by Len Levinson
Bannon opened a can of beans and hot dogs, spooning the slimy lukewarm contents into his mouth. He looked around at his men, seeing all of them in a new light. They weren't his old drinking buddies anymore but a team of which he was the head.
Beneath the lid of his helmet he studied them one by one. Sam Longtree was probably the best man in the squad, maybe even better than he, but the men might not follow him. The Chief was too much of a loner.
Frankie La Barbara was a fighting son of a bitch, but he was too high-strung and had no sense. He couldn't be trusted and would sell his grandmother for a dime. He tended to lower the morale of the squad with his continual bellyaching, but for some strange reason Bannon liked him best of all, in spite of the fight they'd had that morning. I guess he's more like me that I want to admit, Bannon thought.
Homer Gladley was big, mean, and violent once you got him going. But it wasn't easy to get him going. He wasn't very bright. He had the mental age of eight or nine, and that's the way you had to treat him.
Billie Jones was something of an enigma. Sometimes he played the fool and other times he showed intelligence and depth. He was always reading from the Bible, but Bannon wasn't sure of how much of a true believer Billie Jones was. The former jackleg preacher used to earn his living reading from the Good Book, and he probably couldn't stop. Bannon didn't trust him as far as he could throw him.
Morris Shilansky was another mystery. He was a big, athletic-looking Jew, brooding, intense, and tormented. He had no friends in the squad and spoke as seldom as Sam Longtree. The rumor was that he'd done time in a prison in Massachusetts for armed robbery. He was big as Frankie La Barbara and didn't seem afraid of anything. He never drank, but smoked cigarettes constantly and cleaned his rifle frequently and obsessively. He'd qualified as an expert with an M 1 on the range in Australia and gotten the highest score in the company. A big loping camel of a man, he was like a bomb about to explode.
Craig Delane was easy to figure out. He was a rich guy who was trying to prove that he was a real man, only he wasn't so sure about it himself. He was friendly, decent, did whatever he was told, and had a strong sense of honor. Delane could always be counted upon to do his duty no matter what was happening, and Bannon liked him for that.
Jimmy O'Rourke was a total asshole. He was dumb, phony, a liar, and a braggart. From what Bannon could see, O'Rourke wished he was Craig Delane, who had class and a sense of dignity. O'Rourke always hung around with Delane, and Delane tolerated him because they were stuck in the same squad. O'Rourke fancied that he knew something about politics and tried to get little discussions going whenever things got quiet. He admired Roosevelt but thought he was surrounded by a bunch of Communists.
This is my squad, Bannon thought with a sense of resignation. Only seven of us left and we just got here. I wonder how many will be around tomorrow. He finished his can of beans and threw the empty can over his shoulder. Then he stood and stretched.
“Okay,” he said, “the Chief and O'Rourke will come with me. The rest of you will stay here until we come back.” Bannon wondered who to leave in charge and realized only Frankie La Barbara could keep the rest of them in line. “Frankie is the new acting assistant squad leader and will be in charge until we get back.”
“What if you don't come back?” Frankie asked.
“If we're not back in an hour, find Lieutenant Scofield and tell him where we went and what we tried to do.”
“Watch your ass out there, Bannon.”
Bannon motioned with his head in the direction of the sniper. “Let's go.”
Longtree and O'Rourke followed him into the jungle. After going ten paces, Longtree muttered, “You make too much noise.”
“You can't move through the woods without making noise.”
“You don't got to make so much noise. Move like they taught you in basic training.”
Longtree walked past Bannon, taking long strides but lowering his feet gently to the ground with each step. Crouching low, he moved branches and vines out of the way with his long brown fingers. Bannon and O'Rourke followed, their movements not as smooth as the Indian's but quieter than before. Around them in the jungle they heard the screeches of birds and the chatter of monkeys. In the distance they heard artillery and occasional rifle shots. Occasionally there was a pop in front of them from the sniper's rifle. I wonder how many guys that son of a bitch has killed today, Bannon thought.
