by Len Levinson
Frankie and Bisbee stepped away from Worthington and continued to circle each other. Bisbee darted from side to side on the balls of his feet while Frankie measured Bisbee for a knockout punch. Frankie pawed the air with his left hand, and Bisbee raised his fists a few inches every time Frankie pawed the air. A few times their fists touched. Neither one had thrown a good solid punch yet, except the one that put Private Worthington down.
“Both of them's scared of each other,” said Private McGurk.
“This is the dullest fight I ever saw in my life,” said Private Roy Cowdell, a recent addition to the recon platoon.
Frankie's vanity was piqued by that last remark. You could say anything about him you wanted, but not that he was dull or ugly. He decided the time had come to turn the fight into a fight. Bisbee dodged suddenly to the left, so Frankie stepped in that direction to cut him off, throwing a left jab to Bisbee's head.
Bisbee ducked easily under the jab and punched Frankie on his left side, just under his rib cage. Then he punched Frankie on his right side under his rib cage. Frankie lowered his elbows to protect that part of his body, and Bisbee hooked up to Frankie's head, slugging him on the left ear, and Frankie heard horns blowing.
Bisbee jumped back, grinning, dancing from side to side. As far as he was concerned, that was the way the fight was going to go. Frankie would charge him and Bisbee would work his body. When Frankie lowered his guard Bisbee would head-hunt. It was the strategy that had enabled Bisbee to kick the shit out of many men bigger than he.
But those men weren't Frankie La Barbara, and Frankie rubbed his left ear because the horns still blared inside it. Frankie was from New York's Little Italy and had worked for the mob, twisting arms and breaking legs. You didn't get a job like that if you weren't tough.
Frankie narrowed his eyes and examined Bisbee. The fight was going to be more difficult than Frankie thought. Bisbee was a fighter—that was clear now. The son of a bitch could use his fists as well as his Ka-bar knife.
Frankie stepped toward Bisbee and threw another left jab at Bisbee's head, but pulled it back quickly; it was a feint. Bisbee ducked and came in under it, because he fell for the feint, and Frankie hit him with an uppercut on the tip of his chin.
Bisbee didn't even see the punch coming. The punch straightened him up and sent him sprawling backwards. Frankie went after him to finish him off and maybe stomp on his baby face a bit, when Bisbee suddenly lurched forward and held on to Frankie's arms. Frankie raised his big hand, covered Bisbee's face with it, and pushed hard.
Bisbee fell backwards again. He tripped on a rock and dropped onto his ass. Frankie grinned as he stepped forward to do a tapdance on Bisbee's head. The others would have new respect for him, because the only kind of man they really respected was the one who could kick ass. Now Bisbee would know better than to talk back to him again, because Frankie La Barbara was nobody to fuck with.
Frankie stood over Bisbee and raised his right foot for the first stomp. Frankie wore size-eleven combat boots and knew they'd really do a job on Bisbee's baby face. With a haughty smile, Frankie pushed that big boot down.
Bisbee rolled out of the way at the last moment and picked up a branch lying near his hand. He got to his feet groggily. Frankie charged and Bisbee hit Frankie over the head with the branch.
Frankie saw stars. He took two steps to the left and then two steps to the right. Bisbee bent over, picked up a rock, and threw it at Frankie, bouncing it off Frankie's head. This time Frankie saw the entire solar system, all the planets, moons, and quarks. Frankie staggered from side to side and Bisbee attacked, swinging the long thick branch in his hand, whacking Frankie over the head again, and this time the branch broke in two.
Frankie dropped to his knees. The branch opened a gash on his scalp and blood dripped down his forehead. He blinked and tried to get his bearings. Bisbee reared back his foot and shot it forward, to kick Frankie in the face, but Frankie raised his hands at the last moment and caught the foot, holding it tightly.
