by Len Levinson
Sergeant Kikusaki aimed down the barrel of the Nambu and squeezed the trigger.
The American opened his mouth. "Fuck you and fuck your mother!” he yelled, his bloodshot eyes bulging out of his head.
Sergeant Kikusaki couldn't understand what he was saying, but the American's loud voice startled him and upset his aim. Sergeant Kikusaki settled himself down and aimed again, squeezing the trigger.
“Up your ass with a ten-inch meat hook, you slant-eyed, yellow bellied Jap cocksucker!”
Sergeant Kikusaki squeezed the trigger all the way back. Click!
Sergeant Kikusaki wrinkled his brow. Must be a faulty round in the chamber, he thought. There was no time to reload, because the sound of fighting was getting closer. He rammed his Nambu into its holster and pulled his samurai sword out of its scabbard. Gripping the handle in both hands, he raised the samurai sword high in the air, aiming for the American soldier's head, getting his feet set so he'd be able to put maximum power into the blow.
"Go ahead!” shouted the American soldier. "Fuck you where you breathe, you bastard!”
Sergeant Kikusaki tensed himself and swung the blade down.
A submachine gun fired a burst close by. Butsko watched in amazement as the Japanese soldier's chest was blown apart, covering Butsko with blood, guts, and bits of lung, throat, and heart. Butsko leaned to the side and the samurai sword sank into the trunk of the tree a few inches above his head. The Japanese soldier collapsed on top of Butsko.
Longtree leaped into the clearing, holding his submachine gun tight to his waist. He looked left and right and sniffed the air, holding the submachine gun ready to fire again. His eyes fell on Butsko, and he blinked to make sure Butsko wasn't a hallucination.
“Cut me the fuck loose!” Butsko said.
“I don't know if I should,” Longtree replied, stalking toward him, still holding the submachine gun ready to shoot.
"What do you mean, you don't know if you should!”
Longtree bent over and picked up the samurai sword. “You deserted us when we needed you, you rotten son of a bitch.”
"I just gave you an order! Cut me the fuck loose!”
Longtree grinned evilly. “You wanna get cut loose? Okay, I'll cut you loose.” He laid down his submachine gun and raised the samurai sword high over his head.
“Hey,” Butsko said, “take it easy, there.”
“You're a prick of misery. You never think of anybody except yourself.”
"Wait a minute!”
Longtree swung the sword.
Thunk!
Butsko gasped. He thought that Longtree had chopped’ his head off, but when he opened his eyes he realized his head was where it had always been. The ropes that bound him to the tree were loose. Butsko leaned forward and they fell to the ground.
Bannon and Shaw staggered into the clearing, their faces red from exertion, carrying Frankie La Barbara and Homer Gladley on their backs. To their rear, firing behind them into the jungle, was Nutsy Gafooley. Bannon and Shaw jumped into the big hole and collapsed. Longtree turned away from Butsko and dived into the hole. Butsko jumped to his feet, pulled the samurai sword loose from the tree, scooped up the Japanese soldier's Nambu pistol and ammunition pouch, and dashed toward the hole, diving in headfirst.
“Hiya, guys,” Butsko said.
Nobody replied. Nutsy Gafooley backed toward the hole, firing his Thompson submachine gun into the jungle, moving the barrel from side to side, spraying everything in a wide arc in front of him.
"Get in here!” Bannon shouted at him.
Nutsy turned around and jumped into the hole, then kneeled and rested the barrel of the submachine gun on the edge of the hole. The others clustered near him and took aim at the jungle. Butsko picked up the submachine gun that had belonged to Frankie La Barbara and lined up with the other men.
The hole was considerably deeper and wider than before, thanks to the Japanese grenade barrage. It provided much more protection, and the big boulder was still behind them, protecting their rear.
The GIs heard thrashing and cursing in the jungle and tightened their fingers around their submachine guns. Ten Japanese soldiers burst through the foliage all at once, followed by twenty more. The GIs opened fire, raking from side to side with their submachine guns, cutting down the Japanese soldiers, who hadn't realized the GIs were in a hole, waiting for them.
