by Len Levinson
Running behind Bannon was Frankie, who realized that if the Japs ever fired some shots on target, they'd hit him right in the back. He was like a moving fortification for Bannon, and to hell with that.
“Get outa my way!” Frankie muttered, putting on a burst of speed and pushing Bannon to the side.
Bannon tripped and fell into a tree, and Frankie passed him by, his knees kicking high in the air like a running back on a professional football team. Bannon regained his balance and ran after Frankie. Behind him he could hear more Jap voices. Everything would be okay as long as they stayed behind him.
Numerous trails intersected with the one he was on, and he wondered if he should get off the main trail. He decided it would be his best bet for survival, and he didn't dare call out to Frankie, because he didn't want to give away his position to the Japs.
Bannon turned off the trail and dived into the jungle. He clawed and crashed his way through the thick foliage, and Frankie heard him. Frankie stopped, turned around, and saw Bannon disappearing into the jungle.
“Wait for me!” Frankie screamed.
Frankie turned back and followed Bannon into the jungle. Gasping for air, in a state of desperate terror, Frankie grunted as he fought his way through the vines and tangled branches. He was so agitated that he didn't see the fist coming at him from behind the tree. It landed solidly on his jaw and he went down for the count.
Bannon stepped over him and moved back on the trail, rearranging branches so that the Japs wouldn't notice that two men had gone plunging into the jungle here. Quickly and deftly he camouflaged their entrance, then returned to Frankie La Barbara and lay beside him, covering Frankie's mouth with his big hand. Frankie was regaining consciousness and tried to speak. Bannon grasped Frankie's mouth with his hand.
“Shut up, you son of a bitch, or I'll cut your throat,” Bannon uttered.
Frankie raised his head. Bannon moved his hand from Frankie's mouth, and his hand was covered with blood and drool. Frankie had two loose teeth, but this was no time to complain about his dental work. They heard the Japanese coming closer on the trail, chattering to each other in their weird, high-pitched voices, their footsteps pounding on the trail. Frankie squinched his eyes shut and prayed to God. He promised he wouldn't curse anymore or fuck any more girls if God got him out of this one.
The Japs drew abreast of them on the trail, and Bannon could make them out in the darkness. They were small wiry men wearing peaked caps with cloth hanging over their necks and ears. Their rifles and bayonets looked longer than they were. Bannon imagined one of those bayonets piercing his gut and shivered.
The Japs kept going. Bannon breathed a sigh of relief. Their footsteps receded into the distance. He and Frankie were safe. But what could they do next? There was only one thing. They'd have to stay put until that patrol returned.
“When we get out of here,” Frankie said, “I'm going to kill you.”
“You'd better, because if you don't, I'm going to kill you.”
Frankie reached into his shirt pocket and took out a sweaty pack of gum. “Want a stick?”
Frankie took one, peeled off the wrapper, and folded it into his mouth. He balled up the wrapper and dropped it in a pocket. Frankie chewed noisily, like an old cow. Bannon wondered how Butsko was doing. He must have heard the gunshots. Bannon hoped Butsko would get back to the regiment with news about the Jap encampment. They could send out a raiding party in the morning and wipe it out.
Bannon and Frankie lay on the moist earth, wondering if they'd get out of the jungle alive. Minutes ticked away and insects buzzed around them. White ants attacked Bannon's hands and he crushed them all silently. The two soldiers sipped water from their canteens and each ate a candy bar. They wished they could smoke cigarettes.
After a while they heard voices on the trail. The Japanese soldiers were returning, their voices laden with fatigue and discouragement. They sound something like us, Bannon thought, and then the full weight of that took away his wind for a moment. They sound just like as. Bannon never had observed Japanese soldiers this closely before and realized that they were soldiers just like American soldiers, running around and doing things they didn't like either. Probably every one of them wished he was back in Tokyo, or wherever he was from, with his girl friend, instead of fighting on Guadalcanal. But no soldier could walk away from a war. Once the bastards had you, you couldn't get away. And besides, the Japs had started the war. They sneak-attacked Pearl Harbor, so fuck them. Bannon's hatred of them returned. He remembered the Bataan Death March. They weren't ordinary soldiers like Frankie and him. They started this mess and we're going to finish it.
