Tough Guys Die Hard

by Len Levinson

  Butsko looked at his watch. Oh-four-hundred hours was only five and a half hours away. That wasn’t much time. He wouldn’t get much sleep that night, if any.

  Fucking war, he said to himself. Here I go again.

  Meanwhile, Colonel Hutchins was discussing the logistics of the reconnaissance in force. He pointed out routes on the map so that companies wouldn’t collide with other companies during their moves. He warned about never leaving an area undefended.

  “Stay on your toes out there,” Colonel Hutchins said. “You never know what the Japs are going to do. We might’ve wiped them out pretty much these past few days, or we might not even have dented the bastards’ total strength.” Colonel Hutchins scratched his nose. “We believe they’re low on supplies, but we don’t even know that for sure. We don’t know anything for sure—that’s the reason for this reconnaissance in force. We have to expect the worst from them until we know every goddamned one of them is dead. Any questions?”

  There were many questions. Some officers asked for information that had great strategic significance for them, or at least that’s what they thought. Other officers asked questions just to ask questions, so Colonel Hutchins would know they were awake and paying attention. Butsko said nothing but heard everything. He was an old dogface and could figure out pretty much what he had to do.

  The question-and-answer period continued. Colonel Hutchins asked his staff officers to respond to some of the questions that were in their areas of expertise. The time dragged on. Butsko thought a lot of stupid questions were being asked, because the moves described by Colonel Hutchins were fairly simple. In war, Butsko knew it was always best to keep everything simple, because there were so many stupid assholes around.

  Butsko wished he could unbuckle his canteen and take a sip of bourbon whiskey. He wondered how Pfc. Dunphy was progressing with his manufacture of fine white lightning. He’d heard Sergeant Snider had already been sent back to division medical headquarters and was awaiting shipment back to the States.

  Finally there were no more questions. Colonel Hutchins looked around at the stolid faces of his senior commanders and staff officers.

  “That it?” he asked.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Go out and do what you gotta do,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  The meeting broke up. Colonel Hutchins sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. Major Cobb leaned over and whispered something in his ear. Colonel Hutchins nodded. Butsko looked around and saw Captain Mason walking toward him. Mason was about five feet ten inches tall, with long legs and a short torso. He had black hair and bore a faint resemblance to the popular film actor John Garfield.

  Captain Mason had a faint grin on his face. “So you’ll be coming with me,” he said in a friendly voice that came from deep inside his chest.

  “Guess so,” Butsko replied.

  “Looks like I’ll be giving the orders, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “We won’t have any trouble, then. You might as well bring your platoon to my company as soon as you can, and sack out with us. Got it?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Don’t you know where the Second Battalion is?”

  “More or less.”

  “That’s where we are. When you get to the Second Battalion, just ask for Easy Company. Got it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “You might as well get going. The sooner you link up with us the better.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Butsko saluted and headed toward the tent flap. He stepped out into the orderly room and then was in the humid night air of New Guinea.

  A reconnaissance in force, he thought as he headed toward the recon platoon area. Just what I need on my first night back.

  “Halt—who goes there!” said the voice in the darkness.

  “Sergeant Butsko!”

  “Advance to be recognized!”

  Butsko stepped forward. Private Schlegelmilch came out from behind a bush, holding his M 1 rifle.

  “Halt!” said Schlegelmilch.

  Butsko stopped.

  “Orphan,” said Schlegelmilch.

  “Annie,” replied Butsko.

  “Pass on,” said Schlegelmilch.

  Butsko walked up to Schlegelmilch and slapped him on the shoulder. “That was a good challenge. Keep up the good work.”

  Schlegelmilch nodded. His face was mangled, bruised, and cut. Butsko walked past him, and Schlegelmilch was tempted to raise the rifle and shoot Butsko in the back, but thought he’d better bide his time and wait for a more opportune moment.

  “Everybody up!” Butsko shouted. “Drop your cocks and grab your socks! Let’s go! On the double!"

