by Len Levinson
Longtree pulled out his bayonet, sharp as a razor. “I got this.”
“It won't mean shit against Japanese bullets.”
“The Japs won't see me.”
Butsko threw his hands up in the air. “If you wanna go, go. If you wanna be stupid, be stupid. I don't give a fuck. I'm transferring away from you fucking nitwits.”
Bannon snorted. “I'd like to have a nickel for every time you said that.”
“This time I mean it.” He looked at Longtree. “You're going?”
“Yeah.”
“Then go ahead, and watch your ass.”
Longtree nodded, then turned and walked away, bending over, looking at the footprints on the ground. Butsko swung in the opposite direction.
“Let's get out of here,” he said. “We can rest someplace else and wait for daybreak. C'mon.”
He trudged into the jungle and the others followed him. In seconds the clearing was empty except for the imprints of boots and a few drops of Frankie La Barbara's blood drying on blades of grass.
SIX . . .
It still was dark when the Japanese raiding party returned to their camp. They marched into their clearing and faced Captain Kashiwagi. Frankie La Barbara faced forward also, but his eyes roved around the bivouac. Japanese tents were pitched throughout the jungle, and a large tent was straight ahead. Frankie guessed that that one belonged to the big honcho with the sword.
“Sergeant Kato!” Captain Kashiwagi barked. “Front and center!”
Sergeant Kato stepped out of formation and marched stiffly toward Captain Kashiwagi. He stopped abruptly and saluted.
“Sergeant Kato, assign some men to build a barbed-wire compound for the prisoner.”
“Yes, sir.”
‘Tell Lieutenant Sono to report to me immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismiss the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
They saluted, then Captain Kashiwagi walked back to his tent, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He entered his tent, hung up his cap, unbuckled his sword, and laid it on his desk. Then he sat in the chair and pulled off his boots. He had a nasty rope burn around his left leg and thought he ought to let the medic look at it. Peeling off his stockings, he stood and unbuttoned his shirt, throwing it over the back of his chair. On his desk was a bottle of water, and he sat, taking a drink. It was tepid, but satisfied his thrist. He wished he could eat an orange, but the Japanese army didn't get fresh oranges on Bougainville.
Lieutenant Sono entered the tent. “You wished to see me, sir?”
“Yes. Radio General Hyakutake that we've taken an American prisoner. Inquire what we should do with him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And send Private Sasagawa here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Sono strode out of the tent. Captain Kashiwagi took another sip of water. The raiding party hadn't been a success, but at least they'd taken a prisoner. They hadn't been able to raid anything because they'd been occupied with that damned American patrol. Captain Kashiwagi thought of the prisoner. How strange it was to see the enemy close up. Propaganda drawings depicted them as weasel-like creatures, but this one was handsomely muscled and had the appearance of a first-class warrior. If the Americans had more like him, the fight for Bougainville would be very interesting indeed.
Private Sasagawa entered the tent. “You wished to see me, sir?”
“Heat some water and prepare a bath for me. And send the medic in here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Private Sasagawa ran out of the tent. Captain Kashiwagi opened the drawer of his desk and took out a package of cigarettes. Placing one in his mouth, he lit it with a match and leaned back, blowing smoke rings in the air.
At daybreak the recon platoon returned to the Twenty-third Regiment on Hill 700. The men stumbled toward their foxholes while Butsko headed for Lieutenant Horsfall's CP. Suddenly Butsko became aware that somebody was following him. It was Bannon.
“Whatta you want?” Butsko snarled.
“I'm going with you.”
“What for?”
“To make sure you tell it right.”
Butsko turned red. He hunched his shoulders and balled up his fists. “You'd better crawl back to your hole, young Corporal, before I bust every bone in your body.”
Bannon held out his arms and smiled. “Here I stand.”
Butsko thought he'd blow a blood vessel in his head. He wanted to pounce on Bannon and cave in his skull, steel plate and all, but he couldn't do it. Bannon had saved his life once, and that meant Butsko couldn't harm him no matter what. Butsko's shoulders drooped and he sighed.
“Okay . . . come on.”
