by Len Levinson
Longtree and Frankie heard the Japanese soldiers moving away, and they both breathed more easily. Longtree looked at his watch. It was five o'clock in the afternoon; it would start getting dark in about two hours. Then he and Frankie could move out. The Japs had retreated far enough away that he felt safe enough to whisper: “Were they fixing to interrogate you back in that big tent?”
Frankie shook his head. “You won't believe it, but that big Jap officer wanted to fuck me.”
Longtree grimaced. “Are you kidding me?”
“I toldja you wouldn't believe it.”
EIGHT . . .
Throughout the afternoon and evening the men in the recon platoon waited for Longtree to return. With each passing hour they fidgeted more, and then when the sun disappeared behind the trees, they had to face the possibility that he'd been killed.
Nobody said anything about it, because they thought to say it would be to make it real. They went about their chores and details and had C rations for dinner. Then the men designated as guards went out to their listening posts and the others hit the sack.
It had been a bad day for the recon platoon, and no one was more upset than Lieutenant Horsfall. Discipline seemed to be falling apart, everybody was at each other's throat, and nobody bothered to salute him. Even Butsko couldn't establish control, not that he tried very hard. He'd spent most of the afternoon sipping from his canteen, which Lieutenant Horsfall suspected was full of jungle juice. Horsfall had had a brief conversation with Butsko after chow, and Butsko had smelled like a brewery.
Tomorrow I'm going to ask Colonel Stockton for a transfer, Lieutenant Horsfall thought. I'm not meant to be a platoon leader. I should have an administrative job someplace. Lieutenant Horsfall was exhausted, but he couldn't fall asleep. He tossed and turned inside his pup tent, worrying and slapping mosquitoes until after midnight, and then finally dozed off.
Bannon awoke in the morning with a splitting headache. Clouds covered the sky and mists arose from the jungle floor, and he figured it was going to rain; mat's why his steel plate was hurting so badly.
He crawled out of his foxhole, took a mouthful of water from his canteen, and went to the latrine, pissing into the big stinking hole full of flies and maggots. Then he trudged toward the foxhole of Private Gundy while the pain in his head throbbed viciously.
Gundy was awake, sitting in his foxhole with a little red book, praying the Liturgy of the Hours like a good ex-monk. “I bet I know what you want,” he said to Bannon.
“How about it?”
“Butsko told me not to give you any more of that stuff.”
“I wonder why he told you that?”
“He thinks it's bad for you.”
“Maybe it is, but this headache is worse.” He slid down into the foxhole with Gundy. “Listen, I can't think straight with this fucking headache. I can't even see straight. It hurts all the time. Just gimme a shot and I'll be okay. It'll just take one shot, and you know that in a few more months I won't need any more, because I'll be better.”
Bannon pleaded with such conviction and urgency that Gundy couldn't say no, because he had a soft heart. He opened up his haversack, taking out the morphine ampules. Bannon's eyes lit up at the sight of them.
“Quick,” he said. “My head feels like it's gonna split wide open.”
“Roll up your sleeve.”
Licking his chops, Bannon rolled up his sleeve while Gundy peeled the cover off the needle.
“Ready?” asked Gundy.
“Yeah.”
“Hold steady.”
Gundy jabbed it in and squeezed the ampule. It was an intermuscular shot, not intervenous, and would take awhile to do its work, but Bannon felt better already. He knew that in a few minutes the drug would take the pain away.
Butsko's head appeared above the ground twenty feet away. A hole was there, and he'd been hiding.
“Caughtcha!” he shouted victoriously, crawling out of the hole.
He swaggered toward them, one eye half closed, his mouth set in a grim line, and stopped at the edge of Gundy's foxhole, looking down at him. “I thought I told you not to give the cowboy any more shots!”
“He's in pain, Sarge.”
“Yeah, I'm in pain,” Bannon agreed.
Butsko looked at Bannon. “Who in the fuck asked you?”
