Kill Crazy

by Len Levinson

  Butsko saw him and opened fire. The bullets hit the Japanese soldier and tore off the side of his head, and some of the bullets struck the metal barrels full of gasoline, striking sparks off the metal and making holes. In a sudden swwooooosssshhhhhh the barrels became covered with flames.

  "Get Down!” Butsko yelled.

  Brrrroooooommmmm! The barrels full of gasoline exploded sending metal and sheets of flame flying in all directions. Butsko ducked his head as night became day in the motor pool. He looked around and saw a blazing inferno surrounding him, but the gas tanks in the center of the clearing were still untouched.

  "Get them tanks!”

  Nutsy and Shaw threw their hand grenades at the tanks. The dark metal shapes flew through the air. One landed on top of a tank, and the other on the ground nearby. Butsko squinched his eyes shut and poked his fingers into his ears.

  Barrroooooommmmmm! The ground trembled and flaming gasoline exploded in all directions.

  "Retreat!” Butsko hollered.

  He jumped up and ran back toward the opening in the barbed wire, the flames behind him casting weird quivering shadows everywhere. Nutsy, Longtree, and Shaw followed him. To his left he could see Bannon, Frankie La Barbara, and Homer Gladley backing away from the tents, their submachine guns blazing.

  “Retreat!"Butsko yelled. "Get out of here!”

  Butsko approached the barbed wire. He spun around and dove through the hole, cutting open his left hip this time. Nutsy followed him, scratching nothing, and then came Shaw, Bannon, and Frankie La Barbara.

  Homer Gladley bent to crawl through the hole, and just then a Japanese soldier fired a wild shot, but it was a lucky one. Homer Gladley felt it slap into his back, and the sudden pain straightened him up. He fell forward on the strands of barbed wire, his arms outstretched. One barb ripped open his nose, another his chest, a third his right wrist, and a fourth his left thigh. He hung on the wire like Christ on the cross, blood oozing out of his back and the cuts made by the barbed wire.

  Frankie La Barbara heard Homer cry out when the first bullet hit, and turned to see him suspended on the barbed wire. Frankie's first impulse was to save his own skin, and to hell with Homer Gladley, but his second, deeper impulse was that he had to save one of his buddies.

  "Bannon!” Frankie called out.

  Bannon turned around and saw Homer Gladley on the wire, and then a jolt went through Homer as another bullet whacked him. Frankie La Barbara lunged through the barbed wire and Bannon followed him through. They stood as Japanese bullets flew around them like angry bees, and they tore Homer Gladley off the barbed wire, leaving one quarter of Homer's nose still on a barb. Homer collapsed onto the ground like a sack of potatoes, and Frankie La Barbara, assisted by Bannon, pulled Homer through the hole in the barbed wire, cutting him further in the process.

  The Japanese shooting diminished as officers ordered their men to put out the fires, but a few of them had the retreating GIs in their sights and thought they'd pull their triggers a few more times. Bullets whizzed past the GIs, and then Frankie felt as if someone had slammed him in the back of his left thigh with a sledgehammer. The force of the bullet spun him around and he fell on his face in the jungle muck.

  Butsko reached the safety of the jungle and turned around to see what was going on. Longtree, Shaw, and Nutsy were almost in the jungle, but the other three still were out there, and two were hurt. Without a moment's hesitation Butsko charged out of the jungle.

  "Come with me!”

  He ran toward the three who had faltered in the clear-cut, wide-open area between the barbed wire and the jungle. Longtree, Shaw, and Nutsy turned around and followed him. They saw Bannon struggling with Homer Gladley, and Frankie La Barbara trying to stand. Butsko scooped up Homer Gladley, adjusted him on his shoulder, and carried him toward the jungle. Longtree and Shaw grabbed Frankie by each of his arms and dragged him behind Butsko as Frankie cursed and bellowed in pain. Bannon turned around and dropped to one knee, hugging the butt of his submachine gun to his waist and opening fire to cover the others.

  Click!

  He was out of ammo. Pressing the button on the submachine gun, he pulled out the empty clip and tossed it to the side. He opened the ammo pouch on his belt, pulled out a fresh clip, jammed it into the slot, and pulled the trigger. Bullets and sparks flew out of the barrel of the gun as Bannon swung it from side to side, spraying bullets into the motor-pool compound.