Bisbee lost his balance and fell on his back. Frankie dived on him, grabbing him by the throat, pressing his thumbs against Bisbee's Adam's apple, squeezing with all his strength. Bisbee clasped his fists together and shot them up between Frankie's hands, breaking Frankie's hold, and then Bisbee bucked like a wild mustang, raising Frankie up a few inches, which was enough to permit Bisbee to squirm out from underneath Frankie and jump to his feet before Frankie knew what was happening. Frankie looked up to see a size-nine-and-a-half boot flying toward his head. Frankie dodged to the side, but wasn't fast enough. The boot smacked him on his nose, which already was broken, and Frankie screamed bloody blue murder.
Frankie jumped to his feet and touched his fingers to his nose. He looked at his fingers and saw blood on them. Frankie got very pissed off. He bared his teeth and wrinkled his forehead. He pointed a bloody finger at Bisbee and screamed, “I'm gonna kill you!”
Bisbee smiled like a cherub on a painting by Michelangelo and said, “C'mon you big ugly son of a bitch.”
Frankie let out a roar like a wild bull elephant and charged Private Bisbee. Frankie waved his fists in the air because he didn't know which one to throw first, and Bisbee, the ex-carnie, dodged to the side and stuck out his leg, tripping Frankie.
Frankie lost his footing and pitched forward onto his face. He held out his hands to save his nose from getting mashed on the ground, and Bisbee jumped with both feet onto his back, knocking the wind out of him, and then kicked him in the head.
Frankie was hurt but by no means out of the ball game. He raised himself up even as Bisbee was standing on his back, and Bisbee slid off to the ground. Frankie turned around and charged Bisbee again, and Bisbee threw his own best upper-cut, connecting with Frankie's jaw, but it didn't stop Frankie. Frankie was on an angry, bloody rampage now, and only a bullet would stop him. The uppercut didn't even faze him, he was so goddamned mad. He grabbed Bisbee by the front of his shirt with his left fist and reared back his right fist as Bisbee kicked and tried to get loose, pummeling Frankie about the head and shoulders, his feet striking Frankie's shins and knees, and Frankie drove his right fist forward with all his strength, smashing Bisbee in the face. Bisbee's head snapped back, but Frankie didn't let him fall to the ground. Frankie drew back his fist again and punched Bisbee in the mouth another time, splitting his lower lip, mashing in his gums, knocking a few teeth loose.
Bisbee was out cold, but that didn't stop Frankie La Barbara. He grabbed Bisbee's shirt with both his hands, raised him higher in the air, and threw him across the clearing. Bisbee hit a tree and bounced off it, collapsing onto the ground. Frankie ran toward him and jumped in the air, so he could land with both feet on Bisbee's head, when suddenly out of nowhere a freight train smacked into him and threw him to the ground.
It felt like a freight train, but it wasn't a freight train. It was Lieutenant Breckenridge, and he held Frankie's arms pinned to his sides as they lay on the ground together.
“That's enough!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned Frankie loose and stood up. Frankie pulled himself together and got to his feet also. He looked at the lieutenant and was mad enough to take him on too, but something held him back. Lieutenant Breckenridge had kicked his ass in the past and Frankie didn't feel like going up against him again. He'd bide his time and maybe give it a try some other day.
Lieutenant Breckenridge took a deep breath. “We're supposed to be fighting the Japs, not each other!” he said. “Let's knock this shit off!” Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at the Reverend Billie Jones. “Get a medic for Bisbee, but before you do that check and make sure he's not dead, because you might have to get somebody from a graves registration unit instead.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned and walked away, and Private Randolph Worthington's jaw hung open, because he'd seen many barracks brawls during his brief duty with the U.S. Army, but never anything like this one.
The Reverend Billie Jones walked to the su
pine figure of Private Clement R. Bisbee, bent over, and saw blood welling out of Bisbee's mouth. He also saw Bisbee's chest rising and falling, which meant he was alive. The next step was to get a medic, because the recon platoon's last medic, Corporal Lamm, had been shot a few days ago. The Reverend Billie Jones adjusted his submachine gun on his shoulder and headed toward Headquarters Company, because that's where all the medics were.
