Too Mean to Die

by Len Levinson

  A bit of the Jap’s brain flew onto Butsko’s lip, and he spat it away, turning to face a Japanese soldier advancing with rifle and bayonet. “Banzai!” the Jap hollered, lunging at Butsko, the Jap’s bayonet stained with American blood.

  Butsko put all of his weight into a parry, pushing the Jap’s rifle and bayonet to the side. The forward motion of both soldiers caused their shoulders to collide, and Butsko’s face came to within three inches of the Jap’s. They looked into each other eyes, saw the fury and bloodlust, and pulled back to try to murder each other again.

  Butsko feinted with his rifle and bayonet, but the Jap didn’t fall for it. He feinted again, and at the same moment the Jap thrust his rifle and bayonet toward Butsko’s heart. All Butsko could do was raise his rifle and try to parry the blow, but he didn’t have the strength behind the move, and he only deflected the Jap’s bayonet up toward his face.

  Butsko tried to move out of the way, but he didn’t have a chance. The Japanese bayonet dug into his cheek and its tip scraped across his cheekbone to the corner of his ear. The pain was excruciating and Butsko saw red as he instinctively yanked his head to the side, disengaging with the Japanese bayonet before it took off the top of his ear.

  The Jap was still in the motion of his forward thrust, off balance, and seeing with horror that he hadn’t hurt Butsko much. He was wide open and Butsko punched upward with the butt of his rifle, catching the Jap on the tip of his chin. The blow knocked the Jap’s head backward, and Butsko swung sideways, whacking the Jap on the side of the face.

  The Jap was dazed, and Butsko turned his rifle around, aimed the bayonet at the Jap’s stomach, and pushed it in to the hilt. He withdrew it quickly, and blood poured out of the Jap’s stomach. The Jap sagged to the ground at Butsko’s feet. Butsko kicked him in the face and looked around for another Jap to kill, but he couldn’t find any. The other Japs in his vicinity were either dead or engaged in hand-to-hand combat with GIs. A lot of GIs stood around like Butsko with no Japs to fight. The Japanese counterattack had been stopped cold by the recon platoon and Able Company.

  Captain Ilecki and Lieutenant Breckenridge were already planning ahead, getting ready for the next Jap counterattack. As the last Japs in the trench were polished off they shouted orders for the placement of machine-gun crews and mortar squads. They told the rifle soldiers to line up and load up and watch the jungle for more Japs. Meanwhile Pfc. Gundy and the medics from Able Company worked on the wounded GIs. Gundy walked up to Butsko and saw that the side of his face was a mass of blood.

  “Lemme look,” Gundy said, scrutinizing Butsko’s cheek, trying to see where all the blood was coming from.

  “It’s nothing,” Butsko told him, pushing him away. “Take care of somebody else.”

  Gundy saw a soldier from Able Company coughing blood, his back supported by the wall of the trench. He had a big bubbling wound in his chest and it looked to Gundy as if the soldier’s lung had been punctured. He knelt down beside the soldier, and Butsko went looking for his flamethrower. He saw Bannon looking down at the palms of his hands and trying to move his fingers.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Butsko asked.

  “My hands are all fucked up.”

  “Find a rifle and get into position.”

  Bannon looked around and saw an M 1 rifle lying on the ground next to a dead GI from Able Company. He picked it up, pulled back the bolt, and saw bullets in the clip in the chamber. Dropping to his knees, he leaned his elbows on the wall of the trench and sighted at the trees in the jungle ahead.

  Frankie La Barbara dropped down next to him, gouts of blood all over his uniform, but he hadn’t been wounded himself except for a few little nicks and cuts. He was breathing like a horse that had just finished running the Kentucky Derby, and he pushed his helmet back on his head. He looked at Bannon and Bannon looked back at him. They wanted to talk but there was nothing to say. Frankie took out his pack of cigarettes and held them out to Bannon, who took one. They lit up and puffed their cigarettes, gazing at the jungle, ready for any Japs who might attack again.

