by Len Levinson
“What're you doing?” asked a female voice.
Butsko looked up and saw Lieutenant Frannie Divers, her red hair glowing and her breasts standing out proudly.
“Hi,” Butsko said with a grin. “Looking for Captain Epstein?”
“What else would I be doing in his office?”
“I thought maybe you wanted a rifle.”
“What the hell do I want a rifle for?”
“In case the Japs attack.”
“The Japs'll never get back this far.”
“I wouldn't bet on that if I was you.”
“Where's Captain Epstein?” she asked.
“He's gone.”
“Where'd he go?”
“He didn't tell me.”
“What're you doing here?”
“I'm the new commander of the hospital defense force, and I'm checking out my weapons. Want a drink?”
She blinked. “A drink? What're you talking about?”
“Don't you know what a drink is, Frannie?”
“I used to know but I think I forgot.”
Butsko pulled out his canteen. “Try this.”
He tossed her the canteen. She caught it, nearly dropped it, but managed to get it again before it touched the floor. “Is this booze?” she asked.
“Well it ain't pinneapple juice.”
“Where'd you get it?” she asked.
“Some people I know make it.”
“Then it's jungle juice. I never had any jungle juice that was worth a damn.”
“You might like that stuff. You ought to try it to be sure.”
He watched her raise the canteen to her lips, and she didn't even bother to wipe its mouth. He figured her for a big girl with big appetites and a big lust for life. She appeared easygoing and friendly, without the neurotic problems Betty had. She was the type that could fuck you to death, but what a way to go.
She sipped the canteen really dainty-like, because she didn't want to drink too much of something she might not like. Letting the booze roll around on her tongue, she looked at the ceiling as she made her evaluation. Then she swallowed it down.
‘This stuff isn't half-bad,” she said.
“Have some more.”
“I can't. I'm still on duty.”
“When do you go off duty?”
She looked at her watch. “Another two hours.”
“Let's get together and get smashed.”
She wrinkled her nose and thought for a few seconds. “We shouldn't.”
“Why shouldn't we?”
“Well, you know what's going to happen.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“So what if it does.”
“Aren't you having a love affair with Betty?”
“Not really.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It's supposed to mean I'm not really having a love affair with her.”
“I thought you were.”
“Well I'm not, and what do you care anyway? Did I ask you whether you're having a love affair with Dr. Epstein?”
Her jaw dropped open. “How did you know!”
Now it was Butsko's turn to be surprised. He'd thought he was just making a wild remark, but he'd hit the jackpot. So that's what she'd been doing in Dr. Epstein's office. Lieutenant Frannie Divers suddenly became even more appealing to Butsko, because there was nothing sexier to him than the wife or girl friend of an officer.
“You look a little upset, Frannie,” he said. “Have another drink.”
“How did you find out!” she repeated.
“People talk,” Butsko said.
“What people talk!”
“Word gets around.”
Horror was in her eyes. “You mean everybody knows about itr
“Only a few people, and I won't tell anybody. Relax,” he said. “Calm down. Have another drink.”
“I don't dare. Somebody's liable to smell it on my breath.”
“I'll meet you at twenty-two hundred hours behind the pharmacy tent. We can have a little party.”
“Who's coming?”
“Just you and me.”
“Oh, you mean that kind of party.”
“Uh-huh.
She wrinkled her nose. “I don't know.”
“What is it you don't know?”
“I don't know.”
“Forget about it,” he said. “Gimme back my canteen.”
He reached out his arm for the canteen, and his sleeve was torn off at the shoulder. She saw his bulging muscles and the thick dark hair on his arm. Then she noticed the hair on his chest, and became turned on. She'd always thought Butsko was exciting, and now that she was close to him, with her mind relaxed by a few swallows of white lightning, she could feel his raw sexual energy. She knew she wouldn't have as much in common with him as she did with Dr. Epstein, because Butsko was only an ordinary soldier, but it would do no harm if she got a little drunk with him and had some fun, would it?
She handed him the canteen. “It's a deal,” she said. “Behind the pharmacy tent at twenty-two hundred hours.”
“You're on,” Butsko said.
Darkness fell on the island of New Guinea. On the east side of the Driniumor, Japanese assault units moved into their final attack positions. They were in a state of furious excitement, because their commanders told them the attack was their only chance to stay alive or die with honor. They prayed to the Shinto gods and toasted success with whatever remaining sake could be found and watered down, so everybody could have a sip.
Under the cover of darkness the Japanese soldiers moved toward the banks of the Driniumor and looked across the twinkling waters at the American positions on the other side. The Japanese were expecting to have the element of surprise on their sides. They were sure the Americans had no way of knowing what was in store for them. The Japanese soldiers lay on their stomachs and dreamed of warehouses full of American food, coffee, and cigarettes. They thought about fabulous meals they'd soon devour. No one told them about the huge odds they'd have to face, and no one knew that large numbers of American soldiers on the other side of the Driniumor were waiting with their rifles in their hands for the attack to begin.
