by Len Levinson
Pfc. Levinson dashed into the office. He was a gawky youth with a long neck, a prominent Adam’s apple, and a gigantic nose. He snapped to attention and saluted in front of Colonel Hutchins’s desk.
“Levinson,” said Colonel Hutchins, “get me a cup of coffee.”
“A cup of coffee, sir?”
“You got a hearing problem, Levinson?”
“Where should I get a cup of coffee, sir?”
“That’s for you to figure out, and if you can’t, you’re not smart enough to be the regimental clerk. I’ll have to send you back to the line and get somebody else.”
Pfc. Levinson smiled nervously, because the last place in the world he wanted to be was back on the line. “I’ll get you a cup of coffee right away, sir.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Pfc. Levinson sped out of the office. Colonel Hutchins searched through the desk again for something to smoke, drink, or chew, but there was nothing. A peal of thunder sounded like kettledrums over his head, and rain poured onto the tent. A fatigue came over Colonel Hutchins and he leaned back in his chair. His heart slowed and he was afraid it would stop. His breathing became shallow. What’s the matter with me? he wondered.
The telephone on his desk rang, snapping him out of his torpor. He waited for somebody to pick it up in the outer office, but then realized he’d sent everybody away. He had to pick up the phone himself.
“Colonel Hutchins speaking,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“What the hell are you doing there?” Colonel Jessup screamed into his ear.
Colonel Hutchins drew himself to attention in his chair. “I am leading my regiment!”
“You left the field hospital without authorization!”
“My place is here with my regiment, Colonel!”
“The doctor said you’re not fit for duty!”
“What the hell does he know about duty! All he does is look down people’s throats and up their assholes all day long!”
Colonel Jessup tried to calm himself down. “You’re not supposed to leave the hospital without authorization.”
“I left under my own authorization,” Colonel Hutchins replied. “There’s a war going on out here, and I don’t have time to waste on doctors.”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do about this. I’ll have to speak with General Hawkins.”
“Speak to whoever you want. Over and out.”
Colonel Hutchins tried to hang up the telephone, but his hands were shaking so much, he couldn’t put the receiver into its cradle. He gnashed his teeth as sweat poured off his face. His balls itched and he scratched them. He felt as though he were covered with ants, and scratched all over his body.
Major Cobb entered his office and stopped suddenly when he saw his commanding officer scratching like a maniac. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Did you find Sergeant Snider?”
“He’s missing in action, sir.”
“No!”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why does he have to be missing in action now? Why couldn’t he be missing in action some other time?”
“Beg your pardon, sir?”
“Never mind.”
“You’re not looking so well, sir.”
“Neither are you.”
“Me?”
Colonel Hutchins lit a cigarette and puffed furiously. Major Cobb stared at him and thought seriously of calling General Hawkins and telling him that Colonel Hutchins was going berserk.
“What’re you staring at?” Colonel Hutchins demanded.
“I think you’d better lie down, sir.”
“What the hell for?”
“You’re looking a little overwrought, sir.”
Colonel Hutchins glowered at Major Cobb. “Keep your goddamned personal opinions to yourself. I’ve been wounded but I’m not overwrought. Let’s get down to business. What’s happened while I was gone?”
“Well, sir,” Major Cobb said, sitting down, “the division is going to attack first thing in the morning.”
“We are?” Colonel Hutchins asked, astonished.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because you ordered me to go out and look for the mess sergeant!”
At that moment Sergeant Koch exploded through the tent flap, carrying a bottle of clear liquid that looked like water. “Look what I got, sir!” he said, holding the bottle up.
“Is that what I think it is?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Yes, sir!”
“You’re a good man, Crotch—I mean Koch. Give it here.”
“Yes, sir!”
Sergeant Koch handed the bottle to Colonel Hutchins. It contained about a half a pint of GI gin. Colonel Hutchins plucked the bottle out of Sergeant Koch’s hands, unscrewed the top, upended the bottle, and drained it dry.
