by Len Levinson
But he was no fanatic. He wanted desperately to live. Through the slit of his eye he saw the American soldiers come closer. There were eight of them, two to each team. One soldier would grab a dead Japanese soldier's arms and the other his ankles, they'd swing him side to side three times, and on the fourth swing they'd throw him onto the truck, his arms and legs wagging limply as he flew through the air.
Clouds of flies buzzed around the Mosquito and he could barely hear. The Americans came so close that he decided he'd better close his eye. He calmed himself and got ready for what he supposed would be the most difficult and dangerous part of his ordeal. Bodies were pulled away by American soldiers, and the Mosquito was jostled about. A GI boot came down painfully on the small of his back, and it was all he could do to keep from crying out. The American soldier stepped on him as he tugged another Japanese soldier loose from the pile. The Mosquito was afraid he'd be discovered, and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead, which he was afraid the Americans would notice.
They were just a bunch of GIs on a shirty detail, and they weren't noticing anything. One picked up his hands, another his legs, and they carried him belly down toward the truck.
“This one's not too heavy,” wheezed one of the GIs.
“Looks damn near starved to death.”
The Mosquito thought his spine might crack in two. He tried to keep himself stiff, because rigor mortis should have set in somewhat. He hoped the Americans wouldn't notice how warm he was and that the one holding his hands wouldn't feel his pulse by mistake.
The American soldiers stopped, counted, and swung him back and forth. They tossed him into the air and he spun around, opening his eyes slightly, seeing the top of Kokengolo Hill and the bodies in the truck. He landed on the other bodies, somebody's elbow spearing his cheek, cutting it open, but he suppressed the cry of pain.
He lay on the other soldiers, and the stench of death filled his nostrils. It wasn't too strong yet, but it would be soon. That would be the worst part of his trip. But he would survive that too. Somehow he was going to pull through this.
He heard the American soldiers on both sides of the truck, and bodies came flying through the air. One landed on top of him, and another a few feet away. The Mosquito was hungry and thirsty and felt like vomiting, but he gritted his teeth and exerted his will.
That night, as soon as it was dark, he'd make his move. That wouldn't be too much longer, and then he'd be free from both the Imperial Army and the Americans.
Somehow I've got to hold on, he thought. It'll only be a little while longer.
FOURTEEN . . .
Deep in the ground, the remnants of the recon platoon trudged through a long dark tunnel. Butsko was in front, holding his M 1 in both hands, and Craig Delane carried the torch high in the air, lighting the way ahead.
They'd left the room with Captain Hisahiro a half hour before and had been moving through this tunnel ever since. They'd passed a few more rooms that contained no Japs, and now were hoping and praying that the tunnel through which they were passing would lead them to daylight pretty soon.
Every time they turned a corner they hoped to see daylight, but every time they'd been disappointed. Butsko was beginning to think that this tunnel might become his tomb. He'd always thought he'd die from a Japanese bullet or bayonet, but it looked as though he were facing a slow agonizing death from suffocation or starvation.
The tunnel angled downward, and the men became more discouraged with every step they took. There seemed to be no way out. They were going to be buried alive. They thought of their friends and relatives back home, and those who were married remembered their wives, the pleasure and pain they'd had in their marriages, and wondered how their wives would fare without them.
Craig Delane thought of his opulent life in New York, the private clubs to which he belonged, the debutante balls he'd attended, his apartment on Sixty-eighth Street between Madison and Park avenues. How awful that a man like him would die in a hole in the ground on an insect-infested island in the South Pacific. He wished that he'd never enlisted in the Army. He imagined that his father and mother would be able to feel like patriotic Americans for the rest of their lives, because they'd given a son in the war.
The soldiers became more demoralized with every step they took. They dragged their feet over the floor and bent forward, straining to see that ray of light that would mean safety and life. Their jaws hung open and their eyes bulged out. Please, God, thought Butsko, if you get me out of this one, 1 won't drink anymore and I won't go to any more whorehouses.
