Kill Crazy

by Len Levinson

  The Japanese soldiers looked at him; nobody wanted to get close, but they didn't want to walk away either. They muttered to each other, and one of them worked the bolt of his Arisaka rifle, pushing a round into the chamber. Several more did the same thing, and Butsko knew they were going to gun him down.

  "You fucking yellow-bellies!”

  Butsko threw his club at them and dashed toward the jungle. The Japanese soldiers raised their rifles and opened fire. Bullets whistled over Butsko's head, and he turtled down into his ragged collar as he moved into the jungle like an angry wounded bear. A Japanese bullet hit the back of his leg, and Butsko spun around, falling onto his back. He rolled to his hands and knees, blood soaking his pant leg, and tried to stand, but the leg wouldn't support him and he fell down again.

  “I'm finished,” he muttered to himself.

  The night became dark around Butsko, and he pitched forward onto his face.

  TWELVE . . .

  The Japanese soldiers rushed into the jungle to finish Butsko off, when they heard the sound of crashing and flailing behind them. They turned around and became aware that a substantial number of men were moving toward them through the jungle, and from that direction they could only be Americans.

  "Get the cocksuckers!” Sergeant Cameron screamed, erupting out of a mass of foliage, holding his carbine with bayonet attached. He pulled the trigger of the carbine and it fired in the automatic mode, spraying bullets at the conglomeration of Japanese soldiers.

  Lieutenant Thurmond emerged from the jungle ten yards away, also firing his carbine in its automatic mode. "Follow me!”

  The rest of the recon platoon and J Company charged through the jungle, firing their M 1 rifles, and the Jap soldiers didn't know whether to shit or go blind. Their commanding officer and first sergeant had been killed, and Jap soldiers had never been taught to think for themselves and improvise on the spur of the moment. All they could do was turn tail and flee toward their lines until they could find someone who'd tell them what to do.

  They ran into the part of the jungle that was closest to their lines, and the GIs fired at their backs, killing many of them. The Japanese soldiers who managed to elude bullets melted into the moonlit jungle and could be heard speeding away through the thick foliage.

  "Hold your fire!” hollered Lieutenant Thurmond.

  The GIs eased off on their triggers, and everyone looked around at the heaps of bodies lying everywhere.

  “Sergeant Cameron!” said Lieutenant Thurmond. “Send a patrol after those Japanese soldiers!” Lieutenant Thurmond then wrinkled his brow and thought about what he'd just ordered. “No—wait a minute. They might run into a trap.” He looked around at the carpet on the jungle floor. “Where's Butsko and his patrol?”

  Sergeant Cameron squinted toward his left. “I do believe I see Longtree.”

  Sergeant Cameron moved in that direction and saw Longtree lying on his back, blood oozing from a big gash on his head and a cut on his arm. He knelt down and felt Longtree's pulse. “He's alive! Medic!”

  Pfc. Osgood, the new recon platoon medic, came running over, carrying his haversack full of medicine. He dropped down beside Longtree and saw the wound on his forehead. “Looks like a bad one,” he said. “Bet his skull is fractured.”

  Osgood opened his haversack and took out a packet of sulfa pounder to disinfect the wound. In another part of the clearing a soldier from J Company spotted a soldier in an American uniform lying on his stomach. “Here's another one!”

  “Who is he?” asked Cameron, walking swiftly in that direction.

  “I don't know.”

  Cameron drew closer and didn't know who it was because the soldier's features were covered with blood. Dropping to his knees, Cameron brought his eyes closer and recognized Bannon. “My God,” he whispered. Bannon had so much blood on him that Cameron didn't know where it was coming from. "Medic!”

  Private Shapiro, the J Company medic, a short, roly-poly man, ran toward Sergeant Cameron as Sergeant Cameron felt for Bannon's pulse. “I think he's still alive,” Cameron said.

  “Lemme see,” Shapiro replied.

  Sergeant Cameron removed his hand from Bannon's wrist, and Shapiro placed his sensitive fingers on the spot where Bannon's pulse should be. “He's still alive,” Shapiro said.

  “Fix him up!” Sergeant Cameron ordered.

  “I can't even see where he's bleeding from.”

  Sergeant Cameron spotted the big cut on Bannon's neck. “From there!” he said, pointing.

