by Len Levinson
Sergeant Major Ramsay’s phone rang. Ramsay picked up the receiver and listened for a few moments, then hung up. He looked at Butsko and said: “You can go in now.”
Butsko felt as if he’d just been given the death sentence. He stubbed out his cigarette, stood, and smoothed the front of his uniform. Then he walked slowly toward the door of Colonel Stockton’s office. He thought it would be easier for him if he didn’t know Colonel Stockton so well, because he could put up with any kind of shit from someone he didn’t know. But he and Colonel Stockton had been friends, and now Colonel Stockton was mad at him.
He opened the door and entered Colonel Stockton’s office. Colonel Stockton sat behind his desk, reading correspondence, puffing his pipe, treating Butsko as if he weren’t there. Butsko marched to the desk and saluted sharply.
“Master Sergeant John Butsko reporting, sir!”
Colonel Stockton continued reading the correspondence in his hands while Butsko stood at attention, his forehead covered with a slick of perspiration and his armpits getting itchy. Colonel Stockton was treating him as if his presence weren’t even worth acknowledging. Butsko stood stiffly, looking down at the silver hair parted on the side and combed neatly on Colonel Stockton’s head. He could imagine the little wheels turning inside that head, dreaming up horrors for Sergeant Butsko.
Finally Colonel Stockton looked up, and his blue eyes were as cold as chips of ice. He scrutinized Butsko as if he were inspecting a side of beef that was rotten and infested with maggots. Then Colonel Stockton stood and gazed into Butsko’s eyes. Butsko could feel Colonel Stockton’s anger stabbing into his brain. The expression in Colonel Stockton’s eyes was more withering than any machine-gun fire he’d ever faced, and Butsko felt like collapsing onto the floor.
“You let me down,” Colonel Stockton said in a deadly tone.
“I’m sorry, sir. I . . .”
Colonel Stockton interrupted him. “I trusted you and you let me down. I got you a furlough when nobody in this division was getting furloughs and you paid me back by ruining my career.”
“Ruining your career?” Butsko asked. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll ask the questions here, and you’ll answer them! Otherwise keep your mouth shut!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ever since I organized the recon platoon and put you in charge, I’ve been criticized by everybody. They told me I should put an officer in charge of the recon platoon. They told me that the recon platoon consisted mainly of a bunch of criminals and misfits who’d be in jail in civilian life, but I always stuck up for you and said you were good soldiers, the best in the regiment, and that an officer would only cramp your style. Now you’ve embarrassed me in this regiment, in this division, and throughout the entire Pacific Theater. I let four of you go on furlough, and within twenty-four hours one of you was in jail for manslaughter, and another, a master sergeant who had been my friend, was in jail for aggravated assault. Within only twenty-four hours. And it’s been all over the newspapers. Even General MacArthur read about it in Australia. And it all reflects on me. It makes me look bad. You’ve given my career a blow from which it may never recover.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Butsko said, feeling awful. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“Shut up!”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton sat back in his chair and folded his hands on his desk, looking up at Butsko. “You’ve disgraced yourself, you’ve disgraced your regiment, and you’ve disgraced me. As of today you’re a private again. Corporal Bannon is a private again too. And Sergeant Cameron will be the new platoon sergeant of the recon platoon until further notice. An officer will be placed in charge of the recon platoon within twenty-four hours. Any questions?”
Butsko still was standing at attention. “Sir, I’d like to say something.”
“Keep your mouth shut if you don’t have a question!”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton pinched his lips together and narrowed his eyes at Butsko. “I’ve been forced to admit that I’ve been wrong about you all along. I thought you were a man, but instead you’re an animal, just as everyone has been telling me all along. I’ve protected you and the other men in the recon platoon ever since it was formed, but now I’m withdrawing my protection. You’ve been good soldiers sometimes, but what you did in Hololulu is unforgivable. Now you’re going to have to toe the mark just like everyone else around here. You’ll be just another bunch of soldiers from now on, except I’m going to be tougher on you than the others. I want you to return to your platoon area, and the first thing I want you to do is take those sergeant’s stripes off all your uniforms. From now on you’ll take your orders from Sergeant Cameron and the officer who is placed in charge of the recon platoon. Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“You’re dismissed.”