They turned a corner, but once again no light was in front of them, only endless blackness and gloom. It was damper and cooler at that depth, and the air smelled musty. The sides of the tunnel were damp, and somewhere in the distance they heard the drip of water.
Suddenly and shockingly, machine guns and rifles opened fire in front of them. Pfc. Pacelli was shot in the chest, Private Reardon stopped a bullet with his stomach, Private Farr caught one in the balls, and Private Marguilies was shot through the face.
Bullets whizzed all around Butsko as he dropped to the ground. Craig Delane landed next to him and rolled the torch in the dirt, trying to put it out, but a bullet slammed into his shoulder and knocked him unconscious. Butsko peered ahead and saw flashes of light, the muzzle blasts from Japanese guns that roared and thundered in the tunnel. Then he heard the sound of hand grenades landing in the dirt nearby. Oh, my God, he thought squinching his eyes shut. This is it.
The three grenades exploded violendy, reverberating through the tunnel and loosening dirt from the walls and ceiling. Butsko felt the shock waves pass over him, and bits of shrapnel whizzed around him, one so close he could feel its heat against his cheek. He thought he was a dead man for sure, but when the sounds diminished he realized he was not only alive but unhurt.
Soldiers moaned nearby. Craig Delane was motionless to his right, and Private Shane, who carried a BAR, was on his back to Butsko's left, the top of his head blown off. Jap soldiers chattered up ahead and Butsko wondered how many of his men had lived through the blasts. He didn't want to say anything because he didn't want the Japs to think he was alive.
A fucking ambush, he thought. They were waiting for us. Well, he could play that game too. Lying on the floor, pretending to be dead, he made his plans. The Japs would come forward to see how many Americans they'd killed, and when they got close, Butsko would throw a grenade of his own at them, then roll to the side and pick up Private Shane's BAR so he could shoot the survivors.
Craig Delane's torch had blown to bits in the explosions. Butsko moved his hand toward his lapel, the darkness covering him. He pulled loose a grenade and was about to pull the pin when a flashlight came on.
He froze. The Japanese soldiers jabbered and stood up. Peeking over the dirt, Butsko could see that they were behind a barricade of crates, and he could count eight of them. They climbed over their barricade and advanced, holding flashlights and their rifles.
They approached cautiously, talking to each other. Butsko could see two flashlight rays scanning back and forth. The rays passed over him, making him feel naked and vulnerable. He tensed, ready to make his last stand.
The Japs drew closer. Butsko's heart pounded loudly. He wasn't sure he'd be able to kill all the Japs before they killed him. Death might claim him in the next few minutes, but he'd go down fighting. He'd be able to kill some of them before they got him.
The Japs came within range. Butsko yanked the pin and drew back his arm. The Japs shouted in alarm and dropped to the floor as Butsko threw the grenade.
They shrieked, trying to keep the grenade in the rays of their flashlights, but they couldn't follow it, and it dropped to the dirt in their midst. They scrambled like rats, trying to find it, and Butsko rolled over, getting into position behind Private Shane's BAR.
The grenade blasted apart, sending lightning and shards of steel in all directions. Some of the Japs were blown into the air, and many of the rest were w
ounded. Butsko was on his feet while the roaring still echoed throughout the tunnel, and he charged forward, firing the BAR from his waist at the Japanese soldiers lying on the floor. He raked the dead ones with the wounded and unharmed, and a few tried to get their weapons, but Butsko saw them in the light of their dropped flash-lights and cut them down.
Pow—a bullet zipped past his ear, and he dropped to the ground amid the Japanese soldiers he'd shot. Pow—another bullet flew over his head. Now he knew that the Japs had a few soldiers left behind their barricade. A flashlight went on behind the barricade and Butsko fired a burst; the light went out.
Butsko knew that when you were attacking you had to keep going if you wanted to keep the enemy off-balance. He pulled his last grenade from his lapel, yanked the pin, and let it fly, getting ready to jump up and charge like a son of a bitch. He licked his lips and clicked his teeth, because this could be Butsko's Last Charge.
