by Len Levinson
Bannon sat on the ground and puffed his cigarette, looking surreptitiously at Butsko, whose eyes were half closed, as if dozing. Bannon didn't think he'd ever seen a more brutallooking human being in his life. Butsko's sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders, and his sweat-soaked shirt was unbuttoned to his waist. He had enormous biceps, and his forearms were covered with scars. His body looked bulky and hard. Bannon guessed he was in his mid-thirties.
After a while Corporal DiPietro from the second squad showed up, and a few minutes later Sergeant Slattery from the machine-gun squad reported. The men waved to each other and muttered greetings. Sergeant Butsko didn't move a muscle, but Bannon was beginning to get the feeling that Butsko was watching all of them. Slattery came over and slapped Bannon on the shoulder.
“I heard you made corporal. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“You're probably gonna wish you stayed a private.”
“Probably.”
Lieutenant Scofield looked at his watch. “All right, men, let's get started,” he said, looking them all over. He had a mosquito bite on his nose, which made it look twice its normal size, and a rash on the right side of his cheek. “The first thing is that we have a new platoon sergeant who I'd like to introduce to you now. His name's John Butsko and he's already fought the Japs in the Philippines, so he's an experienced noncom and we're lucky to have him.”
Butsko nodded to each of the squad leaders as Scofield introduced them. Butsko didn't crack a smile. If he'd fought the Japs in the Philippines, he either must have left with Mac Arthur or escaped from the Bataan Death March. Butsko didn't look like the type of noncom who traveled with old Dugout Doug, so he must have escaped from the Japs somehow.
“I'm not too happy,” Scofield continued, “with the way the platoon has performed today. There has been too much of a lack of coordination and too many people running off on their own, doing whatever they liked.” Scofield shot a disapproving glance at Bannon. “I suppose it's understandable, since it was the first day of combat for many of you and we lost Sergeant Harrington right off the bat. In the future such behavior will not be tolerated. I've already discussed this with Sergeant Butsko, and he fully concurs. Hereafter each squad leader will carry a walkie-talkie so that he always will be within reach of me. Are there any questions?”
Nobody said anything.
Scofield told them that Colonel Stockton had announced a policy of continuous aggressive patrolling to keep track of what the Japs in front of them were doing. The first patrol would go out at sundown, under the command of Sergeant Butsko. It would consist of members of the First Squad, whom Sergeant Butsko would select himself. Scofield looked at his watch. “I have a meeting with Captain Gwynne in a few minutes, so I'll leave all of you now with Sergeant Butsko, who'll tell you what he expects of you.”
Butsko sat more erectly against the boulder and lit a new cigarette with the butt of his old one. He had enormous hands and his movements were rough and awkward, as if his muscles were getting in his way. Scofield tucked his notebook under his arm and walked off with Pfc. Duggins. The men he left behind sat quietly for a few moments while Butsko puffed his cigarette and looked them over. Then Butsko got up, and it. reminded Bannon of a big mean bull rising from the grass.
“So far,” Butsko said, “all I've heard about you guys is that you're a bunch of fuck-ups.” His voice was deep and booming and sounded as if it were being dragged across a gravel pit. He paused to let his insult sink in, then he went on. “I understand Sergeant Harrington was a nice guy, but you can see what happens to nice guys. Well, I ain't no fucking nice guy. I'm a son of a bitch. All of you are gonna hate me, and that's just the way I want it. A noncom who's loved by his men can't be a very good noncom. And let me get one thing straight with you right now,” he said, jabbing the air with his sausage finger, “if any of you giz me any trouble, I will not run and tell Lieutenant Scofield, I will not run and tell Captain Gwynne, and I will not have anybody court-martialed.” He looked each of them in the eye. “I will beat the piss out of the fuck-up myself. I will split his fucking head open if that's what it takes. I will put my boot right up his ass if that's necessary. I will fucking kill you if that's what it takes to make a good soldier out of you. Any questions so far?”
