by Len Levinson
For a big man Butsko's feet touched down softly on the ground. He moved with a fluid grace that looked odd in a man his size. Halfway to the jungle he held up one hand and stopped, listening to the sounds of the night. All that could be heard were voices and the rattle of equipment behind the American lines.
They continued again, drawing closer to the jungle. The night was dark, but the jungle was darker. It looked sinister and emitted foul odors. Butsko went in first; he appeared to be at home in the jungle. He moved through the branches and tangled vines quickly, glancing around, examining the ground. Occasionally he'd stop and listen, then move out again. He was looking for Jap footprints, broken branches that would indicate the passage of Japanese troops, or blood from Japs wounded by the fire. After tramping around for fifteen minutes they found nothing.
Butsko bent over and picked up a coconut lying on the ground. “Let's take a break,” he muttered.
Bannon sat on a log, and Butsko dropped the coconut back on the ground. He took out his machete, cracked the coconut in two, and gave one of the halves to Bannon.
“It's a green coconut,” Butsko said. “You can eat it with a spoon.”
Bannon took his spoon out of his shirt pocket and dug it into the coconut meat. Butsko was right; the white stuff came out like pudding. It had a delicious sweet-and-sour taste. Bannon always thought green coconuts were inedible, but this one was better than a ripe coconut.
“I lived on these goddamn things for a month,” Butsko muttered, chewing the coconut meat. “You'll never starve in the jungle as long as there's coconuts around.”
Bannon imagined Butsko on the run from the Japanese, hiding in the jungle and eating coconuts. No wonder he was strange. Japanese POW camps were hell on earth, and he'd survived the Bataan Death March too. Bannon began to see Butsko in a new light. If a man had been to hell and back, you couldn't expect him to act normally. He'd probably lost a lot of buddies on the Bataan Death March and in the camp. Bannon was surprised to notice that he was feeling a little sorry for Butsko.
“The men in your squad are too jumpy,” Butsko said, “but it's their first night on the line, so I'll let it pass. You better talk to them and tell them to make sure of their targets before they open fire. All they did just now was give away our positions. Get it?”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Let's get back.”
Both men arose and headed toward the American lines.
In the Japanese encampment Colonel Tsuji paced back and forth in front of his desk, smoking a cigarette. The attack wouldn't begin for hours yet, but he was as restless as a panther in a cage and couldn't even sit on his pillow and meditate on the Emperor. He wore his baggy jodhpurs and no shirt because the night was hot. He would have given anything for a drink of cold water, and he knew the Americans had an ice-making machine near their airfield. The machine had been brought there in the first place by the Japanese laborers who had constructed the field, and he assumed the Americans had captured it intact. The spoils of the upcoming battle would include that ice machine, and he was already contemplating the wonderful cold fruit beverages he'd concoct when it was his possession.
“Colonel Tsuji, sir!” called a voice outside the tent.
“Come in, Kaburagi.”
Sergeant Kaburagi entered the tent and saluted. “Sir, a report has come into headquarters of weapons firing on the American right flank. Our observers were able to pinpoint their positions exactly.” Kaburagi handed Tsuji a sheet of paper with the. coordinates.
Tsuji gazed at the numbers. “Did we have any patrols in that area?”
“No, sir. None whatever.”
“You may leave.”
Kaburagi saluted and marched out of the tent. Tsuji brought the information to his map and checked the coordinates with the last known American positions. He saw immediately that the previous positions were inaccurate. The Americans must have moved recently. He would radio the information to Colonel Hodaka, so he would have the latest information on the American positions.
Tsuji put on his shirt and buttoned it up. He put on his cap, strapped on his Nambu pistol, and left his tent, heading for the radio center.
In a tent behind the positions held by the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment, Colonel Stockton sat at his desk and puffed, his old briar. In front of him was the map and overlay of Guadalcanal, and he was going over possible attack strategies, as a chess champion plots his next chess game.
