Kill Crazy

by Len Levinson

  His mind returned to Homer Gladley and Nutsy Gafooley. They'd all been together for nearly three years, ever since basic training at Ford Ord. Now both of them were dead, along with many others. Oh Lord, when will you pass the cup to me?

  The soldiers from the Graves Registry detail finished digging and climbed out of their holes to throw the bodies inside. The Reverend Billie Jones arose too. “I'll take care of these two,” he said, pointing to the bags containing Homer and Nutsy.

  The sergeant nodded his approval. The Reverend Billie Jones picked up Nutsy Gafooley; he was as light as a feather. You poor little feller. The Reverend Billie Jones jumped into a grave and lay Nutsy on the bottom. He placed the palm of his hand over Nutsy's face. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul,” he said.

  He climbed out of the hole and picked up Homer Gladley, who weighed nearly 250 pounds, but the Reverend Billie Jones was a big, strong man who'd performed hard work with his hands ever since he was a boy. He cradled Homer Gladley in his arms and carried him to an empty grave, jumped inside, and lay Homer on the bottom. He placed his hand on Homer's face. “May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

  He looked down at Homer and thought of all they'd been through together. He'd always thought that Homer was a better Christian than he was, because Homer had childlike simplicity, and Jesus had said that the kingdom of heaven belonged to such as he.

  “Soldier,” said the voice of the sergeant above him, “we've got to fill up these holes now.”

  “I'll be right out.”

  The Reverend Billie Jones gazed at Homer Gladley for a few more seconds, then climbed out of the hole.

  “How come there ain't no chaplain here to recite a funeral service?” he asked the sergeant.

  “Guess they're all busy right now.”

  “Mind if I say a little prayer for all these men?”

  “If it ain't too long.”

  The Reverend Billie Jones raised his arms to the heavens and gazed upward with reverence. “Lord,” he said, “please receive these lambs into your care. They may not have been angels on earth, but they always done their best, so please make them angels in heaven. From ashes we come and to ashes we return. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Praise be the Lord now and forevermore. Amen.”

  “Amen,” muttered the men in the grave-digging detail, who had removed their hats.

  “I'm finished,” Billie Jones said to the sergeant.

  “Fill up the holes,” the sergeant said to his men.

  Billie Jones stepped back, holding his hat in both his hands, and watched the soldiers shovel dirt into the holes. It was difficult for Billie to believe that Homer and Nutsy were dead, lying inside those holes, dirt falling on top of them. Tears rolled down Billie's cheeks and he ground his teeth together in anger. He knew that Homer and Nutsy hadn't died of old age or in an accident. They'd been killed by the damned Japs who'd started the war by bombing Pearl Harbor, the sneaky little slant-eyed pagan bastards.

  Billie Jones hated the Japs more than ever. He wanted to pay them back for what they had done to Homer and little Nutsy Gafooley. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord God,” he muttered. “I shall smite my enemies and send them to hell.”

  Two medical orderlies approached the nurse sitting behind the desk, and they pushed a padded platform on wheels.

  “Which one's Master Sergeant John Butsko?” one of them asked.

  She pointed. “That's him.”

  Butsko opened his eyes and saw the two orderlies rolling their platform toward him. One of them looked at the tag tied to the bottom of his bunk.

  “You Sergeant Butsko?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You gotta come with us, Sergeant.”

  “What for?”

  “The doctors wanna talk with you.”

  “That's good, because I wanna talk to them too.”

  The two orderlies looked at each other and one of them winked as if to say he thought Butsko was an asshole. Butsko noticed and it made him mad. The orderlies, the nurse, and the crew of the hospital ship were all in the Navy, and Butsko didn't think much of the Navy. He didn't like the Marines either, or the Air Corps, but he especially disliked the Navy because he thought sailors were all sissies and fags.

  The orderlies rolled him onto the platform and pushed it down the aisle between the bunks. They passed the nurse and Butsko turned his face to wink at her. She noticed him but didn't react, continuing to read the medical record in front of her. Soldiers and sailors tried to get into her pants constantly, and she'd become accustomed to all the attention. It didn't mean anything to her, because she knew that none of them were interested in her as a person.

