by Len Levinson
Butsko closed the rear door, then slid into the front seat. “He’s coming with us,” he said to Lieutenant Lewis.
“Does he have a pass?” Lieutenant Lewis asked.
“Yeah.”
Lieutenant Lewis turned to face Pfc. Shaw, and Shaw was astonished to see the lieutenant’s bar on his collar. Shaw wondered where Butsko got the car and why an officer was driving him around.
“Where’s your pass, soldier?” Lieutenant Lewis asked.
“I . . . ah . . .”
“Well where is it!”
Butsko looked at Lieutenant Lewis. “Hey—whataya talking to him that way for! He’s a friend of mine! He was in my old platoon! We was on Guadalcanal together!”
“That’s all very well and good,” Lieutenant Lewis said, “but where’s his pass?”
Somebody knocked on the door next to Lieutenant Lewis. Lieutenant Lewis turned around and saw an MP looking through the window.
“You can’t park here, sir,” the MP said.
“Right,” said Lieutenant Lewis.
Lieutenant Lewis shifted into first and drove away from the curb. The traffic was heavy near the PX and he had to pay attention. He was getting rattled. He drove into the street and pressed the accelerator, wondering how he got into such a mess. He was tired of playing nursemaid to guys like Butsko, and bowing and scraping before the brass. Before the war he’d worked for a big public relations agency in Chicago. He’d been in the big time, but now he was just another lieutenant who had to put up with a lot of shit.
“I can’t take that man into town if he doesn’t have a pass,” he said to Butsko.
“Why the fuck not?” Butsko asked.
“Because he hasn’t got a pass.”
“Write him one.”
“I don’t have any blank passes with me.”
“Get some.”
“I’ll have to drive back to my office.”
“We don’t have time for that. We’ll go into town without the pass for Shaw.”
“But he can’t leave the post without a pass!”
“He can leave the post if he’s on official duty, and he’s on official duty, isn’t he?”
“No, he’s not!”
“You’re an officer with the Public Information Office,” Butsko said. “If you say he’s on official business, he’s on official business.”
“I couldn’t do that!”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“Because it’s wrong!”
“What’s wrong about it?”
“He’s not on any official business!”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s not on official business!”
“What if I said I needed him? Wouldn’t that make it official business?”
Lieutenant Lewis thought that one over. “What do you need him for?”
“What d’you care? I need him and that’s all there is to it. If I can’t take him into town with me, I’ll make so much trouble for you you’ll wish you was dead. When that general comes around to pin that fucking piece of tin on me, I’ll spit in his fucking face!”
Lieutenant Lewis went pale behind the wheel. “You wouldn’t do that!”
“Oh yes I would. I’m a crazy son of a bitch. You read my records. You know what I’m like. I killed a guy in a bar in Australia once.”
Shaw leaned forward in the back seat. “That’s right—he did. I know because I was there.”
Lieutenant Lewis glanced at Butsko. “If you make trouble, it’ll be terrible for the Army.”
“Fuck the Army,” Butsko replied.
“It’ll be terrible for the people on the home front too.”
“Fuck the people on the home front too.”
Lieutenant Lewis didn’t know what to say. For the past year and a half he’d been dealing with men like Butsko who were up for decorations, and some of them had been pretty bad, but none as bad as this.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Lieutenant Lewis said to Butsko. “We’ll take him into town with us, provided you cooperate with me fully.”
“It’s a deal,” Butsko said.
“You sure?”
Shaw leaned forward in the back seat again. “When Sergeant Butsko says something, you can build a house on it.”
“I don’t want a house,” Lieutenant Lewis replied. “I just want cooperation.”
“You got it,” Butsko said.
“Good,” Lieutenant Lewis told him. “I’m glad we understand each other.”
“We sure do understand each other,” Butsko said, “but do you know who this man is in the back seat?”
“Who is he?” Lieutenant Lewis said, making a right turn down a road lined with two-story barracks.