Stockton was bareheaded, and his silvery hair glowed in the light of the kerosene lamp. Smoke curled from the pipe in his mouth toward the lamp. The jungle was quiet except for the occasional snap of a rifle bolt or the sound of a vehicle passing nearby. The men were bedding down for the night, and he knew he should sack out, too, but he was too nervous. This was his first night in a combat zone since the First World War. He knew that if he performed well on Guadalcanal, they'd have to make him a general before long, and that's what he wanted more than anything in the world: those stars on his collar. If he had them, he wouldn't have to plan the small-scale tactics of a regiment, but would command a division and operate on a grand scale. And perhaps after the division he could command a corps and an army and really become a modem warlord in the truest sense of the word.
In his opinion he should have been a general long ago. He had more experience and more decorations than many men who'd passed him by, but he'd had the misfortune of a scandal being attached to his name. His wife had run off with a young captain when they were stationed at Fort Hood, Texas. The bitch had done it on purpose; she knew what it would do to his career. Sometime later she left the captain and returned to her home in Chicago for a while, and when last seen she had been in Paris. The rumor was that she was drinking heavily and sleeping with everything in pants. You didn't get to be a general if you couldn't handle your wife, so he'd been a colonel for much too long.
But now he had a chance to get those stars. If he performed brilliantly on the battlefield, they wouldn't be able to deny him what he deserved. And he knew the Twenty-third had a lot of potential. He'd trained them hard and made them tough. He'd been congratulated many times for their performance in maneuvers and their appearance at parades. They were a crack garrison regiment and he would mold them into a crack fighting regiment. He'd make them famous and they'd make him famous. Through them he'd get his star, and through him they'd be covered with glory.
He knew there'd be a difficult period during which the Twenty-third would have to adjust to combat. During that period they'd be green and unsure of themselves. The Japanese could trounce them badly now, and only the will and skill of the Twenty-third regimental commander, himself, could hold them together. That's why he couldn't sleep. The men were like the children he had never had. He was worried about them. He loved them and wanted to take care of them. Already tonight there'd been incidents of members of the Twenty-third firing at phantoms in the jungle. He knew they'd given away their positions to the Japanese, but they were dug in and had plenty of ammunition. They could hold off the Devil himself if they were properly led, and he intended to make certain that they were.
I've got to try to get some sleep, he told himself. I won't be any good if I'm fatigued tomorrow. He laid his pipe in the ashtray and rose from his chair, walking across the dirt floor to his cot, where he sat and unlaced his combat boots.
He knew that the regiment's patrols were roving through the jungle then, trying to find out what the Japanese had in front of them. If they didn't have much, Colonel Stockton
SEVEN . . .
In the dark of night the big Japanese warships moved inexorably toward Guadalcanal. Strict radio silence was observed, and they ran with no lights. In the center of the formation were the battleships Kongo and Haruma, with their mighty cannon that could hurl shells as big as a man at the Americans on Guadalcanal. On the perimeter of the circle were seven destroyers and two heavy cruisers searching for American submarines and P T boats. Their plan was to move up the slot in the middle of the Solomon Island
s and anchor in Ironbottom Sound, about ten miles offshore from Guadalcanal. Then they'd shell the Americans to smithereens.
On the bridge of the flagship Kongo, Admiral Kurita examined the night through his binoculars. He wore his high-collared blue tunic, and the visor of his cap was pushed back on his head. His artillery bombardment was crucial for the success of the ground attack that night, and if the Americans saw his fleet before he saw them, he might never be able to complete his mission. Kurita was wary of the Americans, because he'd fought against them at Midway and never would forget the sight of American airplanes diving at him endlessly out of the sky. Well, they wouldn't dive at him in the night. He was safe from them for the time being.
He lowered his binoculars and turned to his navigator, who sat at his map table, fiddling with compass and protractor. “How much farther to Guadalcanal?” Kurita asked.
“About another thirty miles, sir.”
Kurita looked around the bridge at his officers and crew-members, their grim faces illuminated by light from the dials of instruments and meters. Everything was spotlessly clean, and light gleamed from the polished brass on the fixtures.
