by Len Levinson
His bayonet still wouldn’t come out. Bannon heard footsteps and looked up. A Japanese officer carrying a samurai sword stalked toward him out of the struggle taking place in the vicinity. The Japanese soldier had a thick beard and cruel gleam in his eyes. He held the samurai sword over his head with the point aiming straight up in the air and took a step toward Bannon. Then he took another step. Bannon decided he shouldn’t wait for the Japanese officer to make his move.
He leapt at the Japanese officer, and the Japanese officer swung down at the same moment. Bannon’s fingers wrapped around the Japanese officer’s wrist; Bannon pivoted and yanked at the same time. The Japanese officer lost his footing and fell over Bannon’s hip. Bannon pushed the Japanese officer onto the ground and elbowed him in the throat. The Japanese officer coughed, and Bannon punched him in the mouth. The Japanese officer loosed his grip on the samurai sword, and Bannon took it out of his hands. He grasped it in his own hands, raised it in the air, and brought it down hard on the Japanese officer’s left collarbone.
The sword busted the Japanese officer’s collarbone and buried itself in his ribs. Bannon pulled it loose and looked up in time to see a Japanese soldier charging toward him, aiming his rifle and bayonet toward Bannon’s heart. Bannon danced to the side and swung down the samurai sword, striking the Japanese soldier on the shoulder and lopping off his entire left arm. Blood gushed out and the Japanese soldier stared with horror at the gory spectacle of his arm lying on the ground. The Japanese soldier fainted from loss of blood and fell on his face.
Bannon looked around. No Japanese soldiers were near him. Ten feet away Frankie La Barbara beat a Japanese soldier’s head with a branch thick and heavy as a club. The Japanese soldier lay on his back and Frankie was going far beyond what was necessary to disable him. Not far away, Lieutenant Breckenridge punched a bayonet into the stomach of a Japanese soldier in front of him, and the Japanese soldier screeched like a cat in heat.
On the ground near Lieutenant Breckenridge lay Pfc. Morris Shilansky, the former bank robber from the greater Boston area. Blood was all over his chest and stomach. Private Victor Yabalonka knelt beside him.
“You all right?” Yabalonka asked.
Shilansky didn’t reply. Bannon walked toward Shilansky and Yabalonka and kneeled on the other side of Shilansky. On the far side of the clearing, the Reverend Billie Jones kicked the last remaining Jap in the balls, and the Jap went down for the count. The Reverend Billie Jones jabbed a Japanese rifle and bayonet into the chest of the Japanese soldier to make sure he wouldn’t get up again. Dead Japanese soldiers lay all over the area. Lieutenant Breckenridge, his chest heaving like a racehorse who’d just run seven furlongs, counted the Japanese soldiers on the ground, and the total was twenty-six.
Shilansky breathed shallowly; he was unconscious. It was difficult to see where the wound was because of the copious quantities of blood on his torso.
“Worthington!” Bannon shouted.
“Yo!”
“We got another wounded man over here.”
Worthington looked around the clearing. It didn’t appear to be the same clearing they were in several minutes ago. So much had changed so quickly. He had to think of where he’d left his haversack of medicine. Finally he spotted it, next to his can of franks and beans, which had been knocked over in the fighting. He walked toward the haversack, picked it up, and carried it toward Shilansky.
“He’s still alive,” Bannon said.
Worthington got on his knees beside Yabalonka and felt Shilansky’s pulse. “He may be alive, but he’s not alive by much.”
Worthington unbuttoned Shilansky’s shirt and saw the gold star of David attached to the chain that held his dog tags. Worthington took gauze out of his haversack and wiped blood away, to determine where the wound was. The blood welled out of Shilansky’s stomach. It was a bad wound but not as bad as the chest wound that Bisbee sustained. Worthington poured on the coagulant and sulfa powder. Shilansky moaned softly. Worthington shot him up with a Syrette of morphine.
“Put a bandage on him,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Worthington reached into the haversack for a big bandage. Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at the others. “Who’s gonna volunteer to carry him?”
“I will,” said Bannon.
“You’re the second in command here. You don’t carry anybody. Who else?”
McGurk raised his hand. “I’ll carry him.”
“You’re the point man. You can’t carry him.”
Worthington looked up. “I can do it.”
“You got enough to carry.”
“How about me?” Yabalonka asked.
“You got it,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
Frankie La Barbara stepped in front of Yabalonka. “That’s okay—I’ll carry him.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at Frankie La Barbara. “You sure of that?”
“I wouldn’t’ve said it if I wasn’t sure.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge was flabbergasted. He’d thought Frankie would never volunteer to carry anybody, even his own mother, because Frankie had become his usual nasty self ever since the last fight with the Japs; but Shilansky and Frankie had been friends ever since they’d taken basic training together at Fort Ord, California. They’d even gone AWOL once together in Honolulu.
Frankie sensed Lieutenant Breckenridge’s confusion. “Don’t worry about it,” Frankie said. “I toldja I’d carry him.”
“Right.” Lieutenant Breckenridge turned to Worthington. “Hurry up. There might be more Japs around here.”
“I’m almost finished.”