Bannon and Frankie lay still as the Japanese soldiers passed. Their shoulders were stooped over and they were dragging ass. Bannon felt like tossing a hand grenade at them, but that would draw more Japs and he'd never get out of there.
The Japs walked toward their encampment, and gradually the sound of their footsteps were engulfed by the breeze in the trees and the cackling of birds.
“Let's go,” Bannon said, “and if you make any more trouble for me, I'm going to shoot you.”
“Not if I shoot you first,” Frankie replied.
They crawled out of the jungle and returned to the road, where they adjusted their rifles on their shoulders and walked toward the stream. They moved along quickly, anxious to get out of that valley. Bannon thought about smoking a cigarette in a nice safe foxhole behind his lines. It seemed almost too much to hope for. Bending forward, they climbed the hill. As they neared the top, Bannon thought the rest of the trip would be easy. They'd just coast down the other side, meet Butsko and Longtree near the stream, and head for friendly lines. Bannon looked at his watch: It was ten minutes until rendezvous time. If they hurried a little, they should make it without any trouble.
"Chisai?” said a voice in the darkness in front of them. "Domo?”
Bannon froze. The Japs had left a lookout behind. He raised his carbine and was about to click off the safety, when he realized the shot would draw more Japs. There was only one thing to do. He crouched low and drew out his machete
"Chisai?” the voice asked again.
Bannon could see the head and shoulders of the Jap outlined against the sky. Bannon stepped cautiously toward the Jap and raised the machete in the air.
"Dekka nesso?” the Jap said, concern in his voice.
Bannon charged forward and brought the machete down with all his strength. The blade caught the Jap at the juncture of his neck and shoulder and broke through his collarbone and ribs as if they were twigs. When Bannon's stroke ended, the machete was buried in the Jap's lungs and the Jap was sagging to the ground.
Bannon worked the machete loose and looked around, the blade dripping blood on the ground: Frankie joined him, his machete out too. Bannon thought there must be another Jap about, but couldn't hear anything.
“Let's get out of here,” he said to Frankie.
Their machetes still unsheathed, they ran ever the crest of the hill and down the other side. They slowed down as they neared the bottom and put their machetes away. Sweating, their chests heaving, they followed the trail into the jungle and finally came to the stream. Bannon strained his eyes as he approached the rendezvous point, looking for Butsko and Longtree. He didn't see them.
“They're not here,” Frankie whispered. “Something must've happened to them.”
A deep, harsh whisper came to them from the bushes. “Nothing happened to us.” The bush rustled and Butsko and Longtree came out from behind it. “You two made more noise than a battalion of tanks. I could hear you coming for five minutes.”
Frankie was superexcited. He worked his shoulders and wagged his head. “We ran into trouble, Sarge. Had to kill a whole shitload of Japs.”
“You didn't come here to kill Japs, fuck-up. You came here to observe them and report back. How many you see?”
Frankie put his hands in his pockets and shifted his feet around. He looked at Bannon to answer for him.<
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“We ran into a bunch of them before we got close enough to count,” Bannon said. “We're lucky we got out of there.”
“You ran into them on the trail, right?”
“Right.”
Butsko spat into the stream. “You shoulda got off the trail. Sometimes the hardest way is the best way. You're even a bigger asshole than I thought you were if you figured you could walk into the Jap camp on the trail, count them, and move out.”
“What about you?” Frankie asked, sarcasm in his voice. “How close did you get?”
“Close enough to see what was there.” Butsko looked around and grimaced. “Okay, let's get back. We'll go in a single file, and for Chrissakes be quiet.”