  "Let's go, Bannon!”

  Bannon turned and ran toward Butsko,. and a stray Japanese bullet zinged passed his face so closely that he could feel its heat. He plunged into the jungle and saw Butsko kneeling beside Homer Gladley, who lay facedown on the ground. Butsko took his pulse while Nutsy Gafooley ripped open his shirt, exposing an ugly entrance wound.

  “Bullet's still in him,” Nutsy said.

  Shaw and Longtree lay at the edge of the clearing, ready to shoot any Japs who came after them. Bannon dropped down to the right of Longtree and raised his submachine gun. Frankie La Barbara lay a few feet from Homer Gladley, grasping his bloody leg with both his hands and gritting his teeth.

  Butsko let go of Homer Gladley's wrist. “He's alive, but it don't look good.”

  Nutsy looked up at him. “You want me to treat the wound here, or should we do it deeper in the woods?”

  “Do it now, but hurry the fuck up!”

  Nutsy opened his pack and took out the articles he needed. He wasn't a trained combat medic, but he could sprinkle sulfa powder and blood coagulant on wounds and tie a bandage.

  “What about me?” said Frankie La Barbara through clenched teeth.

  “I'll take care of you,” Butsko muttered, kneeling beside Frankie and waiting for Nutsy to finish.

  Frankie, trembling with rage, looked at Butsko. “This happened because of you!”

  “Shaddup!”

  “You always volunteer us to do shit that we don't have to do!”

  “Shaddup or I'll punch you right in the fucking mouth!”

  Frankie La Barbara raised his chin. “Go ahead—I dare you!”

  Butsko drew back his fist and punched Frankie right in the fucking mouth, and Frankie went slack on the jungle floor, out cold.

  Nutsy worked swiftly, taping a big bandage over the hole in Homer Gladley's back, which had stopped bleeding. Butsko poured coagulant powder and sulfa into the holes in Frankie's leg, because the Japanese bullet had made entrance and exit wounds. Longtree saw figures moving in the smoke and flames inside the Japanese encampment.

  “Somebody's coming!” he said.

  “Let's get out of here,” Butsko replied. “I'll carry Homer. Shaw, you carry Frankie. The rest of you, cover us.”

  Butsko heaved Homer Gladley onto his shoulder, and Shaw did the same with Frankie La Barbara, who was waking up.

  “What happened?” he asked as Shaw carried him into the jungle.

  Behind them, Bannon and Longtree and Nutsy poured lead into the Japanese encampment, and the figures dropped down out of sight. Bannon and Longtree retreated several steps, still firing their submachine guns, then turned and followed the others into the thick moonlit jungle, which provided cover and gave them shelter.

  TWO . . .

  The sounds of the explosions reverberated through the jungle, and they awakened Lieutenant General Harukichi Hyakutake, commander in chief of all Japanese forces on Bougainville. A short thin man of fifty-five, with large ears, he sat up on his cot and called for his orderly.

  “Yes, sir?” said his orderly, Lieutenant Oyagi, poking his head into General Hyakutake's tent.

  “What were those explosions all about?”

  “I don't know, sir.”

  “Find out and report back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Oyagi withdrew his head. General Hyakutake swung his legs around and planted his feet on the tatami mat underneath his cot. He reached to the small table beside the cot, found matches, scratched one to flame, and lit the kerosene lamp. The inside of the te
nt became illuminated in the yellow glow of the lamp. General Hyakutake reached for his package of cigarettes, extracted one, placed it in his mouth, and brought the flame of the lamp to its end, puffing smoke out of his mouth.

  He looked at the end and was satisfied that it was lit well, then took a deep drag. He checked his watch. It was almost three o'clock in the morning. Those explosions hadn't sounded too far away. He'd come from his headquarters on Erventa Island to this part of Bougainville to find out for himself what the situation at the front was like, but he hadn't realized that the fighting was this close. Maybe it was time to get back to Erventa.

  “I'm back, sir!” Lieutent Oyagi shouted outside the tent.

