by Len Levinson
"Oh, God!” Butsko shrieked, his chest heaving with mirth. “I can't take it anymore!”
Bannon grabbed Nutsy by the collar and pulled him off Butsko. “Leave him alone! Can't you see he's gone off his rocker?”
Longtree nodded sagely. “Must be combat fatigue.”
“I seen it coming on for a long time,” Shaw said.
"Let me at him!” Nutsy screamed, dangling in the air, moving his feet and punching the night with his fists.
“C'mon,” Bannon said, “settle the fuck down. We got things to do. The Japs are liable to attack at any moment.”
Bannon turned Nutsy loose, and Nutsy dropped to the bottom of the hole, landing on top of Frankie La Barbara's stomach, and Frankie La Barbara sat up suddenly, looked around, and said calmly, an expression of bewilderment on his face: “What the hell's going on?”
Butsko exploded into a convulsion of uncontrollable insane gurgling and cackling, rolling around the bottom of the hole. Bannon kicked him in the ass.
“Snap out of it!” Bannon said. “You're gonna lead the Japs right onto us!”
But Butsko couldn't stop, the peals of his laughter echoing over the treetops and slicing through the mangled, tangled, endless wall of jungle.
TEN . . .
In another part of the jungle, Sergeant Cameron woke up. He blinked his eyes and listened to the jungle. Amid the chirping of insects and calls of night birds, he thought he heard somebody laughing far off in the distance. It was an inhuman, insane, hysterical laugh, and it sounded almost as if it had come from the throat of Sergeant Butsko.
Sergeant Cameron shook his head. I must be dreaming, he said to himself. It must be some jungle animal, or one of them parrots that live in the trees.
Sergeant Cameron closed his eyes and rested his cheek on the back of his hand. The sound of the laughter echoed around in his mind as he dropped off to sleep again.
The laughter made Captain Shimoyama's blood turn to ice as he led the remnants of his company toward the part of the jungle where the Americans were. The sound came from the jungle straight ahead. It wasn't the laughter of a Japanese man; Captain Shimoyama knew that. It was an American who was laughing out there.
What is that crazy American laughing about? he asked himself. The sound was horrible and made shivers run up and down his spine. Why was the American laughing? Didn't he know he was surrounded and about to be slaughtered? What could he be happy about, or was he just mad?
He must have gone insane. The pressure of being in continual danger must have destroyed his mind, and everyone knows that Americans don't have very strong minds to begin with. They are a weak, cowardly people, accustomed to comfort and afraid of fighting at night. We will kill them all soon.
Bushes rustled in front of Captain Shimoyama. He stopped, his heart beating wildly, and raised his samurai sword in the air, expecting a crazy American to rush out at him, but instead the leaves parted and he saw a Japanese soldier stand at attention in the moonlight and salute him.
“Sir,” said Pfc. Chiba, “the Americans are just ahead.”
“They are? You're quite sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. We have them under observation.”
“What is that American laughing about?”
“He's evidently gone insane, sir.”
“That's what I thought.” Captain Shimoyama turned to Sergeant Atsugi. “The Americans are straight ahead. Tell the men to form four skirmish lines. When I give the order, everyone will attack at once, in waves, behind me. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Atsugi turned around and marched back to the men, telling them what to do. They lined up in the jungle, tripping over branches, pushing each other, and cursing, but Captain Shimoyama didn't mind. The Americans were trapped and couldn't go anywhere. He didn't care what they knew in advance. He looked at Pfc. Chiba.
“You say you have the Americans under observation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That means you can lead me directly to them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know how many of them they are?”
“Approximately six, sir.”
“Good. When I give the order, you will lead me to them, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Shimoyama drew his samurai sword, and its blade gleamed in the bright moonlight. He felt confident because he and his men should be able to overwhelm the Americans easily. A few of his men would get killed, and even he might die, but he thought the odds were against him being killed. It was necessary for him to prove to his men that he was an authentic combat commander; and besides, if he died while fighting for his Emperor, he'd be guaranteed a place in Japanese heaven alongside his illustrious ancestors.