  The orderlies pushed Butsko down a long corridor. Patients in white pajamas and other orderlies passed him by, plus a few nurses, and Butsko wanted to reach out and grab them by their asses, but he thought he might be put in front of a firing squad if he tried it.

  The orderlies wheeled him into a room and closed the door. The room had a porthole and a sea gull sitting on the other side of it, looking at Butsko. Tables and medicine cabinets lined the walls. The door opened and two serious-looking men entered. Butsko figured they were doctors. They wore long white smocks and both had eyeglasses perched on their noses.

  One of them held a big X-ray negative up to the light, and they muttered to each other, nodding, shrugging their shoulders, twitching their noses from side to side. Butsko wished they'd talk louder so he could hear what was going on. He couldn't see the X-ray negative but assumed it was of his leg.

  Finally the doctors turned around and faced him. One had dark hair and the other blond hair. The dark-haired doctor was pudgy and the other was very short. There was nothing about them that Butsko would call military. He took an instant dislike to them.

  “I'm Dr. Harris,” said the dark-haired doctor, “and this is Dr. Schearson. I'm afraid we have bad news, but you're an old soldier and I'm sure you can take it like a man. Your leg is very severely damaged and I'm afraid we'll have to amputate.”

  Butsko couldn't believe his ears. "What!”

  “Calm down now, soldier. I'm sure you've been through much worse things than the operation.”

  Butsko choked, spit, and sputtered. “My leg's that bad?”

  Dr. Harris held up the X ray. “It's shattered very badly. It'll never heal.”

  Dr. Schearson nodded. “It's a very bad wound. Your leg's just hanging on by a few threads. The only thing to do is cut it off clean. Shrapnel wounds are always the messiest.”

  “Shrapnel wounds!” Butsko said. “This ain't no shrapnel wound! It's a bullet wound!”

  Dr. Harris and Dr. Schearson smiled indulgently. Dr. Harris patted Butsko's shoulder. “It's a shrapnel wound. Bullet wounds don't make a mess like this.” He held up the X ray.

  Butsko looked at the X ray but couldn't make sense of it. “Listen, fellers,” he pleaded, “that must be the wrong X ray. When I was hit, there wasn't any shrapnel. The Japs were shooting at me at close range. There wasn't any bombs or grenades going off, understand?”

  The doctors looked at each other again and smiled in that superior, infuriating way that doctors smile.

  Dr. Shearson bent over Butsko. “Sergeant, in the heat of battle, I imagine it's difficult to know exactly what's going on,” he said as if talking to a child.

  Butsko looked up at him. “What the fuck do you know about the heat of battle, you son of a bitch! I know what was going on, and I tell you there weren't no shrapnel!”

  Both doctors backed off. They looked at each other as if to say Isn't it a shame that we have to deal with stupid, uneducated people all the time? Dr. Harris turned to the orderlies. ‘Take him back to his bed.”

  “Hey, wait a fucking minute!” Butsko shouted. “Is this operation really gonna take place?”

  Dr. Schearson nodded gravely. “Afraid so, soldier.”

  "What!”

  The orderlies wheeled Butsko toward the door, and Butsko completely lost it. He rolled over,
fell off the platform, and landed on the floor. "Oh, no you don't!” he screamed. "You ain't cutting off my fucking leg!”

  The doctors were aghast as they watched him climb up the drawers in a cabinet, pushing with his good leg. He leaned against the cabinet and sparks flew out of his eyes. Somehow he had to get out of there. He couldn't let the bastards cut off his leg.

  “Calm down, Sergeant,” Dr. Schearson said, winking at the orderlies.

  The orderlies moved toward Butsko, and Butsko wished he hadagun, but he was weak, dizzy, and one of his legs wouldn't support him. He looked around for a weapon and saw on the cabinet beside him a package of wooden tongue depressers. He picked up the package and threw it at the orderlies. Dr. Harris ran out into the hall and screamed for help. Each of the orderlies dived for one of Butsko's arms, but Butsko timed them coming in, punching one in the mouth and slugging another on his left temple.