  “Come in.”

  Lieutenant Oyagi pushed aside the tent flap and stepped inside, standing at attention. “A gasoline dump approximately three miles southeast of here has been blown up by American sappers, sir!”

  “Were the Americans caught?”

  “I don't know, sir.”

  "Why don't you know?”

  Lieutenant Oyagi was so intimidated, he couldn't say anything. He shivered and swallowed hard, wishing he were someplace else.

  "Get Colonel Akai for me on the telephone!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Oyagi lurched toward the telephone on General Hyakutake's desk and picked up the receiver. The operator came on and Lieutenant Oyagi asked him to connect General Hyakutake with Colonel Akai.

  “Colonel Akai speaking.”

  “General Hyakutake would like to speak with you, sir. Hold on a moment.”

  Lieutenant Oyagi held up the telephone receiver, and General Hyakutake plucked it out of his hand and sat down behind his desk.

  “Have any of those American sappers been taken prisoner?” General Hyakutake asked.

  “Not that I know of, sir.”

  “Why don't you know?”

  “There's chaos at Gasoline Dump Number Six, sir. They're devoting all their efforts to putting out the fire. They're not even sure of what's happened. The attack was very sudden.”

  “Security must have been poor. Have the officer in charge punished.”

  “He's dead, sir.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, sir. Shot dead.”

  “Do we know how many sappers there were?”

  “No, sir, but there must have been a substantial number to have done the damage they did.”

  “They may be headed this way. Double the guard. And send out a patrol to track them down. We don't want American sappers running around loose this far behind our lines.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I'll return to my base first thing in the morning. Make arrangements.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all.”

  General Hyakutake placed the telephone receiver on its cradle. Wearing only his undershorts, which resembled a jock-strap, he reached for his pants, hanging from a peg on the tent pole, and put them on. Lieutenant Oyagi watched, thinking that General Hyakutake looked like a gnomish little school-teacher without his uniform.

  "What're you looking at?” General Hyakutake snapped.

  “I'm waiting for further orders, sir.”

  “Coordinate our return to headquarters with Colonel Akai's staff! You're dismissed!”

  Lieutenant Oyagi saluted and fled from the tent. General Hyakutake sat behind his desk and puffed another cigarette. Tomorrow he had to report to his commanding officer, General Hitoshi Imamura, and tell him of the situation on Bougainville, which wasn't good. General Hyakutake's big offensive, launched a week earlier, had been stopped cold, and now his army was on the retreat. He didn't have enough men and matériel for another offensive, but he intended to conduct a fighting withdrawal, making the Americans pay for every inch of ground they took. If he could convince General Imamura to send him reinforcements, he'd attack again and perhaps do better this time.

  General Hyakutake stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on his desk and sighed, because he felt tired and discouraged. The Americans had defeated him on Guadalcanal, and now they were beating him on Bougainville. If the Americans forced him to evacuate Bougainville, it would mean the end of his career. He'd spend the rest of his life behind a desk in Tokyo, and younger officers would be contemptuous of him.

  I'll commit hara-kiri before I let that happen, he said to himself, but before I commit hara-kiri, I must somehow obtain reinforcements from General Imamura so I can inflict a terrible defeat on the Americans here on Bougainville.

  “He's alive,” Nutsy Gafooley said, his ear on Homer Gladley's chest.

  “I told you he was,” Butsko replied, sitting on a log nearby, trying to read his map by the light of the moon. “You can't kill an elephant like Homer Gladley with two measly bullets. He's a tough son of a bitch. I wish you all were as tough as he is.”

  Frankie La Barbara spat at the ground. “So's you could make us take on more cruddy jobs?”

  “Shaddup, fuckhead.”

  “I won't shaddup! Why should I shaddup? Everybody else is afraid to speak up, but not Frankie La Barbara! I'm sick of this shit! Homer's damn near dead, I'll probably never walk again, and you'll get another medal! Big fucking deal!”

  “If you don't shut up, I'm gonna kick you right in the fucking head!”

  “I dare you!”

  Butsko took a deep breath and sighed. “You asked for it.”