What could anyone say to a speech like that? Bannon had never feared any man, but he was definitely intimidated by Butsko. You could shoot a man like Butsko right through the heart and he'd probably keep charging. He wondered where Butsko came from. His voice had a vague northern accent of some kind.
“Now, let's get something else straight,” Butsko said. “When I give an order, that doesn't mean I'm lookin’ to have a conversation with you. I don't want no back talk, no horseshit, no song and dance. All I want is the order carried out immediately, right on the spot, to the best of your fucking ability— or else. I want you guys to be like electric light bulbs, and when I turn on the switch, I want you to go on. If I tell you to charge a fucking Jap machine-gun nest, you'd better do it right away, because if you don't, you'll have to answer to me, and I think you'd rather face a Japanese machine-gun nest. Got the picture?”
Nobody said a word.
“Awright,” Butsko continued. “Now there's one last thing. I'm a mean no-good son of a bitch and I know it, but if my men do like they're supposedta, then I take care of them. Nobody will fuck with my men as long as I'm alive and kicking. You take care of me and I'll take care of you. You do as you're told and maybe all of us'll get through this war together. Anybody got anything to say?”
Again everybody was afraid to open his mouth.
“Good,” Butsko said. “If there's anything I don't like, it's silly fucking questions.” He pointed to a crate. “Each one of you men grab a walkie-talkie and take it back to your squad. Bannon, stay after the others have gone. I wanna talk to you.”
Bannon's heart felt as if a big icy hand had grabbed it. “Hup, Sarge.”
Bannon took a walkie-talkie out of the crate, pressed the button to make sure it worked all right, and slung it over his shoulder. He looked at Butsko, who was hunkering around like a wild animal in a cage.
“What do you want, Sarge?”
Butsko grimaced at Bannon, and Bannon didn't think he'd ever seen an uglier man in his life. “You're one of the fuck-ups who disobeyed orders and ran off to have a little fun today, right?”
The only way to deal with a man like Butsko was to stand up to him, otherwise he'd never respect you. “Wrong,” Bannon said. “Lieutenant Scofield told me to take care of that sniper, so I went with a few men and took care of him, only there were two of them, but we got the other one too. If he told you to take care of a sniper, wouldn't you go out and get him?”
The scars and welts on Butsko's face turned a shade of light purple. “I'll ask the questions, fuckhead.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Lieutenant Scofield told me he told you to watch out for the sniper, and he didn't tell you to go out and get him.”
“He told two of my men to tell me to take care of them, and if you don't believe me, you can ask my two men.”
“Sure, you'll lie and they'll swear to it.”
“It's the truth.”
Butsko spat into the dirt. “The truth around here is whatever Lieutenant Scofield and I say it is, got it?”
“I got it, Sarge.”
“And wipe that fucking smile off your face!”
“Hup, Sarge.” Bannon made the smile vanish.
Butsko leaned closer to Bannon. “Let me tell you something, fuckface. If you hadn't've killed those two Japs, I'd kick your ribs in right now. But since you killed the two Japs, I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. But you'd better never disobey any orders of mine, young soldier. If you do, your ass is grass and I'll have the lawnmower.”
“We killed three other Japs, too, Sergeant.”
Butsko could not conceal his surprise. “Where?”
“On the beach.”
“Can you
prove it?”
Bannon whipped out the Nambu pistol. “Yeah.”
“Lemme see that.”
Bannon handed it over. Butsko examined it in the fading light of the day. “Not a bad little souvenir.”
“Private La Barbara got a nice samurai sword.”
Butsko handed back the Nambu pistol. “You gotta be careful picking up souvenirs. The Japs booby-trap them.”
“These Japs were alive, or at least they were when we, first saw them.”
“Well, watch out anyway. Never trust a live Jap or a dead one. In fact, if you see a dead Jap, it's a good idea to shoot him again just to make sure.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“That's all. Get the fuck out of here.”
Bannon did a quick about-face and walked away quickly, trying not to do anything that might upset Butsko.
SIX . . .
"Halt!” shouted Colonel Hodaka.
His aides and staff members stopped abruptly in the tiny clearing.
