by Len Levinson
Betty Crawford got off the ward a little late that night and went directly to the nurses’ mess hall for chow. A lot of other nurses were there, having finished duty late also, and she got in line with them, picking up an aluminum tray and having it filled with food by the cooks on the line. She passed through the line and sat at a long table with several other nurses whom she knew. The other nurses chattered about patients, doctors, and their love lives, but Betty was silent, because she was tired and irritable. Every day brought more wounded soldiers from Guadalcanal and New Guinea. There was so much work to do.
Nurse Dorothy Cochrane, wearing tan slacks and a tan shirt, with rouge on her cheeks and lipstick on her mouth, placed her tray of food opposite Betty Crawford's and sat down.
“Boy, look at you,” said Nurse Gleason. “Got a date?”
Dorothy Cochrane nodded, chewing food quickly.
“Really? Who're you going out with?”
“None of your business,” Dorothy said, her mouth half full of food.
“Aw, come on, tell us,” said Nurse Gleason.
“Yeah, what's the big secret?” said another nurse.
“Is he so ugly you're ashamed to say who he is?” asked someone else.
Dorothy Cochrane was an extremely vain young lady, and that last remark ticked her off. “He's not ugly at all,” she said, raising her nose in the air. “In fact he's quite good-looking.”
“Then who is he?”
Dorothy Cochrane fluttered her long eyelashes. “Frankie La Barbara.”
“Wow!” said one of the nurses. “He really is a dish.”
“I suppose you could say that,” Dorothy said nonchalantly, raising a forkful of beef stew to her heart-shaped mouth.
Nurse Gleason sighed. “I went out with him a few times. He's a lot of fun, but don't ever fall in love with him, because the only person he'll ever love is himself.”
“People can change,” Dorothy Cochrane said, because she was younger than the others and thought her femininity could conquer any man.
“They really don't change that much,” said Nurse Gleason.
“We'll see about that,” Dorothy Cochrane said.
“He sure is a handsome man,” another nurse said. “I wish he'd ask me out sometime.”
Betty Crawford was becoming increasingly irritated by the conversation going on around her, because she hated Frankie La Barbara. “I think he's loathsome,” she said. “I don't understand what all you women see in him. He's an obvious liar and he's dumb.”
“But he's got a body like Adonis,” Nurse Gleason replied, a faraway tone in her voice.
“I still think he's loathsome.”
“Well,” said Dorothy Cochrane, snotty as hell, “if he'd never asked me out, I might say he was loathsome too.”
Betty Crawford wanted to leap across the table and grab Dorothy by the throat, but instead she sat still and ate slowly, trying not to show that she was raging mad. There's no way to win arguments like this, she thought. I'll just ignore that remark.
But she couldn't ignore it. Inwardly she was furious. She thought of Frankie La Barbara with his cocky wise-guy smile. He's screwing every nurse he can get his hands on, she thought, and evidently he's not having much trouble getting his hands on them. If he can do that, he mustn't be that sick. In fact, he doesn't look sick at all. He's probably paying off some personnel clerk someplace to keep him here, but why should he lounge around while other men are fighting for their lives at the front?
I'm going to look into this, Betty Crawford promised herself. I think it's time that bastard was returned to duty.
ELEVEN . . .
On December 27 and 28, Colonel Stockton's wide-ranging network of patrols were unable to find the enemy's flanks or any gaps in his fortifications. Colonel Stockton was beginning to think he was facing a circular type of defense rather than a line. More patrolling would be required to determine its configuration, but patrolling was taking too much time. Yet, he didn't dare attack again, because the cost in men was too high. He'd have to keep patrolling.
The next morning the recon platoon moved out bright and early as part of the massive patrolling operation. Beginning at Hill Twenty-nine, they were to proceed south until they made contact with the enemy, but by noon they'd advanced 1,500 yards and hadn't encountered any Japs. They stopped for a break, and Longtree, restless as always, snooped around in the jungle ahead of them. In a small clearing he found the fresh tracks of a big wild boar and thought of pork chops and roast ham.
