barbara.”

  “I know.” She let his wrist go.

  “Am I okay?”

  “Yes. Close your eyes and get some sleep.”

  “Why don't you get in here with me and we'll sleep together?”

  “You couldn't get it up if your life depended on it, so go to sleep.”

  “Frankie La Barbara can always get it up.”

  “I said go to sleep.”

  She retreated into the shadows and was gone, but her presence and her touch made Frankie feel better. She was the first woman he'd seen since leaving Guadalcanal. He closed his eyes and drifted off into the warm black ocean, a smile on his face.

  Colonel Stockton lay on the cot in his office, reading a dogeared copy of Ulysses S. Grant's memoirs. It was night and he'd go to sleep soon. All his work was done, hours of poring over maps and issuing orders, and now he was relaxing before undressing.

  The cot was positioned along a wall in his big headquarters tent, and he read by the light of a kerosene lamp. His favorite books were by or about the great military leaders of history; Alexander, Julius Caesar, Napoleon, von Clausewitz, General Pershing—under whom he'd served in World War One—and now General Grant, one of the best—and maybe the very best—field commander the United States had ever produced.

  Colonel Stockton was convinced that General Grant was a better strategist and commander than General Lee, although conventional wisdom said otherwise. Most people believed that the Southerners lost the Civil War only because they were outnumbered by the Northerners, but if you examined the numbers, as Colonel Stockton had, and took into consideration the fact that the South had many part-time militia and guerilla fighters that were never counted in their rosters, while the North used many of its soldiers to guard and maintain its long supply lines into the depths of the Confederacy, it became clear that both sides had similar numbers opposing each other in the field.

  Colonel Stockton's military reading took his mind away from his immediate concerns while maintaining his military point of view. He continued to read about the battle of Vicks-burg, admiring Grant's straightforward writing style and the clarity of his ideas.

  “Sir?” said a voice on the other side of the tent flap.

  “Yes?” replied Colonel Stockton, looking up from the book.

  “I have to speak with you, sir.”

  “Come in.”

  The tent flap was pushed aside, and Lieutenant Wooster, the OD, entered and saluted. Colonel Stockton swung his feet around to the floor and sat up.

  “Sir,” said Lieutenant Wooster, “there are two war correspondents outside, and they want to see you. One of them's that famous photographer Lydia Kent-Taylor.”

  “Shit,” Colonel Stockton said. “Just what I need.”

  “They've got passes from General Griswold that say they can go anywhere. They want to talk to you about moving up to the front here.”

  Colonel Stockton groaned as he stood up. He stretched and hobbled to his desk. “Send them in in five minutes, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Wooster left the office, and Colonel Stockton sat heavily behind his desk. He opened a drawer, took out a comb and a steel mirror, and combed his silvery hair. He needed a shave but he supposed front-line officers weren't supposed to look like they were on parade. Favorable publicity might help get his star, but reporters twisted everything and could make a fool out of you, even ruin a career. Colonel Stockton didn't feel like dealing with a famous lady photographer, especially after 71 men were killed and 123 wounded that day.

  “May I come in?” asked a female voice.

  Colonel Stockton stood behind his desk. “Please do,” he said in his most charming voice.

  The flap was swept aside and the famous Lydia Kent-Taylor entered the office, followed by a man in glasses, a bookworm type, whom Colonel Stockton didn't recognize.

  “Hello,” said the woman, “I'm Lydia Kent-Taylor, and this is Leo Stern. We're both from the Universal News Syndicate out of New York.”

  “I've heard of you Miss Kent-Taylor,” Colonel Stockton said, shaking her hand. “Please have a seat. I apologize for the lack of comfort here, but I'm sure you understand.” He shook Leo Stern's hand, then everyone sat down.

  Calmly, without any self-consciousness, Lydia raised her Leica camera and snapped a shot of Colonel Stockton, who didn't kn
ow whether to smile or frown and wound up looking into the lens with a stolid expression on his face.

  Lydia wore Army fatigues and a battered old safari hat. She carried a canvas haversack containing camera equipment and Kodak film, and wore the Leica around her neck. Colonel’ Stockton judged her age at around thirty-five, and she had light-brown hair, short, fine, and wavy. The features of her face were Anglo-Saxon, just like his.

