by Len Levinson
fighting, but after a while it stopped. Nutsy believed the recon platoon must have been wiped out by the Japs and felt sick about it.
He stopped at a little glen shrouded with vines and branches to eat a can of C rations, then filled up his canteen at the stream, dropping two Halazone tablets inside to purify the water. He set out again, heading in an easterly direction, certain that he'd bump into GIs sooner or later. Whenever the sun came out he took his bearings and pressed on. Nutsy had been a hobo before he'd joined the Army and he knew how to get around in the woods. He hadn't slept with a roof over his head for three years before that first night he spent in an Army barrack at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.
In mid-afternoon he heard troops moving through the jungle, and he hid to make sure of what side they were on. They turned out to be a Japanese patrol of five men, and Nutsy lay still behind some bushes, watching them pass. He waited until the Japs were gone and then he raised himself, creeping east again, looking and listening, wondering where in hell the American Army was hiding.
Later in the afternoon he heard another patrol and dived behind a bush. Peering through the leaves, he saw American GIs moving cautiously through the jungle.
“Hello, there!” Nutsy said.
The GIs scattered in all directions, dropping behind logs, hiding behind trees, looking about furtively.
“Hey, it's me—an American!”
“Show yourself and keep your hands up!”
Nutsy slung his rifle, raised his arms, and came out from behind the bush, forcing himself to smile in a friendly manner. The other GIs could see that he wasn't Japanese. They rose and approached him.
“What are you doing out here?” asked a second lieutenant.
“I'm in the recon platoon of the Twenty-third Regiment. We got trapped in a building back there”—Nutsy pointed— “and they sent me for help.”
“A building? Out here?”
“Yes, sir. It was in the middle of a big coconut plantation.”
The lieutenant took out his map, dropped to one knee, and looked for the coconut plantation. He found it, but there was no marking for a building. “Where was the building?” he asked.
Nutsy looked at the map and estimated its location. “Around here, I'd say.” He touched his finger to the map.
“When did all this happen?”
“This morning.”
“Do you think your people could have held out this long.”
Nutsy shook his head. “I don't think so,” he said in a low voice. “I think they got wiped out.”
“I'll transmit the message to the Twenty-third Regiment,” the lieutenant replied, “That's about all I can do.”
The recon platoon survivors staggered over the jungle trail as their Japanese captors punched and kicked them, batted them with their rifle butts, and jabbed them with bayonets.
Shilansky carried young Private Hilliard on his back, and Shaw's arm was wrapped around Homer Gladley's shoulder. Bannon felt a terrible numbing pain every time he took a step on his bad leg, and Butsko couldn't move his left arm anymore because of the wound in his shoulder. Frankie La Barbara's nose was a mass of blood and torn cartilage, and Jimmy O'Rourke was bent over in pain from a deep cut underneath his ribs.
Private Blum, the medic, saw all the suffering around him, but there was nothing he could do. The Japs had taken his medicine bag away and hit him in the head with a rifle butt. Now he had a continuous headache and a feeling of general disorientation. He figured he probably had a concussion.
The Japanese soldiers taunted the GIs and spat in their faces. One of them walked alongside Bannon, staring hatefully at him. Bannon turned his head and stared back just as hatefully. The Jap punched him in the mouth, and Bannon was so weak he fell to the ground. A Japanese soldier shouted at him to get up, but Bannon couldn't move. The soldier raised his rifle and bayonet to kill Bannon, when Butsko stepped out of formation, pushed the Jap to the side, and bent over to pick Bannon up.
Another Japanese guard ran toward Butsko and bashed him in the head with his rifle butt. Butsko lost consciousness and fell on top of Bannon. The guard raised his rifle and was about to shoot, when the officer shouted an order and the Jap soldier lowered his rifle, a look of disappointment on his face.
“Get up!” yelled the officer. “If not, we shoot you!”
Bannon was conscious, but Butsko was out like a light as he lay on top of Bannon. “C'mon, Sarge,” Bannon said. “Get up.”
