by Len Levinson
“About another hour or two.”
“Go down there and let me know when he breaks through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Harper saluted, turned, and ran back toward the tunnel, the holster on his hip slapping up and down. Colonel Stockton cut into his chunk of Spam.
“I'll bet it's Butsko,” he murmured.
Some of the officers thought that was wishful thinking, because Colonel Stockton was so fond of Butsko and the recon platoon. Lydia leaned toward Leo Stern.
“I hope it's them,” she said softly.
“If it is, it'll be one helluva story, and we'll be right on top of it.”
Lydia pushed away her half-eaten meal and opened her camera bag to check her equipment one more time. If she could get the right picture, Life magazine might even buy it for the cover. She'd had her photographs published in Life before, but she'd never had a cover. Unscrewing the fifty-millimeter lens from the camera, blowing a speck of dust from the rear element, she thought about Butsko and wondered if he was alive or dead. She already knew that the Twenty-third had taken an unusual number of casualties inside Kokengolo Hill, and hoped he hadn't been one of them. I'll be glad to see him again, she admitted to herself. I don't know what I'll do, but I hope he survives.
Butsko sat with his back against the wall, smoking his last cigarette and listening to the sound of digging nearby. It was clear that there wasn't much dirt between him and the people who were digging. He even could distinguish between the pick-axs and the shovels. A lot of men were out there, and they were digging like sons of bitches.
Sergeant Cameron had gotten over his anger about the bet and now was looking forward to being rescued He puffed his cigarette, humming a little tune. He'd thought he was going to be buried alive, but now he was going to live. The battle for New Georgia was over. He'd be able to rest, maybe even get a furlough back to the States.
Butsko blew a smoke ring into the air. “You wanna know what I'm gonna do with your hundred dollars? I'm gonna spend it all in a whorehouse! Every fucking penny!”
“I hope you get syphilis, you bastard.”
“That's a helluva thing to wish on your old sarge.”
“I hope you get the clap too.”
Dirt fell down from the wall in front of them, and a shovel gleamed in the ray of the flashlight.
“Anybody there?” asked a voice through the hole.
“You're damned straight somebody's here!” Butsko replied, getting to his feet. “About time you showed up!” He walked toward the hole, bent down, and saw a face with a growth of beard. “Who're you?”
“Pfc. Drake, Two-Seventy-first Engineers.”
Butsko extended his hand. “Sergeant Butsko, recon platoon, Twenty-third Infantry. Hurry up and make this hole bigger, because I want to get the hell out of here!”
The engineers dug out the hole, and Butsko lifted Craig Delane, draping him over his shoulder. He entered the smaller tunnel and saw that the hole was big enough for him to pass through. Lowering his head, he stepped through it, and De-lane's head brushed against the dirt.
“Is there a medic around here?” Butsko asked.
“I'm a medic,” said a voice in the shadows.
“This guy's been shot, but he's still alive.”.
“Put him down over here.”
A stretcher was laid out on the ground, and Butsko set Craig Delane down on top of it. “A bullet's in his shoulder,” Butsko said.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
The medic looked at Sergeant Cameron. “How about you?”
“I'm okay.”
Lieutenant Colonel McCawley walked up to Butsko. “Anybody else alive in there?”
“I don't think so, but you might want to check.”
“Very well, Sergeant. Good to see you.” He shook Butsko's hand. “Colonel Stockton is waiting for you topside. Can you make it okay?”
“We're fine,” Butsko said. “We can make it on our own.”
Lieutenant Harper ran ahead to notify Colonel Stockton that Butsko and Sergeant Cameron were on their way. The two GIs followed, walking slowly, weary and glad that they'd been saved. They turned the corners and saw the rooms where they'd fought earlier in the day, climbing steadily until they could see a shaft of sunlight ahead. The tunnel became lighter as they approached the opening, and they had to squint because they'd become accustomed to the darkness.
“We made it,” Butsko said.
“For a while down there I never thought we'd get out.”
“There were times I thought we'd never get out too.”
