Nightmare Alley

by Len Levinson

  The big red snake saw the opening in the side of the tent and thought he should go for it. He only had one monster to deal with, and figured he could escape if he moved quickly. In point of fact, the red snake wasn’t poisonous. He was a constrictor, but he wasn’t big enough to do any harm to a human being.

  The snake dived through the opening, twisting and squirming, and landed outside. Frankie La Barbara couldn’t believe his sudden good fortune, and now all he wanted to do was get the fuck out of that tent, because he thought the snake might want to return.

  He lunged toward the front flaps of the tent and burst outside, raising his head and seeing Lieutenant Breckenridge, Shilansky, and several other soldiers approaching the tent cautiously in the distance. Frankie ran toward them, waving his arms. They stopped and gazed at him curiously, because he looked like a raving maniac.

  “Where’s the snake?” asked Shilansky.

  “He ran away!”

  “Which way?”

  “Through the hole you cut!”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge took charge. “All right, men, spread out and look for the snake. It was red?” he asked Shilansky.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Look for a red snake!”

  The men from the recon platoon made a skirmish line and stepped cautiously over the ground, looking down for the big red snake. They combed through the area, poking their rifles and bayonets into bushes, kicking over boulders, glancing up at the branches of trees to make sure the red snake wasn’t getting ready to drop down on them.

  “I see him!” said Corporal Gomez, who carried a machete in his right hand.

  The red snake realized he’d been seen and that he was in trouble. His instincts told him to get above the monsters chasing him, so he sped toward the nearest tree and climbed the trunk.

  Corporal Gomez caught up with the snake when he was about three feet up the tree. Raising the machete high over his head, Gomez swung with all his strength and chopped the snake in two.

  The snake was killed instantly, but his nervous system kept going. He fell from the tree and his two halves coiled into knots. Gomez raised his machete and chopped again and again, but still the pieces twisted and arched.

  Gomez’s arm got tired, and he took a step back. “That snake ain’t gonna hurt nobody now,” he said.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. “Everybody back to your tents or whatever you were doing!” he said.

  The men trudged off, leaving the red snake’s severed sections twisting on the ground. Frankie La Barbara crawled into his torn-apart tent and Shilansky followed him.

  “Shit,” said Frankie, “what’re we gonna do if it rains?”

  “I guess we’re gonna get wet,” Shilansky replied, lying down on his stomach and closing his eyes.

  “Did you haveta cut the fucking tent open?” Frankie asked.

  “Shaddup, Frankie. Lemme sleep.”

  Frankie grumbled as he lay on his back. He closed his eyes but was too agitated to sleep. So was everybody else in the recon platoon. It was their first night back at the front, and they knew they had to get up at five o’clock anyway. Some smoked cigarettes. Others closed their eyes and lay still. The guards watched the jungle and the Driniumor River surging past on its way to the sea.

  The first copper sliver of the morning sun appeared on the horizon as a meeting began in the headquarters of Colonel Katsumata, with all his battalion commanders and staff officers, including Major Honda and Lieutenant Hozumi.

  They were gathered around the map table, which showed the Driniumor River and adjacent real estate, with blocks of wood painted red, blue, or yellow indicating positions of various units.

  Colonel Katsumata held a long pointer in his right hand and aimed it at a spot beside the Driniumor River. “The American unit we are concerned with is here, and Major Honda estimates that it is a regiment with artillery and heavy weapons but no tanks. Is that correct, Major Honda?”

  “Correct, sir,” replied Major Honda.

  “We have received an order from General Adachi last night to attack these Americans, and this morning a new order arrived that clarified the tactical objectives of our attack.” Colonel Katsumata smiled and looked up at his officers because they all were taller than he. “Our goal in this attack will not be to drive the Americans out of Aitape. Our regiment is not large enough to manage that great task. But we are large enough to inflict casualties and damage on our enemies, and render them weaker for the time when our main effort will come against Aitape.

