Go Down Fighting

by Len Levinson

  Bannon walked past McGurk’s foxhole and headed toward the foxhole occupied by the Reverend Billie Jones, hearing a snore as he approached. He looked into the foxhole and saw the Reverend Billie Jones sound asleep.

  “Jones!” Bannon said.

  Jones didn’t move. Bannon picked up a pebble and dropped it on Jones’s steel pot. The pebble landed with a ping and Jones jumped six inches into the air.

  “Whatsa matter!” Jones hollered.

  “You’re going out on patrol with me at sundown.”

  “Can’t you get somebody else?”

  “No.”

  “But I’m dog tired, Bannon. I need to get me some sleep.”

  ‘Tough shit. Go see the chaplain and get your ticket punched, but make sure you’re back by sundown.”

  “Why me?” the Reverend Billie Jones asked.

  “Why not you?” Bannon replied.

  Bannon walked away, and he was getting mad. No one would dare talk back to Butsko if he was the one organizing the patrol, because Butsko would beat the shit out of them. The men were afraid of Butsko, but they weren’t afraid of him. They don’t respect me, Bannon thought. And I hate their fucking guts.

  Bannon approached Frankie La Barbara’s foxhole. Frankie La Barbara sat inside, smoking a cigarette and writing a letter to his wife Francesca back in New York City.

  “Hey Frankie,” Bannon said.

  “Whataya want?” Frankie asked.

  “We’re going out on patrol tonight.”

  “Maybe you are, cowboy, but I’m not.”

  “Oh yes you are.”

  “Oh no I’m not.”

  “I just gave you a direct order.”

  “Shove your direct order up your ass.”

  Bannon took a deep breath. He knew that the only way to make Frankie go out on the patrol was to beat the shit out of him, and Bannon was tired of fighting with Frankie. A great wet blanket of fatigue fell over Bannon. He didn’t feel like dealing with the men in the recon platoon anymore. He was no Butsko and no Lieutenant Breckenridge. All he wanted to do was go back to Texas and ride the range. He was fed up with the war and fed up with being acting platoon sergeant.

  “Fuck you,” Bannon said. “I quit.”

  He turned around and walked back to his foxhole. Jumping inside, he opened his pack and checked out the contents. He had two boxes of C rations inside, enough for two days. He hoisted the pack to his back and thrust his arms through the straps.

  “See you later,” Bannon said to Worthington.

  “Where you going?”

  “That’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

  Bannon slung his M 1 rifle over his shoulder and walked off toward the jungle. He found a trail and moved along it. In seconds he was out of sight. Worthington scratched his head and wrinkled his nose. I think our acting platoon sergeant just went AWOL, he said to himself.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon on the island of Oahu. Butsko lay on his cot in the Bachelor Officers Quarters, smoking a cigarette. The bright late-afternoon sun shone through the window, making the room glow orange. His shoes were off and he wore a tan class A uniform with his Combat Infantryman’s Badge above his left shirt pocket. He puffed the cigarette and thought about Dolly, wondering what the hell she was doing in Santa Monica, California. There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened and big Lieutenant Norton walked in the room. “Hiya,” he said.

  “Hiya,” Butsko replied.

  “I came to get you for chow.”

  “You’re early.”

  “I can wait.”

  “Why don’t you wait downstairs?”

  “Because I don’t feel like it.”

  “You’re a real ball-buster, you know that?”

  Norton straddled the wooden chair in front of the small wooden desk. “You sound like you’re in a bad mood.”

  “I’m like a prisoner in jail, and I’m supposed to be in a good mood?”

  “You’re not a prisoner. You can go anywhere you want.”

  “Provided you’re with me.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s what I’m saying—I’m a prisoner.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Tomorrow you’ll be in Los Angeles. You can look up your wife.”

  “You gonna stay with me when I fuck her?”

  “I’ll be in the next room.”

  “What kind of deal is that supposed to be?”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “What a job.”