“The rest of you guys get your gear together. We don’t wanna hang around.”
The men stepped over dead Japanese soldiers and returned to where they were having lunch. Their C-ration cans and food were all over the ground. They didn’t even have time to finish lunch.
“Fucking Japs,” Frankie said, picking up his pack.
“Dirty bastards,” replied Victor Yabalonka.
They put on their packs and slung their Thompson submachine guns over their shoulders.
“Anybody else need medical attention?” Private Worthington asked.
Nobody said anything. He stood, slung the haversack over his shoulder, and walked across the clearing to get his gear. Frankie bent over Shilansky and looked at his ashen face covered with beads of perspiration.
“You’re gonna make it,” Frankie said. “You just hang on a little while longer.”
Frankie lifted Shilansky and lay him over his right shoulder. The Reverend Billie Jones picked up the dead body of Private Bisbee, whose arms and legs were stiff due to rigor mortis.
“Are we all set?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
Nobody said anything.
“We’ll have to stay more alert from now on,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Those Japs snuck up on us and we didn’t even hear them. I know you’re all tired, and I’m tired too, but we’re all gonna be dead unless we keep our eyes and ears open.”
“Those Japs probably were here all along,” Bannon said. “We probably just happened to sit down for chow beside them.”
“I don’t think so,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “It doesn’t seem likely that in this entire jungle we’d pick a spot for chow that happened to be right beside a bunch of Japs taking a nap. That just doesn’t make sense. They must have heard us and snuck up on us.”
“They probably wanted our food,” the Reverend Billie Jones said.
“Yeah,” Frankie said, “and they didn’t have any ammunition or hand grenades. They attacked with bayonets because that was all they had.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “The fact is that they caught us with our pants down, and we can’t let that happen again. Stay awake from now on. Now let’s move it out. McGurk—take the point.”
The GIs moved onto the trail and lined up. Lieutenant Breckenridge motioned forward with his arm, and
they all stepped out again. McGurk stalked through the thick foliage, looking all around, listening for the sounds of Japs. He felt guilty about that sneak attack during chow. He thought he should’ve heard the approach of the Japs, but he’d been tired, thirsty, and hungry, not as sharp as he usually was.
He still was tired, thirsty, and hungry, but forced himself to be sharp. He knew the others were depending on him and he couldn’t let them down again. He believed Shilansky had been wounded because of him.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon. The recon platoon moved slowly through the jungle. The men were exhausted but they plodded on. They knew every step brought them closer to their lines. Frankie La Barbara staggered under the weight of Shilansky, but he kept going. The Reverend Billie Jones had little difficulty with the corpse of Private Bisbee, because Bisbee had been a lightweight.
The sun sank toward the horizon. An occasional rifle shot or machine-gun burst could be heard in the distance. Sometimes the sound of explosions came to the men. They were getting hungrier and thirstier but Lieutenant Breckenridge thought he was close to his lines and didn’t want to stop.
Puffy clouds drifted into the bright blue sky at six o’clock in the evening. Occasionally one of the clouds blocked out the sun and the jungle cooled off slightly for a few minutes, but then the sun came out again and everybody baked like chickens in an oven.
McGurk had a headache and his throat was parched. He was out of water and didn’t want to say anything because he didn’t want to hold up the show. The jungle was like a living adversary. It scratched and tried to trip him up. He pushed against branches and the branches pushed back. Some of the branches were quite thick and he couldn’t push them at all. He had to duck underneath, and every time he bent low his back hurt. His thighs and knees ached.
“Halt!” shouted a voice in front of him.
The command was sudden, and McGurk dropped onto his stomach. He glanced behind him and saw all the GIs had hit the dirt also.
“Who goes there!” demanded the voice.
McGurk realized with a rush of joy that an American was talking to him! They’d made it back to their own lines!
“It’s Private McGurk!” he said.
“Who?”
“Private Joshua McGurk!”
“What outfit you from?”
McGurk heard something behind him. He turned around and saw Lieutenant Breckenridge crawling forward.
“I’ll handle this,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“What outfit you from!” the soldier asked again.
“This is Lieutenant Breckenridge from the Twenty-third Regiment, Eighty-first Division, returning from patrol!”
“Advance sir to be recognized!”
Lieutenant Breckenridge stood up and walked forward over the path. The vegetation thinned out and he saw open places ahead. He continued to advance and saw foxholes and bunkers spread through the jungle. A helmet and two eyes showed above the rim of a foxhole straight ahead.
“Halt!” said the soldier inside the foxhole.
Lieutenant Breckenridge stopped.
“Ginger!” said the soldier.
“Rogers!” replied Lieutenant Breckenridge, giving the second half of the countersign.
“Pass on!” said the soldier.
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned around and called to his men: “Let’s go!”
There was silence for a few seconds, then he heard his men rumbling forward through the bushes. Lieutenant Breckenridge walked toward the foxhole and looked inside. Two GIs were at the bottom, armed with M 1 rifles.
“What outfit is this?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“Thirty-fifth Division, sir,” said one of the men.
“Which way’s the Eighty-first?”
“I really don’t know, sir.”
“Where’s your command post?”
The soldier pointed behind him with his thumb. “Thataway.”