  “All the blood couldn't be coming from there.”

  On the other side of the clearing, Corporal Gomez came upon Nutsy Gafooley crumpled onto his side, the back of his shirt soaked with blood. “Medic!” Corporal Gomez called.

  “Who ya got?” Sergeant Cameron asked.

  “Nutsy Gafooley, and I think he's dead!”

  Sergeant Cameron ran toward Gomez and saw Nutsy lying on the ground, the samurai sword still in his hand.

  “Fucking sword's bigger'n he is,” Sergeant Cameron said, kneeling beside Nutsy and touching his pulse. “I don't feel nothing.”

  “Lemme see,” said Corporal Gomez.

  Sergeant Cameron took his fingers away and Corporal Gomez felt for Nutsy Gafooley's pulse. “I think he's a goner, Sarge.”

  “You don't know what the fuck you're talking about.” Sergeant Cameron pushed Gomez away and again tried to find Nutsy Gafooley's pulse, but he couldn't. Yet, he refused to believe that the little ex-hobo could be dead. “I need a medic over here!”

  Lieutenant Thurmond walked toward him. “Both the medics are busy. Listen to me, Sergeant: We're in Jap territory, and more of them might come back at any moment. We'd better get out of here.”

  Sergeant Cameron rolled Nutsy onto his back, tore open the front of his shirt, and pressed his ear against his chest. He couldn't hear anything at all, but he thought maybe he wasn't listening in the right place. He refused to believe that Nutsy might be dead. "Medic!”

  “I'm coming!” replied Osgood, who was finished with Longtree. He dropped to his knees beside Sergeant Cameron and looked down at Nutsy Gafooley. Osgood had completed one year of medical school at Georgetown University in Washington, D.C., and knew more about medicine than any other medic in the regiment. He opened his haversack, pulled out the stethoscope he'd used in medical school, plugged it into his ears, and placed the black disc on Nutsy Gafooley's motionless chest. He changed the position of the disc three times, then unplugged the stethoscope from his ears and turned to Sergeant Cameron. “I can't do anything for this man,” he said.

  Sergeant Cameron looked at him in disbelief. “You can't?”

  “No, I can't.”

  “You're sure?”

  “He's dead, Sergeant.”

  “He don't look dead to me.”

  “People whose hearts aren't beating are dead, Sergeant.”

  A voice came to them from another part of the clearing. “Here's two more.”

  Pfc. Osgood stuffed his stethoscope back into his haversack. “I'd better go look at them.”

  Pfc. Osgood stood and walked in the direction of the voice. Corporal Gomez and Craig Delane, along with the rest of the recon platoon, followed him to see which of their buddies were over mere. They came to the big hole with dead Japanese soldiers piled up all around it.

  Gomez looked at the dead Japanese soldiers. “Looks like some bad shit happened over here.”

  Craig Delane glanced around and could see that a major struggle had taken place around the hole. He was amazed at the vast number of dead Japanese soldiers he saw. How did Butsko and his tiny patrol kill all those Japs?

  Osgood jumped into the hole and knelt beside Frankie La Barbara, noticing Frankie's bloodied mouth, bruised face, and bandaged leg, but those wounds didn't appear very serious. He didn't seem to have any other wounds. Osgood felt Frankie's pulse and perceived immediately that his skin was hot. He touched Frankie's forehead; it was clear that Frankie had a fever. Then Frankie went into a
spasm of shaking.

  “I think this man's got malaria,” Osgood said.

  “He's had it before,” Corporal Gomez replied.

  “You're sure?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure. He got it on Guadalcanal and had to go to the hospital for a long time.”

  “I'd better give him a shot of quinine.”

  Osgood reached into his haversack and took out a quinine ampule. He broke the seal and jabbed the needle into Frankie's arm, while a few feet away Craig Delane felt for Homer Gladley's pulse but couldn't detect anything. He figured he must be doing something wrong.

  Gomez noticed him. “Feel anything?”

  “I don't know how to do this,” Delane said.

  “Lemme see.”

  Gomez reached for Homer's pulse. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he said. “I think Homer's dead.”

  “You must be feeling in the wrong place.”

