by Len Levinson
On top of all that, he'd lost more than one-third of his company in his day-long efforts to wipe out a handful of Americans. That was the greatest disgrace of all. Now it was night and he could do nothing. If his men couldn't eliminate the Americans during the day, they certainly couldn't eliminate them at night, when it was difficult to see.
Captain Shimoyama glanced around and realized that it wasn't that difficult to see. The full moon shone overhead and he could perceive objects nearly as clearly as during the day. He wondered if he could overrun the Americans now and finish them off once and for all. If he were really clever, he might be able to take one of them prisoner and solve all his problems at once!
His mind became electrified by the prospect of turning his misfortunes around through a series of bold moves in the middle of the night. His brow wrinkled in thought, he sat down at the base of a tree and leaned his back against the trunk. How should I proceed? he asked himself. Tactics of various kinds hadn't worked that day. The Americans had been very clever so far. But one fact was clear: He outnumbered the Americans by a factor of five to one, perhaps even ten to one. That meant that he should be able to overwhelm the Americans with the sheer weight of his superior numbers.
Perhaps that's what I should do, he thought. I'll just concentrate the remainder of my men in front of them and charge. The battle shouldn't last long. Then at last I'll be able to report that I have accomplished my mission, and I might even capture another prisoner.
Captain Shimoyama stood. “Sergeant Atsugi!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Report to me at once!”
“Yes, sir!”
Captain Shimoyama saw a stout figure arise from the group of men lying around the jungle. The figure walked toward him, and as he drew closer Captain Shimoyama could see the unshaven, surly features of his new first sergeant.
“Sergeant Atsugi reporting, sir!”
“I want you to assemble my entire company right here in this clearing, except for the men standing watch around the American position. We are going to attack the Americans tonight and finish them off for once and for all. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry out your orders.”
Sergeant Atsugi walked away, to get on the radio and call in all the rifle squads still working their way through the jungle. Captain Shimoyama clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth, his head inclined toward the ground, feeling confident and happy again, because he was certain that he would soon destroy the Americans in his area and be able to report that fact to Colonel Akai.
Perhaps I shall even lead the attack personally, Captain Shimoyama thought. Perhaps then I can show my men that I'm not the coward they evidently think I am.
It was night in the jungle, which glowed spectrally in the light of the full moon. Sergeant Cameron slept at the edge of a clearing a half-mile from where Captain Shimoyama was pacing back and forth. Nearby, other men from the recon platoon also lay in slumber. Surrounding the clearing were six guards, ensuring that no Japs would sneak up on them.
Private Craig Delane, the former rich playboy from New York City, was guarding the trail that led back to the American lines, and he was struggling to keep himself awake and alert. He was tired and the jungle was quiet. It was awfully easy to drift away into dreamland.
He rubbed his eyes and chewed his lips in an effort to hold off sleep. He tried to think interesting thoughts, such as the beautiful debutantes he used to date when he was back in New York. He never screwed any of them, because he'd always been trained to respect women, but now, after nearly three years in the Army, he regretted never trying harder, because he'd always wanted to screw those sweet, giggly girls in their pretty dresses, flowers in their hair. Now he knew what to do. He'd learned that women like to fuck, too, and you just had to be a little persistent, kissing their ears, tickling their boobs, getting them worked up.
If only I knew then what I know now, he thought, and then he froze, because he heard a footstep on the trail in front of him. The jungle became silent again. He wondered if he'd really heard that footstep, or imagined it. Then he heard it again. He aimed his M 1 rifle down the trail.
"Halt—who goes there!” he shouted.
There was a pause, and then someone replied: "Sergeant Puccio, L Company!”
"Advance to be recognized!”
The footsteps came closer, and Craig Delane held his M 1 ready to fire, because it might be a sneaky Jap trick. Delane had never met Sergeant Puccio and never heard of him.