Butsko mumbled something. Private Blum broke formation, grabbed Butsko by his collar, and dragged him to his feet, wrapping one of Butsko's arms around his shoulder. Bannon pulled himself up from the ground, limped a few steps, took Butsko's other arm, and put it around his shoulder. Together Bannon and Blum helped Butsko along the trail.
The Japanese soldiers jeered at the GIs, kicking them in their asses, poking them with their bayonets. They vented all their frustrations against the GIs, and they had many frustra-tions because they were low on food, brutalized by their ser-geants and officers, and continually forced to make suicide attacks.
One of the Japs, for no particular reason, kicked Frankie La Barbara in the shins, tripping him up. Frankie fell to the ground and something snapped in his mind. Getting up quickly, he rushed toward the soldier and tried to grab him by the throat. The soldier hit him in the face with his rifle butt, damaging Frankie's nose even more and knocking him cold. Frankie fell to the ground, and the Jap was going to step on his face when the Reverend Billie Jones bent down and scooped Frankie up.
The Reverend Billie Jones heaved Frankie over his shoulder and carried him along, although his knees were weak and he had a cracked rib. The Reverend Billie Jones hated the Japs all around him and thought they were demons from hell. He prayed for God to descend from heaven and wipe the Japs out, but God didn't come and one of the Japs stuck his bayonet in Billie Jones's ass about a half inch, just for the hell of it. Although Billie was weak and was carrying Frankie La Barbara, he jumped a foot in the air. If I ever get through this, he thought, I'm gonna kill Japs with my bare hands. I'll squeeze their throats so hard their eyes will pop out. I'll kick them into dogshit. I'll skin the little yellow bastards alive.
The recon platoon and their captors made their way through thick jungle and across fields of kunai grass. They climbed up and down hills, forded streams, and crossed gorges on swinging vine bridges constructed by natives. Finally, late in the day, they arrived at a camp nestled in a valley among wooded hills Japanese soldiers weak from hunger crawled out of tents to watch them pass. Others, who appeared well-fed and sturdy, lined up along the path and jeered at the GIs. Bannon was struck in the face by a rock. Butsko was hit over the head by a length of wood. Frankie La Barbara, who was staggering toward the rear of the line, had a bucket of shit dumped over his head, and he went totally out of his mind.
He turned around and attacked the Jap who'd done the dirty deed, trying to kick him in the balls, but the Jap was fast and Frankie was slowed down by fatigue, hunger, and thirst. Frankie missed his kick and then was hit in the head with a rifle butt. Staggering, he saw a dozen Japs jump on him, and he fell to the ground underneath their weight. They punched and kicked him until he was unconscious, and then Private Blum picked him up, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him along, although Frankie stank to high heaven.
In the middle of a clearing was a barbed-wire pen measuring around thirty feet square. A group of emaciated, filthy GIs were inside, blood caked on their faces and sores on their arms and hands. Some wore bloody, filthy bandages. The door to the pen was opened and the recon platoon marched in.
Bannon looked around. At each comer outside the pen was a little hut about six feet off the ground, and inside each hut were two Japanese guards. Two more Japanese guards manned the front gate. There was no shelter in the pen, only a hole that was the latrine.
The GIs dropped to the ground, hungry and thirsty, exhausted from their long trek across Guadalcanal. Bannon sat cross-legged on the ground and looke
d at the prisoners who were there already. They evidently received no food, no medical treatment, and plenty of beatings.
Bannon took a deep breath and realized he was in for the worst time of his life.
Colonel Saburo Shibata, the commander of the Sixty-sixth Infantry Regiment, heard the commotion as the American prisoners were marched into the camp. He stepped out of his tent and saw them being led toward the pen. Shibata had a wispy mustache and beard, which quivered with emotion as he watched the Americans enter the pen. It was possible that one of them fired the bullet that killed his brother, Kenichi.
