Go for Broke

by Len Levinson

  “Because it’ll go to work faster in your ass.”

  “I ain’t in that much of a hurry.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Frankie La Barbara’s sleeve was rolled up and his shirt was tattered. Pfc. Gotbaum had no difficulty finding a place to jab the ampule. He cleaned a patch of Frankie’s bloody, filthy skin with a swab of cotton dipped in alcohol and stuck the ampule into Frankie’s bulging round biceps.

  “I don’t feel nothing,” Frankie said.

  “It’ll take a few minutes.”

  Pfc. Gotbaum pulled out the ampule and tossed it over his shoulder. He gathered up his things and moved to the next wounded man, Private Victor Yabalonka, whose hands were wrapped with his shirt.

  Yabalonka, the former left-wing radical from San Francisco, had fucked up his hands during the big fight. A Jap had tried to stab him with his bayonet, and Yabalonka grabbed the bayonet in order to protect himself. He’d saved his life, but his hands had been cut to ribbons in the process.

  Pfc. Gotbaum unwrapped the shirt, and when he got close to the actual wounds, the shirt stuck to the torn flesh.

  “This’ll hurt a little,” Gotbaum said.

  “Do what you gotta do, pill-roller.”

  Pfc. Gotbaum yanked the shirt loose, causing blood to flow freely again. He hoped Yabalonka hadn’t got blood poisoning from the dye in the shirt. Sprinkling on sulfa powder to disinfect the deep cuts, he knew Yabalonka would have difficulty moving his hands for the next few weeks.

  Yabalonka was in a state of deep depression, because he knew what Gotbaum knew. He’d have difficulty fighting Japs because of his damaged hands. He wasn’t even sure he could hold a rifle, but he’d have to try if he wanted to stay alive, and he’d learned during the big fight that he desperately wanted to stay alive.

  That had come as a surprise to him. He hadn’t wanted to kill Japs, because he had no reason to hate them. He believed Japanese soldiers were brainwashed by their own ruling class’s bullshit propaganda, just as American GIs were, and that Japanese soldiers were just workers and farmers for the most part, like American GIs. But when the shit hit the fan and Japanese soldiers attacked him, trying to cut open his belly, Yabalonka had fought back with all the strength in his powerful long-shoreman’s body, because more than anything else he wanted to live.

  “Make a fist,” said Pfc. Gotbaum.

  Yabalonka tightened his fingers around the bandages, but couldn’t move them into a tight fist. “I can’t do it any more than this.”

  “You probably cut some tendons in your hand. Under ordinary circumstances I’d have you put on light duty, but you know how things are.”

  “I know how things are.”

  Pfc. Gotbaum waddled away to look at the nose of Sergeant Cameron, who’d lost his nose bandage in the scuffle. Sergeant Cameron’s nose was an ugly mass of dried blood, torn flesh, and exposed cartilage. The morning became dark suddenly as a thick cloud passed in front of the sun, blotting it out. Sergeant Cameron glanced up at the sky.

  “Looks like we might be getting some rain,” he said.

  Pfc. Gotbaum touched his fingers gently to Sergeant Cameron’s nose, and Sergeant Cameron jumped three inches into the air. “Ouch!”

  “That nose is real bad,” Gotbaum said. “I can’t do anything for it except put another bandage on.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Sergeant Cameron, who didn’t want to go through the pain. “I don’t need no bandage. Let the air get at it. Maybe it’ll do some good.”

  “A bandage’ll keep the bugs away, and help if it starts bleeding again.”

  “Gimme the bandage. I’ll put it on myself if I have any trouble.”

  “Okay.”

  Pfc. Gotbaum reached into his haversack for a bandage, and just then Lieutenant Breckenridge broke through the foliage surrounding the survivors from the recon platoon. They looked up at him as he knelt in their midst and took out his very last cigarette, lighting it with his Zippo.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked as horrendous as the rest of them, with fingernail scratches all over his face, and his uniform covered with blood and gore. He drew smoke out of his cigarette and savored it, because he didn’t know where he’d get another one.

