Satan's Cage

by Len Levinson

  “What the hell you telling me for?” Frankie asked.

  “Because you’re the one who argues about everything.”

  “I do not.”

  “You’re doing it right now.”

  “You started it.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge pointed to Frankie’s nose. “I’m sick and tired of you talking back to me,” he said. “When we get back, I’m transferring you out of this platoon.”

  “I don’t give a fuck,” Frankie said.

  “Neither do I,” replied Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  On the ground, Private Bisbee opened the young Japanese officer’s shirt pocket and pulled out a photograph of the Emperor encased in oilskin to protect it from the elements. The photograph carried a personal inscription from his cousin, the Emperor, but Bisbee didn’t notice it in the moonlight. He thought it was just another photograph of Hirohito that Japanese soldiers liked to carry around.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked down at Bisbee. “That’s enough of that.”

  Bisbee ignored him in his mad quest for loot. He rolled Lieutenant Akiyama’s corpse over and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. Lieutenant Breckenridge bent over and grabbed Bisbee’s collar, yanking him into the air.

  “I thought I said that’s enough,” Lieutenant Breckenridge told him.

  “I didn’t even get his wallet yet!”

  “You’re not going to get it, you fucking ghoul. Move out!”

  He pushed Bisbee in the direction of the village.

  “Let’s go!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “McGurk—take the point!”

  McGurk ran forward, passing Bisbee on the trail. The rest of the men formed a long file. Lieutenant Breckenridge waved his hand forward, and they all trudged back to the village, leaving the dead Japanese soldiers behind them, bleeding in the moonlight.

  FIVE . . .

  The natives in the village heard the burst of gunfire and the random shots that followed it. Then silence descended upon the jungle once more. The natives looked at each other, wondering what had happened. The firefight began and ended so suddenly. The Japanese soldiers had been between the Americans and the village. Could it be that the Japanese soldiers were retreating toward the village?

  The natives became alarmed. The chief shouted orders and the armed native men spread out among the huts that faced the trail. The natives lay down and worked the bolts of their Lee Enfield rifles. They heard footsteps coming toward them on the trail, and hoped it was the Americans.

  The footsteps came closer. The natives became tense. They aimed their rifles toward the trail and pressed their fingers against the triggers. If they saw Japanese soldiers they’d open fire.

  A figure appeared in the moonlight on the trail, and he was too tall to be Japanese. He was even too tall to be an American, but he was wearing an American uniform. It was Private Joshua McGurk from Skunk Hollow, Maine, and he was followed by Lieutenant Breckenridge and the rest of the patrol from the recon platoon.

  The natives stood and made way so their chief could pass among them. The chief walked toward the trail and held his aims out.

  “You have killed the Japanese?” he asked.

  “We sure have,” replied McGurk.

  The chief smiled. He shook McGurk’s hand, and was amazed at how big it was. Then Lieutenant Breckenridge approached the chief.

  “All the Japanese soldiers are dead,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.

  “We can have the weapons?” the chief asked.

  “Go ahead and get them.”

  The chief shouted orders to his men, and a group of them ran down the trail to get the Japanese soldiers’ weapons and ammunition. The chief shook Lieutenant Breckenridge’s hand, and realized that his hand was gigantic too, but not as gigantic as McGurk’s.

  “Thank you for killing the Japs,” the chief said to Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “Those Japs killed some of our friends. We killed them for our friends, as well as for you.”

  “Where are you going now?”

  “Back to our regiment.”

  “At this time of night. Why don’t you stay here and leave in the morning?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch. It was 0200 hours. He was exhausted and so were his men. They had nothing else to do. Why not spend the night in the village?

  “All right,” he said to the chief. “We’ll take you up on that.”

  “You and your men are hungry?”

  “We have our own food, thank you.”

  “I will give you a hut to sleep in. It is better to sleep in a hut, safe from the animals and bugs.”

  “Okay,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, “but we don’t wanna put anybody out.”

  “Do not worry. Everything just fine.”

  They heard a commotion on the trail behind them. It was the natives returning with the rifles and ammunition they’d taken from the dead Japanese soldiers on the trail. The natives danced around gleefully. Lieutenant Breckenridge figured the chief wanted him and his men to stay in the village because he wanted the protection. Lieutenant Breckenridge decided it’d be all right to stay, since their mission was completed.

  “Your people had better bury those Japs,” he told the chief, “in case more Japs come around here after we’re gone.”

  “We do it in the morning,” the chief replied. “Come.”

  The chief led Lieutenant Breckenridge and his men into the center of the village. The native men followed the GIs, while women and children peered at them from inside the huts. The GIs looked into the huts and saw the glittering eyes of the women. Some of the women were old and some were young, but all their eyes were filled with curiosity.

  Frankie La Barbara was sure the women were admiring him. He thought they were just dying to get alone with him someplace and fuck his brains out. He wondered how he could disappear with one of them.

  The chief stopped in front of his hut. “You sleep here,” he said to Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “No,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied, “we don’t want to take your home away from you. We can sleep someplace else.”

  “I say so!” said the chief.