His sword strapped to his side and his soft cap low over his eyes, he walked toward the pen. The gate was being closed and he saw the Americans sprawling on the ground in an unsoldierly manner. It was a disgrace to be killed by such rabble. Colonel Shibata felt sorry for his dead brother, who had been young and idealistic, but too frail for infantry warfare. His brother had flunked out of fighter-pilot school, and their father had obtained a commission in the army for him. Colonel Shibata figured his brother wouldn't last long in a pitched battle, and he was right. He was killed in his first action on Guadalcanal.
Colonel Shibata approached the pen and looked through the strands of barbed wire. He wanted to enter the pen and cut up the Americans with his sword, but he held himself still, his face expressionless. One of the Americans turned around and looked at him, and beams of pure hatred passed between them. The American had sandy hair and a bandage on his leg and seemed to be taunting Colonel Shibata. If I ever get the chance, I'll kill you. Colonel Shibata thought.
Bannon looked up at the Japanese officer and seethed with hatred. Unlike Colonel Shibata, Bannon made no effort to disguise his loathing. The officer's boots were polished, and Bannon figured he must have arrived recently on Guadalcanal. That meant the Japs were reinforcing their troops on the island. Perhaps they were planning a new offensive. If I ever get out of here, I'll kill you, Bannon thought.
Jimmy O'Rourke, with a big scab on his forehead, crawled toward Bannon, an ugly expression on his face. “Hey, Bannon,” he said, “what happened to your girl friend?”
Bannon blinked. He'd completely forgotten about the native girl. Where the hell was she?
“I'll bet she betrayed us to the Japs,” O'Rourke said. “I should have killed her while I had the chance.”
Bannon didn't feel like arguing, and he thought O'Rourke might be right. Maybe it had been a mistake to let her live, but he didn't think so. He couldn't have stood by and let a woman be shot.
The Japanese officer turned and walked away. Bannon watched him go and then noticed an object flying toward his head. It was a rock thrown by a Japanese soldier, but Bannon couldn't duck in time. The rock hit him on the ear and drew blood.
O'Rourke chortled like an old buzzard. “Serves you right. If you hadn't let that girl go, we might not be here right now.”
“You're a stupid asshole,” Bannon told him. “You don't have a brain in your fucking head.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, I'm not the one who let that little traitor go.”
“Knock it off!” said Butsko.
O'Rourke spat at the ground and crawled away. Bannon looked around and saw Frankie La Barbara lying motionless on the other side of the pen. Blum, the medic, knelt beside him, touching his face. Bannon got to his feet and limped across the compound, dropping down next to Blum.
“How is he?” Bannon asked.
“Out like a light.”
“Is he hurt bad?
“I don't think so.”
Frankie smelled disgusting because of the bucket of shit that had been dumped on him. Bannon knew his wounds should be washed, but he had no water left in his canteen.
“Anybody got any water?” Bannon asked.
Nobody said anything. All of them had drunk theirs up, just like he had. Bannon stood again and approached one of the guards standing at the gate. “You speak English?”
The guard looked at Bannon malevolently, and Bannon didn't know whether he'd understood or not.
“Can we get a bucket of water in here?”
The Jap guard looked at the other guard and said something. The other guard smiled. The first guard motioned with his hand at Bannon, then unlocked the gate. He pulled it open and Bannon walked out of the pen. He thought the Japs were going to let him get a bucket of water.
Bam—a rifle butt hit him on the cheek and sent him sprawling to the ground. Dazed, he looked up and saw a shoe in front of his eyes. The shoe kicked him in the mouth and Bannon saw stars. The Japs got on either side of him and kicked him in the ribs, face, and groin. Bannon tried to defend himself, but he was weak and slow. One blow hit him on the forehead and knocked him out. The Japs kept kicking him for a while, then picked him up and threw him into the compound again, locking the door behind him.
Blum staggered over, dropped to his knees, and examined him. Butsko came over and collapsed nearby. Bannon's face was bloody, he had an ugly gash on his scalp, and he was limp as a rag.
“Anything broken?” Butsko asked.
“It's hard to say,” Blum replied. “When he comes to, it'll be easier to find out.”
Butsko gathered up his last reserves of energy so he could speak loudly. “Don't talk to the guards!” he shouted. “Just stay put and try to get some rest!”
