by Len Levinson
Bannon pushed the Jap off him and looked up. Another Jap was standing over him, raising his rifle and bayonet for a death blow. Bannon aimed up and pulled the trigger. Click. The Jap screamed for joy and pushed his rifle and bayonet down at Bannon, and Bannon rolled out of the way, saw a machete lying on the ground, and picked it up.
He bounded to his feet. The Jap charged and Bannon swung the machete from the side, crashing through the Jap's ribs. The Jap sank to the ground and Bannon tugged the machete loose, spinning around and whacking a Jap in the face, slicing through to his brain, blood spattering everywhere. The Jap dropped at Bannon's feet and Bannon charged forward, his adrenaline pumping madly, making him feel insane.
He saw a Jap standing over an American soldier, lying wounded on the ground. Evidently the Jap had wounded the soldier and was now going to finish the job. Bannon bellowed like a wild bull and swung at the Jap's back, severing his spinal column. The Jap fell over backward at an impossible angle and collapsed onto the ground. Bannon glanced at the wounded GI and saw that is was Sergeant Fowler, his old nemesis.
“You okay?” Bannon asked.
Fowler's eyes were at half-mast. “Thanks” was all he could say.
Two Japs charged toward Bannon and Fowler. Bannon stood over Fowler and swung the machete, batting one Jap bayonet out of the way. Bannon put all his strength into the backstroke and lopped off the Jap's head.
"Banzai!” screamed the other Jap.
He thrust his rifle and bayonet at Bannon's heart, and Bannon jumped backward, swinging his machete to the side, fracturing the Jap's left forearm. The Jap hollered and dropped his rifle, and Bannon raised his machete high, then brought the bloody blade down on the Jap's skull, splitting his head in two.
The Jap slumped to the ground. Bannon looked around and saw hordes of GIs wading into the few Japs who were still standing. He saw a Japanese officer with a Fu Manchu mustache and wielding a samurai sword get ripped apart by a burst from a Thompson submachine gun carried by a young blond GI who'd lost his helmet. He saw two GIs ganging up on another Jap and impaling him on both their bayonets. To his right Morris Shilansky bashed a Jap in the face with his rifle butt.
No more Japs were near Bannon. He lowered his machete and it dripped blood. Heaps of Japanese soldiers lay everywhere, and in the moonlight it looked like an open-air slaughterhouse. More soldiers from the Second Battalion kept arriving, but there were no more Japs to fight.
The GIs wandered around in a daze, looking at the carnage. Medics were tending the wounds of GIs who hadn't been as lucky as Bannon. Bannon leaned against a tree, took out a cigarette, and lit it. He didn't know it yet, but up in the hills only unmanned bunkers remained. He and the Second Battalion had just won the battle for the Gifu Line.
SEVENTEEN . . .
Emperor Hirohito, forty-two years old, sat stiffly behind his desk in his office in the Imperial Palace. He was small and spidery, with a wispy mustache and thick spectacles. The Japanese people believed he was a direct descendent of the Sun Goddess, and if they looked directly at him, they would be struck dead by his magnificence.
Before him sat Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, Chief of Staff of the Imperial Navy, and General Hajime Sugiyama, Chief of Staff of the Imperial Army. Both sat humbly and ill at ease, for they'd just delivered bad news to their Emperor.
The Emperor sat for a few minutes, the palms of his hands motionless on his desk as rain lashed the window behind him and made the branches of the trees in the garden outside wave hysterically.
“So,” he said finally, “you wish to evacuate Guadalcanal.” “Yes, Your Majesty,” they both said in unison. “Didn't one of you say some time ago that ‘the sun may , fall, but never Guadalcanal'?”
“Not I, Your Majesty,” said Nagumo.
“Nor I, Your Majesty,” said Sugiyama.
“Somebody said it. Everybody had so much assurance then.
The Americans were soldiers of poor quality, I was told. Why are soldiers of such poor quality forcing us to think of evacuating Guadalcanal?”
General Sugiyama cleared his throat. “A number of mistakes were made. Your Majesty.”
“Why were they not corrected?”
“Events moved quickly. Perhaps the mistakes could have been corrected if the Army had been resupplied adequately.”
General Sugiyama and Emperor Hirohito looked at Admiral Nagumo.
“Why,” said Emperor Hirohito, “were you unable to resupply the Army?”
“Their navy was too strong for us,” Admiral Nagumo said hoarsely.
“Before the war I was told we had the strongest navy in the world next to the British Navy. Then I was told that we destroyed the United States Navy at Pearl Harbor. Now I am told that the United States Navy is too strong for us. How can this be?”
“It is a very complex matter, Your Majesty, but to simplify it, let me say that the combined fleet is spread throughout the Pacific, guarding Your Majesty's many interests, and we could not divert ships from other places to Guadalcanal.”
The Emperor's expression was like stone. “It is my impression that we have lost Guadalcanal because the Americans have greater air power. Why is it that Americans take only a few days to build an air base, while it takes us months? Isn't there room for improvement?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Admiral Nagumo said, bowing his head. “I am very sorry indeed for what has happened, but you see, the Americans use machines whereas we must rely on manpower.”