A short, stocky figure appeared on the trail, wearing the uniform of the US Army. Delane waited until he was ten feet away and it was clear that the soldier was an American, but Delane had to follow through with the challenging procedure.
"Halt!” said Delane.
The soldier stopped.
“Snow,” Delane said softly.
“White,” replied the soldier.
“Pass on,” Delane said.
The soldier approached, carrying a light field pack and a carbine. “You from the recon platoon?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where's Sergeant Cameron?”
Delane pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “Back there around twenty feet.”
“The rest of J Company's coming through right behind me. Don't shoot anybody by mistake.”
Sergeant Puccio walked passed Craig Delane and entered the recon platoon bivouac, looking for Sergeant Cameron, who was a light sleeper and had been awakened by Delane's challenge.
“I'm over here,” Cameron said.
Sergeant Puccio angled in his direction, and men from the recon platoon looked up at him, because they'd been awakened also. Sergeant Puccio saw Cameron sitting against a tree, taking out his canteen.
“We're here,” Sergeant Puccio said, kneeling beside Sergeant Cameron. “What's going on?”
“Just what you see.” Sergeant Cameron took a swig from his canteen. “Where's the rest of your company?”
“They'll be here any minute now,” Sergeant Puccio replied. “Make contact with the enemy?”
“Nope.”
“We heard some shooting and explosions. Guess it didn't come from you.”
“No, it didn't come from us. It probably came from Butsko and his patrol. Sounds like they're in a jam back in there someplace.”
The rest of J Company trudged into the clearing, led by First Lieutenant Ed Thurmond from Denver, Colorado, a ninety-day wonder and former real-estate salesman. Thurmond was a small, wiry man with fierce eyes, and his helmet looked three sizes too big for his head. His eyes fell on Sergeant Cameron and he hustled over to find out what was going on.
“That's okay, you don't have to stand up,” Lieutenant Thurmond said to Sergeant Cameron. He knelt between Sergeant Cameron and Sergeant Puccio, sniffed the air, licked his teeth, and gazed into Sergeant Cameron's eyes. “Where's the Japs?”
Sergeant Cameron pointed. “Somewheres over there, I think.”
“No contact yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Who's been doing all the shooting around here—you know?”
“I reckon it's Butsko and his patrol, fighting Japs.”
Lieutenant Thurmond looked around nervously, and Sergeant Cameron thought he resembled a rat about to jump on a piece of cheese.
“Well,” said Lieutenant Thurmond, “why don't we go in there and see what's going on?”
“I don't think that's a very good idea, sir,” Sergeant Cameron said. “I don't know where the Japs are or where Butsko is, and the visibility is none too good this time of night. We're liable to go off on a wild goose chase.”
“I don't think the visibility's so bad. I can see all right. Sergeant Puccio, tell your men to take a ten-minute break; then we'll move out. Sergeant Cameron, you get your men ready to move out.”
“But, sir,” Sergeant Puccio said. “The men are tired. They need more than a ten-minute break.”
“They can't be any more tired than I am, and I
don't need more than a ten-minute break.”
Sergeant Cameron took a deep breath and wheezed. He got easily tired of arguing with officers, but sometimes it had to be done. “Sir, we're here to find Butsko, not get in a scrap with the Japs. We're liable to get into a fight that we can't get out of. Butsko and his men might need us someplace else, and we won't be able to help him.”
Lieutenant Thurmond sucked one of his teeth. “You got a point there, Sergeant. But how in hell are we gonna find Butsko if we don't go looking for him?”
“We'll just head for the sound of fighting, sir. That's where he'll be.”
“I don't hear any sound of fighting.”
“You will before long, if Butsko's still alive. And if he's not, it won't make a fuck anyways. For all we know, he might be close to our lines right now. We don't want to get into a war out here for nothing, do we? I mean, there's Japs all in this area, right?”
Lieutenant Thurmond thought it over. He was anxious to save Butsko, because he knew Butsko was Colonel Hutchins's drinking buddy. If he saved Butsko, it would make him look good at Colonel Hutchins's headquarters.
