by Len Levinson
“There goes that fucking echo again.”
Shaw wiped blood off his forehead. “I don't think we should leave Frankie and Homer behind.”
“Neither do I,” added Nutsy Gafooley.
“Me neither,” said Longtree.
They all looked at Butsko as if he were utterly loathesome, but Butsko was used to that. “You guys are sick in your heads,” he told them. “We're in this fix because we been lugging them two nitwits all over the jungle, and we won't get out of here unless we leave them behind. They'll probably die anyway, so what does it matter?”
Nutsy Gafooley jutted his stubbled chin forward. “They're not gonna die anyway. If they see a doctor within the next twenty-four hours, they'll be just fine.”
Butsko looked around. “Where's the fucking doctor? I don't see no fucking doctor. You guys are like a bunch of sentimental old ladies. You'd rather see all of us die than just those two, who'll probably die anyway.”
“They're not gonna die anyway!” Nutsy said emphatically.
Butsko looked at him and grimaced. “Who are you, God? How do you know who's gonna live and who's gonna die?”
“I'm not the one playing God. You're the one playing God. You're the one who wants to decide who's gonna live and who's gonna die.”
Butsko closed his eyes and shook his head. “I'm so fucking sick of you guys, I can't believe it.”
“Let's take a vote,” Bannon said.
Butsko took off his soft cap and hurled it with all his strength at the ground. “A vote! What in the hell do you think this is, the Boy Scouts?” He pointed both of his thumbs at his chest. “I'm in charge here! What I say goes! Saddle up and move the fuck out!”
They all shook their heads and made no effort to get up.
“I said move!”
“We're not moving unless we take Frankie and Homer with us,” Bannon said.
“This is insubordination in the face of the enemy!” Butsko screamed.
Nutsy wrinkled his nose at Butsko. “So go ahead and court-martial us, you big gorilla.”
"What!”
Butsko dived on top of Nutsy Gafooley with the intention of beating him to death. The others jumped Butsko and tried to pin back his arms, but Butsko was a mighty and powerful man. The GIs struggled with each other, rolling around in the bottom of the watery hole, cursing and sweating, and somebody stepped on Frankie La Barbara's stomach by mistake, bringing that stalwart fighter out of his coma.
Frankie opened his eyes and saw fighting all around him. Shaw stepped on his leg. The GIs pushed Butsko backward, and Butsko fell on top of Frankie.
"Halp!” Frankie yelled. "Yaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!”
Sergeant Kikusaki and his men had retreated from the scene of the fighting, and now were gathered around in a small clearing. Sergeant Kikusaki took a hand grenade out of his pouch and stopped when he heard loud American voices coming from the direction from which they'd just come. Sounds like they're fighting among themselves, he said to himself. How very odd. It would be an ideal time to attack. But he couldn't attack because he'd called all his men back so he could talk with them.
He raised the grenade up to the level of his chest and perched it on his fingertips so that his men could see it. “We must employ a new tactic against the Americans,” he said. “We have observed how they threw our own grenades back at us. They were able to do this because we threw our grenades immediately after arming them. We must arm our grenades, hold them for three seconds, and then throw them. In that manner the grenades will explode before the Americans can throw them back. Does everyone understand that? Is that clear?”
A young private with a pimply face raised his hand timorously.
“Yes?” asked Sergeant Kikusaki.
“What if the grenade explodes before we are able to throw it?” the young private asked.
Sergeant Kikusaki turned down the corners of his mouth. “That question is not worthy of a Japanese soldier,” he replied.
Bannon, Longtree, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley finally succeeded in pinning down Butsko, who bucked and twisted but couldn't get loose. “If we ever get out of this mess,” Butsko said, “I'll kill you all!”
Bannon was sitting on Butsko's chest. “Calm down, Sarge,” he said.
“I am calmed down! You calm down yourself! This is gross insubordination in the face of the enemy! Your asses are gonna be in slings if we ever get out of here.”