“Good grief,” said Major Cobb as Colonel Hutchins’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and a ferocious gurgling sound issued from his throat.
Colonel Hutchins tossed the empty bottle back to Sergeant Koch. “Go get more.”
“More?”
“That’s what I said. About a quart should hold me until tomorrow.”
“A quart!”
“Get going!”
“But, sir,” Sergeant Koch pleaded, “I don’t think Lieutenant Rabinowitz will give me a quart!”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t like to give out too much . . . ah . . . medicine.”
“What the hell does he think the medicine is for?” Colonel Hutchins asked in his booming bass voice. “Tell him I want to see him right away, and say that I want him to bring a quart of that shit with him!”
“Yes, sir!”
Sergeant Koch turned around and fled from the office, passing Pfc. Levinson, who was on the way in, carrying a canteen in his hands.
“What the hell you got there?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Canteen full of hot coffee, sir!”
“Just what I need! Toss it over here, young warrior!”
Pfc. Levinson lobbed the canteen to Colonel Hutchins, who unscrewed the top and gulped some down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and screwed the top back on.
“Thank you very much, Pfc. Levinson,” Colonel Hutchins said. “You may return to your desk now.”
“Yes, sir!”
Pfc. Levinson walked out of the office. Colonel Hutchins leaned back in his chair and relaxed. Lazily he took out a cigarette and lit it up, blowing a smoke ring into the air, where it hovered like a halo between Colonel Hutchins and Major Cobb. Colonel Hutchins felt much improved. The alcohol, codeine, and caffeine had returned him to a state of relative normalcy.
“What was that you were saying about an attack?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“In the morning, sir. The division is attacking then, sir.”
“I see. Do you have the particulars?”
“Some of them. I was going to get the rest at a meeting with General Hawkins at sixteen hundred hours.”
“Can you tell me what you know now?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Major Cobb rose and walked around the desk to point out the various positions on the map, when suddenly the phone rang. Colonel Hutchins lifted it with a steady hand. “Yes?”
Sergeant Koch’s voice came to him: “General Hawkins wants to speak with you, sir!”
“Put him through!”
“Yes, sir!”
The earpiece buzzed and popped, and then General Hawkins’s foice resonated in the receiver. “Is that you, Hutchins?”
“It is indeed, sir.”
“What’s this I hear about you leaving the hospital without authorization?”
“I felt well enough to leave, so I did. I thought I belonged here with my men.”
“You didn’t look so well when you were at my headquarters earlier today,” General Hawkins said. “In fact, you passed out. Are you sure you’re all right now?”
�
�Absolutely, sir. I wouldn’t lie about something like this. All I needed were a few bandages and some medicine.”
“I must say that you sound pretty good to me, Hutchins.”
“Thank you, sir. You sound fine yourself.”
“You’ve heard of the meeting at my headquarters this afternoon?”
“Found out about it just now. I’ll be there.”
“You sure you’re well enough to carry on with your duties?”
“I think so, and besides, who’ve you got to take over my regiment?”
“I’d rather not open that can of beans, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, I do. I’ll see you at my headquarters later?”
“You will indeed, sir.”
“Very fine. Over and out.”
Colonel Hutchins hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” asked Major Cobb.
“That horse’s ass up at division headquarters,” Colonel Hutchins replied.
FIVE . . .
Frankie La Barbara moved across the blasted jungle with his knees close to the ground and his shoulders hunched. He carried a pair of pliers in his right hand. He was looking for gold teeth. Shilansky showed him the teeth he’d pulled, and now Frankie wanted some for himself.
The rain poured incessantly as Frankie opened the mouths of Japanese soldiers, and as he looked inside for gold the mouths filled up with rainwater. Some of the mouths were filled with maggots, and Frankie slapped them shut, moving on. A foul stench arose from the jungle as the bodies putrefied.