  Norton looked at his watch. He took out a cigarette and lit it up. He had a prominent nose and jaw, and tanned features. “You wanna go to the mess hall early?”

  “What for?”

  “Beat the rush.”

  “Fuck the rush. This is our last night here. We should go to town and have a decent meal.”

  “Last time you went to town you started a fucking riot.”

  “Some jarhead marine attacked me. It wasn’t my fault.”

  “And it wasn’t your fault you were found drunk in that bed there with a woman, right?”

  “I don’t remember anything.”

  “We can’t let that happen again.”

  “How could it happen again? You’ll be with me, won’t you?”

  “You’re damned right I will.”

  “How’d you like to get laid?” Butsko asked.

  “Forget about it.”

  “You don’t like to get laid?”

  “You and I aren’t leaving this base, so forget about it.”

  “I know this fancy whorehouse in town. The girls are real pretty and it won’t cost you anything.”

  “Why wouldn’t it cost me anything?”

  “Because I got my back pay today, remember?”

  “You’ll pick up the tab?”

  “That’s right.”

  Lieutenant Norton thought about it for a few moments, then shook his head. “I think we’d better stay on the base.”

  Butsko made an expression of disgust. “What are you, a fairy or something?”

  “Don’t gimme any shit, Butsko.”

  “Are you afraid of a little pussy, Norton?”

  “My job is to keep you out of trouble, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  “The best way to keep me out of trouble is to put me in the sack with a broad.”

  “You’ll get drunk and you’ll start a fight.”

  “I’d rather fuck than fight, but I’ll tell you something: if I have to spend another night on this base, I’m liable to blow my cork. I might punch somebody in the mouth when I go to that mess hall. I’m liable to throw a table through a fucking window.”

  “If you do, we’ll toss you right in the stockade.”

  “I can see the headlines in the paper now. Medal of Honor winner gets tossed into the shitcan. That’ll go over real big on the home front.”

  “Maybe we’ll have to shoot you,” Lieutenant Norton said ominously.

  “There’s an easier way out of this,” Butsko said. “Just get a car and drive me to the whorehouse. I’ll get laid and you’ll get laid. Nobody has to know anything. Whataya say?”

  “No.”

  “Asshole.”

  “Scumbag.”

  “Fuck you,” Butsko said. “I hate your guts and I’m not cooperating with you anymore. I’m gonna fuck up real bad and make you look bad. You won’t like what I’m gonna do to you.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “We sure will.”

  The sun sank toward the horizon as Private Worthington approached the command post of Headquarters Company. He heard soldiers doing calisthenics and saw them through the trees, jumping up and down, clapping their hands over their heads and against their thighs.

  Worthington proceeded along the trail and came to the clearing where the calisthenics were taking place. A sergeant stood in front of four ranks of men, jumping up and down and exhorting them on, and to the left of the sergeant was Colonel Hutchi
ns, jumping with the rest of the men.

  Private Worthington stopped cold. It looked as though the colonel was going to have a heart attack at any moment. His face was red and his uniform was soaked with sweat. His jaw hung open and his tongue hung out of his mouth.

  The sergeant stopped jumping. “All right, gentlemen!” he said. “The next exercise will be squat-jumps! Readeep . . . one—two—threep . . .”

  The soldiers placed their hands behind their heads and placed their left feet forward, dropping to a squatting position. Then they jumped up and dropped down again, moving their right feet forwards and their left feet backwards, ending up in another squatting position. They performed this exercise again and again, by the numbers. Private Worthington knew this was the most difficult and painful of all the calisthenics. Men often collapsed after they finished the routine. He watched Colonel Hutchins jumping up and down, his face turning purple, and thought: They’d better get a medic out here pretty damn soon.

  Private Worthington entered the orderly room of the Headquarters Company command post, and saw Sergeant Maxwell seated behind the desk.

  “I gotta see Captain Mason,” he said. “It’s important.”

  “What’s important?”