General Adachi, in full battle dress, his samurai sword at his side, was ensconced in his new temporary command headquarters behind the line of his main advance. All available communications equipment was set up and wired in, so he could receive information from the front as it happened. All his staff officers were with him, and the headquarters buzzed with excitement. In only a few hours the attack that had been planned for so long would commence with a massive artillery bombardment. The officers were so tense they couldn't sit down. They paced back and forth like wild animals in cages, glancing at their watches, speaking confidently with each other, and no one dared mention the possibility of defeat. They couldn't afford to lose. Their lives and honor depended on victory, and there was no substitute for victory.
General Adachi sat behind a collapsible desk, and his stomach hurt like hell, but he didn't let it show. He grit his teeth and sat stoically, staring ahead into the middle distance. All he could do now was wait for the attack to begin. All his effort and planning for the past several months would come to fruition in only a few hours. He couldn't stop the entire attack now even if he wanted to, because of his poor communications. He wished he could attack behind a massive artillery barrage that would last an hour, supported by bombers and fighter planes, but he had to attack the Americans on a shoestring, and rely on the superior morale of the Japanese soldier to bring him victory.
It's all in the hands of the gods now, he thought as he stared straight ahead. May they smile on the Eighteenth Army tonight.
On the west side of the Driniumor, the recon platoon waited in holes eight feet deep, and each hole had a grenade sump dug into the bottom. Two men were stationed in each hole. One was permitted to sleep while the other stood guard, but no one slept in the recon platoon that night because everyone was
waiting for the big Japanese attack.
Bannon and Frankie La Barbara shared the same foxhole, and Frankie was too mad to sleep. “The thing I hate most about this fucking army is that the brass always gets us all worked up over nothing,” Frankie said.
“Shaddup Frankie,” Bannon replied.
“I won't shut up, and you know as well as I do that most people on this island don't think the Japs are gonna attack tonight, but that drunken fucking Colonel Hutchins has got a hair across his ass about it, so everybody's gotta stay awake.”
“You don't have to stay awake. You can go to sleep.”
“How can I sleep with all this shit going on?”
“Then stop complaining.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, too.”
“Kiss my ass.”
Bannon groaned. He didn't feel like getting into an insult contest with Frankie La Barbara, so he thought he'd climb out and check on the recon platoon. He was the acting platoon sergeant and that gave him the excuse he needed to get away.
“You hold down the fort here,” he said to Frankie. “I'm going out for a few minutes.”
“Where you headed?”
“None of your fucking business.”
Bannon climbed out of the hole and walked down the line. A full moon hung in the sky, providing ample but ghostly illumination. He saw foxhole after foxhole in the jungle, spaced six to ten feet apart. Not far away was the Drinium or River, moonlight sparkling and dancing on its surface. Insects chirped and occasionally a night bird screeched. The next foxhole belonged to Private Victor Yabalonka and the Reverend Billie Jones, two of the biggest men in the recon platoon. They looked up as Bannon approached.
“Everything okay in there?” Bannon asked.
“Yo,” said Billie Jones.
Yabalonka grunted, and his grunt could've meant anything. Actually Yabalonka was irritated by Bannon's question, because he thought it stupid. Of course everything was all right in the foxhole. What could go wrong?
“Stay awake,” Bannon said. “Keep your eyes open.”
Bannon walked past the foxhole and continued on to the next one. It contained Private Joshua McGurk from Skunk Hollow, Maine, and Pfc. Morris Shilansky, the former bank robber from Boston. Between them was a .30-caliber machine gun mounted on its tripod.
“How's it going in there?” Bannon asked.
“Okay sir,” McGurk replied, a wide smile on his face. He felt happy to be participating in the big enterprise of preparing for the Japanese offensive. It made him feel useful, and he loved to feel useful.
Bannon bent over and saw Shilansky sitting at the bottom of the foxhole. Shilansky was so still it was difficult to know whether he was sleeping or not.
“You okay, Shilansky?”
“I'm okay,” Shilansky replied in a deep gruff voice.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Bannon paused for a moment, thinking Shilansky had been acting peculiarly lately, but decided that wasn't the time or place to press Shilansky about it. Bannon turned to his right and walked away, to inspect the next foxhole, leaving McGurk and Shilansky behind.
McGurk slid back into die foxhole and sat opposite Shilan-sky, who was staring at his knees. He'd been staring at his knees for more than an hour, and McGurk thought that strange.
“You sure you're okay?” McGurk asked.
“Yeah.”
“You look like sumpin's botherin’ you.”
“Mind your own business.”
McGurk had a mind like a child, and his feelings were hurt. He turned down the corners of his mouth and sulked. Shilansky noticed McGurk's change of mood and was sorry he'd spoken so abruptly.
“I didn't mean it,” Shilansky said. “I haven't been feeling so hot lately.”
“I din't think so. Whatsa matter?”
“Personal problems.”
“Oh,” McGurk said. “I'm real sorry to hear that.”
“Don't worry ‘bout it,” Shilansky said. “I'll be all right.”
“Everything'll turn out okay in the end,” McGurk said.