  “See any Japs out there?” asked Morris Shilansky.

  “A few, but not too many,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, cocking his ear and listening to the sounds of battle farther west. “Most of the Japs are that way.” He pointed west, toward the sound of the fighting. “All we can hope for is that our people push their people back, so we’ll wind up behind our own lines again.” He puffed his cigarette. “We’ll be safe here as long as the Japs don’t see us, and we’re going to be real quiet so that we don’t attract their attention. Got it?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “If we do happen to attract their attention,” Lieutenant Breckenridge continued, “we’ll have to fight them, and if we have to fight them, we’ll need something to fight them with. The jungle around here is full of rifles, bullets, machine guns, and hand grenades on the bodies of casualties. I even saw a couple of bazookas.”

  “Why didn’t you bring one back?” asked Frankie La Barbara, who was stoned on morphine now and seeing blinking lights and dancing colors.

  “I’ll ask the questions, La Barbara,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “If I want any shit out of you, I’ll knock it out of you.”

  “Big talk,” said Frankie.

  “Shut up.”

  “Make me.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge glowered at Frankie La Barbara, wondering if he should kick his ass thoroughly to establish who was boss.

  “Sir,” said Pfc. Gotbaum, “I just gave him a shot of morphine. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  Frankie turned to Pfc. Gotbaum. “I do, too, know what I’m saying. What the fuck are you talking about, pill-roller?”

  “Shut up, Frankie,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge. “We’re cut off behind Jap lines and I don’t have time to play games with you.”

  “Fuck you,” said Frankie.

  “Fuck me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge stood and walked toward Frankie La Barbara, who tried to stand, but Frankie was so whacked out of his head he couldn’t get ready in time. Lieutenant Breckenridge drew back his leg and kicked Frankie with all his might in the head. Frankie’s back arched and he flew through the air, landing on some uprooted bushes. Lieutenant Breckenridge puffed his cigarette and sat down again.

  “I’m not taking any shit from you guys,” he said. “I don’t have the time for it. Any man who doesn’t do as he’s told will get his fucking head kicked. Got it?”

  Nobody said anything, but they all looked at each other, raising their eyebrows. They realized that Lieutenant Breckenridge was adopting the same tactics that Butsko used to keep them in line: sheer physical brutality and intimidation.

  “Okay,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, “where was I? Oh, yes. I need three volunteers to go out and bring back weapons and ammunition, especially automatic weapons. Sergeant Cameron, Pfc. Shilansky, and Pfc. Billie Jones. Get going.”

  Pfc. Morris Shilansky was confused. “But I didn’t volunteer!”

  “I just volunteered you,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “Oh.”

  “And if you can find any cigarettes out there, bring ‘em back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get going.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A bolt of lightning shot across the sky above the Torricelli Mountains, and a few seconds later a peal of thunder reverberated across the jungle. General Hawkins adjusted his helmet on his head, because he knew the downpour would begin at any moment. He sat in a jeep that bounced and rocked over a dirt road that had been constructed by the Corps of Engineers. His driver, Pfc. Joseph Buxton from Spencer, South Dakota, sat behind the wheel and steered toward a big walled tent in a jungle area covered with camouflage netting. In
the jump seat to the rear, General MacWhitter hung on while his bony ass bounced up and down on the bare metal.

  Pfc. Buxton parked among the other jeeps and three-quarter-ton trucks in front of the tent. General Hawkins jumped down from the jeep and walked toward the tent, followed by General MacWhitter. He entered the front office area of the tent and was waved through to General Hall’s office. General Hawkins’s legs felt wobbly and he had an acid stomach as he pushed aside the tent flap.

  General Hall stood in front of his wall map with several other officers. When he saw General Hawkins and General MacWhitter, he narrowed his eyes. “Leave me alone for a few moments with General Hawkins and General MacWhitter,” he said, his voice laden with malevolence.

  The staff officers filed out of the office, glancing at General Hawkins and General MacWhitter, whom they knew were being called on the carpet for their big fuck-up, letting the Japs break through their lines.