Private Butsko raised his hand to his forehead and saluted, his face expressionless and his eyes clear. He did an about-face, marched to the door, and left the office.
The door closed, and Colonel Stockton relaxed behind his desk. He’d reamed Butsko out and busted him and didn’t feel any remorse whatever, because he believed that Butsko had cost him his star. Ever since he’d been a little boy he’d wanted to be a general, and he’d had that star within his grasp, but Butsko had caused him to be shunted aside, and the star had been awarded to somebody else.
That’s what happens when you’re lenient with enlisted men, Colonel Stockton thought. That’s why officers are told never to become friendly with enlisted men. You can’t keep the separation, otherwise they lose respect for you and do as they please. You can’t keep them in line unless you keep them scared. What a fool I’ve been, to make a bunch of men like Butsko and his recon platoon into something special. I’ll never do it again.
Frowning, Colonel Stockton picked up a new directive from General MacArthur’s headquarters in Brisbane and held it up to the light so that he could read it.
“Here he comes!” shouted Private Nutsy Gafooley, running through the jungle.
The recon platoon was gathered around their little corner of the regiment, waiting for Butsko to return. Nutsy had been posted as lookout outside Colonel Stockton’s headquarters and now he was returning with his notification, his cheeks flushed with exertion and his eyes popping out. He was one of the smallest, skinniest men in the platoon, and had been hobo before the draft caught up with him.
The men from the recon platoon stood up and crowded around the path through which Butsko would come. They wore green fatigues and combat boots and had worried expressions on their faces, because they knew something terrible had happened to Butsko.
Butsko appeared on the trail, his yardbird hat low over his eyes and high on the back of his head. He looked down at the ground and his shoulders were hunched, as if he didn’t have the strength to stand straight. The muscles in his battered face sagged and he looked utterly defeated.
They swarmed around him as he entered the clearing.
“What happened, Sarge?” Nutsy asked, jumped up and down, trying to see over the heads and shoulders of the other men.
“I’m not your sarge anymore,” Butsko replied. “I’m a private again, and so’s Bannon. Sergeant Cameron is the new platoon sergeant, and we’re getting a new platoon leader.” Butsko pursed his lips, turned his head to the side, and spat at the ground. “That’s about it.”
Everyone was stunned. They knew Butsko would get chewed out, but they didn’t think Colonel Stockton would bust him down. They followed Butsko like sleepwalkers as he trudged to his little pup tent, crawled inside, and closed the flap. A few minutes later they saw curls of cigarette smoke rise from the opening where the shelter halves had been buttoned together, and shortly after that they heard the snip-snip of scissors as Butsko cut off his master sergeant’s stripes.
All the men knew that from then on things were going to be very different in the recon platoon.
First Lieutenant Dale Appleton Breckenridge
was six feet five inches tall and tipped the scales at 265 pounds. He had a pug nose and the skin of his face was lumpy and pitted, due to the extreme acne attacks he’d suffered in his youth. His sleeves were rolled up over his massive biceps and he wore a fatigue cap that resembled a baseball cap as he approached the headquarters of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. He dropped his cigarette into the red butt can affixed to the banister and climbed the stairs onto the veranda, opening the door and stepping into Sergeant Major Ramsay’s orderly room.
“Lieutenant Breckenridge here to see Colonel Stockton,” he said to Ramsay.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge clasped his hands behind his back and looked around the orderly room, seeing orders and memoranda tacked to bulletin boards, the bookcase full of ARs, and Pfc. Levinson banging his typewriter. Lieutenant Breckenridge was a platoon leader in Company D, commanding the weapons platoon, and had just made first lieutenant. He was hoping to become the executive officer of a company, the next logical step up the military ladder for him, and he hoped Colonel Stockton had called him in to say he was being assigned those new duties.
