Go Down Fighting

by Len Levinson

  But who will lead this attack? General Adachi wondered. Ordinarily he would have chosen General Yokozowa, his most ferocious fighting general, but General Yokozowa was unable to lead troops now. Who could take his place? Who was the most daring fanatical officer in the Eighteenth Army?

  General Adachi ran the names of his senior commanders through his mind. He wanted a real maniac, a mad dog in human skin. Was there such an officer in his command?

  General Adachi remembered a name, and scowled because the name belonged to an officer whom General Adachi considered a disgrace to the Eighteenth Army. The officer had murdered nearly fifty American prisoners of war on the Huon Peninsula, tieing the Americans down and chopping off their heads with his samurai sword. This officer also had been accused of murdering native men and raping native women. No charges had ever been brought against him because most Japanese officers were harsh in their dealings with American soldiers and natives, and such behavior was fairly common in the Japanese Army, but this officer was particularly atrocious. It was said that he was careless with the lives of his troops, but he usually attained whatever military objectives he was assigned.

  General Adachi couldn’t remember the officer’s name. He’d never met the officer, and believed he was only a captain. However the officer could be promoted to whatever rank was necessary. All that mattered was that he be fierce and unrelenting in the attack.

  General Adachi had heard the officer’s name mentioned many times, usually with disapproval. Nobody had ever said anything good about the officer in General Adachi’s presence. Evidently the officer had no friends. He probably would’ve been stripped of his rank and shipped back to Japan, if the Eighteenth Army had plenty of men and officers, but the Eighteenth army had been hard-pressed by the Americans ever since it was formed, and it couldn’t afford to get rid of anyone who could fire a rifle.

  “Lieutenant Ono!” General Adachi shouted.

  “Yes sir!” replied a voice in another section of the tent.

  “Report to me at once!”

  “Yes sir!”

  General Adachi heard a rustle of paper and a shuffle of feet. Moments later young beaver-cheeked Lieutenant Ono rushed into his office.

  “At ease, Lieutenant Ono.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you sir!”

  Lieutenant Ono had a round head and black hair that lay flat on his scalp. His eyes were alert and his nose twitched with excitement.

  “Lieutenant Ono,” General Adachi said, “I’m trying to remember the name of a certain officer. He’s the one who massacred those American prisoners of war on the Huon Peninsula during the winter of 1942. Have you ever heard of him, by any chance?”

  “That was Major Sakakibara, sir.”

  General Adachi nodded. “That’s right—I remember now. But I thought he was a captain.”

  “You promoted him, sir.”

  “I promoted him?”

  “Yes sir. On a list with other officers.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “There were many names on the list, sir.”

  “Where is Major Sakakibara now?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I can get his records.”

  “Please do.”

  Lieutenant Ono leapt out of his chair and shot out of the office. General Adachi sipped water from the glass on his desk. Somehow his stomach pain eased during the past few minutes. Can this be a sign from the gods that I’m on the right track? he wondered.

  Lieutenant Ono burst through the tent flap, carrying a folder. “Here are Major Sakakibara’s records, sir.” He laid them on General Adachi’s desk.

  General Adachi opened the folder. A photograph of Major Sakakibara was attached to the top document, and the first thing General Adachi noticed were Major Sakakibara’s eyes. The major’s eyes were slitted so much that his eyeballs could barely be seen. His mouth was a thin slash across the lower half of his face, and he had outsized ears. His cheeks were concave and the shape of his face was long and thin, almost grotesquely long and thin. The document contained a list of Major Sakakibara’s assignments; he currently was commander of the 334th Battalion of the Fifty-ninth Infantry Regiment.

  General Adachi thumbed through the folder. Major Sakakibara had been reprimanded numerous times for excessive cruelty to prisoners and natives. He’d been accused of torturing prisoners and burning villages, and had quarreled with many of his senior commanders. Thirty-two years old, he’d joined the Army as a private in 1930 and risen through the ranks.

