Green Hell

by Len Levinson

As he approached the lean-to he saw natives placing suitcases and cloth sacks under the shelter.

  “Anybody here speak English?” Frankie asked.

  “I speak English,” said one of the natives, who had an angular face.

  “Where'd you get this stuff.”

  “It belong to Miss Brockway and Miss Corby. We brought it from their village.”

  Frankie stared at the native for a few moments, then looked at the suitcases and bags. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped open as he realized that the map to the gold mine might be somewhere in there!

  Frankie heard Butsko's loud booming voice. “Recon platoon, over here on the double!”

  Frankie looked at the natives piling up the stuff inside the lean-to and knew he couldn't search through everything while they were there. He'd have to come back later.

  “Let's go, you sons of bitches! The party is over!”

  I wonder what he wants, Frankie thought, turning around and jogging out of the jungle. He saw the men from the recon platoon lining up in front of Butsko. Nearby, a large group of natives was forming around Jimmy Hughes. Frankie took his place in the recon platoon formation and held his hands behind his back, running his tongue over this teeth, wondering what was going on.

  Bannon was the last one to show up; he was wearing only a towel because his uniform was drying out in the sun.

  “Okay,” Butsko said to them, “we've got a big problem. A Jap column is headed this way and we've got to stop them before they get here. There are about a hundred of them and we can whip them if we take them by surprise. Get your weapons and equipment and report back here immediately. Dismissed!”

  The recon platoon ran off to get their clothing, equipment, and submachine guns. Butsko took out a cigarette and lit it up. His pack and submachine gun were in Captain Eadie's hut, so he didn't have to go very far. He entered the hut and saw Captain Eadie at the window, gazing at the ocean through his binoculars. Butsko pulled his pack down from a shelf and put it on. Lieutenant MacDoughal sat at the table, loading up an M 1 carbine.

  “Captain Eadie,” said Butsko, “you'd better call Guadalcanal and tell them to hold off on the submarine tonight.”

  “I already have,” Captain Eadie said.

  Butsko looked at MacDoughal. “For a flyboy you're seeing a lot of action on the ground these days.”

  “I joined the Air Corps so I wouldn't have to be in the infantry,” MacDoughal said, “but here I am in the infantry anyway.”

  “If we stop these Japs, we'll be okay. If we don't, it won't matter.”

  Butsko went outside and saw Miss Brockway and Joanna Corby walking toward him.

  “We heard about the problem,” Miss Brockway said, “and we want to go along with you.”

  “Forget it,” Butsko said. “You'd only get in the way.”

  “I'm a nurse,” Miss Brockway said stiffly. “If anybody gets hurt out there, I'll be able to provide medical attention.”

  Butsko thought about it and realized she was right. It was good to have a medic around if somebody got shot. It could spell the difference between living and dying, and he might be the one to get shot.

  “Okay,” he said to Miss Brockway. “You can come.” He turned to Joanna Corby, who was pulling a strand of golden hair out of her eyes. “But one nurse is enough.”

  “I can shoot as straight as any man,” Joanna said.

  “Bullshit,” Butsko replied.

  “I can prove it.” Joanna looked up and saw Lieutenant MacDoughal step outside, carrying his carbine. “Can I borrow your rifle for a moment?” she asked, holding out her hands.

  “Sure thing,” replied Lieutenant MacDoughal, handing over the weapon.

  She took it from him, checked the clip, rammed a round into the chamber, and looked at Butsko. “What do you want me to hit?”

  Butsko looked for something impossibly hard, because he didn't want to take another woman along, especially one who was this pretty and would cause the men to become distracted. His eyes fell on an empty C ration can on the edge of the clearing. “Do you see that C ration can over there?”

  “Over where?”

  He stood next to her and pointed. “There.”

  “I see it.”

  “You've got one shot to hit it.”

  Joanna raised the carbine to her cheek, lined up the sights on the C ration can, and pulled the trigger.

  Blam!

  The C ration can clanged as it bounced into the air. Joanna smiled and turned to Butsko. “Well?”