Sergeant Major Ramsay spoke on the phone for a few moments, listened, and then hung up. “The colonel will see you now.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge walked to the door of the colonel’s office, his every step making the floorboards creak and the building shake slightly. He opened the door and walked into Colonel Stockton’s office, saluting precisely.
“Lieutenant Breckenridge reporting, sir.”
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge sat on the chair in front of the desk and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable. He was from an old Virginia family that traced its heritage back to the Revolutionary War, and they were quite wealthy, which gave Lieutenant Breckenridge a certain amount of social and economic self-assurance that other, less fortunate people didn’t have. Colonel Stockton looked him over and concluded that Lieutenant Breckenridge had that indefinable military quality known as command presence, although he was an OCS graduate, a “ninety-day wonder.” Colonel Stockton fingered through the papers in Lieutenant Breckenridge’s personnel file, athough he knew a lot about Lieutenant Breckenridge already. Breckenridge had proven himself to be a tough, resourceful young officer during the fight for Guadalcanal. He’d been awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart. Although he looked like a big lazy oaf, he had evidently been able to inspire his men to do outstanding things.
“Well,” said Colonel Stockton, smiling cordially like a father to a his son, “you’ve compiled quite a record since you’ve been in the Army, Lieutenant. You’ll probably have a brilliant future ahead of you if you want to make the Army your career.”
“I don’t know,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said in a slow, easy drawl, the kind of voice that suggested he never got upset about anything. “I try not to think too far ahead. I just take each day as it comes.”
“Yes,” said Colonel Stockton, “I imagine mat’s a good way to look at it, but what would you like to do in the Army, since you’re part of it now? What are your goals?”
“I’d like to be a company commander someday,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied, “but first I suppose I’ll have to be an executive officer, so I guess that’s my next step.”
“Well,” said Colonel Stockton, “if things work out for you, we might be able to pass that step and move you right into the command of a company, but first there’s something I’d like you to do for me. Are you familiar with my recon platoon?”
“I’m not that familiar with them, but I’ve heard about them,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “They’re supposed to be a pretty wild bunch.”
“They’ve gotten a little too wild,” Colonel Stockton replied. “I’ve decided that they need a good officer to keep them in line. Do you think you can handle them?”
“I can handle anybody,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said easily, without a trace of doubt in his voice.
“Do you want the job?”
“I don’t know, sir. It seems like I’d just be doing more or less what I’m doing now. I told you that I’d like to be a company commander, and my next logical step before that would be to become executive officer.”
Colonel Stockton leaned forward and looked into Lieutenant Breckenridge’s eyes. “The man who can handle the recon platoon can just about write his own ticket in this regiment,” he said. “If you run them right for six months and give them some of the old-fashioned military discipline that they need, you’ll get the first company that becomes available, and that’s a promise.”
“But, sir,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, “there are a lot of officers in the regiment who have more time in grade than I do.”
“Time in grade doesn’t mean a shit in this Army,” Colonel Stockton said bitterly, recalling how he’d lost his star to a man who had less time in grade than he. “I’ll decide what the assignments are in this company, and this is a promise I’m making to you. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Breckenridge thought for a few moments. He knew Colonel Stockton was a man of his word and he would fulfill his promise, but did Lieutenant Breckenridge want to take on the recon platoon? He knew their reputation, and the men in the regiment didn’t call them the Rat Bastards for nothing. They were said to be a bunch of ex-convicts and killers whom Colonel Stockton had welded together into a crack fighting unit, but maybe they were becoming unstuck now that the battle for Guadalcanal was over.
“Well,” said Colonel Stockton, “what do you say?”
