Do or Die

by Len Levinson

  A three-quarter moon hung in the sky, and stars twinkled from horizon to horizon. The Japanese soldiers had been in the area since August and had gone on many patrols. They knew the terrain well and moved through it quickly, with Captain Kashiwagi in front, leading the way.

  Ordinarily captains didn't go out on patrols like this one, but Captain Kashiwagi loved action. No one ordered him not to go, so he went. He was happiest when he was fighting, and he loved to fight because he always won, or at least he had so far. It was a great feeling to be victorious. War was a personal contest for Captain Kashiwagi, pitting him against the American soldiers who faced him in hand-to-hand combat. The shooting part of the war held no great fascination for him, because survival depended on luck as much as skill. If a shell happened to land on you, all the fighting skill in the world was no use; and if a bullet knocked you down, there was nothing you could do. But when the fighting got close, that's when the true samurai showed his colors. Captain Kashiwagi thought of himself as a true samurai, although he wasn't from a samurai family. He thought the qualities of a true samurai were gifts from the gods, and not necessarily inherited from one's parents. He was certain that the gods had bestowed those qualities upon him, and they were a great responsibility that he intended to uphold as long as there was life in his sinewy body.

  Quickly and silently he moved over the jungle trail, resembling a tiger moving in on its prey. Behind him came his patrol, and Sergeant Kato brought up the rear.

  Sergeant Kato was short and thickly muscled, with a handlebar mustache on his wide face. He was pleased to be selected for the patrol over Lieutenant Sono, but he knew that Captain Kashiwagi didn't like Lieutenant Sono much. Lieutenant Sono was frail and intellectual, not particularly aggressive or brave. Captain Kashiwagi was kind only to his brave soldiers, and Sergeant Kato was pleased to be one of them. The only person in the world he was afraid of was Captain Kashiwagi.

  Sergeant Kato thought Captain Kashiwagi was a magnificent soldier, and he'd follow him anywhere. Captain Kashiwagi was harsh but fair, and you couldn't ask for more than that.

  “There's something wrong with my compass,” Butsko said, banging it against the palm of his hand. “The dial points one way for a few seconds, and then when I move, it points the other way.”

  The men from the recon platoon crowded around him, looking at the compass. Butsko laid it flat on his palm and the luminous dial spun around. It settled, then Butsko jiggled it and it moved twenty degrees.

  “You see?” Butsko asked. “It's fucked.”

  “I got mine,” Bannon said, taking it out. He opened it up and laid it flat. “Uh-oh.” His compass spun around like Butsko's.

  Butsko snapped his compass shut. “We're probably standing on a lot of iron.”

  Frankie La Barbara's eyes lit up. “Maybe it's gold down there in the ground!”

  “Gold doesn't affect compasses, you dumb fuck.”

  Longtree looked up at the sky and found the North Star. “We can use the stars.”

  “That's not as accurate as a compass,” Butsko said. “There's no telling where we're liable to wind up.”

  “At least we can go in the general direction of Hill 700. That's better than going in the general direction of the Japs.”

  “We're also liable to disappear in one of those big sections of the jungle where there isn't anybody and really get lost.”

  “At least we won't end up in the lap of the Japanese army.”

  Frankie decided it was time to put in his two cents. “Maybe we should just stay where we are until it gets lighter.”

  Butsko looked at Frankie. “You're such a stupid asshole.”

  Frankie stuck out his jaw. “You got a better idea?”

  “Yeah. We'll walk toward our lines and check the compasses again. They were working okay before. Maybe we're just in a bad spot. Lemme check the map. Take ten.”

  The men peeled away and sat underneath the trees. Butsko held his map up to the moonlight and tried to read it. During the preceding hours he and his men had investigated the trail system the Japanese used, and he'd drawn it onto his overlay. They'd approached the Japanese lines, scouted them, and pulled back. They'd also set a few booby traps. It had been a busy night, and now there was nothing to do except go home. Unfortunately the map didn't mean much without accurate compass readings. He'd have to remember as much as he could of the trail system.