"Left face!”
They all turned toward him.
“Stand easy, men,” Colonel Hodaka said. “I shouldn't be long.”
Colonel Hodaka turned and walked toward the headquarters tent, his hands folded hehind his back. He was tall for a Japanese, and his face and head were cleanly shaven. He wore thick eyeglasses and a light-brown uniform that had recently been washed and ironed by one of his aides. Walking across the jungle clearing with long, firm strides, he approached the big sprawling tent and entered through the flap.
“I believe General Hyakutake is waiting to see me,” he told the clerk.
“Please go right in, sir,” said the clerk with a bow. Hodaka boldly pushed aside the next tent flap and marched into General Hyakutake's office. The general sat behind his desk, and Colonel Tsuji was bent over beside him, looking at the map. Hodaka approached the desk and saluted.
“Colonel Hodaka reporting, sir!”
General Hyakutake saluted back casually. “Good to see you, Hodaka. We have a very important mission for you. I understand you've been briefed already by my staff?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Come look at this map and I'll go over the highlights of the plan with you. It's quite complex. I'm sure it will interest you.”
Colonel Hodaka smiled inwardly at this subtle compliment. Looking down at the map, he saw scrawled arrows pointing toward the American position and large circles with troop designations inside them.
“Briefly,” said Hyakutake, “this is what will happen. Shortly after midnight, our navy will deliver the most devastating artillery barrage of this campaign against the Americans. Then, when it stops, you will attack the American right flank here. It is being held by green American troops and you should have no great difficulty overwhelming them. The Americans will shift forces to protect this flank, and then, when they're off balance, the Ichiki Regiment will strike them here.” General Hyakutake pointed to the center of the American line. “At this point the Americans will realize that they've been feinted out of position and will believe this second thrust is our main thrust. But once again we will have fooled them, because our main thrust, consisting of the Yaksuko Regiment and the Shunsake Regiment, will attack right behind you on the American right flank. Your regiment and those two will completely penetrate the American position. You will lead your men to the American airfield, capture whatever supplies are there, and defend the airfield from American counterattacks. Do you understand your mission?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Excellent. Let us have a little bit of sake now and ask our ancestors to help us win a great victory against the Americans.”
General Hyakutake was jubilant, and Colonel Tsuji poured sake into the tiny cups. Hodaka looked at Tsuji, knowing the plans for the battle were Tsuji's. He knew of Tsuji's great reputation, although it had been stained somewhat in the Guadalcanal campaign. But still, there was no denying that Tsuji was a genius, the “God of Operation.”
General Hyakutake raised his cup of sake into the air. “To victory!” he cried.
Bannon lay in the foxhole beside his tent, and beside him was Craig Delane, whom he'd appointed as his runner. The walkie-talkie hung around Delane's neck, and he didn't appear happy with the assignment.
“Bannon,” Delane was saying, “I didn't enlist in the Army to carry around a damned walkie-talkie. Why don't you give it to somebody else?”
“Who asked you?” Bannon said, some of Butsko's nastiness having rubbed off on him. “Shut the fuck up.”
Bannon heard footsteps and his ears perked up. Frankie La Barbara materialized out of the darkness and slid into the foxhole. “I got the scoop on Butsko,” he said, puffing the stub of a cigar.
“Delane, go take a walk,” Bannon said. “Leave the walkie-talkie here.”
Grumbling, Craig Delane crawled out of the foxhole and walked away. He'd joined the Army to prove that he was a man, not just a Park Avenue socialite, but instead he'd been reduced to being the servant of a farmworker from Texas. His father was right when he'd told him to stay the hell out of the Army.
Meanwhile, back in the foxhole, Frankie La Barbara was relighting the stub of a cigar. “I got the straight dope from a friend of mine at Regiment. Don't ask me who he is, but he knows everything going on there and has the right to look at personnel records if he wants to.” Frankie La Barbara looked conspiratorially to the left and right, then returned his gaze to Bannon. “Butsko killed a guy in a bar in Australia about a month ago.”
