by Len Levinson
“I wanna go through with it,” Bannon said. “It's time I got married. You wanna be my best man, Sarge?”
“Sure, kid. I'll be your best man.”
The procession passed thatched huts, and eyes looked at them from the shadows inside. Finally the children stopped in front of a hut and moved out of the way so there was nothing between the hut and Bannon.
Then, around the corner, they saw another procession coming, this one of young girls, with Mary, Bannon's bride-to-be, in the center, walking with her head held down, flowers in her hair. Bannon was getting nervous, because he was becoming aware of the seriousness of the affair. This was a real marriage and he'd never been through anything like it before.
Bannon and the GIs were to the left of the hut in front of them, and the girls were to the right. A big space was between them, and into this space marched the elders of the tribe, led by the chief himself. They were very solemn, and when they stopped they stood stiffly.
Now what? Frankie La Barbara thought, scratching himself and working his shoulders, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He remembered when he'd married Francesca at the Church of Saint Gennaro on Mulberry Street in New York City; it hadn't been anything like this. The organ had been playing and all his relatives had been there, including a few uncles who were in the mob. Come to think of it, Frankie said to himself, maybe it wasn't so much different from this.
The door of the hut in front of them moved to the side, and a man came out wearing a grass skirt. A tall hat made of feathers sat on his head, and a strand of animal teeth hung from his neck. His body was tattooed and his beard was long and gray. He wore gold rings through his ears and nose.
Butsko jabbed Bannon with his elbow. “This looks like the preacher,” he muttered.
The priest raised his hand and beckoned to Mary and Bannon. Butsko pushed Bannon, who walked forward toward the priest, as did the girl. Bannon and the girl stopped in front of the priest, and the girl took Bannon's hand. They glanced at each other, and Bannon could see that the girl was very serious.
The priest chanted in a strange language. He waved his hands around and did a little dance. Bending over, he picked up some dirt and passed it from one of his hands to the other while continuing his chant. Raising his voice, he sprinkled some of the dirt on the heads of the couple in front of him, then dropped the rest on the ground and danced in circles on it.
The priest gesticulated with his hands and seemed to be telling a story in his hoarse, monotonous voice. He made a few motions that Bannon considered obscene, then danced around them three times. Finally he stood in front of them and clapped his hands together once.
The natives crowded around Bannon and the girl, jumping up and down, offering congratulations, and Bannon knew that the ceremony was over. The old chief shook his hand.
“May your marriage be happy and last forever,” he said.
Bannon wanted to kiss his bride, but there were too many people between them.
“Aren't we supposed to give each other rings or something?” he asked the chief.
“You give each other yourselves,” the chief said.
The GIs lined up to shake Bannon's hand.
“Give her one for me,” Frankie La Barbara said to Bannon with a lewd wink.
“If you ever need any help, you know who to call,” said Morris Shilansky.
“I'm glad to see you're finally settling down,” said Homer Gladley.
“God bless the both of you,” said the Reverend Billie Jones.
The GIs made their way through the throngs to kiss the bride, and everybody was cheering and laughing.
A gaggle of children got behind Bannon and pushed him toward Mary as more children pushed her toward him. They came together and kissed; she felt so slender and soft in his arms, something like paradise. Everybody retreated from them. The priest made a pronouncement in his language.
“We must go now,” the girl said to Bannon.
“Go where?”
“I will show you.”
She took his hand and led him away down the long row of huts. Everybody was silent. Bannon realized they were going someplace where they would be alone. Well, I'm married now, he thought, and it's time for me to do my husbandly duties.
NINE . . .
Late in the afternoon the Sixty-sixth Regiment began its relief of troops on the Japanese front. Colonel Shibata ordered his men to dig in a few hundred yards behind the lead elements of General Hyakutake's Seventeenth Army, and those elements retreated through his lines, leaving his regiment to face the advancing Americans alone.