The initial bursts of submachine-gun fire killed eight Japanese soldiers and wounded ten. The rest retreated quickly. The GIs stopped firing. Their ears rang for a few moments. Then they heard the moaning of the wounded Japanese soldiers.
“Bannon,” Butsko said, “go get all them Jap weapons and hand grenades, and kill any Jap who ain't dead!”
Bannon turned around and looked at Butsko incredulously. “Who do you think you're talking to?”
"You!”
“Hey,” Bannon said, “wait a minute. You deserted us when we needed you, so now you ain't shit around here. You even got yourself captured by the Japs, you big asshole. Frankie La Barbara was right about you all along. We ain't taking orders from you anymore. You oughtta be lucky we even let you stay in this hole with us.”
Butsko stared at Bannon and turned purple. Then he quivered with rage and bared his tobacco-stained teeth. "You can't talk to me like that!”
“You don't like it, get lost.”
"What!”
Butsko lifted his submachine off the parapet, intending to aim it at Bannon and shoot his head off, but he'd only moved it a few inches when he felt the hot mouth of a submachine, gun against his temple, making him flinch.
“Hold it right there, scumbag,” Nutsy Gafooley said, aiming his submachine gun at Butsko's face.
Butsko was so angry and frustrated he couldn't even speak. Opening his mouth, he sputtered and stuttered, and his face turned green.
“Listen to me,” Nutsy Gafooley said. “You'd better cool your motor, because if you don't, I'm gonna turn off your ignition for good.”
Butsko thought the top of his head would explode. Never had he encountered such insubordination, and not only that, Nutsy Gafooley was the littlest man in his platoon.
“Calm down, Sarge,” Nutsy said. “Wouldn't wanna kill you.”
Butsko calculated his chances. Could he whip his submachine gun around and kill Nutsy before Nutsy killed him? He didn't think so, and now the others were aiming their submachine guns at him too. They all looked at him with hatred, and he gave them back the same emotion.
In a sudden melodramatic move Butsko dropped his submachine gun and ripped the front of his shirt open, baring his massive hairy chest. "Go ahead!” he yelled. "Shoot your old sergeant—who's been through hell with you—who's worked his ass off for you... go ahead, see if I care!”
Nutsy Gafooley sneered. “Don't tempt me.”
Bannon prodded Butsko's stubbled chin with the barrel of his submachine gun. “We oughtta shoot you for desertion in the face of the enemy.”
Shaw jabbed his submachine gun into Butsko's gut. “You wanted to leave Frankie and Homer behind, you rotten sack of shit.”
Butsko looked at each of their faces and realized they were very angry at him. It occurred to him that they might actually shoot him! And they'd probably get away with it, because who'd ever know the truth? They'd probably never escape from the Japs anyway, but if they did, they'd just say that Butsko was lost in action.
Butsko held up both his hands. “Now, wait a minute, fellers. Let's be reasonable.”
“How reasonable were you when you wanted to leave Fran-kie and Homer behind?” Bannon asked.
“And how reasonable were you when you deserted us in our time of need?” Nutsy asked.
“And what about all the shit you been giving us lately,” Shaw said.
Butsko forced himself to smile. “It's not good to hold a grudge, boys. These are hard times. There's a war on. We need each other.”
Bannon shook his head. “We can't trust you, Sarge, because you bugged out on us once, a
nd if you did it once, you'll do it again.”
“Not only that,” Shaw added, “you nearly shot Bannon, here, a few moments ago.”
Butsko made his smile broader. “I was only kidding, fellers.”
“Sure you were.”
The three GIs set their mouths in grim lines and aimed their submachine guns at Butsko, whose hair nearly stood on end. He realized that they were mad enough to kill him, and he couldn't talk them out of it! He had to do something! His eyes bobbled around as he tried to figure out a way to save his worthless ass. Their fingers tightened on their triggers. Butsko looked over their heads at the jungle behind them.
"Japs!” he screamed.
They spun around and faced the jungle, ready to mow down Japs, and Nutsy Gafooley opened fire before he even saw any Japs, but no Japs charged toward them, and it took a few seconds for them to realize what Butsko had done.
“Okay,” said Butsko's voice behind them. “Hold it right there, and no funny moves, please.”