“Follow me,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said to his men.
They pushed their way through the jungle and approached the spot where Lieutenant Breckenridge was. The GIs manning the positions in the area looked up to see the raggedy bunch who’d just arrived in their company area. They saw the cuts and bruises, the torn uniforms and the glazed fatigue in the men’s eyes. Two of the newcomers were carried by their buddies. One was clearly dead and the other looked like he might die at any moment, if he wasn’t dead already.
Lieutenant Breckenridge headed back toward the command post. His men followed him, dragging their feet through the dead leaves on the ground, safe at last after nearly twenty-four hours in no-man’s-land.
SEVEN . . .
The C-47 cargo plane droned and trembled as it flew across the bright blue sky. Butsko looked out a window and saw the o.d. green wing slicing through the atmosphere. Below the wing was the blue Pacific Ocean gleaming and glittering in the light of the sun.
Butsko felt disconnected from his world, which was the world of the front lines. It was odd to be far from danger, without having to worry about somebody coming up behind you and sticking a knife into your kidney. He turned around and looked at the wounded men lying on stretchers on the floor. Other wounded men sat on benches that lined both sides of the fuselage. Butsko sat on a bench on the starboard side of the plane. He wore clean fatigues and a soft cap. A small bandage was on his left cheek, covering a cut whose stitches had been removed only that morning. He wanted to smoke a cigarette but no smoking was permitted on the plane. A nurse sat on the bench opposite Butsko. She was on duty to provide assistance for any wounded soldier who might need it.
Butsko looked at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. They were supposed to land at four. One more hour without a cigarette. Butsko chewed the Wrigley’s gum in his mouth. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He didn’t know what to do with himself.
He never liked to sit in one place for a long time. His legs ached and his feet were itchy. He wanted to walk someplace, but there was no place to walk. The sound of the engines was getting on his nerves.
He looked at the soldiers lying on the floor between the two benches. They were bandaged and some were unconscious, on their way to hospitals on the island of Oahu in Hawaii. Butsko felt fortunate that he was returning only with a bum leg and a few cuts here and there.
He didn’t know what to expect when he arrived at Clark Field. He’d been told that he’d be awarded the Distinguished Service Cross at a special ceremony, but couldn’t imagine what that would be like. He had no idea of where he’d sleep that night. He figured it’d probably be in a big repple depple (replacement depot).
He’d said good-bye to Colonel Hutchins and Lieutenant Breckenridge that morning. They’d come to see him off, along with a few other men from his old recon platoon. They’d all looked at him with envy because he was getting away from the war for a while and wouldn’t have to worry about the bullet with his name on it. Butsko had mixed emotions about leaving. He was glad to be away from the front, but now he was an orphan again, not assigned to any permanent unit, far from his friends.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the steady rumble of the airplane engines kept him awake. He figured they’d give him a pass as soon as he got settled, and he’d probably go to Honolulu to see Dolly. In one way he didn’t want to see her, but in another way he was curious about how she was doing. They’d been through a lot of ups and downs together, and she still was receiving his allotment.
She’s probably fucking some guy right now, Butsko thought. She always liked to do it in the afternoon. She always liked to do it in the mornings and during the nighttime too.
He thought Dolly was unique and incredible, the craziest bitch he’d ever met in his life. She could drink most men under the table and then dance all night long. But she’d never been a very loyal wife, although he’d never been a very loyal husband either. Butsko couldn’t remember who cheated on who first. It was all cloudy in his mind. They’d both drunk a lot in those days
. He’d punched her out a few times and the neighbors had called the cops. It had been that kind of marriage. Then he’d been transferred to General Wainwright’s command in the Philippines. Six months later the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. Butsko had seen Dolly very few times since he’d gone to the Philippines.
The plane tilted to the side and made a long wide turn through the sky.
“We’re going down,” somebody said.
Butsko looked out the window. He saw ocean and land far below the plane, and the land had the shape of the southern shore of Oahu. We’re here, he thought. This is it.
The plane leveled off and came in low and steady for the landing. Butsko hoped the plane would touch down smoothly and not tip over or crash. He’d seen planes crash while landing, but those planes had been full of bullet holes. Some had their wings and tails half shot off. Many exploded after crashing. Butsko hoped the pilot up front knew what he was doing. He didn’t want to die in a plane accident after escaping death so many times on the front lines.
Butsko held onto the bench with both his hands. A few of the wounded men lying on the floor raised their heads.
“Relax,” said the nurse. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
Butsko looked at her. He couldn’t understand why nurses always were so calm while other kinds of women were constantly on the verge of hysteria.
The plane continued its descent. Butsko thought of Lieutenant Frannie Divers, whom he’d screwed last night and said good-bye to this morning. She was such a wonderful female, and so great in the sack. She’d been sad to see him go. Evidently she’d really liked him. He really liked her too, but the war was on, he was married, and how could anybody make plans?
One wheel of the plane touched down, then another. Butsko was rocked from side to side. The wheels adhered to the runway and the pilot put down his flaps. The plane sped down the runway and Butsko saw buildings and palm trees pass by the window. He felt the plane decelerating. We made it, he thought.
