Meat Grinder Hill

by Len Levinson

  “Oh, it's you,” General Hyakutake said, sitting up. “What's wrong now?”

  Tsuji handed him the message. “I just received this from Imperial Headquarters.”

  General Hyakutake read the message. “They want you back in Tokyo,” he said. “How unfortunate for you.”

  “It is indeed unfortunate sir, but at least they'll find out the true situation here.”

  “It won't matter. I've told them in a hundred communique's and they've done nothing. I only hope they'll let us die here with honor instead of making us run away like dogs with our tails between our legs.”

  “I will convey that sentiment to them, sir,” Colonel Tsuji said, looking down at his boots. “It's the least I can do for the Seventeenth Army. It's my fault that we've failed here, because I consistently underestimated the enemy's fighting power and always insisted on my own operations plans, which proved to be wrong. I deserve a sentence of ten thousand deaths for my failures here on Guadalcanal.”

  “Come, come, Tsuji,” General Hyakutake said. “All of us are to blame, especially the generals and admirals in Tokyo,’ who never gave us what we needed. But the battle isn't lost yet. We can still fight. Thanks to you, we have a string of insurmountable defenses laid out against the Americans. They shall not pass.”

  Tsuji knew his general was engaging in wishful thinking, because no defense was insurmountable. The Americans would break through sooner or later—probably sooner, because half-starved Japanese soldiers could not hold out indefinitely against the American juggernaut.

  “Yes, sir,” Tsuji said.

  “You might as well get busy right away on your travel arrangements. No use staying around if you don't have to. The sooner you get to Tokyo, the sooner you can plead our cause.”

  Colonel Tsuji took a step backward and saluted. “Yes, sir. I'll go to the radio shack and arrange for transportation right now.”

  “Carry on, Colonel Tsuji.”

  Tsuji marched out of the tent and stomped across the clearing to the radio shack, the jungle buzzing with insects as the full heat and humidity of the day descended on the island.

  It wasn't nearly so hot in Nouméa on New Caledonia, and Frankie La Barbara sat on the steps of one of the barracks buildings that faced the nurses’ quarters, waiting for Lieutenant Crawford to come out. He'd been sitting there for a couple of hours, smoking cigarettes and glancing at his watch. He'd decided she was the prettiest nurse on the island and he wanted to get her goodies before he was shipped back to the front.

  Frankie La Barbara was a handsome young man and he knew it. Women had always told him that he resembled the actor Victor Mature, and back in New York City he'd had a whole bunch of girl friends in addition to his wife, Francesca, who loved him dearly and put up with all his bullshit. Frankie knew that women were attracted to him just as he was attracted to them. He'd had so many women in his young life that he had a lot of confidence. He'd found out long ago that women like to fuck just as much as men do, and pretty women like it even more.

  Where is she? he thought, puffing a Chesterfield. He'd been trying to find her all day, checking her ward, the mess hall, and now sitting in front of the nurses’ quarters. Frankie was getting discouraged. He thought of Nurse Gleason in his own ward. Maybe I ought to go and get a blowjob from her. Then I can come back and wait for Nurse Crawford.

  Frankie stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and field-stripped it, scattering the shreds of tobacco into the air and balling up the paper. He tossed the paper to the side and stood, then spotted two nurses leave the building across the street; one of them was Betty Crawford. The nurses walked to the street, continued talking for a few minutes, and then split up. The other nurse was headed in Frankie's direction and Nurse Crawford was going the other way.

  Frankie stood up and walked swiftly across the lawn. He passed the other nurse on the street, a gawky old-maid type, and caught up with Nurse Crawford.

  “Hi, there,” Frankie said, flashing his best smile. “Remember me?”

  Betty Crawford was startled by the sound of his voice, looked at him, and remembered him instantly. “Oh, yes, you're the friend of Sargeant Butsko.”

  The sun gleamed on Frankie's pearly-white teeth. “Well, I wouldn't exactly call us friends. He was my platoon sergeant. Ugly son of a bitch, isn't he?”

