by Len Levinson
“We need the rest.”
“We sure do.” General Hawkins handed a sheet of paper to Colonel Hutchins. “This came in this afternoon.”
Colonel Hutchins took the sheet of paper and held it up to the light. It was a list of orders, and one of the paragraphs was marked with a red pencil. Next to the mark was the name:
BUTSKO, John R. M/Sgt RA 11282203
Butsko had been the platoon sergeant of the recon platoon but now was laid up in the division medical headquarters with a bullet hole in his leg. Colonel Hutchins had put him in for the Distinguished Service Cross (DSC) shortly after they’d arrived in New Guinea and now, according to the orders, Butsko had been awarded the medal and was being transferred to Fort Mason in San Francisco for the official presentation.
“Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Colonel Hutchins said. “They gave him the fucking medal after all. He know about it yet?”
“I thought I’d let you tell him.”
“I bet he’ll be glad to get out of here.” Colonel Hutchins looked at the orders again. “It says he’s supposed to leave on the fourteenth. What’s today?”
“The eleventh.”
“He’s a real short-timer. I’m gonna miss him. Me and him’ve known each other for a long time, you know.”
“I didn’t know.”
“We go back,” Colonel Hutchins said. “We were on Bataan together.”
“That was a helluva place to meet somebody.”
“I met him long before we ever got to Bataan. When I said we go back, we really go back. We used to be buddies even though I was an officer and he was an enlisted man. Butsko’s okay. Course, he can’t keep his mouth shut, like me, but he’s a good man anyway. If he was here, he’d take the recon platoon and track down the Japs who blew up that truck this morning. He’d nail their asses to a tree someplace by sun-up.”
“You don’t have anybody else who can track them down?”
“I can send out a patrol from the recon platoon. They’re a good bunch even without Butsko.”
“How soon can you get ‘em rolling?”
“I can get ‘em rolling right now if you’ll let me use your phone.”
General Hawkins pointed to the phone on his desk. “Go ahead.”
Colonel Hutchins reached forward and picked up the phone. He asked the operator to connect him with the headquarters of the Twenty-third Regiment, and a few seconds later his sergeant major came on the phone.
“Sergeant Koch speaking, sir.”
“This is Colonel Hutchins. Find Lieutenant Breckenridge and tell him to call me at General Hawkins’ office right away.”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Hutchins hung up the phone. “Lieutenant Breckenridge’ll call me back here as soon as they find him, and I’ll tell him what to do.”
“I don’t believe I know who he is,” General Hawkins said.
“I’m sure you’d remember him if you saw him, because he’s probably the biggest officer in the division. Used to be a college football star.”
“Oh yes, I remember who he is now.”
“Well he’s in charge of the recon platoon.”
“He’s not as good as Butsko, is he?”
“In some ways he’s better.”
“In what ways?”
“He doesn’t fly off the handle as fast as Butsko, but he doesn’t have the experience Butsko has.”
“Few people have the experience Butsko has. Come on behind the desk here with me. Let’s figure out how we’ll deploy the division when we get to Afua.”
“Yes sir,” Colonel Hutchins said, getting up from his chair.
•••
Lieutenant Akiyama stopped and raised his hand. His men came to a halt behind him and looked around. They were in a deep dark part of the jungle that had not been subjected to artillery fire, and the foliage was so thick they could see only a few feet through it.
“This looks like a safe spot,” Lieutenant Akiyama said. “Let’s stop and eat.”
That was the command his men were waiting for. They dropped to their knees on the ground and tore open the light field packs they’d taken from the American truck. Upending the packs, a variety of materials spilled out, but what they wanted were the o.d. green cans of C rations. The cans tumbled out with ponchos, mess gear, extra socks, shoelaces, and other odds and ends. The Japanese soldiers pounced on the cans, opening them up, leaning their heads back and gobbling the food down.
“Don’t eat so quickly,” Lieutenant Akiyama told them. “You’ll get sick if you keep on like that.”