  “General Adachi believes that the Americans have committed a foolish and dangerous mistake by capturing Hollandia and Aitape, leaving so many of us behind. General Adachi contends that the Americans have violated one of the most important principles of modern warfare, because in modern warfare the objective is to destroy your enemy’s means for waging war—in other words, his soldiers and equipment—and not just capture land, because what good is land? All by itself, it has no strategic value at all. You must defeat your enemy’s army in the field; that is the way to win wars. But the foolish Americans have chosen to disregard that principle. They have decided to leave the Eighteenth Army behind them, and perhaps by leaving us behind them, they think we’re gone. But we’re not gone, are we, gentlemen?”

  The officers smiled and shook their heads. Colonel Katsumata was making sense to them, but he was only telling them what they wanted to believe. It was good for their morale to make them think that the Americans had made an important mistake, and Colonel Katsumata wanted to raise their morale, because they’d been taking a beating for the last year on the various bloody battlefields of the Huon Peninsula.

  “The Americans are building up their strength in this area,” Colonel Katsumata continued, “and General Adachi wants us to interrupt that buildup. He wants us to attack the new American troops opposite us on the other side of the Driniumor before they can establish permanent fortifications and become accustomed to the area. General Adachi thinks we can catch them off balance and unprepared, and inflict a heavy blow. We will attack this new American regiment at night, take them by surprise, kill as many as we can, steal as much of their supplies as possible, destroy the rest, and then withdraw to where we are now, to wait for the rest of the Eighteenth Army to arrive. At that time we will finish the job and drive the Americans first from Aitape and then from Hollandia. Are there any questions?”

  Captain Masayoshi Mochizuki raised his hand.

  “Yes?” said Colonel Katsumata.

  “You said that we will attack the Americans at night,” Captain Mochizuki said. “What night?”

  Colonel Katsumata smiled faintly and narrowed his eyes. “This night,” he replied.

  It was after breakfast. Lieutenant Breckenridge was returning to the recon platoon after a meeting with Colonel Hutchins, who told him to cross the Driniumor River with some of his men and patrol the opposite side to see what the Japs had there.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge found Sergeant Cameron supervising the construction of a trench in which the recon platoon’s two mortars would be situated. Sergeant Cameron saw Lieutenant Breckenridge approach and climbed out of the trench to see what he wanted.

  “What’d the colonel have to say?” Sergeant Cameron asked.

  “He wants us to patrol the other side of the river. I’ll take two men with me, and you take as many men as you think you’ll need. Leave as soon as you get ready, and if I’m not here when you get back, report to Major Cobb and tell him what you saw. Got it?”

  “How far are we supposed to patrol?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge took his map out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. “Go in about a half-mile, to this row of hills here.” He pointed to a row of hills on the map. “About this far. The colonel wants to know what the Japs are doing over there, if anything.”

  Sergeant Cameron nodded, taking a bag of Beech-Nut chewing tobacco out of his shirt pocket. “Who’re you taking with you?”

 
; “You can have first choice.”

  “I’ll take Lopez, Billie Jones, and Hotshot Stevenson.”

  “Good enough.”

  Sergeant Cameron pulled a clump of chewing tobacco out of the bag and stuffed the tobacco into his mouth as he walked away to gather up his men. Lieutenant Breckenridge lit a cigarette and wondered who to select for his patrol, since Sergeant Cameron already had selected the best point man in Gomez, one of the strongest and most obedient men in Billie Jones, and the best sniper, Hotshot Stevenson.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge lined up the old veterans in his mind and wondered which to take on the patrol. He definitely didn’t want Frankie La Barbara, because Frankie put up a big argument whenever he was asked to do something. Shilansky was okay when he wasn’t with Frankie. Craig Delane had no initiative but could follow orders. Jimmy O’Rourke was probably the best point man after Gomez. Lieutenant Breckenridge went down the list and finally decided on O’Rourke and Shilansky.