They continued through the jungle, the branches whipping back and scratching their faces. Sometimes the foliage became so thick that they had to get on their hands and knees and crawl under it, and in other spots they had to make wide detours because they couldn't even go under. They waded through a swampy area, and Bannon thought of how easy it was to get killed in the jungle. A Jap could be just a few feet away and you wouldn't be able to see him through the foliage.
“We should be getting close,” O'Rourke murmured.
Bannon held up his hand and they all stopped. He held his finger in front of his lips, then whispered, “We've got to find a spot where we can see that treeline.”
Longtree nodded and motioned with his hand. He led them into the jungle again and they meandered around, stepping in gunk and tripping over roots until they came to the edge of a clearing. Longtree motioned to the ground and they all got down. The muck smelled like rotten eggs, and swarms of mosquitoes descended upon them immediately. They crawled toward the clearing and peeked through the bushes. Ahead they could see the tops of palm trees two hundred yards away.
“He's in one of them toward the right,” O'Rourke said, pointing.
“Chief,” said Bannon, “see if you can draw his fire.”
Longtree grunted and crawled away. Bannon gazed at the trees and set his sights for two hundred yards, then clicked off one degree of windage. He took a bandolier of ammunition off his neck and laid it on the mud beside him.
“When the Jap fires,” Bannon told O'Rourke, “pump lead into the son of a bitch.”
O'Rourke adjusted his sights and took aim at the treeline. Bannon felt a terrific burning sensation on his hand and took a look. A white ant was biting him. He crushed the ant and aimed his rifle again.
Crack!
The Jap had fired and Bannon saw a flutter of leaves in one of the palm trees. He also saw a pale cloud of smoke expand in the cluster of leaves.
“See him?” Bannon asked.
“I sure did.”
Bannon aimed into the leaves and squeezed the trigger of his M 1. The rifle fired and kicked into his shoulder. He fired again and again, and beside him O'Rourke pulled the trigger of his rifle. Together they fired round after round into the tree, and when Bannon finished his clip, it popped into the air and he stuffed in another one. He took aim again and shot two more rounds, beginning to doubt whether there really was a Jap in the tree, when suddenly the tree shook violently and the Jap fell out of it headfirst. He dropped a few feet, and then the strap that held him to the tree stopped him in midair. He swung back and forth like a pendulum, arms and legs hanging loosely as his sniper's rifle fell into the ground.
“We got him!” O'Rourke shouted, standing up.
Crack!
O'Rourke screamed and fell backward, dropping his rifle and clutching his left shoulder. He hit the ground and rolled over, blood spurting from between his fingers. “I'm hit—I'm hit!”
He kept rolling over and kicking his legs, hollering through clenched teeth and trying to cover the wound with his hand. Bannon crept toward him as O'Rourke raised his knees to his chest in an effort to press away the pain.
“Stay still,” Bannon said.
“Is it bad?” O'Rourke asked, his eyes shining with fear.
“If you're still talking, it can't be that bad. You shouldn't have stood up like that, you fucking dope.”
Bannon took out his bayonet to cut away the sleeve of O'Rourke's shirt, when suddenly he heard two shots nearby. He dropped the bayonet and reached for his M 1, looking around frantically for Japs. Then he h
eard another shot and dropped flat on his stomach.
“Don't move!” he whispered to O'Rourke.
Several more shots fired, and Bannon heard the clang of an empty M 1 cartridge being ejected. He realized that the shots were coming from Longtree, who must have spotted the other sniper. There were two more shots, then silence. Bannon wanted to raise his head to see what was going on, but he was afraid he'd get a bullet through his brain.
A few seconds later Longtree's head appeared in the middle of a bush, a big smile on his face. “I got him,” he said. “I saw him when he fired and I got him.”
Bannon looked down at O'Rourke. “He got O'Rourke, though.”
O'Rourke had his eyes squinched shut and tears rolled out of the corners. “Jesus Christ, I'm gonna bleed to death!”
Bannon took out O'Rourke's dressing, tore off the wrapper, and pressed it against the wound. “It's not that bad.”
