Do or Die

by Len Levinson

  “One?” asked the maitre d’, who had the sad eyes of a bloodhound.

  “Yes.”

  “Pierre!”

  “Oui!”

  “Please seat the lieutenant on fourteen.”

  “Oui.”

  Pierre was one of a head waiters, a tiny man with a fastidious little mustache dyed black. “This way, please.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge followed him through the dining area, smelling the fragrance of ladies’ perfumes, seeing their elaborate coiffures, their bare backs and bosoms. On their plates were meat, sauces, fillets of fish, colorful vegetables. A war was on and food was in short supply, but the rich always got what they want.

  “This all right, sir?”

  It was a little table for two against a wall, dark, just right.

  “It's perfect.”

  “I will have the waiter bring you a menu.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge sat down. He felt cramped, because he was a tall, husky man, and he noticed that a few women glanced at him, then looked away again. He knew that women usually didn't like him on first sight, because he wasn't particularly attractive, with old acne scars on his cheeks and a hairline receding prematurely; but women often loved him once they got to know him.

  The waiter came with a menu and bent low, whispering in his ear. “A gentleman on the other side of the room would like you to join him.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge turned to look. People often picked up his checks in restaurants and bars when he was in uniform with his Combat Infantryman's Badge showing, the way it did now. He spotted a white-haired officer smiling at him, and at first didn't know who it was. Lieutenant Breckenridge's eyes widened when he realized the officer was Colonel Stockton, his former CO, sitting at a table with a young dark-haired lady.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge stood and walked eagerly across the dining room. The newly promoted General William Stockton stood and extended his hand. “Good to see you, Dale. What are you doing in San Francisco?”

  “I'm on my way back to the Twenty-third Regiment.” He noticed the stars on the epaulettes in front of him. “My God, you're a general! Congratulations!” He squeezed General Stockton's hand and pumped hard.

  “Have a seat,” General Stockton said. “This is Claudia Reynolds.”

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello.”

  General Stockton and Claudia Reynolds were seated across from each other, and Lieutenant Breckenridge didn't know who to sit beside. He decided it would be presumptuous for him to sit next to a general, so he dropped down beside the sloe-eyed young woman.

  “This,” said General Stockton to Claudia, “is one of the best young lieutenants who's ever served under me.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge blushed.

  General Stockton raised his hand and a waiter lurched in his direction. “A bottle of champagne please—Mumms ‘32.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Stockton turned to Lieutenant Breckenridge. “Well, it's a small world, isn't it? I never thought I'd see you again, and here you are. You're fully recovered, I take it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. You can't keep a good man down. You say you're headed back to the old Twenty-third?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Volunteered to go back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can't stay out of the fight, eh? I know how you feel. Everything seems insignificant compared to war. I'll be away from the front for a while: They've assigned me to the staff of General Eichelberger at I Corps.”

  “Big assignment. I'll bet they give you a division before long.”

  “Let's hope so.”

  The waiter brought the bottle of champagne in a bucket on a stand. He popped the cork and poured the foamy brew into glasses, and General Stockton raised his in the air.

  “Here's to men who have the courage to speak their minds,” he said.

  “I'll drink to that any day.”

  They clicked glasses and sipped the champagne. General Stockton and Claudia Reynolds hadn't ordered yet, so everyone perused the menu as they drank, and finally decided on Chateaubriand for three. General Stockton placed the order with the headwaiter, who wrote it down and handed it to the captain, who looked it over and gave it to the waiter.

  “Well,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, “how's everything back at the regiment?”

  “Getting ready for a big fight. We don't know who's going to attack first, us or the Japs, but it's coming, and it'll break out any day now.”

  “I hope I can get back to the recon platoon. I suppose they have a new lieutenant right now.”

  “They do, and he's not very good, between you and me. I'd give you the platoon back if it were up to me, but you'll have to convince my replacement.”

  “Do you know who he is yet?”