  He stood, walked toward Frankie La Barbara, and drew his leg back. Frankie waited, because he wanted to tackle Butsko, bring him down, and punch him out. Butsko shot his leg forward, and Frankie grabbed it in both his arms, twisting to the side. Butsko lost his balance and fell on his ass. Frankie tried to leap on him, but he didn't have the strength to move quickly, having lost too much blood. Butsko twisted out of the way, got to his feet, dodged another of Frankie's lunges, and kicked him in the mouth. Frankie collapsed onto his face, out cold once more.

  “C'mon, Sarge,” Bannon said. “Leave him alone.”

  “I'll leave him alone when he learns to keep his big mouth shut.”

  “He'll never do that.”

  “Then I'll never stop kicking the shit out of him. Maybe one day I'll kick the shit out of him so much he'll die, and then I'll throw a party.”

  “You don't mean that, Sarge.”

  “Oh, yes I do.”

  Butsko sat down again and studied his map. He was trying to figure out the best way to get back to his lines. They were a long way off and he wasn't sure he and his men could make it back by daylight.

  Nutsy Gafooley rolled Frankie La Barbara onto his back and felt his face. “I think you broke his nose again, Sarge.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “You shouldn't beat up on him when he's wounded like this.”

  “I'll beat up on him when he's better, too, and I'll keep beating up on him until he starts keeping his mouth shut.”

  Butsko placed his forefinger at the point on the map where he reckoned their position to be. He drew a line on the overlay with his pencil, connecting their position to the nearest point on the American front lines, then laid his compass on the line so he could get the azimuth.

  “About 132 degrees,” he said. “Okay, let's saddle up. I'll carry Homer; which one of you heroes wants to carry big-mouth?”

  “I'll do it,” Bannon said, “but he'd be able to limp along if you didn't kick him in the mouth.”

  "But is like if and maybe. Shove ‘em all up your ass. Let's move it out. I don't wanna spend all night shooting the shit with birdbrains, nitwits, and scumbags.”

  Butsko picked up Homer Gladley and lowered him onto his shoulder, and Bannon couldn't help admiring that, because Homer Gladley weighed 250 pounds. Frankie La Barbara weighed 185 pounds, and Longtree had to help Bannon lift Frankie La Barbara up. Bannon positioned Frankie La Barbara on his shoulder and staggered behind Butsko, whose gait was steady under Homer Gladley's weight.

  The others fell in behind them as they made their way back to their front lines.


  “Wake up, sir.”

  Captain Mitsuru Shimoyama opened his eyes. He was lying in a ditch half full of water, and Sergeant Kikusaki was standing over him.

  “What is it?” Captain Shimoyama asked.

  “Colonel Akai wants to speak with you on the radio.”

  “You have the radio with you?”

  “It's in the radio tent.”

  Captain Shimoyama sat up in his hole and debated whether to have Sergeant Kikusaki bring the radio to him, but decided he'd look silly speaking to Colonol Akai while sitting in a puddle of water, and he might even get electrocuted from the batteries.

  Sergeant Kikusaki grinned maliciously, because he and Captain Shimoyama didn't like each other and both knew it. “I think you should hurry, sir. The call sounded urgent.”

  Captain Shimoyama looked up at Sergeant Kikusaki. “You don't tell me to hurry, Sergeant. I tell you to hurry. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Shimoyama didn't like the surly tone of Sergeant Kikusaki's voice, but he couldn't do anything about it. Not yet, at least. But someday Sergeant Kikusaki would really step out of line, and Captain Shimoyama would nail his ass to a wall.

  Captain Shimoyama climbed out of the ditch and walked toward the communications tent, a serious expression on his face. He had the air of an intellectual about him, which he was. He'd been a staff officer in General Hyakutake's headquarters before the failure of the big offensive, and his ambition had been to attain high rank as a staff officer, but there'd been a shortage of officers at the front, because so many had been killed in the big offensive, and Captain Shimoyama had been given command of a line infantry company. It was the last assignment in the world that he wanted, because he considered himself too smart to be a line infantry officer. Clever men like him were needed to tell line infantry officers what to do, but the big offensive, which Captain Shimoyama helped plan, had failed, and Captain Shimoyama still wondered what had gone wrong.