“It's easy for you to say!”
“Keep your voice down.”
Bannon tied the dressing on. Longtree kneeled beside him and looked down at O'Rourke. Longtree's face was expressionless again. Bannon glanced at him and wondered what the Indian was thinking about. Longtree seemed to live in a different world.
“Go back to the squad,” Bannon said to Longtree. “I'll carry this asshole to the battalion medics.”
Longtree arose and moved silently in the direction of the squad. Bannon headed toward the beach, staggering under the weight of O'Rourke.
FOUR . . .
Captain Matthew Gwynne, the CO of George Company, stood beside his jeep in a clearing near the beach. This was his temporary command post, and he was surrounded by officers and noncoms who'd survived the landing. He'd just returned from a meeting of Battalion, where he was given the order to march to Henderson Field, and now had called this meeting to relay the information to his subordinates.
His map table had been set up on the leeward side of the jeep, and the legs of the table were already sinking into the mud. Flying insects buzzed about the assembly, and all the men had big red bite marks visible on their faces and necks. A map of the island was laid out on the table, and Gwynne pointed out the route his company would utilize to get to the field.
“We'll form up here,” he said, indicating coordinates on the map, “and move out with the First Platoon first, my headquarters people second, and then the rest of the company in ordinary numerical order, with the Weapons Platoon bringing up the rear. There are Jap infiltrators about, so we'll have to post scouts and road guards.” He looked at his watch to check the time.
“Is there a medic around here?” a voice asked.
Gwynne lifted his head and saw two soldiers entering the clearing. One of the soldiers had a wounded shoulder, and the other soldier held him up. Gwynne recognized both of them as members of his company, but couldn't remember their names.
Lieutenant Scofield recognized them, too, and felt embarrassed that two men from his platoon had disrupted the meeting. “What the hell you doing over here, Bannon!”
“Private O'Rourke here got hit by a sniper, sir, and I'm looking for a medic.”
Captain Gwynne looked around. “Where the hell's Stone?” He was referring to one of the company medics.
“I saw him around here a second ago, sir,” said Sergeant Jordan of the Third Platoon.
"Stone!” yelled Gwynne.
“Coming, sir!” replied a voice in the woods.
A few seconds later a tall pimply faced pfc. entered the clearing, tying his belt buckle. Evidently he'd been having a bowel movement when his name was called.
“Take care of that wounded man!”
“Yes, sir.”
Gwynne looked at Bannon. “What's your name, soldier?”
“Pfc. Charles Bannon, Second Platoon, sir.”
“You have any idea where that sniper was who shot your buddy?”
Everybody looked at Bannon, who stood with his M 1 slung over his shoulder and his helmet on the back of his head.
“Yes, sir. We got him.”
Captain Gwynne blinked. “What do you mean you got him?”
“We shot him, sir. And another one too.”
Gwynne muttered under his breath, “What platoon's this man in?”
“My platoon, sir,” Scofield said.
“You didn't tell me anything about your platoon killing two snipers.”
“I didn't find out about it until just now, sir.”
“Who led the patrol that killed those snipers?”
“I don't know, sir.”
Gwynne looked at Bannon. “Come here a moment, soldier.”
“Yes, sir.” Bannon tried to think of what he'd done wrong as he walked toward the group of officers and NCOs. Lieutenant Scofield was glowering at him and he figured it must have been something pretty bad.
“Bannon,” said Captain Gwynne, “who was in charge of the patrol that got those snipers?”
Bannon shifted his feet nervously, because like all enlisted men he was scared to death of officers. “I did, sir.”
“You did?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who's your squad leader?”
“I am, sir. Corporal Tuttle was my squad leader, but he's dead"
“Who told you to go after those snipers.”
“Lieutenant Scofield, sir.”
Captain Gwynne turned to Lieutenant Scofield. “You sent a bunch of privates out without an NCO to hunt down snipers?”
The lieutenant tried to remember what had happened, but so much had taken place that day that he had difficulty pinpointing it. He vaguely recalled reports about snipers operating in front of his platoon. “I don't remember telling this man to hunt down snipers,” he said.