“Are you still gonna make me pay you that hundred bucks?”
“A bet is a bet.”
Colonel Stockton, his staff, Lydia Kent-Taylor, and Leo Stern were among the crowd waiting at the entrance to the tunnel. Butsko and Sergeant Cameron emerged, and Lydia had her camera ready. She filled the frame with Butsko, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes squinting, rifle slung over his shoulder, dried blood showing on nicks and scratches on his face.
Click!
Colonel Stockton stepped forward and shook Butsko's hand. “Nice to see you again, Sergeant.”
“Nice to see you, sir.”
Colonel Stockton shook Sergeant Cameron's hand. “Glad you made it.”
“Not as glad as I am, sir.”
Lydia stepped forward and waved her hand. “Can I get a shot of the three of you together?”
“Sure,” said Colonel Stockton. “Line up with me, will you, boys?”
Lydia got down on one knee so she could shoot upward, altering the angle. “Let's have a smile, gentlemen,” she said, holding her finger poised on the button.
Colonel Stockton smiled his best officer's smile; Sergeant Cameron scowled, because he was thinking of the hundred dollars he had to pay Butsko; and Butsko didn't feel like smiling, because nearly his entire platoon had been killed or wounded that day.
“C'mon, Sergeant Butsko,” Lydia said. “Let's give us a smile.”
Butsko didn't feel up to it. All he could do was pull back his gums and bare his teeth like an angry dog. Lydia realized that that was the best she'd get, so she pressed the button.
Click!
SIXTEEN . . .
The molten sun was sunk halfway below the horizon, and the Mosquito tiptoed through the jungle, stopping behind a tree every several paces to look and listen, then proceeding again.
The Mosquito had become a nervous wreck, because he'd been bumping into GI patrols, bivouacs, mess tents, and every other GI formation imaginable throughout the afternoon. Everyplace he went he kept bumping into GIs. They seemed to be everywhere. He'd thought it'd be easy to break into open jungle, but evidently he'd jumped out of that truck when it was far inside the American lines. Now all he could do was head in a westerly direction, following the setting sun, and hope everything would get easier when it was dark.
He passed silently between two bushes and dropped to his knees behind a tree. He was exhausted, had ho water, and was nearly starved to death. Little puddles were all over the jungle, but he was afraid to drink the water and he had no means to boil it first. He was beginning to wonder whether or not he'd get away. He'd thought of surrendering, but was afraid the Americans would shoot him.
He heard the engine of a vehicle, and dropped lower behind the tree. Drawing his bayonet, the only weapon he had, he figured the direction of the sound and put the tree behind him and it. The vehicle came closer and the Mosquito peeked out from behind the tree. He saw a truck with a red cross on its side about twenty yards away, moving from right to left in front of him. Ducking behind the tree quickly, his heart beating like a machine gun, he hoped no one had seen him. He hadn't realized he was so close to a road.
How am 1 going to get out of here? he wondered as the sound of the truck receded into the distance. He had no idea of where he was, but he had to keep moving, because he had no other choice. Rising carefully from the ground, he crawled toward t
he road on his belly. When he reached the shoulder, he peered through a bush to make sure no GIs were marching on the road. He was relieved to see that no one was there.
Taking a deep breath, he jumped up and ran across the road, diving into the bushes on the other side and lying still for several moments, listening and looking around, before getting to his feet and continuing his long meandering trek to safety.
Private Gundy was in the regimental medical headquarters, helping with the wounded, although it wasn't his job. His praying had brought him no answers, and he'd gone there because he didn't know what to do with himself.
He was in a section of the tent where soldiers were being prepared to surgery, and he knelt next to Corporal Bannon, who'd go under the knife soon. At one end of the tent was a spot where two flaps joined, and a bright light shone on the other side. Through the crack Gundy could see doctors and nurses bustling about, operating on soldiers. Orderlies continually carried soldiers in and out on stretchers. The ones going in had dirty bandages, and the ones coming out were swathed in clean white strips, but some were without arms and legs, and some came out in rubber bags, having died on the operating table.