  “Oh,” Lieutenant Breckenridge told him. “Well, if you say so, I guess we’ll do it.”

  “There is water and food in there. The toilets are that way.” The chief pointed to the woods. “Have a good sleep.”

  The chief clapped his hands twice, and everybody dispersed. The native men walked to their huts and went inside. The chief entered the large hut next to the one he’d offered Lieutenant Breckenridge. In minutes the village became deserted. Lieutenant Breckenridge and his men were the only ones in the open.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge turned to his runner, Private Worthington. “See if you can raise Headquarters Company on the walkie-talkie.”

  Worthington, a former college football player like Lieutenant Breckenridge, raised the walkie-talkie’s aerial and pressed the button on its side, speaking the code name of Headquarters Company into the mouthpiece.

  Meanwhile, Lieutenant Breckenridge turned to the rest of his men. “I don’t want any trouble in this village while we’re here,” he said. “Stay away from the native women. Don’t steal anything. Don’t get into any arguments with these people. You all understand that?”

  The men nodded their heads.

  “You sure?”

  They nodded again.

  “How about you, La Barbara? You understand what I said?”

  “What’re you always picking on me for?”

  “Because you’re the worst fuck-up here.”

  “Hey, that ain’t no way to talk, Lieutenant.”

  “I’ve had enough of you to last me for the rest of my life, La Barbara. If you give me any more shit out here, I’ll kill you I swear to God.”

  “Hey—calm down!” Frankie said.

  “You heard me. Remember what I’m telling you.”

  Private Worthington took a step toward Lieutenant Breckenridge. “I can’t get anybody
on this walkie-talkie.”

  “I didn’t think you would,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “We’re a long way from our lines, and radio transmission isn’t worth a shit on this island anyway.” He looked around at the men. “Okay, let’s get some sleep. And remember, I don’t want any trouble from you guys.”

  It was three o’clock in the morning and everybody was fast asleep. The full moon hung in the middle of the sky, casting an ethereal glow over the tiny native village. Not a creature stirred.

  Frankie La Barbara opened his eyes. Somebody was coming into the hut. He reached for his Thompson submachine gun, but then recognized the person as the Reverend Billie Jones. Evidently Billie had gone outside to take a piss.

  Frankie realized he had to take a piss too. He’d fallen into a dead slumber as soon as he’d laid down on the floor of the hut, without taking time to go to the latrine. Now he really had to go. He thought he might piss his pants if he didn’t get a move on.

  He sat up inside the hut and looked at his buddies sleeping all around him. There was Bannon and McGurk, Bisbee and Yabalonka, and Lieutenant Breckenridge was sleeping in back. Frankie looked at Lieutenant Breckenridge and thought of how easy it’d be to kill him. Frankie didn’t like Lieutenant Breckenridge very much, but didn’t want to shoot him there in the tent because everybody would know he did it. Someday in a firefight he’d shoot Lieutenant Breckenridge and everybody would think the Japs did it.

  Frankie got to his feet. He didn’t bother putting on his steel helmet, but thought he’d better take his Thompson submachine gun with him. He was in a war zone and never could be sure of when a Jap might show up. He slung his submachine gun over his shoulder, made his way through the darkness to the front of the hut, and crawled outside.

  The air was cool and a faint breeze blew. The village appeared enchanted in the glow of the full moon. No one was about. The jungle was quiet. Frankie glanced to his left and right and then walked in the direction of the latrine.

  He passed among the native huts and thought of the pretty young native girls sleeping inside them. He wished he could crawl into one of those huts and snuggle up next to a pretty native girl, pinching her round firm ass, but he didn’t dare. He didn’t want to get into any fights with native men, and he knew Lieutenant Breckenridge would kill him if he tried anything like that.

  The breeze whispered something unintelligible in Frankie’s ear. He looked at a fire pit in front of a hut and wondered what the natives cooked there. His mind flashed on his kitchen in Little Italy where his wife Francesca made the most delicious lasagna. Frankie hadn’t eaten any good lasagna since he’d left the States prior to the invasion of Guadalcanal. He missed good Italian cooking. Sometimes he thought he’d never eat any good Italian cooking again, because that bullet with his name on it would come out of nowhere and finish him off for good.

  He came to the edge of the woods, but couldn’t see the latrine. He needed to piss so badly he thought his back teeth were floating. Walking into the jungle, he peered about and saw a clearing to his left. He veered in that direction and caught a whiff of shit. That’s it, he thought, quickening his pace. He charged into the clearing, unbuttoning his fly, and saw the big hole in the ground where the natives did their business. He took out his schlong and relieved himself.

  It was like Niagara Falls and lasted a long time. Frankie reached into his shirt pocket, took out his package of Chesterfields, placed one in his mouth, and lit it with his Zippo. Inhaling, he felt a momentary dizziness. That first hit of strong tobacco always socked him hard every morning, but he recovered quickly and took another puff, and then another.

  The tobacco enlivened his mind. He stuffed his schlong back into his pants and buttoned his fly. Shrugging his shoulders, he stepped back from the latrine and turned around.

