Tough Guys Die Hard

by Len Levinson

  “Yes sir.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Lechler passed the order along to his aids, who passed them along to their subordinates, and finally the company commander of George Company got the word. He lined his men up on the riverbank and watched as Fox Company neared the far side of the Driniumor.

  Colonel Hutchins turned down the corners of his mouth as he looked toward the fighting. He thought of Butsko and Captain Mason with all their men over there, up to their asses in Japs. He hoped they could hold out until help arrived.

  Colonel Hutchins turned to Lieutenant Colonel Lechler again. “Tell George Company to cross over,” he said.

  Back at the division medical headquarters Lieutenant Breckenridge stood outside his tent, his hands in his pockets, and listened to the sounds of fighting in the distance. He knew it was the Twenty-third Regiment fighting for their lives again, and he felt odd to be so far away from the bullets and explosions.

  If the Twenty-third was fighting, his old recon platoon would be in the thick of it. He chewed his lips and wondered how they were. He hoped they’d get along all right without him.

  Another officer passed by and tapped Lieutenant Breckenridge on the shoulder. “Tune for chow, Dale.”

  “Be right with you.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge listened to the small-arms fire and mortar explosions, feeling guilty that he couldn’t be with his men. He wished there were something he could do for them, but there was nothing. He was wounded and couldn’t walk around very well. The recon platoon would have to get along without him.

  He turned to the right and limped toward the mess tent, thinking about his men going toe to toe against the Japs.

  Tronolone and Schlegelmilch had forgotten all about killing Butsko. They pulled the triggers of their M 1s as fast as they could, and ahead in the brightening jungle they could see the figures of Japanese soldiers lurching about behind the thick, tangled vegetation. The Japanese soldiers worked their way closer, getting ready for a banzai attack. Tronolone’s ammo clip emptied and flew into the air. He reached to his cartridge belt, pulled out another clip, and stuffed it into the chamber of the M 1. Then he resumed firing.

  Beside him, Schlegelmilch also emptied clip after clip at the Japanese soldiers in the jungle. He didn’t know whether or not he actually was killing any, but maintained his rate of fire anyway. He knew that his only chance of survival was to keep the goddamned Japs away from him.

  Not far from Schlegelmilch, Private Theophilus Hampton pumped .30-caliber bullets into the woods. Hampton was completely involved in the fighting now. He didn’t have time for his upper-class bullshit. It was kill or be killed, fight or get fucked up. He aimed at a Japanese soldier poking his head out from behind a tree, and squeezed the trigger of his M 1 rifle. The bullet blew out of the barrel, and the Jap’s head disappeared. Hampton didn’t know whether he’d killed the Jap or not, but at least he wasn’t visible anymore. That was good enough for Hampton.

  Beside Hampton, Private Crow fired his M 1 rifle. He wasn’t aiming carefully, because he was too overcome with anger and hatred. His mouth kept filling up with blood, which he continually had to spit out. His head was racked with pain. The teeth in his mouth dangled by threads, and he reached up, yanking out the four loose ones in front with his fingers. More blood welled out of his mouth, and he felt nauseous because he’d already swallowed so much of it. He leveled his rifle at the Japs again and squeezed the trigger. This was not at all what he’d thought war would be like. He was too busy to be afraid, and too much in pain to worry about more pain. Death would have been welcome to Crow at that point. He simply didn’t give a fuck anymore.

  Next to Private Crow, Private Bisbee was cool as a cucumber. The pathological thief aimed his rifle at the Japs and squeezed off rounds, while his mind made careful calculations. He knew Pfc. Guiteau was dead and was trying to figure out how to get his hands on Guiteau’s wallet. Guiteau had been married and wore a gold band on his finger. Bisbee wanted that too. He hoped Hampton would get killed, because Hampton was rich and surely he had something valuable on him. He knew for a fact that Hampton wore an expensive Bulova watch, and surely Hampton had more expensive items on his person.

  Butsko heard activity behind him and turned around. He saw Captain Mason running toward him, crouched over with his upper torso low to the ground. Behind Mason came more men from his company. Captain Mason dived to the ground next to Butsko, and Butsko saw a dent in Captain Mason’s helmet where a bullet or a piece of shrapnel had creased it.