  “Longtree, come on up here with me! The rest of you, fall in behind us!”

  The recon platoon formed up the way Butsko had told them. He moved his hand in the direction he thought they should go and they followed him into the jungle, hoping they weren't lost. Somewhere in the distance a wild dog howled mournfully.

  It was midnight and the Japanese raiding party moved swiftly through the jungle. Captain Kashiwagi was still in front, stretching out his long, sinewy legs, when something on the ground caught his eye. He raised his hand and the patrol stopped behind him. Dropping to his knees, he examined the ground and found footprints. His eyes widened when he realized that they were made by American combat boots and were fresh, only an hour or two old.

  He whispered to the soldier nearest him: “Tell Sergeant Kato I wish to speak with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The soldier ran back, and Captain Kashiwagi examined the footprints. There were a large number of them, and he estimated that six or seven American soldiers had been over the trail recently. If so, they couldn't be far away. He'd love to catch them and kill them all.

  Sergeant Kato approached. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  “Look at this, Kato.”

  Sergeant Kato dropped to one knee. “American footprints!”

  “Exactly, and they're fresh. The American soldiers aren't too far away. I'll go up ahead and try to make contact. You bring the men behind me, far enough back so the Americans won't hear when we get close. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make sure the men understand that they must be absolutely quiet.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Kashiwagi stood and drew his samurai sword: If he stumbled onto an American patrol, he wanted to be ready. He doubted whether he'd actually stumble upon them, because he was very cautious and quiet, but the samurai warrior has to be ready for anything and everything.

  He walked over the trail, peering ahead into the moonlit jungle, stretching out his long legs and bringing his feet down softly. He knew that the American patrol was out there someplace. How wonderful it would be if he could kill them all or, better yet, take them prisoner. Under interrogation they would divulge much important information, and it would make him look very good to his commanders. Perhaps they'd make him a major. He knew they liked him already, and if he did something fantastic, they'd like him even more.

  The trail twisted and turned through the jungle. Captain Kashiwagi walked bent over, holding his sword with the blade sticking straight up in the air. His nose twitched as though he were sniffing after the Americans like a bloodhound. The Americans were unfamiliar with the territory, but he knew it well. He should be able to catch up with them before long.

  Something grabbed his ankle, and suddenly he was upside down, flying through the air. Surprised and horrified, he hacked through the air with his samurai sword. He found himself dangling over the trail, suspended by a rope around his ankle, moving from side to side like the pendulum on a clock.

  Blood rushed to his head, and his cheeks felt as if they'd burst. He was an easy target if an American soldier wanted to shoot him or slit his throat. Still hanging upside down, he spun himself around, looking for the American soldier who'd caught him in the snare. Everything looked weird from his position, and every shadow was an American soldier. He swung his samurai sword at the shadows, but it sliced harmlessly through the air.

  He realized that no Americans were attacking him but that they might be nearby, so he didn't dare call out. How embarrassing it would be for his men to see him hanging upside down like that.
No one, not even a samurai like himself, could have any dignity hanging upside down.

  Meanwhile, Sergeant Kato led the patrol over the path. Suddenly he saw a figure ahead of him in the moonlight. With a wave of his hand he sent the men scurrying for cover and dived into the base of a bush, holding his head low. The jungle was silent. He peered under the brim of his helmet and saw somebody standing in the middle of the trail; but no, he wasn't standing: He was hanging by his feet. Sergeant Kato's hair stood on end when he realized it was Captain Kashiwagi, upside down, swinging his samurai sword.

  Sergeant Kato raised himself. He advanced cautiously, expecting an ambush, looking from side to side and up and down. The men followed, fingers on their triggers, and saw Captain Kashiwagi hanging upside down. He looked comical as he bounced around, swinging from side to side. They fought to suppress snickers and giggles, but a few couldn't control themselves, and Captain Kashiwagi's temperature reached the boiling point when he heard them.

  “Cut me down!” he hissed.

  Sergeant Kato drew his bayonet. “Get ready to catch the captain.”

