by Len Levinson
“Forward!” hollared Captain Mason.
“Charge!” screamed Sergeant Plunkett.
“Rip out their guts!” said Frankie La Barbara.
“Send them to hell!” hollared the Reverend Billie Jones.
The recon platoon charged the Japs who were attacking them from the front, and then suddenly more Japs debouched from the jungle on both flanks of the Americans, surrounding them on three sides. The Japs closed in and the Americans rushed forward. Butsko was leading the way.
“Kill them all!” he screamed . . .
Also by Len Levinson
The Rat Bastards:
Hit the Beach
Death Squad
River of Blood
Meat Grinder Hill
Down and Dirty
Green Hell
Too Mean to Die
Hot Lead and Cold Steel
Do or Die
Kill Crazy
Nightmare Alley
Go For Broke
Suicide River
Satan’s Cage
Go Down Fighting
The Pecos Kid:
Beginner’s Luck
The Reckoning
Apache Moon
Outlaw Hell
Devil’s Creek Massacre
Bad to the Bone
The Apache Wars Saga:
Desert Hawks
War Eagles
Savage Frontier
White Apache
Devil Dance
Night of the Cougar
* * *
Tough Guys Die Hard
* * *
Book 13 of the Rat Bastards
by
Len Levinson
Excepting basic historical events, places, and personages, this series of books is fictional, and anything that appears otherwise is coincidental and unintentional. The principal characters are imaginary, although they might remind veterans of specific men whom they knew. The Twentythird Infantry Regiment, in which the characters serve, is used fictitiously—it doesn't represent the real historical Twentythird Infantry, which has distinguished itself in so many battles from the Civil War to Vietnam—but it could have been any American line regiment that fought and bled during World War II.
These novels are dedicated to the men who were there. May their deeds and gallantry never be forgotten.
TOUGH GUYS DIE HARD
Copyright © 1985 by Len Levinson. All Rights Reserved.
EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-854-4
Library ISBN 978-1-62460-195-8
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.
* * *
Tough Guys Die Hard
* * *
ONE . . .
It was June 29,1944. The jeep bounced up and down and from side to side as it rolled over the jungle road. Lieutenant Dale Breckenridge sat on the jump seat in back beside Pfc. Frankie La Barbara, bumping shoulders, nearly falling out of the jeep. Both had been wounded during the night and were covered with bloody bandages. They were on their way to the medical station to have bullets removed and wounds sewn up.
It was early morning, and the hot tropical sun shone through the thick, tangled vegetation. Columns of soldiers marched on the shoulder of the road, heading toward the front. Sergeants shouted orders and officers spoke over walkie-talkies. They were near the Driniumor River in New Guinea, the scene of bloody fighting for the past three days. Lieutenant Breckenridge and his platoon had been trapped behind enemy lines for the past twenty-four hours, with only eight men still alive out of forty.
But they weren’t alive by much. Lieutenant Breckenridge had lost a lot of blood. Frankie La Barbara was cut badly and his nose was broken. He was exhausted and dazed by the morphine the medics had shot into his ass. He was still trying to adjust to the fact that he was safe behind his own lines now, and he hoped he had that million-dollar wound that would get him shipped back to the States. The jeep lurched to the side and he nearly fell out, but he hung on to the metal beside the jump seat and managed to stay put.
The jeep veered to the left, and Lieutenant Breckenridge grasped the back of the front seat so that he wouldn’t topple onto Frankie La Barbara. The jeep rumbled past big walled tents, and Lieutenant Breckenridge realized he was in a headquarters area. He didn’t know the jeep driver, and the passenger seat contained Lieutenant Beverly McCaffrey, a blond nurse who’d been trapped behind enemy lines also. She had her arm in a sling and a cut on her cheek, because she’d had to fight for her life against the Japs too.
Lieutenant Breckenridge was six foot four and weighed 250 pounds. He’d been a first-team fullback at the University of Virginia before the war, but now he was just another lieutenant in the South Pacific war, and they said the road to Tokyo would be paved with young lieutenants. He’d been wounded badly once before and sent back to the States, but he had volunteered to return to the front after he recovered.
The jeep stopped, and Lieutenant Breckenridge was so slack, he fell forward and hit his head against the back of the driver’s seat. He crumpled against the front seat for a few seconds, then cleared his head and sat back again. Frankie did nothing to help him because Frankie didn’t particularly like him. He and Lieutenant Breckenridge had quarreled when they were trapped behind enemy lines, and they’d even had a fistfight, which Lieutenant Breckenridge won. Frankie had thought of shooting Lieutenant Breckenridge in the back a few times, but he hadn’t done it because he realized that Lieutenant Breckenridge was the only one who could get them through the mess they were in, and in fact Lieutenant Breckenridge had brought them through.
The driver stepped down from the jeep and walked back to Lieutenant Breckenridge, holding out his hand. “I’ll help you down, sir.”
“I can get down myself,” Lieutenant Breckenridge muttered. “Help the nurse.”