“You really don’t know?”
“I told you I don’t know.”
“Have you ever heard of Terrible Tommy Shaw.”
“Who?”
“Terrible Tommy Shaw.”
“Terrible Tommy Shaw?”
“I think there’s an echo inside this car.”
“I don’t believe I ever heard of anybody named Terrible Tommy Shaw,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“What! You never heard of Terrible Tommy Shaw!”
“I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“You mustn’t follow boxing.”
“I know who Joe Louis is.”
“Well sitting right there in the back seat is Terrible Tommy Shaw, the guy who was going to kick Joe Louis’s ass!”
Lieutenant Lewis smiled indulgently. “No kidding.”
Butsko scowled. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Yes, I believe you.”
“No you don’t.” Butsko turned toward Shaw in the back seat. “Tell him your record.”
“Thirty wins,” Shaw said, “twenty-five by knockout, with only one draw.”
Butsko smacked Lieutenant Lewis on the shoulder. “You see? They didn’t call him Terrible Tommy Shaw for nothing!”
“How many fights did you lose?” Lieutenant Lewis asked over his shoulder.
“Five,” replied Shaw.
Lieutenant Lewis didn’t say anything else. Shaw knew what Lieutenant Lewis was thinking: that Shaw was just another fucked-up bullshit artist, a pug who was everybody’s punching bag. But Shaw really had been a top contender, he hadn’t exaggerated his record, and he’d been rated among the top ten heavyweights in the world by Ring magazine, “the Bible of Boxing.” Shaw had won his last fifteen fights in a row. His manager promised him a shot at the title within a year, but then the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor and Shaw found himself in uniform like all the other able-bodied men who didn’t have friends in high places.
The gatehouse was straight ahead. Lieutenant Lewis hit the brakes and the Chevrolet slowed down. The MP leaned out the window of the gatehouse. Lieutenant Lewis handed the MP a piece of paper. The MP read it and gave it back.
“What about the other people in the car, sir?”
“They’re with me.”
“Yes sir.”
The MP saluted, then motioned with his hand for Lieutenant Lewis to drive past the gatehouse. Lieutenant Lewis let up the clutch and pressed the gas pedal. The Chevrolet accelerated away from the gatehouse, heading for Honolulu.
The sun hung like a big orange ball of fire above the treetops. Lieutenant Breckenridge sat in his foxhole and studied his map. Private Worthington, his runner, looked over his shoulder.
“Where we going?” Private Worthington asked.
“To the south.” Lieutenant Breckenridge pointed to the part of his map that showed the region between the village of Afua and the foothills of the Torricelli Mountains.
“What’s there?”
“That’s what the patrol’s supposed to find out. Get your gear together and stop asking so many questions. You’re as bad as the other guys in this platoon.”
Worthington scowled as he checked the walkie-talkie radio and his M 1 rifle. He was the only man on th
e patrol who’d carry an M 1 rifle because he was a sharpshooter. Before the war he’d hunted big game in Africa.
Before the war he’d also played football against Lieutenant Breckenridge. Worthington had gone to Georgia Tech for awhile, and Lieutenant Breckenridge played for the University of Virginia. They’d been on the same social level more or less, but now Lieutenant Breckenridge talked to Worthington as if he was Lieutenant Breckenridge’s servant.
I really should become an officer myself, he thought. I should be giving orders instead of taking them.
Lieutenant Breckenridge stood and took a deep breath. He took off his helmet, scratched his head, and put it back on again.
“Everybody who’s going on the patrol—let’s saddle up!”
The men groaned and muttered. They picked up their cartridge belts and slung their submachine guns over their shoulders. Lieutenant Breckenridge took out his compass and stood so that the North arrow pointed at his chest. He looked ahead, and that was south, where the patrol was supposed to go. Dropping the compass into his shirt pocket, he slung his submachine gun over his shoulder.