  He glimpsed something moving in the jungle, and dropped onto his belly. He readied his submachine gun, but couldn’t see anything out there. What the hell had it been? Were his eyes playing tricks on him?

  He lay in front of the latrine for a few moments, but nothing happened. He decided he hadn’t seen anything worth worrying about. It was probably just the breeze making a leaf tremble. He got to his feet and slung his submachine gun over his shoulder again. He walked toward the village, feeling ten pounds lighter.

  Looking at his watch, he checked the time. He figured they’d move out in a few hours and head back to their bivouac. There shouldn’t be much to do for the rest of the day except dig holes. He didn’t think the Japs would start anything so soon after sustaining the losses of the previous night, and hopefully the front would be calm for a few days. Maybe they’d even get some mail. He hoped a package would arrive from Francesca. She couldn’t ship lasagna halfway across the world, but maybe she could send a few pounds of pepperoni.

  Frankie became especially disgusted with the war whenever he thought about good food. He was sick of Army rations. He thought they were only a small cut above garbage.

  Even when he wasn’t thinking about food, he hated the war. It didn’t make sense to him. He had nothing to gain from it, and everything to lose. Whenever he thought about dying on an island nobody ever cared about before, and no one would ever care about again, he became angry. He hated all the officers and politicians who had made him go to war. He thought they were stupid, and their ideals idiotic. They didn’t even know what they were fighting for. They were just fighting because somebody told them to. Frankie wished he could get the hell out of the war. He’d go AWOL in a minute if he thought he could get away with it. He’d gone AWOL in the past and had been caught and thrown in the stockade, but he knew he’d try again someday. He didn’t think there was any need to put up with Army bullshit if he didn’t have to.

  Frankie became irritated whenever he thought of the war. He’d had such a good life back in New York City. His wife Francesca had been completely devoted to him and he’d had numerous girlfriends on the side. One had been a Rockette at Radio City Music Hall and she’d been the greatest fuck of his life. He’d actually spent more time with her than with Francesca during the year before he’d been drafted.

  Frankie touched the tips of his fingers to the broken bridge of his nose, and growled. Women had considered him handsome before he’d got his nose broken in a hand-to-hand fight with a Jap. Some women said he resembled the popular actor Victor Mature. But now his nose was twisted and bent out of shape, and Frankie thought he looked like a freak, although he only looked like Victor Mature with a broken nose.

  Frankie neared the village, when he saw something flicker in the corner of his eye. He spun to his left and dropped to one knee, pulling his submachine gun off his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes and searched the jungle from left to right, but couldn’t see anything.

  Frankie felt spooked. His thick black hair stood on end. This was the second time he’d seen something out there, and then it had disappeared. Was it a bird or were Japs sneaking around? The native village was in no-man’s-land and it was possible that Jap patrols came wandering through all the time, just like American patrols. Neither the Japs nor the Americans controlled this part of the jungle.

  Frankie froze, his eyes roving about the leaves and branches in front of him. He wondered whether to go back and tell Lieutenant Breckenridge that he’d seen something in the woods. Lieutenant Breckenridge was angry at him already and might get angrier if nothing was found. On the other hand, if Japs were out here and he didn’t report anything, it could cost his life.

  Frankie didn’t know what to do. He tried to convince himself that his eyes were playing tricks with him, but doubted that they were. If it had only happened once, maybe his eyes were playing tricks with him, but it had happened twice. It could be a bird. It might be a monkey. Or maybe it was a fucking Jap.

  The jungle was still. Frankie decided to return to the hut and tell Lieutenant Breckenridge he’d seen something. That’d be the safest thing to do. Let Lieutenant Breckenridge worry about it. That’s what he was getting paid for.

>   He heard a giggle, and his jaw dropped again. The giggle came to his ears again, and he realized it was the giggle of a young woman, coming from the direction in which he’d seen that movement.

  “You are going to shoot me?” a female voice asked playfully from the bushes in front of him.

  “Who’s there?” Frankie asked.

  “If I stand up you will shoot me?”

  “Naw, I won’t shoot you.”

  The bushes rustled in front of him, and the head of a native girl appeared. She was twenty yards away and her hair was curly and short. She had wide innocent eyes and a big smile. As she raised herself higher, Frankie could see her large breasts, and they didn’t hang low like the breasts of a mature woman. They stood right up there.

  Frankie was no dope, and he knew something about women. This one wasn’t hanging around because she wanted to play hopscotch with an American soldier. She was hanging around because she wanted to get fucked.

  Frankie got to his feet and smiled. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  He took out his package of cigarettes. “Want one?”

  “I not smoke.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “I’m Frankie.”

  “Frankie?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What a funny name.”

  “What’s so funny about it?”

  She giggled and rolled her eyes. “It very funny.”

  How should I play this? Frankie wondered. If I just go over there and grab her she might scream and the fucking natives in the village will come out and skin me alive.

  “You want go for walk?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “You want go for a walk?”

  “Yeah,” Frankie replied. “Sure.”

  “Come here.”

  “Are you alone?”