General Charles P. Hall, commanding officer of the Persecution Task Force, was on the beach, holding his head high, as military and civilian photographers snapped his picture. He struck a series of heroic poses, turning his head from side to side, trying to look good for the troops and the folks back home.
A crowd of soldiers and officers stood in the background, watching the photo session. In this crowd was Major General Clyde Hawkins, carrying his briefcase, anxiously waiting for an opportunity to speak with General Hall and give him the captured Japanese documents.
Finally General Hall raised his right hand and smiled cordially. “That's all for today, boys,” he said, “I've got work to do.”
He turned away from the photographers and walked toward his jeep. A shadow crossed his path, and he looked up to see General Hawkins standing there.
“I've got to speak with you immediately about a matter of the utmost importance,” General Hawkins said.
“What is it?” General Hall asked.
“Captured enemy documents.”
“Where did you get them?”
“One of my patrols came back with them, and they're official Japanese Army correspondence, from what I can see.”
“Lemme have a look at them.”
“Yes sir.”
They walked together toward the jeep and General Hawkins opened his briefcase on the back seat. He pulled out the documents and showed them to General Hall. The photographers continued to snap more pictures. General Hall held the papers up to the bright sunlight.
“Hmmmm,” he said. “Very interesting. We'd better get this to Major Rainey.”
Major Rainey was a Persecution Task Force intelligence officer who was fluent in Japanese. He'd been an international representative for General Electric in the Far East before the war and had spent considerable time in Japan selling toasters, vacuum cleaners, and various other electrical appliances to Japanese wholesalers and retail outlets.
General Hall jumped into the front passenger seat of the jeep. General Hawkins climbed into the back seat. The driver shifted into gear and drove away, as the photographers pointed their cameras at the jeep receding into the distance, taking more pictures.
“Sir,” said Private Randolph Worthington, “may I have a word with you?”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked up and raised his hand because the sun was shining into his eyes. He was sitting in a foxhole and had been writing a letter to his mother in Richmond.
“What's on your mind?” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
Private Worthington squatted beside the foxhole. He had a forward-thrusting jaw that looked as though it could bite through a block of concrete. “I've just been assigned to this platoon, and I thought I should tell you a little something about myself.”
“What's your name?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“Private Randolph Worthington, and I—”
Lieutenant Breckenridge interrupted him. “Don't I know you from someplace?”
Private Worthington was taken aback. “I... ah... I don't know, sir.”
“You look familiar to me. Do I look familiar to you?”
“I can't say that you do, sir.”
“Hmmm. Well, go on with what you were telling me.”
“It's just this,” Private Worthington said. “I used to do a lot of hunting before the war, and I'm an excellent shot. If you ever need an excellent shot for any purpose, I just thought you ought to know you've got one here in this platoon.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge squinted and looked Private Worthington over. “Did you ever play college football?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact I did.”
“I think I played against you,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “What team did you play for?”
“I played one year for Georgia Tech, and two years for the University of Connecticut.”
“I played for the University of Virginia, and we played Georgia Tech a few times. Were you on the line?”
“I played right tackle.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge knitted his eyebrows together, then loosened them up. "Worthington!” he said. “I remember you now! You nearly broke my fucking back!”
“Breckenridge!” Worthington shouted. “You stiff-armed me in the face and nearly put my eye out!”
The two men stared at each other. The last time they'd seen each other was on the playing field of Georgia Tech. They'd been young college students wearing colorful uniforms, and beautiful cheerleaders had jumped up and down on the sidelines. The crowd had cheered and it had been a beautiful autumn day that neither of them would ever forget.
Now they were dressed in Army fatigues. Both needed shaves and Lieutenant Breckenridge's uniform was torn and bloody. He wore a bloody bandage on his left leg, and his eyes were bloodshot. Lieutenant Breckenridge looked ten years older, but Private Worthington still had a youthful appearance.
