Tough Guys Die Hard

by Len Levinson

  Frankie walked off swiftly, walking through the jungle beside the medical tents. Jeeps and trucks drove back and forth through the area, delivering medical supplies and wounded soldiers. An army of orderlies swarmed about, and so did an army of nurses. Under normal circumstances Frankie would’ve paid closer attention to the nurses and perhaps tried to get into somebody’s pants, even though his nose had a gigantic bandage on it and made him look like a clown. But he wasn’t in the mood for hanky-panky; he was worried about Morris Shilansky, who’d been his closest friend in the Army ever since they met in basic training at Ford Ord, California.

  It was true that Frankie and Shilansky fought all the time, but they were friends anyway. They had even gone AWOL together in Honolulu before getting shipped to New Guinea. Frankie had come to depend on having Shilansky around. They were buddies and looked after each other. Frankie didn’t want Shilansky to get shipped out.

  Finally, Frankie came to the tent where the Reverend Billie Jones told him Shilansky would be. Frankie entered the tent. It was hot inside and smelled of newly dyed canvas. He grabbed the first orderly he saw.

  “You know where Pfc. Morris Shilansky is?” he asked the orderly.

  “Never heard of him,” the orderly replied.

  “He’s supposed to be in this tent.”

  “Look around, then.”

  Frankie swept his eyes over the rows of men lying on the ground, and could see these were the severe casualties. Most were covered with bandages. Some were minus legs and arms. Many were motionless, as if dead. The air was filled with the strong odor of death and medicine.

  “Shilansky!” Frankie said in a loud voice. “You in here?”

  “Over here!” replied the voice of Shilansky on the other side of the tent.

  Frankie looked in the direction of the voice and saw a hand rise in the air. Frankie headed toward the hand, stepping over bodies. Shilansky was lying next to the wall of the tent; the wall had been rolled up to let the fresh air in. The guy to the left of Frank had his head totally encased in bandages, except for a red hole where his mouth should be. The guy to the right of Frankie was minus two legs.

  Frankie knelt beside Shilansky. “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Shilansky said.

  “Whataya mean you don’t know?”

  “I mean I don’t know. I was just walking around here, and I felt dizzy. I told a nurse and sometime around then I passed out. When I woke up they told me I got blood poisoning and they got to ship me out.” Shilansky grinned. “I got my million-dollar wound, buddy. I’m shipping out of here. The war is over for me.”

  “You fucking bastard!” Frankie replied. “You’re gonna leave me here all alone.”

  “You won’t be alone. You’ll have the whole rest of the platoon to keep you company.”

  “Big fucking deal. They’re all a bunch of demented degenerate eight balls. Who wants to be with them? Even Butsko’s back.”

  “Butsko’s back?”

  “Yeah, Butsko’s back.”

  “Say good-bye to him for me.”

  “You lucky son of a bitch,” Frankie said. “You’re getting out of here.”

  “Your fucking A-well-John,” Shilansky replied with satisfaction. “Now I don’t have to go AWOL with you.”

  “You fucking bastard.”

  “Gimme a cigarette.”

  “I wouldn’t give you the time of day, you cocksucker.”

  “C’mon Frankie—gimme a cigarette. I’m out.”

  “You oughta be out, you bastard. How come you got blood poisoning and I didn’t? How come you got all the luck?”

  “The pill-roller said one of them Jap bayonets that cut me must’ve had some poison on it. Maybe the Jap pissed on it or something.”

  “You lucky son of a bitch.”

  “Gimme a cigarette, Frankie, for old time’s sake.”

  “Fuck you,” Frankie replied.

  “C’mon.”

  Frankie reached into his shirt pocket and took out his pack of cigarettes. He handed one to Shilansky, placed one between his own lips, and lit both up.

  “Gee that tastes good,” Shilansky said.

  “Kiss my ass,” Frankie replied.

  “What are you so pissed off about? I’m getting out of here. You should be happy for me.”

