by Len Levinson
The jungle echoed with the sounds of men killing each other at close range. They slipped and slid in the muck and tripped over branches in their eagerness to destroy each other. The ground was covered with bodies that had been torn apart by bayonets, intestines and lungs glistening in the light of flares.
"Forward!” yelled Captain Gwynne. "Push the bastards back!”
Fox Company's commanding officer was in the thick of the fighting, gunning down Japanese soldiers at close range with his Colt .45. A squat figure on short dumpy legs, he stood with his feet spread apart and his knees bent, firing round after round, as Japanese bodies piled up all around him. Like Colonel Stockton, he, too, was reminded of his youth in the Argonne Forest, killing heinies and making the world safe for democracy. He took aim at a Japanese soldier coming at him ten yards away, pulled the trigger, and found to his dismay that the Colt .45 was empty. Reaching into the ammunition pouch on his belt, he yanked out his last clip and slapped it into the butt of his pistol.
The Japanese soldier was almost on top of him now, his bayonet only inches away, and Captain Gwynne fired quickly from the waist. His aim was low and he hit the Jap in the lower abdomen, but the Jap kept coming. Gwynne dodged to the side, and the Jap charged past him like a bull being faked out by a matador. The Jap fell to the ground and Gwynne shot him in the back. The Jap's kidneys and liver exploded into the air, and Gwynne heard a deadly whistling sound behind him. He spun around and saw the blade of a samurai sword streaking down at him. Gwynne was overweight and his reflexes weren't what they'd been in the Argonne Forest. The sword ricocheted off his helmet and buried itself deep in his shoulder.
"Ooooohhhh!” said Captain Gwynne, staggering like a prizefighter who'd taken a knockout punch but wouldn't go down.
Colonel Hodaka raised his samurai sword again to finish the heavyset American officer for once and for all, when suddenly out of nowhere Pfc. Sam Longtree appeared, raising his rifle and bayonet high in the air.
The samurai sword whacked into the stock of Longtree's rifle, and for a moment Colonel Hodaka and Sam Longtree were only inches apart, looking into each other's eyes. Longtree realized with a shock that Hodaka looked like his Uncle Danny Longtree, and Hodaka meanwhile was immobilized for a moment by the realization that Longtree appeared to be a Japanese soldier in an American uniform.
But each knew that the other was trying to kill him, and all extraneous thoughts vanished from their minds. At the same moment each tried to knee the other in the balls, and their knees collided in midair, causing intense pain to both of them. They separated and Colonel Hodaka raised his sword again, but while he was on the upswing, Longtree thrust his rifle and bayonet forward. Colonel Hodaka felt it pierce his tunic and in the next instant saw his ancestors seated on their thrones in Buddha land.
The Japanese officer fell at Sam Longtree's feet, and Long-tree let out a bloodcurdling Apache war whoop. He threw his rifle away, picked up the samurai sword, and saw another officer with a samurai sword jump in front of him.
It was Major Noguchi, who'd seen Colonel Hodaka fall in battle and now was presenting himself to avenge his commanding officer's death.
"Banzai!” screamed Major Noguchi.
"Wheeeoooo!” replied Sam Longtree, swinging his samurai sword from the side like an ax.
Major Noguchi jumped backward, raising his samurai sword in the air with both fists. Sam Longtree was off balance, and he'd never fought with a sword in his life, while Noguchi had studied swordsmanship since he was a little boy. Noguchi flexed his muscles to bring the sword down, and just then the angry chatter of a submachine gun rent the air. Five bullets hit Noguchi in the chest, one after the other, tearing up his lungs, heart, and aorta. The samurai sword dropped to the ground and he landed on top of it.
Sam Longtree righted himself and saw Private Shilansky, a Thompson submachine gun in his hands. Three Japs charged them out of the jungle mists and Shilansky aimed low, pulling the trigger. The first burst hit the Jap farthest on the right across the legs, and as the submachine gun bucked and raised in Shilansky's hands, he caught the second Jap in the guts and the final Jap in the face. The last Jap's head was blasted to smithereens, and Shilansky charged forward, breathing hard through his dry mouth because he couldn't breathe through his broken nose anymore.