Kurita turned front again and raised his binoculars. In about two hours he would reach his attack position in the waters off Guadalcanal.
The patrol had been roving through the jungle for over an hour, but it seemed like an eternity to Bannon. He thought they'd gone too far into no-man's-land, but Butsko kept pushing on. They followed streambeds and old paths, for they didn't want to hack through the jungle and make a racket. Also on the patrol were Frankie La Barbara and Sam Longtree.
Butsko raised his hand in the air and they all stopped. He narrowed his eyes and twitched his broken pug nose.
“I smell Japs,” he said. He swiveled his head around, then pointed toward his left. “That way.”
“I don't smell nothing,” Frankie La Barbara said.
“Shut your mouth, fuck-up.” Butsko furrowed his forehead in thought. “We'll split up and reconnoiter up ahead,” he said to Bannon. “Me and Longtree will go this way, and you and La Barbara will go that way. We'll meet here in an hour. Let's synchronize our watches. I got ten-fourteen.”
Bannon checked his old Hamilton, and it was right on the nose. “Me too.”
“If you see Japs,” Butsko continued, “make a note of where they are, how many they are, and where they're going. Got it?”
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Move out and be quiet.”
“What if we don't see any Japs?”
“Move in the direction I told you for a half hour, and if you don't see any, just come back.”
Bannon and Frankie crossed the stream, the water reaching up to their knees. They climbed the bank on the other side, found a narrow footpath, and moved out in the direction Butsko had indicated. Bannon shot an azimuth with his compass, to make sure that they stayed on course, and proceeded with Frankie along the path. In a few minutes the jungle closed around them and they were all alone.
“Hey, Bannon,” Frankie whispered behind him on the path.
“What is it now?”
“Why don't we take a break?”
“We can't take a break now, birdbrain.”
Bannon took another step forward, but Frankie placed his hand on Bannon's shoulder. “What's your hurry, cowboy?”
Bannon stopped and turned around. “Shut up, Frankie. We got things to do.”
“Says who?” Frankie asked with his wiseguy smirk. “Butsko can't see us now. There ain't no Japs out there anyways. Why don't we just sit down and have a cigarette, and then in an hour we'll meet Butsko and tell him we didn't see nothing.”
Bannon stared at Frankie in disbelief. “Are you crazy? What if there really are Japs out there and we don't report it?”
“Who gives a fuck? What does it matter? So the colonel'll stick a few more pins in his map. Big deal.”
“I don't have time to argue with you, Frankie. Come on, and that's an order.”
“Fuck you and fuck your orders.”
“Okay. I'll meet you here on my way back.”
Frankie watched as Bannon walked off and disappeared into the night. He couldn't believe Bannon would leave him alone like that. Why did Bannon keep taking chances that he didn't have to take? Why was the son of a bitch so gung ho? Insects chirped around Frankie and he heard something that sounded like a footstep on leaves nearby. It might be a Jap with a knife clutched in his teeth or, worse, it might be Butsko sneaking up on him.
“Wait for me!” Frankie whispered, running after Bannon.
The path was narrow and twisting, and Frankie was moving too quickly to see well. He ran into a tree, making a hell of a racket, and a big hand reached out and grabbed him by the throat.
“I figgered you wouldn't stay by yourself very long,” Bannon said.
“Jesus, you scared me!”
“If there's any Japs around here, we're as good as dead right now.”
“There ain't no Japs around here.”
“I hope you're right.”
They continued along the trail again, Bannon going first and Frankie right behind him. They were traveling light on this patrol, just bringing weapons, canteens, grenades, and machetes with them. The moon and stars had hidden behind clouds, and the jungle glowed phosphorescently around them. Frankie imagined hundreds of eyes looking at him. There could be a battalion of Japs on either side of the trail for all they knew. Frankie had been afraid of woods all his life. He didn't mind walking down the toughest block in New York City, but the woods scared him to death, and the jungle was even worse than woods. He'd heard about jungle snakes that could strangle a man and then swallow him whole.