“I’m okay,” Lieutenant Beverly McCaffrey said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge pushed the jeep driver’s hand out of the way and climbed down from the jeep. His feet touched the ground and the scenery spun around. He blinked and saw the big tent with the red cross painted on the side. Taking a deep breath, he headed toward the tent. The jeep driver took his arm, but Lieutenant Breckenridge shook him off. He didn’t think he was hurt that badly.
Lieutenant Breckenridge shuffled toward the tent. Soldiers lay on stretchers on the ground in front of it, and orderlies scurried about. Some orderlies carried soldiers into the tent, and other orderlies carried soldiers out. Lieutenant McCaffrey walked on the left of Lieutenant Breckenridge.
“You all right?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned to her and began to say I can get along by myself, but then a roaring filled his ears and ink covered his eyeballs. His knees wobbled and he collapsed onto the ground.
The jeep driver bent over to pick up Lieutenant Breckenridge, but Lieutenant Breckenridge was heavy and the jeep driver wasn’t particularly strong. Lieutenant McCaffrey turned to Frankie La Barbara, who was walking behind her.
“Help him, will you?” she asked.
Frankie didn’t feel like helping Lieutenant Breckenridge, but he bent over and grabbed one of Lieutenant Breckenridge’s arms. The jeep driver held the other arm, and together they picked Lieutenant Breckenridge up.
“Jesus, he’s heavy!” wheezed the jeep driver.
“That’s because he’s full of shit,” Frankie replied.
They d
ragged him a few steps forward, and an orderly noticed them.
“What’s wrong with him?” the orderly asked.
Lieutenant McCaffrey replied: “He needs medical assistance right away.”
“So do all these other men around here. Lay him down someplace and we’ll get to him when we can.”
Frankie La Barbara let go of Lieutenant Breckenridge’s arm, and the jeep driver couldn’t hold him up by himself. Lieutenant Breckenridge was still unconscious and he fell toward the ground, landing on his forehead, rolling onto his side.
Lieutenant McCaffrey gazed harshly at Frankie La Barbara. “You’re a bastard!” she said.
“Fuck you,” he uttered loud enough so she’d hear him but not so loud that someone else might hear him.
She wanted to punch him in the mouth with her good hand, but she was an officer in the Army, and the Army was the Army. She knelt beside Lieutenant Breckenridge and tried to make him more comfortable. The jeep driver rolled Lieutenant Breckenridge onto his back. Lieutenant McCaffrey felt Lieutenant Breckenridge’s pulse, and it was slow. Her eyes darted to the bloody bandages on his leg, chest, arms, and face. He needed medical attention, but so did everybody else in the vicinity.
Frankie La Barbara’s main problem was that his nose was mashed in. He’d broken it once before on Guadalcanal, and then Lieutenant Breckenridge broke it again in their fistfight. In addition he had numerous cuts and gashes all over his body from the hand-to-hand fighting that had been taking place sporadically during the past three days.
Frankie La Barbara sat cross-legged on the grass not too far from Lieutenant McCaffrey and looked at her ass. She wore baggy fatigues, but she still had a nice round little ass, and her legs were long and slim. Frankie lit a cigarette and thought of how nice it would be to stick his dick into her. He hadn’t been laid since leaving Hawaii nearly two weeks ago. He thought Lieutenant McCaffrey was a good-looking piece of ass, but the dumb bitch was always making a big fuss over Lieutenant Breckenridge instead of Frankie La Barbara.
“Hey, buddy, got another butt?”
Frankie glanced to his side and saw a GI lying on a stretcher, wearing a turban of bandages streaked with blood. The soldier was unshaven, with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Frankie took out his pack of Chesterfields, placed one in the soldier’s mouth, and lit it with his Zippo.
“Thanks,” the soldier said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Frankie puffed his own cigarette and looked around. The ground was covered with wounded men moaning and groaning, looking as though they were dead already. Frankie closed his eyes and relaxed, leaning forward, resting his arms on his knees. In the distance he could hear artillery explosions and small-arms fire. He felt weird, as if he were losing his mind. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. The fighting had been intense for the past three days, and you couldn’t call a time-out. It was kill or be killed, stay awake or have your throat cut by a sneaky Jap.
Frankie still was trying to calm down after the ordeal of being trapped behind enemy lines. It had been touch and go many times back there. Frankie doubted that he’d ever get out alive. He thought for sure he’d be killed in a filthy jungle he didn’t even give a shit about, but a big American attack had pushed the Japs back again, and he’d been rescued.
I can’t take this shit anymore, he said to himself. I’ve got to get out of this fucking war before something really bad happens to me. He turned around and looked back at the jungle, thick and vast. He knew it covered the entire island of New Guinea, and New Guinea was the second largest island in the world. A man could disappear in that jungle, and no one would ever find him. He could live off the land and wait until the war was over, then return and say “I got lost” or something like that.
Frankie didn’t ever want to go through what he went through last night. He didn’t want to stand toe to toe with any more Japs and try to stab them before they stabbed him. It was too gruesome and horrible. I’ll have to find somebody to go with me, Frankie thought. Got to have somebody to shoot the shit with.
He turned face front and saw medics rolling Lieutenant Breckenridge onto a stretcher. They picked him up and carried him into the big medical tent, and Lieutenant McCaffrey followed, her arm in a sling.