  Soldiers clustered underneath Captain Kashiwagi to break his fall, and Sergeant Kato tried to figure out how to get Captain Kashiwagi down. He was quite high in the air, too high to reach on tiptoes, and it looked like he'd have to chop down the sapling that held the rope.

  “Who has the machete?” Sergeant Kato asked.

  “I have,” replied Private Arazaki.

  “Give it here.”

  Captain Kashiwagi squirmed and kicked his free leg. “What are you waiting for, you fool!”

  “I'll have you down in a minute, sir.”

  Sergeant Kato approached the sapling and held the machete in both his hands. He raised it in the air, took aim, and swung at the base of the sapling. The shock of the blow went up the sapling, down the rope, and into Captain Kashiwagi's leg, whipping through his entire body and making his head snap. He ground his teeth together and became even angrier than he was before. If he had an American soldier before him, he'd skin and bone him alive.

  Sergeant Kato whacked the sapling again and again, the sound of his blows traveling far across the jungle. Captain Kashiwagi was rocked by each blow, but he kept his lips pinched together and said nothing, trying to preserve as much of his dignity as he could.

  In the still of the night the sound of machete against wood traveled far. A half-mile away the recon platoon heard it, and they stopped in their tracks.

  A smile came over Butsko's gnarled features. “Sounds like we got something.”

  Longtree nodded. He'd been the one who'd set the snare. It was an old Indian technique for catching game.

  Bannon looked back in the direction of the sound. “They're not too far away.”

  “Yeah,” said Butsko, “we'd better get a move on.” He looked at his compass; it was working okay again, but they couldn't go in a straight line because the jungle was too thick. They had to follow the trails, and the trails twisted and turned. “Let's go.”

  The recon platoon moved out again, heading toward Hill 700.

  Sergeant Kato whacked the sapling, and at last the machete went through all the way. Captain Kashiwagi came crashing toward the ground but was caught by his men. One of them untied the rope from his leg and found a note attached to the rope.

  “What's that?” shouted Captain Kashiwagi.

  “A piece of paper, sir.”

  “Give it here!”

  The soldier handed over the note and Captain Kashiwagi rose unsteadily to his feet. The jungle spun around him and he blinked his eyes to make it stop. He lost his balance, but Sergeant Kato was behind him and pushed him upright.

  “Perhaps you'd better sit down, sir.”

  “I don't need to sit down!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Kashiwagi took a few more deep breaths and felt steadier. He unfolded the piece of paper and saw:

  Next time we'll cut your fucking throat.

  Yours truly,

  The Recon Platoon

  Sergeant Kato looked over Captain Kashiwagi's shoulder. “It appears to be a message in their language.”

  “I know what it is, you idiot!” Captain Kashiwagi was in an exceedingly bad mood. He wanted to kill, maim, and destroy. When he returned to camp, he'd have Lieutenant Sono decipher the message. Lieutenant Sono knew some English.

  Captain Kashiwagi looked at his watch. It was two o'clock in the morning. “The Americans aren't far from here. Sooner or later they'll have to return to their hill, if they're not headed in that direction already. If we hurry we can cut them off. Sergeant Kato, you lead the way!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sergeant Kato handed the machete back to Private Arazaki, then turned and proceeded down the trail. He unslung his rifle and held it at port arms, expecting to step into a snare at any moment.

  “Double-time!” Captain Kashiwagi shouted.

  Sergeant Kato and the men ran along the trail. Captain Kashiwagi took his position midway in the patrol, so that he'd receive no more sudden surprises. The Japanese soldiers sped through the jungle, leaves swishing against their sleeves and pants. The trails crisscrossed and intersected with each other, and Sergeant Kato followed the ones that led straight toward Hill 700. Someone who didn't know the jungle could take hours to reach Hill 700, but the Japanese soldiers knew the jungle well and would reach the base of Hill 700 in about twenty minutes.

  Weather changes quickly in the tropics, and the sky above filled with a mass of thick black clouds. A breeze blew through the jungle and caused the sea of clouds to drift across the face of the moon. Bannon looked up and saw the clouds cover the moon, plunging the jungle into darkness. The clouds continued their march across the sky, and in ten minutes no stars could be seen.