He walked back to Bannon and kneeled beside him. Bannon opened an eye. “You find anything?”
“No traces of Japs, but I found the fresh tracks of a big wild Pig”
“How fresh?”
“Very fresh. He was here just before we got here.”
“Then he's probably not too far away.”
“He's probably looking at us right now. We could roast the son of a bitch over an open fire and have a feast.”
Bannon salivated at the thought of fresh meat cooked over an open fire. “Take a few men with you and go after the pig. The rest of us will keep going south. We'll meet here at fifteen hundred hours.”
“It'd be easier for me if I went alone.”
“You'll need somebody with you in case you get in trouble.”
“I never get in trouble when I'm alone.”
“Do what you wanna do, but be here at fifteen hundred hours.”
Longtree walked into the jungle and disappeared. He hadn't hunted since he was a civilian, and now he was alone, tracking down a wild animal like an Apache brave again. The tracks were so fresh that Longtree could smell the boar. A couple of times he spotted him through the thick foliage, but the boar ran away. Longtree stayed on his tracks.
A half hour later Longtree continued to track the wild boar. Sooner or later the boar would have to stop, and then Longtree would creep up and kill him with his bayonet, because a shot might attract Japs. The tracks led up a hill, and Longtree followed them. The sun was hot and the jungle sweltered in the heat, but Longtree crept along like a wild animal himself, glancing around, sniffing the air, having a wonderful time.
He heard a grunt and stopped. Pricking up his ears, he perceived a chomping, slurping sound ahead of him. Silently, Longtree got down on his belly and crawled forward. He peered through the bushes and spotted the brownish-red hide of the wild boar. It was eating grass. Longtree laid his rifle down and drew his bayonet. He slithered forward, his mouth dry, his eyes fixed on the hairy snorting beast. Longtree's boredom was gone; he felt keen and alive, only a few feet from his quarry.
The boar finished eating and raised its head. Longtree sprang at it, wrapping his powerful arm around the boar's thick neck, plunging his bayonet into the boar's belly. The boar squealed and struggled as Longtree ripped his bayonet across the leather flesh and the boar's guts spilled out. Longtree pulled out his bayonet, aimed for the boar's heart, and struck it with all his strength. The boar stopped struggling and blood gushed out when Longtree withdrew the bayonet.
The animal lay still on the ground, and Longtree felt triumphant. He wanted to do an Apache dance to celebrate the successful hunt, but this wasn't Arizona and there might be Japs around. He bent over the boar to gut and dress it so it wouldn't weigh so much on the trip back, and to keep the meat tasting sweet.
He pulled out the boar's ropy guts and cut them away with his bayonet. Then he sliced deeper into the boar's body cavity and tore out its heart, lungs, liver, and kidneys. He sliced the boar's throat so its blood would drain; when he was finished, the beast would be ready to be skinned and put over the fire.
Leaning against a tree, Longtree decided to have a smoke before returning to the rendezvous spot. He took out a cigarette and lit it up, feeling happy and satisfied with himself. It was almost as if he'd stepped out of the war for a little while. The military bullshit got on his nerves sometimes, but he put up with it as best he could, Someday, if he was lucky, he'd be back in Arizona with his people, and if he
wasn't lucky, then he'd die like an Apache warrior: with his rifle in his hands, facing the enemy, and fighting hard.
He heard voices and his ears twitched. He heard them again; they were Japanese voices. Dropping low, he dragged the boar underneath a bush, then covered the guts and blood with leaves. He joined the boar in the bush and lay still as flies buzzed around the dead animal.
He couldn't see the Japs, but they were coming closer and sounded like a patrol. They passed by him, heading up the hill, and he wondered where they were going. Did they have a machine-gun nest up there? If they did, it was something Colonel Stockton ought to know.
Longtree looked at his watch. He still had over an hour until 1500 hours. He could see where the Japs were going, and then, if he hurried, he'd be able to meet Bannon and pass on the information. Taking an old shirt and some rope from his pack, he wrapped the boar in the shirt, trussed it with the rope, and strung it up so that other wild animals couldn't get to him.