McGurk's remark irritated Shilansky, but he didn't say anything. How could he explain to a man who was practically a moron that things don't always work out in the end, and the wholesale extermination of European Jews would be a disaster which never could be made right? Shilansky still was obsessed by the news story he'd read about the European Jews. He still felt sick in his heart, so sick he didn't even care about the impending Japanese attack. He'd lost his will to fight for his life. He didn't see the point of living in a world where such a catastrophe could take place. The world had become a horrible place in his mind. No longer was he obsessed with easy money, fast cars, and fancy blondes. The events in Europe had shaken the very foundations of his existence.
Shilansky wasn't aware that McGurk was examining his face. McGurk was no intellectual, but he was sensitive and knew something terrible was bothering Shilansky. McGurk wished there was something he could do. He felt stupid and frustrated, not realizing that nobody, not even Sigmund Freud himself, could have helped Shilansky just then.
Meanwhile, Corporal Bannon continued his tour of recon platoon foxholes. Ahead was the foxhole occupied by Private Clement R. Bisbee, the pathological thief, and as Bannon approached he heard a scraping sound coming from the foxhole. Bannon slowed and dropped to his knees, creeping forward on his belly. He saw the mounds of earth around the foxhole straight ahead in the dim moonlight, and then the scraping stopped and two eyes appeared over the edge of the foxhole, followed by the barrel of a gun..
“It's only me,” Bannon said.
“You're lucky I didn't shoot you,” Bisbee replied.
“I knew what I was doing.”
“That's what she said when the bed broke.”
Bannon stood up and jumped into the foxhole. Bisbee was at the bottom alone, because everybody refused to occupy it with him. Nobody wanted to get his pockets picked or his watch stolen while he was asleep.
“How're you doing in here?” Bannon asked.
“Just fine,” Bisbee replied, a smile on his baby face.
Bannon looked down and saw Bisbee's Washita stone lying on the earth at the bottom of the foxhole. Bisbee's Ka-bar knife lay beside it. Bisbee had been sharpening the knife, and that was the source of the scraping sound.
“You wouldn't have to be alone if you'd stop stealing stuff,” Bannon said.
That's okay,” Bisbee replied. “I'd rather be alone.”
“It's safer to have somebody with you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Bannon shrugged. “If that's the way you want it...”
“That's the way I want it.”
“If you need anything, just call for help.”
“I don't think I'll need anything.”
Bannon climbed out of the foxhole and walked away, thinking that Bisbee was one of the strangest people he'd ever met in his life. He wondered if Bisbee really preferred to be alone, or just was saying that to conceal his true loneliness. He also wondered what made Bisbee steal anything that wasn't nailed down.
Meanwhile, back in that foxhole, Bisbee resumed the sharpening of his knife. He stopped every twenty seconds or so to listen and look around, so no Japs would sneak up on him. Bisbee didn't feel lonely inside the foxhole. He was glad no one else was there to stare at him and treat him like a freak. Bisbee liked to talk to himself in a low voice, and he couldn't do that when someone else was around. He always was afraid he'd do something bizarre that a stranger would see.
“I hope the attack comes tonight,” he muttered to himself. “I got my pliers in my back pocket and I'll be able to get lots of gold teeth. It'll be worth a lot of money someday. I'll be rich and be able to buy anything I want.”
Bisbee had been raised in a broken-down orphanage where they dressed him in rags and he never got enough to eat. Perhaps that was why he'd become a pathological thief, or maybe he was a pathological thief because he was bom that
way.
Bannon approached the foxhole occupied by Lieutenant Breckenridge and his new runner, Private Worthington, who looked up at him.
“Good evening sir,” Bannon said.
“What's the problem?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“No problem, sir. I'm just checking out the platoon, and I thought I'd tell you that everything's okay so far.”
“Good deal,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “I was going out in a few minutes to check on things myself, but now I guess I won't have to.” Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch. “It's nearly twenty-two hundred hours. If the Japs attack, it'll be in a little while. I hope we haven't got ready for nothing.”
“It's always good to be ready, sir. It's never for nothing.”
Bannon walked away. Lieutenant Breckenridge watched him . go. “That's one of the best men in the platoon, if not the best,” he said to Private Worthington.
“Isn't he the one from Texas?”
“Yes, he used to be a cowboy before the war. Rode brahma bulls and broncos at rodeos.”
“No kidding.”
“I'll tell you something,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “These guys are very interesting once you get to know them. That Bannon'd make a good officer.”
“Did he ever go to college?”
“No, but that's not really necessary to be an officer. He's smart enough and has the qualities of a leader. Colonel Hutchins never went to college either, and he's a great combat officer.”
“I really don't know what to make of him,” Worthington said. “He sounds like a bullshit artist to me.”
“He is a bullshit artist,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “He's also a drunkard and sometimes he goes nuts. But he's a great soldier. I'd follow him anywhere.”
Private Worthington stared at Lieutenant Breckenridge, amazed at what he'd said, because Colonel Hutchins was obviously a loudmouth and a buffoon, and looked like a clown with his big red nose and fat belly hanging over his belt. He wondered how Lieutenant Breckenridge could admire a man like that.