  Claudia Reynolds interrupted before General Stockton could answer. “I hope we're not going to talk about the Army all through this meal.”

  General Stockton gave her a stern smile. “Be quiet and maybe you'll learn something.”

  “I don't want to learn anything about the Army. I think I'll go to the ladies’ room and freshen up.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge rose swiftly and pulled back her chair. She walked away and hs watched her ass wiggle underneath her black silk evening dress.

  General Stockton winked as Lieutenant Breckenridge returned to his seat. “A real looker, huh?”

  “Very beautiful, sir.”

  The general smiled wistfully. “Yes, she is beautiful, but she's so damned dumb. It's difficult to talk with her. She knows practically nothing about life.”

  “What does she do for a living?”

  “She's a schoolteacher.”

  “She can't be that dumb.”

  “She's intelligent in a certain way; she's been to all the best schools, but she just doesn't know much. I'm so glad I saw you here. Now I'll have somebody to talk with.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge wondered why General Stockton would have dinner with someone like Claudia Reynolds, whom he couldn't talk with, but then realized that Colonel Stockton was primarily interested in getting into her pants.

  General Stockton laughed softly. “I'll bet you're wondering what she's doing with me.”

  “No, I can understand that.”

  General Stockton tapped his silvery hair. “My colors might be a little faded, but there's still a lot of life left in this old war dog.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge could see how a young woman could fall in love with General Stockton, because the general was a distinguished-looking, handsome old gentleman, and he really wasn't that old. Lieutenant Breckenridge wished he looked as good as General Stockton.

  “Do you know who's been given command of the Twenty-third?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.

  “Colonel Bob Hutchins. Ever heard of him?”

  “Nope.”

  “He's one of the biggest drunkards in the Army, and that's saying something. They call him Hollering Bob Hutchins, because he's got a voice that can carry for miles. He's a tough old son of a bitch—came up through the ranks, won a battle-field commission and the Distinguished Service Cross in the First World War. His only problem is that he's drunk all the time.”

  “How can they assign a regiment to an officer who's drunk all the time?”

  “Because he's got a personality like a mad dog, and I guess that's what they want on Bougainville right now.”

  The jeep skidded to a stop in front of the headquarters tent, and Colonel Hollering Bob Hutchins glanced around, a cigar sticking out the corner of his mouth. “What a shithole,” he murmured. He climbed down from the jeep. He was about five feet eight inches tall, with a big belly that hung over his cartridge belt. His breath smelled of bourbon whiskey, and in his hip pocket he carried a battered metal flask that he'd bought in France during World War One. “Get my duffel bag and follow me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins leaned toward the tent and walked in that dire
ction. His gait showed no sign of drunkenness; he just looked angry and in a hurry, like any other officer. He walked into the orderly room and Private Levinson shot to his feet.

  “Atten-shun!”

  The men milling around in the orderly room stiffened and Sergeant Major Ramsay jumped to attention. Colonel Hutchins placed his hands on his hips and looked them over. “What a sorry-looking bunch of bastards,” he snarled. “Which one's the sergeant major?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “I'm Colonel Hutchins. Where's my office?”

  “In there.”

  “I wanna talk to you alone. Everybody else, as you were.”

  Colonel Hutchins pushed aside the tent flap and entered his office. The desk had nothing on it, the walls were bare, and the cot had no sheets. Colonel Hutchins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I've been in jails that looked better than this.”

  The jeep driver entered the office, carrying Colonel Hutchins's duffel bag. Next came Sergeant Major Ramsay. Colonel Hutchins sat on the chair behind the desk.

  “What's your name?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  “Master Sergeant Howard Ramsay, sir.”

  “I want the personnel file of every officer in this regiment on my desk immediately. I haven't eaten, so get me some chow—and I take my coffee black, with no sugar. Put the entire regiment on attack alert as of right now. Any questions so far?”

  “Are we about to be attacked, sir?”

