by Len Levinson
“Longtree, whataya think?”
Longtree pointed to one of the trails leading toward the right. “This one.”
Butsko shook his head. “Naw, I don't think so.” He pointed to a trail leading to the left. “I think that one would be best.”
Bannon thought both were wrong. “I think we should take the one in the middle.”
Butsko turned to him. “Who asked you?”
“I don't feel like getting lost.”
Like the rest of them, Bannon was getting cranky. The move to the front, fatigue, and the events of the day and night were taking their toll. Butsko took out his compass; it was still haywire.
“What does your compass say?” he asked Bannon.
Bannon pulled his compass out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. The needle danced round and round on its pivot. “It's fucked up.”
“Just like the guy carrying it.”
Butsko didn't know what to do, but didn't feel like hanging around until it got light. He looked up at the sky. A thick blanket of clouds continued to cover the moon and stars. No break was in sight.
“O'Rourke!”
“Yo!”
“Climb one of these trees around here and see if you can spot Hill 700.”
“Yo!”
Jimmy O'Rourke slung his rifle across his back and looked around. He saw a tree whose branches weren't too high, walked toward it, jumped up, and dug his fingers into the bark while clamping the soles of his feet against the trunk. Reaching up with his hand and lifting a leg, he climbed upward toward the branch. The ex-Hollywood stuntman was an ace at climbing trees, and he knew all the others were watching him, which made him feel wonderful. Ten years in the tinsel city had made him crave recognition and adulation. He thought that if the Army hadn't drafted him, he might have been a star already.
He reached the branch and pulled himself onto it. Above him was another branch, and he leaped up, grabbing it with both his hands. He swung himself back and forth a few times, then launched himself upward, raising his stomach level with the branch. He snaked one foot over the branch, followed with his other foot, and soon was sitting on it. Looking up, he saw that the tree was tall, forty or fifty feet high. He still had a long way to go. Taking a deep breath, he jumped toward the next branch and proceeded to pull himself up.
On the ground, everybody watched him except Frankie La Barbara, whose eyes were fixed on the back of Butsko. Hatred filled Frankie's heart and gurgled underneath his eyeballs. Nobody could mess with Frankie La Barbara and get away with it. It was a matter of honor, and the only way to even the score was to whip Butsko's ass.
Butsko was paying no attention to Frankie. He was wide open for a hit, looking up at Jimmy O'Rourke climbing the tree. Frankie wondered whether to stab Butsko in the back with his bayonet or crown him with his rifle butt. A stab in the back would be messy, and he didn't want to kill Butsko. That would have very serious repercussions. But pounding the shit out of him with a rifle butt seemed like the right thing to do. Frankie thought that would give him great pleasure and would wipe out the stain Butsko had put on his honor.
Frankie unslung his rifle and moved closer to Butsko. Holding the rifle at port arms, he pulled back the butt and prepared to crash it against Butsko's head.
Butsko turned around suddenly, his feet far apart and his knees bent. “I knew you'd pull some shit,” he growled at Frankie. “You're gonna eat that rifle.”
Frankie was astonished by Butsko's sudden move, and he felt a chill run up and down his spine, but he couldn't back down in front of the others. “Up your ass, big Sergeant!”
Butsko lunged forward, quick as a tiger, and grabbed Frankie's rifle with both his hands. Frankie was big and strong and wouldn't let it go. Both men pulled and heaved, trying to wrestle the rifle away from the other, and Frankie soon realized that Butsko was stronger than he. Frankie wouldn't loosen his grip, so Butsko pulled him off his feet and sent him flying through the air.
Frankie still wouldn't let go. He tried to touch the ground with his feet, but Butsko spun around, and centrifugal force kept Frankie up in the air. The rest of the recon platoon watched in awe as Butsko pirouetted, making Frankie fly through the air.
Frankie got dizzier with every turn. If he let go the rifle he'd be launched into space, and who knew where he'd land? Butsko would stomp his head in, but if he held on he'd get dizzier and probably let go in spite of himself.
The only thing to do was let go while he still had some presence of mind. He'd pull his bayonet as soon as he landed and cut off Butsko's leg if Butsko tried to stomp him. Without another thought, Frankie let go of the rifle.