Colonel William Stockton, the commander of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment, was operating from a bivouac deep in the jungle. His telephones were wired in by his signal corps-men, guards were posted everywhere, and hot chow was being prepared by his cooks from canned and dehydrated food.
Nutsy Gafooley approached Colonel Stockton's tent with great trepidation, because top brass scared the shit out of him. He had an inferiority complex to begin with, and top brass made it worse. The military system brainwashed GIs into think-ing officers were better than they were, and it had worked with Nutsy.
He entered Colonel Stockton's big walled tent and saw Ser-geant Major Ramsay seated behind a desk. “I'm Private Gafooley and I heard the colonel wants to talk with me.”
“Go right in,” Ramsay said.
Nutsy walked to the next tent flap, pushed it aside, and entered Colonel Stockton's office. Colonel Stockton sat behind his desk, puffing a pipe. He was lean, had silvery hair, and looked worried.
“Private Gafooley reporting, sir!”
“Have a seat.”
Nutsy sat down and Colonel Stockton leaned forward, pushing his ashtray and package of Briggs pipe tobacco out of his way. ‘Tell me in your own words what happened out there, Gafooley.”
Nutsy stuttered and muttered but managed to get out the story. He told how they'd come to the plantation, captured the mansion, and then were counterattacked by a large Japanese force supported by a tank. He described how they'd knocked out the tank, fought like bastards, and held off the Japs for an hour or so. Finally he told how Bannon had ordered him to try to get help. “The last thing I saw was Bannon fighting his way back into that house.”
Colonel Stockton looked down at the map on his desk. The location of the plantation had already been radioed to him, and he realized that the recon platoon had got far in front of the main advance of the regiment.
“How many Japs were there?” Colonel Stockton asked.
“Two, maybe three, companies, but we killed a lot of them, sir.”
“About how many would you say?”
“I'd say we wiped out nearly half of them.”
Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe glumly. The recon platoon had been formed by him out of the toughest men in the regi- ment, and he felt responsible for what happened. His staff officers told him many times that he should have kept a tighter rein on Butsko, but he always declined to do so; he thought Butsko knew what he was doing. Butsko and the recon platoon had been in a lot of tough scrapes before, but never anything like this. They should never have tried to take that building without support.
“Was there any chance that they got away?” Colonel Stock- ton asked hopefully.
“You got away.”
“I was lucky.”
“Is there anything else important that you can tell me? Take a few minutes to think before you answer.
Nutsy recalled the battle for the big white house. In his mind he saw the fighting from room to room, the grenades flying around, the walls and ceilings collapsing as the tank fired its cannon. Then he flashed on the girl.
“We found a native girl, sir,” Nutsy said.
“A native girl?” Colonel Stockton asked. “In the building?”
“Yes, sir. A Jap officer was fucking—ah, I mean, a Jap
officer was in bed with her when we captured the place. She said the Japs had captured her, but some of the guys thouht
she was on their side.”
“hmmmm. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of, sir.”
“You sure?”
“I think so, sir.”
“If you think of anything else, come back here and tell me. In the meantime, get yourself something to eat and find a place to sack out. Tell Sergeant Ramsay where you are in case I need you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nutsy stood, saluted, did an about-face, and marched out of the office. Colonel Stockton's pipe went out and he placed it inside the ashtray. He wiped his face with his hands and then looked down at the map. Well, he thought, they're almost certainly dead. Butsko bit off more than he could chew. Damn. Colonel Stockton thought he should send a few companies toward the mansion to see what was there, then questioned his own motives. If any other platoon had been involved in that mess, would he divert a few companies from his attack to check on them? He admitted to himself that he probably would. Evidently a heavy concentration of Japs was in that area and he couldn't just forget about it. But maybe one company would be enough. He'd order them to proceed carefully and stay out of trouble. If they found Japs, they should radio back for instructions.
He decided to send George Company, which was the company the recon platoon had been traveling with before they got, separated from the rest of the regiment.