“Why cannot we use machines?”
Admiral Nagumo looked at General Sugiyama. They were both on the spot, and they had no good excuses. The military government had wanted the war; now they had it, and it wasn't turning out the way they'd thought it would.
“Your Majesty,” said Admiral Nagumo, “one can only tremble in awe before your displeasure. We vow to do better in the future.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” General Sugiyama added, “in the future there will be no more mistakes. The Americans might win Guadalcanal, but it is an insignificant island and it will be the last one they win. One day we shall take it back for Your Majesty.”
Hirohito's face remained expressionless. “When can my men be evacuated from Guadalcanal?”
“The end of January, Your Majesty.”
“That long?”
“It will take time to coordinate the effort, Your Majesty.”
“I give my permission herewith to withdraw from Guadalcanal,” Emperor Hirohito said. “And in the future the Army and Navy should do their best, as they have just promised.”
EIGHTEEN . . .
Butsko sat in a gin mill near the docks of Noumea on New Caledonia. He was wearing new green fatigues, because he was shipping out the next day, going back to the front. His sleeves were rolled up over his massive biceps and his yardbird hat stuck out of his back pocket as he raised his hand.
“Gimme another drink,” he said.
Soldiers and sailors sat all around him in the bar, and from the jukebox a woman's voice sang “There'll Be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover.” The gin mill was called the Lotus Lounge and was owned by a Chinaman, who worked in the kitchen with his wife. The Lotus Lounge was a hangout for servicemen who liked to drink and get rowdy and nurses who liked a wild time. There were also some hookers who'd made their way to New Caledonia, a few schoolteachers, and one defrocked nun. Men always outnumbered women by about twenty to one.
The bartender was a brutish-looking former merchant seaman named Otis who'd gotten beached on New Caledonia a few months before Pearl Harbor. He walked up to Butsko.
“The same?”
“Yeah.”
Otis drew a glass of beer and poured a shot of whisky, placing them before Butsko, who threw some money on the bar. Butsko raised the shot glass, knocked half of it back, then sipped the cold, foamy beer.
Around him guys laughed and a woman screamed as somebody goosed her. Many fights had taken place in the Lotus Lounge, and the scuttlebutt was that it would be placed off limits befo
re long. Looking at himself in the bar mirror, Butsko saw the closely-cropped regulation haircut he'd gotten that day, and behind him red and yellow Chinese lanterns illuminated the bamboo walls. It was nine o'clock in the evening. Still looking at the mirror, he saw a slim blonde appear next to him. He turned to her; it was Betty Crawford, wearing tan slacks and a tan shirt with a couple of the front buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up.
“Hi,” she said, smiling nervously.
“'Lo.”
There were a few moments of awkward silence as they looked at each other and away from each other. She appeared as if she were going to jump out of her skin.
“Buy you a drink?” he said.
“Okay.”
He got up from his stool. “Here, have a seat.”
“No, it's okay. I'll stand.”
“I said have a seat.”
Butsko held her shoulders, moved her to the side, and pushed her onto the barstool. She reached into her shirt pocket and took out a cigarette. He pulled out his Zippo and lit it up.
“Thanks,” she said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
“What're you drinking?”
“I'll have a beer, please.”
Butsko reached across the bar and grabbed Otis's shoulder. “Bring the lady a beer.”
“Gotcha.”
Butsko took out a cigarette and lit it, looking down at Betty Crawford. The light from the lanterns gleamed in her golden hair and made a sheen on the side of her face.
“I thought you'd be here,” she said.
“Everybody's gotta be someplace.”
She looked around. “I've heard of this place. It's a real dive.”
“You can't expect much in a town like this. Maybe you shoulda stayed in the officers’ club back at the post.”
“Maybe I should've done lots of things.”
“We all shoulda done lots of things.”
Otis brought the glass of beer for Betty. Butsko ordered another double shot for himself, then downed the half-shot he still had in front of him.
“You really put that stuff away, don't you?” she asked.
“I'm shipping out tomorrow. They gave me partial pay today. What else am I gonna do with the money?”
“You could send it to your wife.”
“Fuck my wife.”
Butsko wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a little high and feeling rambunctious. He puffed his cigarette and looked down at her.
“You know, you don't belong here.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Because you just don't belong here. I bet you never been here before.”
“No, I haven't.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
She looked him in the eye. “I think you know what I'm doing here.”
Butsko inhaled his cigarette and blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. On the jukebox somebody was singing “Sleepy Lagoon.” He shrugged.
“I'm not sure I do.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
He thought about it for a few moments. “Maybe I do.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and sipped her beer. Butsko looked at her gently curving nose and blue eyes. Her hair was parted on the side and kept out of her face by strategically placed bobby pins. She placed her beer glass on the bar and looked up at him, making an uncertain smile.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked.
"No.”
Otis brought Butsko's double shot. Butsko held it in the air, gazing at the amber fluid. “Down the hatch,” he said, and brought the glass to his lips.
