by Len Levinson
“Lookit the fucking doggies,” said one of the Marines.
“That one over there looks like a fucking Airedale.”
Frankie shot the Marine a murderous look. “Your mother is an Airedale.”
The Marine was shirtless and wore his.dogtags around his neck. At first he wasn't sure he heard right, but then, as the full weight of Frankie's insult sank into his brain, he threw his cigarette to the ground and charged Frankie La Barbara.
Frankie was hoping something like that would happen, and he was ready for him. He dropped his BAR to the ground, blocked the Marine's first punch, and threw a hard right hook that caught the Marine on the ear and made his legs wobble. Then he hit the Marine with a left jab to set him up for the final knockout punch, when two more Marines jumped on top of him. The rest of the first squad, Bannon included, jumped on those Marines, and then a platoon of Marines waded into the first squad.
It wasn't long before there was a huge brawl on the edge of Henderson Field. Officers and some of the more conscientious NCOs tried to break it up, but they were overwhelmed by the vast number of men fighting all around them. An SP blew his whistle, but no one paid any attention to it. A naval air corps officer hollered at the men through a bullhorn, to no avail. The Seabees joined in on the side of the Marines, swinging shovels and pickaxes, while some of the GIs swung their rifles around like baseball bats.
Bannon was in the middle of the melee, punching and kicking, using his elbows, wrestling Marines to the ground and rolling around with them, trying to strangle them. The runway became littered with unconscious men. Bannon jumped up from the ground and saw a big Marine with a shaved head in front of him. This Marine had tattoos on both his arms and Semper Fidelis tattooed in big letters on his chest, underneath the globe-and-anchor emblem of the Marines. The Marine roared like a mountain lion and charged Bannon, who thought, Fuck it, and charged back. They collided like two trucks on a highway and began throwing punches from all directions.
Bannon danced on the balls of his feet, bobbing and weaving, trying to pick his shots, while the Marine simply threw punches at Bannon's head as fast as he could. Each of the combatants connected a few times, dizzying each other, and Bannon whacked the Marine in his stomach, but the Marine didn't even flinch. The Marine slammed Bannon's ear with his big hand, and Bannon heard bells and birds for a few moments. Aware that the worst thing to do in a fight was to stand still, he sprang forward and wrapped his long bony fingers around the Marine's throat, squeezing with all his strength.
The Marine turned purple and stuck out his tongue while he tried to tear away Bannon's hands. But the Marine was getting weaker by the moment, while Bannon was exhilarated by the awareness that he actually was killing the son of a bitch. His grip tightened on the hapless Marine's throat, and he was well on his way to ending the Marine's life, when suddenly he heard a burst of machine-gun fire in his ear.
Bannon let go of the Marine's throat and jumped three feet in the air. Then he dived to the ground and looked for his M 1, because he was sure the Japs were attacking. He found somebody's rifle, looked up, and saw Colonel Stockton standing nearby with a smoking submachine gun in his hands.
“What in the hell is going on here!” Colonel Stockton demanded.
Nobody had the nerve to answer. All of the Twenty-third cowered in front of him, while the Marines, who had never set eyes on him before, were intimidated by the silver eagles on his collar.
“Get on your goddamn feet!” Colonel Stockton bellowed.
Bannon stood and put on somebody's helmet, tilting it low so that it covered most of his face. The other men also arose, with sheepish looks on their bloody faces. A few couldn't get up because they were out cold. Some appeared to be seriously injured.
Colonel Stockton looked at a soldier who was trembling so much that he looked as if he had the DTs. “What happened, soldier?”
“I d-don't know, sir,” the hapless man stuttered. “We was just marching along and the Marines jumped us.”
“That's a lie, sir!” yelled one of the Marines standing nearby, his nose a bloody pulp on his face. “We was just minding our own business when them doggies—I mean soldiers—attacked us for no reason at all!”
