by Len Levinson
“C'mon Sarge. That's a personal question.”
“Did you tell her you'd marry her so's you could get into her pants?”
“I'd never do anything like that!” Bannon declared.
Butsko looked at Bannon's indignant face for a few seconds. “No, I don't suppose you would,” he said. “You'd probably have to convince yourself first that you were really in love with her and really wanted to marry her.”
“But I do really love her and I do really want to marry her.”
“Sure you do.”
“I do!”
Butsko waved his hand in the air. “Don't gimme that shit,” he said. “I know you like a book.”
“You don't know about anything,” Bannon replied. “You got a dirty mind, that's all.”
“That's all you got too, but the difference between you and me is that you don't admit it.”
Bannon scowled as he took out his package of cigarettes. He held out the pack to Butsko, who shook his head, and then Bannon placed one between his lips, lighting it with his Zippo. He puffed the cigarette, thinking about what Butsko had said. It disturbed him for two reasons: One, it was insulting; and two, it might be true. Bannon knew Butsko often was right about those things. He used to think Butsko knew him better than he knew himself. Butsko had the ability to cut through all the bullshit and see the truth, however unpleasant it was. Bannon suspected Butsko might be right again, and it wasn't pleasant to contemplate. Did he really give Priscilla Gladley a ring just so he could get into her pants? Was he really a rotten son of a bitch deep down?
He noticed a blond nurse walking toward him and Sergeant Butsko. She carried a stack of mail in her hands, and was a pretty apple-cheeked young woman with pert breasts showing underneath her baggy Army fatigues.
“How did you get out here?” she asked Butsko.
Butsko held up his cane. “My buddy here made this for me.”
“Wasn't that nice of him.” Lieutenant Betty Crawford looked at Bannon. “What's your name?” she asked.
Bannon shot to his feet. “Corporal Charles Bannon, ma'am.”
“It's not necessary to stand.”
“I'd get up too,” Butsko told her, “but I can't.”
“You wouldn't even if you could,” she replied.
“I would too,” Butsko insisted.
She held out a letter.”This is for you,” she said to Butsko. “I believe it's from your wife.”
Butsko looked at the return address. “I believe you're right.”
“Enjoy your letter,” she said, a hint of jealousy in her voice as she turned and walked away.
“Wait a minute!”
She just kept walking, not paying any attention to him, handing out mail to the other men sitting and lying around the clearing.
Bannon turned to Butsko and winked. “You're fucking her, ain't'cha?”
Butsko knitted his eyebrows together. “What makes you think that?”
“I can tell,” Bannon said.
“Bullshit!” Butsko replied.
“Where'd you put it to her—out in the woods?”
“What're you talking about?” Butsko said. “I couldn't even walk before you gave me that cane.”
“That's right too,” Bannon said. Bannon was chagrined, because he thought he'd caught Butsko at some hanky-panky. He was sure he'd sensed something between Butsko and that nurse, but evidently he'd been wrong. How could Butsko screw her in the woods if he couldn't even walk? It didn't occur to Bannon that Butsko might've run into Lieutenant Betty Crawford at another Army facility somewhere along the line.
“You think you're smart, but you don't know shit, cowboy,” Butsko said.
Bannon shrugged. “You can't win ‘em all,” he replied.
THREE . . .
The jeep screeched to a halt in front of the command post tent of the Eighty-first Division. Pfc. Nick Bombasino from South Philly sat behind the wheel, and Lieutenant Harper, Colonel Hutchins's aide-de-camp, jumped down from the passenger seat and walked swiftly to the tent. He pushed the flap aside and entered, finding himself in front of Master Sergeant Abner Somerall, the division's sergeant major, sitting behind his desk. Lieutenant Harper raised the briefcase in his right hand.
“I've got something here for General Hawkins,” he said.
Sergeant Somerall held out his hand.
“No, it's for General Hawkins personally,” Lieutenant Harper said, “and it's important.”
“The general's busy right now,” Sergeant Somerall said dryly. He loved to push young officers around and keep them waiting. “You'll have to take a seat someplace and wait.”