Frankie puffed his cigarette. He was in a rotten mood, and whenever he was in a rotten mood he wanted to punch somebody in the mouth; but around him were wounded soldiers, most of them wounded more than he. He clicked his teeth and wondered what he’d look like when the pill-rollers and sawbones got through with his nose. He used to be a good-looking guy back in New York City, and women often told him he looked like the actor Victor Mature. He’d had a wife and a million girl friends, but now his face was scarred and his nose bent out of shape. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to breathe out of his nose again, but it might come in handy for opening beer bottles someday.
The roar of a truck’s engine snapped him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw a deuce-and-a-half driving toward the medical headquarters. The truck stopped, turned around, and backed up, stopping twenty feet in front of Frankie. The driver got out, walked to the back of the truck, and let down the tailgate.
Pfc. Morris Shilansky, the former bank robber from Boston, jumped down. He was in Frankie’s platoon, and Frankie waved to him. Shilansky waved back. He wore a big square bandage over the left side of his rib cage, and no shirt. He walked toward Frankie, and then Victor Yabalonka jumped out of the truck. He’d been a former longshoreman in San Francisco and walked with a limp because a bullet was embedded in his thigh muscle. Behind Yabalonka came the Reverend Billie Jones, who’d been an itinerant preacher in Georgia before the war. Billie Jones wore a bandage on his head and another on his stomach. He was shot full of morphine and didn’t know whether he was coming or going.
Medics approached the rear of the truck and unloaded Pfc. Craig Delane and Pfc. Jimmy O’Rourke, who were unconscious on stretchers. They were rushed into the medical tent, while the others sat on the grass around Frankie La Barbara. Finally, being helped down from the truck were Lieutenant Dorothy Pagano from River Rouge, near Detroit, and Lieutenant Laura Jones, from New Haven, Connecticut. They also had been trapped with the reconnaissance platoon behind enemy lines. Limping, bloody, their uniforms torn, they were escorted by the medics into the tent.
Frankie spat at the ground. “Ladies first,” he said derisively.
“Well,” said Shilansky philosophically, “rank has its privileges.” Shilansky took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his kinky black hair. “Ouch,” he said, because the movement caused the wound on his side to hurt, but it didn’t hurt that much because he’d been shot up with morphine also. He was six feet tall, of average build, and he reached into his pant pocket for his pack of cigarettes.
“Have one of these,” said the Reverend Billie Jones, who was six foot two and a real heavyweight. He had blond hair thinning on top, and held out his package of Camels to Shilansky.
“Thanks,” said Shilansky, picking one cigarette out of the pack.
The Reverend Billie Jones lit it with his Zippo, and Shilansky took a deep puff. On the other side of Shilansky, Private Victor Yabalonka lit a Camel of his own. He was even bigger than the Reverend Billie Jones, and was one of the newest members of the recon platoon. New Guinea had been his baptism of fire, and he didn’t like it one bit.
The four men smoked their cigarettes and waited for something to happen. Other soldiers were carried into the medical tent, and trucks and jeeps arrived carrying more wounded soldiers. They could see the road where soldiers wearing fresh green fatigues marched toward the front, their backs bent under the weight of their full field packs. Intense fighting could still be heard in the distance, and a squadron of fighter planes flew overhead, heading toward the front.
“I hate this fucking war,” Frankie said. “I never asked to go to this fucking war. This fucking war don’t mean shit to me. I shoulda hid out in somebody’s cellar and waited for this fucki
ng war to end.”
Nobody replied. Everybody was used to Frankie’s complaints, and what he’d just said was one of his standard remarks. They’d all heard it many times before, and besides, they were all pretty stoned on morphine, seeing flickering lights dancing in front of their eyes, hearing the faint tinkling of bells.
A medic wearing thick glasses like the bottoms of Coke bottles walked up to them. “What’s wrong with you guys?”
Frankie pointed to the bandage on his nose. “Whataya think I’m wearin’ this for?”
The medic knelt in front of Frankie and moved his fingers toward Frankie’s nose. Frankie grabbed the medic’s wrist. “What the fuck you think you’re doin’?”
“I’m gonna examine your nose.”
“It’s broke,” Frankie said. “I gotta see a doctor.”
“What about you?” the medic said to Shilansky.
Shilansky pointed to the bandage over his ribs. “I need some stitches.”
The medic looked at the Reverend Billie Jones.
“I need some stitches too,” Billie Jones said.
Yabalonka pointed to the bandage on his thigh. “I got a bullet in there.”
“Can you walk all right?” the medic asked.
“More or less,” Yabalonka replied.
The medic stood up. “Come with me.” He glanced at Billie Jones. “You too.”
“Hey!” Frankie said. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“I’m wounded!”
“So’s everybody else around here. Wait your turn.”
Frankie got to his feet. “I’ll kick your fucking ass, you talk to me that way, pill-roller!”
Shilansky stood and held Frankie’s arm. “Calm down.”
“I am calmed down. You calm down.”
The medic strolled off, followed by Victor Yabalonka and the Reverend Billie Jones. Frankie sat down and took out another cigarette. Shilansky sat beside him.