Visibility was poor. Frankie was surrounded by shattered trees and uprooted bushes, all twisted and gnarled together by the maelstorm of explosions. Bodies of dead American and Japanese soldiers littered the nightmare landscape, and there were the usual scattered limbs disconnected from bodies.
Frankie didn’t bother looking into the mouths of American soldiers. He was low, but he wasn’t that low. He couldn’t steal from dead American soldiers, but Japs were the enemy. They were fair game.
Soaked with rain, unaware of a leech on his left leg, Frankie opened more Japanese mouths but found no gold. It occurred to him that Shilansky had been lucky, and these Japanese soldiers must have been poor in civilian life. Some had empty gaps between teeth, but no gold.
Frankie was getting discouraged. The macabre aspect of what he was doing was not lost on him. He was starting to feel like a ghoul, and shivered at the thought. What the hell am I doing this for? he wondered. What good is this gold going to do me out here?
He took out a damp cigarette and put it into his mouth. Then he shielded his Zippo with his hands and lit the cigarette. It took a lot of puffing to get it going. He squatted down and sat on his haunches near a Japanese soldier whose head had been hacked off in the hand-to-hand fighting. Maggots squirmed in the ragged stump of neck, and the stink of the battlefield was getting to Frankie. Fuck this, he thought, I’m getting out of here.
As he raised himself he could barely make out an unusual movement straight ahead. Quickly he ducked down and lay on his belly. The rain made a constant roar all around him, obliterating other sound. Through the network of foliage ahead he saw Japanese soldiers moving about. Creeping forward for a clearer look, he saw that it was the Japanese version of a graves registry detail: The bodies of Japanese soldiers were being tossed into a wheelbarrow. The Japanese soldiers were spread out all over the jungle, and Frankie was afraid that some might have worked around behind him.
I’ve got to get out of here, he thought. Turning around, he kept his head low as he made his way back to the spot where the others were, pausing every few moments and looking around for Japs, the soggy cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. What an asshole I am, he told himself. I should’ ve stayed where I was safe instead of coming out here for gold teeth.
Something compelled him to look down. He saw a Thompson submachine gun lying on the ground next to the body of Sergeant Jake Krock from Baker Company. Sergeant Krock was turning green, and his mouth was twisted permanently into an expression of pain. A haversack full of ammunition clips hung from his neck and shoulders.
Frankie threw down his M 1 and picked up the Thompson submachine gun. He worked the bolt; it handled smoothly. Sergeant Jake Krock had been an old battle-seasoned GI, and he’d kept his weapon coated with oil. There wasn’t a speck of rust on it.
“Good old Sergeant Krock,” Frankie muttered, pulling the haversack off the dead man’s body. “I’ll remember you in my prayers.” He slung the haversack over his shoulder and cradled the Thompson submachine gun in his arms. It was loaded and presumably ready to fire. The only way he’d know for sure would be when he pulled the trigger.
He took a step forward and saw movement in front of him. Freezing, holding the submachine gun ready to fire, Frankie discerned Japanese soldiers carrying dead bodies through the jungle on the other side of the vegetation that separated them. The Japs are behind me, Frankie thought. Now what’ll I do?
He crouched down and eased himself into the knotted vegetation, so that it covered him completely. His left foot sank up to the ankle in a puddle of mud, and he cursed under his breath. Glancing around, he saw Japs everywhere, clearing away dead bodies. He counted twenty live Japs, all armed. Frankie checked his watch: It was three o’clock in the afternoon. He realized with dismay that he might have to hide out until dark before he could return to the others.
Fucking gold, he thought. I’m liable to get killed out here, just because of some fucking gold. Then he became aware of a vague itching ache on his left leg. He pulled up his fatigue pants and saw the slimy black leech. “You son of a bitch bastard,” Frankie mumbled. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and held the lit end near the leech, which cringed and loosened its bite on Frankie’s flesh. Frankie pulled the leech away and threw it as far as he could.