  “Fuck you,” Frankie said. “I hope you croak, you bastard.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “Yes I do. I wonder how I can get blood poisoning?”

  “You gotta put some kinda poison on a blade and cut yourself with it, but you gotta be careful because you can die of it.”

  “Some guys got all the luck. You’ll get out of here in one piece, and I got that maniac Butsko back.”

  “You’ll be all right, Frankie. Just keep your head down and don’t volunteer for anything.”

  “I never volunteer for anything. I may be a little crazy, but I ain’t that crazy.”

  “Why don’t you gimme your address back in the States. I’ll stop in and say hello to your wife, tell her how you’ve been.”

  Frankie scowled. “You stay away from my wife, you son of a bitch.”

  “What’s the matter with you? I just thought it’d be nice to say hello to her and tell her how you been.”

  “You wanna fuck her—that’s what you wanna do!”

  “Naw Frankie—c’mon.”

  “Oh yes you do. I know how sick you are in your mind. You’d fuck a snake if somebody would hold it for you. I’m not giving you my wife’s address. That’d be like throwing her into a cage with a hungry lion.”

  “You got me wrong, Frankie.”

  “Bullshit, I got you wrong. I ain’t got you wrong. I got you right, you bastard.”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll never forget it.”

  “C’mon Frankie—they’ll be shipping me out pretty soon. Let’s not say good-bye this way.”

  “You wanna fuck my wife and I’m supposed to be happy about it?”

  “I don’t wanna fuck your wife.”

  “Oh yes you do. I seen the look in your eyes whenever I showed you a picture of her. Don’t gimme that shit.”

  “Well she is a good-looking broad.”

  “You see what I mean?” Frankie said. “Don’t tell me you don’t wanna fuck my wife.”

  “Hey—I’m not the kind of guy who’d try to fuck his best buddy’s wife.”

  “Oh yes you are. I oughta fucking shoot you right now, before you do something you shouldn’t do.”

  “Hey c’mon Frankie—let’s not get carried away.”

  Frankie looked around. He actually was wondering whether he could shoot Shilansky and get away with it, but the tent was swarming with nurses and orderlies.

  “You’d better never go near my wife,” Frankie said.

  “I promise I won’t.”

  “You lie like a rug, you bastard.”

  Shilansky rolled his eyes. “I’m not feeling so good, Frankie. If this is all you got to talk about, why don’t you get the fuck out of here.”

  “Okay,” Frankie said. “If that’s the way you feel about it—I’ll hit the fucking road.” He reached into his shirt pocket, took out his pack of cigarettes, and dropped it on Shilansky’s chest. “Here, take these. They oughta hold you till the Red Cross bitches catch up with you.”

  Frankie stood and walked away.

  “So long Frankie,” Shilansky called out. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Fuck you!” Frankie replied, not bothering to look back.

  EIGHT . . .

  The battle that had been raging for three days settled down and came to an end during the course of the afternoon. The battle lines that solidified were the same battle lines that existed before the battle began. Japanese soldiers were on the east side of the Driniumor River, and American soldiers were on the west side. Nothing substantial had happened except that many Japanese and American soldiers had been killed.

  Deep in the jungle,
approximately twenty-five miles east of the Driniumor, the new field headquarters of the Japanese Eighteenth Army was set up and fully operational. General Hatazo Adachi sat behind his desk, sipping green tea, studying maps, tabulating lists of equipment and supplies.

  General Adachi was an old war dog. He’d commanded the Eighteenth Army since November 1942 when it was formed, and had been fighting Americans and Australians on New Guinea ever since. He had no illusions about war and was a coldblooded realist. It was hard to bullshit him.

  He couldn’t bullshit himself either. Taking a hard, objective look at his situation, he knew that his supply problems had defeated him already. Yet he felt that he couldn’t surrender or withdraw from the field of battle. He’d have to fight the Americans with what he had. The odds were against him, but small outnumbered units had won great victories in the past, and perhaps he could too.