  The soldiers stirred out of their slumber. Frankie, the old combat veteran, was on his feet instantly, swinging his M 1 rifle from side to side, looking for a Jap to shoot. Sergeant Plunkett lay on his ass but held his M 1 ready to fire at any Jap who came near him. McGurk didn’t hear Butsko’s voice, and snored into the night. Butsko walked up to him and kicked him in the ass.

  “Ouch!” said McGurk.

  “On your feet!"

  The men rose up from the moist, smelly ground. They grabbed their rifles and ran their tongues over their teeth, wiping off the scum. They looked at their watches and saw that it wasn’t even midnight yet.

  “Assemble on me!” Butsko said. “Let’s go!”

  The men crowded around, their heads still full of dreams. They looked at Butsko and wondered what he was so upset about.

  “The patrol’s been called off,” Butsko snarled, “but before you start cheering, you might as well know that we’re going out on a reconnaissance in force, all of us, every swinging dick here. Grab your packs and saddle up, because we’re moving out.”

  The men melted away from Butsko into the night, where they stuffed their packs with their gear and hoisted their packs onto their shoulders. Butsko did the same thing, a cigarette dangling out the corner of his mouth. The night was silent, but Butsko knew it wouldn’t be that way for long.

  McGurk walked up to Butsko. “What’s a reconnaissance in forcer?”

  “It’s like a small-scale attack without artillery to see what the enemy’ll do about it.”

  “Oh,” said McGurk, taking a step backward, trying to figure out what that meant.

  Butsko lifted his pack and pushed his arms through the straps. He adjusted his cartridge belt on his hips and took a sip of bourbon whiskey, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His men were gathered around him in the darkness.

  “Everybody here?” Butsko asked.

  “All present,” Sergeant Plunkett replied.

  Butsko looked at the men in the Second Squad. He scanned the faces of McGurk, Hampton, Schlegelmilch, Tronolone, Bisbee, Crow, and Frankie La Barbara. Then he had an inspiration.

  “Frankie,” he said.

  “Yo,” replied Frankie.

  “You’re the new acting squad leader of the Second Squad.”

  “I am?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s in the Second Squad?”

  Butsko pointed to the ones who’d recently been guests at the stockade. “Them, and if any of the bastards does anything wrong, I’ll hold you responsible.”

  “I don’t want the job,” Frankie said.

  “Tough shit,” Butsko replied, “because you got it anyway.” He looked around at the others. “Everybody ready?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Move it out,” Butsko said. “Follow me.”

  Butsko led the way, and the long procession filed through the jungle as around them other units moved into new positions also. Curses of men and the clank of equipment could be heard. Jeeps started their engines and trucks hauled supplies closer to the sector from which the reconnaissance in force would be launched. Butsko walked with a slight limp; his leg was bothering him more than he’d thought it would. What in the fuck
am I doing here? he said to himself. Why didn’t I listen to them doctors back in Hawaii?

  It took about an hour for the recon platoon to reach the Easy Company bivouac. Everybody was asleep except a few guards, the platoon sergeant whose name was Cassidy, and Captain Mason. The bivouac was at the edge of the Driniumor River, and Butsko could see moonlight twinkling in the swirling current. It was a peaceful bucolic scene. No shots were fired anywhere.

  Captain Mason sat in a foxhole, studying his map under the light of a flashlight. His poncho was draped over his head so the light couldn’t be seen. Butsko approached at the side of Sergeant Cassidy, who was a master sergeant like Butsko. Cassidy was square-faced and broadly built. His hair was so blond he looked like an albino.

  “Sir?” said Sergeant Cassidy at the edge of Captain Mason’s hole.

  “What is it?”

  “Sergeant Butsko is here.”

  Captain Mason turned off his flashlight and pulled the poncho off his head. “Hello there, Sergeant Butsko,” he said with a tone of mild mocking amusement in his voice. Something about his manner suggested that he didn’t take the war very seriously, although he must have been taking it seriously if he was still alive.

