Satan's Cage

by Len Levinson

  But he was never able to handle her, and he’d tried everything. He’d even beat the shit out of her a few times, but it had done no good whatsoever, and in fact he’d paid for it afterward. Dolly went out and fucked somebody else, and made sure he found out about it. That’s how she got back at him, and it never seemed to bother her at all when he screwed somebody else.

  In his darkest moments he believed Dolly hoped he’d get killed, so she’d get his GI insurance. Sometimes he thought that was one of the main reasons she’d married him in the first place. The other reason was his allotment. Every month Dolly got part of his pay. She was a lazy bitch and the allotment permitted her to lead a life of ease. She stayed out all night and slept all day. She drank like a fish, and there never was any shortage of men wanting to buy drinks for women with big tits. Dolly really could put that booze away. She could drink most men under the table, but she couldn’t drink Butsko under the table.

  Butsko pulled out his canteen and took a swig of white lightning. He worried less about going in battle than seeing Dolly again. The last time he saw her was at the hospital when the Eighty-first Division was on the island of Oahu, only a few months ago. She came to visit him from time to time, and he’d pulled strings so he could get sent back to his regiment. He’d never gone home to see her in the little house she’d bought with his money.

  They’d never argued much in the hospital, but their relationship certainly had cooled down. Butsko didn’t want it to heat up again. Sometimes he thought he ought to divorce Dolly, but it would be hard to get rid of her, because she’d hang on like glue. She didn’t love him anymore, but she sure loved that allotment every month, plus the prospect of getting ten thousand dollars’ worth of insurance when he was killed in action.

  The cigarette was down to the butt. Butsko pushed the lit end into the ground, then field-stripped the cigarette, scattering the tobacco grains to the wind and flipping the balled-up paper over his shoulder. He looked at his watch and it was 0100 hours.

  He decided to go back to bed. Standing, he slung his submachine gun over his shoulder and limped back to the tent complex, as stars glittered in the heavens above his head.

  Private McGurk walked back to Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “Somebody puked over there,” McGurk said, “and the other Japs waited on the trail until he was finished.”

  “How long about?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.

  “It stinks like hell, sir. Couldn’t be that long ago.”

  “Like an hour?”

  “Less than that.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked around at his men. “You hear what he just said? The Japs aren’t far ahead. We’ll probably make contact with them anytime now. Stay awake and keep your eyes open.” He turned to McGurk again. “Don’t let us walk into any ambushes.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Get going.”

  McGurk ran forward to take the point again. Lieutenant Breckenridge waited until McGurk was in position, then raised his hand and pointed it south.

  The platoon moved out again through the dark sweltering jungle.

  FOUR . . .

  Private Toshiro Kitajima was the point man for the tiny Japanese unit commanded by Lieutenant Akiyama. Like Private McGurk, he was from a rural area and knew the ways of the woods. He could look at the ground and tell what had transpired upon it during the past few hours, just as Private McGurk could. Such men always wind up as point men for their units.

  It was night, but the moonlight cast a spectral glow over the jungle. Private Kitajima moved through the thick vegetation as if breast-stroking across a swimming pool. Leaves and branches rippled across his body like water. Ahead were more leaves and more branches, and he plunged through, sniffing the air, listening for unusual sounds, looking for odd movements that shouldn’t be there.

  Passing a huge boulder ten feet high, he saw light in the jungle ahead. It wasn’t the light of a lamp, but the light of an open place in the moonlight. Private Kitajima figured it was a large clearing. He held up his hand and everyone behind him stopped. He got down on his belly and so did they. Cradling his Arisaka rifle in his arms, he crawled forward while the rest stayed behind.

  He crept through the underbrush silently, pausing every few moments, his eyes fixed on the clearing ahead. The clearing had to be checked out, because it might be an enemy encampment. If the clearing were wide open, the Japanese soldiers could move across it much faster than struggling through the jungle.