  He rounded them up and told them what they were going to do. They didn’t appear too happy about it. Lieutenant Breckenridge didn’t want to go on the patrol, either, but orders were orders.

  “We’ll leave from my tent in about fifteen minutes,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “We’ll travel light: Just bring a can of C rations and a full canteen of water. Make sure you got enough ammo. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Fall out,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.

  The two patrols crossed the Driniumor at ten o’clock in the morning, and Japanese scouts watched them through binoculars high in the trees every step of the way. The water was chest-high and the current was strong. The GIs moved slowly, holding their rifles high over their heads, touching their feet down carefully so they wouldn’t lose their balance and drop in over their heads.

  They advanced into the jungle on the other side, and the Japanese scouts kept them under observation. The Japanese scouts had been ordered to leave the GIs alone, because Colonel Katsumata wanted the Americans to think there were no Japanese troops in that sector.

  The Japanese scouts wished they could ambush the Americans and slit their throats, but orders were orders. They watched the American soldiers and followed them around, but made no contact. The two patrols found an elaborate network of trails and some Japanese footprints here and there, but nothing to indicate that major troop movements were taking place in the area.

  The patrols recrossed the Driniumor and returned to Colonel Hutchins’s headquarters late that afternoon. Lieutenant Breckenridge and Sergeant Cameron reported to Major Cobb that they’d seen few signs of Japs. Lieutenant Breckenridge recommended that the regiment cross the river and occupy the other side. Major Cobb said he’d take the matter up with Colonel Hutchins when the latter returned from a meeting with General Hawkins.

  TEN . . .

  It was two-fifteen in the morning, and a three-quarter moon shone brightly in the sky. Frankie La Barbara and Morris Shilansky were posted inside one of the machine-gun nests on the treeline near the Driniumor River, keeping watch on the other side. They’d come on duty at two in the morning and would be relieved at four by another team.

  Shilansky sat behind the machine gun and Frankie knelt on the left side with the ammunition crates. They wore steel helmets and OD tank-top shirts. Bugs swarmed around them and bit them, although both GIs were drenched with citronella and stank horribly.

  “There’s nothing going on out here,” Frankie said, lying on his side. “I think I’ll get me some shut-eye.”

  “Come on, Frankie. I can’t watch this whole fucking river all by myself.”

  “There ain’t nothing to watch. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “What if a Jap sneaks up on me?”

  “No Japs are gonna sneak up on you. If they come, you’ll see them crossing the river.”

  “What if they cross farther down?”

  “Other guys’ll see them farther down.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “If is like maybe and but: It don’t mean a fucking thing. Shaddup and lemme sleep. You worry like a cunt, you bastard.”

  Frankie rolled over and closed his eyes. He ran his tongue over his teeth, swallowed, and snuggled into the muck at the bottom of the hole. Shilansky wanted to kick his ass and wake him up, but knew if he did that, he’d have to fight Frankie, and he didn’t feel like fighting Frankie.

  Something caught Shilansky’s eye. He jerked his head in the direction of the opposite shore of the Driniumor, scanning the bushes and trees, but couldn’t see anything. My eyes are playing tricks on me, he thought. The moonlight can make you see things that aren’t there.

  A cricket chirped nearby. Frankie La Barbara snored. Other insects buzzed, and in the distance a bird squawked. Shilansky sat cross-legged behind the .30-caliber machine gun and saw the moon glint along its barrel. Beyond was the oleaginous Driniumor. He thought he saw something move on the far side, but knew it was only his imagination.

  Frankie La Barbara continued to snore. Shilansky’s mind wandered back to Boston, where he was from. He was the son of a house painter, and he’d lived in the big Jewish neighborhood off Blue Hill Avenue, which the gentiles called Jew Hill Avenue. Boredom and a love of fancy blondes, fast cars, and zoot suits had propelled him into a life of crime. He started with burglaries, worked his way up to holdups of small businesses, and finally made it to the top, bank robbery; but he was never that good at it and had been arrested a few times. He’d done time at the Bridgewater House of Correction, and the warden said he could get out early if he joined the Army, so he joined the Army.

