Down and Dirty

by Len Levinson

  What about your girl friend in America?”

  “What about her?”

  “You love her too?”

  “No,” Bannon lied, because he wasn't sure of how he felt about Ginger just then. She was so far away, and he hadn't heard from her for so long.

  “Someday I like to go to America with you, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Bannon, although he didn't know how he could bring a dark-skinned girl like her back to Texas. Maybe he could say she was Mexican. A lot of cowboys married Mexicans, but she didn't have a Mexican accent. Maybe he could teach one to her, but how could he do that? He decided not to think about it. He wasn't sure he'd be alive at that time the next day, so why worry about Texas?

  Colonel Shibata felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. He heard rain pelting the roof of his tent.

  “Wake up, sir,” said Lieutenant Isangi.

  Colonel Shibata sat up. “What is it?”

  “One of our patrols killed an armed native and found this message on him.” Lieutenant Isangi held out the piece of paper.

  Colonel Shibata looked at the English writing, which he didn't understand. “What does it say?”

  Lieutenant Isangi had been a military attache in London for two years and was fluent in English. “It's hard to be sure, because the message doesn't say who it's from or who it's for, but it speaks of a certain hill where American soldiers are located and says there is a Japanese troop build-up in front of that hill. It orders other American soldiers to proceed to that hill and be wary of the Japanese troop concentration.”

  Colonel Shibata thought for a few moments. As far as he knew, the only Japanese troop build-up on Guadalcanal consisted of his regiment moving up on the line. “Hand me my pants.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Isangi lifted Colonel Shibata's pants off a chair and gave them to him. Colonel Shibata got out of bed and put on his pants while Lieutenant Isangi looked the other way. Colonel Shibata walked three steps to his map table and lit the kerosene lamp with a match. The wick glowed and brightened, illuminating the map laid out on the table.

  Colonel Shibata bent over the table and looked at the hills in front of his regiment's position. “Lieutenant Isangi, do you see these hills here?” He pointed at them with his finger.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Americans referred to in the message must be in these hills someplace. Send out patrols immediately to find out where they are.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And alert all units that other American troops may be moving into our zone of operations.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hurry!”

  Lieutenant Isangi dashed out of the tent, and Colonel Shibata sat on his cot, putting on his socks. He was glad there were Americans in front of him. Maybe he could strike quickly and draw the first blood. That would knock the Americans off balance and really slow them down. Besides, he'd much rather attack than defend. It was always the best way to win battles. · · ·

  Samuel Ching stood at the window in the attic of his hotel in Rabaul and watched activity in the harbor through a pair of binoculars. Ships had been arriving all day and night, with dock crews running up and down the gangplanks, and he couldn't figure out what they were doing, but he knew something big was taking place.

  Rabaul was the headquarters of the Japanese army and navy in the southwest Pacific, and Samuel Ching was a spy for the Americans. He was a wizened seventy-eight-year-old Chinese man with teeth stained brown because of too many cigarettes and not enough dentistry. He owned the Shining Moon Hotel, which overlooked the harbor, and his wife ran the hotel while he engaged in his undercover activities.

  He lowered his binoculars and moved away from the window. Pulling down the shade, he sat on the chair and took out a Japanese cigarette, lighting it with a match. What's going on down there? he wondered. He'd been holding off sending his report to the Americans until he had a more definite idea of what the Japanese were up to, but now decided he'd better report the activity anyway and let the Americans try to interpret it. They might have other information, and this additional material might help them put together a puzzle they were trying to figure out.

  On the table in front of him was a shortwave radio. He clicked it on and the tubes glowed orange. Waiting a few minutes for it to heat up properly, he began to tap out the message on the key in the special code the Americans had given him.

  MUCH ACTIVITY IN RABAUL HARBOR. MANY TRANSPORT SHIPS ARRIVING AND LEAVING PAST 24 HOURS. HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO FIND OUT WHAT'S GOING ON.