They tried to slow down, but it was difficult. They were nearly starved to death and every pore in their bodies cried out for food. Lieutenant Akiyama was as hungry as they were, but he had to set an example. Calmly he held a can in his left hand and pried off the lid with the opener in his right hand. He removed his chopsticks from his pack and raised a length of hot dog to his mouth. He placed the hot dog into his mouth and chewed it slowly, thinking that the taste was bizarre in the extreme. He’d never eaten a hot dog before.
He was eating a bean-and-hot-dog ration manufactured for the Army by the Campbell’s Soup Company. Sergeant Okamoto had the sausage-patty ration. Other men had drawn the beef-stew ration, the spaghetti-and-meat ball ration, or the chicken-and-rice ration. The Japanese soldiers never had eaten such stuff before, but they swallowed it down with only a minimum of chewing.
They ate silently as bugs flew around their heads, sometimes diving into the cans of food, and a few of the soldiers swallowed flies by mistake, but they were too hungry to care. Birds squawked in the trees overhead and monkeys leapt from branch to branch. In the distance the sounds of the American Army could be heard: trucks rolling over roads, soldiers opening and closing the bolts of their rifles, and orders being shouted back and forth. The sounds were far away. The Japanese soldiers were safe for the time being.
Lieutenant Akiyama finished his hot dogs and beans, and reached for another can. He opened it up, and got pork and applesauce. Tasting it, he wrinkled his nose. He thought it was dreadful, but he lifted a chunk of pork with his chopsticks and placed it in his mouth.
As he chewed, he wondered what to do next. His goal was to reach his own lines, and his compass told him what the general direction was, but his company had been in the vanguard of the advance, and were quite far behind American lines. The jungles were full of Americans. He looked up at the sky and saw clouds gathering. Perhaps it’d be safer to stay put and wait until night. It’d be easier to work through the American lines at night, he thought.
He decided that was the course of action he’d take. He’d let his men sleep for a few hours after they ate, and then when the sun had sunk behind the horizon, he and they would try once again to reach the safety of their own lines.
Wounded soldiers lay on the ground all around the system of tents that comprised the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters. They were a fraction of the casualties that the division had sustained during the night. The rest of the casualties would be loaded into coffins and shipped back to the States.
Master Sergeant John Butsko sat with his back against a tree and smoked a cigarette. He was six feet tall and built like a tank. Cuts and bruises were all over his face and upper body. His shirt was torn to shreds. The hospital had been attacked by Japs during the night and Butsko led the defense. It had been touch and go for quite a while. Reinforcements from the 114th RCT showed up in the nick of time.
Butsko’s right bicep was bandaged. So was his left forearm. He wore another bandage on his stomach and a big white gauze was taped to the left side of his head. A Japanese soldier had hit him in the head with a rifle butt so hard that Butsko’s teeth had rattled. But he was still alive.
Butsko watched medical personnel bustling about. He had new respect for doctors and nurses because they’d continued operating in the surgical tent even during the height of the battle. Not one nurse suggested that she should leave her post, even though all the women could expect rape as well as d
eath if the Japs overran the medical headquarters.
A nurse emerged from the tent in front of Butsko, looked around, spotted him, and smiled. She was Lieutenant Frannie Divers and Butsko had seduced her, with the assistance of some good old white lightning, just before the Japs began their artillery bombardment last night. Frannie was a big farm girl from the state of Washington. She had red hair and tits to match Washington’s great mountains.
She walked toward him, her hips swaying from side to side. She wore GI fatigues that were baggy, hiding her voluptuous, almost overripe, figure. Butsko got a hard-on just looking at her. He wondered if he could take her into the jungle with him real quick-like and put it to her again.
“Hello Sergeant,” she said as she approached. “How’re you feeling?”
“Not bad. How’re you feeling?”
“I’m a little tired.”