  She reached into her haversack. “I have a letter here from General Griswold,” she said. “It authorizes me to go anywhere and requests local commanders to assist me however possible.”

  She handed over the letter and Colonel Stockton read it. The signature looked authentic, and she surely was Lydia Kent-Taylor because he'd seen her picture in magazines. He recalled from his reading in Stars and Stripes that she was in the Pacific Theater.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, handing the letter back.

  She folded it carefully and placed it in a pocket in her haversack. “I understand there's going to be a big attack here the day after tomorrow. I want to go up to the front and photograph it before, during, and after.”

  Colonel Stockton straightened his spine, because she was fingering her camera and he thought she might take another picture. “Ever been to the front before?” he asked.

  “Many times,” she replied.

  “When there was hard fighting going on?”

  “Yes.”

  Colonel Stockton paused to think, because her concept of heavy fighting might be vastly different from his. “My regiment suffered very heavy casualties today. The Japs don't discriminate between my soldiers and photographers from the States. If you'd been at my front today, you might become a casualty too.”

  “I know all about your casualties,” she said. “I just came from your field hospital and I saw them. I want to go where the fighting is the hottest, and I'll take my chances. So will Leo.”

  Leo Stern nodded as he wrote in his notebook. What the hell is he writing? Colonel Stockton thought. I'd better get these two out of my office before they get me in trouble. Then he had an idea, and it made him smile. He'd send them to the recon platoon and let Butsko handle them. Butsko would cut this high-falutin lady photographer down to size. He'd show her what the war was all about at its rawest, most brutal level.

  “Well,” Colonel Stockton said, “if you want to go where the fighting is the hottest, I guess you ought to go where my recon platoon is. They always get the toughest missions and they're usually in the thickest fighting. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “I just want to be with regular American front-line soldiers,” Lydia said.

  “That's what they are,” Colonel Stockton replied. “They're from all over America, from all walks of life. Some enlisted, some were drafted, and a couple of them are career soldiers. I don't think you'd want to invite many of them into your home, Miss Kent-Taylor, but they're regular front-line American soldiers.”

  An expression of hostility passed over her face, and Colonel Stockton was sorry about his remark as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He looked nervously at Leo Stern, who was writing away, and Lydia raised her camera to take another picture. Colonel Stockton tried to smile.

  Click!

  She lowered the camera. “You'd be surprised who I'd invite into my home for dinner,” she said sweetly. “Why, I might even invite you into my home for dinner, Colonel.”

  “That'd be my great pleasure, ma'am,” he replied, trying to be charming again.

  “Can you explain how I can get to this platoon?” she asked. “What did you call it... the recon platoon?‘

  “Yes, it's my reconnaissance platoon. It does all my dirty work. I'll have somebody take you to them. And I think both of you had better wear steel pots, because, as I said, that's where the war is.”

  “I heard you,” she answered, “and back here is where you are.”

  Their eyes locked into each other. I hate this bitch, Colonel Stockton thought. I hope she gets a bullet up her ass.

  “Lieutenant Wooster!” Colonel Stockton shouted.

  Lieutenant Wooster burst through the tent flap so quickly that Colonel Stockton realized he'd been waiting out there.

  “Tell Lieutenant Harper to escort Miss Kent-Taylor and Mr. Stem to the recon platoon, Lieutenant.”

  “The recon platoon, sir? But they've reported enemy activity in the jungle in front of them.”

  Colonel Stockton looked at Lydia. “Still want to go?”

  “More than ever.”

  Colonel Stockton turned to Lieutenant Wooster. “I just gave you an order.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Lieutenant Wooster led Lydia and Leo Stern out of the office.

  “And get them some steel pots!” Colonel Stockton shouted after them.

  “Yes, sir!”

  They left the office and Colonel Stockton sat behind his desk, shaken up. “They should keep these fucking civilians away from me,” he muttered. He drummed his fingers on his desk, thought about smoking his pipe, but decided on a cigarette instead. Opening his desk drawer, he took one out and lit it up. Goddamn fucking reporters. He puffed his cigarette and thought he'd better send a message to the recon platoon to warn them.

  Goddamn, he thought as he stood behind the desk. Why'd they have to come to my regiment, of all the regiments at the front?

  SEVEN . . .

  “Amelican, you die!” yelled the Jap in the jungle.