  The signal beamed out over the vast reaches of the Pacific Ocean to the American receiving station in Australia, where it was decoded, stamped, and passed along through channels to the intelligence section.

  TEN . . .

  Butsko woke up at daybreak, rinsed out his mouth with fresh water from his canteen, and lit a cigarette. His men were snoring all around him in the hut, and he got dressed silently as rain fell in torrents on the hut. He put on his helmet and went outside, the rain wetting him thoroughly after he'd taken only three steps.

  He ran through the cluster of huts to the one occupied by the chief and saw two guards sitting in front of it under a thatched shelter. Butsko dove underneath it.

  “The chief up yet?” Butsko asked.

  The guards shook their heads.

  “Has the messenger come back yet?”

  They shook their heads again.

  “He should have been back by now, right?”

  They nodded.

  The door to the tent was pushed aside and the chief appeared, bleary-eyed with sleep, wearing his lavalava.

  “Sorry to wake you up,” Butsko said.

  “What is wrong?’

  “I was wondering if the messenger came back yet.”

  “No,” said the chief, “not yet. The weather is bad. Maybe later.”

  “Okay. I'll try to be patient.”

  “It is always good to be patient.”

  Butsko turned and ran back to his hut. He figured if the messenger wasn't back by noon, he'd assume the Japs had gotten him. Butsko would leave with his men and try to work their way back to the American lines without the benefit of instructions from Colonel Stockton.

  On the top of Hill Eighty-three, Nutsy Gafooley was totally miserable. He was sitting in a foxhole half full of water and there was nothing he could do about it. Rain pinged on his helmet and splattered on his uniform. It was difficult to light cigarettes, but he had one going and shielded it with his hand so the rain wouldn't fall on it.

  Around him across the top of the hill were other foxholes containing the men from George Company. Even Captain Orr was in a foxhole, but he had his pup tent pitched over it because he had to study maps and keep his walkie-talkie dry. Everybody else had to sit and soak. Nutsy reflected on his past and realized he'd never been so unhappy in his entire life.

  The only bright spot was that some of the men in the recon platoon still were alive. The message had come in last night from regiment and traveled on the grapevine. It said a dozen of the recon platoon men had been taken prisoner by the Japs and then escaped. George Company was supposed to be on the lookout for them. The names of the recon platoon men who'd survived hadn't been provided. Nutsy wondered which ones they were.

  Whenever Nutsy was unhappy, he tried to think of happier days. He recalled when he was a hobo, living by his wits, riding the rails. How nice it was to jump off a freight train on the edge of a town and find a Hooverville full of people who had become homeless due to the Depression. If there was any stew in a pot, they gave you some. If there was tobacco, you got a share. And often there were pretty young girls around, too, because many women had been forced into the hobo life by the economic hard times.

  A shot was fired from his front, and he instinctively ducked his head. It was followed by a flurry of fire in the woods at the bottom of the hill. Captain Orr's listening post was down there, and evidently some Japs had shown up. Nutsy had been in com
bat enough to be able to measure the size of the fight. It sounded to him as if no more than a Japanese patrol had wandered into the defense perimeter.

  After a few minutes the firing stopped; Nutsy knew what was happening then too. The Jap patrol was withdrawing so that it could report the contact.

  In other words Company G could expect problems pretty soon.

  Fuck ‘em all, Nutsy thought, puffing the stub of his cigarette. Let the brass worry about it. I got my own problems.

  Colonel Stockton was in his operations tent, planning the day's advance, when the call came in on the radio. Lieutenant Harper got the message from the radio operator and handed it to Colonel Stockton, but Colonel Stockton was in the midst of some intricate planning and waved the sheet of paper away.

  “What does it say?” he mumbled out the comer of his mouth.

  “It's from Captain Orr on Hill Eighty-three, sir. A Japanese patrol has found them.”