  Osgood pulled the ampule out of Frankie's arm and threw the ampule over his shoulder. He looked at Homer, who lay completely still. It didn't appear that Homer was breathing, but sometimes a man's breath was so shallow that you couldn't detect it with the naked eye, especially at night. Osgood pulled the stethoscope out of his haversack. “Unbutton his shirt.”

  Osgood plugged the stethoscope into his ears as Gomez tore open Homer's shirt, revealing his gigantic pectoral muscles. Osgood pressed the metal disc against Homer's heart. He listened for a few moments, frowned, and shook his head. “He's dead.”

  Craig Delane blinked, because he and Homer had been in the original platoon that had formed the nucleus of the recon platoon. “You're sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Craig reached for the stethoscope. “Lemme listen.”

  Osgood pushed the stethoscope into his haversack. “I just told you, he's dead, Delane. Do I have to draw a picture?”

  A group of men from the recon platoon and J Company stood at the edge of the hole, and Sergeant Cameron pushed through them. “What's going on here?”

  Delane looked up at him. “Frankie's sick with malaria again, and Homer is dead.”

  “Homer is dead?”

  “That's what Osgood said.”

  Sergeant Cameron looked at Osgood. “Homer is dead?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Corporal Gomez crossed himself. Everybody looked at Homer Gladley, the mountain of a man whom everybody had thought was invincible, but a person can bleed internally for only so long, and then major organs start to fail.

  "I found Shaw!” shouted Private Rutledge from another part of the clearing.

  Private Shapiro, the medic from J Company, was fairly close by, and he waddled toward Rutledge, who was pulling the bodies of dead Japs off Terrible Tommy Shaw. The rest of J Company and some men from the recon platoon gathered around as Shapiro dropped down next to Shaw and felt for his pulse.

  “He's alive,” Shapiro said.

  “Praise God,” replied Rutledge.

  As with all the others except Frankie La Barbara, it was difficult to see where Shaw was wounded, because he was spattered with so much blood and guts. Then Shapiro noticed that Shaw's face looked out of line. He touched Shaw's jaw, and it dangled as if held by a few threads, which in fact was the case.

  “He's got a broken jaw,” Shapiro said, “but that might be the least of his problems.”

  Shapiro unbuttoned Shaw's shirt, looking for serious wounds, and saw a few nicks and cuts but nothing major. He rolled Shaw onto his side and pulled up his shirt in back, again seeing nothing life-threatening.

  Just then a sound was heard in the jungle, and everyone dropped down to his stomach, poising weapons, preparing for a counterattack. They heard movement in the thick vegetation, headed in their direction. They aimed at the sound and looked toward Lieutenant Thurmond, waiting for him to order them to fire.

  Lieutenant Thurmond sighted down his barrel at the part of the jungle where the sounds were coming from and was about to order his men to open fire, when he realized that the sound indicated the presence of few people, perhaps even one. Glancing around, he saw that all of his men had taken cover. It might only be a monkey or a wild pig out there; what was the point of wasting all the ammunition?

  "Hold your fire!” he shouted.

  Leaves shook in front of them, and a figure appeared that was too big to be a monkey or wild pig. The figure staggered forward and looked like a monster from a nightmare. It was covered from head to foot with blood and gore, and its eyes glowed red like burning coals.

  “You fucking bastards,” the figure said, “it's about time you got here!”

  "Butsko!” shouted Corporal Gomez.

  Butsko groaned and tripped over a rock, falling onto his face and rolling over. The men jumped up and ran toward him, crowding around and watching him struggling to get up.

  “Somebody gimme a hand,” Butsko croaked.

  “Stay where you are,” Osgood said, placing his hands on Butsko's shoulders, trying to ease him back down.

  “Get your fucking dick-skinners off me,” Butsko replied, trying to push Osgood away; but Butsko didn't have the strength, and he collapsed onto his left biceps, the one that had been sliced open. Butsko moaned in pain, and Osgood rolled him over onto his back.

  ‘Take it easy, Sarge,” Osgood said.

  “Up your ass with a ten-inch meat hook,” Butsko replied.

  “Where does it hurt, Sarge?”

  “Everywhere.”

  Lieutenant Thurmond crouched on the other side of Butsko. “What happened here, Sergeant?”

  “You got eyes, ain'tcha?”