Soldiers and Marines shouted accusations at each other. Deep down Stockton was amused by the incident, but fighting was against regulations and he had to take a tough line. It looked like the soldiers and Marines were going to square off at each other again, so he fired another burst of submachinegun bullets into the air.
“Stand fast!” he shouted.
The soldiers and Marines froze in their tracks.
Colonel Stockton looked around and saw the naval flight officer with the bullhorn. “Did you see what happened, Lieutenant!”
“All I know, sir, is that I looked up and saw a war going on over here.”
Colonel Stockton reared back his head and shouted, “Ten-hut!”
Everybody snapped to attention.
“I want all the Marines to fall out over here.”
He pointed to the runway, and all the Marines who could walk moved onto it. Some dragged their dazed buddies, and others held handkerchiefs and T-shirts to their cuts and bruises.
“Twenty-third, left face!”
The soldiers executed the move together, and their feet came down all at once in a big solid whump!
“Fo-wart march!”
The soldiers continued marching in the direction in which they had been going when the fight had started. Some had to stoop to pick up their rifles and helmets as they moved out. Colonel Stockton handed the submachine gun to one of his aides and walked back toward his jeep, taking his old briar pipe out of his pocket. Then he reached for his pouch of tobacco, smiling faintly as he remembered a remark General Blackjack Pershing had made after the battle of Belleau Wood in the First World War.
It had happened when one of the Second Division regiments, in defiance of orders, had attacked a larger unit of Germans and whipped them. Some of Pershing's officers argued that the men should be punished, but old Blackjack disagreed. He said, “It is highly undesirable to check the fine fighting spirit of such troops. Experience will teach them caution soon enough, but gallantry can never be taught to them. That, thank God, they were born with.”
Colonel Stockton climbed into his jeep and told his driver to move out. He wasn't sure how much gallantry the Twenty-third had, but they certainly had their share of fighting spirit, and he had no desire to snuff it out. He'd probably have to issue a statement of some kind and make an example out of a few men, but that would be the extent of it.
They'd need all the fighting spirit they could get, because he knew the Japs wouldn't wait too long before they launched another one of their wild attacks.
In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if they tried that very night.
FIVE . . .
Colonel Tsuji still sat in the lotus position in front of the picture of the Emperor. The stick of incense had gone out a long time ago, but Tsuji remained seated, perspiration running in rivulets down his body, as he rested serenely in the pure white light that poured directly into his heart from the celestial being of his Emperor.
“Colonel Tsuji, sir!”
Tsuji opened his eyes to narrow slits. He felt like a stone statue that had been placed in the jungle and had suddenly become aware of birds chirping nearby and mosquitoes buzzing around his head.
“Who is it?” he asked in a deep voice that made him sound as if he were drugged.
“Sergeant Kaburagi, sir. Just returning from patrol.”
“Come back in five minutes.”
“Yes, sir!”
Tsuji heard footsteps moving away from the tent. He gazed at the statue of the Emperor, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head. Then he stood and put on his uniform, his mind returning from contemplation of the divine to consideration of practical military necessities. He pulled on his boots, tied on his cartridge belt, and splashed water on his face. Sitting behind his desk, he drank a cu
p of tepid water.
Five minutes later Sergeant Kaburagi returned.
“Colonel Tsuji, sir!”
“Enter.”
Kaburagi entered the tent, saluted Tsuji, and was told to be seated. Kaburagi was a muscular Japanese of average height who wore a mustache and goatee.
“Well?” asked Tsuji impatiently.
“We believe we have located the new American troops, sir. They are on our extreme left flank, along the banks of the Matanikau River and inland.”
“Show me on the map.”
Kaburagi stood and walked to the map, tracing with his fingers the positions he'd described.
Tsuji's features were expressionless, but his mind was ablaze with thoughts. With only a green American force in that sector of the line, perhaps he could turn the enemy's flank, encircle him, and deliver a crushing blow to his rear.
“Anything else?” Tsuji asked.
“They make a lot of noise, sir.”