Colonel Shibata toured the area with his staff and saw emaciated Japanese soldiers crawl out of holes, looking more like rats than men. Some couldn't walk and had to be carried away, and others were so close to death there was some discussion about burying them forthwith, but Colonel Shibata ordered that they be carried away too.
The big guns were left behind, and Colonel Shibata's soldiers manned them. They'd brought crates of their own ammunition on their backs, which weren't enough for a sustained artillery barrage, but if used properly and sparingly they could do a lot of damage. Colonel Shibata designated where he wanted pillboxes and bunkers. He ordered all the trails and roads covered with concentrations of troops and thinned out his men through the jungle, which would be difficult for the Americans to pass through quickly. His line stretched in an arc from Ironbottom Sound inland to a range of mountains, and as the Americans pressed him, he'd fall back gradually to Cape Esperance.
Colonel Shibata was shown a cave where the corpse of a Japanese soldier had been carved up like a pig. Other soldiers had evidently been feeding off this one, and Colonel Shibata was horrified. He left the cave quickly and continued to deploy his regiment.
The image of the carved-up soldier haunted him for the rest of the afternoon. To him it symbolized the complete breakdown of the Japanese army on Guadalcanal. General Hyakutake should have ordered mass hara-kiri before he'd let the situation deteriorate so badly that Japanese soldiers were eating each other for dinner. It was a violation of everything Colonel Shibata believed as an officer in the Imperial Army.
As the sun sank toward the horizon, Colonel Shibata climbed to the top of a mountain on the extreme right flank of his line and looked east toward the part of the island held by the Americans. In the fading light he could see only wide stretches of jungle and fields of grass, but he knew the Americans were down there, moving toward him. There were many more of the Americans than there were of his own men, and he knew full well that the Sixty-sixth Regiment might not be able to evacuate Guadalcanal.
Perhaps the decision had been made in Imperial General Headquarters to sacrifice the Sixty-sixth Regiment in order to save the remainder of General Hyakutake's Seventeenth Army. If so, it was all right with Colonel Shibata. A soldier's duty was to die for his country.
Colonel Shibata descended the mountain and walked across his front line to his headquarters while dirty, bedraggled Japanese soldiers streamed through his lines on their way to Cape Esperance. They staggered under the weight of their packs and equipment, their skin sallow, their heads like skulls.
Colonel Shibata entered his tent. His aide, Private Suzuki, had laid out his tatami mat and arranged his clothing in a neat pile. On top of the pile was a photograph of the Emperor, and Major Shibata picked it up.
It showed the Emperor on his day of enthronement seventeen years earlier. The Emperor stood stiffly wearing heavy silk robes embroidered with paulownia blossoms, second in sanctity only to the chrysanthemum; the robes were similar to the those of a high Shinto priest. The Emperor carried a priest's scepter in his hand and wore the tall, swooping hat of a priest.
“Ah, sir,” said Colonel Shibata, looking at the picture, “I swear before you that I and my regiment will never fail you, for we were placed on earth to do your will.”
Colonel Stockton sat at his desk and in the fading light of day read a letter from his brother, who owned a huge lumber business in the
state of Maine. His brother, whose name was Harold, discussed life on the home front, the ration books for food and gas, the war-bond drives, the collections for scrap metal, rags, and paper. Colonel Stockton wished there was some news about his wife, who'd left him for a young captain and had last been seen in Paris before the Germans occupied that city. Colonel Stockton often wondered what had become of her, and sometimes he wished the Germans had shot her, while other times he missed her and hoped she was all right.
“May I come in, sir?” said Major Cobb from the other side of his tent flap.
“Sure, Frank.”
Major Cobb, stout and round-shouldered and wearing wire-rimmed glasses, entered the office, a sheet of paper in his hand. “We've just received a radio transmission from Captain Orr, sir. He says there's a lot of Jap activity directly in front of him.”
“Does he give coordinates?”