  Often he thought he should have stayed in the Bridgewater House of Correction, because it was better than getting shot at on filthy, hot, bug-infested tropical islands, but at the time it had seemed like a good idea. He could wear a snappy uniform, hit on fancy blondes, and fight Hitler.

  Instead he was sent to the South Pacific. He wasn’t wearing a snappy uniform, there were no fancy blondes around, and he wasn’t fighting Hitler. Things hadn’t worked out the way he’d thought. Just then his reverie was interrupted by a particularly loud snore from Frankie La Barbara. It sounded like a circular saw hitting a two-by-four plank, and Shilansky was sure the snore could be heard all over the regimental area. He leaned to the side and shook Frankie’s shoulder.

  “Wake up!” he said.

  Frankie opened his eyes and reached for his rifle. “Huh? What?”

  “Wake the fuck up!”

  Frankie blinked and looked around. “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re snoring too loud, you bastard.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Frankie rubbed his eyes and wondered what to do about his snoring. Actually, he suspected that he hadn’t been snoring at all. He thought Shilansky had awakened him because he wanted some company.

  “Somebody’s coming,” Shilansky said.

  Frankie heard footsteps and turned around. It was Sergeant Cameron walking toward them through the shadows. Sergeant Cameron stood at the edge of the hole and looked down at the two GIs.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” he demanded, placing his hands on his hips.

  “Nothing’s going on, Sarge,” said Frankie.

  “Nothing at all,” added Shilansky.

  “Oh, yeah?” replied Sergeant Cameron. “I heard somebody snoring over this way.”

  “It wasn’t me,” said Frankie.

  “Me neither,” said Shilansky.

  “Stay awake, you two,” Sergeant Cameron told them. “Keep your eyes open. You fall asleep, you’re liable to get your throats cut by a sneaky Jap.”

  Frankie La Barbara looked up at him. “Ain’t no Japs around here,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because there ain’t. If there was, we woulda seen them by now.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Cameron. “Well, sometimes when you don’t see them or hear them, that’s when you gotta be the most
careful. Got it?”

  “Got it, Sarge,” Frankie said.

  “How about you?” Cameron said to Shilansky.

  “I got it, too, Sarge.”

  “Good. Make sure you remember it.”

  Sergeant Cameron turned and walked away. He was pretty sure Frankie La Barbara had been snoring, but he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. He’d have to come back and check later.

  In the distance he heard whump, whump, whump. The sounds came from the Japanese side of the river, and he spun around, a cold chill coming over him despite the torrid, humid night atmosphere. He’d know those sounds anywhere. They were the sounds of mortars being fired not far away.

  “Hit it!” he screamed. “Hit it!"

  He held his steel helmet on his head and ran to the nearest trench, which was the one he’d just been in with Morris Shilansky and Frankie La Barbara. When he got close, he tucked in his head and dived. He soared through the air and saw Frankie and Shilansky clawing at the bottom of the hole, trying to get deeper. Sergeant Cameron landed to their left and lay still, both hands on his helmet.

  Barrrooooommmmmm! The first mortar shell exploded less than a hundred yards away, knocking over trees and sending clods of earth flying through the air. The second mortar shell landed closer, making the ground tremble as if an earthquake had struck. Then a slew of mortar shells landed simultaneously in one huge crescendo of destruction, blowing up the mess hall of Company F, landing on the headquarters tent of Company B, and wreaking havoc throughout the jungle. The next barrage blew up a section of the minefield and tore holes in the concertina-wire barricade.

  The soldiers scrambled out of their tents and dashed toward their holes, diving in and covering up. The new replacements were scared to death, and some actually shit their pants as they huddled in their holes, while the old veterans thought it was like the return of a terrible nightmare.