  When the last staff officer was gone, General Hawkins snapped to attention. “If you want my resignation, sir, you’ve got it!” General Hawkins declared.

  “That goes for me, too, sir,” General MacWhitter replied.

  The corners of General Hall’s mouth turned downward. “Don’t tempt me,” he said. He placed his hands behind his back and looked them up and down. The Japanese attack had upset his defense system and imperiled the Tadji airfields. The failure of the Eighty-first Division to stop the Japanese attack at the Driniumor made him look bad to his superiors. He was expecting to get chewed out by General Krueger and General Eichelberger, and maybe even General MacArthur.

  But he had to be prudent. He had to work with what he had, and what he had was General Hawkins and General MacWhitter. It was his responsibility as their commanding officer to get the best out of them and train them to be better man they were.

  “I can’t accept your resignations,” he admitted, “because I need the both of you. Perhaps if we can focus on what went wrong, we can figure out how to prevent it from ever happening again.” He forced himself to smile, although he didn’t have anything to be happy about. “Come over here by the map with me and we’ll analyze the situation.”

  General Hawkins and General MacWhitter joined General Hall near the map. Both were relieved to know they weren’t being fired.

  “Basically it boils down to this,” General Hawkins said, his confidence returning. “The Japanese attacked my Twenty-third Regiment on the Driniumor, here”—he pointed at the map—“at approximately oh-four-hundred hours. Colonel Hutchins, who commands the Twenty-third, asked for help. I refused, because I thought the attack might be a feint, with the enemy’s main effort coming from another direction. I waited to see how events would develop, and I suppose I waited too long. The Japanese broke through the Twenty-third, crossed the Driniumor, and made a deep penetration into my area before we stopped them approximately here.” General Hawkins described a line on his map with his forefinger.

  General Hall pinched his lips together and nodded. “I see. Do you think you have the resources to push the Japs back to where they were?”

  “Yes, but it would mean thinning out my lines in other places, and perhaps the Japanese will attack those weakened places. You see, sir, the situation is very fluid right now, and we don’t know exactly what the Japanese are up to.”

  “I know what they’re up to,” General Hall replied. “They want our airfields.”

  “I understand that, sir, but I’m not sure at this point how they mean to achieve that objective.”

  “Hmmm.” General Hall crossed his arms and wondered what to do. He had a virtual 360-degree ring around the Tadji airfields and the town of Aitape, because he didn’t know where the Japs might attack next either. His predicament, in fact, was not very different from General Hawkins’s. If he thinned out his defense somewhere to strengthen the line on the Driniumor, he might be attacked through one of the weakened sectors.

  Finally he reached a decision. In war, as in most other fields of endeavor, it is sometimes necessary to gamble. The threat posed by the Japanese attack east of the Driniumor was more dangerous than anything happening west of Aitape. He would thin out a section of the line west of Aitape and beef up the defenses to the south along the Torricelli Mountains.

  “All right,” said General Hall. “This is what you’ll do.” He pointed to the Torricelli Mountains. “Which of your regiments do you have here?”

  “My Eighteenth, sir.”

  General Hall looked at his watch. “Pull them back at eleven hundred hours and build up your defense in depth along the line you hold now. Then, tomorrow morning, I want you to attack the Japs and push them back to the Driniumor.”

  “Who’ll cover the southern approaches along the Torricelli Mountains, sir?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet, but I’ll let you know later in the day.” General Hall stepped back from the map and gazed into the eyes of General Hawkins. “Now, let’s have an understanding between us right now. I know you’ve only been in this area a few days, and you’ve never served under me before. That’s why I’m being lenient with you this time. But if you let the Japs push you around again like they did this morning, I’ll relieve you of command so fast, it’ll make your head swim. Is that clear?”

  General Hawkins swallowed hard. “Yes, sir!”

  “In the future,” General Hall continued, “when you’re attacked, I don’t want you to wait until your lines are a shambles before you do anything. You’d better act before your lines fall apart. It is my opinion that the commander who waits too long before taking action lacks a proper fighting spirit. I don’t like overcautious commanders. I want commanders who are like wild animals and who attack at the slightest provocation. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Return to your headquarters. If I have any further instructions for you, I’ll contact you there.”

