Meat Grinder Hill

by Len Levinson

  “Don't do that,” she said, trying to regain control of herself.

  “Just let me touch it,” he whispered. “All I want to do is touch it.”

  “No.”

  She hugged her thighs tightly together as Frankie ran his fingers up her smooth white flesh. Nurse Grimsby touched her free hand to his shoulder.

  “I'm going to call the MPs,” she said softly.

  “No, you're not.”

  He reached the top of her thighs and touched his fingers lightly against her precious love-starved little gazoo.

  “Oh, Nurse Grimsby, that's so nice,” he said, licking her ear.

  She nearly fainted. “Stop it, La Barbara.”

  “You don't really want me to stop it, do you?” he asked, sticking his tongue into her ear, massaging her underwear, and pressing her hand against his hairy canary.

  Nurse Grimsby thought she was losing her mind. She wanted to scream for the MPs and run out of the examining room, but somehow she couldn't. It felt too good. The attack had been sneaky and sudden and had taken her by surprise.

  Frankie knew that if you went slow with a dame like Nurse Grimsby, you'd never get anywhere. He let her hand go, grabbed the back of her head, and licked her lips, sending tickles up and down her spine.

  “No,” she moaned.

  “Yes,” Frankie said, licking her clenched teeth.

  “Please.”

  “Relax.”

  “Don't.”

  Frankie's tongue was insistent and delicious, because he'd been chewing spearmint gum. She felt herself weakening— deep down she was normal, after all—and Frankie knew there were no frigid women, there were only inept men.

  “I love you,” he mumbled, while still kissing her.

  “No, you don't. You're a bastard and everybody knows it.”

  “But I'm your bastard.”

  “Get away from me.”

  “I won't.”

  “I'll scream.”

  “Oh, no, you won't.”

  She opened her mouth to scream, and Frankie thrust his tongue into her mouth. That did it. She melted like chocolate in summertime. Frankie withdrew his hand from underneath her skirt and pulled her against him, rolling his tongue around in her mouth, pressing his joint against her belly. She whimpered, because she knew he was defeating her, but it was a sweet surrender. She placed her hands on his broad shoulders and squirmed her tongue against his, making little animal noises. He pulled up her dress in back and cupped her buttocks in his hands, squeezing hard, but not too hard.

  Oh, God, she thought, what am I doing? She tried to regain control of herself, but it was too late. She ought to lock the door, because somebody might walk in. She ought to do a lot of things, but she couldn't. Her nipples tingled and she was feeling creamy and dreamy between her legs.

  Frankie urged her toward the examining table and withdrew his tongue from her mouth. “Take your clothes off,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her eyes.

  “You take them off for me,” she replied, because if she was going to be bad, she might as well be real bad.

  Frankie chuckled, because women like Nurse Grimsby always turned out to be the wildest. He let her go, spun around, latched the door, and flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

  But not complete darkness. Moonbeams flowed through the window and she stood beside the examining table, hands at her sides, a smile on her face, waiting for him.

  He unbuttoned the front of her white dress, and she held out her arms as he pulled if off. Now she had on only her bra, her Army-issue cotton underpants, and her nurse's hat. Frankie reached behind her, unhooked the bra, and peeled it away, uncovering two pert breasts, not too big but very nice, each one a tempting mouthful. He pulled down her underpants and she stepped out of them; he tossed them over his shoulder, then stood and looked at her long, slim legs. Although they turned in a bit at the knees, he thought they'd look great in black net stockings. She wasn't bad at all.

  He picked her up and set her down on the examining table, then crawled on top of her, feeling her soft body beneath him. Her nipples felt like little pebbles against his chest. He rested his heavy artillery on her stomach and covered her face with kisses while she closed her eyes and wondered if this was one of those crazy dreams she had were she fucked and sucked all night long and in the morning did her best to forget what she'd dreamed. He moved his heavy artillery into position and she looked up at him, glowing in the moonlight. His eyes glinted evilly, and it made her extremely passionate.

  She grabbed his joint and squeezed it hard, pulling it into her steaming furnace.