Shilansky was so keyed up, he was beyond fear. He ran helter-skelter through the jungle, firing the submachine gun whenever he could get a clear shot at Japs. He was surprised that Japs charged him with rifles and bayonets, seeing the submachine gun in his hands, and felt contempt for their fool-hardiness as he shot them to pieces.
Like many other soldiers in the jungle that night, Shilansky was venting a lifetime of suppressed rage. Since childhood he'd been called a dirty Jew and a Christ-killer, and all his life he'd been answering insults with his fists. He hated to be thought of as a sissified Jew and had tried to become the new John Dillinger, but never had he felt the pure clean release that he felt now in the mud of Guadalcanal.
"Banzai!” screamed a Japanese soldier, running toward him.
Shilansky tucked the butt of the submachine gun against his waist and pulled the trigger. The gun tried to kick away from him but he held it tightly and leveled a stream of hot lead at the Japanese soldier, tearing him apart. He pivoted to the side and looked for more enemy soldiers to kill, but didn't see any. Running forward, he searched the jungle for more Japs, but all he saw were American soldiers rushing about, looking everywhere, wondering what had happened to all the Japs.
A bright-colored cloth lay on the ground, and it caught Shilansky's eye. It was attached to a pole and looked like a flag of some kind. Lying beside it was the Japanese soldier who'd evidently carried it.
Shilansky knitted his eyebrows together and let the barrel of the submachine gun point to the ground. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “It looks like we won.”
ELEVEN . . .
Lieutenant Harper and Pfc. Dooley watched Colonel Stockton return to the first line of trenches. They'd seen him enter the jungle all alone and doubted that he'd ever return alive.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Harper, “General Vandegrift wants you to call him right away.”
“Get him for me.”
Dooley worked the dials of the radio, and Stockton sat down in the hole. He felt young and invincible again, as he'd been in the Argonne Forest so many years ago. He took out his briar and filled it with tobacco, content with the knowledge that he could still lead men to victory in battle.
“Here you go, sir,” Dooley said, handing him the headset.
Colonel Stockton put it on. “Yes, sir?”
A staff officer answered him and told him to hold on for a few moments. Colonel Stockton lit his pipe, and the fragrant blue smoke rose in the air. Then General Vandegrift's hoarse voice came over the airwaves.
“Stockton, what the hell are you up to out there?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I understand you just attacked in defiance of my orders!”
“What orders, sir?”
“I left orders that you were to stay goddamned put where you were!”
“I never got them, sir. If I had, I would have followed them to the letter.” Stockton winked at Lieutenant Harper and Private Dooley. “I'm pleased to report, sir, that we've advanced our lines approximately five hundred yards into the jungle. I think that tomorrow morning I can wheel to my right and clean out the Japs on the west side of the Matanikau.”
In his headquarters at Henderson Field, General Vandegrift wondered what to do about Stockton. On one hand Stockton should not have attacked the Japanese when he did, but on the other hand he'd placed himself in a more favorable position for further operations.
“How are your flanks?” General Vandegrift asked.
“I don't know yet. I'll check on that as soon as I can. I just returned to my headquarters.”
“From where?”
“I led the attack, sir.”
“Personally?”
/> “Yes, sir.”
“You mean in front of your men?”
“Yes, sir.”
General Vandegrift sighed. “Colonel Stockton, I think you and I'll have to have a long talk real soon. A regimental commander cannot keep tabs on three thousand men when he's in front of them.”
“That's true, sir, but in an attack you don't have to keep tabs on them. You just have to move them forward.”
