Do or Die

by Len Levinson

  Butsko came to his senses. He looked around and saw fires everywhere. Japanese planes dived, climbed, and circled in the sky. Artillery shells and bombs fell on all sides of the deuce and a half. Squadrons of Japanese planes strafed the beach back and forth. American soldiers lay dead and wounded all over the sand. It looked like hell on earth.

  Butsko pounced on Shilansky and shook him with both hands. “Wake the fuck up.’”

  Shilansky flailed his arms in the air. “I'm awake! I'm awake!”

  “Get this fucking truck moving!”

  The engine stalled and steam rose from the front end. Shilansky turned the lever and the engine rolled over several times, finally catching the sparks and roaring to life. He gunned the accelerator, shifted into reverse, and let out the clutch.

  The big tires gripped the sand and pulled the vehicle backward. In the rear of the truck the GIs untangled themselves and looked fearfully through the shredded tarpaulin. Bannon pulled out his bayonet and stabbed it into the canvas.

  “Cut this stuff down!”

  The men grabbed their bayonets and tore down the canvas as the truck backed away from the pile of C rations.

  Shilansky stopped, shifted into first, cut the wheel, and stepped on the accelerator. The truck rolled toward the jungle. The sky was full of planes, and shells crashed onto the beach. Butsko was sure they'd never get out alive, but the jungle ahead didn't seem safe either. Trees were being blown into the air by bombs, and fires burned everywhere.

  In the rear of the truck Bannon tore open a crate cf Thompson submachine guns. “Everybody, take one of these! Let's shoot us a fucking plane!”

  Shilansky's teeth chattered as he drove the big lumbering truck toward the jungle. It was three hundred yards away across sand strewn with dead Americans and piles of debris. Butsko felt like a rat in a trap. He couldn't fire his rifle; he couldn't do anything except look at all the devastation.

  “I'm getting out of here!” he said.

  “Where you going?”

  “In back! You just get us the fuck out of here, crook!”

  “But—”

  Butsko pushed opened the door and jumped to the sand. He waited for the truck to roll past him, then leaped up onto the tailgate. He saw the men in back loading up Thompson submachine guns.

  “Help me!”

  They turned around and saw Butsko trying to crawl over the tailgate. Shaw and the Reverend Billie Jones were the closest and they pulled him into the back with them.

  “Gimme one of them fucking guns,” Butsko said.

  Frankie La Barbara handed him a Thompson and a clip of ammunition. Butsko worked the bolt and rammed in the clip as the truck rocked from side to side and bounced up and down.

  In the cab Shilansky felt alone and scared shitless. Something told him he'd never make it to the jungle. There was noplace to run and noplace to hide. He looked up and saw a Zero coming toward him, low and steady, its machine guns spitting death.

  “Look out!” Shilansky screamed.

  Butsko saw the Zero out of the corner of his eye. He spun around, gritted his teeth, and pulled the trigger. The big .45-caliber bullets streamed into the sky, but the Zero kept coming, adjusting its angle so that the bullets from the machine gun in its left wing would strike the deuce and a half.

  “Shoot that fucking plane clown!” Butsko yelled.

  Bannon and Frankie La Barbara jumped onto the roof above Shilansky's head, and Bannon stood with his legs wide apart while Frankie dropped to one knee. They aimed their Thompson submachine guns at the onrushing Zero and opened fire. The Zero came closer and the machine gun in the left wing stitched a straight line toward the truck.

  Bannon and Frankie La Barbara held their positions on the roof of the cab and kept firing. Behind them the other men in the recon platoon braced themselves and shot at the Zero, which became larger every moment. The air was filled with bullets, and then suddenly an end of the Zero's propeller cracked off. Smoke spewed from its engine back toward the cockpit, and the pilot couldn't see what he was shooting at. Shilansky cut the wheel hard to the left and steered out of the path of the Zero's machine-gun bullets. The men from the recon platoon leveled their submachine guns at the plane as it flew over their heads, black smoke enveloping the cockpit and most of the fuselage.

  “We got him!” Bannon shouted.

  The men watched, transfixed, as the plane glided lower instead of pulling up. It was headed toward Empress Augusta Bay, losing altitude every second. The GIs jumped into the air I and whooped for joy as the plane crashed into the water and 1 toppled over.