“You're right, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Thurmond said. “It takes a real man to admit it when the other feller is right, and that's what I'm doing. We'll rest up here and wait until we hear some fighting before we go farther. If we don't hear anything by dawn, we'll go looking for Butsko. How does that sound, Sergeant Cameron?”
“Makes sense, sir, but I don't think it'll be quiet here all night. I got a hunch that old Sergeant Butsko will get himself into some shit before long, provided he's still alive, of course.”
Lieutenant Thurmond turned to Sergeant Puccio. “Post guards. Tell the men they can sack out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Puccio backed off and walked away. Lieutenant Thurmond looked at Sergeant Cameron.
“What was that you just said—that Butsko might not be alive? You think the Japs got him?”
Sergeant Cameron shrugged his wide bony shoulders. “I don't know, sir. There's been a lot of fighting back there in the jungle today. Butsko's only got five men with him, and we know these jungles are crawling with Japs. They mighta got him.”
Butsko sat low in the big hole, eating cold cooked rice from a tin container taken from a dead Japanese soldier. Near him, Bannon, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley were sleeping. Frankie La Barbara and Homer Gladley still were in comas, the surfaces of their skin cold and clammy. Butsko wished they'd die so that he and the others would have a better chance of getting away.
Longtree's face appeared suddenly over the rim of the hole, and Butsko dropped his rice and fork.
“It's only me,” Longtree said. “Relax.”
Butsko picked up the fork and wiped it off on his pant leg, which was stained with dried blood and gore. Longtree slithered into the hole, awakening Bannon, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley.
“Well?” Butsko asked.
“There's no way out of here,” Longtree replied, sitting upright in the bottom of the hole. “The Japs have got us surrounded.”
“You think you coulda got through them alone?”
“I dunno. Maybe.”
“Maybe you should go for help.”
“It's up to you.”
Butsko turned to Bannon. “Whataya think?”
“What do you care what I think? You're gonna do what you wanna do anyway.”
“Just tell me what you think and cut the bullshit.”
“I don't think he can make it back to our lines and return with help in time to make any difference.”
Butsko looked at Longtree. “You agree?”
“I think so.”
“That's that,” Butsko said, placing another forkful of rice into his mouth. “This rice tastes like shit,” he said as he chewed, bits of rice sticking to his lips. “Fucking Japs can't do anything right.”
Nutsy Gafooley looked off into the jungle. “I bet they attack tonight.”
“I bet you're right,” Butsko said. “Well, I guess there's only one more thing to talk about.”
Bannon snorted. “I got a funny feeling I know what it is.”
“Yeah?” Butsko asked, cocking an eye. “What is it?”
“You're gonna say we all don't have to die here and some of us can get away.”
Butsko sighed. “Cowboy, you're really getting smart. You actually read my mind. It's true—some of us could get away and live to fight another day, as that old saying goes.”
“Hey, Sarge,” Shaw said, “how about that old saying that says only cowards run away.”
“That's the kind of old saying that fills graveyards.”
Bannon looked at the others, then turned to Butsko again. “Well, Sarge, if you wanna go, then go. You been wanting to bug out all day, so go ahead and bug out. One bullshit sergeant won't make much difference either way.”
Butsko winked and grinned like an old pirate. “Hey, kid, you got me wrong. I wasn't talking about me. I could never break out of here, because I'm too big and noisy. Too many Japs around, remember? But Longtree could probably get away, and Nutsy might make it, because he's such a little pipsqueak, and—”
Butsko was interrupted by a flying leap from Nutsy Gafooley, who grabbed Butsko around the throat and squeezed. “I ain't no pipsqueak!” Nutsy screamed. “You can't call me no pipsqueak and get away with it!”
Butsko recovered his balance and brushed Nutsy away as if he were a mosquito. Nutsy flew across the hole and landed against one of its walls, sliding down, dazed.