“First let's get out of here,” Bannon said. “The way I see it, if you don't wanna take Frankie and Homer with us, then you can go alone, and the rest of us'll take Frankie and Homer.”
“You mean we'll split up?” Butsko asked.
“You got it, Sarge.”
Butsko laughed. “Are you kidding me? You guys couldn't survive five minutes on your own!”
“That's the way we want it, and there ain't much time, so let's go. We're gonna let you up now, Sarge. If you give us any more shit, we're just gonna haveta shoot you.”
"Shoot me! Why you stinking son of a—”
Longtree cocked an ear. “They're coming back.”
Nutsy, who was holding down one of Butsko's legs, jerked his head around. “They're coming back?”
“There goes that echo again,” Butsko said.
“We don't have much time,” Bannon said. “Let's go!”
“It's too late now,” Longtree said. “They'll see us.”
Butsko snorted angrily. “You see what happens when you guys do what you wanna do? Everything gets fucked up. Are you gonna hold me down all day? Don't we have Japs to fight, fellers?”
They loosed their grips on Butsko and pulled away. Butsko sat up and rubbed circulation back into his wrists. He was bleeding from a cut lip where somebody had punched him in the melee, and licked away the blood with the tip of his tongue.
“Okay,” he said, “we'll split up. I'm sick of you guys and you're sick of me. When we get back to our lines I'll tell everybody that you all died like heroes, because you guys'll never get out of here without me. They'll send medals to your mothers and everybody'll be sad, except me.”
Longtree peered over the tops of the dead Japanese soldiers. “They're getting into position for something out there.”
Butsko chortled. “You guys don't know what to do, right? You're totally fucking confused, aren't you? You think it's too late to get out of here, right? Well, it's never too late when you're with Master Sergeant Butsko. I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're all gonna throw our hand grenades out there to make the Japs take cover, and then, while they're taking cover, we hightail it out of here, got it?”
“Got it,” said Nutsy Gafooley.
“Don't talk to me, you fucking traitor.”
“But you just asked if I got it!”
“I said don't talk to me. I'll do the talking. You traitors just do as you're told, got it?”
“Got it,” said Nutsy.
Butsko stared at Nutsy and felt overwhelmed by the urge to kill.
Longtree lowered his head. “The Japs are getting closer.”
This distracted Butsko from Nutsy Gafooley.
“Good,” Butsko said. “We'll kill more of them that way. Get your grenades ready. We'll throw them on the count of three.”
The GIs grabbed hand grenades and pulled the pins, poising themselves and waiting for Butsko's count.
Butsko looked around and saw that the men were ready. “One,” he said, "Two... three!”
They threw their grenades as far as they could, then ducked down in the ditch. Japs shouted warnings in the distance, and then the grenades detonated, causing even greater devastation in that part of the jungle. The few trees still standing were torn apart, and huge craters were blown out of the earth. One Jap was killed two were wounded, and the rest hugged the ground, shaken but not harmed.
In the ditch Butsko picked up his submachine gun. “So long, fuckheads. It's been nice knowing you.”
He bounded out of the ditch, sheathed with smoke from the grenade blasts, and ran i
nto the jungle to the right of the big rock. Shaw lifted Homer Gladley and positioned him across his shoulders, and Bannon did the same with Frankie La Barbara. Nutsy gathered up extra weapons and ammunition, and Longtree gazed over the bodies of the dead Japanese soldiers.
“We ready?” Longtree asked.
“I'm ready,” Bannon said.
“Me too,” said Shaw.
“I got everything,” said Nutsy, glancing around the ditch to make sure he wasn't telling a lie.
Longtree climbed out of the ditch and moved into the jungle to the left of the big rock. The others followed him, and in seconds the jungle and smoke had enveloped them.
Sergeant Kikusaki waited impatiently for the smoke to go away. He wished the wind was blowing, but it was one of those still, hot days that followed each other in relentless succession on Bougainville. He looked down at his foot: It wasn't bleeding anymore, but it still hurt considerably. It was probably infected, but he couldn't worry about that right now.