He tilted his head back and dumped the whiskey into his mouth. She looked at his gigantic bicep, the spread of his chest, the hair showing through the opening of his shirt. He slammed the bottom of the empty glass down on the bar and reached for his beer, gulping it down.
“Let's get out of here,” he said. “Too many people.”
Butsko left a few dollars on the bar and Betty stood. Butsko bulled his way to the door and she followed him through the throng of drunks and revelers. Butsko pushed open the door and held it for her. She stepped onto the sidewalk and smelled. the salt air from the bay and the fragrance of tropical flowers. Butsko joined her on the wooden plank sidewalk and lit another cigarette. The moonlit masts of ships could be seen in the distance, and a jeep sped by in the street. Soldiers and sailors in work uniforms passed back and forth on the sidewalks.
Butsko held out his pack of cigarettes for her. She took one and he lit it with his Zippo.
“Are you drunk?” she asked.
“Hell, no.”
“You were really putting it away in there.”
“Where I come from, everybody drinks like that.”
“Where are you from.”
“A little steel town in Pennsylvania.”
“You worked in a steel mill before the war?”
“No, I was in the Army before the war. I'm Regular Army. Where you from?”
“California. Town called Palo Alto.”
“That where the guy you're gonna marry's from?”
“Yes.”
They walked toward the waterfront and saw the fleet anchored in the bay. A faint breeze blew in from the ocean, and the moon made a squiggly path across the water. A ship was being unloaded on a wharf nearby and a truck zoomed by on the street. Butsko and Betty came to a railing above the water, and Butsko leaned against it, looking at the ships.
“I'll be on one of them tomorrow,” he said.
“I guess you'll be glad to be getting back with your men.”
“Yeah, I'd like to see them again.”
She remembered how he'd looked when he'd first arrived at the hospital with a big hole in his chest. She knew something like that could happen again to him—or even something worse. He looked at his watch.
“It's after ten,” he said. “What time you have to be back to the hospital?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Don't you think that you ought to be getting back?”
“Do you want me to go back?”
“No.”
“Then why'd you ask.”
“I wanted to give you one last chance.”
“What for?”
“Because you might be having second thoughts.”
“About what?”
“About this, because you're supposed to be getting married, aren't you?”
“Forget about that,” she said. “You won't be the first boyfriend I've had since I got engaged.”
“Oh.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“No.”
Butsko flicked his cigarette into the sea. He turned to her and she turned to him. They looked at each other for a few moments. Then she raised her face and he made himself shorter so he could kiss her. Their lips met and his arms wrapped around her. It was not a mad, passionate kiss, but a hello kiss, a It's-nice-to-kiss-you kiss.
“You're so strong,” she said, pressing her cheek against his chest.
“You're so pretty,” he replied. “All the guys on the base are after you.”
“But you weren't.”
“Oh, yes I was.”
“You didn't do anything about it.”
“Oh, yes I did, because you're here with me now aren't you?”
“Well, I'll be damned,” she said.
They laughed. He placed his arm around her shoulders and she hugged his waist as they walked away. The streets were lit by lampposts and crowded with soldiers, sailors, and natives. Some were on their way to or from work, and others were drunk. Butsko took her to a seedy little hotel on a sidestreet where servicemen took the nurses or whores or other women they picked up. Butsko didn't ask her if she'd been there before, because he didn't want to know.
They entered the small, cluttered lobby, and a ceiling fan spun round above their heads. A Chinaman was behind the desk and Butsko checked in, using a false name, while Betty crossed her arms and made no effort to hide her fac
e from the Chinaman. Butsko paid some money and got a set of keys. He placed his arm around Betty's waist and led her to the stairs.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath their feet. Butsko inserted the key in the lock of the door and pushed it open. They entered a small dark room, and Butsko closed the door and latched it while Betty flicked on a lamp.
The bed had a steel frame painted white, and its mattress had a big crater in the middle. The sounds of the street-could be heard through the open window. A worn rug lay in front of the bed.
“What a dump,” Betty said.
Butsko pulled back the bedspread. “The sheets are clean.”
Betty clicked off the lamp, and moonlight streamed through the window. “Looks better with the light off.”
She unbuttoned her Army shirt, and Butsko sat on the bed, unlacing his boots. They undressed, glancing at each other, curious and eager. Betty was a little apprehensive, while Butsko knew exactly what he had to do.
They embraced standing on the rug. Betty hugged him tightly, feeling his body like a mountain against her, rubbing her lips across the hair on his chest as he squeezed her against him, exulting in her youth and beauty and running his hands over the smooth skin on her back. Their lips touched and opened; their tongues entwined. She moaned softly and he felt her proud, firm breasts against him, driving him wild.
He lifted her in his powerful arms and laid her down on the bed, then lowered himself on top of her and kissed her hungrily. It had been so long since he'd had a woman, and she was so lovely, so soft, as fragrant as flowers, with a purity and innocence that was enchanting.
Betty felt overwhelmed by his rough, raw masculine strength, and it was just what she needed, just what she wanted. She'd lied to him before; she'd had no other boyfriends since becom-