“Everybody's so touchy around here,” Butsko said, wiping spilled rice off his filthy pants. “A man can't open his mouth without somebody jumping all over his ass.”
Longtree leaned toward Butsko. “I ain't bugging out,” he said emphatically.
“You don't have to die in this hole if you don't wanna, Longtree. Don't be a dumb Indian all your life.”
“Everybody dies sooner or later,” Longtree said, “but the main thing is to die with honor!”
“Honor?” Butsko asked, looking around. “I don't see nobody named Honor in this hole. I see Shaw, Bannon, Nutsy, Homer, and Frankie, but I don't see nobody named Honor. You sure you're in the right hole?”
“You know what I mean,” Longtree said disgustedly.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Butsko replied, mimicking him. “I always heard that Indians get crazy when they drink, but you get crazy even when you don't drink.” Butsko turned to Bannon. “I guess you're gonna stick around too.”
“Fucking A.”
“Spoken like the true asshole that you are.” Butsko sighed and placed the can of rice on the bottom of the hole. “Well, I already know what the pipsqueak's gonna do, so that—”
"Don't call me pipsqueak!”
Nutsy Gafooley leaped at Butsko from across the hole, and Butsko casually raised his size twelve combat boot into the air. Nutsy's face crashed into it, and Nutsy collapsed, out cold, at the bottom of the hole.
Butsko chuckled. “Feisty little bugger, ain't he? Little guys are the most ornery people in the world. Take the Japs, for instance. They're little guys, and who's more ornery than they are?” Butsko pressed his forefinger to his cheek. “Now, where was I? Oh, yeah.” He looked at Shaw. “I was gonna ask you whether or not you wanted to be smart, unlike your buddies here, and try to make a break for it.”
Shaw shook his head. “No dice. I'm a big buy like you and I'd make too much noise. I wouldn't get very far. And besides, I couldn't run out on my buddies, like some people I know. I been with them for a long time, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm ready to die with them.”
“I think I'm gonna throw up,” Butsko said.
“You look like somebody threw you up,” Shaw replied.
Butsko laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do, don't I? But I'd hate to say what you look like, Terrible Tommy Shaw. That's what they used to call you when you fought in the Garden, right? Well, the boxing world's gonna miss you, my friend. You're gonna fight your last fight here tonight in this
smelly ditch.”
Butsko shook his head and laughed again, holding his big hands on his stomach as if to hold it in. The others looked at him in amazement. Nutsy Gafooley regained consciousness at the bottom of the hole and turned his eyes upward to see Butsko laughing above him like a jovial, blood-spattered Buddha.
Bannon frowned. “What's so funny?”
Butsko's mighty shoulders heaved and he rocked from side to side. He was unable to control himself. Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the dried blood on his face. He slapped his leg and laughed louder, then clasped his gut and bent over, his face red and snot dripping from his nose.
Bannon shook his head. “I don't believe I've ever seen an uglier sight in my life.”
“The son of a bitch has gone totally psycho on us,” Shaw said.
“What's he laughing at?” Longtree asked. “There ain't nothing funny going on here.”
“I think his mind just snapped,” Nutsy said.
Butsko struggled to catch his breath, his mouth open wide. “You guys ain't got no sense of humor!” he said. “Here we are together; we all hate each other's guts, and we're gonna die together! When they find us, they're gonna think we were buddies till the end, and boy, are they gonna be wrong! I can hear the colonel giving a funeral speech about how we all died trying to protect each other, when a few minutes ago we were all ready to shoot each other!”
Butsko burst into laughter again, and the others looked at him curiously. Nutsy saw his chance and dived on top of Butsko, grabbing him by the neck.
"Don't you ever call me a pipsqueak again!”
Nutsy's sudden attack made Butsko laugh even harder. He fell onto his back and didn't even have the strength to push Nutsy away, but Nutsy had tiny hands and couldn't wrap them around Butsko's thick neck.