They froze, realizing he'd tricked them. Bannon groaned. Shaw spat at the ground. Nutsy wished he'd shot Butsko while he had the chance.
“Drop your guns, boys,” Butsko said.
They dropped their submachine guns.
“Now turn around real slow.”
They turned around and faced Butsko, who leaned against the dirt wall of the hole, smiling happily, aiming a submachine gun level with their waists.
“Don't ever try to fuck over your old sergeant,” he said, “because you'll never do it. You're not smart enough to do it. You're just a bunch of dumb dogfaces and that's all you'll ever be. I can't believe you were actually gonna kill me, after all I've done for you, but now you've kinda put me in a bind. I can't turn you loose because you tried to kill me, so I guess I'm gonna have to kill the pack of you in self-defense.”
Bannon smiled in his friendly Texas way. “Hey, Sarge,” he drawled, “you didn't actually think we was gonna shoot you, do you?”
“You're damn straight I thought you were gonna shoot me, and if I hadn't outsmarted you, you would've.”
“Aw, Sarge,” Bannon said, “you don't believe that, do you?”
“You fucking A-well-John I believe it.”
“But, Sarge,” Bannon continued, “don't you remember that time I save your life on Guadalcanal? You said you owed your life to me and you'd never forget it, remember?”
“I forgot it,” Butsko replied. “That was then, and this is now.”
Shaw forced himself to laugh. “Hey, Sarge, that's funny, but we gotta stop playing around here. There's Japs in the vicinity.”
“Who's playing?” Butsko asked. “I ain't playing. I'm dead serious, and in a few seconds you're gonna be just plain dead. May the Lord have mercy on your rotten, stinking souls.”
Nutsy Gafooley shook his head. “People always told me that the son of a bitch was a psycho case, but I always stuck up for him. I always told them that he wasn't really a psycho case; he just acted that way once in a while. Now I realize they were right. The son of a bitch is a psycho case.”
Butsko chuckled. “For that you're gonna get it first, Nutsy, my boy.” Butsko aimed his submachine gun at Nutsy. “Say your prayers, if you know any.”
Longtree perked up his ears. “I hear something.”
Butsko laughed. “Don't think that old trick is gonna work on me.”
“I really hear something,” Longtree said, wrinkling his brow.
“And I suppose it's coming from right behind me.”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“And naturally you expect me to turn around, so's you can get the drop on me, right? Isn't that the way you want it to go?”
“I'm serious, Sarge. Somebody's coming from that direction.”
“Sure they are.”
Bannon looked worried. “I can hear it too.”
“Then how come I can't hear it?”
“Maybe your ears are full of shit.”
Butsko shrugged the insult off and aimed his submachine gun at Nutsy, squeezing the trigger, when he heard the sound of a foot on dry leaves behind him. Butsko spun around just as a rifle was fired. He saw the muzzle blast and heard the bullet pass over his head. Dropping down, he aimed his submachine gun at the horde of Japs charging out of the foliage.
Click!
His submachine gun was empty. He yanked the Nambu pistol out of his belt and fired at the lead Jap, bringing him down. The other GIs picked up submachine guns and pulled their triggers, ripping up the Japanese soldiers. The Japanese fired back as they charged the hole, their bullets ricocheting off the rim and zipping over the GIs’ heads. The Japanese continued charging until they reached the edge of the hole, and the GIs chopped them down. The Japanese withered before the hail of hot lead, but one jumped into the trench in front of Butsko.
"Banzai!” screamed the Jap, thrusting his rifle and bayonet toward Butsko.
Butsko shot him in the stomach, but the Jap kept coming, his bayonet streaking toward Butsko's heart. Butsko side-stepped, batted the rifle and bayonet out of his way, and slammed the Jap in the face with the Nambu pistol. The Jap's nose split apart and his blood spurt into the air. He fell onto his back and Butsko hit him again, cracking his skull.
Meanwhile the GIs continued firing at the Japanese soldiers, who withdrew into the jungle. One of the Japanese threw a hand grenade, and it landed near the rim of the hole.
"Get down!” Butsko yelled.