  Lieutenant Thurmond looked at Pfc. Osgood. “Patch him up fast, because we've got to get out of here. The Japs might return in force at any moment.” Lieutenant Thurmond stood and approached Sergeant Cameron. ‘Tell the men to get ready to move out.”

  “We're gonna take our dead with us, ain't we?”

  “Of course.”

  Butsko stirred on the ground. "Dead! Who in the fuck is dead? I ain't dead! None of us are dead!”

  “You just take it easy, Sarge,” Osgood said, cutting open Butsko's pant leg, looking for the source of all the blood on that part of his body.

  “You take it easy, young soldier,” Butsko wheezed. "None of us are dead!” he screamed, because he didn't want to believe it.

  Osgood saw that Butsko wasn't going to remain still, so there was only one thing to do. He removed a morphine Syrette from his haversack, pulled off the cap, and stuck the needle into Butsko's leg.

  Butsko saw pinwheels of color before his eyes and felt warm all over. None of his wounds hurt him anymore, and he didn't care who was alive and who was dead. He closed his eyes and thought everything was going to be okay, although he and the others were still a long way from their own lines.

  Colonel Toshio Akai slept soundly in his command tent several miles from where Pfc. Osgood was bandaging Butsko's leg. He wore only his underwear, which looked like a jockstrap, and his mattress lay on a bamboo tatami mat that had been placed on the bare jungle ground.

  The tent flap opened and Lieutenant Oyagi entered, wearing his clean pale-green uniform. General Hyakutake had finally got sick of Lieutenant Oyagi and transferred him to Colonel Akai's headquarters, swapping aides with Colonel Akai.

  Lieutenant Oyagi had been glad for the transfer, because he disliked General Hyakutake about as much as General Hytaku-take disliked him. General Hyakutake had been a cranky old son of a bitch, but Colonel Akai seemed to be okay. Colonel Akai was very even-tempered, as a rule, but he'd never had to wake up Colonel Akai in the middle of the night with bad news before.

  “Who's there?” asked Colonel Akai, reaching for the Nambu pistol lying beside his pillow.

  “Me,” said Lieutenant Oyagi.

  “What do you want?”

  “I have bad news, I'm afraid.”

  “Bad news!” Colonel Akai sat upright and looked at Lieutenant Oyagi. For all he knew, the entire US Army could be a mile away. That's w
hat bad news meant to him. “Well, out with it!”

  “A radio transmission has come in from Captain Shimoyama's company. Captain Shimoyama has been killed in action, and so has most of his company. Only approximately twenty of his men are left.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “Approximately one hundred and sixty, sir.”

  “Light the lamp on my desk, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Oyagi struck a match and touched it to the wick of the kerosene lamp on Colonel Akai's desk, while Colonel Akai pulled on his pants and pushed his arms through the sleeves of his shirt. He walked barefooted to the desk. His head was shaved and shaped like an artillery shell with big ears. On the desk was a pack of cigarettes, and he took one out, lighting it with a match. Then he looked down at the map that lay flat on his desk.

  “Have you been told how many Americans were involved in the action?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Oyagi read from the scrap of paper in his hand. “Approximately two companies, sir.”

  Colonel Akai frowned. “Last time I asked how many Americans were out there, I was told one company. Now I'm told two companies. Are the Americans reproducing in the jungle?”

  “I believe that Captain Shimoyama's company was attacked by a unit of Americans different from the one he was pursuing.”

  Colonel Akai puffed his cigarette. He was not terribly surprised by what had happened, because he'd known that Captain Shimoyama wasn't an experienced combat officer. Colonel Akai knew that experience was the most important element in a combat officer's training, and Captain Shimoyama had only been a staff officer, a man who knew how to move pins around on maps.

  Colonel Akai also knew that defeat could be turned into victory if common sense and resolve were applied. “Where did this battle take place?”

  Lieutenant Oyagi read the coordinates from the message in his hand. Colonel Akai found the spot on his map; it was a long way from the American lines. Moreover he had other troops in that general area. Perhaps they could cut off this larger American unit and destroy it. The operation would be difficult, but the Americans were isolated in the open jungle, far from their main sources of supply, and presumably carrying wounded with them, because Captain Shimoyama's men must have wounded some of the Americans.