“I'll show you.”
Major Cobb walked behind the desk and pointed at the map. “Here, here, and around here.”
“Hmmm. General Patch has been expecting a last all-out offensive from the Japs, and maybe this is it. I'd better notify him personally right away, and you alert the battalion commanders.”
“Yes, sir.”
The phone on Colonel Stockton's desk rang and he picked it up. “Yes?”
It was Sergeant Major Ramsay on the other end. “Sir, a native is here with news about the recon platoon.”
Colonel Stockton was staggered. News about the recon platoon?
“Send him right in!”
The flap was pushed aside and a native appeared, wearing a lavalava skirt and an Army shirt with bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed on his chest. Accompanying him was Lieutenant Dorsey from Baker Company. Lieutenant Dorsey approached the desk and saluted.
“Sir, we found this native in our company area approximately an hour ago. He asked to speak with you personally.”
Colonel Stockton smiled and nodded to the native. “I'm
Colonel Stockton. I understand you have word about my reconnaissance platoon?”
The native marched to the desk and saluted British-style, with the palm of his hand facing the colonel. “I am Corporal
Kavasubu, sir. I have a message for you from Sergeant Butsko.”
“He's alive?”
“Oh, yes, sir. He alive.” Corporal Kavasubu handed over the message that Butsko had written.
Colonel Stockton took it eagerly, laid it on his desk, and read it. Major Cobb leaned over his shoulder and read it too. Butsko wrote tersely about the fight at the mansion, the capture, and the escape. He listed the names of the men still alive; there were only twelve. He said he'd try to work his way back to the American lines as soon as his wounded could travel and asked for further instructions.
Colonel Stockton looked up at Corporal Kavasubu. “Can you read a map?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you show me where your village is?”
“Yes, sir.”
Corporal Kavasubu walked behind the desk, looked at the map, and pointed to a spot of dense jungle. “Here.”
Colonel Stockton looked at the spot and realized it was to the south of the Japanese activity reported by Captain Orr. He wrote a note ordering Butsko to take his men to Hill Eighty-three, where Captain Orr was, and wait for the rest of the regiment to arrive. He cautioned Butsko about getting near the Japanese troop build-up.
“Can you give this message to Sergeant Butsko?” Colonel Stockton asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you get there by morning?”
“Good. You might as well leave now, because you have a long way to go.”
“Yes sir.”
Corporal Kavasubu saluted, turned, and left the office. Colonel Stockton looked at Major Cobb. “Radio Captain Orr and tell him to be on the lookout for Butsko and his men.”
“Yes, sir.”
Major Cobb walked quickly out of the office, and Colonel Stockton looked down at the map, making a red circle around the village where Butsko and the recon platoon were holed up. So the son of a bitch made it, Colonel Stockton thought, reaching for his pipe. An old war horse like Butsko doesn't die so easy.
Corporal Peter Kavasubu slipped into no-man's-land shortly after dark. Barefoot, he made his way through the dense jungle, stopping suddenly whenever he heard unusual sounds and stepping out again when he felt assured there was no danger.
He climbed hills and crossed swamps infested with crocodiles. He passed silently through vast fields of kunai grass, never bothering to check his compass, because he was born and raised on Guadalcanal and knew it well. Clouds appeared in the sky, obscuring the moon and stars, and around midnight a light drizzle fell, hissing against the leaves and vines. Kavasubu gradually became soaked to the skin, but he was accustomed to that too.
At two in the morning he stopped to rest underneath a taro tree with leaves as wide as an elephant's ears. He ate some K rations and drank water from his canteen. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, thinking of how peaceful the island had been before the Japanese came. He looked forward to the day the Japanese left. Then he could return to his life of hunting and gathering food, and if he ever needed money, he could work on one of the coconut plantations. He would miss the American soldiers, because they were playful fellows and very generous with food and cigarettes. Only their officers were serious, like the Americans who used to manage the plantations in the old days. Peter Kavasubu didn't like their officers so much and noticed that American soldiers didn't particularly care for them either.