Gundy looked down at Corporal Bannon, who had so many bandages wrapped around his head, it looked like he was wearing a turban. Bannon was pale and his breath shallow. They'd pumped him full of morphine and he had a faint smile on his face.
Gundy placed his hand on Bannon's, because he'd liked Bannon. He couldn't imagine the recon platoon without Bannon. Bannon had been through much war on Guadalcanal, but this was the first time he'd been wounded badly. The doctor said Bannon would recover, but they'd have to put a steel plate in his head.
Butsko entered the tent, and Gundy spotted him immediately. “Hey, Sarge!” he said, waving his hand.
Butsko saw him and walked over, carrying his helmet under his arm and his M 1 slung on his shoulder. He stepped over the bodies of GIs and spotted Bannon lying next to Gundy.
“Just the guy I was looking for,” Butsko said, kneeling beside Gundy. “How is he?”
“His skull's fractured pretty badly. They'll have to put a steel plate in his head.”
“He'll probably get sent back to the States with a wound like that.”
“I don't know. Maybe.”
Butsko looked down at Bannon. “Poor son of a bitch.”
“It was an artillery shell. I saw it blow him into the air.”
“He's lucky it didn't kill him, but he's always had a hard fucking head.” Butsko sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I hope the doctor's right. Bannon saved my life once on Guadalcanal.” Butsko looked at Gundy. “You look a little green around the gills, kid. You all right?”
Gundy groaned and shook his head. “I'm not feeling so good myself.”
“Maybe you'd better lie down.”
“Naw, I don't want to lie down.”
“What's eating you?”
“Oh, I'm sure you got enough to worry about without listening to my baloney.”
Butsko shrugged. “I don't have anything to worry about. My whole platoon's been wiped out. Even Lieutenant Breck-enridge is in here someplace. I've just got myself to take care of now. You see any of the other guys in here?”
“I saw Craig Delane and Frankie La Barbara. The orderlies told me Lieutenant Breckenridge was evacuated to Guadalcanal on a plane. He needed a special operation, and the only doctor who can do it is on Guadalcanal.”
Butsko narrowed his eyes and looked Gundy over. “You sure you're okay?”
“I never said I'm okay. I'm going nuts.”
“Shit, Gundy, you were nuts long before you ever came into the Army.” Butsko grinned and slapped Gundy on the shoulder.
“That's true,” Gundy said, “but I killed a man today.”
“Congratulations. I hope it was a Jap.”
“It was a Jap. I shot him.”
“Good for you. A dead Jap is a good Jap, I always say.”
“But, Sarge, I didn't join the Army to kill people.”
Butsko nodded. “I know, you're a conscientious objector. Is that what's bothering you—you killed a Jap?”
“Yes.”
Butsko squeezed Gundy's shoulder. “Listen, people always have to do things they don't like to do in a war. We got no choice. A war is a bloody, shitty mess and everybody has to make the best of it that they can.”
“I know,” Gundy said, “but I never wanted to kill anybody. I think that's wrong.”
“The whole war is wrong. Life is wrong. It's kill or be killed out here. This ain't no John Wayne movie, you know.”
“But God said Thou shalt not kill.”
“Fuck God. If He doesn't want us to kill, let Him stop the war. You talk to the chaplain about this?”
“Yes.”
“It didn't do any good?”
“No.”
“Which one you talk to?”
“Father Sheehy.”
“He's a nice guy, but he's a windbag, just like all the rest of them. You know what your problem is, Gundy? You worry too much. You're always afraid you'll do something wrong and God will send you to hell. Well, look around you, bird-brain. You think you're not in hell already? You think hell could be any worse than this?”
“Yes,” Gundy said.
An expression of boredom came over Butsko's face. “Listen, if there is a hell, I don't think a person could get sent there for shooting somebody who was going to shoot him first. Some-how that don't make sense to me.”
“But Christ told us to turn the other cheek.”