  “Hey, take is easy,” he said, thrusting his hips forward.

  His cannon banged against her door, but somehow it couldn't enter. Either it was too big or she was too small. They struggled against each other, groaning and sighing, and gradually the opening widened. He worked his hips around and she guided it through the door. He sank in deeper and her vagina held his joint like a fist, expanding and contracting, pulsating and going into little convulsions.

  Frankie nearly came, but he squinched his eyes shut and tried to control himself. He considered himself a skilled sexual artisan, and it wouldn't do to come so soon. But the stimulation was too great. Her long, slim body was too thrilling. She rocked her hips back and forth and Frankie thought, Oh, my God, I'm going to come.

  “What's wrong?” she asked as he tried to get away.

  “I'm coming!”

  He pulled out as his cannon fired, covering her belly with hot cream, and she rubbed it against her breasts and tummy and between her legs, making the petals of her flower tingle while Frankie caught his breath, aimed, and jammed it in again, this time to the hilt, and pumped her slowly. She raised her long legs and wrapped them around his waist, wagging her ass from side to side, their bodies sticky against each other, and he thought of how delicate and wonderful she was, how fluid her motions, so unlike the crabby nurse she usually was, snapping orders at GIs, her shoulders hunched because she was so tall and wanted to appear shorter.

  Now she was stretched out to her full length, and Frankie kissed her ear as he drilled deep into her well. He knew he'd get her before long. All the nurses wanted to do it, and the nutty ones like Nurse Grimsby usually wanted it the most. They fought it the hardest. But once they gave in, they fucked like wild animals, scratching your back until it bled, kicking their legs in the air, and talking dirty.

  “Fuck me,” she moaned. “Fuck me.”

  “Whataya think I'm doing?” Frankie La Barbara asked.

  “Roll me over and do it to me that way.”

  He disengaged from her and she turned over on her stomach, sticking her cute little caboose into the air. Frankie found her hot spot and stuck it in again, humping and pumping, and she wiggled her ass and bit her hand, afraid she would get so far out she'd never come back again. Frankie reached around with his long, educated fingers and massaged her little dewdrop. She felt like a blossom that was opening wider and wider, sending out tendrils and petals into the world in a wild profusion of colors and shapes. Frankie stoked the ecstasy building inside her and it became more intense and fiery, radiating out to her fingertips and toes, making her scalp tingle, and then it exploded, utterly consuming her in sweet pleasure, drowning her in crazy joy. Her movements became erratic; she went into convulsions, struggling to breathe, clawing the sheet on the examining table, and at that moment—the moment when she thought she could not possibly tolerate anything more—Frankie fired another volley, filling her deepest recesses with hot honey, and she blacked out for a few seconds, hearing bells and birds, but then came back and felt him screwing her erratically, gasping in her ear, cupping her breasts in his hands.

  Finally, exhausted, they went limp against each other, their chests heaving as they tried to breathe, Frankie resting his face against her hair and she reaching underneath her, touching the barrel of his gun with her fingers. They closed their eyes and rested for a while, nearly falling as
leep, and Frankie was again aware of how good her body felt and how nice was the fragrance that lived in her hair. Pretty soon his joint was stiffening again. He prodded her with it, rolling her over onto her back and sticking it in.

  It wasn't long before they were going at it like wild animals once more as the moon rolled across the starry sky and birds of the night sang their plaintive songs.

  EIGHT . . .

  The next day American artillery pounded the Gifu Line while the Cactus Air Force from Henderson Field dropped bombs and strafed the jungle. Colonel Stockton worked amid the din, planning his attack. The Second Battalion would assault what he assumed to be the front of the Gifu Line, with the Third Battalion covering the left flank and the First Battalion in reserve to move in on the right if necessary. He knew those Japanese fortifications were impeding the American advance, and he would have to break through if he hoped to maintain his credibility as a combat commander.