The men crowded around, and Frankie flew into Homer Gladley, who was so huge and heavy that he didn't budge. Frankie bounced off Homer and fell to the ground, dazedly reaching for his bayonet. He pulled it out of its scabbard, but Butsko's boot came up swiftly, knocking the bayonet out of Frankie's hand. Butsko stepped forward and kicked Frankie in the mouth, sending him flying backwards.
Some men fight better when they're hurt, and Frankie was like that. Butsko drew back his leg to kick in Frankie's ribs, and Frankie dived at Butsko's foot, twisting it around and causing Butsko to lose his balance. Butsko fell to the ground, and Frankie, his head still spinning, jumped on top of him; but Frankie's balance was off and he landed two feet to the side of Butsko.
Butsko lunged at Frankie and grabbed his neck. Frankie got under Butsko's arms, heaved, and threw Butsko over his shoulder. Frankie tried to punch Butsko's head off, but he was still disoriented and punched the ground instead, nearly busting his knuckles. He howled in pain and Butsko kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and paralyzing him for a few seconds.
Butsko got to his feet, raised one leg, and pushed it down, aiming for Frankie's nose, but Frankie saw the gigantic combat boot coming at him and rolled out of the way. He saw a rock, picked it up, and threw it at Butsko, but Butsko ducked and the rock bounced harmlessly off the trunk of the tree that Jimmy O'Rourke was in.
Jimmy O'Rourke had stopped climbing and was watching the fight with the rest of them. He saw Butsko and Frankie La Barbara thrash each other around. Frankie picked up a thick branch and clobbered Butsko over the head, but Butsko still had his helmet on and the branch broke harmlessly in half. Butsko drove his left fist into Frankie's stomach, but Frankie's stomach muscles were like belts of steel and it was like punching a solid wall. Butsko hooked up to Frankie's head and Frankie ducked. Butsko's fist flew over Frankie's head; Frankie, from his low position, threw an uppercut at Butsko's balls, but Butsko twisted his torso, and Frankie's fist collided with Butsko's outer thigh.
Something caught Jimmy O'Rourke's eye. He looked ahead and saw movement in the jungle. Through the shadows and branches he saw Japanese soldiers: They were all around the recon platoon, closing the ring quickly!
“Japs!” he screamed. “Look out!”
Butsko's fists were clasped together and were arcing downward like a sledgehammer toward Frankie's skull when Jimmy O'Rourke sounded the warning. It was too late for Butsko to stop, and his fists crashed against the top of Frankie's head, making Frankie see stars. Frankie's eyes rolled around like the oranges in a one-armed bandit. Then the Japanese soldiers broke into the little clearing, aiming their rifles and bayonets at the American soldiers.
“Don't move!” shouted Captain Kashiwagi.
The men in the recon platoon couldn't speak Japanese, but they could understand more or less what he wanted them to do. They froze and their eyes widened at the sight of the Japanese soldiers. Captain Kashiwagi held his samurai sword in his hand and advanced confidently, a crooked smile on his face. The Reverend Billie Jones raised his hands in the air, and so did Sam Long tree. All thought the Japanese officer intended to chop off some heads.
Butsko raised his hands. If the Japs intended to kill them, they would have done so by now. Evidently they wanted prisoners. Make a wrong move and they'd start shooting, but play it cool and you might have a chanc
e to escape. The Japs had captured Butsko twice already, and he'd gotten away both times.
“Look at them!” Captain Kashiwagi said triumphantly. “They were so busy fighting with themselves that they didn't even hear us! This is the poor quality of soldier that we're facing!”
High in the trees, Jimmy O'Rourke watched in horror as the Japanese soldiers took away the weapons belonging to the men from the recon platoon. All the GIs held their hands in the air, following Butsko's example, and the Japanese soldiers pushed them into a single file.
On the ground, Frankie La Barbara opened his eyes and saw a Japanese soldier looking down at him, holding the bayonet on the end of his long Arisaka rifle a few inches from Frankie's nose.
“Get up!” said the Japanese soldier.
