by Len Levinson
“Do it to me, honey,” she whispered. “Do it to me.”
Bannon stuck it in, and somebody kicked him in the ass. He rolled over in the mud of Guadalcanal and saw Sergeant Butsko looking down at him.
“What the fuck you think this is!” Butsko roared. “On your feet, young soldier!”
Bannon jumped up, staggered, and managed to pull himself erect. “What's the problem, Sarge.”
“How many men you got left?”
“Six, including me.”
“Get your men dug in around here right now. Don't you know that the best time to expect an attack is right after you won something?”
“Right.”
“Then get your ass in gear. Post a couple of men a hundred yards ahead of your position to see if anything's coming. After that you can catch up on your sack time.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Butsko spat and walked away, to look for this third squad. Bannon took a deep breath and tried to decide who to send forward to be the eyes and ears of the platoon.
Lieutenant Scofield sat in a shell hole, a map spread out on his knees, eating a Hershey bar. He wished battalion would send Fox Company a new company commander, because he had no idea of how to lead a company in combat. He'd barely known what to do with his platoon.
Sergeant Hodge approached and collapsed wearily beside Scofield. He was just returning from a reconnoiter to determine exactly how far Fox Company had advanced. “We're about a quarter mile from the free-fire zone,” he said.
Scofield eagerly scrutinized his map, hoping to find Butsko wrong. He measured the distance with his thumb and was chagrined to discover that Butsko had been right on the nose.
“Shit!” said Scofield.
“What was that, sir?” asked Hodge.
Colonel Tsuji sat on a chair in front of General Hyakutuke's desk, trying to keep himself calm. The word had just been received that the Hodaka Regiment had fallen out of radio contact.
“Hmmm,” said General Hyakutake. “I wonder where they are.”
“This is most uncharacteristic of Colonel Hodaka,” replied Tsuji. “He must be in trouble.”
Hyakutake turned down the corners of his mouth. “Impossible. Perhaps his radio has been damaged.”
“Then he should have sent a messenger to report his situation.”
“I suspect we'll hear from him soon.”
General Hyakutake looked down at the map on his desk. One of the first principles of warfare, as far as he was concerned, was never to think negatively. Colonel Hodaka would be heard from soon. Meanwhile the Yaksuko and Shunsake regiments were moving into their attack positions and would be ready to strike soon. They'd advance one regiment after the other, concentrating all their power at one narrow point of the American line. Elements of the Ichiki Regiment had broken through the American line at its center, and it could be assumed that the American commander was shifting his line to meet the new threat. The Yaksuko and Shunsake regiments should have no difficulty taking the American airfield. The American commander would soon find himself looking into the barrels of Japanese guns. Perhaps he could be taken alive. What a trophy that would be.
“You worry too much,” he told Tsuji. “I think our operations are going rather well.”
“Yes, sir,” Tsuji replied, although deep in his heart he was unable to believe it. Could the Hodaka Regiment have been wiped out? It was unthinkable, but yet Colonel Tsuji couldn't imagine why else they'd been silent for so long. A chill ran up his spine, despite the humidity and temperature in the nineties. What if they've been wiped out? he thought.
Bannon looked at the five men remaining in his squad, and they looked like shit. They stood in front of him in the wet jungle as rain pelted them. In the distance they heard artillery explosions and small-arms fire. Bannon didn't have the heart to send any of them forward to be lookouts, but he had to. He'd go himself, but he was the squad leader and Butsko would be furious.
“Okay,” Bannon said wearily, “I need two men to go forward and set up a listening post. Anybody want to volunteer?”
Nobody said anything. They all looked like they were going to fall asleep on their feet, and that's the way he felt too.
“That's what I thought,” Bannon said. “You'll draw for it, then.”
“Why don't you go?” Frankie La Barbara asked in his most surly, hostile tone.
“Shaddup, Frankie.”
“Why don't they send somebody else for a change?”
“I said shaddup, Frankie.”
Bannon reached into his shirt pocket and took out his pack of Chesterfields. He ripped open the cover and tore it into five strips, with two of the strips shorter than the others. Then he held the strips in his hands so that all the ends were equal and the rest of the strips were hidden.
The men drew the strips. “Shit!” said Frankie. Homer Gladley groaned.
“Take the walkie-talkie. Call Sergeant Butsko if you see anything. Whatever you do, don't fire your weapons and give your positions away. And don't forget that Butsko is still full of piss and vinegar. He may go out there and check on you.”
Frankie La Barbara forced a savage grin. “He'd better not.”
“Don't get any ideas, birdbrain, because Butsko will see you before you see him.”
Frankie's grin vanished. If he took a potshot at Butsko and missed, Butsko would skin him alive.
“Get going,” Bannon said. “Set yourselves up near one of the big trails, because the Japs probably will use trails on a dark night like this.”
Frankie and Gladley shuffled off into the night. Bannon turned to the others. “Get yourselves some rest, but keep your rifles loaded and your bayonets fixed beside you.”
The Yaksuko Regiment streamed down the side of the mountain, cursing and lugging their weapons. Leading one of the columns was Count Uhiro Sangawa, the regiment's young commander, the scion of one of Japan's most noble families, a third cousin to the Emperor.
