Suicide River

by Len Levinson

  “You won't be here?” Major Cobb asked.

  “No,” Colonel Hutchins replied.

  “Where will you be?”

  “I've got to talk to somebody.” Colonel Hutchins looked at Pfc. Levinson typing up orders in the corner. “Levinson!”

  Pfc. Levinson shot to his feet and turned around. “Yes sir!”

  “Make sure Pfc. Bombasino is in front of this tent at oh-seven hundred hours, with my jeep.”

  “Yes sir!”

  “How soon before you'll be finished with that typing?”

  “A few more minutes, sir.”

  ‘Take your typewriter out to your desk and finish it, becuse I've got to get some sleep.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Pfc. Levinson looked like an apostrophe as he carried his typewriter out of Colonel Hutchins's office. A few minutes later Major Cobb and Lieutenant Harper departed, their briefcases stuffed with papers. Now Colonel Hutchins was alone. He stubbed out his cigarette in his ashtray, drank a bit of white lightning, and stumbled across the ground to his cot, collapsing on top of it without taking off his combat boots; and in minutes he was sound asleep.

  In the morning the sky was covered with thick clouds the color of oatmeal. Pfc. Nick Bombasino from South Philly steered his jeep toward the tent of Lieutenant Colonel Rufus Bollinger, commander of the Sixty-third Artillery Battalion. Seated next to Bombasino was Colonel Hutchins, his eyes at half-mast.

  Pfc. Bombasino stopped the jeep in front of the tent, and his eyes were half-closed too. He'd had to get up earlier than usual to drive Colonel Hutchins to this destination. Colonel Hutchins jumped down from the jeep and said, “Wait for me here.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins strode into the tent, the holster and canteen fastened to his cartridge belt bouncing up and down on his hip. He walked past the sergeant major and clerk, and the sergeant major jumped to his feet, about to tell Colonel Hutchins he couldn't go in there, when he realized Colonel Hutchins was a colonel, and sergeants don't talk like that to colonels.

  Colonel Hutchins entered Colonel Bollinger's office, which was laid out similarly to his own office, and saw Colonel Bollinger sleeping soundly on his cot, a big smile on his ugly face. Colonel Hutchins looked down at his old friend and saw the big sunburst scar over his right temple where he'd been hit by shrapnel during the battle for the Argonne Forest during the First World War. They'd both been pfcs. in the same outfit, buddies to the end, and they both wound up with battlefield commissions. Now they were field-grade officers and pariahs because neither had graduated from West Point or even an ordinary accredited college. They were roughnecks and outlaws wearing officers’ insignia on their collars.

  Colonel Hutchins reached down and shook Colonel Boliinger's collar. “Get up you son of a bitch,” he said.

  In one sudden swift motion Colonel Bollinger rolled over and whipped out the Colt .45 service pistol in his belt, aiming the barrel at Colonel Hutchins's nose.

  “Don't shoot,” Colonel Hutchins said, taking a step backwards, “it's only me.”

  Colonel Bollinger blinked his eyes and opened them wide. His sparse red hair was tousled on top of his head and his face looked as though it was made of boiled potatoes pushed together. “What the hell are you doing here!” he bellowed.

  “I gotta talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “Get some coffee and I'll tell you. You need an eye opener?”

  Colonel Bollinger grinned, showing snaggled horse teeth. “Sure.”

  Colonel Hutchins pulled out his canteen and tossed it to Colonel Bollinger, who drank some down.

  “Not bad at all,” Colonel Bollinger said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He called out to his sergeant major, ordering a pot of coffee. Next he stood and walked barefooted across the ground to his desk, plunking himself down behind it. He had long legs and a short torso, was five feet and eleven inches tall. Bending over, he put on his combat boots and laced them up.

  “Must be something important if you come all the way over here this early. What the hell's going on?”

  Colonel Hutchins sat on the chair in front of Colonel Bollinger's desk. “You know about the big Jap attack?”

