by Len Levinson
Captain Shimoyama entered his communications tent. Corporal Teramoto sat at the radio and jumped to attention.
“Get me Colonel Akai.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Shimoyama leaned against the bench on which the radio sat and crossed his arms. He hoped and prayed that Colonel Akai would tell him that his talents were needed at General Hyakutake's headquarters and that he'd been missed.
Corporal Teramoto handed the headset to Captain Shimoyama, who put it on. “This is Captain Shimoyama,” he said into the mouthpiece.
A voice on the other end replied: “The colonel will be with you in a few moments, sir.”
Captain Shimoyama shifted his ass on the bench and waited. He didn't light a cigarette because he didn't smoke. He thought nicotine was bad for the brain, and he wanted his brain to be quick and keen, although it hadn't been so quick and keen lately, because he hadn't been able to get much sleep in holes in the ground that filled with water after they were dug.
“Captain Shimoyama?” asked Colonel Akai.
“Yes, sir.”
‘Took you long enough to call back.”
“I just received the message, sir.”
“You should always be near your radio.”
“I was near my radio.”
“Then it shouldn't have taken you so long to call back. Where is your company right now?”
“At the same position I reported earlier in the evening.”
“I have an important mission for you. Do you have your map with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Spread it out in front of you.”
“Yes, sir.” Captain Shimoyama took his map out of his shirt and unfolded it on the bench. “I've done as you've ordered, sir.”
“Do you see the location of Gasoline Dump Number Six?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know what happened at Gasoline Dump Number Six tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“It was blown up by enemy sappers. You didn't hear the explosions?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Captain Shimoyama became flustered. “I don't know, sir. I guess I was asleep.”
“They were very close to you. You should have been notified. In well-run companies, commanders are notified immediately of all untoward events. I think you'd better straighten a few things out there.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Shimoyama replied, gritting his teeth. Sergeant Kikusaki should have awakened him, but he hadn't, and now Captain Shimoyama looked bad. “I'll make sure this doesn't happen again, sir.
“You'd better. Now, let's move on to the matter at hand. American sappers, as I said, have blown up Gasoline Dump Number Six, and I assume they're headed back toward their lines. Your company is bivouacked directly between Gasoline Dump Number Six and the American lines. Therefore we expect the American sappers to pass through your general area any time now. Fan out your company into a long skirmish line and intercept them. Take prisoners if you can, but if you can't, don't worry about it. Just make sure you intercept and stop them.”
“How many Americans are there, sir?”
“We don't know for sure, but judging from the damage they've done, we estimate from forty to sixty men. How many are in your company?”
“One hundred and sixty fit for duty, sir.”
“Good. You'll have a numerical advantage, plus the advantage of surprise. By the way, General Hyakutake is here, and the orders to stop those sappers have come directly from him. It will not be good if you fail in this mission. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Captain Shimoyama handed the headset to Corporal Teramoto and stormed out of the communications tent. He marched toward the hole occupied by Sergeant Kikusaki and found him sitting in it with two of his cronies.
“Sergeant Kikusaki!” Captain Shimoyama shouted.
Sergeant Kikusaki looked up with an amused expression. “Yes, sir?”
“Stand at attention when I talk with you!”
Casually, Sergeant Kikusaki drew himself to his full height and stood at attention, a faint smile playing on his face. Captain Shimoyama was so angry, he wanted to pull out his Nambu pistol and shoot Sergeant Kikusaki in the head.
“I wish to speak with Sergeant Kikusaki alone! The rest of you, find something to do!”
The two other soldiers climbed out of the ditch and walked away. Captain Shimoyama jumped into the ditch and stood so that his face was only inches away from Sergeant Kikusaki's face.
“Sergeant!” he shouted, spittle from his tongue flying into Sergeant Kikusaki's face, making Sergeant Kikusaki wince. “Did you hear explosions in this vicinity within the past hour!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Why was I not notified of them?”
“I assumed you heard them, just as I heard them, sir!”