“Sarge, I need that medicine. My head hurts something awful.”
“Better to be a live soldier with a headache than a dead soldier without a headache. That stuff makes you stupid. It slows you down. You're not combat-effective when you use that stuff.” He pointed at Gundy. “I'm gonna have your stripe.”
“Aw, c'mon, Sarge,” Gundy replied.
“What the hell's the matter with you?” Bannon asked. “I can't function without this stuff. At least with it I can function.”
The morphine was taking effect, and Butsko looked as if he were blowing away in the morning breeze. Behind Butsko the trees were made of elastic. Butsko scowled at Gundy.
“You disobeyed an order of mine and I'm gonna have your ass!”
“I think maybe you'd better take a shot of something yourself, Sarge. You seem to be awfully emotional this morning.”
Butsko's face turned red and then blue. He was so angry, he didn't know what to say. Bannon felt sleepy and sat down on the ground. He could see little pinpoints of light and heard dingdongs coming from the sky. So what if Butsko was mad at him? The pain in his head still hurt, but he didn't care. Nothing mattered.
Butsko pointed at Bannon. “Look at him! He's drifting away again.”
“Well, Sarge,” Gundy replied, “the headaches immobilize him and the drug immobilizes him, but at least he doesn't have any pain with the drug.”
“A little bit of pain is good for people. It keeps them on their toes.”
“He's got more than a little bit. He's got a steel plate in his head.”
Bannon felt as if he were dreaming Butsko and Gundy, the jungle, everything. He heard the sound of air rushing past his ears, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Butsko was still hollering at Gundy. Two figures emerged from the jungle directly in front of him and he blinked his eyes, because they looked like Longtree and Frankie La Barbara. Both dragged their feet, and Frankie's chest and stomach were scratched badly because he wore no shirt. Bannon really did believe he was dreaming until Nutsy Gafooley spotted them.
“They're back!”
All the men in the recon platoon stared for a few seconds as their two lost comrades stumbled back into the platoon area. Frankie's face still bore testimony to the bearing Bustko had given him, and a half-smile was on Longtree's face. They looked like they'd come through hell, but they were back.
The GIs rushed toward them, gathering around, asking what had happened. Bannon, as if drawn by a magnet, stumbled toward the swelling mass of men, his helmet on the back of his head, his rifle slung over his shoulder.
Gundy climbed out of bis foxhole. “Guess I'll go say hello too.”
Butsko said nothing as Gundy walked away. Butsko had mixed emotions: He was glad to see Longtree back, because Longtree was great in the jungle; but he wished Frankie had got killed out there. He'd never liked Frankie much, and hated him ever since Frankie had tried to clobber him from behind with his rifle butt.
Well, Butsko thought, if he steps out of line just once around here, I'll kill the son of a bitch.
His face covered with mosquito bites, Lieutenant Horsfall entered the tent occupied by Master Sergeant Ramsay. Horsfall never knew how to deal with Ramsay, because he had more rank than Ramsay officially, but Ramsay had much more power in the regiment than Horsfall.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Horsfall said. “Is the colonel in?”
“Nope.”
“Where is he?”
“Up at Division.”
“When'll he be back?”
“I don't know.”
“I want to talk with him. Do you think I should wait?”
“Do what you w
anna do, Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Horsfall's face smarted from the brusque treatment the regimental sergeant major was giving him, and his mosquito bites itched with renewed intensity. He scratched them as he stood in front of Sergeant Ramsay's desk, embarrassed to be showing such indecision.
“I think I'll wait awhile,” Lieutenant Horsfall said, heading toward one of the folding chairs.
“Suit yourself,” Ramsay replied, reading over a piece of correspondence on his desk, not bothering to look up. lieutenant Horsfall sat and wished he could transfer out of the whole damned regiment and get a cushy administrative job in the rear, where he wouldn't have to deal with so many crazy people.