Butsko took the lead and walked along the stream toward American lines. The jungle grew over the stream and made it seem as if they were walking through a hot, dank tunnel. Sulfurous mists arose from the floor of the jungle. Bannon was annoyed with himself, because he knew Butsko was right. He and Frankie should not have stayed on the trail for so long. But he'd know better next time. You can't learn everything about war in a day, he thought, and we haven't even been here a day. But he knew he'd better learn fast, otherwise he wouldn't last too long. The encounter with the Japs had been too close for comfort. He couldn't let anything like that happen again.
Colonel Hodaka jumped to his feet when the first shot had fired. He had been leaning against a tree, resting with his men and waiting for the big artillery barrage to begin. The shots and subsequent grenade blasts surprised everybody. Then the jungle became quiet. Hodaka told his adjutant, Major Noguchi, to find out what was going on.
Noguchi returned ten minutes later. “An American patrol is in the area,” he said. “They blundered into one of our outposts and were discovered. In the action that followed, four of our soldiers were killed and four were wounded. The Americans fled, as far as we know.”
“How many of them were killed.”
“None, sir.”
“Then it appears that we blundered into them, and not them into us.” Hodaka furrowed his brow and thought for a few moments. There was no point in pursuing the Americans, because the big artillery barrage would begin soon, and he didn't want to expose any of his men to it. “Double the guard,” he told Noguchi, “and advance the outposts two hundred yards. Pass the word along that American patrols are in the area. If anybody is found sleeping on guard, they'll get the firing squad. If any Americans are captured, I want them brought to me immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Noguchi left to carry out his orders. Hodaka sat underneath the tree again. He took a drink from his canteen and glanced at his watch. Everything was going wrong, and he didn't like it. First some fool had started a campfire, and he'd be punished severely at the first opportunity. Then this American patrol had made contact. The Americans might not make it back to their lines, because the artillery barrage probably would get them, but Hodaka hated mistakes and sloppiness. That patrol should have been wiped out, but instead it had wiped out eight of his own men.
The Americans confused Hodaka. He'd thought they would be cowardly and inept like the British he had faced in the battle for Singapore, but they'd fought hard on Guadalcanal and were as vicious as his own men. Hodaka didn't know what to make of this. Had he been lied to? Was the Japanese high command underestimating the Americans? A foremost canon of military law was Never underestimate your enemy. Was that mistake being made?
He'd find out soon enough. The artillery barrage would begin in a half hour, and then his attack would follow. Then he'd find out for himself what the Americans were made of.
Butsko raised his hand in the air. “Let's take a break.”
They were in a field of kunai grass and sat down. The grass was six feet tall, an inch or two wide, and its edges were sharp as razors. It grew so thickly that you could stand two feet from somebody and not see him.
“Can we smoke?” Frankie asked Butsko.
Butsko looked at him as if he were crazy. “No.”
“But nobody can see.”
Butsko pointed at Frankie's nose. “One of these days you're gonna be a casualty, because you're a stupid fuck.”
Their uniforms were soaking with perspiration and their bodies ached from the fast pace that Butsko had set. Their faces were red and they sucked wind.
“This is the last break before we get back,” Butsko said, “so make the most of it. After this we're gonna double-time.”
Frankie groaned. “What's the hurry, Sarge?”
“Shut up.”
Bannon lay back on the grass and looked up at the cloudy sky. He flashed on a night when he'd made love with Ginger in a field like this. He'd brought a blanket along, and when they had finished, they had slept in each other's arms. The field had been fragrant, unlike Guadalcanal, which smelled like a big fart most of the time.
“Hey, Sarge,” Bannon said, “where are you from?”
Butsko's voice was low and guttural, like a big nasty bullfrog. “A little town near Pittsburgh.”
“What'd you do before you came in the Army?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Frankie guffawed. “Whatsa matter—were you in the rackets, Sarge?”
“No, but I bet you were.”