  In the cab Shilansky heard the cheering and didn't know what the other men were so happy about. He didn't have any-thing to be happy about. The jungle was still far away. He steered around a pile of smoking debris and drove over a dead American soldier whose legs were missing in action. Glancing up, he saw another Japanese plane diving down for a strafing run.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Shilansky didn't think he could handle another strafing. He lowered himself in the seat and was about to duck his head when he saw another plane rushing toward the Zero from the side. The other plane was painted OD green and had white stars on its wings and fuselage. It was an American plane! The Army Air Corps was in the air!

  The American P-38 fighter plane opened fire and attacked the Japanese Zero. Shilansky saw the tracer bullets stopped by the Japanese Zero, and then the Zero exploded with a loud thunderclap, pieces of its superstructure flying all over the sky.

  “Wowie!” screamed Shilansky, jerking the wheel from side to side, sitting upright in the seat again.

  Butsko and the others in back saw the American plane shoot down the Zero. They looked around and saw squadrons of American planes converging on the beachhead, hitting the Japanese planes from all angles. The Japanese pilots pulled back their sticks and rose to meet them. Dogfights broke out all over the sky. The Japanese pilots had their hands full and couldn't strafe the beach anymore. Shilansky shouted for joy and stomped the gas pedal down to the floor. The battered old deuce and a half sped toward the jungle, bouncing up and down, while in back the GIs hung on, watching the dogfights in the sky.

  In his headquarters not far from the beach, General Griswold looked down at his gigantic map table. He was commander of the XIV Corps, which comprised every soldier on Bougainville, and reports were coming in from all over the beachhead that the big Japanese attack was under way.

  He'd already made the first countermoves, ordering his planes into the air and directing forward observers to locate the positions of the Japanese artillery. These countermoves had been carried through: The American Air Corps was hounding Japanese planes away from the beach, and the Japanese artillery had been spotted. American artillery and planes were bombarding Japanese artillery sites with considerable effectiveness. Smoke shells were dropped on suspected enemy observation posts to hamper their vision.

  Now there was less pressure from Japanese artillery and aircraft, but much damage had been done already. The Americans had been shaken up by the suddenness and ferocity of the attack. General Griswold knew that the Japanese ground troops would attack soon and try to break through the American lines. He looked down at the map and waited for news of first contact with Japanese troops.

  “Attack!” shrieked Captain Kashiwagi. “Tenno heika banzai!”

  He waved his samurai sword in one hand, brandished his Nambu pistol in the other, and ran up the side of Hill 700. Behind him came the men of his company, bayonets gleaming on the ends of their Arisaka rifles. Ahead of them were the devastated bunkers of Baker Company, Twenty-third Infantry.

  The American bunkers had been subjected to a severe artillery and mortar barrage. Their walls had been blown down and soldiers lay dead on sandbags and logs. Smoke rose from the Baker Company area, and the smell of gunpowder was heavy in the air.

  Forward!” yelled Captain Kashiwagi. “Kill them all!”

  The frenzied Japanese soldiers charged up the hill, dodging around t
rees and shell craters, jumping over rocks and fallen trees. At their head, Captain Kashiwagi swung his sword through the air, running as fast as his long legs would carry him, hoping and praying he'd run into the American soldier who'd beaten the shit out of him.

  Meanwhile the men from Baker Company who were still alive crawled dazedly out of their holes, fixing their bayonets, hoping to receive an order to retreat, but their company commander was dead, buried under six feet of dirt; the executive officer had been wounded and was unconscious; and confusion reigned everywhere.

  The sergeants still alive tried to establish order as best they could. They ordered their men to hold fast, because they'd received no order to pull back and didn't want to take the responsibility on themselves. The frightened soldiers saw a huge number of Japanese soldiers rushing toward them, screaming at the tops of their lungs. In front of them was a tall, muscular Japanese officer swinging a samurai sword around. A GI with a BAR dropped down to his stomach and fired a burst at Captain Kashiwagi.

  The bullets flew all around Captain Kashiwagi. Their whistle was like music to his ears. He loved the sound of battle, the thrill of the attack, and in his warped, perverted mind he almost wished one of the bullets would strike him so that he could experience the ultimate final orgasm of death.