  Frankie wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was hungry and thirsty. He closed his eyes and saw bloody, gory corpses of soldiers, then opened his eyes and saw the same thing. Frankie felt eerie and schizoid, as if he were floating above himself and looking down at himself and the carnage in the trench. He puffed his cigarette nervously.

  “Here they come!” shouted Bannon.

  Frankie blinked and looked at the jungle in front of him. Sure enough, the Japs were attacking again, screaming and hollering, trying to rush the trench.

  “Open fire!” yelled Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  The machine-gun crews were set up and the mortars were zeroed in. Everyone cut loose with everything he had, tearing into the hordes of attacking Japs. Butsko got on his knees and held the nozzle of his flamethrower, ready to burn them up when they got close. A few feet away, Longtree aimed his rifle at the Japs, squeezed off a round, aimed again, and squeezed off another round. He continued doing this until his clip emptied and clanged into the air; then he stuffed another clip into his M 1 and squeezed off more rounds. Japs fell in front of him, but he didn’t know if he’d shot them or if somebody else had. He wore a big bandage around his left thigh where a Jap had stabbed him during the confused hand-to-hand fighting in the trench.

  Frankie shifted his BAR from side to side as he mowed down the attacking Japanese. Mortar rounds landed in the jungle, blowing the Japs up, and the machine guns peppered the Japs with bullets.

  The Japanese attack had been mounted quickly and didn’t consist of many men. They continued to charge into the mouths of the American weapons until their officers could see that it was slaughter, ordering a retreat back to the jungle. The Japs turned tail and ran away as the GIs shot them in their backs. The fire was withering and the jungle was carpeted with dead Japs after the live ones disappeared from sight.

  Meanwhile, in response to Captain Ilecki’s plea for help, Companies B and C hit the trenches on both sides of Company A, and fierce fighting could be heard on all sides. While this was taking place, the battalion commander radioed Colonel Stockton, telling him that the entire trench network could be taken if the rest of the regiment was thrown into the battle.

  Colonel Stockton ordered the regiment forward, and by midday the trench network belonged to the Twenty-third Regiment. Colonel Stockton called General Hawkins and asked for permission to press his attack.

  “No,” General Hawkins said. “Stay right where you are until the rest of the division catches up.”

  “But I’ve got the Japs off balance in this sector, sir. If I push hard, I can clear out this whole damned jungle.”

  “I said stay where you are. I don’t want any units moving ahead unless I can secure their flanks.”

  “I can secure my own flanks, sir.”

  “I just gave you an order. Stay where you are and send out patrols to see what’s in that jungle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Stockton handed the radio headset back to Lieutenant Harper and looked down at his map, spread out on the hood of his jeep. It was parked in a little clearing in the jungle, not far from his main line of advance. Bending over the map, he marked the approximate configuration of the trench system and was pleased to note that his regiment had made a huge gain, farther than any other regiment in the division. I did it again, he thought. How many times do I have to do this before I get my star?

  “Lieutenant Harper,” he said. “Find out which unit was the first to crack that trench network.”

  “It was the First Battalion, sir.”

  “Which company?”

  Lieutenant Harper got on the radio to find out, and Colonel Stockton looked down at his map, trying to figure out the best way to move against Munda Point. He felt happy, because his regiment had taken more ground in one morning than the 169th Regiment had taken in the past two weeks.

  Ahead of the trench network were some hills, accordi
ng to his map. He knew that the Japs were holed up in those hills, because that’s the way they’d fought on Guadalcanal. It had been a grim and bloody job, clearing them out on Guadalcanal, but the GIs had done the job and would do it again on New Georgia.

  “Sir,” said Lieutenant Harper. “I’ve got the information for you.”

  Colonel Stockton placed his finger on the hill system depicted on the map and looked up at Lieutenant Harper. “Well?”