He waited impatiently for his men to get into position so that his attack could begin.
Butsko apportioned hand grenades and ammunition while Bannon, Shaw, and Nutsy Gafooley removed their Japanese uniforms. The full moon was overhead, and Frankie La Barbara gazed up at it, his jaw hanging open. He was on his knees in the hole, groggy and feverish, and he could see the man in the moon smiling down at him as though everything was all right.
“Yeah,” Frankie said softly, “everything's okay.”
“What you say?” Bannon asked.
“I said everything's gonna be okay. You know how I know everything's gonna be okay?”
“No, Frankie, how do you know everything's gonna be okay?”
“The man in the moon just told me.”
Bannon turned to Butsko. “You're not gonna give him live ammunition, are you?”
“Sure am.”
“But he's out of his mind.”
“He's always been out of his mind.” Butsko placed six clips of Japanese ammunition in front of Frankie. “This is for you, fuck-up. You remember how to fire a Jap rifle.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lock and load and get ready.”
“Yo.”
Frankie bent over and looked at the clips of ammunition gleaming in the light of the moon. Somehow they reminded him of the jewelry his wife, Francesca, used to wear back in New York City. Blinking, he bent over for a closer look. The ammunition blurred and he felt as though he'd been dropped into a sea of ink. The ink rose up to his eyes and he leaned to the side, falling over, landing with a thud.
“There goes Frankie,” Nutsy said.
Butsko took back the ammunition he'd given Frankie. “I didn't think he'd last long.” He divided it up among the other men.
Leaves rustled outside the trench. Butsko looked up and saw the face of Longtree, who was returning from a reconnaissance of the area. Longtree slid into the hole, sat, and crossed his legs.
“We're trapped,” he said. “The Japs've got us surrounded, and there's no openings to sneak out. We're fucked.”
Butsko tossed him some clips of ammunition for an Arisaka rifle. “This is what happens to sentimental assholes who don't listen to their old sergeant. You guys don't have the guts to make tough decisions. You're like a bunch of dumb cunts.”
Nobody argued with him, because his logic was irrefutable. If they'd left Frankie and Homer behind, only those two would have been lost to the Japanese. Instead, all of them were going to die.
Butsko continued to pass out ammunition. There were only six clips of .45-caliber ammunition left, and he divided them equally between Bannon and himself. Everyone else got a Japanese Arisaka rifle and eight clips of ammunition. Bannon also would carry an Arisaka rifle to use when he ran out of ammo for his submachine gun. Butsko would fight on with the combination of his captured samurai sword and his Nambu pistol.
Each man prepared himself for the final round of the fight, and each was sure he was going to die. Bannon thought of his girl friend, Ginger, back in Pecos, Texas, and the native girl he'd married on Guadalcanal, and the whore named Nettie with whom he'd fallen in love in Honolulu. He always remembered women whenever he was in dangerous situations.
Longtree's mind
drifted back to the reservation where he'd lived in Arizona, the endless desert covered with saguaro cacti, the hunting and fishing, the beautiful squaws with their smoky skin and sultry eyes. It seemed odd to him that he was going to die with the kind of men who'd reviled him when he'd lived in Arizona, but these men were his warrior comrades now, and together they'd fight until they could fight no more.
Nutsy Gafooley thought of hobo jungles and pots full of Mulligan stew, of riding the rails across the country, his life of freedom. Never again would he know the thrill of jumping on a train as it highballed over the trestles. The former hobo knew he was going to die, and there was no one to weep for him.
Terrible Tommy Shaw had been a professional boxer before the war, and he'd always thought he had what it took to become heavyweight champion of the world. He'd won twenty-six out of thirty professional fights, eighteen by knockout, and would have been ranked in the top twenty by Ring magazine if he could have won another fight or two, but now his dream would never come true, and he would go down for the count on a stupid little island no one ever heard of before, far from the cheering crowds at Madison Square Garden. “Shit!” he said, spitting into the muck at the bottom of the hole.