  “He's certainly seen a lot of war.”

  Frankie looked around furtively. “Say, I know you're an officer and I'm an ordinary soldier, but how'd you like to take a ride around the island with me tonight?”

  Nurse Crawford smiled at the earnest expression on Frank ie's face. She was no dumb broad and it was not hard for her to perceive that he was the basic good-looking Don Juan type who didn't have a shred of decency in his body.

  “No, thank you,” she said politely. “I'm going to the movies tonight.”

  “Aw, you can see the movies anytime. But a ride around the island with old Frankie? You can't get that anytime.” He winked.

  She almost laughed, but knew that Don Juan types take themselves seriously, so she kept a straight face. “I'm very flattered, but I'm engaged to be married, and I think I'd rather go to the movies.”

  “Where's the guy you're engaged to?”

  “He's in the Army—in North Africa.”

  “Hey, that's a long ways off.” Frankie winked and flashed his smile again. “I'm married, you know. My wife's in New York. But you and me are here together, and who's gonna know?”

  “There's no point in talking about it,” she said. “You just don't understand.”

  “I understand that people get lonely sometimes. Don't you get lonely sometimes?”

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Just call me Frankie. What's your first name?”

  “None of your business.” She looked sternly at him. “Now listen to me, Frankie. I'm sure you're a good soldier, but I'm not interested in talking with you any further, so why don't you go your way and I'll go mine.”

  Frankie turned down the corners of his mouth. “Hey, baby, I'm a good thing. You don't want to throw away a good thing.”

  “If you don't start walking away from me right now, I'm going to call for an MP.”

  “Shit, you wouldn't dare.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  She opened her mouth to scream and Frankie took a quick step backward, holding up his hand. “Okay, I guess you would dare. Sorry to bother you, sweetheart. See you around like a doughnut.”

  Frankie walked away quickly, taking a cigarette from his pack, not looking back. What a cunt she had turned out to be. Well, the no's don't count. Only the yes's count. His Uncle Tony from Brooklyn had told him that once and he always found it to be true. He headed back to his own ward and Nurse Gleason, who was a little on the chubby side but usually said yes.

  THREE . . .

  Bannon returned to the recon platoon, where Pfc. Shaw had organized a lively crap game around a filthy Army blanket, everybody playing for payday stakes.

  “All right, let's break it up!” Bannon shouted. “We're moving out now!”

  “Aw, Sarge!” complained Corporal Gomez, an ex-pachuco from Los Angeles, who held the dice. “I was just starting to win back what I lost!”

  “I said we're moving out! Let's go!”

  “But, Sarge...!”

  Bannon charged forward and snatched the dice out of his hands. “I said saddle up and move out!”

  Everything became quiet. Bannon was aware that all eyes were on him, and he could feel the hate. It was odd, because he'd been one of the boys until only three weeks earlier, but now he'd become The Enemy to all his former friends.

  Bannon put the dice in his shirt pocket. “You'll get these back when we get to were we're going.”

  “Where we going?” Private Billie Jones asked.

  “You'll find out when you get there.”

  Bannon turned his back to them and headed for his foxhole. He was tense because he thought one of them might jump h
im from behind, but he didn't look back; it was a trick he'd seen Butsko use many times. The only difference was that all the men were scared shitless of Butsko, but he knew that none of them were that scared of him. He'd had to punch a few of them out during the past few weeks, but it hadn't been enough. If I was built like a tank like Butsko and scarred from head to foot, then I bet they'd be afraid of me.

  He returned to his foxhole and saw his runner, Pfc. Alfred DelFranco from River Rouge, Michigan, inside it, praying his rosary. DelFranco was a spidery little man with a wispy mustache who was very serious and conscientious, which was why Bannon had made him his runner, although Bannon thought the platoon definitely didn't need another religious fanatic. The Reverend Billie Jones had been almost more than Bannon could tolerate, but DelFranco was the quiet type of religious fanatic who prayed silently and never delivered impromptu sermons, so there had been no problems with him so far.

