by Len Levinson
He pushed aside the flap of his tent and went inside to change clothes and put on his boots. He lifted his binoculars off his peg, because he'd need them to scrutinize American activity on the other side of the valley.
Butsko sat with Frankie La Barbara and Bannon in a foxhole as soldiers around them erected pup tents.
“You really did it this time,” Butsko said to Frankie. “You're a stupid asshole and you deserve whatever happens to you.”
“I don't give a fuck,” Frankie growled. “You think I give a fuck? Well, I don't. What're they gonna to do me, cut off my balls?”
“I hope they cut off your fucking head.”
“Fuck ‘em where they breathe.”
Private Craig Delane, who was Lieutenant Horsfall's runner, approached the foxhole.
“Horseballs wants to see you,” Delane said to Butsko.
“Oh, shit,” Butsko said.
“He's in a really terrible mood.”
“I hate that son of a bitch.”
Butsko groaned as he stood. He dusted the dirt and muck off his fatigue pants, then slung his rifle and walked toward Lieutenant Horsf all's command post. Butsko knew he shouldn't badmouth Lieutenant Horsfall in front of the men, but he couldn't help it. He really didn't like him.
Big changes had taken place in the recon platoon since New Georgia. Colonel Stockton had gone home to Maine for a thirty-day furlough, and while he was gone Lieutenant Horsfall had been placed in charge of the recon platoon, replacing Lieutenant Breckenridge. The men had got along well with Lieutenant Breckenridge, but Lieutenant Horsfall was an asshole. He was a ninety-day wonder and didn't know shit from Shinola about the Army, but those brass bars on his shoulder made him think he was Napoleon.
Butsko slouched across the platoon area, watching his men improve Marine fortifications and set up pup tents. Trucks delivered Army supplies or carried away Marine stuff. Everything was in turmoil. When it got dark he'd have to lead a patrol into no-man's-land to see what was there.
Lieutenant Horsfall sat under a tarpaulin, drinking from his canteen cup and looking at maps. Butsko stopped in front of the tarpaulin.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes. Come under here with me, Butsko.”
Butsko ducked his head and sat next to Lieutenant Horsfall, who had a round face and swarthy features, with bulging eyes and straight black hair. He was from a small town in South Dakota and had held a minor executive position in a department store before the war.
“The men getting dug in all right?” Lieutenant Horsfall asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I've been looking through the Army regulations, and I think I can get a special court-martial for La Barbara. I'll send my recommendation to Colonel Stockton today. Meanwhile I want you to place that baboon under twenty-four-hour guard.”
“There's something you're not thinking about.”
Lieutenant Horsfall looked up at Butsko. “What's that?”
“He knocked that other guy out with one punch, sir. Frankie is strong as an ox. He's a good man to have around in hand-to-hand fighting, and we'll probably have a lot of that pretty soon.”
“Are you trying to say I shouldn't court-martial him?”
“That's right, because we're gonna need every good man we can get when the shit hits the fan. You can never have enough men in a hand-to-hand fight.”
Lieutenant Horsfall couldn't refute the logic of Butsko's argument, but he was thickheaded and stubborn and didn't like to back down. “Military discipline must be maintained. It is the duty of officers and NCOs to enforce basic military discipline, otherwise the whole concept of an Army breaks down.”
“Frankie's okay. He's a psycho case, but he's got a lot of combat experience. I'd rather have a fighter like Frankie than a fucking cardboard soldier who knows how to salute and say ‘yes, sir’ all the time. I don't want to be disrespectful or anything like that, but we're in a war zone now, and it's time to cut out the chickenshit.”
Lieutenant Horsfall turned red and looked as though he might bust a gut. “Military discipline isn't chickenshit!”
“Depends what you mean by military discipline. I think court-martialing Frankie at this time and place is chickenshit.”
“Now, see here—!”
“And Colonel Stockton will probably agree with me. We see eye to eye on things. If you send that recommendation to Colonel Stockton, he's gonna think you're an asshole.”
Lieutenant Horse fall felt acid rise in his throat. He was trying to be a good officer, but somehow couldn't cope with the recon platoon. They weren't afraid of him the way soldiers had been back in the States. It was a most perplexing situation, and he didn't want to aggravate it by turning Colonel Stockton against him.