  Bannon and Longtree crouched in a foxhole, peering over the edge. The night was pitch-black; clouds blocked the light of the moon. Insects buzzed around them and lizards crawled over the ground.

  “Amelican, I kill you!” said the Jap.

  Bannon thought of Frankie La Barbara. Frankie liked to shout back at the Japs at night, calling them cocksuckers and motherfuckers. Bannon wondered how Frankie was. I'm gonna die tomorrow, Bannon said to himself. The Japs are gonna get me.

  “Amelican, you die.”

  “I wish the son of the bitch would shut up,” Bannon said.

  “We can shut him up,” Longtree replied. “He's right over there.” He pointed.

  “Yeah?” Bannon asked.

  “Yeah. Not more than twenty thirty yards.”

  “We shouldn't leave our post,” Bannon said.

  Butsko's growling voice came to them out of the bush. “You're goddamn right you'd better not leave your post.”

  Butsko's head appeared out of the bush, followed by his big, burly body. He dropped into the foxhole with the both of them; he had his souvenir samurai sword strapped to his waist.

  “If I ever catch anybody away from his post without permission, I'll fucking kill him,” Butsko said.

  Bannon and Longtree didn't reply. They knew he meant it.

  “You really think you know where he is, Chief?” Butsko asked.

  Longtree pointed with his chin. “Right over there.”

  “Let's go get him. Bannon, you stay here.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah, or should I call the chaplain for you.”

  “Fuck you,” Bannon muttered.

  “What was that?”

  “I said I'll stay here alone.”

  “Good for you. Let's go Longtree. Show me where the cocksucker is.”

  Longtree crawled out of the foxhole, and Butsko drew the samurai sword out of its sheath. Holding it in his right fist, he followed Longtree into the thick jungle. Bannon watched the night swallow them up and held his rifle tightly. He didn't like to be alone in the jungle, because two guns are always better than one. He'd just have to be alert, that was all. Hear them before they got too close.

  “Amelican, I fuck you mother!” the Jap shrieked, and then laughed maniacally. Bannon felt the gall rise in his throat. He hated the Japs because they'd ruined his life. They tortured prisoners and mistreated the natives. He hoped Butsko and Longtree would get that noisy Jap out there.

  Longtree and Butsko crawled slowly and silently over the ground as the jungle around th
em buzzed and chattered with the sound of bugs. The bugs landed on their shirts and sucked their blood. Both had crotch itch from not bathing, and both had mild cases of trenchfoot. Pain was constant to them, including the pain of fatigue, but they carried on anyway, now as at any other time, because pain had become their constant companion and they were used to it.

  Longtree stopped and touched his finger to his mouth. Butsko crawled beside him and stopped too, raising his face to indicate Why?

  “He's moving,” Longtree whispered. He moved his finger to indicate the path the Japanese soldier was taking, then motioned for Butsko to follow.

  They moved out again, Butsko watching Longtree's legs and ass in front of him. Longtree traveled over the ground like a snake, every movement flowing into the next one, making no sound at all, whereas Butsko was tense and straining to keep himself under control, and he knew he made little sounds once in a while, sounds that an Indian like Longtree could hear, but he hoped the Japs weren't that sharp. They hadn't been yet.

  “Amelican, you die!” yelled the Jap from his new position.

  He sounded close by, not more than ten yards away. Long-tree and Butsko could rush him, but the Jap might shoot one of them. They had to get closer.

  They'd done this many times on Guadalcanal.

  Longtree slowed down, and so did Butsko. This permitted them to be extra careful, and even Butsko was silent now. Raise the hand and place it down very gently. Raise the leg, move it forward, and lower it as if it were a feather falling to earth.

  “Amelican, I kill you!”

  Longtree stopped and pointed. Butsko looked and made out a big bush. No Jap was in front of it, so evidently he was right behind it. There was no way to get under the bush, because it was too thick. It seemed to be very wide. All Butsko could do was charge through the bush or jump over it. Butsko pointed his thumb at his chest, and Longtree nodded. Slowly drawing himself into a crouch, Butsko gripped the samurai sword tightly.

  “Amelican, fuck you!”

  Butsko leaped like a lion, tore through the bush, and swung the samurai sword. The Jap was kneeling on the ground, his hands cupped around his mouth. The Jap turned to Butsko, rising a few inches, his face just beginning to show horror.