Lieutenant Breckenridge held out his hand and grinned. “Welcome to New Guinea. Good to see you again.”
Private Worthington shook Lieutenant Breckenridge's hand. “Good to see you too, but I wish it could be under more pleasant circumstances. Why did you become an officer?”
“Because I like to have some control over what I'm doing. If you're an enlisted man you have to put up with a lot of shit. You ought to think about becoming an officer.”
Worthington shook his head. “I don't want to be responsible for other men's lives. I don't want to give the orders that could cause the deaths of other men.”
“I understand how you feel,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “I don't like that part either. But the Army needs officers with brains, otherwise all the idiots will be officers, and there are too many of them around as it is. People like us have a responsibility to our country. We can't let our educations and our brains go to waste.”
“In a way you're right,” Worthington replied, “but I still don't want anybody to die because of me. I don't want it on my conscience.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge shrugged. “That's up to you, I guess. We all have to live with the decisions we make.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge wanted to say more, but was interrupted by a commotion on the other side of the clearing. Men from the recon platoon shouted and jumped up and down, waving their arms in the air.
“What the hell's going on over there?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“I really don't know,” Private Worthington said.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge.
“I really don't know, sir.”
“Don't get lax about that,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, “just because we played football against each other in college. I'm telling you for your sake, not mine. If the men think I'm favoring you in any way, they might kill you.”
“Kill me?” asked Private Worthington, making a face. “They'd actually kill me?”
“They might,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, getting to his feet. “They're a rough bunch of boys.”
“They'd kill me?” Private Worthington muttered, disbelief in his voice.
Lieutenant Breckenridge gazed in the direction of the commotion. He saw the men from the recon platoon making a fuss around somebody, and Lieutenant Breckenridge walked closer to see who it was, with Private Worthington trailing him. The men hollered and slammed somebody on the back. They hoisted him up in the air, and now Lieutenant Breckenridge could see who they were cheering.
It was Corporal Bannon, the cowboy from Texas who'd been wounded severely on Bougainville, and the men were happy to see him again. They called him a son of a bitch, a bastard, and a motherfucker. Banno
n saw Lieutenant Breckenridge and took off his helmet, waving it in the air the way a cowboy waves his ten-gallon hat when riding a Brahma bull.
“How're you doing, Lieutenant!” Bannon shouted.
“When'd you get back?” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied.
“Last night.”
“How're you feeling?”
“Okay.”
“Welcome home!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “You're the new acting platoon sergeant until further notice!”
The smile vanished from Bannon's face. “I am!”
“You're damn right you are!” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied, laughing at the dismay and terror on Bannon's face.
The documents containing Japanese characters lay on General Hall's desk. General Hall stood and leaned over the papers, examining them. Beside him were General Hawkins, Major Rainey, and several other staff officers. Major Rainey wore his glasses on the end of his long pointy nose, and the comers of his mouth turned down as he shuffled through the documents.
“Unless I'm mistaken, these documents are battle orders,” Major Rainey said. “They're ordering the recipient, a Colonel Katsumata, to attack on the night of July ninth.”
“My God!” said General Hall. “That's only six days away!”
“That it is,” agreed Major Rainey.
“You're sure that's what it says?” General Hall asked him.
“I'm sure as I can be.”
General Hall wiped his mouth thoughtfully with the palm of his hand and sat back in his chair. His brow was furrowed in thought. “The question in my mind is whether or not this signifies just an attack by a regiment, or whether it's part of a full-scale attack.”
Nobody said anything, because nobody knew the answer to that. The officers looked at each other, and they were worried. What if the Japs mounted an all-out attack in only six days? Could the Persecution Task Force hold them?
Finally General Hall reached a decision. “All we can do is forward this information to higher headquarters,” he said. “And we have to get ready for the worst. Captain Parker!”