  “Yeah,” replied Colonel Bollinger. “What about it?”

  “You think it's gonna come on July ninth?”

  Colonel Bollinger tied a bow on the top of his left combat boot. “How the hell should I know?”

  “You making any special preparations?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I ain't had no orders to do so.”

  “Would you do me a favor, Rufus?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want all your big guns registered on targets in front of my regiment on the ninth of July, because if the Japs do attack, I'm gonna need all the help I can get.”

  “You got it,” Colonel Bollinger said. “Anything else?”

  “That's all I wanted to ask you, Rufus.”

  “Shit,” Colonel Bollinger replied, “I thought you wanted something big when you came walking in here so early in the morning.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Where's my goddamned coffee!”

  “It'll be right there!” said a voice in his outer office.

  “Hurry it up, you son of a bitch!” Colonel Bollinger replied. Then he looked at Colonel Hutchins. “I'm not worth a fuck until I have my coffee in the morning,” he said.

  “I'm the same way,” Colonel Hutchins replied.

  ‘This just arrived for you, sir.”

  General Hawkins looked up. He sat in the Eighty-first Division officers’ mess, eating powdered scrambled eggs with toast and coffee. The mess was inside a big walled tent with the walls rolled up. The floor was wide planks of wood, and the officers sat on benches, eating from metal trays on long tables. General Hawkins sat at the head table, and he raised his hand to accept the envelope held out by General Sully, his chief of staff.

  “What is it?” asked General Hawkins, laying the envelope beside his metal tray.

  “It's from Colonel Hutchins.”

  “Have you read it?” General Hawkins asked.

  “No, because it's addressed to you. One of Colonel Hutchins's aides delivered it to me fifteen minutes ago. He said it was important.”

  General Hawkins looked at the letter lying beside his tray. He didn't want to open it because he was sure it was trouble, but that was the very reason it should be opened immediately. He picked up the envelope and tore it open. General Sully, a tall lean ramrod of a man, looked over his shoulder.

  The document inside the envelope was a simple straight-forward report stating the steps Colonel Hutchins was taking to deal with the possibility of the July 9 attack. General Hawkins scanned it quickly and had to admit the measures were prudent. Colonel Hutchins would have his regiment ready to meet the attack if it came. He'd try to enlist the assistance of other units. He suggested General Hawkins try to get whatever help he could, because the more units that were ready, the better the possibility of stopping the Japanese attack.

  General Hawkins was surprised by the reasonable tone of the letter, and was enough of a soldier to appreciate the sound tactical decisions Colonel Hutchins had made.

  General Hawkins held the letter up to General Sully. “Read this,” he said.

  “I just did,” General Sully replied.

  “What do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “I want these plans put into effect throughout the division,” General Hawkins said, and all the officers in the tent listened intently to what he was saying, although they pretended to be minding their own business. He looked up at General Sully. “After breakfast, prepare orders along these lines for my signature.”

  “I've already had breakfast,” General Sully said. “I'll get to work on it right now.”

  General Hawkins and Colonel Hutchins, plus their staffs, canvassed the various headquarters of the Persecution Task Fo
rce, trying to convince commanders to prepare for the possibility of the attack. Some listened and agreed to make special preparations, and others refused, doubting the attack would take place, suspecting it was a ruse, insisting they always stayed ready for possible attacks.

  General Hall learned of the work being done by the officers from the Eighty-first Division, but did nothing to stop them. He'd made his decision; he was going to stand pat and wait. If the Japanese attacked, he'd redeploy his forces to meet the attack. If they didn't, that was okay with him too. He didn't want to get his entire command keyed up for an attack that might never come.

  The days passed and July 9 loomed closer. Some units in the Persecution Task Force made elaborate preparations for the attack, while it was business as usual for other units. Patrols were sent across the Driniumor River, and reports were submitted of intensifying enemy activity. General Hall received the reports and mulled them over in his mind. He believed a major Japanese offensive would begin soon, but when and where?