  “What I got to tell him.”

  “Whataya got to tell him?”

  “I came here to tell him, not you.”

  “You don’t tell me, you don’t get in.”

  “If I tell you, you gotta keep it quiet.”

  “I’ll keep it the way I wanna keep it.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Sergeant.”

  “What’s on your mind, scumbag?”

  “Somebody in the platoon is AWOL.”

  “Who?”

  “Bannon.”

  “Bannon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I always thought he was the most sensible person in the platoon.”

  “I thought so too, but he’s gone over the hill.”

  “Over the hill where?”

  “I don’t know. He just walked off into the jungle.”

  “The Japs’ll probably get him, and if they don’t, we will.”

  “Can I talk to Captain Mason about it?”

  “Whataya wanna talk to Captain Mason for?”

  “To tell him.”

  “Whataya wanna tell him for?”

  “Because Bannon was supposed to take a patrol out tonight.”

  “Oh,” Sergeant Maxwell said. “I see. Well, I’ll talk to him about it.”

  “Do you think there’s any way you can keep this quiet for a while, because maybe Bannon’ll come back. In fact, maybe he’s back already.”

  “I’ll talk to the old man about that one too.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  “Oh, by the way, Sergeant, there’s one more thing. I think you’d better call the medics, because Colonel Hutchins is out there doing PT, and it looks like he’s gonna collapse at any moment.”

  Sergeant Maxwell looked up at Worthington. “Mind your own business, young Private, and I thought I told you to get the fuck out of here.”

  “Hup Sarge.”

  Private Worthington performed an about-face and walked out of the orderly room. He emerged into the great humid outdoors again and saw the Headquarters Company soldiers still engaged in their PT (physical training). They were performing push-ups now, touching their chins to the muck and then raising themselves up again, as the sergeant counted the numbers.

  Private Worthington saw Colonel Hutchins keeping up with the rest of them, but he didn’t appear as though he could keep up the pace much longer. That poor son of a bitch, Private Worthington thought, I wonder what he’s trying to prove.

  Meanwhile, back at the recon platoon bivouac, Private McGurk was sharpening the sword he’d picked up on the battlefield the previous night. It was a beautiful old sword with gold inlaid into the hilt, and carvings of crysanthemums on the blade. He ran his Arkansas Washita stone back and forth over the blade that gleamed in the light of the setting sun.

  Frankie La Barbara walked by on his way to the latrine. “Whatcha doing in there?” he asked.

  “Sharpening this sword.”

  “Looks like a good one.”

  “I never seen one like it before,” McGurk said.

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Frankie jumped into the foxhole, and McGurk handed it over. Frankie squinted as he examined it, and could see that it was very old. The metalwork was exquisite. Frankie had never seen one like it before either.

  “You wanna sell it?” Frankie asked.

  “What’ll you gimme?”

  Frankie figured he could sell it to a sailor or a rear-echelon officer for maybe fifty bucks. “Ten bucks,” he said.

  “No deal,” replied McGurk.

  “Fifteen?”

  “C’mon.”

  “It’s not worth more than fifteen.”

  “I wouldn’t sell this sword for less than fifty dollars,” McGurk said, because he knew what swords were worth too.

  “You’re fucking crazy!” Frankie replied. “You’ll never get fifty dollars for that sword!”

  “Then I’m not selling it.”

  “If you change your mind, lemme know.”

  “I ain’t changing my mind.”

  Frankie crawled out of the foxhole and walked away. McGurk continued to sharpen the sword. He paused after a few more strokes and touched his thumb to the edge. It was sharp as a razor. Damn good steel in this sword, he thought. I wonder who it belonged to?

  EIGHT . . .

  It was eleven o’clock at night. Bannon lay underneath a bush with his head on his knapsack, and tried to sleep. Birds squawked in the trees and a wild dog barked in the distance. An occasional rifle shot or machine-gun burst could be heard far away.