“Get down,” Sergeant Cameron said softly, pushing the palm of his right hand toward the ground.
The other men dropped down onto their stomachs, and the ones who’d been lying on their backs rolled over, holding their weapons tightly. Lieutenant Breckenridge crawled forward and joined Sergeant Cameron.
“Japs,” said Sergeant Cameron.
Lieutenant Breckenridge peered through the leaves and saw Japanese soldiers moving into view. “Looks like a patrol,” he said. “Remember what I said about fire discipline, you guys. We don’t fire unless we have to, and I’ll give the order.”
Morris Shilansky lay behind one machine gun. Craig Delane lay behind the other. Victor Yabalonka had been given one of the BARs, and the Reverend Billie Jones had wound up with the other one. All the other men were armed with American M 1 rifles, and they had plenty of ammunition. Everyone had grenades stuffed into his pockets and more grenades hanging from his lapels.
Lieutenant Breckenridge narrowed his eyes and strained to see what the Japanese soldiers were doing. He became aware that they were bending over and picking up bodies.
“Looks like a graves registry detail,” he said.
“That’s what it is, all right,” Sergeant Cameron replied, brushing a mosquito away from his nose, or what was left of his nose.
“Everybody sit tight,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Don’t anybody make a sound, and there’ll be no smoking until I say so.”
“I gotta take a shit,” said Pfc. Jimmy O’Rourke, the former movie stuntman.
Lieutenant Breckenridge shook his head. “He’s gotta take a shit now, of all times.”
“I can’t help it, Sarge.”
“Go out back someplace and do what you gotta do, but if you get shot, don’t come crying to me.” Lieutenant Breckenridge craned his neck around and watched Jimmy O’Rourke slip through the jungle while farting outrageously. Lieutenant Breckenridge checked over his men and realized somebody was missing. “Where’s Frankie?” he asked.
Shilansky was supposed to be covering for Frankie. “He went out to take a shit too,” Shilansky said.
“What a
re we getting here—mass diarrhea?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked. “When did he leave?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it a long time ago?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I hope the Japs don’t get him,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. Then he added: “On second thought, maybe that’s not such a bad idea.”
•••
Frankie crouched behind the dense foliage and watched Japanese soldiers carry away their dead, plus the dead American soldiers. They searched the pockets of the GIs, handing all documents to a sergeant but keeping gold rings, wallets, money, crucifixes, and various other souvenirs. They gazed at the photographs in American wallets and giggled. Frankie wanted to raise his submachine gun and blow them away, but Frankie wasn’t that crazy. His desire for survival far outweighed his hatred of the Japanese.
The Japanese soldiers were all around him, tossing bodies onto wheelbarrows. Sergeants barked orders, and soldiers reluctantly carried them out. Frankie was struck by how much they behaved like American soldiers. Frankie had never observed a Japanese work detail at close range before, and he thought they appeared almost human.
Two Japanese soldiers approached Frankie La Barbara, and he tried to make his breathing shallow so they wouldn’t hear him. They bent down six feet in front of him, picked up a dead Japanese soldier, and carried him away. Frankie’s heart pounded like a tom-tom. Another Japanese soldier walked by, peering into the bushes where Frankie La Barbara lay. Frankie was sure the Japanese soldier saw him, but the Japanese soldier walked away, and Frankie was able to breathe again.
Frankie was angry at himself. He knew he was in a fix because of his own greed. It was frustrating not to be able to blame anybody. He couldn’t pray to God and promise to go to church every Sunday for the rest of his life if God would save him, because he’d promised that before many times and had yet to go to church once.
I’m a bad egg, Frankie thought. No doubt about it. He thought grimly that everybody was always telling him he was no good, and for the first time he began to think that maybe they were right. He was afraid the Japs would discover him in their midst. He deserved to die for his greed, but to his amazement the Japs cleared his area of bodies and moved on without spotting him.