Butsko was all business as he checked out his weapons and ammunition. He was a professional soldier and he'd been living with death so long he'd become numb to it. He never thought he'd survive the war, and it looked like his number was coming up that night on Bougainville.
“We all set?” he asked.
The men nodded.
“Okay,” he said, “the Japs'll attack any moment now, or maybe they'll wait until it's light. I personally think they'll attack tonight, because it sounds to me like they're getting ready for something right now. All we can do now is fight it out and take as many Japs with us as we can. If anybody wants to surrender, that's okay with me, although I don't recommend it, because you know what the Japs do to their prisoners. If anybody wants to try to escape, that's okay with me, too, although there ain't no way out of here. We may not have another chance to talk, so I might as well say now good luck to all of you. It's been nice knowing you, although you're a bunch of stupid assholes. It looks like we're gonna get wiped out pretty soon, but at least it'll be quick and clean. Any questions?”
There was silence for a few moments; then Bannon smiled grimly and held out his hand. “You're a rotten fucking bastard, Sarge, but it's been nice knowing you, too. Good luck.”
Shaw placed his calloused hand on the hands of Butsko and Bannon. “Good luck, guys.”
Longtree put his hand on Shaw's. “It is a good day to die,” he said.
“But it's nighttime,” Butsko protested.
“Doesn't matter,” Longtree replied.
Nutsy placed both his hands on the hands of the other men. “Sarge,” he said, “I hate your fucking guts, but you're the best soldier in the whole goddamned United States Army, and as for you other guys, you been like brudders to me, and in fact, you been like more than brudders to me. In fact—”
Butsko yanked his hand away from the others. “The bull-shit's getting pretty deep in this hole,” he snarled.
“Lemme finish!” Nutsy said. “I ain't finished yet!”
“Fuck you,” Butsko replied. “Who wants to hear that crap?”
“C'mon, Sarge,” Bannon said. “Let him finish.”
“Okay, go ahead and finish, fuck-up.”
Nutsy opened his mouth, then frowned. “I forgot what I was gonna say.”
“Good,” Butsko said. “Well, the rest of you guys can try to get some sleep. I'll take the first shift of guard. Keep your weapons close by, because the Japs might attack at any moment.”
They lay down in the hole, placing their weapons next to them and closing their eyes, but no one could sleep. They listened to the sounds of the jungle, birds calling to each other, and wild dogs barking. Japs moved through the foliage all around them; the GIs knew that the Japs were getting into position for their attack. The only question remaining was what time the attack would come. Each GI figured he had come to the end of his road, and he hoped for a quick, painless death.
Butsko knelt in the hole and looked over the edge at the moonlit jungle. His eyes were adjusted to the moonlight, and he could see nearly as clearly as during the day. The leaves and trunks of the trees were tinged with silver and looked ghostly in the light of the moon. Butsko thought of God. He recalled someone saying that there were no atheists in foxholes, but Butsko didn't feel especially religious, now that he was about to die. He hadn't believed in God since he found out, at the age of fourteen, that Father Kowalski, the pastor of Saint Stanislas Parish in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, was fucking the widow Hopp, a busty blonde whose husband had died in an accident at the local steel-rolling mill.
Butsko hoped there wasn't a hell, because if there was, he knew he would go there. They'd put him right into the broiler for eternity for all the things he'd done, but that was all fairytale Catholicism, he hoped. Fuck God, he said to himself. Who needs him? I don't need him. All I need is about two hundred hard-charging GIs to show up and save my ass right now.
Not far away, Captain Shimoyama stood at attention in front of his men. There were sixty of them gathered in four ranks, rifles and bayonets in their hands, ready to attack. Another thirty-two men couldn't attend the formation because they had circled around the American position so that the Americans couldn't get away. They had been told to attack on the command to be given by Captain Shimoyama.