  Lieutenant Harper was ill at ease. “It was the recon platoon, sir.”

  Colonel Stockton dropped his pencil. “What!”

  “It was the recon platoon, sir. Captain Ilecki reports that the recon platoon invaded the trench first, and Able Company followed them in. Then the rest of the First Battalion exploited the opening.”

  Colonel Stockton looked as if he’d been hit over the head with a brick. His face went pale and his eyes took on a faraway look. He picked up his pencil and walked away from the map, his brow furrowed.

  The recon platoon did it again, he thought. He didn’t know whether to be happy or angry. They were a bunch of troublemakers and madmen, but they always came through for him when he needed them.

  He sat on a log and took out his pipe, filling the bowl with the Briggs smoking mixture that he kept in a zippered old pigskin pouch. The recon platoon cracked the Jap line, he said to himself. They’re always the ones who lead the way. Colonel Stockton speculated on how many lives the recon platoon had saved with their bold attack. Maybe hundreds, and days of slow grueling advances. Colonel Stockton admitted that the recon platoon had made him look good again. He thought of Butsko, Bannon, and the others, and couldn’t help feeling gratitude.

  He lit his pipe, stood, and paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back. What a fine bunch of soldiers they are, he thought. They’re not good for anything else except for killing Japs, but that’s the main thing in this war. They ran into the jaws of hell when they attacked that trench system, but they didn’t stop. They are great fighters.

  He knew that Butsko had been instrumental in the operation. And Bannon too. They couldn’t stay out of trouble in Honolulu, but the same fighting spirit that had landed them in jail had also landed them inside that Japanese trench.

  Hell, Colonel Stockton thought, still pacing back and forth, they’re soldiers just like 1 am, so why have I been treating them like a bunch of civilians? Who cares what troubles they get into in Honolulu? The main thing is that they win battles for me here.

  The more Colonel Stockton thought about it, the more enthusiastic he became about his recon platoon and the guiltier he felt about the way he’d been treating them. They put their lives on the line for the regiment time and time again, and all he did was worry about getting his star. To hell with that star, he thought. I command the finest goddamn regiment in the Army, and I’m doing what I love, so what do I need that star for?

  He spun around. “Major Cobb!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I’m going to the front! Take charge here until I return!”

  “Yes, sir! Where will you be if I need you!”

  “With Able Company! Where’s my driver!”

  “Here, sir!”

  “We’re going to the front! Get that jeep started! Lieutenant Harper, you’re coming too!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Major Cobb cleared the maps off the hood of the Jeep, and the driver, Private Nick Bombasino from Philadelphia, got behind the wheel, revving it up. Colonel Cobb sat beside him in the front seat, still puffing his pipe, and Lieutenant Harper jumped into the backseat.

  “Go!” said Colonel Stockton.

  Nick Bombasino shifted into gear, and the wheels of the jeep spun in the muck before catching hold and carrying the jeep away into the jungle. Major Cobb watched them go and took off his helmet wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm.

  “I knew this would happen,” he muttered to the staff officers standing nearby. “I knew the recon platoon would get back in his good graces before long.”

  SIXTEEN . . .

  Lieutenant Breckenridge sat inside the trench as Private Gundy bandaged a cut on his scalp. Nearby, the men were eating C rations out of cans, their weapons close by in case the Japs attacked again.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge felt exhausted in mind and body. The morning had been packed with action, and now for the first time he was able to let himself feel the fatigue. He hoped some C rations and coffee would perk him up again.

  Corporal Gomez appeared, running along the ground on the top of the trench. “Sir!” he said. “Colonel Stockton is here!”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge pushed Private Gundy away and stood up. “Where?”

  “Over there!” Corporal Gomez pointed toward the American rear.

  “Sir,” said Private Gundy, “let me finish with the bandage.”

  “Hurry up.”