  Colonel Stockton turned around and the operations room became still. Colonel Stockton had to make a tough decision: whether to leave G Company where it was and send help, or pull them out of there. He weighed the pros and cons quickly. His Second Battalion was closest to Hill Eighty-three but couldn't get there sooner than two hours, maybe three, and the Japanese main force might be closer than that. But on the other hand, he'd told Butsko to link up with Company G on Hill Eighty-three. Colonel Stockton didn't know that the messenger hadn't gotten through.

  If he had to choose between saving twelve men or saving a company, he'd have to save the company. ‘Tell Captain Orr to get the hell out of there,” he told Lieutenant Harper.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Harper returned to the radio, and Colonel Stockton looked down at the map. He wasn't worried about Company G, because they'd have plenty of time to get away, but the survivors of the recon platoon were another story. Butsko knows how to handle himself, Colonel Stockton thought. He should be okay.

  “Sir,” said Major Cobb, pointing to the map, “I think we should advance part of the Second Battalion along the beach here.”

  “I agree,” replied Colonel Stockton, “and I want you to tell Colonel Smith to move his men west as quickly as he can, because we expect Japs to arrive in that sector soon. Also tell him to be on the lookout for George Company and the recon platoon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Cobb walked to the telephone operator. Colonel Stockton scratched his chin and thought about the Japanese patrol. If the Japs were retreating, as he'd been led to believe, they wouldn't be sending out patrols. Maybe the Japs weren't as weak as had been thought. Maybe they were planning a counteroffensive.

  Colonel Stockton turned around and shouted to Major Cobb, “When you finish with Colonel Smith, call General Patch's headquarters and tell him about the Japanese activity around Hill Eighty-three!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  In the pouring rain Colonel Shibata was inspecting the fortifications on his front line, congratulating the soldiers who'd dug good holes, shouting at those who'd done a lousy job.

  With Colonel Shibata were members of his staff, plus, his radio operator, and when the message from the patrol came in, it was handed to Lieutenant Isangi immediately. Lieutenant Isangi read it, his eyes widening with every word, and then he approached Colonel Shibata.

  “Sir,” he said, “one of our patrols has made contact with the Americans.”

  “Where?”

  Lieutenant Isangi showed him on the map. Colonel Shibata set his lips in a thin line and thought for a few moments. “Which battalion is facing that hill?”

  “Battalion A, sir.”

  “Send them forward to occupy it and the territory nearby.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And have the other battalions prepare to follow at a moment's notice.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Isangi dropped to one knee so he could write out the orders. Colonel Shibata gazed east through the pouring rain. He felt enlivened for the first time since he came to Guadalcanal, because a battle was in the offing. His troops were fresher and better equipped than the Americans, because the Americans had been fighting on Guadalcanal longer. I have a good chance to set the Americans back on their heels, he thought. How wonderful that would be if I can do it.

  At Henderson Field, General Patch sat at his desk, thinking about the dispatch that had arrived from Australia an hour before. It was the one that reported the activity in the port of Rabaul.

  The intelligence section hadn't known what to make of the activity and suggested it might be the prelude to a major Japanese reinforcement of Guadalcanal. General Patch was advised to take the appropriate precautions, but he didn't know how far to go.

  He could play it safe and move all his forces back to Henderson Field, the principal strategic objective on Guadalcanal, so that his defense would be at full strength if the Japanese invasion came. But what if it didn't come? What if that shipping activity was geared toward something else entirely? Then he'd look like a fool, and he'd throw away all the ground he'd taken west of the Matanikau River. That would give the Japs time to regroup, and they'd descend on Henderson Field like gnats. He couldn't give them that opportunity.

  The only thing to do was move the bulk of his forces back to Henderson Field and leave only sufficient units in the field to make the Japs think he was still pressing his offensive. In a week or two he'd know whether the situation in Rabaul meant an invasion of Gudalcanal, and if it wasn't, he'd switch his main forces back to the west and really get after the Japs.