“I'll think it over,” Lieutenant Horsfall said. “I'll speak to you about this later in the day. Meanwhile, tell Frankie La Barbara to watch his step.”
“Yes, sir. Have you thought about sending out a patrol yet?”
“Patrol? Why, yes, we should send out a patrol, shouldn't we? How big do you think it should be?”
“I'll take care of it, sir,” Butsko said. “Don't worry about it. We'll go out after sunset, about six of us. I don't suppose you'd want to come?”
“I think I should stay here with the main body of men.”
“So do I. Well, I think I'd better get going. Anything else?”
“Anything else?” Lieutenant Horsfall repeated, his eyes darting around nervously, because somehow he thought he should have something else to say. “No, I don't think so. Perhaps after lunch we should get together and discuss the patrol.”
“Sure thing, sir. See you later. Keep it cool in the motor pool.”
Butsko winked and walked away, leaving Lieutenant Horsfall seething. He doesn't respect me, Lieutenant Horsfall thought. Somehow I have to make him respect me. But how can I do that?
Lieutenant Horsfall thought about it and decided he'd have to do something spectacular on the battlefield to make Butsko respect him. But Lieutenant Horsfall had never been in combat and was afraid of it. Despite all his training, he didn't know what he'd do if a Jap soldier ran at him and tried to stab him with his bayonet. Lieutenant Horsfall was afraid he might freeze up and get killed. He broke out into a cold sweat. Oh, God, what am I doing here? Why do there have to be wars?
Butsko flopped into his foxhole beside Frankie La Barbara. “You're off the hook, fuck-up. Take a walk.”
Frankie, who had been sleeping, opened his sultry eyes. “Huh?”
“I said take a walk. I talked Horseballs out of court-martialing you. Stay out of trouble. And by the way, there's a patrol going out tonight and you'll be in it, so get ready.”
“Why me?” asked Frankie. “How come I get all the shit?”
“ ‘Cause you're a shithead. Now, get out of my sight. You've given me enough trouble today.”
Frankie wanted to protest, but he could see that Butsko was in a bad mood, and it wasn't a good idea to push him too far when he was in a bad mood. Actually, Butsko always was in a bad mood, but sometimes he was in a worse mood than at other times. The art of dealing with Butsko was in knowing how far to go with him. Frankie climbed out of the foxhole and walked away, not surprised that Butsko had talked Lieutenant Horsfall out of the court-martial. Butsko had been dominating the young lieutenant ever since Horseballs had been assigned to the recon platoon.
Meanwhile, Butsko lay back in his foxhole and took out a Pall Mall. He felt tired and demoralized and there hadn't even been any fighting yet. I'm so sick of this war, he thought, lighting his cigarette. I'm sick of these filthy islands. I'm sick of my men. I wish I was dead.
He looked up at the sky and saw the hot sun beaming through the green leaves of the jungle. Insects flew around his face and something was crawling up his leg. He smacked it and then lay back again. His body felt devoid of energy, his mind unable to think and plan. All he could do was feel awful. He wished there was some way he could get out of the war, but the
re was no way; he was stuck in it for the duration. Lieutenant Horsfall was a dope. Frankie La Barbara was an idiot. The other guys were a bunch of animals, fighting among themselves if no Japs were around to fight. They stole food from mess halls, weapons and ammunition from Ordnance, and booze from rations set aside for officers. Many had done time in civilian life and had the mentality of criminals. And somehow Butsko had to make them into soldiers.
Butsko felt dismal. He wished he could be all alone in an igloo in Alaska, cooling off far from the war. Maybe I'll go to Alaska if I get through this fucking war, he thought.
He closed his eyes and drifted off into a semi-nap, his ears alert for unusual sounds. Nearby was his carbine, ready to fire in case the Japs tried something cute.
On the mountain across from Hill 700, Captain Kashiwagi sat on the branch of a tree and looked at the American lines through his binoculars. He saw the movement of men and trucks and the soldiers digging holes, striking tents, or pitching them.