  “Banzai!” he shrieked. “Slaughter the pigs!”

  Directly in front of him were American soldiers trying to organize a skirmish line. Their sergeants ordered them to hold their ground. The platoon leader of the Second Platoon, the only officer still alive in the company, was trying to reach his battalion commander on the walkie-talkie to find out what to do.

  Captain Kashiwagi ran toward the American soldier in front of him. The American soldier was tall and skinny, his face covered with freckles, and he was only sixteen years old; he'd lied about his age when he'd enlisted. The kid looked with terror at Captain Kashiwagi bearing down on him, swinging his sword around over his head, screaming and hollering.

  The kid wanted to run away or fall down on the ground and make believe he was dead. He wished he'd never joined the Army, because it wasn't turning out to be the great adventure he'd thought it would be. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired a shot at Captain Kashiwagi, but his aim was wide and then Captain Kashiwagi was on top of him.

  “Banzai!” screamed Captain Kashiwagi, swinging his samurai sword sideways with all his strength.

  The razor-sharp blade sliced through the young soldier's neck. The force of the blow sent the young soldier's head flying through the air, and blood rushed out of his throat like a geyser. He dropped to the ground and Captain Kashiwagi jumped over him, firing his Nambu pistol at an American sergeant, hitting him in the chest. The sergeant was thrown backward by the impact of the bullet, and Captain Kashiwagi spun around, burying his samurai sword in the rib cage of an old American corporal, a career GI who'd been busted up and down the ranks countless times.

  Captain Kashiwagi pulled his samurai sword loose and saw a big, husky American private running toward him. For a moment he thought the soldier was the one who'd beaten him up, and new adrenaline crackled through his veins, but then he realized that this soldier was different; only his build and complexion were like the American soldier who'd clobbered him from behind.

  “Banzai!”

  The American soldier thrust his rifle and bayonet at Captain Kashiwagi's heart, and Captain Kashiwagi nimbly jumped to the side, got set, and swung his samurai sword down. The blade struck the American soldier on the collarbone, snapped it in two, and buried itself deep inside the American's rib cage.

  Captain Kashiwagi tugged at his samurai sword, but it wouldn't come loose. He tugged again, but it was stuck in the American soldier's bones and gristle. Another American soldier suddenly appeared in front of Captain Kashiwagi. The American soldier raised his rifle and bayonet to his shoulder, took aim, and fired point-blank at Captain Kashiwagi.

  Captain Kashiwagi's karate-trained instincts sent him diving toward the ground. The bullet flew over his head. Captain Kashiwagi rolled over twice, stopped suddenly, aimed his Nambu pistol, and pulled the trigger. His bullet hit the American soldier in the face and blew his head apart.

  Captain Kashiwagi returned to his samurai sword and placed both his feet on the bloody chest of the dead American. He grasped the handle of his sword, pulled hard, worked it from side to side and back and forth, and pulled again. This time it came loose.

  “Banzai!”

  Swinging the samurai sword over his head, he saw an American soldier on his hands and knees on the ground, bleeding from a head wound. The American had been knocked cold and was now trying to get up. Unsteady, blood in his eyes, the poor, unfortunate GI was looking around for his rifle when Captain Kashiwagi struck. He swung his samurai sword down at an angle and chopped the American soldier's spine in half. The American soldier jackknifed and toppled sideways onto the bloody ground.

  Captain Kashiwagi looked around, his samurai sword dripping blood. He saw his soldiers overpowering the Americans and pushing them back. Some Americans were running for their lives. Captain Kashiwagi saw a big tent in the woods in front of him. That must be their command post, he thought.

  “Banzai!”

  Captain Kashiwagi swung his samurai sword in a circle over his head as he ran toward the tent. In his left hand was his Nambu pistol, ready to fire. Exhilarated, because he knew his men were taking their objective, he felt invincible. He charged the tent. Suddenly an American soldier came out from behind a tree, holding a machete in his hand. It was Company B's first sergeant, a World War One veteran named Albert Marr, from Biloxi, Mississippi, and he was a friend of Butsko's.

  “Banzai!”

  “Banzai your ass!” muttered Sergeant Marr.