  I’ve done it, Bannon thought. I’m free. He had no qualms whatever about going AWOL. He simply didn’t give a fuck anymore. Let those guys see what it’s like to get along on their own. I hope they get their asses shot off.

  Bannon figured he’d been reported as AWOL by now, but no one would come to look for him. His plan was to climb the Torricelli Mountains and hide in the valley on the other side, where no Japs or American troops were, and live off the land until the war was over. Then he’d come out of hiding and say he’d been taken prisoner by the Japs, and he’d escaped. No-body’d be around to say he’d lied. They’d probably give him a fucking medal.

  He thought he was a real smart fellow, and wondered why he hadn’t done this long ago. To hell with this war, he thought. Let somebody else do the fighting for a change.

  Colonel Hutchins paced the floor of his tent in the darkness. Back and forth he went, his arms clasped behind his back as he chewed a great gob of gum.

  All he wanted was a good stiff shot of white lightning and a cigarette. He would’ve sold his grandmother down the river for one or the other if she was still alive. Every pore in his body was crying out for nicotine and alcohol. He was tempted to give in. Every second was a struggle, and he even questioned the validity of the struggle. Why am I doing this to myself? he wondered. What the hell’s in it for me?

  It was a question he couldn’t answer, but he was determined to continue his abstinence. He’d given his word and there could be no backing out now. He wondered how many more days it’d take before the longing would diminish. I can’t take this shit much longer, he said to himself.

  He clasped and unclasped his hands as he marched back and forth in the darkness. On his desk was a pile of work that needed to be done, but he couldn’t concentrate on it. All he could do was suffer. He wished he could fall asleep, but his nerves were jangled. He wanted to get sleeping pills from Lieutenant Rabinowitz, his pharmacist, but what if the Japs attacked while he was knocked out? Who’d lead the regiment?

  Colonel Hutchins walked out of his tent and looked up at the sky. A half moon shone above, but patches of stars were covered
by clouds. Looks like rain, he thought. Son of a bitch.

  The patrol from the recon platoon lay alongside the big trail in grid thirty-four. They were commanded by Lieutenant Edward Sears, whom Captain Mason had sent to take over the platoon when he found out that Bannon had gone over the hill.

  Lieutenant Sears was twenty-two years old, tall and wiry, and he’d been warned about the men in the recon platoon. He knew they were ornery sons of bitches who didn’t like to take orders, and he’d have to earn their respect. He’d been assigned to the recon platoon because he was an experienced combat officer, leading infantry platoons on New Georgia and Bougainville before coming to New Guinea.

  He lay in the bushes and watched the trail. Sometimes clouds would pass over the moon and the jungle became dark. You couldn’t see three feet in front of you, but then the breeze would blow the clouds away and the jungle would lighten up, permitting distant objects to be seen.

  Lieutenant Sears looked at his watch. He wore a soft fatigue cap high up on the back of his head and low over his eyes. His light brown hair was shorn practically down to his scalp and he had a long neck with a big bulging Adam’s apple. It was 2330 hours, and the sun would come up around 0500 hours. That’s when he could leave.

  So far nothing had passed by on the trail. Evidently the Japs weren’t moving into the Afua area as Headquarters had believed.

  The narrow street was paved with cobblestones. It was near the Honolulu waterfront and the air smelled like salt and oil mixed together. Two drunken marines staggered in the light of a street lamp. Butsko and Lieutenant Norton passed them by, rolling their shoulders, walking along confidently, wearing their cunt caps low over their eyes.

  “There it is right there,” Butsko said. “It’s even got a red light on the porch.”

  Lieutenant Norton looked at the building. It was a two-story house painted white and its front steps connected it with the sidewalk. “You say they know you here?” he asked.

  “They sure as hell do. The madam is a friend of mine.”

  The door to the house opened and a sailor appeared. Tottering from side to side, he squared away his white cap on his head and descended the stairs. At the bottom he saw Butsko and Lieutenant Norton steaming toward him, and he got out of the way.