  There was a knock on his door.

  Come in!”

  A young lieutenant entered the office, a dispatch in his hand. He saluted and laid the dispatch on General Patch's desk. ‘This just came in for you, sir.”

  General Patch looked at the dispatch; it was the message from Colonel Stockton about the trouble on Hill Eighty-three. The lieutenant saluted again and marched out of the office while General Patch reread the dispatch. It gave him something new to worry about. It appeared that the Japs might try to break out in the west, so he'd have to leave more troops there than he wanted. But maybe not. Maybe he should wait and see what developed. The Twenty-third Infantry was moving toward Hill Eighty-three, and maybe they could handle whatever the Japs tried. If they needed help, they could ask for it.

  General Patch cursed the generals in Washington for not giving him what he needed to win on Guadalcanal. Then he wouldn't have to make such an agonizing decision. But the bulk of the US war effort was aimed at North Africa and Europe, and the war in the Pacific was just a sideshow. The Guadalcanal campaign had been nicknamed “the Shoestring War.”

  He decided to leave the Twenty-third Infantry in the west and pull everyone else back to Henderson Field. He'd tell Colonel Stockton to call for reinforcements if things ever got too hot out there. General Patch felt relieved now that the decision had been made. He picked up his phone to call for an aide who would write the orders down.

  He had no way of knowing that the shipping activity in Rabaul was preparation for the evacuation of all Japanese soldiers on Gudalcanal, not their reinforcement. In years to come General Patch would be harshly criticized for his decision to break off his campaign in the west.

  The rain was falling in torrents on the little village in the jungle, and the paths between huts had become rivers. Butsko ran toward the chief's hut, holding his collar up around his ears, his feet soaking wet. It was noon and he figured it was time to move out if the messenger hadn't returned yet. He'd already told his men to get ready to leave the village. The only person he hadn't told yet was Bannon, but he wanted to give him as much time with his new wife as possible.

  Butsko lowered his head and entered the chief's hut. The chief and a few of the village elders sat around a fire pit that had no fire in it, because the smoke would give their village away to the Japs. They were talking in their native language and stopped suddenly at the sight of Butsko, who removed his helmet.

  �
�Sorry to bother you sir,” he said to the chief, “but I was wondering if your messenger came back yet.”

  The chief shook his head. “If he had, I would have told you. He should have been back by now. We're afraid that something has happened to him.”

  Butsko crouched down near the firepit. “Well, I've got to get our men back to our lines.”

  “Why not stay here for a while?”

  “I don't think my commanding officer would like it if I took a vacation right now.”

  “But some of your men are injured.”

  “They can all travel. One of the reasons I want to leave is so I can get them medical attention.”

  The old chief sighed. “If that's your decision, so be it.”

  “I'll have to take your new son-in-law with me.”

  “So be it.”

  “I'll stop by before I leave,” Butsko said.

  Butsko passed through the door of the hut into the rain again and headed for the hut where Bannon was laid up with his new wife. He jumped over puddles and saw trees swaying in the wind. It looked to Butsko like the beginning of a hurricane. Running up the corridor between two rows of huts, he finally came to the one Bannon was in.

  “Hey, Bannon!” he said, banging on a wall.

  “Come on in!”

  Butsko ducked into the doorway and saw Bannon and his new wife underneath blankets, a candle burning nearby. Bannon lay on his back and the girl was on her side next to him. Butsko wondered what naughty thing she'd been doing when he knocked on the wall.

  “We're moving out in about an hour,” Butsko said. “Report to my hut as soon as you get ready.”

  “Okay,” Bannon replied.

  Butsko smiled at the girl. “Sorry to take your old man away, kid, but there's a war on out there.”

  Before she could say anything, Butsko was out the door again, running through the water and mud. The girl looked at Bannon and began to cry.

  He hugged her tightly. “Don't cry. Everything will be all right.”

  “I not want you to go.”