  “Hi,” replied Butsko.

  Butsko hadn’t said sir, but Captain Mason didn’t care. He wasn’t a spit-and-polish career soldier. Before the war he’d been an automotive engineer in Detroit. They used to call him Manifold Mason back in those good old days, because he helped design exhaust manifolds and carburetors for automobile engines.

  “Welcome to Easy Company,” Captain Mason said. “You and your men can sack out anywhere you want inside our bivouac. Sergeant Cassidy here’ll tell you how far it extends. Do you have any questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “Then get some sleep. You’ll need it because we jump off in"—he looked at his watch—“about four hours.”

  “Maybe you should get some sleep too sir, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Sergeant. Just worry about yourself and your men. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Butsko walked away with Sergeant Cassidy.

  “He seems like a pretty decent officer, as officers go,” Butsko said.

  “He’s all right,” Sergeant Cassidy replied. “Got a good head on his shoulders.”

  Butsko returned to his men, who were already sleeping on the ground, using their packs as pillows. They hadn’t even bothered to set up the semblance of a bivouac. All they’d done was take off their helmets. Butsko saw no reason to disturb them.

  Butsko threw off his pack and also set it up as a pillow. Removing his helmet, he stretched out on the ground, resting his head on his pack. His leg hurt, and he didn’t feel very optimistic about the morning. But he wasn’t worried. He’d been through this too many times before, and had become numb to it.

  Fuck it, he thought, closing his eyes. Fuck everything.

  ELEVEN . . .

  Somebody shook Butsko’s shoulder, and Butsko opened his eyes. He saw an unfamiliar face above him in the darkness.

  “Captain Mason said for me to wake you up,” the face said.

  “I’m up,” grumbled Butsko.

  The soldier walked away. Butsko rolled over and held his watch up to the moonlight. It was quarter to four in the morning. He had to blink and look at the watch again, because he thought he’d only been asleep for a half hour or so.

  Butsko sat up and lifted his canteen, screwing off the lid. He took a belt of bourbon and it burned all the way down into his empty stomach, waking him up. Replacing the lid, he snorted like a bull and pulled himself to his feet.

  His men slept all around him in the soft dappling moonlight. The jungle was quiet. Butsko wished it could stay like that forever, but there was killing to do.

  He walked to Frankie La Barbara and kicked him in the ass. “Get up!”

  Frankie opened his eyes. “Huh?”

  “I said get up. Get all your men up too. Let’s go. On the double.”

  Butsko strolled across the clearing, to kick Sergeant Plunkett in the ass, but Sergeant Plunkett had been awakened by the exchange between Butsko and Frankie La Barbara and was sitting up as Butsko drew closer.

  “I’m up,” said Plunkett.

  “Get all your men up, and prepare to move out.”

  “Yo.”

  Butsko took out a cigarette and lit it up, then strolled off in the direction of Captain Mason’s command post, to find out what was going on.

  Far away in the jungle, General Adachi opened his eyes. His heart beat wildly and he was greatly excited. In a dream he saw clearly the tactics that could defeat the Americans, and the dream had prodded him to consciousness.

  He lay in bed and stared at the mosquito netting above him in the tent. Before going to bed he’d been struggling to formulate tactics for his big attack, but received no inspiration. Now he’d seen it all in his sleep. It was a brilliant plan. He’d begin with a fast feint on his right flank, which was the part of his line that abutted the ocean. He’d use whatever transportation he had to bring sufficient troops and equipment to the line quickly, and strike hard. The Americans would think a major attack was coming in that sector, and would reinforce the position. Then General Adachi would strike with his main forces at the center of the American line, pushing hard with everything he had except for a regiment or two, or maybe even a full division, which he would hold in reserve.