Longtree picked up his rifle and slipped through the jungle in the direction of the voices he'd heard. He picked up their tracks and followed them up the hill. Moving as quickly as a cat, he made better time than they did and soon heard their voices again. He realized they were moving slowly, and when they spoke their voices didn't sound too loud. He angled to the side and came abreast of them.
Crouching in the leaves, he watched them pass. There were eight of them, all carrying burlap bags filled with something that didn't appear too heavy. They were skinny as scarecrows, their cheeks hollow and eyes burning. If Longtree had had the First Squad with him he could have wiped out all those Japs in about a minute.
He followed them, glancing around, trying to make certain no one was observing him. He neared the crest of the hill and heard shouts above him. It sounded like many Japs were up there. He slowed down and crawled froward on his belly, passing through the thickest part of the jungle, because it provided the best concealment.
Finally he saw figures moving in the foliage near the top of the hill. He spotted the small rectangular hole of a machine-gun bunker. Japs upended the burlap bags and grass fell out. What the hell are they doing with the grass? Longtree wondered. Maybe they're stuffing mattresses with it.
He thought he should see if there were any more machine-gun bunkers on top of the hill, so he roved through the jungle, searching around. He found another machine-gun bunker about a third of the way around the crest of the hill, but that was all. Now he could pick up his pig and go back.
Bannon looked at his watch. It was 1500 hours and Longtree still hadn't come back yet. The recon platoon lay around, smoking cigarettes, sipping water from their canteens, shooting the shit. They'd gone as far south as they could and hadn't encountered any Japanese positions. Bannon wondered if anything had happened to Longtree. He hoped Longtree had caught the pig, because a pork chop would be awfully nice after all the beans and crackers they'd been eating.
At 1515 Longtree emerged from the jungle, carrying the pig on his back. The GIs crowded around him, examining the dead animal. Longtree threw the pig down at Bannon's feet.
“Here it is.”
“Took you long enough.”
“I got sidetracked by a Jap patrol, but they led me to two Jap machine-gun nests.”
Bannon sat up. “Where?”
Longtree pointed. “Over that way.”
“Show me on the map.”
Bannon took out the map and unfolded it. Longtree knelt beside him and tried to figure out where he'd been. Finally he placed his forefinger on the map. “Here.”
“That's Hill Twenty-seven. I don't think any patrols have been out there yet. Let's go back and tell the colonel.”
Bannon rounded up the recon platoon and told them they were heading back to Company G. The men moved out eagerly, their stomachs growling, their heads filled with visions of delicious roasted meat.
The recon platoon arrived back at their camp in an hour and a half, and the first thing Bannon did was report to Captain Orr. Captain Orr wrote down the information and delivered it in person to Colonel Smith, who carried it to Colonel Stockton at Regimental Headquarters.
Colonel Stockton sat at his desk, studied his map, and realized that an important discovery had been made. He hadn't known there were Japanese bunkers on Hill Twenty-seven, and the Japs on Hill Twenty-seven didn't know they'd been spotted. That meant they wouldn't expect an attack, especially a surprise attack at the crack of dawn. With Hill Twenty-seven in his possession, he'd have a good observation post from which to view adjacent hills, and if he could get some artillery up there, he'd be able to shell other bunkers as they were located.
Colonel Smith sat in front of the desk and studied Colonel Stockton, who was bent over the map, drawing lines with his pencil, figuring out the most economical way to assault Hill Twenty-seven. Colonel Stockton realized he wouldn't be able to attack the next morning, because the preparations would take too much time, but the next day, which was New Year's Day, should be right.
Colonel Stockton looked up from his desk. “This is good information,” he told Colonel Smith. “Your men have done a fine job.”
“They're your men, sir. The recon platoon had the patrol that scouted Hill Twenty-seven. They were someplace where they shouldn't have been, but I guess it doesn't matter.”
“They weren't lost, were they?”
“I asked Bannon about it, but his answer was kind of hazy. I guess he was curious about the hill and sent somebody up to check it out.”