“Let’s go!” he said. “Line up over here!”
They shuffled toward him and made a straight line. The other men in the recon platoon who weren’t going on the patrol looked at them and gave thanks that they didn’t have to go. Lieutenant Breckenridge felt bad about selecting the same men for this patrol as were selected for the one that tracked down the Jap raiding party, but these were his best men and he always wanted to take his best with him on patrols.
“We all set?” he asked.
Nobody said anything.
“McGurk—take the point!”
McGurk ran forward, then slowed down and hunched into the jungle.
“The rest of you—move it out!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
The men shuffled after McGurk. Lieutenant Breckenridge watched them go, then fell in behind them, bringing up the rear.
The patrol from the recon platoon disappeared into the jungle, and every man on the patrol wondered if this time he’d be the one who’d be carried back on the shoulders of one of his buddies.
***
Night came to Honolulu, and neon lights flashed brilliantly in a honky-tonk downtown area. Lieutenant Lewis sat behind the wheel of the Chevrolet and saw servicemen of all types on the sidewalks. Some wore military uniforms and others wore civilian clothes with colorful Hawaiian shirts, but Lieutenant Lewis could see that all of them were servicemen from the way they walked and had their hair cut. Not many young healthy men were civilians now that the war was on.
A billboard advertised Lucky Strike cigarettes. It showed a farmer wearing a wide-brimmed hat holding up a broad tobacco leaf. “Man, that’s fine tobacco,” the headline said. In the lower left hand corner of the billboard a picture of a Minuteman had been painted, and next to it was the exhortation:
FOR VICTORY
BUY
UNITED
STATES
WAR
BONDS
AND
STAMPS
Across the street was another billboard, this one selling WILDROOT CREAM OIL FORMULA, and it asked the question: Can your scalp pass the Fingernail Test?
Lieutenant Lewis saw servicemen entering and leaving the saloons that lined the street. Some were drunk already and others rushed into the saloons to get drunk as fast as they could. Lieutenant Lewis never had been to this part of town before, but he’d heard about it. It was the waterfront district where the whorehouses and gambling joints were. Soldiers came here to spend their money and have a good time.
He saw penny arcades and shooting galleries. Women stood in doorways smoking cigarettes and trying to appear sexy. Chinese men in white suits and Panama hats slunk through the alleys. Lieutenant Lewis knew that big brawls sometimes took place in this area, and occasionally servicemen were found with their throats cut.
“Park anywhere around here,” Butsko said to Lieutenant Lewis.
“Around here?” Lieutenant Lewis asked, horrified.
“That’s right.”
“Your wife lives around here?”
Butsko turned to him. “Who said she lives around here?”
“I thought we were going to see your wife.”
“We are.”
“Then what are we doing here if she doesn’t live here?”
“Because we need a drink.”
“I don’t need a drink.”
“Then you can stay in the car, but Shaw and I need a drink, right Shaw?”
“That’s right,” Shaw said in the back seat.
Lieutenant Lewis shook his head slowy. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”
“Listen,” Butsko said, “if I can’t have a little drink, you can take that medal and shove it up your ass.”
“This is a bad place to have a drink,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “Anything can happen in this part of town.”
“Don’t worry so much. Nothing’s gonna happen. If you’re scared, you can wait in the car.”
“I’m not waiting in the car. I’m supposed to keep my eyes on you.”
“Find a place to park and let’s go. I’m thirsty. Are you thirsty too, Shaw?”
“Yeah.”
Lieutenant Lewis looked on both sides of the street but couldn’t see any places to park the car. He didn’t like being in that neighborhood and didn’t like the way Butsko and Shaw were treating him. He was an officer and they were enlisted men, but they were controlling the situation.
He took a right turn and saw Chinese calligraphy on the neon signs. Chinese restaurants were on the street, and GIs swarmed around on the sidewalks. They crossed the street in front of Lieutenant Lewis’s car and gave him the finger, making his temperature rise.