“I was,” Frankie agreed. “I ain't ashamed of it. I made more fucking dough than most officers in this Army, and when I get out I'm gonna go back and make even more dough.”
“You're not gonna last that long,” Butsko said.
“I wish you'd stop saying that, Sarge.”
“I'm just telling you the way things are, kid. If you don't wake the fuck up, you're not gonna last long. This isn't some guinea neighborhood in New York where you're king shit. This is a place where the littlest mistake can be your last mistake. I'm telling you for your own good. You'd better start using your noodle.”
“I can take care of myself,” Frankie said petulantly. “You don't have to worry about me, Sarge.”
“I ain't worried about you, kid. I'm just worried that you're gonna get me killed.”
Butsko's words hit Bannon hard, because he knew Butsko was right. Frankie nearly got me killed tonight, he realized. If I want to get through this war, maybe I'd better stay away from him.
The men were silent as they lay in the tall grass. In the distance they could hear on occasional machine-gun burst or a stray shot. The field and jungle buzzed with the sound of insects. Somewhere a dog started barking, and soon afterward a creature in the jungle screamed horribly.
“All right,” Butsko said. “Let's saddle up.”
The men arose and adjusted their equipment. Butsko took an azimuth with his compass and then trudged toward the American lines. The others followed behind him, keeping six feet of distance between each one of them.
EIGHT . . .
The Japanese warships rumbled into Ironbottom Sound. They were still on radio silence and all their lights were out. Admiral Kurita stood behind a glass window on the bridge, looking at Guadalcanal through his binoculars.
“Signal the fleet to drop anchor!” Kurita said.
The order was passed along. On a high turret of the ship a Japanese signalman fluttered the shades on a communications searchlight, and the signalman on the Haruma signaled back. Lights blinked on the destroyers. The bay echoed with the sound of anchors and chains clanging. The anchors bit into the bottom, and the ships stretched out the chains, coming to a stop in the strong current.
“Battle stations!” cried Kurita.
Japanese sailors in white suits scurried up ladderwells and ran to their huge cannons, beside which were stacked crates of shells. Kurita's order was flashed to the other warships, and gunnery officers estimated the range and position of the American defense perimeter on Guadalcanal. Some of the cannons were fifty feet long, bristling along each side of the battleships. The cruisers and destroyers were armed with slightly smaller guns.
“Prepare to open fire!”
The sailors heave
d the huge artillery shells into the breeches of the cannon and packed in the explosive charges. The breeches were slammed shut and the gunnery petty officers stood at attention with the lanyards in their hands, waiting for the order to open fire. Gunnery officers made last-minute aiming adjustments. They'd worked on this operation throughout the day, studying maps of Guadalcanal, and there was little left to do.
"Open fire!”
The petty officers pulled their lanyards, and the night roared with the sound of explosions. The first volley rocked the mighty Kongo on its side, and night became day for a few seconds. Huge billows of smoke rose up from the snouts of the cannons, and artillery shells soared high into the sky. Sailors opened the smoking breeches of the guns and loaded more shells. A second volley was fired and then a third. Ironbottom Sound echoed with the thunder and lightning of destruction.
Admiral Kurita smiled as he watched the shells make tiny dots of light on Guadalcanal.
The American patrol made its way laboriously through the thick, dark jungle. The men's faces and hands bled from scratches by branches and sharp leaves, and they were covered with insect bites. They moved at a fast pace, with Butsko far up front, charging along the trail like an angry animal. Solid walls of foliage lined the trail, and ahead there was endless darkness.
They passed a bend in the trail and saw a vast open space in front of them. It was the free-fire zone cut by the Seabees in front of the American positions.
“We made it!” Frankie said.
Bannon thought of the cigarette he was going to smoke as soon as he got behind the barricades. He placed his hand against the pack of Chesterfields in his shirt pocket, imagining how pleasurable that first drag would be.
“Stay close to me,” Butsko said, “and let's hope none of those trigger-happy bastards are on duty.”