  “We're moving out,” Bannon told him. “Get your shit squared away.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Bannon gathered together his equipment and stuffed it into his pack. DelFranco struck their pup tent and unbuttoned the halves, bringing Bannon his half, which Bannon rolled up with his blanket, tying it to the top and sides of his pack so that it resembled a horseshoe. From the corner of his eye he could see DelFranco scurrying about, gathering together his equipment, all concentration and no wasted effort. Like most of the men in the recon platoon, DelFranco was there because of a fight. Someone in his former company had made a disparaging remark about the pope, and DelFranco had let him have it. Now he was the smallest man in the recon platoon. He had no friends and appeared not to want any: another eight ball in a platoon of eight balls.

  After Bannon's pack was ready, he roamed through the platoon area, shouting orders, telling the men to get a move on. He wanted to reach his new position before chow that night and then get his men to bed early so he could make an early start in the morning. They grumbled and snarled, just the way he grumbled and snarled when Butsko gave him orders, but now he was in Butsko's position and knew what he'd gone through. Maintaining discipline among thirty-two maniacs wasn't easy.

  Finally all the men were ready. Bannon lined them up in a column of twos and moved them off. He led the column with DelFranco at his side, and behind him was the First Squad with Corporal Sam Longtree at its head.

  The recon platoon passed other units in the regiment, and some of the old soldiers looked up as they passed, because they knew of the exploits of the recon platoon and recognized some of its members.

  The march was slow, because the jungle was thick and the trail twisted like a demented snake. Several times Bannon had to stop and check his compass or ask directions. Around 1600 hours the platoon landed in Fox Company, the approximate point from which they were to jump off in the morning. Bannon asked around, found out where the company command post was, and marched the platoon there, telling them to take a break while he went into the tent and talked with the company commander.

  Bannon entered the tent and saw the company's first sergeant, a grizzled old war dog with a big red whiskey nose, sitting at a portable field desk.

  “Hi, there,” Bannon said. “I wonder if I could talk with your CO for a moment.”

  “Who the fuck are you?” the old master sergeant asked in a raspy voice.

  “I'm Sergeant Bannon from the recon platoon.”

  “What the fuck you want?”

  “That's what I got to talk with your CO about. I don't feel like explaining everything twice.”

  “You're not getting in there until you tell me what you want.”

  “Kiss my ass,” Bannon said, moving toward the tent flap and pushing it aside. He stepped into the office of the company commander and saw him, a young captain, seated behind the desk. Two lieutenants were seated in front of the desk. Everyone looked up in surprise at Bannon, who threw a snappy salute.

  “Hate to bother you, gentlemen,” Bannon said, “but I'm Sergeant Bannon from the recon platoon and I thought I ought to tell you that we're going to be in the area for the night.”

  The old first sergeant barged into the office and grabbed Bannon's arm. “Now just a minute!” he roared.

  Bannon pulled away from him. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

  The officer behind the desk stood up. “Now hold on—the both of you!”

  “Sir,” said the first sergeant, “this man barged into your office without my permission.”

  “I don't have time to play games with you,” Bannon said.

  The captain behind the desk looked back and forth at each of them and tried to size up the situation. He knew that his first sergeant was a drunken old fool and that the recon platoon was Colonel Stockton's baby.

  “I'll handle this, Sergeant Page,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” the old first sergeant said gruffly. He turned and left the office.

  The captain looked at Bannon. “You shouldn't have walked in here without my first sergeant's permission.”

  “Sorry, sir, but I didn't have time for a song and dance with him. My platoon has to move out ahead of the regiment in the morning, and I wanted to get my men settled in as soon as I can. If you have any questions about what I'm doing here, you can call Major Cobb at Regiment.”

  The captain was a graduate of West Point, wise in the ways of Army protocol. “I don't think that'll be necessary. You can bivouac anywhere around here that you want. I'll pass the word along so that you don't have any problems. Do you need any rations or anything like that?”

  “No, sir.”