“He did?” Bannon asked. “Then how come he's walking around loose?”
“Because witnesses said the other guy came at him first with a broken bottle. Butsko took it away from him and made him eat it. He was a first sergeant in a company in the Eighty-fifth Division, and they busted him down to buck sergeant. They transferred him to the Hellhounds just before we shipped out. They were afraid if they left him around, the Aussies would string him up.”
“It figures,” Bannon said. “I don't think the Army would want to lose an NCO like Butsko. He looks like he knows his way around a war.”
“He's started quite a few of them all by himself, and he's been busted up and down the ranks a lot. He hit an officer once, and another time he nearly killed a private who talked back to him. They say Butsko is only good in a war. In garrison he just gets into trouble. I also found out he was captured by the Japs in the Philippines and was on the Bataan Death March. He escaped from a Jap prison camp, stole a boat, and made it to an island where there was a coastwatcher; he was lucky. The watcher radioed for help and a sub came and picked Butsko up. They gave him a medal for that one.”
“And then they busted him.”
“The fucker must feel like he's on a roller coaster.”
“You'd better watch your step when you're around him. He's not the kind of feller who plays games.”
The silence of the night was shattered suddenly by the angry stutter of machine-gun fire. Then there were shouts, rifle fire, an explosion, and more machine-guns.
“What the fuck's that!” Frankie yelled, ducking lower into the trench.
Bannon couldn't hear any bullets crackling overhead. The fire sounded like it was coming from the main trench. The guards must have spotted something. He looked up and saw muzzle flashes. Grabbing his rifle, he bounded out of the foxhole and ran toward the machine gun in the main trench.
The wind whistled past his ears as he ran along. No Jap bullets were whizzing around him, and no Jap mortar shells were falling on the company position. If there were Japs out there, they would surely be firing their weapons. Maybe there weren't any Japs up there, and if there weren't, there'd be hell to pay.
Bannon jumped into the air and landed in the machine-gun nest. Billie Jones was manning the gun, praying to God and moving the machine gun from side to side on its transverse mechanism, spitting hot lead into the jungle. Homer Gladley was feeding the belt of ammunition into the gun. In the trenches to each side of the machine gun, the men from the First Sq
uad fired their weapons into the night. But Bannon could see no muzzle flashes in the woods. He grabbed Jones by the shoulder. “What in hell are you firing at?”
“Something's moving out there!”
“Where?”
“Out there!”
Jones looked like he was panicked out of his mind, but Bannon couldn't see anything happening in the jungle.
"Hold your fire!” Bannon shouted.
Jones couldn't stop firing; his hand was frozen on the trigger of the machine gun. Bannon punched Jones on the wrist, knocking his hand away.
"Hold your fire!”
The men in the trenches heard him now and stopped firing. They looked at him with bewilderment and fear on their faces. Bannon heard a sound like a galloping elephant behind him. He turned around and saw Sergeant Butsko jumping into the machine-gun nest.
“What the hell's going on here!” he demanded.
Bannon explained to him that the men thought they'd seen something moving in the woods, but evidently nothing was there. Butsko's nose twitched as he peered at the jungle. His eyes glittered like diamonds.
“We'd better go have a look,” Butsko said. “Let's go. Tell your men to cover us.”
Bannon passed the order on to his men as Butsko unslung his carbine and made sure it was loaded. He also carried two hand grenades on each lapel and a machete strapped to his waist. Bannon checked his M 1 also.
“Squad leaders,” Butsko said, “are supposed to carry carbines. Get yourself a carbine when you come back.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Let's go.”
They climbed down from the machine-gun nest and advanced into no-man's-land. The Marines who'd previously occupied the position had cleared the jungle for two hundred yards, and Bannon felt like a wide-open target as he followed Butsko forward. Butsko walked in a crouch, his carbine held at port arms, reminding Bannon of a big gorilla. Bannon hoped there wasn't a sniper sitting in one of those coconut palms, drawing a bead on him right now, but the night was blacker than Hirohito's heart, and a sniper wouldn't be able to see very much.