“I'm not going to wait,” Lieutenant Harper said. “Colonel Hutchins told me to deliver it to General Hawkins right away because it was important. Do you know what the word important means, Sergeant Somerall?”
Sergeant Somerall frowned. He knew what the word important meant, but he also knew General Hawkins was in conference with General Sully and Colonel Jessup, and didn't want to be disturbed. However, Sergeant Somerall didn't want to cross Colonel Hutchins. Everybody was afraid of Colonel Hutchins because he was a crazy drunk and liable to do anything. Once he even threatened to shoot General Hawkins. Even General Hawkins treated Colonel Hutchins with a certain kind of grudging respect, although both of them hated each other.
Sergeant Somerall lifted his phone and presed the button. Lieutenant Harper heard Sergeant Somerall mumbling into the mouthpiece. Sergeant Somerall was a master at speaking on telephones so quietly you couldn't hear what he was saying even if you were standing beside him.
Sergeant Somerall hung up the telephone and looked up at Lieutenant Harper. “You can go in, but it'd better be important.”
Lieutenant Harper didn't bother to answer. He walked into the next section of the tent, full of clerks tapping typewriters and officers pushing papers around on their desks, then turned left and pushed aside the flap leading to another tent.
He was in the office of General Clyde Hawkins, commanding officer of the Eighty-first Division, but Lieutenant Harper wasn't particularly intimidated. He'd heard Colonel Hutchins speak disparagingly of General Hawkins too many times to be in awe of the general. The other two officers in front of the desk didn't mean shit to Lieutenant Harper either. Lieutenant Harper didn't bother taking off his aviator sunglasses. He wore his straight black hair long and his uniform was tailored to his average build. He walked up to General Hawkins's desk and saluted. “Lieutenant Harper reporting, sir!”
General Hawkins was a handsome man of forty with a blond mustache and wavy blond hair on his head. He was a West Pointer, the son of a general and the grandson of another general. He looked up at Lieutenant Harper with an expression of disapproval on his face.
“The sun too bright in here for you Harper?” he asked.
“No sir.”
“Then take off the glasses.”
“Yes sir.” Lieutenant Harper removed his precious sunglasses and held them in his left hand.
“Don't you believe in haircuts in the Twenty-third Regiment?”
“Yes sir.”
“Get one.”
“Yes sir.”
“What've you got so important that you had to interrupt this meeting?” General Hawkins asked.
Lieutenant Harper opened his briefcase and pulled out the papers Lieutenant Breckenridge had brought in from his patrol. He laid the papers on the desk in front of General Hawkins. “There you go, sir,” Lieutenant Harper said.
General Hawkins looked at the papers covered with columns of Japanese characters. “What the hell is this?”
“A patrol from our reconnaissance platoon just brought it back, sir. They took if from the body of a dead Japanese officer who evidently was a courier.”
General Hawkins perused the papers. “Looks like it might be something important.”
“Colonel Hutchins thinks so too, sir, even though some members of the recon platoon might need haircuts.”
General Hawkins looked up at Li
eutenant Harper. “Are you trying to be a wise guy, young Lieutenant?”
“Who sir? Me sir? No sir. Not me, sir.”
A muscle in General Hawkins's jaw twitched. “Get out of here,” he said.
“Yes sir. Right away sir.” Lieutenant Harper saluted, performed a snappy about-face, and fled from the office. General Sully and Colonel Jessup leaned over the desk and looked at the captured documents.
“This appears to be official Japanese Army correspondence,” Colonel Jessup said.
“It should be taken to Persecution Headquarters right away,” General Sully replied.
“I'll take it myself,” General Hawkins said, because he wanted to get the glory. Then he stood behind his desk and paused, losing his nerve. “But maybe it's not important,” he mused aloud. “Maybe it's just a supply requisition, or Japanese morning reports.”
“Doesn't matter,” Colonel Jessup said. “Everything can have intelligence value.”
“That's true,” General Hawkins agreed. “I think I'd better go ahead with my original plan and deliver these papers to Persecution Headquarters forthwith. This meeting is dismissed until later today. I'll notify the both of you as to its exact time.”