  “What does that have to do with it? Say, do you have a soldier in this regiment named Butsko, by any chance?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins jumped two inches off his chair. “He's here?”

  “Yes, sir, in Headquarters Company. He's in charge of the regiment's reconnaissance platoon.”

  Colonel Hutchins slapped his leg with the palm of his hand. “Well, I'll be a son of a bitch! Get him in here right away!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The jeep driver set down the duffel bag next to the cot and snapped to attention.

  “What the hell are you looking at?” Colonel Hutchins hollered.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Then get the hell out of here!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The jeep driver ran out of the office. Colonel Hutchins reached into his back pocket, took out his flask, and unscrewed the top. He took a few gulps—enough to settle him down. Then he laid his map on the desk and looked it over.

  His position wasn't so good. He didn't think he had enough men to hold all the high ground in his command. His regiment, deployed on hills 608 and 700, were dominated by eminences held by the Japanese, especially Blue Ridge, three thousand yards north of Hill 700, and hills 1000 and 1111, just southeast of Blue Ridge. The Japs could look down on the Twenty-third and even see the slopes on the far sides of the hills. At Corps they believed the Japs would launch a major attack soon, and somehow the Twenty-third would have to hold.

  “What a goddamn mess,” Colonel Hutchins muttered, taking another swig of whisky.

  Colonel Hutchins wasn't a shrewd strategist, and the closest he'd ever come to West Point had been the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where'd he'd shipped out for Europe in 1917. His main assets were that he was a tough combat commander who had proved himself in battles. He wasn't afraid to take chances, and he knew the army that won was the army that dug in its heels and fought hardest.

  The tent flap was pushed aside, and Butsko stomped into the colonel's office, a big smile on his face. Butsko advanced to the colonel's desk and saluted.

  “Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!” Colonel Hutchins said, and his voice boomed out of the tent and through the nearby jungle. He stood, staggered around his desk, and slapped Butsko on the back. “Well, look at you! What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Killing Japs,” Butsko replied. “Trying to keep everything on the up and up.”

  Colonel Hutchins grinned as he looked up at Butsko. They'd both been on Bataan together and had been side by side on the infamous Death March. They'd picked each other up when they'd fallen, had been in the Jap POW camp together, and had planned their escapes together. Butsko had gone first, then Hutchins, and they'd both made it back to safety.

  “Have a seat,” Colonel Hutchins said. “Want a drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Colonel Hutchins passed him the flask, then dropped into the chair behind his desk. Butsko's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he drank the bourbon, then he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Damn good stuff,” Butsko said.

  “It's Old Forester. I brought it from Hawaii, but it's all that's left. What the hell's there to drink around here?”

  “Well, there's a mess sergeant in George Company who makes some damn fine jungle juice. His name's Snead.”

  “I guess I'm gonna have to get in touch with him.”

  “I'll talk to him, sir. I'll work it all out.”

  Colonel Hutchins smiled. “It's good to see you again, you crazy son of a bitch. It's good to know somebody when you come to a new outfit. What's this one like?”

  “It's okay. Colonel Stockton was a good man.”

  “I know him. I always thought he was kind of a fancy-pants. I hear they just made him a general.”

  “He wasn't that fancy when the shit hit the fan. He was out there with us, fighting the goddamn Japs.”

  “How're you doing here?”

  Butsko sighed. “Well, I'm not too happy. I'm in charge of the recon platoon, and they're all a bunch of criminals and maniacs who couldn't make it anywheres else in the Army. They're always doing something wrong, and they're wearing me down.”

  “You want out?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where you wanna go?”

  “I dunno. I'll have to think about it.”

  “Well, think about it and let me know. How'd you like to be my sergeant major?”

  “I'm not too good with paperwork.”

  “You could find somebody to do your paperwork for you. I think you'd be a good sergeant major. You could keep all those damn fools out there away from me.”