At division headquarters, a wood shack hidden in the jungle near Empress Augusta Bay, Colonel Stockton entered the office of General Clyde Hawkins, commanding officer of the Eighty-first Division. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a seat, Bill.”
Colonel Stockton sat down, wondering why the general had called him there. Was something wrong or was something right?
General Hawkins smiled. “I've got good news for you Bill. You're getting your star.”
Colonel Stockton sat perfectly erect and his face showed no emotion, but his heart thundered in his chest. Ever since he'd been a little boy he'd wanted to become a general and wear those gold stars on his lapels and epaulettes. In recent years he'd seen many of his ex-classmates at West Point get promoted over him, and he thought he might never make general, because he was considered a hothead and his wife had disgraced him a few years back by running off with a young captain in the Air Corps.
“Congratulations, Bill.”
General Hawkins extended his hand and Colonel Stockton shook it.
General Hawkins chuckled. “You look as if you don't believe it.”
“I don't.”
“Well, it's true. You've done damn fine work on Guadalcanal and New Georgia. You're the best fighting field commander I've got. I'm going to miss you.”
“I'm going to miss the regiment. Do you know where I'm going next?”
“I don't know yet. Your orders will come down in a few days. What would you like?”
“I'd like a division of my own, but I guess I'll have to spend time on somebody's staff first.”
“That's the normal progression. I'd like you to be on my staff. You'd make a helluva G-3. But I don't think it'll work out that way.”
“They'll transfer me out of the division.”
“Probably. When your orders come down, we'll have a little ceremony. I'll pin the stars on you myself. But it's definite. This is no rumor. I wanted to tell you myself, so you'd know it was on the level.”
“I appreciate that, General.”
Colonel Stockton (he wouldn't be a general officially until his orders came down) walked out of General Hawkins's headquarters as if he had a fifth of Jim Beam under his belt. All his life he'd dreamed about becoming a general, and he'd wheeled and dealed in the Army to get those stars. Now, just when he'd given up hope, it had happened. He had them. It was unbelievable.
He walked toward his jeep, more elated than he'd been in his entire life—and somewhat disoriented, too, because he'd grown accustomed to being CO of the Twenty-third. Now he'd be leaving it, going on to a staff job someplace, with no troops to lead; only a desk and meetings to attend, planning operations.
But he had his stars, and one day, if all went well, he'd get a division to command. How wonderful it would be to have a division and mount large-scale operations against the Japs. It was conceivable that he'd get a division of his own in this war, because it looked like it'd last for a few more years. The Japs weren't beaten yet by any means.
“General Stockton,” he whispered, liking the way it sounded. “General Stockton.” He was so happy, he tore his helmet off his head, tossed it into the air and shouted: “Whoopee!”
Soldiers nearby watched as he caught his helmet. Dreams can come true. Colonel Stockton thought. If you never give up hope, and if you keep on trying, someday you'll get exactly what you want.
Placing his helmet back on his head, he walked jauntily toward his jeep, a new spring in his step, straightness in the set of his shoulders.
Captain Kashiwagi lay still on his cot while Dr. Fukui bandaged his head.
“It's not as bad as it looks,” Dr. Fukui murmured. “Your physical constitution is magnificent, and you should be ready for full duty in about thirty days.”
Captain Kashiwagi grunted. No surgeons were available to fix his nose, so it would heal crooked; and the pain in his head was considerable. The Japanese army didn't believe in pain-killing drugs, considering them unmanly.
“Just stay in bed and rest,” Dr. Fukui continued. “Don't do anything strenuous. Your medical orderly will change your bandages regularly. You have nothing to worry about.”
“What about my company? What if the Americans attack?’
“Lieutenant Sono will take care of everything. The less you worry, the better off you'll be.”
Captain Kashiwagi felt demoralized. He didn't think much of Lieutenant Sono. Only he, Captain Kashiwagi, could command the company effectively.
Dr. Fukui put his instruments and medical supplies back into his knapsack. “Well, that's all, Captain Kashiwagi. Good luck.”