  “Good morning,” Captain Mason said, making his wry smile.

  “What are you so happy about?” Butsko asked.

  Captain Mason ignored the question. “I called Colonel Hutchins. Help is on the way. All we have to do is hold out for a while.”

  “I don’t know how long we can hold out,” Butsko said.

  “Neither do I.”

  Pow—a bullet hit the ground right in front of them, throwing dirt up at their faces. They wiped the dirt away with the backs of their hands.

  “Well,” said Captain Mason, “I guess there’s Japs over here.”

  “Gee, what makes you think so?” Butsko asked.

  Somebody screamed. Butsko raised his head and saw Schlegelmilch rolling around in agony on the ground.

  “Medic!” yelled Butsko.

  “Yo!” replied Corporal Lamm.

  “Schlegelmilch is hit!"

  “Where is he?"

  “Over there!"

  Butsko pointed. Corporal Lamm saw where Schlegelmilch was, and raised himself up. A Japanese bullet struck Corporal Lamm on the chest, and Corporal Lamm fell down onto his face. He didn’t move.

  “I think he’s dead,” Butsko said.

  “I think you’re right,” Captain Mason replied.

  Butsko looked at Schlegelmilch writhing on the ground, and then at Corporal Lamm lying still. He put one and one together and made up his mind. Taking a deep breath, Butsko jumped up and ran toward Corporal Lamm. Bullets flew around Butsko like angry hornets, and one bullet hit Butsko in the left biceps muscle, spinning him around. Blood spouted from Butsko’s arm, and Butsko fell beside Corporal Lamm.

  Butsko didn’t have to feel Lamm’s pulse. It was clear that Lamm was dead. Butsko’s arm felt as though it was on fire as he pulled the haversack full of medicine off Lamm’s shoulder. He opened the haversack and sprinkled coagulant powder on his bleeding biceps muscle, then taped on a bandage holding one end of the tape in his right hand and the other end in his mouth.

  The bandage immediately became soaked with blood. Butsko moved his left arm; it seemed to be working all right. He looked at Schlegelmilch and slung the haversack full of medicine and bandages over his shoulder. Taking another deep breath, he leaped to his feet and barreled across the battlefield, heading for Schlegelmilch.

  Bullets zipped over his head and past his ears. A bullet smacked him on the leg, the same leg that had been wounded already, and Butsko fell asshole over teakettle to the ground.

  Blood poured out of his leg. Butsko opened the haversack and poured on coagulant powder. He tied on a bandage, spat a lunger at the ground, and jumped up again, running with a bad limp toward Schlegelmilch. A bullet grazed his cheek so closely he could feel its heat. Another bullet passed through his shirt an inch from his ribs. Butsko dived to the ground and landed next to Schlegelmilch, who hooted and screamed as he rolled over and around on the ground.

  “Stay still!” Butsko ordered.

  Schlegelmilch couldn’t stay still, so Butsko punched him in the mouth.

  “I said stay still!”

  That time Schlegelmilch had to stay still. He was out cold. Butsko rolled him over and saw blood all over Schlegelmilch’s shirt. Butsko became aware that Tronolone was watching him.

  “Fire your rifle, asshole!” Butsko said. “This ain’t no freak show over here!”

  Tronolone turned around and fired his rifle. Butsko unbuttoned Schlegelmilch’s shirt and saw blood welling out of a spot on his coll
arbone midway between his throat and his shoulder. Butsko touched the collarbone and it jiggled. The bullet had evidently broken it. Butsko opened the haversack and took out two packets of blood coagulant, because it was an ugly wound. He poured the packets of powder onto the wound and watched the blood thicken. Then he found the largest-size bandage in the haversack and pressed it against the wound. Next came the tape, which he tore off a big fat roll.

  Tronolone watched everything out of the corner of his eye. If he turned his rifle around quickly, he could drill Butsko right between the eyes, but how could he drill Butsko between the eyes when Butsko was administering first aid to Schlegelmilch?

  Suddenly the Japanese fire stopped. Butsko looked up from what he was doing. He heard Japanese soldiers hollar “Banzai” as they charged out of the jungle, holding their rifles with fixed bayonets in their hands.

  “Well,” Butsko muttered to Tronolone, “here’s where we separate the men from the boys.”