He stood, checked his equipment, and moved out again. He knew he was drawing close to the Japanese positions the American colonel had told him about and would have to be extra careful. He paused every several minutes to listen for ominous sounds, then moved into the bush again, crouching low to the ground, smelling the familiar odor of rotting vegetation and animals that had been killed by other animals.
He came to a coconut grove at the base of a hill. It was a wild grove, not part of any plantation, and the trees weren't growing in straight lines, but they were spaced farther apart than ordinary jungle trees and he wondered whether he should go around it for purposes of safety.
He decided that would take too much time, and he couldn't discern any danger ahead. He'd go directly through the grove, hopping from tree to tree, because he wanted to deliver his message as quickly as he could.
The rain was falling harder as Peter Kavasubu passed through the coconut grove. His eyes scanned the ground so he wouldn't trip over any fallen coconuts. A wild dog howled somewhere in the distance and sent a shiver up Peter Kavasubu's spine, because there were many things in the jungle that he didn't understand and that frightened him. He believed that spirits lived in the trees and that the animals had their own gods. You had to behave honorably and not let any of the hidden beings get mad at you. Although Peter had been baptized by the Christian missionaries who'd come to the islands, he still retained his old superstitions. He knew that Jesus Christ would understand.
He stopped behind a coconut tree bent over so far that it looked like it would crack in two. Listening to the jungle, a big drop of water fell on his nose and he wiped it away. He couldn't see the moon and didn't have a watch, but estimated that it was around two o'clock in the morning. Time to get going if he wanted to reach the village by dawn. He stepped out from behind the tree.
Blam!
The bullet hit him in the face and his lights went out instantly. He was dead before he hit the ground and lay still. Figures appeared in the grove ahead of him. They were Japanese soldiers, well fed and in uniforms not yet torn to shreds, a patrol from Colonel Shibata's regiment. They approached cautiously in waves, covering each other, looking in all directions. Finally they came to the dead body of Peter Kavasubu. A private bent down and rolled him onto his back.
“A native,” he said.
“Search him,” said the sergeant.
The private went through Peter Kavasubu's pockets, findin
g some American coins, a handkerchief, the tooth of a crocodile, and the message from Colonel Stockton. He unfolded the message and handed it to the sergeant.
“It's written in American,” the sergeant said.
“Doesn't look very official,” said another soldier.
“You never can tell,” the sergeant replied. “We'd better take it back to headquarters. Get his weapon and ammunition.”
The soldiers took Peter Kavasubu's M 1 and his bandoliers of ammunition. The sergeant waved his hand and the Japanese soldiers walked away, leaving Joseph Kavasubu bleeding on the floor of the coconut grove. It didn't take long for the bluebottle flies to find him and begin feeding on his corpse.
Bannon and Mary lay in each other's arms as rain pitter-pattered on the thatched roof of their hut. They'd finally finished doing what young married couples do on their wedding nights, and Bannon was smoking a cigarette before going to sleep.
“I bet you friends think you crazy for marrying me,” the girl said sleepily, lying on top of Bannon.
Bannon nodded. “They sure do.”
She laughed softly. “Americans are so strange. They not understand love.”
“Well, marriage is usually a big thing back in the States.” “A big thing here too! What you think?”
“I know, but back where I'm from, people usually wait a long time before they get married.”
“What for?”
“So they can get to know each other better.”
“You find that out after you get married.”
“But Americans like to be sure.”
“You mean Americans not sure when they in love?”
“I guess not.”
“Are you sure of me?”
“Yes.”
She kissed his chest. “You very different from other Americans. I see that right away.”
“What did you see?”
“I cannot explain, but I see. What did you see?”
“I dunno. I guess it was something I felt more than saw.”
“Yes, that the way it is. It something you feel in your heart.
