Too Mean to Die

by Len Levinson

  “Well,” said General MacArthur, “I imagine you’ve had more time to go over the records of these officers than I. Do you have any recommendations?”

  “They’re all good men,” General Oglesby replied, “and I’m sure every one of them deserves a star, but unfortunately they all can’t get one. I’d say the men most qualified are Colonel William Stockton, who commands the Twenty-third Regiment on Guadalcanal, and Colonel Dale Herkimer, who’s on General Kruger’s staff at Sixth Army. Stockton is a field commander and Herkimer is a staff man. I think they’ll make two good, balanced choices.”

  “Herkimer is fine with me,” General MacArthur said, “but I think Stockton needs a little more time in grade.”

  “But sir,” said General Oglesby, “he’s got more time in grade than Herkimer.”

  General MacArthur shook his head. “I’m afraid this isn’t going to be Colonel Stockton’s turn. Maybe next time, but not now.”

  “Would you tell me why you think that, sir?”

  “Because he’s too much of a hothead, and it shows in everything he does.”

  “A hothead, sir? But he’s done a magnificent job on Guadalcanal. His regiment has won astounding victories, and they’re always in the forefront of the fight. His casualties haven’t been any higher than anyone else’s, so what makes you think he’s a hothead?”

  General MacArthur smiled. “He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yes, we were classmates at West Point, but I also know Colonel Herkimer and several of the other officers on the list.”

  General MacArthur leaned back in his chair and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “I expect something special from my generals,” he said. “I expect them to be outstanding in every way, because they’re in the public eye more than other officers. To be blunt, I don’t think Colonel Stockton has handled his personal life very well, and I don’t think he handles his men very well. His wife has been such a scandal that even I know about her, and then a few days ago one of his men killed somebody in a house of ill repute in Honolulu, which was all over the papers, even here in Australia. It makes the Army look bad when something like that happens, and I always say that trouble begins at the top. A good, solid officer has good, solid men. If a man from the Twenty-third Regiment killed a man in a whorehouse in Honolulu, I say that Colonel Stockton is lacking in leadership. I may be wrong, but that’s the way I feel. Perhaps if I had more stars to award, I’d give him one anyway, because I agree, he has done a fine job on Guadalcanal. But until then, I’d like to give this one to a good field commander whose personal life isn’t a mess and whose men haven’t killed anybody in any brothels. Who’s next on your list?”

  “Colonel Shanks, sir.”

  General MacArthur turned down the coiners of his mouth. “Shanks is a good man. Give the star to Shanks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And if Colonel Stockton does a good job in the future, and keeps his men out of trouble, and behaves himself, maybe he’ll get the next star. You can tell him that if you want to, since he’s a friend of yours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  TEN . . .

  “This court will come to order!” said the black-robed judge, pounding his gavel three times. “Bailiff, read the charges!”

  The stout bailiff stood beside the judge’s desk. “The people against Master Sergeant John Butsko, US Army, charged with aggravated assault.”

  “Proceed with the presentation of evidence!” declared the judge.

  Captain Ginsberg shot to his feet and raised his hand. “May I approach the bench, Your Honor!”

  The judge squinted at him through glasses that were even thicker than Captain Ginsberg’s. “Who’re you?”

  “I am the attorney for the accused, Your Honor, and I have important information to relay to you immediately.”

  “But the trial hasn’t even started yet!”

  “It should not start, Your Honor, because the prosecution has no case!”

  “That’s not so, Your Honor!” shouted the prosecuting attorney, standing abruptly. He wore a dark blue suit and his name was Benjamin Goodall.

  “Your Honor,” Captain Ginsberg said, “may I please approach the bench?”

  The judge groaned. “All right,” he said, and then he pointed to the prosecuting attorney. “You’d better come up here too.”

  Both men strolled toward the bench while the judge looked down at them harshly. Back in the courtroom, behind the defendent’s table, Butsko groaned, because he’d noticed that his defense attorney, Captain Ginsberg, wore argyle socks with his uniform.