  Captain Kashiwagi swung his samurai sword downward diagonally at Sergeant Marr, and the old sergeant, who was forty-four years old, raised his machete and blocked the blow. Sparks flew into the air when steel met steel, and Captain Kashiwagi drew back to swing again.

  Sergeant Marr kicked at Captain Kashiwagi's balls. Captain Kashiwagi leaped to the side so quickly, he was a blur. Sergeant Marr backed off, because he could see that this Japanese officer was fast. The sergeant wished he had a gun, but he'd fired his .45 until it ran out of ammunition and then thrown it away.

  Captain Kashiwagi grinned as he stalked Sergeant Marr, who wished he had a hand grenade or any weapon other than a machete. Captain Kashiwagi feinted a blow at Sergeant Marr's head, and Sergeant Marr raised his machete to protect himself, opening up his lower body. Captain Kashiwagi swung sideways, his eyes glittering with joy. Sergeant Marr dropped to the ground and the blade whistled over his head. Sergeant Marr rolled over, grabbed Captain Kashiwagi's ankles, and heaved.

  Captain Kashiwagi's legs bent to the side and sent him crashing to the ground. Sergeant Marr jumped on top of him and grabbed him by the neck, pressing his thumbs against Captain Kashiwagi's Adam's apple.

  Captain Kashiwagi made a V with the fingers of his right hand and jabbed them into Sergeant Marr's eye sockets. Ser-geant Marr saw a flash of lightning and felt incredible pain deep inside his head. Instinctively he raised his hands to his face, and Captain Kashiwagi bucked like a wild horse, knocking Sergeant Marr off him.

  Captain Kashiwagi scrambled to his feet and picked up his samurai sword. Sergeant Marr heard him, but he was confused by pain and blindness and couldn't do anything. He knew he was going to die at any moment, but the old war dog wasn't afraid. He couldn't fight and he couldn't see, so he opened his mouth and bellowed defiantly at Captain Kashiwagi.

  Raising his sword, taking aim at the bloodied old soldier in front of him, Captain Kashiwagi swung down with all his strength. Sergeant Marr had lost his helmet, and the blade split his head in two like a coconut. Blood and brains flew through the air, and the old sergeant was hurled to the ground by the force of the blow.

  Captain Kashiwagi pulled his samurai sword loose and looked at the tent. He picked up his Nambu pistol and walked towa
rd it. As he drew closer he heard someone talking, but didn't understand English. Captain Kashiwagi leaped through the tent flap and saw a young officer seated at a desk, talking on a walkie-talkie.

  “Banzai!”

  The lieutenant dropped the walkie-talkie and reached for his Colt .45, lying on the desk. Captain Kashiwagi swung his samurai sword down and chopped the American officer's hand off. The lieutenant looked with disbelief at his wrist pumping blood onto the desk, and Captain Kashiwagi fired his Nambu pistol at the American officer, hitting him in the chest.

  The bullet's impact blew the lieutenant against the wall of the tent. He slid down the canvas and lay on the floor, still alive, blood and the air from his lungs burbling out of the hole in his chest.

  Captain Kashiwagi stood over him and looked down, smiling, watching the American soldier suffer. Captain Kashiwagi had sadomasochistic tendencies in addition to his other tendencies , and the sight thrilled him. The American officer looked up at him but didn't ask for mercy, and none was given. Captain Kashiwagi raised his sword and chopped off the American officer's head.

  He heard footsteps behind him and spun around. Sergeant Kato burst into the tent. “Sir, we've captured our objective! All the Americans here are dead!”

  “Excellent,” said Captain Kashiwagi. “Magnificent. Order the men to occupy the American bunker system. Tell Lieutenant Sono to have heavy machine guns and mortars sent up here. All men must set to work immediately, repairing fortifications to withstand an American counterattack!”

  Sergeant Kato ran out of the tent to carry out his orders. Captain Kashiwagi looked down at the American officer lying on the floor, decapitated. He bent over and wiped the blood off his samurai sword with the American officer's shirt.

  ELEVEN . . .

  In their bunkers and foxholes the recon platoon watched Japanese soldiers charge up the hill toward them. They fired their rifles and machine guns, and their mortars lobbed shells down the hill, but the Japs kept coming anyway.