  “You can come along,” he said gruffly. “Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

  “I had a boyfriend who used to take me hunting with him.”

  “Get a rifle from Captain Eadie and fall in.”

  Butsko lit a cigarette and leaned against the side of Captain Eadie's hut, puffing the cigarette as it hung out the side of his mouth. The men from the recon platoon returned with their weapons and equipment, and the natives formed their own group not far away. Butsko looked at his watch. It was two o'clock in the afternoon.

  Jimmy Hughes walked up to him. “My people are ready,” he said.

  “You take the women with your bunch,” Butsko told him.

  Jimmy Hughes returned to the natives. Butsko took a last drag on his cigarette, fieldstripped it, and scattered the tobacco crumbs in the wind. He looked at the recon platoon and saw that they were all ready to go except for Hotshot Stevenson and the Reverend Billie Jones, who were recuperating from injuries.

  Then Butsko realized that someone else was missing too. It was Frankie La Barbara. “Where the fuck's Frankie?” he asked.

  The others looked around and shrugged their shoulders.

  “I saw him just a few minutes ago,” Bannon said.

  “Frankie La Barbara!” Butsko shouted. “Get your fucking ass over here!”

  Butsko waited a few moments, but no Frankie La Barbara came crashing through the jungle with a big dumb smile on his face.

  “Maybe he's at the latrine,” Homer Gladley said.

  “I'll throw him into the fucking latrine if he doesn't get here fast,” Butsko said. “Frankie!”

  “Sergeant!” called Jimmy Hughes. “We don't have any time to waste!”

  “Okay, move it out!” Butsko looked at Bannon. “Find that fuck-up, willya?”

  “Hup, Sarge!”

  Bannon ran off toward the latrine, while the natives headed west toward the center of the island. The recon platoon followed, their submachine guns slung with barrels pointing toward the ground, each man wondering what had happened to Frankie La Barbara.

  Frankie La Barbara had heard Butsko call him, but he was in Miss Brockway's and Joanna Corby's lean-to, searching through their personal things, looking for the map of the gold mine. Quickly he rummaged through the bags and suitcases, feeling for the crinkle of paper, becoming more discouraged with every passing moment and scared to death that Butsko might show up and kick his ass.

  He'd never done anything like this in the Army before— disobeying orders, being absent from duty—but he believed there was gold in the mountains of New Georgia and he had to know where it was. He could become a millionaire, live like the Rockefellers, have beautiful women around all the time, never have to do any work again for the rest of his life.

  His hand struck paper in one of the suitcases. He clutched it and pulled it out; it was a letter to Miss Brockway. “Shit!” he muttered, closing the suitcase and opening another. This one had frilly underwear in it, and he knew it belonged to Joanna. In one of the pockets he found a folded-up piece of paper. With trembling hands he unfolded it. It was a map drawn with a pen! It even had an X marked on it, and he figured that that was where the gold was!

  Frankie's first impulse was to steal the map, but something told him he shouldn't. Joanna might have seen it already, or somebody else might know it was there. The best thing to do was to copy it. He took out his notepad and pencil—because Butsko always made each of his men carry a notepad and pencil—and copied
the map. The main reference point on the map was a village called Obuto. Find that village and it was only a matter of time before you found the gold.

  Frankie folded up the map and put it back into Joanna's suitcase. He slunk out of the lean-to, looking in all directions, making sure he hadn't been seen, and then straightened up, double-timing toward the trail that led toward the center of the island.

  “Hey, Frankie!” shouted Bannon, somewhere off in the Jungle

  “Yo!” replied Frankie.

  “Where the fuck are you?”

  “Over here!”

  Both men moved toward each other and met on the trail.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Bannon asked

  “Had to take a quick shit,” Frankie said.

  “I was just at the latrine, and I didn't see you there.”

  “I couldn't make it to the latrine.”

  “Oh. You feeling okay?”

  “Yeah, I'm better now.”

  “We'd better catch up with the others.”

  “Right.”

  They raised their rifles and ran along the trail over which Butsko and the others had passed several minutes before.