  The breeze became stronger, cooling off the soldiers. They'd been in the tropics long enough to know rain was coming. They hurried along, but every time they came to a fork in the trail or a convergence of several trails, they had to stop and figure out the best way to go. This usually led to an argument that Butsko ended by pulling rank.

  Then Butsko's compass got weird again. He banged it against his palm and the needle spun around like the propeller of an airplane. Every time it stopped, it pointed in a different direction.

  Frankie groaned. “We're lost.”

  “Says who?” asked Butsko.

  “You mean we ain't lost?”

  “We're gonna keep going. I know the general direction.”

  “Me too,” said Longtree. “We're not too far from our lines.”

  “Shit,” Frankie said, “last time something like this happened, we wound up in a fucking swamp.”

  “Your mouth is a swamp. I'm sick of listening to you.”

  “Well, I'm just as sick of you as you are of me.”

  Butsko looked at Frankie in the darkness and felt rage building inside him. All the frustrations of the night converged on one tiny spot in his brain, compressing tighter and tighter. Frankie was always bitching and moaning.

  Butsko jumped forward and grabbed Frankie's throat in both his hands. Frankie's eyes goggled and he grabbed Butsko's wrists, trying to pry them loose, but Butsko's grip was like a steel clamp. Frankie tried to say something, but no words could pass through his constricted throat. Butsko's face was a road map of brutality and hatred as he squeezed Frankie's throat, and Frankie felt himself losing consciousness. His legs went wobbly and his eyes rolled up into his head.

  Bannon placed his hand on Butsko's arm. ‘Take it easy, Sarge.”

  “You're gonna kill the son of a bitch,” Shilansky said.

  “C'mon, Sarge,” said Bannon. “Cool your motor.”

  Butsko was calmer than he looked, and had no intention of killing Frankie. He was just trying to make a point. He loosed his grip and stepped backward, letting Frankie fall to the ground, coughing and struggling to breathe. Butsko looked at him grimly and took out a Pall Mall, placing it in his mouth. He knew better than light a match in no-man'
s-land, but he just wanted the cigarette there anyway.

  “Another peep out of you,” he said to Frankie La Barbara, “and I'll finish the job.”

  “Peep!” said Jimmy O'Rourke, who thought he was a funny guy.

  Butsko spun around and glowered at O'Rourke. “You stupid motherfucker!”

  “Whatsa matter, Sarge, can'tcha take a joke?” Jimmy chortled and guffawed.

  Butsko chewed the butt of his cigarette. “There's gonna be some changes when we get back to camp.”

  O'Rourke wiggled his eyebrows. “What kind of changes, Sarge?”

  “You'll find out soon enough.” Butsko looked at his watch. “All right, let's get moving. Longtree, take the point!”

  Longtree moved forward with his loping gait, and the rest of the recon platoon followed. Frankie La Barbara dragged himself up off the ground and followed the procession through the jungle. His neck hurt, but his vanity hurt more. He could deal with physical pain but couldn't bear being humiliated, and Butsko had humiliated him badly. Frankie didn't know it, but that's what Butsko had intended to do. Butsko knew that the only way to punish Frankie was to embarrass him in front of the rest of the men.

  Frankie could see the outline of Butsko's wide back ahead of him in the dark jungle. Someday I'm going to kill that son of a bitch. He can't fuck with me that way and expect to get away with it.

  The Japanese soldiers were resting in a grove of trees with thick trunks and wide leaves. Sergeant Kato ran toward them, waving his hands excitedly.

  “They're just ahead!” he said to Captain Kashiwagi. “I heard them!”

  “You're sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How many?”

  “Six or seven.”

  Captain Kashiwagi smiled. Now he'd be able to pay the Americans back for stringing him up by his leg. His men outnumbered the Americans. It should be easy work.

  “We will surround them and capture them alive,” he said. “Follow me.”

  The recon platoon came to the intersection of three trails, and Butsko held up his hand to stop the others. He didn't know which way to go and wanted to weigh the factors.