“I don't agree,” General Vandegrift said testily, “but I don't have time to argue with you. Report back to me as soon as you can on exactly where in the hell you are, and pay special attention to your flanks, because you don't want to get sur rounded and cut off out there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Colonel Stockton handed the headset back to Pfc. Dooley. “Call the battalion commanders and tell them I want to know their exact positions right away.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe and thought about General Vandegrift's reaction to his attack. The problem with the Army was that you spent half your time doing your job and the rest of your time trying to convince your superiors to let you do your job. But at least he'd led the Twenty-third to victory in their first attack, and that made him feel great. It washed away the frustration of twenty years of garrison duty, and at the moment he didn't care about how many men his wife had slept with; to hell with her.
Butsko looked down at Captain Gwynne lying on the ground, being bandaged by Private Richard Stone, the medic. Gwynne's coloring was ashen and he was unconscious. His breath came in little gasps.
“Will he make it?” Butsko asked.
“I think so,” said Stone. “He's lost a lot of blood, but nothing vital's been hit, I don't think.”
“Well,” said Lieutenant Scofield, standing nearby. “What're we going to do for a company commander?”
“Looks like you're it,” Butsko said. “Everybody above you is dead.”
Lieutenant Scofield's knees felt weak, and he sat down in the mud. He was as green as the leaves on the trees, and he didn't think he could handle Fox Company. Things were moving too fast for him. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that he'd gunned down about ten Japs with his carbine.
Pfc. Caldwell, who carried the company radio, turned toward them. “Battalion is calling the company commander.”
“That's you,” Butsko said to Scofield.
Scofield took the headset and put it on. “This is Ruby Silver,” he said, speaking Fox Company's code name.
There was a pause at the other end. “Is this Captain Gwynne?” the voice said at last.
“Captain Gwynne has been wounded,” Lieutenant Scofield replied. “Lieutenant Ames is dead. I've taken command of the company. This is Lieutenant Scofield speaking.”
“This is Major Cobb. The CO wants a position report as soon as possible, plus the number of men, NCOs, and officers available for duty.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Make it fast.”
“Yes, sir.”
Scofield handed the headset back. “Tell the platoon leaders to report their strength to me immediately.”
“Right.”
Lieutenant Scofield picked up Captain Gwynne's map case and opened the flap. “I wonder where the hell we are,” he said.
Butsko shrugged. “That shouldn't be too hard to figure out. Get the map of this area and I'll show you.”
Scofield pulled out a sheaf of maps, and the one on top, covered with Captain Gwynne's scribbling, was the one he wanted.
“Give it here,” Butsko said.
Scofield passed it over. Butsko examined it quickly and found the position in the line they'd held prior to the attack, and then estimated how far they'd come in the jungle. He planted his big forefinger on the map.
“We're right about here,” he said.
Lieutenant Scofield was mystified, because he had no idea where he was. “How do you know that, Butsko?”
Butsko explained the landmarks he'd used to orient himself.
“But Sergeant,” Lieutenant Scofield said, “that explains the direction we traveled, but how do you know we got this far.”
Butsko shrugged. “Because I know. I pay attention to what's going on. This is where we are.”
Lieutenant Scofield smiled superciliously. “It's not that I don't trust your judgment, Sergeant, but I think I'd better have somebody go back to check this distance.”
“Suit yourself, sir.” Butsko stood and slung his M 1 over his shoulder. “I think I'd better head back to my platoon.”
“Let me know what your strength is, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
A light rain had begun to fall, and Bannon sat against the trunk of a tree, trying to think straight. He was exhausted, hungry, and could have been knocked over by a feather. Surrounding him were dead Japs and a few dead GIs. He'd received word that Private Billie Jones had been taken back to the field hospital, which meant his squad was down to six men, himself included. And he hadn't even been on Guadalcanal for twenty-four hours yet. His eyes hurt and he closed his lids to rest them. He heard a roaring like a tornado in his ears, and a second later everything went black as he fell asleep and toppled onto his side.