  Dolly was seated next to Butsko at the table. Behind them were Longtree and Frankie La Barbara, plus a gathering of Dolly’s friends, who would be witnesses for the defense, and some curious onlookers who liked to attend trials.

  On the bench the judge crossed his arms and leaned forward, glaring through his glasses at Captain Ginsberg. “Well?”

  “Your Honor,” said Captain Ginsberg, “I’ve got five witnesses here who’ll testify that the defendent fought in self-defense after being attacked in his own home.”

  The judge widened his eyes. “His own home, you say?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, his own home, after he had returned on furlough from Guadalcanal, where he had been in nearly continuous combat for a year and where he won the Silver Star for bravery in the face of the enemy. Your Honor, this man is one of the most distinguished soldiers in the US Army, he has an outstanding combat record, and he is one of the few survivors of the Bataan Death March. Surely you’ve heard of the Bataan Death March, Your Honor.”

  “Indeed I have,” said the judge, looking at Butsko with new respect.

  “Since he was attacked in his own home,” Captain Ginsberg continued, “and I have witnesses to testify to that, and in view of his military record, I request herewith that all the charges against him be dropped.”

  The judge turned to the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Goodall. “What do you have to say about this?”

  “Your Honor,” Goodall said, “I don’t think we should let sentiment or patriotism sway us from our duty here. The people will prove that the defendant has a brutal and vicious nature and that the violence in his home erupted over his wife, who is a lady of highly questionable character.”

  “I object!” Captain Ginsberg shouted. “Mrs. Butsko is not on trial here!”

  “You can’t object,” the judge said dryly. “The trial hasn’t even started yet.”

  “But Mrs. Butsko isn’t on trial.”

  “Of course she’s not on trial,” the judge agreed.

  “But,” said the prosecutor, “her behavior is germane to the case.”

  The judge looked at the prosecutor with annoyance. “The defense alleges that you have no witnesses. Is that correct?”

  “Two days ago I had witnesses, Your Honor, but since then they’ve all changed their stories. I have reason to believe that they’ve been intimidated.”

  Captain Ginsberg turned red with rage. “This is an outrage, Your Honor! The prosecution is making wild allegations with no basis in fact! If he has no witnesses, he should say so without making allegations.”

  A door opened at the rear of the courtroom, and everyone turned around at the sound. A tall, lean, silver-haired officer entered the courtroom, and Butsko’s eyes nearly popped out when he saw that it was Colonel Stockton, attired in a tailored and starched tan Class A uniform, his insignia gleaming on his collar, his combat ribbons lined up over his left breast pocket, and above them all the Combat Infantryman’s Badge.

  The judge was impressed, as any aging, overweight, sedentary man would be by the sight of a man his own age who had such vigor and charisma. Colonel Stockton, holding his cunt cap in his hand, looked around and saw Butsko, who smiled weakly.

  “May I help you, sir?” bellowed the judge.

  “I have come here all the way from Guadalcanal,” Colonel Stockton replied, “to testify on behalf of Master Sergeant Butsko, who is a member of my regi
ment.”

  “Please approach the bench, sir.”

  Ramrod-straight, Colonel Stockton marched to the bench and stood erectly, at ease and yet at attention, alert and indomitable, the very model of a modern colonel of infantry.

  “What can you tell us about the defendant?” the judge asked.

  “He’s one of the finest soldiers in my command,” Colonel Stockton replied, “and he’s one of the heroes of the Guadalcanal campaign. He’s in charge of my reconnaissance platoon, and there were many close battles that could have gone the other way were it not for the courage and leadership ability of Sergeant Butsko. It is difficult for me to believe that such a man could be guilty of the charges placed against him here today.”

  “Hmmm,” said the judge. “I see.”

  Captain Ginsberg pointed his finger in the air. “Let me point out, Your Honor, that there are precedents in the law for my request that you dismiss this case.” He went on to describe various cases that were thrown out of court due to the lack of witnesses for the prosecution, but the judge wasn’t listening; he was looking at Colonel Stockton and wondering how a man could be strong and vigorous at his age, while he, the judge, was flabby, tired, and cranky all the time. Colonel Stockton’s presence intimidated him, and it particularly galled the judge to see all the combat ribbons on Colonel Stockton’s chest, when all the judge had done in his life was hang around courtrooms.