“Yes, well, I've learned that it's not a good idea to keep the recon platoon on too short a leash. Give them room to maneuver and they'll be all right. They know what to do.”
“They came back with a pig, sir.”
“A pig?”
“Yes, sir. A wild boar. They hunted it down. I guess they're gonna eat it.”
Colonel Stockton grinned. “What a crazy bunch they are. I'd better get a pork chop out of this somehow.”
“Yes, sir. I'll have it sent you you by special messenger—after I get mine.”
Colonel Smith departed for the Second Battalion, leaving Colonel Stockton alone with his map. Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe and felt fine, because at least he'd be able to tell General Patch that he'd found two more machine-gun nests. Although he didn't have a clear picture of the Jap fortifications in front of him, at least he could show General Patch that he was making progress.
Colonel Stockton bent over the map, planning his assault on Hill Twenty-seven. The best way would be to take it by surprise first thing in the morning, after climbing the hill during the night. The recon platoon would lead the way, since they had found the hill and knew what was up there. The Second Battalion would follow the recon platoon up the south face of the hill, and at the same time the First Battalion would conduct a wide envelopment, hitting the Japs from the west. He set H-Hour for 0630 hours on January first. The capture of Hill Twenty-seven would be a good way to start the New Year.
Longtree supervised the cooking of the wild boar. He was assisted by Nutsy Gafooley, who had considerable experience in open-air cuisine. They'd set up a spit over a fire pit, and the pig roasted over the flames, its skin crackling, filling the air with a marvelous odor.
All the men of the recon platoon were gathered around the pig, but none stared at it as ardently as Homer Gladiey, the recon platoon's chowhound. His eyes bugged out of his head and his tongue hung out his mouth as his stomach rumbled.
“Ain't it done yet, Chief?” he asked Longtree. “Looks done to me.”
“Just a few more minutes. Keep your shirt on.”
Homer didn't think he could wait. He felt like diving onto the sizzling animal and biting its ass off. He licked his chops and shifted from foot to foot, nearly fainting from the fragrance wafting toward his mostrils. He held his mess kit in his right hand and his knife in his left hand. He thought he'd die if he didn't get some of that pig soon.
Finally, Longtree and Nutsy Gafooley decided the pig was ready. They lifted the spi
t off its posts and dropped the animal onto a bed of wide coconut palm leaves. When the animal landed, it broke apart and marvelous new fragrances filled the air.
“All right, boys,” Longtree said, “dig in.”
The men attacked the pig with their bayonets, and the first one to slice off a slab of meat was Homer Gladley, who stuffed it into his mouth, burned his tongue, and nearly choked to death, but he chewed like a wild man as he cut off another piece for himself.
“Don't make a hog out of yourself, Homer,” Bannon said. “Leave something for the rest of us.”
Homer cut off a few more slices and then retreated to a quiet spot to eat. He filled his mouth with roast pork and had orgasms of the tongue and throat, feeling the meat strengthen him and make him happy. It was almost as good as the pork his mama used to make back in Nebraska. It was the kind of meal that made life worthwhile.
Morris Shilansky sat down nearby with his plateful, picked up a slice with his fingers, and bit off half of it.
“Hey, Shilansky,” Homer Gladiey said, his mouth full, “I thought Jews weren't supposed to eat pork.”
“I eat what I wanna eat,” Shilansky said, chomping away.
Bannon reserved some choice slices for Colonel Stockton, Colonel Smith, and Sergeant Major Ramsay. Nutsy Gafooley delivered the food for Colonel Smith, and Bannon carried the rest through the jungle to Regimental Headquarters.
Sergeant Major Ramsay looked up from correspondence and requisitions as Bannon entered the orderly room, carrying platters of roast pig.
Bannon placed one of the platters on Ramsay's desk. “This is for you. The rest's for Colonel Stockton. Can I bring it in to him?”
“Lemme check.” Ramsay picked up the phone, mumbled a few words into it, listened, and hung up. “Go ahead.”
Bannon entered the colonel's office, the odor of the meat filling the tiny enclosure.
“Well,” said Colonel Stockton, looking up from his map, “what have we here?”