Colonel Stockton had returned to his command bunker and was ensconced behind his desk, puffing his briar and figuring out where his regiment was on the map. There appeared to be a huge bulge on the left side of his line. It was the Second Battalion. What the hell were they doing way out there?
“Dooley, get me the second battalion.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dooley turned the crank on the field telephone, spoke into it, and waited as Colonel Stockton drew arrows to indicate the direction he wanted his battalion to go in the morning. He hoped he could sell the attack to General Vandegrift. The military advantages to the move should be obvious to anyone with a brain in his head, but sometimes people surprised you.
“Here's the Second Battalion, sir,” Dooley said.
Colonel Stockton took the telephone receiver. “Daley?”
“Yes, sir?”
“What the hell is your battalion doing way ahead of everybody else? Who gave you permission to go way out there?”
“Well, sir, actually it's not the whole battalion,” Daley said. “That's just Fox Company, and Captain Gwynne was wounded early in the attack, so I guess they had no one to tell them what to do.”
“Seems somebody should have taken over.”
“The ranking officer is a second lieutenant, and he didn't know he was the ranking officer until the fight was over, evidently. From what I understand, it's not the whole company out there anyway. It's just one platoon.”
“One platoon!”
“Yes, sir.”
“One platoon made that huge advance themselves?”
“That's what I understand, sir.”
“Do you know who's in charge of that platoon?”
“Sergeant Butsko, sir.”
The name registered in Colonel Stockton's mind again. Butsko seemed to be everywhere tonight.
“Should I move that platoon back, sir?”
“No, keep them out there as a listening post, but for Chris-sakes don't let ‘em get pinched off.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know your men are tired, but I want them to stay alert. Send out a few more listening posts too. I don't want anybody getting taken by surprise.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Colonel Stockton handed the telephone back to Dooley and looked down at the bulge on the map. So that was just one platoon out there. They must have been going like a son of a bitch to get that far. And Butsko was the one who'd advised him that the attack was coming in the first place. He was supposed to be a hell of a soldier, although he tended to get in trouble a lot. Well, so do I.
&
nbsp; Colonel Stockton's pipe went out, and he laid it in the ashtray. He thought maybe he should make Butsko's platoon his recon platoon and send his present recon platoon out to Fox Company. Colonel Stockton was certain he could handle Butsko, and evidently Butsko had welded together a pretty good outfit out there.
Colonel Stockton looked at the map again. He knew now that the heaviest concentration of Japs had been in the sector through which Butsko's platoon had gone, and in fact a dead Japanese colonel and a Japanese regimental flag had been found in that area.
Yes, Stockton said to himself, as soon as things quiet down, that's going to be my recon platoon.
Bannon lay on the ground, snoring loudly. He was dreaming about an early morning when he'd driven his old jalopy into Pecos, because he'd thought Ginger was spending the night with another cowboy. She'd lived in a broken-down hotel on a back street, and he carried a six-gun in his belt underneath his shirt, because he fully intended to shoot her and her boyfriend dead if that's what was going on.
He pounded on the door and she opened it, sleepy-eyed, in her pajamas. No one was there except her, and she was glad to see him, because she was the kind of girl who was always horny in the mornings.
He dreamed in Technicolor of how he lifted her up and carried her to her creaky brass bed, laying her down upon it, and taking her in his arms, feeling her warm lithe body squirming underneath him and tasting her morning kisses, like warm lemonade.
She reached down and unbuttoned his jeans, snaking her hand inside and grabbing his joint, while he raised her pajama tops, burying his face in her large fragrant breasts. He licked her nipples and throat, kissed her mouth, and ran his lips over her fluttering eyelashes while she made little moans and sighs, and he thought he would come in her hand.
He shook uncontrollably as he tore off her pajamas and then flung his own clothes all over the room. Sex-crazed, like a young steer in a pen with a bunch of cows, he reached down and touched her smooth slippery strawberry tart, hot as if it had just come out of the oven, and she pulled his dick toward her.
