by Len Levinson
“I’m not lying, Sergeant,” she said. “If you don’t believe me you can come in the house and take a look.”
The old salt looked at his wife. “Whataya mean he can come in and take a look!”
“Shaddup,” she said to him, and then turned to Butsko. “C’mon,” she said, “see for yourself.”
Butsko hesitated. The woman’s tone and manner made him think she was telling the truth. Evidently Dolly really was gone. He’d torn up her most recent letters because he’d been mad at her, and she’d probably told him in one of those letters that she was moving.
Butsko took off his hat. “I’m sorry I woke you both up. I didn’t know my wife wasn’t living here no more.”
“Well she ain’t,” the tattooed man said.
“How long’s she been gone?”
“About a month,” the woman said.
Butsko felt like an idiot. He’d awakened these people in the middle of the night and raised hell, but he’d been in the wrong.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” he said, taking a step backward. “I just got back from New Guinea, and I wanted to see my wife.”
The woman smiled. “I understand. Jack here just got back from sea duty six weeks ago.”
Jack nodded, but he wasn’t smiling. He was an old salt and he didn’t smile that much.
Butsko threw out his hands. What could he say? With a dumb grin, he took three steps backward and walked toward the car. Jack and his wife closed the door and put out the light over the porch. Butsko opened the front door to the car and slid in behind the wheel. The car shook from side to side and bounced up and down due to the exertions of Shaw and Bobbie in the back seat.
“Settle down back there,” Butsko said, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t you two ever stop?”
The car continued to shake. “How’s your wife?” Shaw gasped.
“She moved.”
“Where’d she move to?”
“Nobody knows.”
“No shit.”
“No shit.”
“What’re we gonna do now?”
“You might as well keep doing what you’re doing. I need a drink.”
Bobbie’s lazy voice came to him from the back seat. “There’s an after-hours joint on Third Street near Elm.”
“Sounds good to me,” Butsko said. “We’re on our way.”
Butsko started up the Chevrolet and shifted into gear. He let out the clutch and drove away from the curb, thinking about Dolly, wondering what in the hell had happened to her.
She probably ran off with some guy, he thought, and they’re living off my allotment, having a good time. When I find her I’m gonna kick her big fat ass.
NINE . . .
It was ten o’clock in the morning. General Hall sat in his office, smoking his pipe and drinking a cup of coffee. A copy of the Army Times lay on his desk, and he read about the assault on Cherbourg by the U.S. VII Corps under Lieutenant General “Lightning Joe” Collins, who’d led the U.S. Army to victory on Guadalcanal.
General Hall eagerly read anything that he could lay his hands on about the war in Europe. He also paid attention to all rumors about the European Theater of Operations that came around on the grapevine. He knew that the war in Europe was the real war as far as Washington was concerned. The Allied strategy was directed toward defeating the Axis Powers in Europe first, and then finishing off the Japanese in the South Pacific.
The bulk of American supplies and troops went to Europe, and the leftovers were sent to the South Pacific. General MacArthur chafed under that arrangement, and so did every other officer in the South Pacific, including General Hall. General Hall studied the war in Europe because he knew every advance or setback there affected his men on New Guinea. The sooner the Allies beat the Germans, the sooner the commanders in the South Pacific would get the men and supplies to beat the Japs. If the Germans inflicted defeats upon the Allies, it would mean that General Hall and the other commanders in the South Pacific would have to continue to fight the Japs on a shoestring.
Reading the newspaper, it appeared to General Hall that the war in Europe was going well. Cherbourg was a major port, the first the Allies had captured in Normandy, and that meant they’d be able to supply their armies more easily. The troops and supplies that General Hall wished he had would be poured ashore at Cherbourg, so that Allied Armies could push the Germans back in the west, while the Red Army hammered them in the east. How long could Nazi Germany hold out? That was the big question. General Hall hoped it wouldn’t be much longer.
There was a knock on his door.