The grenade ripped apart in a golden flash, tearing Japs to pieces, and Butsko ran forward like a madman, hollering and screaming at the top of his lungs, firing the BAR at the crates in front of him. He leaped over them and crashed against a dirt wall he hadn't seen before, nearly knocking himself senseless. He fell to the ground amid some dead Japanese, hearing Sergeant Cameron's voice and shots.
Butsko was dazed, but he climbed to his feet anyway and held his BAR ready to bash anything that moved. Sergeant Cameron attacked, weird shadows on his face from the flash-lights. Butsko saw a Japanese soldier on the floor lift his arm, so he aimed his BAR downward and gave him a burst in the back. Sergeant Cameron leaned over what was left of the barricade and fired shots at Japanese soldiers who already were dead. Butsko and Sergeant Cameron kept firing until they were sure they'd killed all the Japs, then they released their triggers and looked at each other.
Butsko reached out and touched the wall. “Looks like this is the end of the tunnel,” he said.
Sergeant Cameron climbed over the wrecked crates and kicked a Japanese soldier. “I wonder if all these fuckers are dead.” He pulled his trigger and shot a bullet into the Jap's head.
Butsko's chest heaved from exertion and anxiety. Somehow he'd survived the Jap sneak attack, but now he was buried alive. He flinched as Sergeant Cameron shot another Jap.
Butsko kicked some wood slats lying in front of him and stepped away from the Japs on the floor. He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and tried to light it with his Zippo, forgetting that his Zippo was out of fuel. He passed the dead Japs whom he'd grenaded and shot earlier, and then came to the men from the recon platoon, lying on the floor.
Only one was making any sound, and that was Craig Delane. Butsko's unlit cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth as he knelt beside Delane and rolled him over. Delane was unconscious, moaning, his lips moving slightly as if talking in his sleep. His shoulder was bloody, and Butsko cut away his shirt, then took the bandage from the pouch on Delane's belt and applied it to his wound, wrapping it around and tying a knot. The blood was coagulating; probably the damage wasn't serious. Butsko reached into Delane's pocket, took out his Zippo, and lit his cigarette, dropping Delane's Zippo into his own pocket.
Sergeant Cameron approached from behind him, shining one of the Japanese flashlights. “He alive?”
“Yeah,” replied Butsko, puffing his cigarette.
“Anybody else?”
“I haven't checked yet.”
They crawled over the other soldiers, feeling their pulses, pulling back their eyelids, but they all were dead. Butsko and Sergeant Cameron stripped them of weapons and ammunition, took dog tags, and finally took their cigarettes.
“We might as well go back,” Butsko said. “All we can do now is try to dig ourselves out of here.”
“Fat chance of that.”
“You got a better idea?”
Sergeant Cameron said nothing. He just puffed his cigarette and looked around grimly. The recon platoon had boiled down to him, Butsko, and Craig Delane. Butsko walked back and picked up one of the Japanese flashlights. He took batteries from the other flashlight and stuffed them into his pockets. Turning around, he returned to Sergeant Cameron.
“I'll carry him first,” Butsko said, bending over to lift Craig Delane.
Sergeant Cameron took a drag on his cigarette as Butsko heaved Delane onto his shoulder. He adjusted Delane's limp body, then headed up the incline toward the part of the tunnel that had caved in. Sergeant Cameron walked a few steps behind him, directing a flashlight beam straight ahead.
The truck rocked from side to side as it rumbled over the dirt road. The bodies bounced up and down and the Mosquito was climbing through them to reach the top of the pile. Pushing away stiffening bodies, trying not to think of the stench building around him, he finally made it to the top of the truck, where he could look around and see the tops of trees.
No GI guards were on top of the truck. The Mosquito moved cautiously toward the side and saw the jungle passing by slowly. No truck was ahead and none was behind. Nobody would see him. The Mosquito could jump off the truck now, and he decided to go while he had the chance. The road twisted and turned through the jungle, and another twist was up ahead. He'd jump just before the truck veered to the right.