General Sully and Colonel Jessup saluted and departed from the office. General Hawkins took his tin mirror out of the top drawer in his desk and looked at himself to make sure his appearance was okay. He knew how important appearance was in military matters. If a man looked like a leader, people tended to treat him like a leader. But there were always exceptions to that rule. Colonel Hutchins didn't look like a leader. He looked like an old drunk, which he was. If it weren't for the Army and the war, Colonel Hutchins probably would be lying in the gutter of a skid row in one of America's cities, General Hawkins believed. He put on his helmet and lifted the receiver of the telephone on his desk. “Have my jeep brought around immediately!” he hollered.
He smoothed the front of his shirt, made sure his fatigue pants were bloused neatly around the tops of his combat boots, and placed the captured Japanese documents into his battered canvas briefcase. He stood erect, squared his shoulders, and marched out of his office, passing through the outer office full of clerks and junior staff officers, who snapped to attention, and finally through Sergeant SomeraH's office.
General Hawkins stepped outside, and his jeep wasn't there. “Where's my jeep!” he hollered.
“It'll be here in a few minutes!” Sergeant Somerall replied from inside the tent.
General Hawkins glanced at his watch, then stamped his feet impatiently on the ground. He couldn't wait to deliver the captured documents to General Hall, and receive the accolades he was certain would be his.
Private First Class Frankie La Barbara opened his eyes. He saw shafts of sunlight coming down at him through openings among the leaves on the trees. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly 1200 hours. He'd awakened because he had to take a piss, and decided the sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could go back to sleep.
Frankie groaned as he rolled onto his stomach and raised himself to his hands and knees. Looking around, he saw the other men in the recon platoon sleeping soundly all across the clearing. A man he'd never seen before was sitting on a log reading a magazine.
“Who the hell are you?” Frankie asked as he stood up.
The man was startled by Frankie's voice. He jumped to his feet and advanced meaningfully toward Frankie, holding out his right hand. “How do you do,” he said. “I'm Private Randolph Worthington and I've been assigned to the recon platoon. Am I in the right place?”
Frankie gazed with contempt at the replacement's new green uniform, and didn't bother to shake the proffered hand. “Yeah, you're in the right place.”
“I'm supposed to report to Lieutenant Breckenridge. Where's he?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?”
Frankie turned abruptly away from Private Worthington and shuffled off to the latrine. Dismayed, Private Worthington sat back on his log and picked up his magazine. All he wanted to do was report to his new commanding officer and settle into his new unit, but somehow he couldn't do that. Everybody was asleep, snoring all around him. He recognized these men as the same ones who'd showed up ragged and bloody after the orientation lecture by Colonel Hutchins, which Private Worthington considered marvelous theater and even rather inspiring. Private Worthington liked Colonel Hutchins even though Colonel Hutchins had refused to shake his hand. Rebuffs didn't bother Worthington. All he could do was behave properly himself, and if other people didn't behave properly, that was their problem.
Meanwhile, Frankie La Barbara pissed into the latrine. It was a big trench six feet long, three feet wide, eight feet deep, half-full of shit and piss. Thick clouds of big fat flies swarmed around his head, brushing past his eyes, lips, and ears. He raised his hand and tried to wave them away, but they wouldn't leave him alone. The latrine stank horribly. The hot humid climate made the shit and piss cook and steam in the hole. Finally Frankie finished draining his vein. He buttoned up his pants and returned to the clearing assigned to the recon platoon.
Frankie was in a bad mood whenever he woke up in the morning, but he was in a particularly bad mood that morning. He'd only slept for a few hours, and a cut on his left bicep hurt as if a bee had stung him there. He was hungry, thirsty, and mildly constipated. He had a stomach ache and a headache. His old pal Morris Shilansky had fallen ill with blood poisoning and had been shipped back to the States. Frankie was sure Shilansky would go to New York and try to screw his wife, because Frankie'd told Shilansky how horny his wife used to get. Shilansky had drooled over pictures Frankie showed him of her.