“Come in!”
The door opened and Colonel MacKenzie, his chief of intelligence, entered his office, carrying a bulging briefcase. It was time for General Hall’s morning intelligence briefing.
“Morning sir,” said Colonel MacKenzie.
“Good morning.”
A clerk followed Colonel MacKenzie into the office, carrying a pot of coffee. Colonel MacKenzie sat on the chair in front of General Hall’s desk. The clerk poured coffee into an empty cup for Colonel MacKenzie, and filled General Hall’s cup again.
“What have you got for me this morning?” General Hall asked Colonel MacKenzie.
Colonel MacKenzie had red hair and freckles. His skin was constantly peeling because of its inability to hold a tan. He opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers as the clerk departed, closing the door behind him.
“There’s a lot of activity in the south,” Colonel MacKenzie said. “Patrols down there from the Eighty-first Division have observed numerous large and small groups of Japanese soldiers moving into the area. Other Japs were seen crossing the Driniumor at a fording point about twenty-five thousand yards south of Afua. Three patrols stumbled onto a new rough trail that the Japs have blazed south of the Afua-Palauru trail, running more or less parallel along the foothills of the Torricelli Mountains from the Driniumor to the headwaters of the X-ray River.” Colonel MacKenzie looked up from his papers at General Hall. “That’s about it.”
“It appears that the Japs are planning something down there,” General Hall said.
“Yes sir,” Colonel MacKenzie agreed. “The area ought to be reinforced.”
“I can’t reinforce it, because I don’t have the men. I have to keep adequate reserves in the center of my line to protect the airfields. Perhaps the Japs want me to shift my forces south so they can have another go at the airfields. It may be diversionary activity.”
“Maybe,” said Colonel MacKenzie.
“What do you think?” General Hall asked.
“It’s hard to say. If you can’t reinforce the south of your line, I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see what transpires down there.”
“I don’t think the Japs can move substantial numbers of troops through that area,” General Hall said. “The jungle’s too thick and there are no roads. Everything the Japs bring in they’ll have to carry on their backs. I’ll order General Hawkins to send out raiding parties to harass the Japs moving over the trails.”
“You can have the trails interdicted, sir.”
“If I do that the Japs’ll just cut new trails. We might as well let ‘em use the trails we know about, but I want to keep the Afua-Palauru trail clear of Japs so we can maintain overland communications between Afua and Blue Beach through Chinapelli and Palauru. Relay those orders to General Hawkins, will you?”
“Personally sir?”
“Yes.” General Hall noticed the expression of dismay on Colonel MacKenzie’s face. “I know that General Hawkins isn’t easy to deal with, but you just tell him that those orders came from me. If he has any questions, he can bring them to me. Understand?”
“Yes sir.”
“What else have you got for me?” General Hall asked.
General Hawkins sat behind his desk writing a letter to his wife. Her framed photograph faced him, and she was a handsome woman with aristocratic features and wavy blond hair. She was currently living in Los Angeles with her parents and
children.
General Hawkins missed her very much. She had a calming influence on him, moderating his wild mood swings. He knew he never would’ve gone as far as he had in the Army if he hadn’t been married to her, because she was a socialite who knew how to entertain the top brass and make her husband look good. She was intelligent and diplomatic at all times. She also was pretty good in bed once General Hawkins got her in the mood. Sometimes it was difficult to get her in the mood, because sometimes she thought sex was disgusting.
General Hawkins poured his heart out to her in the letter, because she was the only one to whom he could really open up. A general just couldn’t talk to anybody, after all. He couldn’t even talk to other generals about personal things, because they were all in competition with each other, or serving under each other, or giving orders to each other.
General Hawkins spoke of his frustrations and aggravation. He complained about the incessant heat and humidity. He asked about their two sons and their daughter. He told her to convey his regards to her family, although he didn’t really like her family that much. She was descended from the old California land barons, and they were quite wealthy. They owned huge chunks of prime real estate in the Los Angeles area and had sold huge chunks already. They never forgave Margaret for marrying a poor Army officer who ran back and forth in the woods with a rifle all day long.