  He saw large dark shapes in the clearing as he drew closer to its edge, and at first he thought the shapes were American Army tents, which surprised him because he didn’t think the American Army had large encampments this far south, but then, as he reached the edge of the clearing, he saw that the shapes were native huts.

  He lay still and looked at the native huts. There was no movement, and he thought perhaps the village was deserted. But deserted villages became rundown quickly. The jungle grew over them and rodents chewed everything up. The village ahead appeared to be intact. Evidently everyone was sleeping. The natives thought they were safe from the ravages of war.

  Private Kitajima turned around and crawled back to where the others were. He approached Lieutenant Akiyama and said in a low voice: “It’s a native village, sir.”

  “Did you see anybody on guard or anything like that?”

  “They all appeared to be sleeping, sir.”

  Lieutenant Akiyama’s brow became furrowed. He would prefer to go around the village and leave it alone, but he needed water and presumably there would be water in the village. He’d have to go in and get some.

  He worked out a plan to get the water. At first he thought he’d send a few men in to find it, and then decided he’d better not split up the small force he had with him. A few men could get in trouble, but twenty-two men should be able to handle themselves in a native village.

  “This is how we shall proceed,” he told his men. “We will creep close to the village, making no sound. Then we will assault the nearest hut. I will go inside with Private Kitajima, and the rest of you, under Sergeant Okamoto, will cover us. No one will fire his weapon unless I give the order, or unless it is absolutely necessary. By absolutely necessary I mean if a native is displaying a weapon and is about to use it on you. Are there any questions?”

  No one said anything.

  “Move out,” Lieutenant Akiyama said.

  The Japanese soldiers got down on their bellies and crawled over the trail. Private Kitajima went first, with Lieutenant Akiyama second and Sergeant Okamoto third. The rest of the unit followed Sergeant Okamoto in a long winding line through the jungle.

  Soon they came to the edge of the clearing. Lieutenant Akiyama gazed at the huts and selected the closest one. He pointed to it, and Sergeant Okamoto nodded. The huts were spread out all over the clearing, with a fire pit surrounded by stones in front of each hut.

  “Follow me,” Lieutenant Akiyama said. “Move quickly.”

  Lieutenant Akiyama drew his Nambu pistol and worked the mechanism with both hands, placing a round in the chamber.

  “Everyone ready?” he asked.

  His men nodded. Even Private Yotsuda nodded, his eyes droopy and his face blanched by illness.

  “Let’s go!” Lieutenant Akiyama said. He jumped up and charged out of the jungle, heading toward the nearest hut. A dog ran out of a hut and barked hysterically. The dog was as big as a beagle, and dived at Lieutenant Akiyama’s feet. Lieutenant Akiyama timed him coming in and kicked him in the chops. The dog went flying through the air like a football, yelping loudly.

  Natives charged out of their tents, carrying spears, bows and arrows, and a few rifles. They were surprised, and when they saw the Japanese soldiers they became even more surprised. Lieutenant Akiyama wished he spoke their language, but all he could do was deal with them through signs and actions.

  “Cover me,” he said to his men. “If any of them becomes belligerent, shoot them down.”

  Lieutenant A
kiyama walked boldly toward the nearest native, who held a rifle in his hands. Lieutenant Akiyama, his face stern, tore the rifle out of the native’s hands, and the native didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. Lieutenant Akiyama threw the rifle onto the ground, then aimed his Nambu pistol to the next native, pointed meaningfully at him, and then pointed at the ground.

  The native got the picture and dropped his rifle. Lieutenant Akiyama looked at the next native, who let his bow fall to the ground. Lieutenant Akiyama motioned with his hand to all the natives, and one by one they placed their weapons on the ground.

  Lieutenant Akiyama smiled at the natives, because he wanted them to think he meant them no harm. He glanced around at the tents and saw faces in the shadows, which he presumed were women and children. He’d correctly surmised that the native men wouldn’t want to fight an organized and alert Japanese unit while native women and children were nearby.