  THIRTEEN . . .

  “Give me the machete!” said Lieutenant Karuma.

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier at the head of the column handed it over.

  Lieutenant Karuma took it in his hand, raised his arm, and brought it down on a vine as thick as his wrist in front of him. On the backswing he sliced through a variety of plants, branches, and miscellaneous foliage. Then he stepped forward, raised his arm again, and cut through more of the dense jungle.

  Lieutenant Karuma had taken the machete because he thought the progress of his column was too slow. He wanted to speed everything up and show his men the kind of pace he expected of them. Taking a deep breath, he hacked through the underbrush, stepped forward, hacked again, and kept advancing in a mad frenzy, knowing the Americans and natives couldn't be too far away. How surprised they'd all be when he and his men burst upon them.

  Sweat soaked his uniform and dripped down his cheeks. He fought the jungle like an ancient sword-swinging samurai warrior fighting the enemies of Japan. His soldiers watched him with fascination because he was a man obsessed, pressing forward eagerly when everybody else wanted to take a rest. Just ahead of him the dogs were sniffing and snooping along, wagging their short tails, flinching every time Lieutenant Karuma's machete smacked against something hard.

  Butsko was at the head of his column, about ten yards behind Jimmy Hughes, when a native in a lavalava skirt and Army shirt appeared out of the jungle ahead of them and ran toward Jimmy Hughes, waving his arms excitedly. He reported to Jimmy Hughes in a native dialect, and Jimmy held up his hand, stopping the movement of men. Then he turned around and walked back to Butsko.

  “Japs are about a mile away and headed right this direction,” Jimmy Hughes said. “We'd better pick out a place for the ambush.”

  “Okay,” Butsko said, taking out his map. “Bannon! Longtree! Get your asses over here!”

  Bannon and Longtree ran forward, while Butsko knelt on the ground and spread out his map. Jimmy Hughes squatted beside him, and Bannon and Longtree joined them.

  “Japs are dead ahead,” Butsko said to Bannon and Longtree. “We've got to work out the attack.”

  “Do we know exactly where they're coming through?” Bannon asked.

  “Not exactly,” Jimmy Hughes replied.

  Lieutenant MacDoughal appeared behind them. “Mind if I join the planning session?” he asked, because he was an officer and didn't feel that he should be left out.

  Butsko half closed his left eye. “You know anything about this?”

  “I know a little bit about everything.”

  Butsko wanted to tell him that he didn't need someone who only knew a little bit, but instead, to avoid problems, he beckoned with his hand. “Sure, come on, Lieutenant.”

  Lieutenant MacDoughal dropped to one knee and looked at the map. Butsko turned to Bannon. “You were saying something?”

  “If we don't know exactly where they're coming,” Bannon said, “the ambush will be a little messy.”

  Hughes pointed to the map. “We know approximately where they're coming.” He drew a line with his fingernail describing the approximate path.

  “The only thing to do,” Butsko said, “is to start fanning through the jungle, with the native scouts ahead as a screen. When the natives make contact, they'll let the rest of us know and we'll close in on them.”

  Bannon shook his head. “They'll hear us coming. We'll lose the element of surprise.”

  Longtree leaned over the map. “If we don't surprise them, we're liable not to beat them. Maybe we can lead them into a trap.”

  Butsko nibbed his big meaty hands together. “Now you're talking, Chief! We'll just lead them by the nose wherever we want them to go.”

  Lieutenant MacDoughal decided it was time for him to say something. “How're you gonna do that?”

  “We'll use some natives,” Butsko said. “They'll make a racket and lead the Japs to us.”

  “Won't the Japs suspect something?” MacDoughal asked.

  “If they do, they'll stop to figure things out, and we'll hit them right where they stand.” Butsko looked at Jimmy Hughes. “You got some natives you can use as decoys?”

  Jimmy Hughes nodded. “Sure, but what about the dogs?”

  “What about them?”

  “They'll probably go after the natives and catch up with them. Then what?”

  “Have the natives kill the fucking dogs.”