  A commander had to rely on superior strategy and tactics when outnumbered and lacking sufficient supplies for large-scale operations. General Adachi knew he could order no wild headlong banzai charge across the Driniumor River. He would have to be more subtle. He would have to fake the Americans out.

  But how? he wondered. What should he do? Ten plans immediately bubbled to the surface of his mind, and he had to choose one of them. The terrain was difficult: a thick steaming jungle full of insects and snakes. Fortunately for him the Americans couldn’t deploy tanks. In that jungle out there the battle would boil down to soldier versus soldier at close range, probably hand to hand much of the time.

  He would have to seize the initiative and surprise the Americans, catch them off guard, hit them in a weak spot and achieve a breakthrough. That was his only hope. It was not an even fight, and he had to make up for the men and equipment he lacked with superior brainpower and a fiercer fighting spirit.

  He wanted to attack the Americans soon, within the next week or so, and that meant he’d have to formulate his order of battle within the next two or three days. It would be difficult to figure everything out that quickly, but he owed it to his Emperor and his men.

  He wondered what the Americans were doing just men. Were they preparing to attack too? He’d have to keep tabs on the Americans. He didn’t want any last-minute unpleasant surprises.

  “Lieutenant Ono!” he shouted.

  “Yes sir!” replied a voice on the other side of the tent flap.

  “Report to me immediately!”

  “Yes sir!”

  The tent flap was pushed aside and a young clean-shaven man with puffy beaver-like cheeks entered the office, marching to General Adachi’s desk and saluting.

  “Lieutenant Ono,” General Adachi said, “I want to know what the Americans in front of us are doing at all times. Please notify all front-line commanders to patrol their sectors thoroughly on a twenty-four-hour basis. Direct them to furnish my headquarters with their reports no later than nine o’clock every morning. Put the order in writing and bring it here for my signature as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “That’s all for now.”

  Lieutenant Ono saluted, did an about-face, and marched out of the office. General Adachi returned his attention to his maps, trying to figure out how to catch the Americans off guard and then defeat them in battle.

  It was midafternoon, and Butsko stomped through the jungle, heading back to the recon platoon. He’d spent the past two hours at regimental headquarters, studying the personnel records of the new men in his platoon. It had been a discouraging two hours, because every record he looked at was worse than the last. The men Colonel Hutchins sprang from the stockade were even worse than what the recon platoon had before, and as far as Butsko was. concerned, he’d had the dregs before.

  The only bright spot in an otherwise bleak picture was Sergeant Plunkett and his five men. During the past few days, when the recon platoon had been trapped behind enemy lines, Colonel Hutchins had devised a new provisional recon platoon out of the best men in his regiment. Five squads had been sent out on patrol, and only one had come back. That one had been commanded by Sergeant Plunkett and had proved itself, as far as Butsko was concerned. Sergeant Plunkett and his men would be the nucleus of the new recon platoon.

  Jesus, Butsko thought, so many men have been killed, so many wounded. Out of the forty men in the recon platoon, he was the only one fit for duty, and he’d escaped a hospital. Butsko remembered all the good men who were gone. They weren’t all dead, and he hoped a few would return from hospitals someday, as he’d returned from a hospital.

  He entered the clearing where the new recon platoon was encamped, and saw the men cleaning their new weapons. McGurk had his BAR apart and was coating the recoil spring guide with a thin film of oil. The men looked up at Butsko as he approached.

  “As you were!” he bellowed.

  The men returned to work. Butsko looked them over and wished he had his old bunch back. His old bunch was no fucking good, but at least he knew their weaknesses and strengths. He didn’t know very much about this bunch yet, except what he’d read on their personnel records and seen with his own eyes. He knew from experience that it took a while to figure a man out, and just when you’d finished the job, he got killed or wounded.

  “Sergeant Plunkett!” Butsko said. “C’ mere!”