  Lieutenant Akiyama pulled his canteen out of its case and waved it in the air. He said, “Mizu,” the Japanese word for water.

  The natives looked at each other. The Japanese soldiers glanced around nervously, wary of an attack. They knew that the natives on New Guinea were generally loyal to the Australians, Americans, and Dutch. But these natives were even more wary of the Japanese soldiers than the Japanese soldiers were of them.

  The native in front of Lieutenant Akiyama motioned with his hand that Lieutenant Akiyama should follow him. He turned and walked toward the center of the village, and the other natives joined him. The Japanese soldiers followed them. They walked among the huts, noticing the eyes of the native women and children staring at them from inside the huts. A few of the Japanese soldiers wanted to jump through the openings of the huts and get a little poontang, but didn’t dare as long as Lieutenant Akiyama was around. He was a very proper young man, a prude in fact, and he’d never let them get away with it.

  Finally they came to a hut in the center of the village. One of the natives went inside, and a few minutes later came out with a man around sixty years old who wore a short maroon skirt that reached down to his knobby knees, and a necklace made of teeth on a string. Evidently he was the chief. The first native pointed to Lieutenant Akiyama, and the chief looked Lieutenant Akiyama over, a hint of distaste on his face. Then he advanced toward Lieutenant Akiyama and bowed slightly.

  Lieutenant Akiyama smiled because he didn’t want any trouble with the natives. He simply didn’t have the time. He held up his canteen and shook it.

  “Water,” he said.

  The chief looked at the canteen blankly.

  “Do you speak Japanese?” Lieutenant Akiyama asked.

  The chief scrutinized his face, then glanced at the canteen again. He turned to the native who’d entered his hut and said something.

  The native approached Lieutenant Akiyama, pointed to his canteen, then motioned for Lieutenant Akiyama to follow him. Lieutenant Akiyama figured the native was going to take him to the place where they got their water. The chief turned around and walked back to his hut. Lieutenant Akiyama jumped forward, grabbed him by the shoulder, and spun him around.

  The chief scowled and looked at Lieutenant Akiyama’s hand on his shoulder. Lieutenant Akiyama removed his hand from the chief’s shoulder and shook his head no. He motioned for the chief to come with the rest of them, because he felt confident that the natives wouldn’t try any shit if they knew their chief would be the first to get his head blown off. He pointed his Nambu at the chief in order to drive the point home.

  The chief said something to his men, then turned to Lieutenant Akiyama and nodded. The chief motioned with his arm, and the natives walked in a northerly direction.

  “I think they’re taking us to their well,” Lieutenant Akiyama said. “Keep your eyes on them. Watch out for trouble.”

  The long procession made its way through the village. The Japanese soldiers kept their guns trained on the natives, and the natives behaved without a trace of fear. The chief walked proudly in front of Lieutenant Akiyama, and Lieutenant Akiyama thought: This is a man in full possession of himself. He is the emperor of this village and everybody knows it.

  They came to a trail at the edge of the jungle. The natives led the way, and after ten yards everybody came to a spring, moonlight dancing on its rippled surface. The native who’d gone into the chief’s tent pointed to the spring.

  “Private Kitajima,” Lieutenant Akiyama said.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Fill up the canteens. The rest of us will keep watch on the natives.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Japanese soldiers took out their canteens and tossed them to the ground beside the brook. Private Kitajima knelt beside the brook and filled up Lieutenant Akiyama’s canteen first. Then he filled up Sergeant Okamoto’s. The water gurgled as it entered the canteen, and bubbles trailed to the surface of the brook. The water was cool and Private Kitajima wished he could jump in. He filled up all the canteens and passed them around, beginning with Lieutenant Akiyama and Sergeant Okamoto.

  Lieutenant Akiyama thought He should send the natives back to the village, and he and his men could resume their journey to the southeast from the spot where they were. Then he realized that the natives might have a wireless radio somewhere in their village, and could notify the Americans that Japanese soldiers had passed through. That would have very terrible consequences for Lieutenant Akiyama and his men.