  His men spent the day digging in to forestall the possibility of a counterattack. Ammunition was brought to the front on roads bulldozed by the Corps of Engineers. The dead and wounded were carried back to aid stations; the worst of the wounded would be shipped to New Caledonia. Mail was delivered to the front, a bundle being delivered to the recon platoon.

  Bannon ordered a break and handed out the mail. The men crowded around him, trying to read the names on the letters, and Bannon's voice faltered when he saw his own name on an envelope in Ginger Gregg's unmistakable handwriting. He put the envelope in his pocket and hurriedly called out the rest of the names. The last letter was for Butsko; he'd have to forward it to the hospital in New Caledonia.

  Bannon returned to his foxhole, which was five feet deep, with a grenade sump at the bottom. Before his ass hit the dirt he tore the letter open and started reading. Ginger said she hadn't written for a while because she'd been sick with the flu. She hadn't been able to work and had been lying in a feverish delirium in her room in Pecos. She said she still loved him and thought of him all the time. She said she missed him desperately.

  Bannon's morale improved five hundred percent. He lit a cigarette and thought of Ginger with her red hair and the freckles on her back. He should have known she was sick. Only crazy jealousy had made him think that she'd forgotten him.

  But then the needles of doubt began to prickle his mind. Was she lying? Perhaps she had been shacked up with some other guy and only said she had been sick. Perhaps her little fling with the other guy hadn't worked out and now she wanted to come back to him because she had no one else at the moment. Bannon felt sick in the pit of his stomach. He wished he could trust Ginger, but he couldn't. She'd been no virgin when he met her and he knew she'd had a lot of boyfriends. She'd screwed him on the first night they'd met, and probably she'd done the same thing with other guys. For all he knew she was probably still doing it. She might be with some other guy right at that moment.

  He ground out his cigarette butt with his heel and swore aloud.

  “Whatsa matter, Sarge?” asked Nutsy Gafooley, lying next to him. Nutsy hadn't even gone to the mail call, because nobody ever wrote him. “Get a Dear John?”

  “Mind your fucking business.”

  Nutsy Gafooley shrugged and returned to the contemplation of his future. He believed that somehow he'd survive the war, just as he'd survived the worst of the Depression, and one day he'd be riding the rails again, watching America pass by his eyes, free from military discipline and the danger of war.

  Bannon was wondering whether to answer Ginger's letter or not. He ought to forget her, because she was no good. When he'd first met her she'd had a rich wildcatter for a boyfriend, and often Bannon had heard her tell him lies on the telephone so she could spend the night with Bannon. The wildcatter's name was Edwards, and sometimes she had even told him she was sick. Now she was probably telling Bannon she was sick so she could take a trip to Mexico or someplace else nice with Edwards. Women lie all the time. How can any man trust them?

  He remembered the letter for Butsko and took it out of his back pocket. “This is for Butsko,” he told Nutsy Gafooley. ‘Take it back to Captain Orr's mail clerk and tell him to forward it to New Caledonia.”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Nutsy took the letter and crawled out of the foxhole, heading for Captain Orr's command post. Bannon lit another cigarette and tried to think about the next day's attack. But Ginger Gregg stayed in his mind, with her mischievous smile, the way she teased him by crossing her legs so he could see up her dress.

  Irritable, he climbed out of the foxhole to see what was going on. A group of men were nearby, reading their letters, and he thought it was time to break up the bullshit and put the men back to work. He slung his M 1 and strolled in their direction, a scowl on his face.

  Homer Gladley was in the middle of the group, reading a letter from his girlfriend, Annie Mae, back in Nebraska. In his left hand he held a picture of her, blond and innocent-looking. “Boy,” he said, “I'm sure glad I got this li'l old gal waiting for me back home. I don't know what I'd do if she wasn't there.”

  Bannon heard him and thought of Ginger, all his nasty demons slithering into his mind. “They're all full of shit, Gladley,” Bannon snarled. “Turn ‘em upside down and they all look alike.”

  Gladley looked up at Bannon. “Huh?”

  “They're all no fucking good.”

  Gladley wrinkled his brow, thought about that for a few moments, and then smiled. “Some of them are okay.”