“Let’s go into the woods over there and lie down for a little while.”
“I’m still on duty.”
“When do you go off duty?”
She looked at her watch. “About another hour and a half.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
“You really oughta get some sleep.”
“I took a nap this afternoon.”
“You still look tired.”
“So do you.”
“I am.”
“It’s been a rough night.” Butsko winked. “But it sure started off pretty good.”
“Now Butsko,” she said.
“I’m in love with you, kid.”
“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“Sure you do.”
“I do.”
“Liar.”
“Why am I a liar?”
“Because nobody could fall in love that fast.”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t happen that way.”
“Maybe not with you, kid, but it does with me.”
“Cut it out,” she said, smiling bravely. “You don’t have to lie to me, Butsko. I don’t expect any miracles from soldiers who’re a long way from home. You’re even married, aren’t you?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Don’t you love your wife?”
“Yeah.”
“And you love me too?”
“Yeah.”
“Who else do you love?”
“Lots of people.”
“You fall in love easily, I guess.”
“Not really.”
“How many people are you in love with?”
“All the women I’ve ever been mixed up with.”
“You love ‘em all.”
“I love ‘em all.”
“There’s nothing special about me, then?”
“There’s something special about all the women I fall in love with.”
“You’re so full of shit it’s coming out of your ears.”
Butsko leaned back his head and laughed. He reached for the canteen half-full of white lightning attached to his cartridge belt. “Wanna drink?”
“Not while I’m on duty, but save some for later.”
“Sure thing, kid.”
Butsko yanked the canteen out of its case and unscrewed the top. Lieutenant Frannie Divers looked at him sitting against the tree and recalled how he’d single-handedly fought off the Japs when they’d tried to break into the operating room last night. He’d stabbed, shot, and beat them over their heads with his rifle butt, keeping them away until the 114th RCT arrived.
A deep booming voice came to them from close by. “I shoulda known that Butsko’d be wherever the women are!”
Butsko and Frannie Divers turned in the direction of the voice and saw Colonel Hutchins approaching, his helmet low over his eyes and a Thompson submachine gun slung barrel down across his back.
“Hello there sir,” Butsko said. “How’re you doing?”
“Not bad. How’re you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady?” Colonel Hutchins asked gallantly, looking Lieutenant Frannie Divers up and down, admiring her big tits as any red-blooded American man would.
“This is Lieutenant Frannie Divers, and this is Colonel Hutchins, the CO of the Twenty-third Regiment.”
“Good afternoon sir,” said Frannie.
“How’re you doing?” the colonel replied. “Don’t you have any better sense than to hang around with this crazy sergeant here?”
“I guess I don’t, sir.”
“Well good for you, and you don’t have to keep calling me sir. We’re all friends here.”
Frannie took a step backward. “I think I’d better get going.”
“Hey,” Colonel Hutchins said, “you don’t have to leave.”
“I’m on duty and I’ve got things to do.”
“We’re all on duty and we’ve all got things to do. So what? Stick around. I’ve got some good news.”
Butsko’s ears perked up. “What good news?”
“Get ready,” Colonel Hutchins said.
“I’m ready,” Butsko said.
Colonel Hutchins looked at Frannie. “Are you ready?”
“I think so.”
Colonel Hutchins took a copy of Butsko’s orders out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “Here,” he said to Butsko.
“What is it?” Butsko asked.
“Read it and find out.”
Butsko stood up and took the sheet of paper. He saw his name next to the red mark, and Frannie read over his shoulder.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Butsko wheezed.
“Yep,” Colonel Hutchins said with a grin. “They’re giving you the DSC and sending you back to the States, you lucky son of a bitch.”
“I’ll be damned,” Butsko said again.
“That’s a coincidence,” Frannie said, “because Captain Epstein said he was putting Butsko in for a decoration too.”
Butsko looked at her in surprise. “He is?”
“That’s what he said.”