Captain Shimoyama looked from left to right at the faces of his men. His veins and arteries surged with excitement, because this was the first time he would lead an all-out banzai attack, and he had worked himself into a frenzy. His skin was blotched with emotion and his eyes glittered. He ground his teeth together and felt as though his chest would explode. He wanted to radio Colonel Akai in an hour and tell him that the American patrol had been demolished totally.
Sergeant Atsugi marched toward Captain Shimoyama and saluted. “The men are in position, sir.”
“Stand at my side.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Atsugi performed a left-face and moved to the spot that Captain Shimoyama had indicated, doing an about-face and standing at attention, his arms stiff at his sides.
Captain Shimoyama remained at attention also. He narrowed his eyes and a cruel expression came over his face. “The time has come to attack!” he shouted. “When I give the command, we move forward and we will not stop until all the Americans are dead! I estimate that there are twenty or thirty of them—much less than us! We have wasted enough time with these filthy Americans, but of course that was the fault of Sergeant Kikusaki! Take prisoners if possible, but if you can't, I want you to kill and kill and kill again! Those are your orders! Your ancestors are watching you! Do not fail them! Remember your Emperor! Do not stop your attack until no more Americans are standing! Is that clear!”
Nobody said anything. It was a rhetorical question and they all knew they weren't supposed to reply.
“Very well,” Captain Shimoyama said. He executed an about-face, turning toward the place where the Americans were. Pulling his samurai sword out of its scabbard, he held it tightly in his right fist. The time had come to attack. He took a deep breath and uttered a final prayer to his ancestors.
Captain Shimoyama's voice traveled through the jungle, and the GIs in the big blown-out hole heard him.
“Sounds like the Japs are getting a pep talk,” Butsko said.
The GIs roused themselves and took positions along the edge of the hole. Captain Shimoyama's voice sounded weird and inhuman to their American ears.
“That guy's got a voice like a raving lunatic,” Shaw said, holding his Arisaka rifle and fixed boyonet tightly in his big hands.
“They're all raving fucking lunatics,” Butsko replied. “They started this fucking war and we're gonna finish it.” Then he remembered that he and the others would be dead within the next few hours. “I mean our side will end it. America.
”
They knew what he meant as they peered into the jungle, waiting for the Japs to attack.
“When they come,” Butsko said, “shoot as many of them as you can. You don't have to worry about your aim, because they'll be so close it won't matter much. Just keep pulling your triggers and load up fast when you empty a clip. If we can kill enough of them before they get on top of us, we'll have a better chance; but when they get on top of us, we'll charge right back at them instead of waiting for them to jump into this hole, here. Maybe we can rock ‘em back, but if we can't, all we can hope for is to go down like soldiers. Everybody set?”
They all nodded or grunted.
“Good,” Butsko said. “If we ever get out of this alive, I'll buy you all a drink in the first bar we see. And if we don't get out alive, I'll see you all in hell.”
Captain Shimoyama looked at the blade of his samurai sword, and it gleamed in the moonlight. He touched his thumb to the edge; it was like a razor. He'd never killed anybody with it before. The sword had always hung from his waist as an ornament during staff meetings, but now it would drink American blood.
His men were behind him, their eyes on his back. The time had come to attack. There was nothing else to do except give the order and move out. He raised the samurai sword high in the air.
"Forward!” he shrieked. "Banzai!”
He pushed his right leg and leaped forward with his left leg. Then he whipped his right leg forward and was running. Wind whistled past his ears and dried the lips and tongue of his open mouth as branches and leaves scraped his arms and legs. He crashed through the jungle and heard the tumult of his men behind him.
"Banzai!” he screamed.
"Banzai!” they replied.
The horde of Japanese soldiers charged forward, running through bushes and dodging around trees. Their hearts chugged in their chests and their minds were wild with visions of glorious battle waged on behalf of their Emperor. Their boots tore up the jungle floor as they pressed forward, hollering and shrieking, snorting and spitting, shaking their rifles and bayonets, anxious to close with the Americans. They came to the open area that had been devastated by grenade blasts earlier in the day, and could see the big boulder behind the hole where the Americans were hiding.