  General Adachi’s blood crackled in his veins as he thought of the possibilities of the plan. He could shift the weight of his attack from the feint on the beach to the center of the line, and even back again, keeping the Americans confused and off balance. He would use all his artillery to support the initial attack. His men would advance ferociously, letting nothing stop them. It was conceivable that he could achieve two breakthroughs, one in the center of the American line and the other on the beach. They could catch half the American line in a double envelopment, wipe them out, and then swing south, hitting the rest of the American line in flank, rolling it up. Then he’d turn east and assault the Tadji airfields, capture Aitape, and annihilate all the Americans in north-central New Guinea.

  Although General Adachi still lay in bed, he thought he already had the battle won. Somehow it seemed easy to him, because determination and the right tactics could defeat an opponent who had superior numbers. History had proved this true many times. With the capture of Aitape, he’d relieve pressure on the great Japanese bastion at Rabaul, and isolate the Americans at Hollandia. It would be a masterstroke that could alter the course of the war.

  “I’d better write all this down before I forget it,” General Adachi mumbled to himself.

  Pushing away the mosquito netting, he rolled out of bed and got to his feet. The mosquitoes attacked immediately, biting, chewing, sucking blood. He put on his pants and shirt and dashed to his desk, slapping mosquitoes. Lighting his kerosene lamp, he looked at the map spread out on his desk. He picked up a pencil and drew the lines of his attack. On a separate sheet of paper he wrote the names of the units that would participate in the various attacks. His brain felt as if it were on fire. He was excited by the prospect of a great victory. Although the odds were against him, he thought he could defeat the Americans.

  The Americans were essentially a cowardly people, he believed. They performed well in battle only when they had overwhelming superiority in numbers and equipment. But if he struck the Americans fiercely, they’d melt away like snow in the hot sunlight. He’d whip them like the dogs they were. He’d kick their asses all over New Guinea.

  Licking his lips, he wrote out his order of battle as quickly as he could, while his mind was filled with brilliant tactical ideas. He was afraid of losing any of the fabulous nuances and strategies that surged through his brain.

  The gods are talking to me, he said to himself. The gods are telling me how to defeat the Americans.

  Butsko found Captain Mason sitting in his foxhole, drinking coffee out
of his canteen cup. Sergeant Cassidy was with him, and so was a young lieutenant whom Butsko didn’t know.

  “Morning Sergeant Butsko,” Captain Mason said. “I hope you slept well.”

  “It was good while it lasted,” Butsko said. “I came over to find out what you wanted me to do.”

  “Have breakfast and report to me with your men at oh-three-thirty hours. You and your men are going across the river first, and then we follow behind you. Think you can handle it?”

  “No,” Butsko said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because the recon platoon of today ain’t the recon platoon of yesterday. Nearly all of my men are dead or in the hospital, and what I got now ain’t worth much.”

  Captain Mason shrugged. “Well, Colonel Hutchins wants you to go across first, and so you’re going across first. Orders are orders, right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Go have breakfast and then come back with your men. By the way, do you know Lieutenant Jameson here?”

  “No sir.”

  Captain Mason made the introductions. Lieutenant Jameson was a brown-haired stringbean with a long face and a lantern jaw, and he winked at Butsko.

  “Hi,” Lieutenant Jameson said. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Sergeant Butsko.”

  Butsko grunted. He had no idea of what to reply to that.

  “I’ll see you all later,” he said finally.

  He turned, hitched up the M 1 rifle slung from his shoulder, and headed back to the recon platoon.

  It still was dark, but the Twenty-third Regiment was coming to life. Trucks rumbled through the jungle, carrying men and supplies to their new positions. Artillerymen prepared their big guns for action, just in case. Medics loaded up their haversacks with morphine and bandages. The division medical headquarters made room for the casualties they expected to arrive soon. Soldiers ate C rations out of cans for their breakfast. Some were fortunate to have hot coffee to wake them up.

  Sound traveled fast and far in the jungle. Japanese sentries on the east side of the Driniumor heard activity on the west side of the river and reported it to their superiors.