Gradually the smoke cleared and Sergeant Kikusaki could see the big rock in back of the hole where the Americans were. The time had come to kill those Americans. They'd made enough trouble. Sergeant Kikusaki held up his hand grenade so all their men could see it. He pulled the ring on the bottom and began counting. His men imitated him. On the count of three, Sergeant Kikusaki hurled his grenade and watched it are through the jungle, landing on one of the bodies in front of the American position and then bouncing into the hole where the Americans were. The air filled with dark streaks as the grenades thrown by his men flew through the air. They landed in or around the hole where the Americans were, and Sergeant Kikusaki lowered his head, a smile on his face.
The grenades exploded with such power that they cracked the gigantic boulder behind the hole. The dead Japanese soldiers who'd been stacked in front of the hole were blown all over the jungle, and the hole was deepened and widened until it was four times its former size.
Sergeant Kikusaki picked up his samurai sword and waved it through the air. “Forward!” he screamed. “Attack! Banzai.!”
"Banzai!” shrieked his men as they jumped up and lunged forward, carrying their long Arisaka rifles with bayonets affixed to the ends. They charged through the jungle, and Sergeant Kikusaki limped after them, slashing branches out of his way with his sharp samurai sword.
"Banzai!” shouted his men as they closed with the hole. They jumped over craters blown out of the ground by grenades, and over trees that had been knocked down. Their dead comrades who'd been lying in front of the hole were obliterated, their bones and chunks of flesh lying everywhere, and the Japanese soldiers charged through them, only a few feet now from the edge of the hole, and they angled their rifles and bayonets downward to stab the American soldiers inside, expecting the Americans to rise up and meet the attack at any moment.
But no Americans rose to meet the attack. The Japanese soldiers in the front rank stopped at the edge of the hole and looked inside, seeing nothing except dirt. The Japanese soldiers in the second rank crashed into the Japanese soldiers at the edge of the hole, and they all toppled into it, fighting and clawing at each other.
"Kill them all!” shouted Sergeant Kikusaki, hopping forward on one leg, swinging his samurai sword through the air.
He approached the edge of the hole, looked down, and saw the squirming bodies of his men. It looked as if his men were overpowering the Americans, and then he realized he was looking at pale green uniforms of the Japanese army but not the dark green of the American Army uniform or the camouflage cloth used by the American Marines.
"Stop it!” he yelled. "Get out of that ditch!”
The men who'd been in the second rank couldn't understand why he was telling them to stop, but his voice made them pause long enough to see that they were fighting with each other. Sheepishly they let each other go and stood, looking down into the hole for the remains of the Americans, who they presumed must have been blown to bits by the hand grenades; but they saw nothing except their feet. They climbed but of the hole and Sergeant Kikusaki leaned over the edge so that he could see inside. The hole was empty. The Americans had disappeared.
Where are they? Sergeant Kikusaki asked himself. What happened to them? He knit his eyebrows and realized that the Americans must have snuck away after throwing that last round of grenades.
“They're here someplace, men!” Sergeant Kikusaki said. “Fan through the jungle and track them down!”
The soldiers turned to follow their orders, and Sergeant Kikusaki grabbed the shoulders of one of them. “Go back and tell Captain Shimoyama to come here at once!”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
The soldier gripped his rifle and ran back to find Captain Shimoyama while the other soldiers spread through the jungle, searching for the American soldiers who'd flown the coop.
SEVEN . . .
Sergeant Cameron held his binoculars to his eyes and watched the cloud of smoke rise into the sky. “It's about a mile away, I reckon,” he said to Corporal Gomez, the former pachuco from Los Angeles.
“We better get a move on,” said Gomez, who was short and husky, with a deeply tanned meaty face.
“I'd better call Lieutenant Thurmond first. Delane!”
“Yo!”
“Bring that fucking radio up here!”
“Hup, Sarge!”
Delane ran toward Sergeant Cameron, the platoon walkie-talkie hanging from his neck. He was five nine and had a handsome, clean-cut look when he was shaved, but he wasn't shaved now. He was from New York City, the scion of an old, wealthy family.