Frankie thought everything was going against him, and then his eyes fell on the reclining figure of Private Clement R. Bisbee, the pathological thief and ex-carnie with whom he'd quarreled during the night. Frankie walked up to Bisbee and kicked him squarely in the ass. “On your feet—cocksucker!” Frankie screamed.
Bisbee opened his eyes and jumped to his feet, looking around to see who'd kicked him, and his eyes fell on Frankie La Barbara. “You!” Bisbee said.
“Well I ain't your mother,” Frankie replied, raising his dukes. “You and me got a little matter to settle, don't we?”
Bisbee raised his dukes too and shook his head to wake himself up. “We damn sure do,” he said.
“Then let's go!” Frankie said.
On the other side of the clearing, the Reverend Billie Jones raised his head. “Shaddup over there!” he hollered.
“Fuck you!” replied Frankie La Barbara.
The Reverend Billie Jones looked around and saw Frankie La Barbara and Private Bisbee squaring off against each other. The other men in the recon platoon also had been awakened by the commotion, and they raised themselves up from the ground, rubbing their eyes. They needed their sleep, but they'd much rather watch a good fight.
Lieutenant Breckenridge gazed through hooded eyes at Frankie and Bisbee stalking around each other, their fists raised in the air. He knew he should stop them, but was curious to find out which one would win. He, too, liked to watch a good fight, and believed men should fight it out if they had complaints against each other. It was better than keeping the hatred inside and letting it fester until somebody went berserk and shot somebody else someday. Lieutenant Breckenridge didn't care if his men shot each other, but he didn't want to do all the paperwork. It was simpler when they just tried to beat each other to death.
Frankie and Bisbee circled each other slowly, sizing each other up, looking for openings and potential weak spots. Frankie was six feet tall, tipping the scales at 185 pounds, and he towered over Bisbee, who was five-nine and weighed 155 pounds. It was a tall light heavyweight against a middleweight, and the light heavyweight could be expected to win, but that was by no means a certainty. Sometimes smaller men can beat the shit out of bigger men because smaller men have superior speed and maneuverability, and often hit just as hard.
“I'm gonna fucking kill you,” Frankie said to Bisbe
e.
“Your mother eats shit,” Bisbee said.
This made Frankie angrier, and a red flush came over his face. He was a maniac, always too emotional for his own good. Bisbee, on the other hand, was as cool as an ice cube in an eskimo's igloo. He was the kind of psychopath whose mind functioned like a machine. To beat Frankie he'd have to dazzle him with footwork, make him miss, work his body, and wear him down. Bisbee was an orphan and had been fighting since he was five years old. His years with carnivals had been full of brawls. He didn't have a mark on his innocent baby face. He knew what to do and how to do it.
The men from the recon platoon, yawning, burping, and farting, made a circle around the two combatants, because they didn't want to miss a punch. Private Randolph Worthington was among them, appalled that nobody was attempting to stop the fight. Turning his head around, he saw Lieutenant Breck-enridge still lying on the ground, facing away from the action. It seemed to Worthington that Lieutenant Breckenridge should try to stop the fight. Worthington was on the verge of walking over to Lieutenant Breckenridge and telling him to stop it, but that wouldn't be proper; privates didn't tell lieutenants what to do.
Bisbee got up on his toes and started dancing. He shifted his weight from side to side and feinted with a few punches at Frankie La Barbara's head, but Frankie didn't get faked out. Frankie stalked Bisbee, trying to cut him off and put him up against a tree so he could work on his baby face and fuck it up a little.
Worthington couldn't stand it anymore. Fighting among soldiers was far beneath the high standards he'd set for military life. He simply couldn't let the fight go on, and if nobody was going to stop it, by God he would. “Now see here!” he said, stepping forward. “Break it up!”
Worthington raised his hands and walked in between Frankie and Bisbee, reaching out to push them apart. Frankie lashed out with a left hook, catching Worthington flush on the jaw, and Worthington heard bells and birds. The next thing he knew he was on his knees, shaking his head, trying to figure out what had hit him.
“Mind your fucking business,” Private Yabalonka said. “Let ‘em have it out.”