  Back at the Eighty-fust Division, General Hawkins had a long talk with Brigadier General Thomas Shirrell, commander of his division's artillery. He ordered Shirrell to zero in all his artillery on the opposite side of the Driniumor, to blow the shit out of any Japanese attack that might occur on July 9.

  On the other side of the Driniumor River, the Japanese Eighteenth Army was in the midst of its final deployment. All available ammunition and supplies were carried to forward positions. Every unit prepared to attack. Local commanders gave pep talks to their men, telling of vast food storehouses behind enemy lines, and every Japanese soldier's mouth watered at the thought of the food. They knew they could have it all and become heroes too, if they attacked hard and achieved their strategic objectives.

  In his headquarters tent, General Adachi studied and re-studied his plans for the attack, making minute adjustments, fine-tuning his plans, trying to remove any possibility of failure. He did his best to ignore the wrenching pains in his stomach, but couldn't ignore them completely. Sometimes the pain doubled him over, and often it awakened him in the middle of the night. Dr. Nojima had told him to eat a bland diet, so now he ate his rice and canned fish without soy sauce. Dr. Nojima neglected to tell him that canned fish was bad for a stomach ulcer.

  Pain didn't stop General Adachi. He toured his front lines, inspecting men and equipment, exhorting and inspiring his men, telling them they must defeat the Americans for the glory of the Emperor, and for the food and supplies on the other side of the Driniumor. Although General Adachi was in terrific pain, he never let it show. He never flinched when in view of his men. No one knew about his ailment except his doctor.

  The night of July 9 drew closer, and tension mounted on both sides of the Driniumor. A titanic struggle was looming, one that could alter the course of the war in the Pacific. One side was ready, and the other side half-ready. Lady Luck shook the dice in her hand and threw them down.

  ELEVEN . . .

  It was six o'clock on the night of July 9, 1944. Chow was over and Butsko took his evening walk through the clearings and jungle paths near the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters. He'd thrown away his cane in an effort to make himself walk on his own, and wasn't doing too badly.

  His Thompson submachine gun was slung across his back, and the bandoliers of ammunition hung from his neck. He never went anywhere without them. He too was expecting the big Japanese attack that night. But it could come sooner, or later. Butsko liked to stay ready.

  The sun drifted to the horizon. Men sat around on the ground. The GI with the guitar and his partner with the harmonica had returned to duty yesterday, so there was no music. Butsko expected to return to duty in about another five days. He limped past the men on the ground and tried to build up his strength, because a weak man could become a dead man quickly in hand-to-hand combat.

  “Hey Sarge—how're you doing?”

  Butsko turned around and saw Colonel Hutchins walking toward him, followed by Pfc. Nick Bombasino carrying a back-pack radio.

  “Hello there Colonel,” Butsko said. “What're you doing back herer

  “Just checking the joint out, and I thought I'd bring you some water.” Colonel Hutchins removed his canteen from his cartridge belt and gave it to Butsko. “Yours must be empty by now,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  “It is.”

  “I wouldn't want you to be without sufficient water back here.”

  “I appreciate your concern, sir.”

  “There's something else I want to talk with you about too.”

  “What's that?”

  Colonel Hutchins looked around and spoke in a low voice. “Some M 1 rifles and ammunition have been delivered here today along with some sandbags, so the wounded can defend themselves. Captain Epstein doesn't know what to do with the stuff, because he's a surgeon and all he knows is how to cut, so maybe you should take a walk to his office a little later and look the stuff over. He doesn't believe the Japs're gonna attack tonight, so he's not too worried.”

  “Do you think they're gonna attack tonight?” Butsko asked.

  “I believe they are, and we're as ready as we can be. You'd better be ready too. If the Japs attack, it's unlikely that they'll get this far, but they might.”

  “The little bastards always do what you don't expect,” Butsko said.

  “That's right.” Colonel Hutchins glanced at the watch on his wrist. “I'd better get back to the regiment. I'll talk to you when I talk to you. Good luck.”