“Hmm,” he said to his executive officer, Lieutenant Sono. “I wonder what the Americans are up to.”
“Evidently one unit is moving out and another unit is moving in.”
“I know that, but why? Why move out the other unit? They haven't done much yet. Americans need vacations, evidently. They can't hold up to constant front-line pressures.”
“That must be it, sir,” agreed Lieutenant Sono, although he wasn't holding up well to front-line pressures either. He suffered from insomnia and his body was covered with boils. He shifted position on the branch because he had a few of them on his hindquarters.
“I think a night raid might be in order,” Captain Kashiwagi said. “Those new Americans should be shown that Bougainville is no resort.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Lieutenant Sono, although he didn't want to go out on any night raid.
“I will ask Colonel Miura for authorization. You stay here and keep an eye on the Americans.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Kashiwagi tucked his binoculars into their case, then climbed down the tree. When he was close to the ground he jumped, landing squarely on both feet. Rolling his shoulders, he headed toward Colonel Miura's headquarters.
FOUR . . .
Private Joe Gundy, the recon platoon's medic, was sitting in his foxhole, gazing lazily at Private Morris Shilansky, the ex-bank robber, who was piling sandbags around a mortar position.
Gundy had been a postulant at a Trappist monastery in Massachusetts before the war, and had joined the Army because he thought God wanted him to be a combat medic, helping wounded soldiers. He had a strongly religious nature and sometimes had religious visions. He was having one just then about Private Shilansky.
How fortunate I am to be serving in this platoon with such a man, Gundy thought. He comes from the people of Israel, the same people who produced our Lord Jesus Christ. Maybe Christ was a big man like Shilansky, not the frail, effeminate person depicted in Christian art. How much more poignant it is when a big man with muscles everywhere becomes humble and simple and turns the other cheek. Morris Shilansky is without a doubt a holy person deep down.
Gundy watched Corporal Bannon walk up to Shilansky and say something to him. Shilansky snarled and took off his helmet, throwing it onto the ground.
“Why me?” he screamed. “Why do I get trapped for every shitty detail that comes along! What the fuck is this, Get Shilansky Week?”
Shilansky spat on the ground, grumbled something, and picked up his helmet, walking away with his head hanging low, as if going to the scaffold.
Well, thought Gundy, Shilansky's always had a short fuse. Everybody's got his cross to bear, and that's Shilansky's.
Bannon noticed Gundy and walked toward him, a scowl on his face. He unslung his M 1 and stepped into the foxhole with Gundy, sitting down and taking off his helmet.
“I been getting a lot of headaches,” Bannon said. “Am I supposed to be getting a lot of headaches, or do you think something's wrong?”
“You'll probably be getting headaches for the rest of your life,” Gundy told him. “Especially when it's hot or cold or when it's raining. But the pain'll be less as time passes. Don't forget that you had that operation only about six months ago. You want some more aspirin?”
“Aspirin doesn't do a fucking bit of good. I think it makes the headache worse. You got anything stronger?”
“I could give you a shot, I guess.”
“Well, why don'tcha?”
“I'm not supposed to use this stuff except in emergencies.”
“This is an emergency. I can't think straight with this fucking headache.”
“It hurts that bad?”
“I wouldn't ask you if it didn't hurt that bad.”
“Okay, okay. Sit still.” Gundy opened his medicine bag and took out an ampule of morphine. He didn't want to give Bannon a full shot, because it would put him out like a light, but a little would ease his pain. He daubed Bannon's arm with alcohol-soaked cotton, jabbed the ampule in, and squeezed the bottom.
“That oughtta do you for a while,” Gundy said, pulling out the ampule.
“When will the headache go away?”
“A couple of minutes.”
“Good deal.”
Bannon reached for his rifle and heard footsteps. Looking up, he saw Nutsy Gafooley walking toward him.
“Butsko wants to talk to you,” Nutsy said to Bannon.
‘Tell him I'll be right there.”
Nutsy turned around and walked away. Bannon stood and climbed out of the foxhole, heading toward Butsko's foxhole, slinging his M 1 over his shoulder. Glancing around, he saw the men digging holes, piling up sandbags, stringing communications wire. In the distance a detail was cutting down trees and bushes, extending the fields of fire the Marines had made. They were doing it on Butsko's orders, because he liked to keep the Japs as far away as he could.