  General Adachi closed the folder. Major Sakakibara was a bad man, there was no question about that. He also was a disgrace to his uniform, but perhaps such a man was needed now that the Eighteenth Army was entering its final hour. Perhaps a mad dog was required to punish the Americans for all they’d done to the once-great Eighteenth Army.

  “Lieutenant Ono,” General Adachi said, “I want you to prepare a secret directive for my signature.”

  “Yes sir,” replied Lieutenant Ono, preparing his notepad and pen.

  “I want to form a new military unit, called the Southern Strike Force,” General Adachi said. “It will be comprised of units to be specified by me later today, so leave that part blank. The commander of the Southern Strike Force will be Colonel Tomohiro Sakakibara.”

  “Colonel Sakakibara?” Lieutenant Ono asked.

  “That is correct. Major Sakakibara is being promoted to Lieutenant Colonel as of today.”

  “But sir—”

  General Adachi held out his hand. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say that there are many other officers who deserve a promotion more than Major Sakakibara, but these are hard times, and hard times call for extraordinary measures. Major Sakakibara is a foul human being. I know that and so do you. So does everybody else, for that matter. But we need a foul human being now, to punish the Americans for what they’ve done to this great Army.”

  Lieutenant Ono bowed his head. “I understand, sir.”

  “Please prepare the directive.”

  Lieutenant Ono leapt to his feet and saluted. “Yes sir!”

  “And have Major Sakakibara report to me as soon as possible.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  Lieutenant Ono performed an about-face and fled from the office. General Adachi lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He felt strangely calm, and his stomach hurt only slightly. He realized that there was nothing for him to be worried about anymore. He couldn’t possibly defeat the Americans on New Guinea. There were no more questions or anxieties in his mind. All he could do was go down fighting, and that would be fine with him. He’d done everything he could.

  He placed his polished boots on top of his desk and contemplated the end of his life. How sweet it would be to be transported away from the New Guinea hellhole and delivered into heaven, where he would reside forever with his illustrious ancestors. How wonderful to be relieved of the responsibility for planning gigantic offensives or struggling with insurmountable logistical dilemmas. No longer would he have to look at hungry and wounded Japanese soldiers who broke his heart. General Adachi intended to die in the field or by his own hand in an act of ritual hara-kiri. The end was in sight and he was glad.

  He smiled as he puffed his cigarette. I’ve done my best, he said to himself. A man can’t be expected to do more than that.

  The Twenty-third Regiment advanced into the jungle south of the village of Afua. The recon platoon was midway between the center of the line and its left flank. It had become mixed in with Lieutenant Jameson’s Easy Company during the melee of the morning, and had participated in the capture of Afua a half hour ago.

  The recon platoon moved through the thick pristine jungle, against no resistance. The Japanese had fled after abandoning Afua. They’d been outnumbered severely and evidently chose to run and fight another day.

  The recon platoon was organized into a skirmish line, and only eighteen me
n were still on their feet in the platoon. Bannon was positioned behind the center of his skirmish line, and his men were spaced six feet apart except for Private Worthington, Bannon’s runner, who was beside Bannon in case he was needed.

  Sweat poured off Bannon’s body; it was an unusually hot day even for New Guinea. He glanced at his watch, and it was 0745 hours. Bannon was tired and hungry, and the heat sapped his energy. He felt as though he was advancing through a shimmering green hell. He wondered what had happened to the Japs. He thought he might run into a new Japanese defensive line at any moment, and he didn’t want to be taken by surprise.

  “Keep your eyes open!” he shouted to his men. “There might be Japs just around the corner!”

  “Your mother’s around the corner!” Frankie La Barbara replied.

  “Shut up, Frankie!”

  “There ain’t no Japs around here!” Frankie said. “They’re all gone!”

  “Don’t bet on it!” Bannon replied. “Everybody keep your eyes open!”

  “Fuck you!” Frankie replied.

  It was too hot, and Bannon was too irritable. He swung to the side and walked toward Frankie La Barbara. “What’d you say?” he asked Frankie.