  “How will the Japs follow the trail without the dogs?”

  “The natives will make a racket.”

  “But natives usually don't make much noise.”

  “Well, this time they will. You think the Japs will be suspicious?”

  Jimmy Hughes turned down the corners of his mouth. “I certainly do think they'll be suspicious, because natives move silently through the jungle, but not American soldiers. Why don't you use some of your soldiers as the decoys?”

  “Okay,” Butsko said. He looked at Lieutenant MacDoughal. “How about you, flyboy? You wanna be a decoy?”

  “Who, me?” He held out his hands. “Well, I... ah... you see...”

  “That's what I thought,” Butsko said. He turned to Longtree. “You're coming with me.”

  “Right.”

  Butsko looked at Jimmy Hughes again. “Just give us a native to guide us back and forth.”

  “Can do.”

  “Okay,” Butsko said, leaning over the map. “Let's figure out where the best place will be to lead these sons of bitches.”

  Lieutenant Karuma's arms ached fiercely; he couldn't raise the machete anymore. His heart pounded like a drum and his face felt as if blood would burst through the skin. Letting the machete drop to his side, he turned around and faced his men.

  “Next!” he shouted.

  A soldier dashed forward and eagerly took the machete. The soldier charged into the jungle, chopping down everything in sight, trying to look good in front of Lieutenant Karuma, who stood to the side as his men passed him by. He took out his map and compass, to get a fix on where they were headed, and became aware for the first time that he seemed to be headed directly for Segi Point.

  “Of course!” he muttered, slapping his forehead with the palm of his hand. It was one of the most remote parts of the island, yet had a good view of the Japanese shipping lanes. Lieutenant Karuma wouldn't be surprised if a sizable contingent of Americans and Australians were in the area, along with rebellious natives.

  “Are you all right, sir?” asked Sergeant Mitsui, catching up with him.

  “Of course I'm all right!”

  “You look a little tired, sir.”

  “I'm not tired. We're very close to the Americans. Press on, Sergeant. Soon we'll have them where we want them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sergeant Mitsui walked past Lieutenant Karuma, who took a drink
from his canteen. Then he turned and plunged into the jungle again, following his men toward Segi Point.

  Butsko and Longtree were moving through the jungle, accompanied by three natives who were probing ahead for the Japanese. Longtree walked behind Butsko because the trail wasn't wide enough for them to be side by side. Snakes slithered along the branches above them, and insects were more plentiful now that they were in the lowlands again.

  One of the natives ran back, gesticulating wildly. “The Japanese!” he whispered breathlessly. “The Japanese!”

  “How far?” Butsko asked.

  “A little way.”

  The native tiptoed off into the jungle, followed by Butsko and Longtree. The native stopped every several steps, listened, changed his direction, and moved out again. Longtree had sensitive hearing and listened carefully whenever the native did, but couldn't hear anything. After a hundred yards they were joined by the other two natives, and the three natives had a quick-spirited discussion.

  “Stop here,” one of the natives said. “Japs be coming soon.”

  They all crouched down. The natives were listening to something, but Butsko and Longtree couldn't hear it yet. A few minutes passed and then Longtree picked up the barely audible sound of men moving through the jungle.

  “I hear them,” Longtree whispered.

  Butsko wrinkled his forehead. “I do too.”

  The Japanese soldiers came closer and the harsh whacks of the machete could be heard. The jungle rustled with the sound of men passing through.

  “Get ready,” Butsko said.

  Butsko and Longtree stood. The natives took positions twenty yards behind them. Butsko and Longtree pointed their submachine guns down, because they expected the dogs to come at them any moment.

  The Japanese soldiers moved toward them, fighting their way through the jungle, cursing and snorting, their leaders shouting orders. Suddenly the jungle in front of Butsko and Longtree parted and the two dogs appeared. They looked at Butsko, Longtree, and the natives, and although they'd been told not to bark, they opened their mouths and howled mightily, continuing their forward movement, attacking Butsko and Longtree.

  “Dogs!” Butsko shouted, loud enough so the Japs could hear him.