“Fuck that,” Butsko said. “That's bullshit.” He placed his hand on Bannon's cheek. “Poor son of a bitch. I hope he pulls through.” Butsko looked at his watch. “I'm gonna go look for some of the other guys, then I'll come back. Where'd you say Craig Delane was?”
“In that tent over there.”
Butsko stood and stretched. “I'll see you later. And for Chrissakes, stop worrying so much. Don't be a shithead all your life.”
Butsko turned and walked away, stepping over soldiers waiting to go into the operating room, dodging orderlies carrying soldiers on stretchers. He walked out of the tent. Gundy knew that beneath Butsko's tough exterior was a sensitive man, always concerned about his soldiers. Butsko could be sleeping right now, after a hard day of fighting and being trapped underground, but instead he was checking on his men. He was okay despite his rough edges.
Gundy felt tired. His eyes drooped and his mind was losing its snap. Maybe I really do worry too much, he thought. If I had more faith in God, I wouldn't worry so much. I'd just let God take care of everything, and all I'd do is the best I can, just like Butsko said.
He looked up as two orderlies approached with a stretcher. Their green fatigues were splattered with blood, and they laid the stretcher down beside Bannon.
“We're taking him in now,” one of them said to Gundy.
Gundy got out of the way, and they rolled Bannon onto the stretcher. Then they lifted the poles and carried him toward the operating room, disappearing into the bright light, the tent flap closing behind them.
Gundy stood and wondered what to do with himself. Maybe I should go pray for Bannon, he thought. I'm always worried about myself; maybe I should worry about somebody else for a change.
Exhausted, his head feeling as though it were filled with lead, he stumbled out of the hospital tent, fingering the crucifix that hung around his neck with his dog tags.
SEVENTEEN . . .
Lydia Kent-Taylor stood beside Craig Delane, who lay on a hospital cot, his upper torso all bandaged. Delane was awake but heavily medicated: In other words, he was stoned out of his mind on morphine.
“Hey, look!” said Craig. “Here comes Butsko!”
Lydia spun around, and sure enough Butsko walked toward them through the aisle between the cots.
“Well, looka here,” Butsko said, a roguish grin on his face, “we got a famous lady photographer and a doggie who zigged when he shoulda zagged.”
He bent down and winked at Delane. “How're you feeling, kid?”
“Okay, Sarge.”
“They treating you all right?”
“Just fine.”
Butsko straightened and looked at Lydia Kent-Taylor, who calmly crossed her arms under her breasts and returned his gaze. She'd seen so much blood and death within the past fourteen hours that Butsko didn't faze her anymore.
“How's the lady photographer?” he asked.
“Not bad. How's the sergeant who likes to scare people?”
“Still trying to scare people.”
“Hey, Sarge,” Delane said, “Gundy was here awhile ago and he said the whole platoon got wiped out today.”
“It did. About half are dead and the rest wounded.”
“Gee,” said Delane.
“Me and Sergeant Cameron are the only ones still walking around,” Butsko said.
“That's because you two are the toughest,” Delane replied.
“Naw, just the luckiest.”
“And the nastiest,” Lydia added.
Butsko chuckled and pointed to Delane. “Nice guys usually wind up like that.”
“C'mon, Sarge,” Delane said, insulted, “I'm not that nice.”
“No,” he agreed, “you're not that nice. You're not as nice as the famous lady photographer here, for instance.”
“She's not that nice either,” Delane said.
“Craig!” she replied.
Delane laughed in a silly drugged way.
Butsko looked at his watch. “Well, I'm glad to see you're okay, kid. I wanna check on some of the other guys now, and I'll stop by again tomorrow if they let me come over here.”
“Thanks for coming, Sarge. Hey, how're you getting back?”
“I'll hitch a ride with somebody.”
Delane looked at Lydia. “Why don't you drive him back? You're going that way, aren't you?”
Lydia became flustered. “Why, yes... I... ah...”
“Good, you can give Butsko a lift.”
Butsko smiled at her. “That'd be real nice of you, ma'am. I'll see you outside in about a half hour?”
“All right, Sergeant.”