  Both orderlies went sprawling backward, and Butsko looked at Schearson, who trembled in his shoes. “Now Sergeant,” Dr. Schearson said, holding up his hand, “calm down before you get yourself into some real big trouble.”

  Butsko took a step toward him. “You ain't cutting off my leg, you goddamn pill-roller. You cut off my leg and I'll cut off your fucking head.” Butsko saw an empty piss pot sitting on top of another cabinet. He picked it up and stumbled toward Dr. Schearson, but the plaster cast wasn't meant to carry so much weight, and it cracked. Butsko collapsed onto the floor. Dr. Schearson screeched like an old woman and ran out of the room. A few seconds later Marines and more orderlies poured into the room.

  “Put him in a straitjacket!” screamed Dr. Schearson from the corridor. “He's gone stark raving mad!”

  The Marines and orderlies gathered around Butsko. There were twenty of them, and only one of him, but that didn't stop him. “Get away from me, you bunch of seagoing fags!” Butsko said.

  One orderly held a hypodermic needle in his hand. Another carried the straitjacket. A big, burly Marine with lumpy features advanced toward Butsko on his tiptoes, holding his arms out like a gorilla, and Butsko lay on his back on the floor, trying to get up, holding the piss pot in one hand. The big Marine looked to his right and left at the men with him, and they inched closer to Butsko, who squirmed backward until his back was against the metal wall. Butsko raised the piss pot in the air.

  “The first man who touches me,” he said, “is gonna wear this piss pot sticking out of his head for the rest of his life.”

  The big Marine oozed closer and said soothingly: ‘Take it easy, Sarge. Everything's gonna be all right.”

  “You take it easy yourself, you deck ape.”

  "Get him!” screamed Dr. Schearson from the corridor.

  The big Marine dived on Butsko, who swung hard with the piss pot, connecting with the big Marine's head. The piss pot made a loud bang sound, and the Marine's eyes rolled up into his head. He collapsed onto the floor, out cold, and the other Marines and orderlies jumped on top of Butsko, grabbing his arms and legs, putting him into headlocks and neck locks.

  "Lemme go!” Butsko said. “I‘ll kill yez all!”

  He felt a needle go into his thigh.

  "You son of a bitch!”

  The morphine coursed through his veins as Butsko struggled to break loose.

  "You ain't cutting off my fucking leg, you bunch of dirty bastards!”

  Butsko felt woozy and weak. He heard bells ringing and birds singing. All his strength left him. He went limp on the floor, and he saw them lower the straight-jacket toward him.

  “You scumbags,” he whispered. “I'll get yez all for this. I'll make yez wish yez was never born. I'll blow this fucking ship up. I'll...”

  The morphine overwhelmed his mind, and he passed out cold on the steel floor.

  General Hitoshi Imamura, forty-seven years old, sat behind his desk and looked up at General Hyakutake, who was saluting him. Imamura was chubby and Hyakutake skinny and bony. General Imamura returned the salute and looked at General Hyakutake coldly, because General Hyakutake had lost Guadalcanal, and now it appeared as if he'd lost Bougainville too.

  “Be seated,” General Imamura said.

  General Hyakutake adjusted his samurai sword so he wouldn't trip himself, and sat on a chair in front of General Imamura's desk. Through the window behind General Imamura he could see the rooftops of barracks, and then Simpson Harbor, full of Japanese ships at anchorage. The sky was becoming cloudy. The weatherman had predicted rain.

  “Well,” said General Imamura, “we might as well come directly to the point. What is your situation on Bougainville?”

  “Very bad,” replied General Hyakutake. “We have had immense casualties. Our supplies are low. We need immediate reinforcements.”

  The room fell silent. General Hyakutake looked at the statue of the Buddha on General Imamura's desk. General Imamura sat erectly, his hands folded on his desk.

  “I have no reinforcements to give you,” General Imamura said.

  “In that case, consider Bougainville lost,” General Hyakutake said. “With my present strength I cannot defeat the Americans; neither can I prevent them from advancing.”

  “Do you think you should be evacuated?”

  “Do you mean me personally or the entire Seventeenth Army?”