The GIs dived to the bottom of the hole, bumping against the unconscious Homer Gladley and Frankie La Barbara. The grenade exploded and its concussion caved in one of the dirt walls, burying Nutsy Gafooley, who coughed and spit and clawed his way to the fresh air while Bannon, Longtree, and Shaw fired their submachine guns and Butsko shot Japs with his Nambu pistol.
Click! Longtree's submachine gun ran out of ammo. He ejected the clip and reached into his bandolier for a fresh one, but the bandolier was empty. Dropping the submachine gun, he picked up one of the Japanese Arisaka rifles lying in the bottom of the hole, pulled back the bolt, and rammed a round into the chamber. He rested the front of the rifle on the edge of the hole, aimed at a Japanese soldier in the jungle, and pulled the trigger. The Japanese soldier flew backward, blood squirting from his throat.
The GIs maintained their steady base of fire as the Japanese soldiers retreated farther into the jungle. The evening twilight made visibility difficult, and the muzzle blasts of weapons were like lightning and thunder.
“Hold your fire!” Butsko said.
The GIs loosened the triggers of their submachine guns and rifles.
Japanese soldiers continued to fire their rifles sporadically. It sounded as though they were retreating.
“They'll be back,” Butsko said. “What's the ammunition situation?”
The men counted their remaining clips of ammunition, hand grenades, captured weapons, etc. Butsko remembered the showdown he'd been having with his men when the Japanese attacked. He realized they might try to shoot him and reached for the nearest Arisaka rifle, working the bolt and turning around to face his men.
They saw him make his move and grabbed their own weapons. When the dust settled down, Butsko was aiming his Arisaka rifle at Bannon, while Bannon, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley held their submachine guns pointed at Butsko, and Longtree sighted down the barrel of an Arisaka rifle.
There were a few moments of silence in which everybody was ready to open fire, but nobody wanted to fire the first shot. The tension was so intense that it became ridiculous, and Butsko's ugly face creased into a smile.
“I think all of us have been on this stinking island too long,” he said, a conciliatory tone in his voice. “We're surrounded by Japs, but it looks like we're fixing to do their job for them. I think we'd better calm down and fight the Japs instead of each other. We can settle our differences when we get out of this mess— if we get out of this mess.”
Bannon, Longtree, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley looked at each other as the jungle grew darker
and their faces became swathed in shadows. Nutsy shrugged. Longtree spat over the rim of the hole. Shaw glanced toward the jungle where the Japs had retreated, because he expected them to return at any moment. Bannon looked Butsko in the eye.
“There's just one thing we gotta settle now.”
“What's that?”
“We don't wanna hear no more talk about leaving our wounded behind.”
“That's okay by me, but I ain't carrying none of the motherfuckers. I got better things to do.”
“What if you get wounded, big Sergeant?”
“Me get wounded? I ain't gonna get wounded.”
“You been wounded before. What if you get wounded again? Who's gonna carry your stinking ass?”
“You just leave me right where I fall, with my bayonet, a rifle, and a clip of ammunition. I'll be just fine.”
“What if you're unconscious, big Sergeant?”
“Then it won't make a fuck either way, will it, young Corporal?” Butsko sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I'm getting tired of this conversation. Let's get ready for the Japs. What's the ammo situation?”
NINE . . .
Captain Shimoyama paced back and forth in the jungle twilight. His shoulder ached and he could barely move his left arm, so he clasped his hands behind his back in order to maintain the semblance of military posture.
It had been a catastrophic day for him, and he was so mad he could spit. Like a rooster who'd had his tail feathers plucked out, he stormed across the clearing, then did an about-face and stormed back. His men sat around and watched him solemnly. They thought he was losing his mind.
Captain Shimoyama wanted to drink some sake, but he couldn't afford to get tipsy. He had to keep his mind clear, because he had major decisions to make.
He'd had an American prisoner but lost him. An envoy was on his way from Colonel Akai's headquarters to interrogate the American prisoner, and what would Captain Shimoyama say? That the American had been shot while trying to escape? Yes, that seemed like a reasonable lie. No one would contradict him, because Japanese soldiers would never dare to call their com-manding officer a liar. But the truth might get out someday: that he'd turned tail and run away from an American counter-attack, leaving his prisoner behind him. Captain Shimoyama knew that the incident would haunt him for the rest of his military career.