Crawling over dead bodies, he made his way toward the rear of the cab. He reached the tailgate and placed his hand on the cold metal. The curve was only twenty feet ahead and the truck slowed down. He sniffed the clean jungle breeze and flexed his muscles, gazing down dispassionately at the face of Sergeant Suzuki beside him. Sergeant Suzuki had blood on his shirt and his eyes were closed. His face was drained of blood and his complexion was light yellow.
The truck turned to the right and the Mosquito jumped. He landed in the middle of the dirt road, fell to the side, and rolled over, getting onto his knees. Looking ahead, he saw the truck disappear around the curve in the road. With a broad smile on his face the Mosquito dashed into the jungle and in seconds could no longer be seen from the road.
He was free, running through the thick green foliage, waving his hands in the air. I've done it! he said to himself. I've escaped the war!
In the late afternoon all the American wounded were being tended by doctors and nurses, and combat medics like Private Joseph Gundy had time to rest. Gundy still was tormented by thoughts of the Japanese soldier he'd killed, and he made his way through the jungle to Captain Sheehy's tent.
Captain Sheehy was a Roman Catholic chaplain assigned to the Twenty-third Regiment, and he was in Headquarters Company. Private Gundy attended Captain Sheehy's masses whenever he could, and Captain Sheehy had become his confessor. Thus far, Private Gundy had found him extremely lenient.
He approached two pup tents pitched side by side, with a jeep parked nearby. Pfc. Schlee, the chaplain's assistant, sat in front of one of the tents, eating a can of pork and beans that he'd heated over a fire that now was burning embers beside him.
“Father Sheehy around?” Private Gundy asked.
“He's taking a leak in the jungle. He should be right back.”
Pfc. Schlee had blond hair and had been a student at Catholic University in Washington, D.C., before he'd been drafted. He had gotten halfway to being ordained as a Catholic priest, so they'd made him a chaplain's assistant.
“You don't look so good,” Schlee said. “Have a rough day?”
Gundy looked to the ground and pushed a pebble around with his toe. “I killed a Jap today,” he said.
Schlee's face became serious. “Oh.” He didn't know what to say, so he continued eating.
Gundy chewed his lower lip and rolled the pebble under-neath his toe, trying to keep from trembling. He felt light-headed and frightened, as if he weren't in control of his body. He had a constant headache, which he kept numbed through the constant use of APC tablets, which were mostly aspirin.
Father Sheehy, a skinny man with a bony freckled face and big ears, came out of the jungle, carrying a roll of toilet paper. He wore a yardbird hat and silver crosses on the lape
ls of his green shirt. He took one look at Gundy and knew something was up.
“Hello, Joe,” Father Sheehy asked, trying to grin. “Whataya know?”
“I'd like to talk with you, Father, if it's all right.”
“Sure it's all right.” He lobbed the roll of toilet paper into his tent, then turned around and pointed to a tree at the other end of the jungle.
“Over there okay?”
“How about someplace where we could have some privacy.”
“We'll go into the jungle, then.”
They walked across the small sunlit clearing and entered the thick, dark jungle, full of vines hanging down. Bushes and trees grew close-packed, and narrow trails crisscrossed around. Father Sheehy moved off the trail and they plunged into the leaves and branches, holding up their arms to protect their eyes. After a short distance they came to a tiny clearing.
“This okay?” asked Father Sheehy.
“It's fine.”
They sat, each leaning his back against a tree. Father Sheehy took out a cigarette and lit it up. He didn't offer one to Gundy because he knew Gundy didn't smoke.
“Well,” said Father Sheehy, smiling benevolently at Gundy, “what's the matter?”
“I killed a man today,” Gundy replied in a low dull voice.
Father Sheehy looked at him. He knew Gundy's whole story, how he had left Saint Joseph's Abbey to become a combat medic, and that he was a conscientious objector. “How'd it happen?” Father Sheehy asked.
“There was a Japanese soldier near me, and I thought he was dead but he wasn't. He tried to shoot me, but I shot him first.”
“Sounds like you shot him in self-defense.”
Gundy nodded. “I suppose you could say that.”
“Do you think there's something wrong with killing in self-defense? Is that what's bothering you?”