Tsuji turned down the corners of his mouth in contempt. The Americans were slovenly soldiers, so cowardly, so inept at war. They'd surrendered en masse in the Philippines, the weaklings, instead of fighting to the death as good Japanese soldiers would have done. Even their commander, the great General Mac Arthur, had run from the battle. What kind of commander ran from battles? It was unthinkable that General. Tojo, or even General Hyakutake, would run from a battle. Tsuji had been surprised that the Americans were fighting so well on Guadalcanal, but knew their inherent cowardly qualities would surface before long. Hammer them hard enough and sooner or later they'd fall.
“You're dismissed,” Tsuji told Sergeant Kaburagi.
“Yes, sir!”
Kaburagi stood, saluted, and marched out of the tent. Tsuji relaxed in his chair and scratched his cheek, wondering which unit to send against the American right flank. He considered the various units and their commanders and finally settled on Colonel Hodaka and his regiment. Hodaka was a fanatical officer made of steel, and his regiment was one of the Japanese army's elite units. All its soldiers were combat veterans. The regiment had served with distinction in the Kwangtung army, which had won such huge victories in Korea, Manchuria, and China.
Tsuji took his pen from its holder and wrote down his recommendations, which he would submit to General Hyakutake. A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth as he thought of all those green American soldiers being overwhelmed and routed by Colonel Hodaka and his regiment.
The Twenty-third replaced units of the Seventh Marines on the line throughout the afternoon, and officers of both units made sure there were no more incidents. The men set up camp and pitched their tents behind the line while machine-gun nests were established and fortifications improved on the line itself. Chow trucks arrived and cooks set up their field kitchens. Soon smoke and the odor of cooking food permeated the jungle.
Finally chowtime came, and each company lined up in front of its field kitchen. The soldiers held their mess kits in one hand and their canteen cups in the other as they moved forward in the line. The cooks, wearing green fatigue T-shirts and hats, stood over the steaming buckets of food and ladled it onto extended mess kits. They perspired into the food, but nobody complained for fear he wouldn't get anything to eat at all.
“How about a little more, cookie?” Homer Gladley asked hopefully, wiggling his mess kit in front of a cook.
“Move out, you fucking chowhound.”
Gladley's genial smile collapsed and he grumbled as he moved down the line. He couldn't understand why cooks were so nasty. KP was the most terrible thing that had ever happened to him in his life, and he dreaded it constantly. Not only had the work been filthy and horrible, and the cooks a bunch of vicious sadists, but he had nearly been driven insane by being so close to vast mountains of food and unable to eat any.
He looked down at his plate and sniffed the food, nearly fainting with ectasy. It was shit on a shingle—creamed beef on toast—with potatoes, carrots, white bread with butter, and some canned fruit salad. Gladley couldn't wait to dig his spoon into it, and his only misgiving was that they hadn't given him more.
Behind him as he walked to his tent was Private Billie Jones, who was saying grace over his food already so that he could start eating as soon as he sat down.
It was an idyllic evening, with the sun sinking toward the horizon. Light shone in long shafts through the leaves of trees, dappling the leaves on the ground. Far in the distance the muffled sound of artillery could be heard, but except for that you'd never have known there was a war on. It was almost like being on maneuvers in Australia. The men felt as if they were having a little reprieve from the war.
Bannon and Frankie La Barbara ate outside their little pup tent without saying a word to each other. They weren't mad at each other, but hot food took precedence over conversation. Although each of them wore mute evidence of the fistfight they'd had with each other earlier in the day, neither harbored hard feelings. They liked each other despite the disagreements that occasionally arose between them. They'd fought with each other before and probably would do so again.
Bannon reviewed the events of the day as he chowed down. From leaving the transport ship to arriving at their position on the line, it had been the most tumultuous day of his life. He felt pleased that he still was alive and had given a good account of himself, but he wondered if he'd be alive at that time tomorrow. He decided it wasn't a good idea to speculate about one's chances of survival. All you could do was keep rolling along and hope for the best.