He heard someone approach the canvas flap that was the door to his office.
“Sir?” asked Master Sergeant Abner Somerall, his sergeant major.
“Come in,” said General Hawkins.
Sergeant Somerall entered the office. He was a beefy man who wore glasses and was nearly bald. “Colonel MacKenzie is here to see you, sir. He says he has a message for you from General Hall.”
“Oh-oh,” said General Hawkins. “You’d better send him right in.”
Sergeant Somerall retreated from the office and General Hawkins put aside the letter he was writing to his wife. The tent flap was pushed to the side and Colonel MacKenzie entered his office, marching toward the desk and saluting.
“Have a seat,” General Hawkins said.
Colonel Mackenzie sat on a chair in front of General Hawkins’s desk and opened his bulging briefcase.
“What’ve you got there?” General Hawkins asked.
Colonel MacKenzie straightened up and looked at the papers in his hands. “It’s about those Jap troop movements your patrols have reported.”
“I just sent General Hall a message about them. I told him I intend to shorten my lines by withdrawing to the north of Afua.”
“That’s not what the general wants you to do, sir. The general wants you to send patrol-sized troop units south to harass the Japs moving along their new trails, and he also wants you to make sure that the Afua-Palauru trail remains clear of Japs so we can keep our overland line of communications open to Blue Beach through Chinapelli and Palauru.”
“That’s absurd!” General Hawkins exploded.
“Those are your orders,” Colonel MacKenzie said softly. “General Hall asked me to transmit them to you personally so you wouldn’t have any confusion about them.”
“I’m not confused about them,” General Hawkins said. “I just think they’re wrong. Substantial numbers of Japs are pouring into this area, and the only sensible thing for me to do is shorten my lines.”
“No,” Colonel MacKenzie said. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.”
“Why is it out of the question?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to take that up with General Hall, sir.”
“I’m going to be attacked, and you’re telling me that I can’t do anything about it?”
“General Hall doesn’t think the Japs can move any large force along the new trail. He doesn’t think you have that much to worry about.”
“I’ve got plenty to worry about,” General Hawkins said. “This area is crawling with Japs.”
“General Hall understands that. He wants you to attack, not retreat.”
“Attack what? The Japs aren’t just sitting still in one spot out there, waiting for me. They’re all over the jungle. You can’t find them that easily, but there are a lot of them and they’re up to something.”
Colonel MacKenzie shrugged. “If you don’t think you can carry out those orders, I think you ought to tell General Hall.”
General Hawkins inserted a cigarette into his ivory cigarette holder. He lit the cigarette and inhaled slowly. It would be pointless for him to tell General Hall that he couldn’t carry out his orders. General Hall would simply relieve him of command.
“I’ll do my best,” General Hawkins said finally, “but you tell General Hall that this flank is facing a serious threat from the Japs, and if he wants me to hold the fort down here, he’d better send me some more troops.”
“The problem,” Colonel MacKenzie replied, “is that he has no troops to send you. There will be no reinforcements until the Sixty-eighth Division arrives at Aitape.”
“When’ll that be?”
“Maybe another week.”
“I still think I ought to move north and shorten my lines.”
“I’ll convey that view to General Hall.”
“On second thought, I think I’ll convey it myself.”
“As you wish, sir. I’m finished with my business here. May I leave?”
“Go ahead.”
Colonel MacKenzie stood and saluted sharply. He performed an about-face and carried his briefcase out of General Hawkins’s office. General Hawkins waited a few minutes, until Colonel MacKenzie was too far away to hear anything. Then he stood, picked up his chair, and threw it across his office, cursing loudly, stomping his feet angrily on the ground.