  “I said fuck you,” Frankie replied, because he was hot and irritable too.

  “Everybody stop and take a five-minute break!” Bannon said. “Light ‘em up if you got ‘em.”

  “Your mother’s got ‘em,” Frankie La Barbara replied, watching Bannon draw closer.

  Bannon threw off his helmet and dropped his rifle and bayonet onto the ground. He dived onto Frankie with both of his arms stretched forward, and grabbed Frankie by the throat.

  “You son of a bitch!” Bannon said. “I’ve had just about enough of you!”

  “Your mother’s pussy,” Frankie snarled, and swung a left hook at Bannon’s head.

  The blow landed on Bannon’s right temple, and Bannon saw a black lagoon. He loosened his grip on Frankie’s throat and took a step backwards. Frankie threw a left jab to Bannon’s nose and backed him up again. Stepping forward, Frankie punched Bannon in the stomach, and when Bannon bent over, Frankie shot an uppercut to the tip of his jaw. Bannon bent backwards, falling onto his ass.

  Frankie looked down at him, his fists balled up and a cruel gleam in his eye. “This fucking cowboy is so fulla shit it’s coming out of his ears,” Frankie said. “He talks a good game but he don’t look so tough now.”

  Bannon opened his eyes and saw Frankie standing over him. At first Bannon didn’t know what happened to him, but a second later he remembered everything. It was a hot day, but it got even hotter under Bannon’s collar. He licked his lips and tasted his salty blood.

  Frankie laughed as he towered over Bannon. “Hell, I thought you was supposed to be a tough guy, but you ain’t tough at all. You ain’t showing me much, champ!”

  “I’m gonna kill you,” Bannon replied, getting up on his elbows.

  “I oughtta step on your fucking face,” Frankie replied.

  Bannon kicked his legs into the air, did a backflip, and wound up on his feet, dancing and punching the air with both his hands.

  “C’mon,” he said to Frankie. “Let’s go.”

  “Your mother’s pussy,” Frankie replied, raising his fists.

  Bannon moved closer. He gave Frankie some lateral movement and jerked his head around. Frankie tried to measure Bannon for a stiff left jab. He moved to the side to cut Bannon off, and threw the left jab at Bannon’s face.

  Bannon’s face wasn’t there because Bannon leaned to the side as the jab whistled by. As Bannon leaned, he hooked Frankie in the face. Frankie was stunned by the punch, but he didn’t back up. He raised his fists to cover his face, and Bannon slugged him in the gut. Frankie expelled air through his mouth and wanted to fold up his tent and go home, but he couldn’t do that with Bannon coming in for the kill and everybody else watching.

  Frankie backed up and Bannon went after him. Bannon faked a jab to Frankie’s head, and Frankie raised his fists to block it, but instead Bannon punched Frankie in the breadbasket again. Frankie lowered his guard to prevent the same thing from recurring, and Bannon jabbed him twice in the mouth. When Frankie raised his hands Bannon went downstairs again, hammering Frankie’s guts. Frankie threw a wild punch at Bannon’s head, and it connected, but it didn’t have much on it and Bannon walked right through it. He punched Frankie on the left ear and then the right ear. Their arms got tangled and Bannon pushed Frankie off. Frankie tripped over a rock as he was backing up and he fell on his ass.

  “You ain’t showin’ me much,” Bannon said, dancing from side to side over Frankie’s body.

  “Your mother ain’t showin’ me much,” Frankie snarled. He could barely see Bannon and felt as though he was lying on the deck of a ship in heavy seas.

  “Get up,” Bannon said.

  “I’m trying,” Frankie replied.

  “Lemme give you a hand,” Bannon told him.

  Bannon held out his hand. Frankie reached up but Bannon pulled his hand back. Frankie fell down again.

  “You dumb fuck,” Bannon said. “You ain’t shit, Frankie.”

  “Your mother ain’t shit,” Frankie replied, defiant till the end.