  Finally the judge could stand it no more. He felt he couldn’t stand up to Colonel Stockton, Captain Ginsberg, and Sergeant Butsko. He raised his gavel in the air, slamming it down and interrupting Captain Ginsberg’s speech.

  “Case dismissed due to insufficient evidence!” the judge declared. “This court is adjourned.”

  The judge arose, gathered his black robes around him, and strode out of the courtroom, wondering where he’d gone wrong in life and why he was a pompous old fool instead of a real man like Colonel Stockton.

  Butsko stood and kissed Dolly. Frankie La Barbara and Longtree crowded around and slapped Butsko on the back. Colonel Stockton walked by and gave Butsko a look that wiped the smile off Butsko’s face. Colonel Stockton didn’t hesitate; he just kept walking toward the door of the courtroom, and Butsko realized that Colonel Stockton was angry at him.

  Something told him he might have been better off going to jail for a few years, rather than return to Colonel Stockton’s Infantry Regiment on Guadalcanal.

  In the afternoon Bannon sat in his cell, waiting to be taken to the courtroom for his trial. Captain Ginsberg had just left, after giving him a pack of cigarettes and telling him that Butsko’s case had been thrown out of court. Ginsberg also told Bannon that his case would probably go to a full trial, because manslaughter was a capital offense.

  In addition, Bannon found out for the first time that Colonel Stockton would testify on his behalf and, more incredibly, so would Nettie and the women from the Curtis Hotel! Bannon was still reeling from that news. He puffed his cigarette and gazed at the stone wall facing him, thinking about Nettie and how terrified she had been of him. Captain Ginsberg told him that Butsko’s wife had convinced Nettie to testify, and Bannon wondered how Butsko’s wife had done it.

  After a while he heard footsteps in the corridor. Two guards appeared in front of his cell.

  “Let’s go, Bannon,” one of them said. “Trial time.”

  Bannon stood up as they unlocked the cell. They swung open the barred door and Bannon stepped out, hoping he’d never have to sit in that smelly cell again. Captain Ginsberg told him that he had a good chance of winning the case.

  The guards escorted him through the labyrinthine corridors of the jail and up the stairs to the courthouse, where they traversed more corridors, finally arriving at the door of the courtroom. Two other guards opened the doors and Bannon walked inside.

  The judge wasn’t there yet, but the jury was seated and so were the prosecutor and Captain Ginsberg. The courtroom was full, because the case had received a lot of publicity in the newspapers. Butsko, Dolly, Longtree, Frankie La Barbara, Janie the nurse, and the women from the whorehouse were seated behind the defense’s table. Bannon walked by and saw Nettie looking at him, a frightened expression on her face. Bannon smiled thinly and proceed to the defense table, where he sat beside Captain Ginsberg.

  “Don’t worry,” Captain Ginsberg told him. “You can beat this rap.”

  Bannon looked at the jury, and the ten men and two women looked back at him. They saw a clean-cut young man wearing his Combat Infantryman’s Badge and a row of ribbons, including a Purple Heart, which Captain Ginsberg told him to wear. Captain Ginsberg’s strategy was to appeal to the patriotic sentiments of the jury, using Butsko and Colonel Stockton as character witnesses who’d say what a great soldier and All-American hero Bannon was. Then the women from the whorehouse would testify that Bannon acted in self-defense.

  The prosecuting attorney, who looked like an undertaker and dressed like one, took his position at his table, opening his briefcase and pulling out handfuls of documents. The bailiff told everybody to stand, and the judge entered the courtroom. He was an elderly man with a bald, freckled head and wire-rimmed eyeglasses. Captain Ginsberg maneuvered to get this particular judge, whose name was Collins, because his oldest son, an ensign in the Navy, had been killed during the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor.