  “You too, sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins walked away, followed by Pfc. Nick Bombasino. Butsko pulled out the canteen Colonel Hutchins had given him and took a few swallows of white lightning. It went down smooth as silk and hot as a whore's dream. Butsko returned the canteen to its case and headed toward the office of Captain Epstein, who was in charge of the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters.

  Butsko passed soldiers lying on the ground and orderlies bustling about. No hard fighting had taken place for more than a week, and the medical headquarters had quieted down considerably. The seriously wounded had been shipped out and the patients still around would be sent back to their units when they recovered from their relatively mild injuries.

  Nurses scurried about carrying medicine, making their rounds, and Butsko saw Lieutenant Betty Crawford heading toward him. His heart sank because he didn't want to deal with her anymore. He didn't even want to say hello, but couldn't avoid her now. She slowed up as he approached, and he realized she wanted to talk with him.

  “Hello Butsko,” she said with a smile. “Still mad at me?”

  “No, I'm not mad at you.”

  “I've been thinking about you,” she told him. “I've missed you.”

  “Oh,” he replied.

  “I guess you haven't missed me much.”

  “I miss the Betty I used to know in New Caledonia.”

  “I'm still her.”

  “No you're not.”

  “Yes I am.” She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I'm going off duty in a little while. Let's get together and talk about it.”

  Butsko looked her up and down, and she was a beauty; there were no two ways about that. He'd always been attracted to cute little blondes. “Okay,” he said, “but I don't want any more shit from you. Life is too short and the war is too long.”

  She winked. “Okay,” she said. “No more shit. It's a deal.” She looked at her watch. “I'll meet you behind your tent at twenty-two hundred hours, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Ta ta,” she told him, walking away.

  “Right,” he replied.

  Butsko took out a cigarette and lit it up. He wouldn't mind getting Betty alone in the bushes someplace, as long as she didn't give him any shit. If she started up again he'd just walk away. He needed pussy, but not that bad.

  He made his way to the tent used by Captain Epstein for an office, and saw the pile of sandbags that had been dumped next to it. Hobbling inside, he told the clerk
he had to speak with Captain Epstein about something important. The clerk spoke with Captain Epstein on the telephone hook-up, and then told Butsko to go inside.

  Butsko entered the office of Captain Epstein, and saw the crates of M 1 rifles and ammunition piled up against one wall of the tent.

  “What can I do for you?” Captain Epstein asked.

  “I believe Colonel Hutchins told you I'd be over to look at the weapons and ammunition.”

  Captain Epstein had curly black hair and wore wire-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses. “The colonel thinks the Japs're gonna attack this hospital,” Captain Epstein said in a voice that suggested disbelief.

  “They might,” Butsko said, “and they might not. It's better to be ready.”

  “Do whatever makes you happy,” Captain Epstein said. “I've got to look at some patients.”

  “I think you should tell your clerk to send around a notification that weapons are here if they're needed.”

  “Tell him yourself. You're in charge of these rifles, as far as I'm concerned. In fact, I'll tell you what. I'm hereby appointing you commander in chief of the hospital defense unit, so you can send out notifications on your own signature. How does that grab you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got things to do.” Captain Epstein arose and put on his helmet. He walked out of his office. “You can use my desk if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Butsko said.

  Butsko was alone in the office. The crates of rifles had been opened, and he looked inside. The Cosmoline was removed from the rifles and the metal covered with a thin film of oil. Butsko moved the crates around and found a different-sized crate full of bayonets. Another crate had hand grenades in it, and Butsko took some out, stuffing them into his pockets and pinning them to his lapels. He affixed a bayonet and its scabbard to his cartridge belt. The bayonet wouldn't fit on the end of his Thompson submachine gun, but it might come in handy as a knife. He pulled the bayonet out of its scabbard and touched his thumb to the blade. It was dull as a bread knife, but that wasn't necessarily bad. Dull knives made ugly wounds, and that's what Butsko wanted to inflict on the Japs: ugly wounds.