“I think we ought to get out of here,” Lieutenant Lewis said.
“Calm down,” Butsko replied. “We’ll take care of you. Just find a parking spot.”
Shaw pointed straight ahead. “Somebody’s pulling out over there!”
A big black Buick was rolling into the middle of the street. A Hawaiian man in a zoot suit sat behind the wheel, and Lieutenant Lewis steered into the parking spot. He backed up, cut the wheels, moved forward, pulled up the emergency brake, and turned off the engine.
Butsko opened the door and put his big foot on the sidewalk.
“Wait a minute!” Lieutenant Lewis said.
Butsko turned around. “What’s the problem?”
“I think we ought to have a little talk.”
“About what?”
“About what’s gonna happen from now on.”
“What’s gonna happen from now on?” Butsko asked.
“We’re all gonna behave ourselves. We’re gonna stay out of trouble. We’ll have a drink someplace and then we’ll leave to see your wife, right?”
“Right.”
“We don’t want to get to where she lives too late, right?”
“Right,” Butsko said.
Lieutenant Lewis turned to Shaw in the back seat. “You understand what I just said?”
“Sure,” replied Shaw. “What’s to understand?”
“Just wait a minute,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “I’ve got to do a few things.”
Shaw got out of the car and stood next to Butsko. They winked at each other. Meanwhile, inside the car, Lieutenant Lewis removed the lieutenant’s bars from his collar and replaced them with the crossed rifles badge of the Infantry. He exchanged his cunt cap, decorated with officers’ gold braid, with a cap decorated with blue braid, the color of the infantry. He got out of the car and locked his door.
“Let’s not go too far from here,” he said.
“Just around the corner’ll be fine,” Butsko replied. “Looks like you just got demoted.”
“Officers shouldn’t be seen in this part of town.”
Butsko and Shaw turned around and walked side by side toward the corner. Lieutenant Lewis followed them and felt like a chump. He was jealous of them because they
were so tall and he was so short. He thought God dealt him a shitty hand by making him so short. Tall men didn’t respect short men and most women wanted to go out with men taller than they. His life was a constant struggle to assert himself.
Chinese ding-dong music played all around them. Neon lights splashed their bright garish colors overhead. Whores winked at them from alleyways, and a drunk stumbled into Butsko, upsetting his balance. Butsko pushed the drunk away and the drunk crashed against a wall. If a plate glass window had been there, the drunk would’ve gone right through it.
The two GIs rolled their shoulders as they walked side by side, and everybody got out of their way. Their cunt caps were low over their eyes and high up on the backs of their heads. They wore tan, slightly rumpled Class A uniforms with Combat Infantryman Badges over the left pockets of their shirts, and they looked like tough badass old soldiers. They came to the corner and turned left. Stretching before them were saloons and penny arcades.
“This one okay?” Butsko asked as they approached a saloon called the Deep Six.
“Why not?” Shaw replied.
Butsko pushed open the door and stepped inside. A bar was to the right and tables to the left. The lighting was dim and the bartender was a brute with his hair cut short, military style. The bartender had a bullneck and served a highball to a blonde in a tight dress. Butsko sidled next to the blonde and winked at her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
“I’m Butsko.”
“I’m Bobbie.”
“Lemme introduce my friends. This is Tommy Shaw, and this is—what’s your name again?”
“Lewis,” said Lieutenant Lewis.
“That’s his name,” Butsko said.
The bartender leaned forward. “What’ll you have?”
“Three shots and three beers,” Butsko said, “and give the lady here whatever she wants.”
The bartender walked away, light on his feet for such a big man. Butsko turned to Lewis.
“I hope you got some money on you.”
“I have, but I can’t buy drinks here endlessly.”
“I ain’t been paid yet,” Butsko complained.
“Me neither,” said Shaw.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lieutenant Lewis said. “The Army’ll pick up the tab, but not all night long, of course.”