  The judge called the courtroom to order and the bailiff read the charges. The trial began and the prosecutor made his introductory statement, which described Bannon as a psychotic killer who had knifed an innocent bystander in cold blood. He admonished the jury not to be influenced by Bannon’s combat record and told them to bear in mind that Bannon had killed a civilian in a particularly brutal and bloody way.

  Then Captain Ginsberg made his introductory statement and tore the prosecutor’s argument to shreds. He cited Bannon’s brilliant combat record and stated that the fine, noble young soldier seated next to him had nearly been killed on his first furlough by a drunken madman with a criminal record, which indeed the bouncer did have, and that it would be a crime to send such a decent young man to jail for defending himself.

  Upon the conclusion of his own introductory statement, the prosecutor presented his case, which consisted mainly of statements by policemen who’d arrived on the scene of the crime after it was committed, and by lab technicians who had described how the bouncer had died. The prosecutor ended his statement by pointing to Bannon and asking: “If this defendent wasn’t guilty, why did he attempt to escape from the scene of the crime? If he acted in self-defense, what was he afraid of?” Turning to the jury, he declared dramatically: “He ran away because he knew he’d killed a man in cold blood, he knew he was guilty, he knew he might get the electric chair, and he knew that his only chance was to flee like the guilty murderer that he was!”

  “Why, you son of a bitch!” Frankie said, jumping to his feet. “You fucking . . .”

  “Siddown!” Butsko yelled.

  Frankie’s mouth became paralyzed by fear of Butsko, and slowly he sank back down into his chair, to be comforted by Janie the nurse, who had the day off from the hospital and had come to attend the trial.

  The judge looked at his watch; it was three o’clock in the afternoon. “We’ll take a thirty-minute recess now,” he said, “and then we’ll proceed with the presentation by the defense.” He pounded his gavel, arose, and walked toward a side door.

  Bannon looked at the jury and wondered what they were thinking. He thought the prosecutor had made a very convincing case against him. If he were on the jury, he’d send himself to prison for life, except that he knew he wasn’t guilty and that the bouncer had pulled the knife on him first.

  Captain Ginsberg placed his hand on Bannon’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  Meanwhile, behind him, Nettie was sidestepping toward the aisle. She knew he was going to turn around and try to talk with her, and she didn’t know what to say to him. The possible confrontation terrified her, and
all she could do was flee, which was the way she’d dealt with personal problems all her life.

  Bannon stood up to go after her, but Butsko loomed in front of him, holding Dolly’s hand.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, kid,” Butsko said. “You got a good mouthpiece and he’ll get you off.” He turned to Dolly. “Meet my wife. Dolly, this is Corporal Bannon.”

  Dolly smiled, and Bannon thought she was a wild-looking old babe. So this was the famous Dolly, the bane of Butsko’s existence.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hiya,” she replied.

  “Thanks for all you’ve done to get these witnesses here.”

  “A friend of Johnny’s is a friend of mine.”

  The trial resumed after the recess, and Captain Ginsberg presented his case. He called Colonel Stockton and Sergeant Butsko to the stand, and both spoke of Bannon’s sterling character, his gallantry under fire, his devotion to duty, etcetera. Butsko even described in glorious detail how Bannon had saved his life on Guadalcanal.

  The prosecutor cross-examined both of them, trying to open holes in their testimony, but he got nowhere.

  Then Captain Ginsberg brought Nettie to the stand, and she described in a halting voice how the bouncer had pulled a knife on Bannon first. She left out the part about Bannon trying to drag her out of the whorehouse, but on cross-examination, the prosecutor tried to elicit that information. Nettie stood her ground and insisted that she didn’t remember exactly what Bannon had said, but that she’d called the bouncer because Bannon had been a little drunk and rowdy.

  The prosecutor kept probing but got nowhere. Then, exasperated, he asked Nettie about her life in the whorehouse, trying to imply that her testimony was worthless since she was nothing but a whore. Captain Ginsberg objected to his line of questioning, calling it character assassination, and his objection was sustained.

  The other whores and their madam, Vivian Brill, were called to the stand, and all of them testified that the bouncer had pulled the knife first. The prosecutor was unable to shake their testimony under cross-examination.