  Captain Yuichi Sato opened his eyes and saw the roof of a tent. His left shoulder hurt so much, he nearly passed out again. The Japanese army had few painkilling drugs, considering them unmanly. Real men should overcome pain through the sheer force of their wills, the Japanese high command believed.

  Captain Sato rolled his head to the side. He was in a hospital tent full of wounded men. They moaned, groaned, and vomited blood all around him. Orderlies carried wounded men on stretchers.

  “Orderly!” shouted Captain Sato. “Where am I?”

  “Shut up and lie down,” the orderly replied.

  “What!” screamed Captain Sato, a vein on his forehead bulging out. “How dare you talk to me like that!”

  Captain Sato raised himself to a sitting position, and the orderly could see the insignia on his collar.

  “I’m sorry, sir!” the orderly spat out. “Please forgive me, sir! A thousand pardons, sir!”

  Captain Sato felt dizzy and lay down again. The orderly ran toward him and dropped to his knees. He felt for Captain Sato’s pulse, looked at his wound, and pressed his palm to Captain Sato’s head to take his temperature.

  Captain Sato looked up at the orderly. “What happened?”

  “I do believe you’ve been shot in the shoulder, sir. The bullet’s still in there. I expect it will have to come out.”

  “I know all that,” Captain Sato replied in a weak voice. “I mean, did the attack succeed?”

  The orderly smiled. “Oh, yes, sir. We’ve crossed the Driniumor and advanced quite a good distance into the American defense perimeter.”

  “How much of a distance?” Captain Sato asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you exactly, sir. I’m only an orderly, you know. I’m not really up on those things.”

  “Idiot,” Captain Sato said, and closed his eyes.

  He heard the orderly move away. The wound in his shoulder throbbed wickedly and radiated pain throughout his body. Captain Sato forced himself to overcome the pain and think back to the battle in which he’d received the wound. He remembered the American soldier picking up the rifle and shooting
him. Everything had been going so well, and a freak shot had put him out of the battle.

  He understood that war was a haphazard affair. Despite all your skill and stamina, and no matter how well your body was conditioned, a bullet could come out of nowhere and finish you off. Skill could keep you alive to a certain extent, and good physical condition could help you, too, but anything could happen in a pitched hand-to-hand battle, and it had happened to Captain Sato.

  He wondered what his men were doing, and hoped they were all right. He wished he could have shared in the victory with them, but instead, here he was, in a hospital tent far behind the main advance, surrounded by other men who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hoped the wound wouldn’t keep him out of the war for long. He wanted very much to get his strength back, so he could return to the front.

  Two orderlies approached him, carrying a stretcher.

  “Time to have that bullet taken out, sir,” one of them said.

  “Steady, now,” said the other.

  They rolled him onto the stretcher and carried him away. Captain Sato thought it was undignified to be carried on a stretcher, bouncing up and down, without being in control of himself. He entered the operating room and was assailed by the odors of blood and disinfectant. Turning his head, he looked at a bucket containing arms and legs that had been amputated. Blood was all over the ground. Leaning to the other side, he saw surgeons with their white aprons soaked with blood.

  Normally, Captain Sato had a strong constitution, but he felt uneasy and helpless in the operating room with all the blood around. In fact, he even felt scared. He wondered what the doctors were going to do with him. The orderlies laid him on one of the operating tables, and a kerosene light above his head nearly blinded him. One doctor appeared to his left and another on his right.

  “I hope,” Captain Sato said, trying to affect a genial, jovial manner, “that you’re not going to cut my arm off.”

  “Oh, no,” said one of the doctors. “We’re only going to remove the bullet. Hang on, now.”

  Captain Sato closed his eyes. He heard the doctors moving around, increasing his apprehension. He heard metal instruments being touched to each other. A soldier screamed on the next operating table. A fierce pain struck his shoulder as the doctor inserted a sharp instrument and probed for the bullet. Captain Sato squinched his eyes shut and clenched his teeth, resolved not to cry out.