  The captain smiled. “By the way, I'm Captain Leach. This is Lieutenant Bova and that's Lieutenant Martin.”

  “Hiya,” Bannon said.

  The officers nodded and grinned. All of them knew how Colonel Stockton felt about his recon platoon.

  “Well,” Bannon said. “I guess I'd better get rolling along. Got a lot to do. Nice talking to you, gentlemen.”

  He threw another of his smart salutes and left the office, passing the desk of First Sergeant Page, who gave him a dirty look.

  “Fuck you,” Bannon said out the comer of his mouth.

  Sergeant Page jumped to his feet. "What'd you say?”

  But Bannon was already out of the tent.

  Sergeant Page was so angry, his hands were trembling and his face was turning purple with rage. He bared his teeth, snarled, took out a cigarette, and lit it up.

  “You okay, Sarge?” asked the company clerk, Pfc. Andy Sawyer from Raleigh, North Carolina, who was seated behind the desk on the other side of the tent.

  “Watch the phones for a few minutes. I gotta go take care of something.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Sergeant Page put on his helmet and charged out of the tent like an angry bull moose. His enormous beer belly hung over his belt and his helmet was low over his eyes as he made his way to the weapons platoon, where he found Sergeant Fowler putting one of his mortar squads through an aiming-and-firing exercise.

  “Fowler, come here a minute.”

  Sergeant Fowler had been a drinking buddy of Sergeant Page's when the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment was in Australia, and they also used to visit whorehouses together. Fowler was thirty-five and husky, with coarse features and malevolent eyes. “Yeah, whataya want?” he said, slapping the dirt off his hands as he approached Sergeant Page.

  Sergeant Page led him away from the mortar squad. “Guess what?” he said.

  “What?” asked Fowler.

  “We got the fucking recon platoon with us for the night.”

  “Oh, that must be the guys I saw around here a few minutes ago.”

  “That's them.”

  “They're supposed to be a bunch of real tough rat bastards.”

  Sergeant Page scowled and spat at the trunk of a coconut palm tree. “They look like a bunch of wise guys and fags to me. I don't think they're so tough. Why don't you take some of the boys over there in a little while and we'll see how tough they real
ly are.”

  Sergeant Fowler showed the palms of his hands. “Hey, I don't want any trouble, Les. The captain wouldn't go for any rough stuff.”

  “Fuck the captain. I'm the one who runs this company, and everybody knows it. He just signs what I put in front of him. Listen, that recon platoon is in trouble all the time, because they're a bunch of fuck-ups. If anything happens, we can just blame it on them.”

  “They're supposed to be the colonel's fair-haired boys, ain't they?”

  “Yeah, he bails them out whenever they fuck up.”

  Sergeant Fowler wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “When I was a kid at school, I always hated the teacher's pet.”

  “Well the recon platoon is the same fucking thing.”

  “That's what I was thinking.” Sergeant Fowler looked around. “Where are they?”

  Sergeant Page pointed. “Somewhere back there.”

  “How many of them?”

  “I don't know. If they're a platoon, there're probably around forty, but if they're understrength, like we are, there're probably around thirty.”

  “We got that many badasses in this company, at least. I'll round some of them up. Things have been too quiet around here lately anyway.”

  “Kick their asses,” Sergeant Page said. “Stomp their fucking heads. Their platoon sergeant's name is Bannon. You might want to get a piece of him for yourself.”

  “I always wanted to kick the shit out of the teacher's pet,” Fowler said.

  “Well, here's your chance. Let me know when you're ready to go, because I'd like to see the fun.”

  The sun was sinking on the horizon, and Pfc. Tommy Shaw, the former professional heavyweight boxer, was spreading out his blanket in preparation for the evening's crap game. Corporal Gomez had retrieved the dice from Bannon and was rubbing the tiny cubes in his hands, warming them up and praying for the blessings of Lady Luck. The other soldiers crowded around, anxious to bet money they hadn't even been paid yet on a toss of the dice. Pfc. DelFranco walked by on his way to the latrine.