This stopped Captain Shimoyama cold and undermined his confidence, because he realized that front-line combat soldiers like Sergeant Kikusaki had their ears tuned for sudden unusual sounds, but that he, who was accustomed to life far behind the lines, did not possess those sensibilities yet.
“Sergeant Kikusaki, I do not want you to assume anything of the sort in the future! Your job is not to make assumptions but to follow orders! In the future I expect to be informed of all unusual events! Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Those explosions were caused by American sappers who have blown up Gasoline Dump Number Six. They are said to be headed this way, and I have just received orders to intercept them. Awaken the company and have them stand in formation in front of my headquarters. Hurry!”
With a condescending expression on his face, Sergeant Kikusaki climbed out of the hole and marched away. Captain Shimoyama watched him go, hating his guts.
THREE . . .
The sun was a sliver of light on the horizon. The patrol from the recon platoon sat in the depths of the jungle, eating C rations. Butsko studied his map, measuring distances.
“Only a couple more miles to go,” he said, “but there's Japs scattered all around this area between us and our lines, so we'll have to be extra careful from now on.”
Frankie La Barbara couldn't eat because several of his teeth were loose, and one was hanging by a thread. He also had a split lip, and the wound in his leg hurt like hell, plunging him into a rotten mood.
“We coulda been home already,” he said, “if we hadn't took time out to blow up that Jap motor pool. The flyboys could be bombing it right now, but somebody around here—I'm not mentioning any names—likes to play hero, so we're not home.”
Butsko took a pack of Luckies out of his shirt pocket and lit one with his trusty Zippo. “It's okay to smoke now. Sun's up.”
Frankie lit a Chesterfield but had trouble drawing smoke, because his lips were mangled. “I'm sick of risking my ass so's a certain somebody can make points with the colonel.”
Bannon smoked a Chesterfield too. “Shut up, Frankie.”
“I won't shut up. I'm sick of everybody telling me to shut up. It's too bad I'm the only one who's got the guts to say the truth around here. Homer'll probably die and I'll be crippled for life because a certain big ugly sergeant likes to play fiddle-fuck with everybody's life.”
Nutsy Gafooley examined Homer Gladley's wound. “Homer won't die and you won't be crippled for life. You've only got a little flesh wound and you make it sound as if your whole leg's been blown away.”
Frankie spat blood onto the ground. “That's easy for you to say, because you're not the one wearing a bullet hole.”
“Knock it off!” Butsko said.
Frankie opened his mouth to talk back but decided he'd better not. He didn't feel like getting kicked in the teeth again. When I get better, I'll kill that son of a bitch, he said to himself.
Butsko blew smoke out the side of his mouth as he sat on a log, his map spread out on the ground between his enormous combat boots. “A certain somebo
dy on this patrol is a stupid fuck and all he ever thinks about is himself,” Butsko said. “Sometimes he forgets we're in a war and that the purpose of this war is to kill as many Japs as we can and destroy the stuff they use to kill us with. The motor pool we blew up last night was camouflaged and couldn't have been spotted from the air. It was too small to pinpoint from rough coordinates. We could have walked away from it, but that gas would have been used to fuel tanks and trucks full of Japanese soldiers who might have killed hundreds of GIs, and maybe even us. Sure, it was a risk, but everything in war is a risk. Sure, we have two men wounded, but that's better than hundreds of casualties. You guys should know all this by now, but since you don't, I'm explaining it this one last time. And when we get back, I'm having that fucking wop from New York transferred out of the recon platoon forever!”
Frankie bristled and his busted lips quivered with rage. “Who're you calling a wop!”
Butsko calmly picked up his submachine gun and aimed it at Frankie, flicking off the safety. “One more peep out of you and I'm going to kill you.”
“You wouldn't dare!”
Butsko raised the sights to his eyes and took aim. Frankie held up his hand. “Wait a minute!”