Bannon felt woozy. The ground rocked underneath him and the trees sagged as if made of rubber. Must be the morphine coming on, he thought. He was accustomed to the effects of morphine, because he'd been shot up with a lot of it since he was wounded on New Georgia. He liked the stuff, and it sure made the pain go away.
The only problem was that it also made him lazy. He was supposed to be tough and vigilant, running his squad with an iron hand, but instead he wanted to lie down and look at the insects crawling on the ground, or stare at his thumb for a few hours.
Butsko wouldn't stand for that, so Bannon had to pull himself together and function like an old trooper. He could do it once he got going. The main thing was to get going.
He found Butsko's foxhole and stumbled in. “You wanted to see me?”
“Be with you in a minute.”
Butsko was looking at a map, drawing lines on the overlay. Nutsy Gafooley talked to somebody on the walkie-talkie. Bannon angled his head downward and looked at his knee. He thought of the bones and blood vessels inside his knee, of the muscles and cartilage, and of how important knees were to a man. If he had no knees, he couldn't walk or even crawl.
“You all right?” Butsko asked.
Bannon blinked and focused on Butsko. “I'm fine.”
“You get some medication from Gundy?”
“Yeah.”
“I think you'd better lay off that shit now that you're in a combat zone. It makes you stupid.”
“Okay.”
Bannon's voice was vague, and Butsko didn't like it. He'd have to talk to Gundy and tell him to stop shooting Bannon up. Butsko had been wounded many times and he knew all about morphine. It wasn't good for a front-line soldier to use it too much.
“You're going out on a patrol with me tonight,” Butsko said. “Frankie, Longtree, O'Rourke, Shaw, Shilansky, Gladley, and Jones are coming with us. Tell them.”
“Okay.”
“Get going.”
Bannon tried to stand, feeling like he was floating in outer space. Maybe Butsko was right. If the Japs suddenly attacked, he'd be in bad shape. It was better to have
the headache.
“Sergeant Butsko?” came the voice of Lieutenant Horsfall.
“Yes, sir?”
Bannon looked up and saw Lieutenant Horsfall standing there, as tall as a giant, his head high in the sky.
“Have you seen my jeep around?” Lieutenant Horsfall asked.
“No, sir,” replied Butsko.
“How about you?” Lieutenant Horsfall asked Bannon.
“Nope.”
“Well, it's gone,” Lieutenant Horsfall said. “Evidently somebody stole it.”
“Naw,” replied Butsko. “Somebody's probably using it for something.”
“Same difference. I think I'd better call the MPs.”
“Don't do that, sir. It'll probably turn up in a few minutes and then you'll look foolish when the MPs get here.”
“Hmmm. Maybe you're right. If you see somebody driving it around, tell them to deliver it to me immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Horsfall turned and walked away. Bannon thought he looked hilarious, with his huge torso on skinny legs. And Horsfall had no ass at all.
Butsko took off his helmet and wiped his forehead with the back of his hairy arm, which itself was covered with sweat and grime. “I wonder who stole his jeep.”
“Not me.”
“I can see that you didn't, you jerk. Why don't you get a cup of coffee and wake up.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
Bannon teetered upward and stumbled away, holding his M 1 in his right hand. Butsko went slack against the wall of his foxhole, feeling weak and weary. / ain't got no energy, he thought. This war is making me an old man before my time. I'm probably coming down with combat fatigue. I wonder who stole Horseballs's jeep.
“Just act normal,” Shilansky said to Homer Gladley, “and if you don't know what normal is, just act like me.”
Homer Gladley nodded. He was sitting in the front seat of Lieutenant Horsfall's jeep with Shilansky; Shilansky was driving. They were on Hill 650, nearing the main supply depot of the Eighty-first Division, the part where food was stored. The depot was in the jungle, with camouflage netting strung over-head in the trees. The ground was full of bumps and potholes, and the two GIs bounced up and down as the jeep rolled closer to the guard, who stood in front of all the crates in that section of the depot.