  Sergeant Plunkett looked at his carbine dissembled on the ground. “What’ll I do with my carbine?”

  “Leave it where it is. I’ll only need you for a few minutes.”

  Plunkett stood and approached Butsko, and Plunkett’s head was cocked to one side, with his left eye half closed. He looked suspicious as he came closer.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Butsko asked when Plunkett was in front of him. “You look like you’re afraid of me. Are you afraid of me?”

  “No,” said Plunkett, who was short and stocky, and spoke with a southern accent.

  “Then stop looking at me that way. If you do what I say, you’ll have no problems with me. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. From now on, you’re in charge of the First Squad, which’ll consist of the five men you brought with you into the recon platoon. They’re your responsibility. Don’t worry about the others: I’ll worry about them.”

  “Who’s gonna be their squad leader?”

  “Me, I guess, until somebody else comes along.”

  “When you think that’ll be?”

  “How the fuck should I know? Anything else?”

  “Not right now.”

  “Go back to what you was doing.”

  Sergeant Plunkett turned around and walked back to his disassembled carbine. Butsko looked at the faces of Tronolone and Schlegelmilch, which were battered and bruised. They looked pretty awful but they were cleaning their weapons, beaten into submission for the time being.

  Butsko’s eyes turned to Private Theophilus Hampton, the snob from New York who’d been in the stockade because he’d refused to fight on several occasions, arguing with officers and noncoms all the time.

  “Hampton!” Butsko shouted.

  Hampton looked up. “What?”

  “Get your ass over here.”

  Sullen and surly, Private Hampton got to his feet and walked toward Butsko. Hampton was tall and slim with a long neck and sloping shoulders. His face was a long oval with a straight well-formed nose and high cheekbones. He stopped in front of Butsko and looked at him fearfully, because he’d seen Butsko kick the shit out of Tronolone and Schlegelmilch. But Hampton wasn’t that fearful, because he was from the upper classes. Butsko might be able to kick the shit out of him, but that didn’t mean that Butsko was better than he was.

  “Siddown,” Butsko said.

  Hampton looked at the ground as if expecting to see a Chippendale chair there, but it was only the jungle floor. He wrinkled his nose and sat down fussily like a girl.

  Butsko frowned as he dropped to the ground. He took out a cigarette and lit it up, then puffed and looked Hampton over. Hampton
wasn’t puny. He had the frame and enough muscles to be a good fighter. Somehow Butsko would have to transform him into an American soldier.

  “So you’re Theophilus Hampton,” Butsko said with a snicker. “What a fucking name.”

  “Is Butsko supposed to be such a wonderful name?” Hampton asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” Butsko said, a tone of menace in his voice.

  Hampton felt like making a smart-aleck remark, but he remembered how Butsko had kicked and stomped Tronolone and Schlegelmilch, and the remark died someplace in his throat.

  “You’re the guy,” Butsko said, “who thinks he’s better than everybody else, right?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Hampton replied.

  “You think you’re better than me?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  Butsko looked him in the eye. “In what manner of speaking, you little fucking prick?”

  “Sensitivity, you might say.”

  “You think you’re more sensitive than me?”

  “That’s right,” Hampton said in his infuriatingly condescending manner.

  “Does that mean you feel more things than I do.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “You mean when you fuck it feels better for you than it does for me?”

  Hampton wrinkled his brow. “Well, I don’t know about that.”

  “Have you ever been fucked in your life?” Butsko asked.

  “Of course!” Hampton said.

  “When was the last time?”

  Hampton didn’t have to think very hard. The last woman he’d screwed had been a society woman in San Francisco twenty years older than he was. That was four months ago, and embarrassing to think about because she was the aunt of a friend of his.

  “Back in San Francisco,” Hampton said. “Four months ago.”

  “When was the time before that?”

  Hampton blushed, because he couldn’t remember the time before that immediately. In point of fact, Hampton didn’t fuck that much. The people in the class he represented generally did it only on special occasions.