  “The entire Seventeenth Army.”

  “I don't know, sir. On one hand, we cannot win back Bougainville without substantial reinforcements, but on the other, if I and my men stay for awhile, we can tie up a sizable number of American soldiers who otherwise would be free to fight elsewhere.”

  General Imamura thought about what General Hyakutake had just said. General Imamura knew that the Americans could strike next at numerous targets throughout the South Pacific, from New Guinea and the Philippines to the Marianas and the Marshalls. The fewer troops the Americans could muster for those strikes, the better. Perhaps it would be wise to tie up the American force on Bougainville until it was known where the Americans would strike next. Then the Japanese troops on Bougainville could be evacuated to wherever they were needed most.

  “Your army will not be evacuated at this time,” General Imamura said. “You will continue to fight on Bougainville, but I shall leave the actual pursuit of the campaign to you. I would suggest, however, that you revert to guerrilla warfare, requiring that your troops live off the land, growing their own food if possible.”

  General Hyakutake couldn't imagine his soldiers laying down their rifles and becoming farmers. They had no plows, no farm animals, nothing. It was obvious to him that General Imamura knew nothing about farming, but he replied, “Yes, sir.” He didn't want any arguments. Guerrilla warfare was better than working behind a desk in Tokyo.

  “Do you have any questions?” General Imamura asked.

  “No, sir.”

  They then embarked on a wide-ranging discussion of logistics, tactics, things that should have been done, and things that could still be done. Finally, after a half hour, General Imamura dismissed General Hyakutake, who headed straight for the airfield for his flight back to Bougainville.

  FIFTEEN . . .

  It was night on the hospital ship, and a light rain hissed against the steel-plated hull. Butsko lay on his bunk and opened his eyes. He tried to move his arms and realized he was in a straight-jacket. It occurred to him that somebody had spoken his name and awakened him. Butsko laboriously turned his face to the side and saw, in the dark shadows, the grinning face of Frankie La Barbara. At first Butsko thought he was having a nightmare.

  Frankie clamped his hand over Butsko's mouth so that Butsko couldn't holler for help, and then Frankie pressed the blade of a tiny knife made from the handle of a spoon and sharpened to a razor edge, against Butsko's throat.

  “Hiya, Sarge,” Frankie said. “How're you doing, buddy?”

  Butsko's eyes darted around like peas rolling on two white plates. He tried to say something, but all he could do was blow snot through his nose.

  “Don't get excited, big Sergeant,” Fran
kie La Barbara said through his clenched teeth. “All I'm gonna do is cut your fucking throat.”

  Butsko struggled to get loose, but his arms were tied to his body by the straitjacket, and the rest of his body was strapped into his bed. All he could move was his head and his eyes.

  “I heard all about what happened,” Frankie continued. “They told me how you was gonna leave me behind when I came down with malaria. Well, big Sergeant, I got over my malaria attack, thanks to modern medicine and the tender loving care of the doctors and nurses on this barge. Now it's time to get even, big Sergeant. You fucked with the wrong guy when you fucked with Frankie La Barbara. I'm gonna stick this knife in real slow, so you'll feel it every bit of the way, and then I'm gonna pull the blade nice and easy across your throat. And while I'm doing it, I hope you think about how you shoulda been nicer to old Frankie La Barbara, back when you had the chance, you fucking cocksucker.”

  Frankie pressed the point of the blade against Butsko's throat, and all Butsko could do was scream through his nostrils. It wasn't a loud scream, and it was too high-pitched to be really effective, but the nurse heard it and put down the magazine she'd been reading.

  “What's going on over there?”

  Frankie La Barbara froze. The nurse flicked on the light switch, and Frankie La Barbara stood in the glare, removing his hand from Butsko's mouth.

  "He tried to kill me!” Butsko yelled.

  Frankie La Barbara cursed and spun around, heading for the door at the other end of the ward. He fled past the bunk beds, his robe flying in the air behind him, and leaped through the doorway.

  The nurse stood and walked toward Butsko. “Are you all right?”

  “He had a fucking knife! He was gonna cut my throat!”

  “Did you see who he was?”