“Your life doesn't mean a fuck-all to me,” Butsko said. “I don't like you and I never have liked you. I could kill you and leave you here and say you were shot by Japs, and nobody would ask any questions. If that's what you want, go ahead and mouth off.”
Frankie knew Butsko was speaking the truth. The other guys on the patrol would never contradict what Butsko had said, because they were all afraid of him. I'm the only one with any guts around here, he thought.
“You win,” he said to Butsko, “and I'm gonna hold you to your word. When we get back, I want that transfer.”
“You got it,” Butsko said.
Captain Shimoyama walked through the jungle, inspecting his company's position. He slapped a long, thin stick against his leg as he swiveled his head around, examining holes in the ground, snipers high in the trees, and machine-gun nests set up behind rock formations. His men were making use of natural concealment, because they didn't want to make noise digging. As a result, their positions weren't as well protected as fixed fortifications.
Sergeant Kikusaki walked behind Captain Shimoyama, wanting to kick him in the ass. He thought Captain Shimoyama was a sissy and a weakling, quite a different commanding officer from Captain Abiru, who had been shot while leading a banzai charge during the big offensive.
Captain Shimoyama looked at his watch. It was six o'clock in the morning. The sun had risen above the horizon and shone blood red in a clear blue sky. Birds flitted from branch to branch above, and monkeys chattered. Sometimes he wondered what the monkeys thought about the war going on underneath their noses.
His men were spread out in a skirmish line over one thousand yards long. He hoped that would be a big enough net for the interception of the Americans. He had given orders to open fire at the first sight of the Americans and that prisoners should be taken if possible.
Captain Shimoyama reached the right flank of his position and turned back, slapping the stick against his leg. The Americans may not come this way, he thought, but if they do, I'll get them.
Butsko's body was soaked with sweat that plastered his uniform against his skin. He carried Homer Gladley on his back, and it was slow going. Behind him, Bannon and Shaw helped Frankie La Barbara limp along. Longtree was in front of the column, and Nutsy Gafooley brought up the rear.
Butsko knew that the area they were passing through was infested with Japs who'd retreated from the high ground around Empress Augusta Bay after their big offensive failed. It hadn't been too difficult slipping through them last night, but it would be a different story in broad daylight with two wounded men.
Butsko heard a groan escape from Frankie La Barbara's lips. He turned around angrily to chew Frankie out and saw that Frankie's eyes were closed, his skin was pale, and his mouth was hanging open. His legs hung limply to the ground.
“What's the matter with him?” Butsko asked.
“I dunno,” Bannon said. “He just went slack.”
Shaw craned his head and looked at Frankie's face. “He's passed out.”
Butsko frowned. “Just what I need. Nutsy, take a look at him. Maybe his wound's infected. The rest of you, take a break.”
Bannon and Shaw laid Frankie on the ground and Nutsy knelt beside him, taking his pulse, noting that Frankie's skin was hot. Nutsy pressed his hand against Frankie's forehead. It felt like the exterior of an oven.
“He's got a bad fever,” Nutsy said.
“Maybe he's getting another attack of malaria,” Bannon replied.
“That's probably it,” Nutsy told him. “I don't have any medicine to treat malaria.”
Butsko unslung his submachine gun. “Maybe I should just shoot the son of a bitch.”
“C'mon, Sarge,” Bannon said. “This ain't no time for jokes.”
“Who's joking?” Butsko slung his submachine gun over his shoulder, took out his map, and unfolded it. “We've got another two or three miles to go, and they ain't gonna be easy.”
“Maybe we should stay where we are and wait for night,” Bannon suggested.
“That ain't a bad idea,” Butsko replied.
“Ain't a good idea either,” Nutsy said. “We got two wounded men who need medical attention fast.”
“That's your job,” Butsko said.
“I ain't no doctor. I ain't even a medic.”
“It comes down to this,” Butsko said. “We risk all our asses if we move now, and we risk only two asses if we wait till tonight.”
‘'Homer's got a bullet in his back someplace,” Nutsy said. “Who knows what kinda damage it's done.”