  Butsko grabbed Schlegelmilch’s rifle. He made sure the bayonet was fixed tightly on the end, and then he jumped to his feet.

  Butsko held the rifle and bayonet in his right hand and raised them high in the air. “Hit ‘em on the run!” he hollared. “Follow me!"

  All by himself, Butsko charged the Japs. He couldn’t run very well, because his leg was shot to shit, but he limped along, holding his rifle and bayonet tightly in both his hands, aiming the bayonet at the Japanese soldiers pouring out of the jungle a hundred yards in front of him. He teetered a little to the left, and then he tottered a little to the right, but he kept on going.

  The old members of the recon platoon climbed to their feet and raised their weapons.

  “Go get ‘em!” hollared the Reverend Billie Jones.

  “Kill the fuckers!” screamed Frankie La Barbara.

  The Reverend Billie Jones and Frankie La Barbara ran after Butsko, holding their rifles and bayonets ready to slash and bash. Then Sergeant Plunkett arose like a lion from the jungle floor and raised his right fist in the air.

  “Charge!” he bellowed.

  He rushed forward, and the men in his squad followed him. They were all combat veterans and they knew what they had to do.

  Then came Captain Mason on the run, his Colt .45 in his right hand and his Ka-bar knife in his left hand, and on his face was an expression that indicated bad intentions. His entire company rumbled after him, because they’d follow him anywhere.

  Easy Company ran over the men from the stockade, who hadn’t made up their minds about what they were going to do. Schlegelmilch couldn’t do anything because he was unconscious from loss of blood, but the rest were theoretically capable of fighting a war.

  Captain Mason rushed toward Private Theophilus Hampton and kicked him in the ass. “Move out, you son of a bitch!"

  “I won’t!” replied Hampton.

  Captain Mason reared back his right arm and whacked Hampton in the mouth with the Colt .45. The heavy weapon laid open Hampton’s flesh to the bone, and blood spurted out. Hampton collapsed onto his back, out cold, and Captain Mason ran over him, galloping toward the Japs.

  The sergeants and corporals from Easy Company kicked and punched the other stockade warriors to make them attack. It didn’t take much to get Tronolone going, because he was a vicious son of a bitch and he didn’t want anybody to think he was yeller. Bisbee the thief also attacked with alacrity because he wanted to plunder all the corpses that doubtlessly would be produced by the battle.

  Private Crow didn’t hesitate much either. He was so angry and in pain that he’d just about lost his mind. No longer did he worry about suffering or the possibility of dying. He didn’t have time to think anymore. His mind was like a tornado. He ran forward with Easy Company, shrieking at the top of his lungs, blood and foam oozing out from between his lips.

  Private McGurk had joined the attack right after the Reverend Billie Jones had shouted his orders. It took McGurk a little while to get underway, due to his vast bulk and slow mind, but now he was running as fast as his long, powerful legs could carry him, and it would take a tank to stop him. He carried his BAR by the barrel and swung it around over his head like a baseball bat.

  “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.

  Bustko saw the Japs in front of him, and then the battle was joined. Japanese soldiers formed a solid wall in front of him, and he lunged at the closest one, hurling his rifle and bayonet forward toward the Japanese soldier’s chest.

  The Japanese soldier had a black mustache like a toothbrush, and he parried Butsko’s thrust to the side. The Japanese soldier brought his rifle butt around to slam Butsko in the skull, but Butsko lashed out with his right foot and kicked the Japanese soldier in the balls. The Japanese soldier shrieked horribly and dropped to his knees, clutching his balls in his hands, and Butsko lost his balance because his left leg was all fucked up. Butsko fell on his side, rolled over, and a Japanese soldier kicked him in the head, but Butsko could take a good punch and it only dazed him slightly. He fell backward onto his ass, blinked twice, and then saw a Japanese bayonet streaking down toward his chest. Reaching up, he grabbed the bayonet with his hands, slicing his palms to ribbons, and pushed the bayonet to the side. The bayonet jabbed into the ground beside Butsko, and Butsko tried to get up, but his bum leg collapsed underneath him and he fell down.