He felt a strange pride in having made corporal so quickly. Although one part of him hated the Army and all its bullshit traditions, another part of him liked the Army and admired good soldiers. He thought it was an achievement to be a good soldier, as it was an achievement to be a good cowboy. His promotion to corporal reminded him of when he'd become a foreman on the old Double Bar C Ranch. And it had been a pretty big operation too. Not as big as the King Ranch, but a respectable spread by any standard.
He didn't suppose he'd change much now that he was a corporal just as he hadn't changed much after he'd become a foreman. He had continued to go into town on weekends to raise hell at the honky-tonks, drinking hard whiskey and chasing the girls. :
The girls. He thought of Ginger Gregg, her long tawny hair and flawless skin. He felt an ache in his heart as her image floated before his eyes. He missed her terribly. He'd never be right until he could be with her again.
Whenever she entered his mind he was reluctant to make her leave. He remembered the night he'd first seen her; she'd just been hired as a waitress in a saloon in Pecos. He'd walked into the saloon with a few of his boys, and when his eyes fell upon her, he thought he was looking at an angel. He didn't think he'd ever seen a woman in real life with such a pretty face. She was even prettier than movie stars, and all she had on was a little lipstick. Although he normally wasn't intimidated by women at all, it took him a long time to get up the nerve to talk to her. The first time he kissed her it was more intoxicating than a fifth of Jim Beam.
He'd taken her home one night and fidgeted around, not knowing what to do with himself, and she said, “Take your clothes off.” Just like that. In a calm voice, as if she were asking him to buy her an ice-cream cone. He sat there thunderstruck and she just got up and started unfastening her blouse. She was a real no-nonsense woman.
After that he started hearing the rumors about all the other guys she'd slept with, and he'd had to kick the shit out of a lot of people for about a month until people stopped talking about her. But she was a devilish little bitch and you never could be sure of what she was doing. In fact who knew what she was doing just then.
“You know what time it is back in the States?” Bannon asked Frankie.
Frankie was leisurely puffing his after-dinner stogie. “Sometime in the afternoon, I guess.”
If it was in the afternoon in Pecos, she was getting ready to go to work. She was combing her hair and sitting around in her underclothes, listening to the radio and h
opefully thinking of him. He'd given her a big photograph of himself to put on her dresser, but she probably hid it in one of her drawers whenever she had some other guy over. Bannon wished there was some way he could force her to be faithful to him, but you couldn't force old Ginger to do anything she didn't want to do. He'd hit her once, in a jealous drunken rage, and she'd nearly scratched his eyes out. He'd had to knock her cold to stop her. She was a much better showdown artist than he was. When she got mad she had no sense of propriety whatever.
“Bannon?” said a voice above him.
Bannon looked up and saw Pfc. Harold Duggins, Lieutenant Scofield's runner. “Whataya want?”
“Lieutenant Scofield is having a meeting of all squad leaders at his tent in fifteen minutes.”
“What's up?”
“We're getting a new platoon sergeant.”
“Who is he?”
“Name's Butsko. He's a buck sergeant from regiment. They say he just got busted down from master sergeant a few days ago.”
“How come?”
“I don't know. See you at the meeting.”
Duggins scurried off, and Bannon finished his last few morsels of fruit salad, then lit a cigarette. “I'll be back in a little while,” he told Frankie. “Take care of things while I'm gone.”
Frankie winked as he puffed his cigar. Bannon walked to the mess line, dipped his mess kit in the hot water, and returned it to his pack. He adjusted his rifle on his shoulder and trudged through the dry, caked mud to Lieutenant Scofield's tent.
It was behind a big boulder ten feet high and nearly as wide, the safest place in the platoon area. When Bannon arrived, Sergeant McCabe from the First Squad was already there. Lieutenant Scofield sat on a log, studying his notepad. Leaning against the boulder, his helmet askew on his head, was a big sergeant with a scarred face and the nose of a boxer who'd taken too many punches. The sergeant was smoking a cigarette, and Bannon figured it must be Sergeant Butsko.