  Private Gundy pressed on the last inch of adhesive, and Lieutenant Breckenridge put on his helmet and slung his carbine. He climbed out of the trench, looked around, and saw Colonel Stockton, followed by Lieutenant Harper, walking toward the trench.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge headed toward Colonel Stockton, who noticed him and veered in his direction. Colonel Stockton was smiling and Lieutenant Breckenridge felt relieved, because he thought he might have done something wrong. Lieutenant Breckenridge came to within ten feet of Colonel Stockton, stopped, and saluted. Colonel Stockton stopped and returned the salute.

  “At ease,” he said.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge moved closer to Colonel Stockton, who could see the bottom of the bandage under Lieutenant Breckenridge’s helmet.

  “What happened to your head?” Colonel Stockton asked. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Just a scratch, sir. Nothing to worry about.”

  Colonel Stockton looked at the trench system. “I understand the recon platoon was the first unit to crack that Jap trench.”

  “I believe that’s so, sir.”

  Colonel Stockton slapped Lieutenant Breckenridge on the arm. “Congratulations. It was a magnificent feat of arms.”

  “I didn’t do it, sir. It was the men.”

  “The men are always the ones who do it, but you’re their commanding officer and everything they do is a reflection of your leadership.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge smiled. “I’m not so sure about that, sir. I think I was just along for the ride.”

  “We’re all just along for the ride, but there wouldn’t be any ride at all without us.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  Colonel Stockton hooked his thumbs in his cartridge belt and looked Lieutenant Breckenridge over. “If you keep this up, you’ll have your company before you know it.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge pinched his lips together and looked thoughtful. “I don’t know about that now, sir. I think I might want to stay where I am for a while. I like the recon platoon. They’re real soldiers for a change. You don’t have to work to make them do what’s necessary. They know what to do and they follow through without being told. They’re professionals. It’s easy to be an officer with men like these.”

  Lieutenant Stockton puffed his pipe. “It couldn’t have been that easy. I saw a lot of Jap casualties between my headquarters and here.”

  “It would have been a lot harder without the recon platoon. My old platoon in King Company couldn’t have done it.”

  “I want to see the men. Where are they?”

  “Down in there,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, pointing toward the trench.

  Colonel Stockton strode toward the trench and jumped inside, landing next to Corporal Gomez, whose left bicep was bandaged.

  “Ten-hut!” yelled Gomez.

  “As you were!” replied Colonel Stockton.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge dropped into the trench and landed beside Colonel Stockton, who was shaking the bewildered Corporal Gomez’s hand.

  “Good work, soldier,” Colonel Stockton said.

  “Thank you, si
r,” replied Gomez.

  Colonel Stockton walked among the men shaking their hands and patting their backs, telling jokes, trying to put them at ease. But he never could put them completely at ease because he lived in a different world than they and everybody knew it.

  He could see that they were tired and bloody, wearing bandages, in the state of blissful shock that follows a victorious battle. He looked into their bloodshot eyes and felt love for them, for they were his men, his own soldiers, who followed his orders and won glory for him and themselves.

  His eyes misted up and he felt like a traitor for pursuing his general’s star, because if he got it he’d have to leave his men, and now, shoulder to shoulder with them in the trench, he wanted to stay with them forever. What could be better than to command a regiment of men like these? If he became a general, he’d be assigned to some other general’s staff, and he wouldn’t be a combat commander anymore. He’d just be another staff officer, and men like these in the trench would have contempt for him.

  He could smell blood mixed with the dirt in the trench, and could sense the violence of the battle that had taken place there only an hour before. He saw Frankie La Barbara, his uniform splattered with Jap blood, sitting on his haunches, eating a can of C rations.

  Colonel Stockton kneeled beside him. “Hello, Frankie,” he said. “How’re you doing?”

  “Just fine, sir.”

  “Keep up the good work.”

  Colonel Stockton patted his shoulder and continued down the trench. He knew that all eyes were on him and he smiled, nodding to the men, shaking their hands, thanking them for the great job they’d done.