  Butsko thought about being sergeant major of the regiment. It would be a big job with prestige and power, which might be just what he needed after the grim bullshit he'd been living with in the recon platoon. But who else could lead the recon platoon?

  “I'll have to run that through my mind a little more,” Butsko said.

  “You do that.” Colonel Hutchins looked at his map. “We're expecting big trouble pretty soon. You seen the Jap positions yet?”

  “Yep. They're in better shape than we are.”

  “I know. They can see what we're doing and what we had for breakfast. General Griswold thinks they're gonna launch a major attack damn soon. Think we're ready?”

  “We could use more ammo and machine guns. I'd hate to be outgunned in a big fight. It happened a few times on New Georgia and we nearly got wiped out.”

  “Why don't you take a truck down to the beach tomorrow and get whatever you think we need. I'll give you authorization. If they won't give you what you want, steal it.”

  “I got a couple of men who'd be real good at that, sir.”

  “Want another drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Colonel Hutchins handed over the flask, and Butsko took a swig.

  “Anything I can do for you?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  “As a matter of fact, there is something, sir. I got a platoon leader who's not worth a helluva lot. I think things'd be easier in the recon platoon if we could get rid of him, and he's been trying to transfer out himself. You think you could take care of that?”

  “You think he's good for anything?”

  “He might be good behind a desk.”

  “I'll transfer him up to Headquarters. Anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You think you'll have time today to have a talk with that mess sergeant you mentioned?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I wouldn't
want him bringing the stuff in here himself. You know how bad that'd look.”

  “Yes, sir. I'll take care of it myself, sir.”

  “That's what I was hoping you'd say. Here, have another drink.”

  While Butsko and Colonel Hutchins talked, a council of war was being held at General Hyakutake's headquarters on the island of Erventa. All his staff members and commanders from the rank of colonel on up were in attendance. It was a sunny day and the map table was set up in the open, with General Hyakutake in the middle and the others crowded around, taking notes and concentrating on the words pouring out of General Hyakutake's mouth.

  General Hyakutake used a long stick as a pointer and looked like a schoolteacher, but his voice was deep and harsh, as uncompromising as the sound of a machine gun.

  “The attack will begin on the morning of March eighth,” he said. “Our force will be organized into three assault units. The first, under General Isawa, will capture this hill”—he pointed to Hill 700 on the map—“on the day of attack, reorganize on March ninth and tenth, and then deploy for an all-out effort on the American airfields behind the center of their line.

  “The second unit, under Colonel Muda, will attack the hill system on the east flank of the American line, and then link up with the Isawa force for the assault on the American air-fields.

  “The third unit, under Colonel Magi, will roll back the west side of the American line, then assist in the destruction of the American airfields.

  “Following those actions, the three units will press forward and converge on the American beachhead, wiping it out totally. Speed is essential to the success of the entire operation: You will have ammunition and supplies for only two weeks. Are there any questions so far?”

  No one said anything. The Japanese officers studied the map and figured out their respective roles in the attack. All were excited; they'd been anxious to attack the Americans ever since the enemy beachhead had been established at Cape Torokina, and now their chance had come.

  “Good,” said General Hyakutake. “Excellent. I know you all have been waiting for this moment and are overjoyed, now that the time has come to manifest our knighthood with the pure brilliance of the sword. It is our duty to erase the mortification of our brothers at Guadalcanal and New Georgia. When the order comes to attack, I expect you to attack hard! When the order comes to assault, I want you to assault with all the power in your bodies! Cut, slash, and mow them down! May the colors of our standards be deepened with the blood of the American rascals. Our cry of victory on Bougainville will echo resoundingly to our native land. It will gladden the heart of the Emperor and inspire our people.” General Hyakutake became thrilled by his own rhetoric. His eyes glittered and saliva flecked his lips. Raising his fists over his head, he shook them mightily. “We are invincible!” he screamed. “Always attack! Security is the greatest enemy! Always be alert! Always be silent! Move quickly! Kill resolutely! Destroy the Americans.!”