They came to a steep hill and paused at the bottom. Bannon checked his compass and the azimuth led straight ahead.
“We're not gonna have to climb that motherfucker, are we?” Frankie asked.
“Yep.”
“Oh, shit, Bannon. Stop being such a ballbreaker.”
“Come on.”
Bannon started up the hill, and Frankie had no choice but to follow him. Frankie was starting to hate Bannon. He was such a goody-two-shoes, always following orders and trying to be a good soldier. It was disgusting. Guys from the country are all corny, Frankie thought. They actually think they can get someplace by playing it straight.
The hill became steeper and Frankie sweated rivulets of perspiration into his shirt. His crotch itched from filth and moisture, and he was sure he had a dose of the crabs. I shoulda deserted in San Francisco when I had the chance. They woulda never found me.
They neared the crest of the hill. Bannon signaled for Frankie to slow down. Together they crept the final yards to the top.
“I smell smoke,” Bannon said. “You smell it?”
“I can't smell anything except this stinking fucking jungle.”
“The smoke must be what Butsko smelled before.”
They reached the top of the hill, and a campfire flickered in the darkness below them.
“Japs,” said Bannon.
“Let's get out of here,” Frankie said.
“We gotta find out how many they are.”
Frankie clenched his teeth. “Will you stop being such a stupid fuck? You're gonna get both of us killed out here.”
“They won't be able to see us.”
“How the fuck do you know?”
Bannon sighed. “Maybe you'd better stay here and and I'll pick you up on my way back.”
“You ain't leaving me here!”
“Then let's go, and be quiet, for Chrissakes.”
They descended the hill, and then Bannon understood why Butsko had insisted on such a long patrol. The Japs thought they were far enough from American lines to light a fire: The hills were between the fire and the American lines and they thought the Americans never would see it. But they hadn't counted on Butsko. Dumb fucking Japs.
Suddenly the fire went out, and Bannon stopped cold in his tracks. What the hell's going on now? Had the Jap
s become aware that an American patrol was closing with them, or had an officer told the men to put the goddamned fire out?
“Let's get out of here,” Frankie said.
“Shut up.”
Bannon wondered whether to move closer to the spot where he'd seen the fire or return right away to the rendezvous point on the stream. Butsko would say, “Why didn't you check out that fire? What the hell you run away for?” Bannon realized with an unpleasant twinge that he wanted Butsko to like him, because he admired Butsko. How can I admire that gorilla?
Beeeaaaaannnnggggggggg. The bullet richocheted off a tree near Bannon's head, and he dived into the muck. Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen the muzzle blast, and quickly he raised his carbine, flicked off the safety, and fired a burst on automatic in that direction. A Jap screamed. Other Japs started jabbering.
“Let's go!” Bannon muttered to Frankie, and jumped to his feet.
They ran a dozen steps and then heard the explosions of rifle fire behind them. Bullets whizzed around their heads like angry gnats, and they dived to the ground again.
Bannon pulled a grenade off his lapel and yanked the pin. “As soon as this goes off, start running.”
“You son of a bitch, you got me into this mess!”
Bannon held the lever tightly, so that it wouldn't blow, and listened for sounds of the Japs. They came crashing through the woods, a few of them shouting orders, and Bannon pulled back his arm and let the grenade fly. A Jap bellowed in alarm as the grenade bounced off a tree and fell to the ground. The Japs sounded as if they were scurrying madly about.
Barrrooooommmm!
The forest lit up for an instant, and then it was pitch black again, with Bannon's ears ringing from the sound of the explosion. He leaped up and ran toward the trail, with Frankie huffing and puffing beside him. Bannon was no skilled tactician, but he had enough smarts to know that the Japs would try to cut him off, because that's what he'd do if he were a Jap. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, grateful now that the trail was narrow and winding, because that would make it hard for the Japs to get off any clear shots. Behind him he heard excited Jap voices and occasional gunshots. The Jap bullets slammed into trees ten or twenty yards away.