  A Japanese soldier tried to stomp him, but Butsko rolled out of the way. A bayonet flashed in the light of the morning sun as it tried to slash open his windpipe, but Butsko dodged away from that one too. Butsko lurched forward and tackled a Japanese sergeant who was carrying a Nambu pistol. He clawed his way up the Japanese sergeant’s body and punched his lights out before the Japanese sergeant could retaliate.

  Butsko yanked the Nambu pistol out of the Japanese sergeant’s hand. He rolled onto his back and looked up to see yet another Japanese bayonet, on the end of a Japanese rifle, zooming down toward him. Butsko raised the Nambu and pulled the trigger, shooting the Japanese soldier holding the rifle and bayonet between the eyes.

  The Japanese soldier fell on top of Butsko, and Butsko pushed him off. Everywhere Butsko looked he saw men locked in close hand-to-hand combat. They tried to stab each other, kick each other, and gouge out each other’s eyes. He heard them grunt with effort or shriek in pain as he got to his knees and tried to stand up. Three Japanese soldiers charged him at the same time, aiming their rifles and bayonets at him, and he raised the Nambu pistol, pulling the trigger. He fired three times, his ears ringing with the loud shots, and the three Japanese soldiers dropped one by one to the ground.

  Butsko got to his feet. He was basically standing on his right leg, with his left leg providing a vague kind of stability. The jungle had become the scene of a terrible bloody melee. Men grappled everywhere and blood spattered in all directions. This was war on its most fundamental, gory level, and Butsko knew it well.

  A Japanese officer carrying a samurai sword charged toward Butsko, holding his samurai sword high in the air, screaming at the top of his lungs. Butsko took aim and pulled the trigger of the Nambu, firing a hole in the Japanese officer’s chest.

  The Japanese officer collapsed onto the ground, and two Japanese soldiers appeared behind him, carrying rifles and bayonets, charging Butsko, who took aim with the Nambu and pulled the trigger. Blam! The first Japanese soldier toppled to the ground, and Butsko drew a bead on the next one who was charging hard.

  Click!

  The Nambu pistol was empty, and Butsko didn’t know what to do. His ha
nds were bleeding, and his only chance was to grab that Jap’s rifle and bayonet, possibly cutting off a finger this time. The Japanese soldier rampaged closer and Butsko got ready to dive, when suddenly out of nowhere came a giant swinging a Browning Automatic Rifle, and slam—he hit the Japanese soldier in the head with such force that the Japanese soldier’s head broke apart like a rotten egg, blood and brains flying everywhere.

  The giant was Private McGurk, and a dab of brains landed on his lower lip. He spat it out and raised the BAR again, bringing it down with all his strength, smashing in the helmet of a Japanese soldier, crushing his skull. Blood squirted out of the nose, mouth, and ears of the Japanese soldier.

  The Japanese soldier dropped to the ground and McGurk snarled as he kicked him out of the way. He swung the BAR from the side and connected with the head of another Japanese soldier, caving it in, nearly whacking the head off the Japanese soldier’s shoulders. The Japanese soldier’s eyes popped out, and the force of the blow sent him flying through the air, where he collided with another Japanese soldier, knocking him down.

  McGurk swung sideways again and struck a Japanese soldier on the arm, breaking the arm in two. The Japanese soldier dropped his rifle and bayonet, staring with horror at the giant in front of him, and then McGurk caught him on the face with his backswing, busting his cheekbones, shattering his skull, mangling his brains.

  McGurk felt good. He’d never had so much fun in his life, and it pleased him to be fighting for his country and doing such a good job. He always knew he’d be a good soldier if the sergeants and officers would just leave him alone. He bled from the bullet wound in his shoulder, and a Japanese soldier with more luck than skill had slashed his ribs, but it’d take more than that to bring the big, hulking American soldier down.

  McGurk bellowed like a wild elephant in heat and charged into the thickest crowd of soldiers, raising his BAR in the air. He swung downward and cracked a Japanese soldier on the top of his head, flattening it down a few inches, and the sudden furious impact forced the Japanese soldier’s brains to explode out of his nose. The Japanese soldier’s eyes rolled up into what was left of his head and he fell backward; McGurk kicked him out of the way, lunging forward and smacking another Japanese on his left shoulder, dislocating it, and then kicked the Japanese soldier in the balls, flattening them out.