Frankie didn't speak Japanese, but he caught the Japanese soldier's drift. Rolling onto his hands and knees, he pushed himself erect. “Where did all the Nips come from?” he asked, wondering if he was dreaming.
“Quiet!” said the Japanese soldier, smashing his rifle butt against Frankie's face.
Frankie's cheek split apart and blood spurted out. He dropped to his knees and shook his head to clear out the fog that had suddenly filled it up.
“Get up!” said the Japanese soldier.
Captain Kashiwagi strutted toward them, holding his samurai sword in both hands. “I'll take care of him.”
Frankie remained on his knees, trying to come to his senses, as Captain Kashiwagi planted his feet solidly on the ground and raised the samurai sword. He'd still have plenty of prisoners after he killed this one, and chopping off his head would expiate his rage.
The pain in Bannon's skull pounded wildly. “Hey, wait a minute!” he shouted, stepping forward.
A Japanese soldier butted him in the face with the end of his rifle, and Bannon went down for the count. Captain Kashiwagi tensed his muscles, ready to bring his samurai sword down and lop off Frankie La Barbara's head. Above them in the tree, Private Jimmy O'Rourke aimed his M 1 at the Japanese officer and squeezed the trigger.
Blam!
The ground exploded at Captain Kashiwagi's feet, and he jumped two feet in the air. Looking up, he saw Jimmy O'Rourke standing on the branch. Captain Kashiwagi pointed at Jimmy O'Rourke, who was slinging his rifle across his back. “There he is! Shoot him!”
The Japanese soldiers aimed their rifles and fired at Jimmy O'Rourke, their bullets slamming into the branch underneath him and the trunk of the tree beside him, but he was already in motion. He jumped onto a vine and swung through the auto the next tree, then found another long, strong vine and swung to another tree. He knew how to do it because he'd been a stuntman in two Tarzan movies in Hollywood, standing in for Johnny Weissmuller because the studio was afraid to let their star do the really dangerous tricks. Bullets whizzed through leaves and branches of each tree he'd just been on, but Jimmy O'Rourke was long gone.
Meanwhile, on the ground, the GIs took advantage of the confusion to flee in all directions. The Japanese soldiers, firing up into the trees, realized that their prisoners were disappearing into the jungle.
“Stop them!” screamed Captain Kashiwagi.
The Japanese soldiers turned around and ran after the GIs, who tore wildly through the jungle, moving as fast as their legs could carry them, dodging and ducking as the Japanese soldiers fired their rifles at them. The GIs dived through bushes, got to their feet, and ran. They jumped over logs, clawed through the dense foliage, fell down, jumped up, and kept going, because they knew their lives were on the line.
The Japanese soldiers couldn't keep up with the GIs and didn't shoot any because of the darkness and erratic running pattern of the Americans. Soon the Americans were gone, melting into the jungle. The only one left was Frankie La Barbara, who was regaining consciousness on his knees in front of Captain Kashiwagi.
Captain Kashiwagi couldn't kill Frankie now. He needed at least one prisoner and Frankie was going to be it. He gazed at Frankie's wide shoulders and muscular biceps, his wavy black hair and handsome features, as if seeing him for the first time. What a powerful-looking fellow he is, Captain Kashiwagi thought.
Sergeant Kato ran up to him, saluting. “Sir, they've all got away.”
“All?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Fools! Idiots! Dolts! How could you let them all get away!”
“It's dark, sir, and—”
“No excuses! I hate excuses!” A drop of water fell on Captain Kashiwagi's hat and he looked up. The sky was dark and it was beginning to rain. “Let's get out of here! Line up the men and place someone in charge of the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.”
With a final lingering glance at Frankie, Captain Kashiwagi walked away, pushing his samurai sword into its scabbard. The Japanese soldiers lined up, and one of them was told to guard Frankie La Barbara. The guard prodded Frankie with his bayonet and made him stand.
Frankie realized he was a prisoner of war, and the Japanese weren't very kind to their prisoners. Frankie knew this because Butsko had told the men many horror stories of the weeks he spent in the big Japanese POW camp on northern Luzon in the Philippines, after Bataan had fallen.