Yaksuko was only thirty-five years old and a veteran of the campaign on Borneo. He was an expert in jiujitsu and prided himself on his haiku poetry. As he moved along the trail, he thought of his young wife in Osaka and composed a poem on the spot.
My wife's black hair
full of diamonds
floats in the summer air.
He took his notebook out of his shirt pocket to write the poem down, then smiled and put the notebook away. The fresh rain made the jungle smell sweet for a change, and he thought
about the attack he was leading. He hadn't been told that the Hodaka Regiment had been wiped out, and as far as he knew, the night's operations were going according to plan. He fully expected to capture the American airfield by dawn, and all American resistance on Guadalcanal should be finished by then.
His regiment reached the bottom of the hill, which was the jump-off point for his attack. Ahead of him was another mountain, and on the other side of it were the Americans. He looked at his watch, and it was three o'clock in the morning. In the distance he could hear battle, and he longed to become part of it.
“Call headquarters,” he told his adjutant, Captain Reiko. ‘Tell them we're at our point of departure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Reiko beckoned to the soldier carrying the field radio, and Count Yaksuko sat on a wet log, to rest his long thin legs. He wore a close-clipped mustache, because without it people said he looked effeminate. The rain had soaked his uniform to his skin, but he didn't feel uncomfortable. In fact, the rigors of the march had enlivened him. He thought of how pleased the Emperor would be when he learned that a relation had led the crucial attack that had broken the back of the US Army on Guadalcanal.
He looked up at the sky, an infinity of darkness. He hoped the sun would shine tomorrow, so that he could stretch out and relax out of doors. He believed he wrote better poetry in nice weather. Prolonged rain often made him melancholy.
After several minutes Captain Reiko approached him and saluted. “Colonel Tsuji has told us to move forwa
rd immediately. He said that you should notify him immediately when you make contact with the Hodaka Regiment.”
Count Yaksuko stood and placed his hand on the handle of his sword. “Pass along the order to advance,” he said.
Captain Reiko raised his arm in the air and moved it forward toward the mountain in front of them. Equipment rattled and boots scudded across the mud as the Yaksuko Regiment moved forward.
Near the bottom of the other side of the mountain, Frankie La Barbara and Homer Gladley looked at a ditch.
“This looks like a good spot,” Frankie said, a drop of rain-water falling from his nose.
“Don't you think we'd better go up there?” Gladley asked, pointing to the top of the mountain.
“Nah, this is good enough.”
“But we could see better up there.”
“You won't be able to see shit up there until it gets light. Maybe we can go up there then. Besides, I don't think I could make it now.”
“I don't think I could either,” Gladley admitted.
They walked into the ditch and lay down in the wet leaves. Frankie placed the walkie-talkie on its back and reached for his pack of cigarettes, then stopped his hand in midair. A burning cigarette could be seen a long way off at night, and he had to consider that himself now, since he didn't have Bannon to tell him what to do. He rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes.
“You take the first shift,” he told Gladley.
“Whataya mean, Frankie? We're supposed to be pulling this duty together.”
“We are together. Wake me up if you hear anything.”
“Aw, come on, Frankie. Corporal Bannon sent both of us up here so's both of us would be watching.”
“Fuck Bannon. Who's he?”
“He's the squad leader, that's who he is.”
“He's just another swinging dick out here, just like us. Fuck him where he breathes.”
“You use too much foul language, Frankie.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Frankie closed his eyes. Gladley looked around and could see only the tangled branches of the jungle. The only sound was the hiss of rain as it landed on leaves and grass.
“Hey, Frankie, I can't watch all this jungle myself,” Gladley said.
“Sure you can,” Frankie said lazily.
Homer smacked Frankie in the arm. “Come on, get up.”
“Hey, who're you punching around? I'm not your mother.”
“What'd you say?”
Frankie was going to repeat himself, but stopped his mouth at the last moment. Gladley was bigger than him, and Frankie was leery of pushing him too far. In Australia, Gladley had knocked out a guy with one punch when the guy suggested that Gladley's girl friend back in Nebraska might not be a virgin. Gladley was a wildman when it came to his family and those he loved.
“Ah, shit, you're such a fucking hillbilly,” Frankie snarled.
“All you guys from New York think you're better than everybody else,” Gladley complained. “You're all a bunch of damned goldbricks. You never do anything unless you have to.”
“I didn't see you volunteering for this shit detail, Gladley.”
“But I'm doing my duty.”
“Fuck your duty.”
“You use too many bad words, Frankie. The Lord's gonna pay you back one of these days.”
“Fuck the Lord.”
"Frankie!”
“Keep your voice down.”
“How can you say something like that?”
“You want me to say it again?”
“You ain't much of a Christian, that's for sure.”
“I can't see where being a Christian did your pal Jones any good. That phony son of a bitch read the Bible day in and day out, but that didn't stop him from getting sliced up by a Jap bayonet.”
“The Lord knows best,” Gladley said stolidly.
“The Lord's got His head up His ass. If there really was a God, there wouldn't be no wars.”