  “Yeah? Which ones?”

  “Annie Mae's a good ol’ gal. I've known her since she was a little girl. Your problem, Bannon, is that you been hanging around with too many loose women.”

  “They're all the same.” The little voice in Bannon's ear told him to stop it, but he was too angry and frustrated. “How do you know who she's with right now?”

  “She's with her mom, fixing supper.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That's what she always does.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Bannon spat at the ground. “She's at that age.”

  “What age?”

  “The age when women start fucking around.”

  Everything grew quiet, because all the men knew how Homer Gladley felt about Annie Mae and how dangerous he was when provoked. Gladley respected Bannon and decided not to take him seriously.

  “Not Annie Mae,” he said. “She's not that kind of girl.”

  “They're all that kind.” The little voice screamed in Bannon's ear, but he ignored it. “She's probably fucking the mailman right now.”

  That did it. Homer Gladley flashed on a hallucination of Annie Mae having sex with old Bert Lucas, the mailman, and turned purple. The other men moved back out of the way.

  “You take that back,” Gladley said as he drew his 245 pounds to his full height.

  “I ain't taking nothing back,” Bannon replied.

  Homer Gladley pinched his lips together and raised his two enormous fists. He lumbered toward Bannon, ready to fight, and Bannon looked at him through eyes narrowed to slits, realizing that Homer Gladley had more power than he but that he had the speed. Could his speed defeat Gladley's power? He thought of himself punching Gladley in the mouth and felt sick. He didn't want to hit Gladley. He liked Gladley.

  “Aw, shit,” Bannon said. “I didn't mean it, Homer.”

  Gladley stopped in his tracks. “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure. Annie Mae's a good girl. She's not like the rest of them.”

  Homer didn't know what to do, because his mind worked slowly. Shaw stepped in between them and smiled. “I know where to get some jungle juice,” he said. “The mess sergeant in Easy Company's got a good batch, I heard.”

  “Shit, let's get some,” said Shilansky. “What do you say, Homer?”

  “Hell, yes,” Homer said.

  Bannon turned around and walked back to his foxhole, cursing himself. A platoon sergeant was supposed to stop fights, not start them
. When Butsko gets back he'll really kick my ass when he finds out about some of the things I've done, he thought.

  Bannon jumped into his foxhole and pulled his helmet down over his eyes, detesting himself. In the distance he heard the men arguing about what to trade for the jungle juice.

  At the Gifu Line, the Japanese soldiers lay on the floors of their bunkers, their fingers stuffed in their ears, as bombs and artillery shells fell all around them. A few shells had landed so close that shock waves caused some of the men to bleed from their ears. Many of the Japanese soldiers thought they were losing their minds, but all their lives they had been trained in the techniques of self-control, and not one of them cried out or even made a disparaging remark.

  Major Uchikoshi sat cross-legged on the floor behind his low desk, trying to figure out the best way to meet the American attack he knew would come in the morning. He was wondering whether to move more men to the sector where the Americans had attacked the previous day, because he knew that that was where they'd come again. He didn't think they'd determined where his other bunkers were. He decided to add one more machine gun to each of the bunkers on the hill where the Americans would come.

  As he was pondering these matters, his orderly brought him a bowl containing a few spoonfuls of boiled grass and leaves left over from yesterday. The men hadn't been able to go out that day to gather food, and all the coconuts were gone. He knew of a coconut grove a mile away, but it had nearly been picked clean, and the men couldn't leave their bunkers anyway. Major. Uchikoshi was skin and bones, just like the rest of his men. His uniform hung loosely on his frame as if he were a scarecrow, and his eyes had sunk into his head.

  I wonder how long we can hold out, he thought.

  Colonel Tsuji, cleanly shaved, attired in a new Army uniform, walked through the long corridors of Imperial Headquarters in Tokyo, his sword hanging from his side. Everywhere he looked he saw well-fed staff officers carrying around briefcases, looking important, and smiling confidently while the Seventeenth Army was holding on by its fingernails in Guadalcanal.