  It really was the end. Bannon reared back his foot and kicked Frankie in the face. Frankie went flat on the ground and didn’t move. Bannon took a step backwards and pulled out his canteen. He raised it to his mouth and heard rustling in the bushes.

  He turned around and saw Lieutenant Jameson enter the clearing, followed by a few soldiers. Lieutenant Jameson was a brown-haired stringbean with sad eyes and a lantern jaw.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Lieutenant Jameson asked.

  Nobody said a word. The men from the recon platoon sat around and smoked their cigarettes as if they hadn’t heard anything. Frankie lay unconscious on the ground, his face puffy and bruised in spots where Bannon had clobbered him.

  “Who’s in charge here?” Lieutenant Jameson asked.

  “I am,” replied Bannon, standing near Frankie.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bannon, sir.”

  “What’s your rank?”

  “Buck Sergeant.”

  “What happened to that man on the ground?”

  “He fainted from the heat, sir.”

  “He fainted from the heat?” Lieutenant Jameson asked incredulously.

  “Yes sir.”

  “How come his face is all bruised?”

  “Is his face bruised, sir?” Bannon asked.

  “Can’t you see the bruises, Sergeant?”

  Bannon leaned closer to Frankie. “Oh yeah, I can see ‘em now.”

  “Show me your hands, Sergeant?”

  “Whataya wanna look at my hands for, sir?”

  “Just show me your hands, Sergeant. I’ll ask the questions around here.”

  Bannon held out his hands and showed them palm up.

  “Turn them over,” Lieutenant Jameson said.

  “What for?”

  “Because I said to turn them over.”

  Bannon turned his hands over. Lieutenant Jameson narrowed his eyes and saw Bannon’s knuckles skinned and smeared with faint traces of blood.

  “Have you been fighting, Sergeant?” Lieutenant Jameson asked.

  “Yes sir, all morning. How do you think I got to where I am now?”

  “I mean have you been fighting with this man on the ground?”

  “That man on the ground there?”

  “What other man would I be talking about?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Sergeant. I know you’ve been fighting with that man over there.”

  At that point Frankie La Barbara opened his eyes. “Where am I?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Jameson bent over him. “What’s your name, soldier?”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Jameson from Easy Company.”

  “What the hell are
you doing over here?”

  “I’ll ask the questions here, soldier. What’s your name?”

  “Pfc. Frankie La Barbara.”

  “Have you been fighting with this man here?”

  “What man where?”

  “Sergeant Bannon here.”

  Frankie La Barbara looked up at Bannon, and pure hatred flowed out of his eyeballs. Frankie pushed himself to his feet and looked at Bannon. Then Frankie smiled.

  “Fighting with Sergeant Bannon?” Frankie asked. “Naw, I ain’t been fighting with Sergeant Bannon. Sergeant Bannon’s my friend—why would I fight with Sergeant Bannon?”

  “You sure look like you’ve been fighting with somebody.”

  “I’ve been fighting the Japs, sir.”

  Lieutenant Jameson put two and two together. He surmised that Bannon and Frankie had been fighting, and since Bannon was a noncommissioned officer, he was automatically in the wrong. On top of all that, Bannon was lying about it. Lieutenant Jameson turned to Bannon and looked him in the eye.

  “I’m giving you one last chance to tell the truth, Sergeant. Have you been fighting with that man over there?”

  “No sir,” Bannon replied, looking straight back into Lieutenant Jameson’s eyes.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Take those bars off your collar and tell me that.”

  “Are you threatening me, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t know, am I, sir?”

  “You’re being insubordinate.”

  “I got things to do, sir.”

  “I’m gonna have you court-martialed.”

  “I don’t much give a shit what you do.”

  “You’re under arrest as of right now,” Lieutenant Jameson said. “You’re not to leave this platoon area unless so ordered. Is that clear?”

  “Where the hell would I go?”

  “Stop talking back to me, soldier!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Have your men dig in right here, and you’d better be here when I come back.”

  “Yes sir.”