  “Everybody back to the village!” Lieutenant Akiyama said.

  He signaled with his hands, and the natives walked toward their huts. The chief waited until Lieutenant Akiyama beckoned for him to move, and then he stepped out. The Japanese soldiers followed, anxious to take out their canteens and drink, but Lieutenant Akiyama hadn’t given them permission to do that yet.

  They returned to the chief’s hut in the center of the village. The natives looked at Lieutenant Akiyama, wondering what he wanted them to do next. Lieutenant Akiyama didn’t like the idea of having his men search the huts, but it had to be done. He couldn’t risk his men’s lives because he didn’t want to inconvenience the natives.

  “Sergeant Okamoto,” he said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Take half the men with you and search every hut in this village quickly. Bring any radios that you find here to me. Leave everything else alone, and I positively do not want any looting whatever, is that clear?”

  “Yes sir,” said Sergeant Okamoto.

  “Do all you men understand that?” Lieutenant Akiyama asked.

  “Yes sir,” they replied.

  “Carry out your orders, Sergeant Okamoto.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sergeant Okamoto divided the men into two groups. He told one group to stay with Lieutenant Akiyama, and split the other group into three squads, each with its own leader. The natives watched this activity with great interest, but then the Japanese soldiers entered the nearest huts, and the natives grumbled among themselves.

  The soldiers with Lieutenant Akiyama leveled their rifles at the natives, but the natives continued to grumble. One squad of soldiers entered the hut of the chief, who turned to Lieutenant Akiyama, an expression of anger on his face, but Lieutenant Akiyama was a cousin of the Emperor of Japan, and he didn’t back down easily. He stared back at the chief self-righteously. The chief said something to Lieutenant Akiyama, and Lieutenant Akiyama said in a firm voice: “It has to be done.”

  Lieutenant Akiyama doubted whether the chief understood Japanese, but hoped he could decipher the determination and reasonableness in his voice. The chief wrinkled his brow and appeared to disapprove of what Lieutenant Akiyama had said, but made no more comments. He appeared to be resigned to what was going on.

  Lieutenant Akiyama glanced at his watch. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. He heard the complaints and cries of native women as the Japanese soldiers ransacked their huts. The native men muttered among themselves as they prowled around in front of the chief’s tent. The chief was furious, but made no motion to do a
nything, and he said nothing more. Lieutenant Akiyama wished his men would hurry up. He wanted to get out of that village and into the safety of the thick trackless jungle once more.

  “Hurry up!” he shouted to his men. “We don’t have much time!”

  Private McGurk and Lieutenant Breckenridge lay on their bellies at the edge of the clearing, watching the Japanese soldiers rove from hut to hut, searching for radios. They could see the crowd of natives and Japanese soldiers in the center of the village.

  “You stay here and keep an eye on them,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.

  “Yes sir.”

  “If you see them leaving, come back and tell me.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge turned round and crawled back to the rest of his men, ten yards away on the jungle path. They looked at him expectantly as he approached.

  “Are the Japs there?” Bannon asked.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge nodded. He knelt on the ground, picked up a stick, and drew a rough diagram of the village. “The Japs are searching the huts,” he said. “We’ll wait until they leave the village, and then we’ll attack them.”

  “What makes you think they’re gonna leave the village?” asked Frankie La Barbara.

  “Because they want to get back to their own lines. Isn’t that what you’d want to do if you were behind their lines?”

  Frankie ignored the question. “Why don’t we attack them now when they’re not expecting anything?”

  “Because I don’t want to kill any natives by mistake. The natives are supposed to be our friends.”

  Frankie widened his eyes. “Our friends? What makes them our friends? Let’s go in and get the Japs while they’re not expecting anything.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked Frankie straight in the eyes. “I just told you what we’re going to do. I didn’t ask for your opinion because I didn’t want it. Now shut your mouth and keep it shut, understand?”