“Thank you, Dr. Fukui.”
Dr. Fukui left the tent. Outside was Lieutenant Sono, fidgeting.
“How is he?” asked Lieutenant Sono.
“He'll be all right in a few weeks. Just keep him off his feet as much as you can.”
“How can I keep him off his feet? He outranks me and will do anything he wants.”
“Just remind him he's supposed to stay in bed.” Dr. Fukui threw a clumsy salute. “There's nothing more that I can do here. I must return to Kara. Good day.”
“Good day.”
Dr. Fukui walked toward his vehicle and Lieutenant Sono entered the tent. He could see Captain Kashiwagi in the dimness, lying on his cot.
“What do you want?” asked Captain Kashiwagi.
“I wanted to know how you're feeling, sir.”
“How am I feeling? How am I supposed to be feeling, with wounds all over my head?”
“Do you have any instructions for me?”
“Yes. I don't want any more surprise attacks by Americans. Make sure guards are posted at all times and that they're alert. Report all unusual occurrences to me immediately. Except for that, leave me alone. I don't want you poking your head in here every few minutes to ask how I am. Is all that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get out of here.”
Lieutenant Sono fled from the tent. Captain Kashiwagi went slack on his back, troubled and suffering. What a horrible turn of events he'd been through, and all because he'd thought the captured American soldier had the same samurai spirit he'd had. But he'd been wrong.
Captain Kashiwagi suppressed the homosexual aspect of his encounter with Frankie La Barbara. Now he believed the entire incident had occurred within the context of professional soldiering. He'd been friendly with Frankie, he now imagined, because he'd thought their professionalism should transcend the war, but the American had been perfidious and sneaky and had taken advantage of Captain Kashiwagi.
I was a fool, he thought. I should have known better than to trust an American. They're all pigs, with none of the finer attributes that we Japanese have. He thought of Frankie La Barbara and felt rage and fury. Someday I'll get even, he swore. Those Americans on that hill will pay for this. Someday soon we'll meet again on the battlefield, and then we'll see who are the true warriors and who are not.
Captain Kashiwagi balled up his fists and gritted his teeth. “I'll kill them all,” he muttered. “I'll mash their bones and fill the valleys with their blood.”
NINE . . .
In February, Lieutenant Dale Breckenridge was in San Francisco, waiting for a boat to take him to the South Pacific. He was a wealthy young man, accustomed to the good things of life, so one
night he decided to dine at one of the best and most expensive restaurants in the city, L'Aiglon, famous for its French cuisine.
It wasn't too far from the Hotel Ambassador, where he was staying. He walked through the narrow, quaint streets of San Francisco, his hands in the pockets of his winter uniform. He passed a band of drunken sailors and then a young soldier with his arm around a blond girl, and she reminded him somewhat of Marge back in New York City.
He missed her more than he'd thought he would. They'd known each other for so long, they were in each other's blood. She was a great beauty and a completely trustworthy, reliable woman, a rarity in his life, and it bothered him to think that someday she might get tired of waiting for him and marry somebody else.
He wouldn't be able to blame her if she did. These were her best childbearing years, and New York hadn't made her so sophisticated that she didn't still want a home and a bunch of kids.
He saw the awning of the restaurant straight ahead, made of blue fabric with L'Aiglon sewn on in script. Pushing open the door, he approached the little closet occupied by the hat-check girl.
“How are you tonight?” he asked, taking off his hat.
“Just fine.”
“You sure look fine.” He took off his cunt cap and put it in the pocket of his trenchcoat, then let her help him take the trenchcoat off. She put it on a hanger and handed him his ticket.
“Bon appetit,” she said.
He took four steps and came to the maitre d’, who leaned over a big notebook full of numbers, checks, and X's. Behind the maitre d’ was the dining room, where people, all well dressed—the women in evening gowns, and many of the men in uniform—dined in candlelight.