“If you want me to do it, I’ll do it, sir.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Colonel Stockton rubbed his hands together. “What do you know about the recon platoon?”
“Not a hell of a lot. They’re supposed to be a tough bunch of boys.”
“They’ve done amazing things on Guadalcanal,” Colonel Stockton said, “but their problem is sometimes they forget they’re in the Army. It’ll be your job to make them aware that they’re in the Army and they have to follow orders. If they ever step out of line, you’re the one who’ll have to bring them back into line. Do you know who Master Sergeant Butsko is?”
“I’ve seen him around.”
“What do you think of him?”
“He looks like a mean son of a bitch. Why can’t he keep them in line?”
Colonel Stockton gritted his teeth together. “Because he’s as bad as they are! You think you can handle him?”
“I can handle anybody,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said again.
“You’re going to have your hands full, Lieutenant. The men in the recon platoon aren’t used to having an officer telling them what to do. In fact, they’ve been doing just fine without an officer until recently, when they went to Honolulu on furlough. I take it you know what I’m referring to?”
“Yes, sir. I read about it in the papers.”
“There’s no point in going into that any more, but anyway, the incident made it clear to me that the recon platoon is out of control and needs to be placed back in control. It won’t be easy but I think you can do it. I think you should go to Personnel first and look over the records of the men in the recon platoon, and men in the morning you should take charge, and anything you want to do is okay with me—you don’t have to check with me. How does that sound?”
“Sounds fine, sir.”
“I thought you’d say that. The orders will be cut today and will be effective tomorrow. The recon platoon is all yours, and if you shape them up, you’ll be a company commander in six months; but if they make a fool of you, you’ll never be able to hold your head up in this regiment again. Understand?”
Lieutenant Breckenridge grinned, pulling back his thick lips and showing his long white teeth. “No bunch of Rat Bastards is going to make a fool out of me,” he said with absolute self-confidence.
It was night on G
uadalcanal, and the men from the recon platoon were gathering around in the darkness, drinking PX beer and smoking cigarettes while birds squawked in the trees and wild dogs in the distant jungle bayed at the moon.
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Nutsy Gafooley said grimly, a bottle of beer in his hand. “I think he’s gone over the edge.”
Craig Delane, the rich guy from New York, nodded his head. “It’s as if all the fight has gone out of him.”
Corporal Gomez, the pachuco from Los Angeles, took a drag on his cigarette. “You don’t think he’s gonna blow his brains out, do you?”
Bannon shook his head. “Naw, he won’t do that.”
“I never thought he’d take it so hard,” Frankie La Barbara said. “I mean, he’s been busted before lots of times. What’s one more?”
“Maybe,” said Corporal Baines, “this is the straw that broke the camel’s back.”
“Naw,” replied Bannon, “it ain’t that. He just thinks that he’s let Colonel Stockton down. They were buddies once.”
“Yeah?” asked Private Slater, who was new to the recon platoon. “How can a sergeant and a colonel be buddies?”
“Don’t ask me,” Bannon said, “but they were.”
“Sure they were,” Frankie La Barbara agreed. “They used to have long bullshit sessions in Colonel Stockton’s office. They even used to plan strategy together.” Frankie shrugged. “Well, I’ve seen Butsko’s old lady. No wonder he’s half out of his mind. She’s a real blockbuster dame.”
“Yeah?” asked Nutsy. “Is she pretty?”
“She’s a real hot-looking old broad,” Frankie said. “I wouldn’t mind throwing a fuck into her myself, but for Chris-sakes don’t tell Butsko that.”
Morris Shilansky, the ex–bank robber from Boston, lay on his back and looked up at the stars. “I wonder what the new looie is gonna be like.”
Frankie chuckled. “We’ll make the son of a bitch wish he was never born.”
“Don’t be too sure about that,” Bannon said. “I hear he’s tough.”
Frankie tapped the stock of his M 1. “Ain’t nobody tougher than a bullet.”