Sergeant Cameron turned to him. “See if you can raise Lieutenant Thurmond on that fucking thing.”
Delane held the walkie-talkie against his face and pressed the button. The rest of the platoon was lying around the top of the hill, smoking cigarettes and drinking from their canteens. They were florid-faced and drenched with perspiration, because Sergeant Cameron had been setting a fast pace.
Delane made contact with Lieutenant Thurmond and handed the radio to Sergeant Cameron.
“Do you see that smoke up ahead?” Sergeant Cameron asked Lieutenant Thurmond.
“What smoke?”
“Should be northwest of where you are right now.”
“I can't see anything except the jungle.”
“You might have to climb a tree to see it, or go to the top of a hill.”
“I'm not about to climb any trees, and I don't see any hills. You say it's northwest of where I am?”
“Yeah, if you are where I think you are.”
“Don't you ever say sir to officers, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That's better. Now, let me think. Hmmmmm. We've been following your trail, and I estimate we're about a mile to three-quarters of a mile behind you. You head for that smoke, and we'll come in right behind you. That make sense?”
“Yes, sir, but I'd just like to suggest that you hurry.”
“We are hurrying.”
“Well, I thought you'd be closer than you are.”
There was silence on the other end for a few moments, then Lieutenant Thurmond spoke. “Let's get something straight, Sergeant: I'm the officer and you're the enlisted man, and I don't have to answer to you, got it?”
“What does that have to do with you and your men dragging your asses? For shit's sake, we've laid out the trail for you. All you have to do is follow the goddamn fucking thing.”
There was a pause at the other end, and the earpiece of Sergeant Cameron's walkie-talkie crackled and fizzed. Then Captain Thurmond's voice came through.
“I don't like your attitude, Sergeant.”
“I don't have all day to talk with you, sir. Just try to get a move on, sir. If I make contact with the enemy, I'll shoot up a flare so you can see where we are, sir. Get the picture, sir? Over and out, sir.”
Sergeant Cameron handed the walkie-talkie back to Craig Delane. “Everybody up! Let's get this show on the road!”
Butsko lay underneath a
bush in the thickest part of the jungle and was happier than a pig in shit. He'd gotten away from the others and was confident that he could get back to his lines alone. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was six o'clock. In another hour or so it would start getting dark. The Japs would never find him. All he had to do was sit tight for another hour.
Bugs flew around his face and he brushed them away. Occasionally one would get through and sting him and he would squash it against his skin. He was a restless man and never liked to stay in one position for long. He glanced at his watch, and the hands were moving too slowly. There aren't any Japs around here, he thought. Maybe I can get rolling now. The sooner I get back to the regiment, the sooner I can get a good meal and bum some cigarettes off somebody.
He inched forward, paused, and heard only the normal sounds of the jungle. Everything seemed okay. Japs weren't in his vicinity. He crawled out from underneath the bush and rose to his knees, scanning from side to side. Nothing moved. The coast was clear. He drew himself to his full height and walked forward in a crouch, holding his submachine gun in both hands with his right forefinger wrapped around the trigger, just in case, but he thought he was perfectly safe, all alone in that part of the jungle.
He moved through the jungle quickly but not too silently, because he didn't think any Japs were nearby. He wasn't making a racket—Butsko was too skilled an old soldier for that— but it wasn't as if Japs were close and he had to make no sound whatever.
This is what he thought as he slid down the side of an incline, heading toward a dark little valley. I'm free, he said to himself happily. Them other fucking assholes only bog me down. They cramp my style and get in my way. I'd be back at regiment right now, eating Spam and beans, if it wasn't for them. They'll never make it back without me. They can't function at all without me. They'll probably get killed, and it'll serve ‘em right.
A little voice inside Butsko's head told him to get into the thick part of the jungle, where he couldn't be seen, but he was in a hurry and could make better time on the trail he was on. There ain't no Japs around here, he said to himself. I've left them goddamned Japs far behind me, because I'm one smart motherfucker.