“You didn't tell me, sir,” Bannon replied. “You told Private Shilansky and Private La Barbara that we should take care of the sniper ourselves, and that's what we did.”
Lieutenant Scofield turned red and narrowed his eyes. “I didn't tell you to hunt them down; I just told you to take the necessary precautions.”
“When you said to take care of them, I thought you meant to take care of them.”
Captain Gwynne looked at Bannon, sizing him up. Bannon was one of those faceless GIs in his company, but evidently he knew how to get a job done. He was a big fellow, too, the kind other men had a natural tendency to follow. “You said you're a pfc., Bannon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You're a corporal now, and you'll have Tuttle's job permanently. ” Captain Gwynne looked at the company clerk, Pfc. Alvin Kirk from Junction City, Kentucky. “Make sure you put that in tomorrow's morning report.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kirk, a serious-looking bespectacled man, taking out his notebook.
Gwynne returned his gaze to Bannon. “Keep up the good work, Corporal.”
Bannon threw him a highball. “Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Scofield ground his teeth together, hating Bannon for making him look bad in front of the CO. One of these days that son of a bitch will make a wrong move and I'll nail him to a tree, Scofield thought.
Bannon made his way through the jungle, humming The Wabash Cannonball. He bobbed his head in time with the music and felt pretty good, because corporals earned twelve dollars a month more than pfcs., and that would be a lot of money in his kick the next time he hit a town, if he ever hit a town again. But he'd also noticed the anger in Lieutenant Scofield's eyes. That bastard is gonna give me a hard way to go from now on, he thought, but to hell with him. He'd better never get in front of me if a shooting war's going on, because I'm just liable to put a bullet up his ass.
Finally he returned to the area where his squad was dug in. They spun around and pointed their weapons at him as he approached, and he held out the palm of his hand.
“It's only me,” he said. “Calm down. Anything happen while I was away.”
They all muttered or shook their heads.
“How's O'Rourke?” asked Craig Delane.
“The medic said the wound was
n't bad. He should be back to duty in a few days.”
Shit, Craig Delane thought.
“Hey, Bannon,” said Homer Gladley, “did anybody say anything about hot chow tonight?”
“No.”
Private Billie Jones smiled craftily. “You're looking awful chipper, Bannon. Something happen that you ain't telling us about?”
“Yeah,” said Frankie La Barbara. “You act like the cat who ate the mouse. What happened?”
Bannon sighed and said casually, “The captain just made me a corporal.” Bannon looked at his fingernails, sniffed the fetid air, and reached for his pack of Chesterfields.
“Why'd he do that?” Gladley asked.
“Damned if I know, but in the future I think you guys had better refer to me by my rank instead of my name. I think it's time we had a little of that good old military discipline in this squad for a change.”
Bannon slid in the foxhole with Frankie La Barbara, who looked at him as if he just arrived on a spaceship.
“You musta told Captain Gwynne an awful big lie for him to make you a corporal,” Frankie said.
Bannon winked. “Stick with me, Frankie, and you'll go a long way in this man's Army.”
Frankie spat into the mud. “Who'd want to? It don't make a shit to me, because I'm getting out of this motherfucker just as soon as I can. The more rank you get, the better chance you have of getting shot at. Look at Sergeant Harrington. Fuck all that cheap shit, man. Shove those stripes up your ass.”
Frankie took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his thick black pompadour. He took a filthy handkerchief out of his helmet and wiped the sweat and grime off his forehead. “Goddamn, it's hot here,” he said. “I don't think I can take much more of this.”
“That's what you think,” Bannon replied, puffing his cigarette.
That afternoon the Twenty-third moved, company by company and platoon by platoon, through the jungle to Henderson Field. When they arrived, the Seabees were still patching holes in the landing strip and fixing buildings, while mechanics worked on the Wildcats and P-30s that had been damaged in the shelling. Henderson field looked like a little town, with lots of squat wooden buildings and rows of neatly pitched tents. Marines hung around and watched the soldiers pass.