Butsko hunched over and dropped to his knees on the other side of Homer Gladley. “He ain't bleeding from the mouth, so it missed his lungs and throat. His heart is still strong, so that's okay. I think he can last the night.”
“I don't think we should take the chance.”
Butsko looked at Nutsy Gafooley and furrowed his brow. He couldn't understand how somebody as small and puny as Nutsy could stand up to him like that. “I tell you what,” he said. “We'll take a vote. Who wants to go now? Raise your hands.”
Everyone raised his hand except Butsko.
“You guys are even dumber than I thought,” he said. “Okay, if that's the way you want it, that's the way it's gonna be. Let's move it out. If you guys get me killed, I'm gonna make you sorry.”
Nutsy was confused. “If you're dead, how could you make us sorry?”
“I'll figure out a way. Saddle up and let's get going.”
Butsko stood and slung his Thompson submachine gun crosswise on his back. Then he bent over and picked up Homer Gladley. Bannon and Shaw dragged Frankie to his feet and draped his arms around their shoulders. The patrol, with Longtree on the point, moved toward the American lines.
It was an hour later and Longtree prowled forward in a crouch, swiveling his body from side to side, looking in all directions for traces of Japs. He knew he was in Jap territory, and Japs had to be around someplace. He was the eyes and ears of the patrol and had to spot Japs before Japs spotted him.
Longtree had sharp eyes, but they weren't superhuman. He could spot movement and discern things that weren't where they were supposed to be, but he couldn't see a motionless Japanese soldier covered with camouflage, hiding behind a mass of branches and leaves. Such a Japanese soldier was fifty yards in front of Longtree and saw Longtree coming. The Japanese soldier flicked the safety off his Arisaka rifle and took aim at Longtree.
Longtree heard the faint snick sound of the safety and dropped to his stomach on the jungle floor.
Blam! The bullet zipped over Longtree's head a split second after he got underneath it. Behind him the patrol from the recon platoon hit the dirt. The jungle was silent for a second, then Japanese voices could be heard blabbering away.
Butsko felt a sinking se
nsation in his stomach. It sounded like many Japs were out there, and they were too close for him to give voice commands. He raised his hand and moved it in circles around his head, the Army signal for Assemble on me. Longtree crawled back, and the others gathered around.
Butsko tried to smile, but he didn't have his heart in it and the smile looked gruesome. “Looks like we're in the soup again,” he said. “We'll have to work around them. Be quiet and don't get trigger-happy. We don't want a fight because we don't have much ammo left. Everybody ready?”
"Banzai!”
Butsko looked up and saw a dozen Japanese soldiers charging through the jungle, heading toward the spot where Longtree had been, which was only ten yards ahead of the others. Butsko didn't give any orders because there was only one thing they could do: fight for their lives.
The Japanese soldiers rampaged forward. One carried a samurai sword that flashed in the morning sunlight, and the others brandished Arisaka rifles with fixed bayonets. The GIs put themselves between the Japs and their two wounded comrades, then spread out into a skirmish line, raised their submachine guns, and waited for the Japs to get closer.
The Japs burst through the jungle, screaming at the tops of their lungs, looking for the American soldiers. They appreached the spot where Longtree had been, passed over it, and continued their charge.
The GIs opened fire with their submachine guns and cut the Japanese soldiers down. The submachine guns sounded like thunder throughout the jungle, and a cloud of blue gun smoke rose into the air above them. The firing stopped as suddenly as it had started, and everybody's ears rang in the silence. The jungle ahead was littered with dead Japs.
“Longtree and Bannon, go strip them and make it fast!” Butsko said. “Get their uniforms too!”
Longtree and Bannon crawled forward. Butsko, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley covered them with their submachine guns in case the Japs attacked again.
"What's going on out there?” Captain Shimoyama screamed.
Corporal Teramoto knelt in front of the field radio. “I'm trying to reach the Second Platoon, sir.”