General Yokozowa stood at the mouth of a cave in the Torricelli Mountains. His staff and aides were putting together his new office deeper in the cave. General Yokozowa’s arms were crossed and his right leg was bent in front of him. He looked down at the winding Driniumor River, the village of Afua, and the vast jungle.
His combat units were moving through that jungle, getting into position. He couldn’t see them but he knew they were there. They’d been probing and deploying all day yesterday and last night. The work would continue today. Tomorrow night, on the eighteenth of June, they’d attack.
A flock of birds flew over the jungle. General Yokozowa wished they were Japanese bombers, so they could soften up the American positions before he attacked. But they weren’t bombers and he couldn’t soften up the American positions, not even with artillery, because he didn’t have any. All he had were a few captured mortars and bazookas, and there was no point using them because all they’d do was alert the Americans that an attack was coming.
General Yokozowa was going to attack suddenly, giving no warning to the Americans. He hoped to achieve a tremendous initial breakthrough by catching the Americans unawares. The Americans wouldn’t know what hit them. He’d attack at night when visibility was poor, because Japanese officers believed Americans didn’t like to fight at night. General Yokozowa would crack their line and roll their flank back. He’d have the Tadji airfields in his pocket by evening of the next day, if all went well, and if it didn’t go well, he could hardly be worse off than he was.
His aide, Lieutenant Higashi, approached him from behind. “Sir,” he said, “your desk is ready.”
General Yokozowa turned around and marched back into the cave. The light grew dimmer and he saw his desk positioned near one of the walls. A framed portrait of the Emperor had been nailed into the rock behind the desk. General Yokozowa sat and looked at the maps neatly spread out on his desk. He glanced at his watch and it was one-thirty in the afternoon.
“Time to eat,” he said to Lieutenant Higashi. “Get me some of that American canned food, will you?”
“Yes sir.”
General Yokozowa hated the American food, but it was all he had to eat. He thought it might taste better if it were heated, but he didn’t dare light any fires in the cave because the sm
oke could be seen for a long distance. He heard Lieutenant Higashi rustling with the cans. General Yokozowa was hungry. He wished Lieutenant Higashi would hurry up.
Finally Lieutenant Higashi brought him a metal plate covered with what appeared to be white worms in a sauce made of blood.
“What in the name of heaven is this?” General Yokozowa asked.
“I believe they’re similar to our soba noodles, sir.”
“They look absolutely dreadful.”
“Should I look for something else, sir?”
“That’s all right. We must eat what is placed in front of us and be thankful that we have something to eat.”
“Yes sir.”
“You may get something for yourself now.”
“Thank you sir.”
General Yokozowa positioned his chopsticks in his fingers and tried to pick up a strand of the spaghetti, but it was impossible. The spaghetti was slimy and wouldn’t stay on the chopsticks. General Yokozowa tried again, to no avail. The spaghetti in C rations wasn’t meant to be eaten with chopsticks.
Finally General Yokozowa lost his patience. He raised the bowl to his lips and drank the spaghetti down, nearly gagging on it.
No wonder the Americans are weak and cowardly, he thought. Anybody would become weak and cowardly if they ate horrible food such as this all the time.
Butsko snored loudly as he lay on his bunk in his room in the BOQ at the Schofield Barracks in Hawaii. He hadn’t bothered to take his uniform off when he’d returned, and lipstick stained his collar and fly. His collar was undone and stains of various hues were on his shirt and pants. He smelled like stale booze and his knuckles were skinned due to the fighting in the Deep Six bar.
He didn’t hear the door to his room open, because his mind was fogged by liquor. He didn’t see the five officers enter his room and look around, wrinkling their noses at the awful stench. An empty bottle lay on the floor beside the bed and an officer picked it up with his fingers as if it was a piece of shit. He dropped the bottle into the wastebasket next to the desk that Butsko hadn’t used yet, and the sound of the bottle hitting the bottom of the wastebasket made Butsko open his eyes.