“God doesn't start the wars, Frankie. The Japs started this war. And we're gonna finish it.”
“Oh, you fucking cornball.”
“I know what's wrong with you, Frankie. You just ain't been around nice people much.”
“Fuck you.”
Frankie searched his shirt pocket for his pack of gum, with-drew it, and had only one stick left. He spit out the stale gum in his mouth and folded the. fresh stick in. He had more gum in his field pack, but considered it as good as gone. The men who'd gone out on the previous patrol had left their packs behind, and their packs had been lost in the big bombardment.
Gladley hadn't been on that patrol, but he'd left his pack behind before going on this one with Frankie.
Frankie spat into the mud. “I should've gone AWOL in Australia when I had the chance,” he said.
“They would've caught you and strung you up.”
“Oh, no, they wouldn't. I had this little Australian girl friend, and I coulda lived with her. She was the best blowjob I ever had in my life.”
Homer Gladley frowned, because Frankie always was talking about strange sexual practices that were entirely foreign to him. Part of him thought the sexual practices were improper, and the other part yearned to experience them.
“She had a tongue like a merry-go-round,” Frankie said wistfully.
Homer Gladley perked up his ears, and his eyes darted around. “Ssshhh.”
“Whatsa matter?”
“I just heard something.”
Both men listened. In the distance, underneath the steady rainfall, a new and more ominous sound could be heard. It was a low, steady rumble, the sound of thousands of feet slogging down the mountain.
“Maybe it's just the wind,” Frankie said hopefully.
“The wind don't sound like that. Maybe we should go up ahead to take a look.”
“Go ahead, I'll wait for you here.”
“I mean the both of us.”
“Fuck you—I ain't going up there.”
They listened for a few moments longer, and the sounds became louder.
“No,” Frankie agreed, “that ain't the fucking wind. It sounds like a whole goddamned army.”
“We should find out how many they are.”
“Go ahead if you want to.”
“I mean the both of us.”
“I know already how many they are.”
“How many?”
“Lots. Let's call Butsko.”
“I still think we should find out how many they are.”
“You can do what you wanna do, comball. I'm going to report this to Butsko.”
Frankie reached for the walkie-talkie and froze suddenly when he heard a splashing sound to his left on the trail. He turned to Gladley, who was looking at him in alarm. They listened and heard footsteps coming down the trail.
“Must be their forward scouts,” Frankie whispered.
“Sounds like two of them,” Gladley replied.
They narrowed their eyes and focused on the narrow winding trail that passed a few feet from the glen in which they were kneeling. About ten feet away two figures appeared, hunched over and carrying rifles. Frankie realized he and Gladley would have to kill mem if they wanted to get back to the American lines safely. He looked into Gladley's eyes and drew his fore-finger across his throat. Gladley nodded. Both men silently drew their bayonets out of their scabbards and held them blades-up in their fists. Gladley drew close to Frankie so both of them faced the trail.
“I'll take the one in front,” Frankie whispered.
The Japanese scouts moved closer, holding their rifles and bayonets in both hands, and it appeared as though they weren't paying too much attention to what was going on around them. They probably figured there couldn't be any Americans in the area and would slow down when they came closer to where they thought the Americans were.
Frankie crouched like a beast of the jungle, ready to spring. He could see the outline of the lead Jap clearly and was sure he could bring the Jap down. Surprise would be on his
side, and the Jap wouldn't know what hit him. Frankie had no qualms about killing. He used to break legs for the Mob before being drafted, and that hadn't bothered him at all.
Gladley, however, was a little uneasy. He didn't like killing men close up, seeing the blood flow out of them like water. It was easier when he told himself it was like butchering hogs back on the farm. And besides, that second Jap might have some food in his pack.
The Japanese scouts drew abreast of the two American GIs. Frankie could see the puttees on their legs and the thongs that crisscrossed their chests. Both of them wore soft caps with flaps covering their ears and the backs of their heads. They were like two silent specters of the night, and Frankie's heart raced as they came within striking distance.
“Now!” Frankie said.
He and Homer leaped out of the ditch. The Japanese scouts heard them coming and swung around, but they didn't have a chance. With all his might Frankie punched his bayonet into the lead Jap's stomach, then pulled it out and stabbed him again. The Jap said "Oof!” and dropped his rifle, and Frankie slashed his bayonet across the Jap's throat, cutting off all further sound. Blood from the Jap's severed jugular gushed out like a fountain, and the Jap collapsed onto the ground.
Homer, treating his man like a razorback hog, went for his throat first. The Jap saw the bayonet coming and raised his rifle to block it, but Gladley held the rifle with his left hand and jabbed with his right. He drove the point of the bayonet through the Jap's esophagus and up into his brain. Holding the Jap in the air by the point of his bayonet, he watched in fascination as blood foamed out of the Jap's mouth and then his nose.
“Hey, look Frankie,” Homer whispered.
“Stop fucking around, cornball.”
Gladley placed the palm of his left hand on the Jap's forehead and pushed him off the bayonet. The Jap dropped onto the ground and lay still.
“Let's call Butsko,” Frankie said.
“Maybe they got some food on them.”
“We ain't got time for that shit.”