Frankie didn't scare easily, but he was scared. The Japanese soldier pointed and Frankie took his position at the rear of the formation. Sergeant Kato shouted an order, and the Japanese soldiers headed back toward their mountain base. Frankie followed them, his mind swimming with thoughts of torture and doom.
High in a tree, Jimmy O'Rourke watched them go. They were swallowed up by the dark jungle and, after a few minutes, couldn't be heard anymore. Jimmy looked in the opposite direction, where Butsko and the others had fled. No noise was coming from that way either; they were probably hiding in the dense foliage.
Jimmy climbed down the tree, hung from the last branch, and dropped to the ground. He looked around and listened; the jungle was silent except for the sound of crickets and other insects. He cupped his hands around his mouth.
“They're gone!” he called out softly. “You can come out now!”
The head of Sam Longtree appeared from behind a bush, then his body followed. He walked into the clearing, his bayonet in hand. The Japs hadn't had time to take away bayonets. Longtree looked at his watch. It was three-thirty in the morning.
“Where's everybody else?” Jimmy O'Rourke asked.
“Around here someplace.”
Bannon was the next to walk into the clearing, bareheaded because he'd lost his helmet somewhere along the way. Butsko pushed his way through some bushes and stepped into the clearing, his features twisted into a scowl. Then Homer Gladley and the Reverend Billie Jones appeared. Butsko looked around and counted heads. Everybody was there except Frankie La Barbara.
“The Japs get the scumbag?” Butsko asked. “Anybody see what happened?”
“They took him away,” said Jimmy O'Rourke.
“Was he walking?”
“Yeah.”
‘Too bad.” Butsko wiped his nose and mouth with the palm of his hand. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”
“What about Frankie?” asked Bannon.
“What about him?”
“Aren't we gonna try to get him back?”
“Who the fuck wants him back?”
“I do.”
“What for? He's no good, he's never been any good, and he never will be any good.”
“That's what you say about all of us.”
“It's true about all of you, but especially about that piece of shit.”
Shilansky raised his hands in supplication. “C'mon, Sarge, we gotta do something.”
“What can we do? The Japs got him and I hope they cut his fucking head off.”
Homer Gladley grinned. “Aw, Sarge, you don't mean that.”
“Oh, yes I do.”
The Reverend Billie Jones pulled out his handy pocket Bible. “The Lord says we should forgive our enemies.”
“Shove that Bible up your ass.”
“Listen,” said B
annon, “what do you think the other guys in the platoon'll say when they find out we left Frankie behind.”
“Who cares what those stupid bastards think?” Butsko spat a lunger onto the ground. “Let's get going.”
“Sarge,” said Bannon, “what'll you think Colonel Stockton will say when you tell him we didn't do anything to get Frankie back?”
“I'll tell him there's nothing we could do. Do you think we can do something?”
“We can track those Japs and find out where they're taking him. Then maybe we can get him out of there.”
“We ain't got no weapons.”
“We can go back and get whatever we need, including more men.”
“He'll probably be dead by then.”
“Maybe not. Don't forget that when you were taken prisoner on Guadalcanal, Frankie was one of the ones who helped you escape.”
Butsko closed his eyes and groaned. Bannon would have to bring that up. It was true: Frankie had been part of the group that liberated him after he'd been captured near Tassafaronga Point.
“I hate you guys,” Butsko said. “Every minute I hate you a little bit more. When this shit is over, I'm transferring out of the recon platoon. I don't care where they send me, I want out. You guys make me sick, and I hope Frankie La Barbara's body is in one place right now and his head is in some other place.”
Longtree stepped forward. “I'll volunteer to track the Japs.”
“They'll probably get you too.”
“No they won't.”
“I bet a few Japs are waiting to ambush anybody who might try to follow them.”
“They won't see me.”
“Who do you think you are, the Invisible Man? Besides, why do you wanna risk your ass for Frankie La Barbara? He doesn't even like you!”
“I don't like him, either, but we must try to get him back.”
“Fucking crazy Indian.” Butsko shook his head in exasperation. He wanted to smoke a cigarette but didn't dare because it was still dark. “You ain't even got a weapon.”