Colonel Hutchins slapped Butsko on the arm. “You’re a hero, Butsko. You’re a credit to your country.”
“Gimme a break,” Butsko said.
“They’ll probably send you on a war-bond tour with all them movie actresses.”
Butsko’s eyes lit up. “You think so?”
“Why not?”
Frannie took another step backward. “I think I’d better get back to work. I’ll speak to you later, Sergeant, and it was very nice meeting you, Colonel Hutchins.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” Colonel Hutchins said, tipping his helmet. Colonel Hutchins was from Arkansas and could turn on the Southern charm when the occasion required it.
“Don’t be late,” Butsko said to Frannie.
“I’ll do the best I can,” she replied.
She walked toward the tent. Colonel Hutchins admired her ass. “Fine-looking woman,” he said.
“I think something’s bothering her.”
“You don’t know what?” Colonel Hutchins asked, still looking at her ass.
“No.”
Frannie entered the tent, and Colonel Hutchins turned to Butsko. “You hurt her feelings.”
“How did I hurt her feelings?”
“By talking about the war-bond tour with the movie actresses.”
“You’re the one who brought that up!”
“But your eyes nearly bugged out of your head when I did. The girl must be in love with you.”
“Who the hell knows?” Butsko replied, reading the orders. “What’s today?”
“The eleventh.”
“I’m supposed to leave in three days.”
“That’s what the orders say.”
“And I’ll have a week’s furlough in Hawaii before going on to California.”
“You’ll be able to see Dolly.”
Dolly was Butsko’s wife. Last time he had a furlough he’d gone home and found her with another guy, a gunnery sergeant in the Marines
. He’d beat the piss out of the gunnery sergeant, putting him in the hospital, and Butsko had wound up in jail.
“I bet you can’t wait to see Dolly again,” Colonel Hutchins said.
“I don’t care if I never see her for the rest of my life,” Butsko replied. “She’s the biggest pain in the ass I ever met.”
“Why’d you marry her?”
“Who the fuck knows? I was young, I guess.” Butsko inclined his head downward and read his orders again. “Jesus, they’re gonna give me the DSC. Who ever thought a guy like me would get the DSC?”
Colonel Hutchins scratched his stubbled jaw. “It’s interesting that Captain Epstein is putting you in for another medal. What’d you do this time?”
Butsko shrugged. “Who the fuck knows?”
“They’re liable to give you something more than the DSC. Two commendations inside of two weeks, plus the new oak-leaf cluster you’ll be getting for your purple heart, are gonna mean something higher up.”
“You think so?” Butsko asked.
“I sure do. I’ll talk to General Hawkins about it next time I see him. Maybe he can push something through.”
Butsko turned down the corners of his mouth. “Don’t bother. I don’t need all that shit.”
“It’s no bother,” Colonel Hutchins said, “and it’d make the regiment look good, so what you need or don’t need really doesn’t matter that much.”
“I’m sure there are other guys who’d deserve the decorations more than me.”
“Who?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
Butsko thought for a few moments. “I don’t know, but there must be somebody.”
“I don’t think so,” Colonel Hutchins said. “Believe it or not, you’re probably the craziest son of a bitch that we’ve got on this whole fucking island.”
THREE . . .
It was 1800 hours. The patrol from the recon platoon stood around on the shoulder of the road where the deuce-and-a-half truck had been ambushed. Lieutenant Breckenridge held his Thompson submachine gun in his right hand and his shirt was unbuttoned nearly to his navel. The sleeves were torn off his shirt and he wore his steel pot low over his eyes and high up on the back of his head.
He watched Private Joshua McGurk, the former lumberjack from Skunk Hollow, Maine, crawling around on his hands and knees, studying the ground and bushes nearby. McGurk was the giant of the recon platoon, seven feet tall and weighing three-hundred pounds. He’d hunted and trapped game in Maine before the war and was wise in the ways of the wilderness, but was considered a moron otherwise.