Silently they walked side by side to Lieutenant Horsfall's foxhole. Lieutenant Horsfall still was asleep, stinking of citronella to keep the bugs away. The whole regiment was sacked out except for guards and cooks. Reveille wouldn't be for another half hour. Lieutenant Horsfall was curled up like a little boy, lying on his side with his knees drawn up to his chest and his hands between his legs.
Butsko dropped into the foxhole and Lieutenant Horsfall jumped two feet into the air, his eyes bugging out of his head and his tongue sticking out.
“Relax,” said Butsko. “It's only me.”
Lieutenant Horsfall looked up at Butsko and then at Bannon, who was stepping into the foxhole. Lieutenant Horsfall sat erect and forced himself to become wide awake, although the dream he'd been having, about naked dancing girls, still rattled around in his head.
“You just got back?” Lieutenant Horsfall asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are Shilansky and Gladley back too?”
“Everybody made it back except Frankie La Barbara. The Japs took him prisoner.”
“Huh?”
“The Japs took Frankie La Barbara prisoner, and he's probably dead by now.”
Bannon shook his head. “There's a good chance he's still alive. We've got to try and get him out of there.”
Lieutenant Horsfall was confused. His principal problem had been the arrest of Shilansky and Homer Gladley; now he had to worry about Frankie La Barbara too? “Hold on—wait a minute. One thing at a time. The MPs have been waiting to arrest Shilansky and Gladley for stealing government property.”
Butsko looked right and left. “Where are the MPs now?”
“They left sometime late last night, but they should be back any time now.”
“I'll handle them,” Butsko said. He turned to Bannon. ‘Tell those two fuck-ups to make themselves scarce.”
“I'll tell them after we finish our report.”
Butsko looked at his watch. “Them MPs might show up any minute. Do you want them to arrest our two morons?”
“You promise you'll give the lieutenant the straight poop?”
“You can trust me, kid.”
Bannon wasn't so sure he could trust Butsko, but thought he ought to warn Shilansky and Homer Gladley. He climbed out of the foxhole and slung his M 1 rifle. “I'll be right back.”
“What straight poop is he talking about?” Lieutenant Horsfall asked, reaching for his pack of cigarettes.
“The kid's a little screwed up this morning. We had a tough patrol. Ran into about fifty Japs, and they took Frankie La Barbara prisoner. I imagine they've killed him by now, but we scouted the Jap positions and got a good picture of the trail network out there.” Butsko took out the map he'd drawn. “Here it is. You should take it to the colonel right away, or would you rather I did that?”
Lieutenant Horsfall looked at the map. He was amazed at the competence of the men in the recon platoon. He couldn't have drawn such a map in a thousand years. “Yes, of course.” He thought a few moments. “How should La Barbara be carried on the morning report?”
“Missing in action.”
“How'd he get taken prisoner?”
“It's a long story. Basically the Japs surrounded us, but all of us managed to get away except for La Barbara, who's a stupid fuckhead
and deserved what happened to him.”
“Everybody else is back okay?”
“Longtree is still out there, tying up some loose ends.”
“What loose ends?”
“Don't worry about it. He'll be back in a little while.”
“Oh. Okay. Anything else?”
“Just remember that when the MPs show up, tell them to talk to me.”
“Right.”
“See you later, Lieutenant. I got things to do.”
“I understand, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Butsko walked away rapidly and purposefully. Lieutenant Horsfall watched him go, wondering what important tasks faced his platoon sergeant. Actually Butsko had nothing important to do. He was just on the way to the latrine to take his morning crap.
As silent as a cat, Longtree made his way through no-man's-land. It was easy to follow the trail in the daylight, but that didn't mean he could speed along. He had to go slow so he could be quiet. It wouldn't do to blunder into a bunch of Japs.
He was hungry, but Indian warriors were taught to disregard pain and deprivation. Longtree was a descendant of the great Apache warrior Mangus, and he took the warrior business seriously. Although Frankie La Barbara was no friend of his, they were fellow warriors, and warriors were supposed to risk everything for each other. The other men didn't understand that attitude. They were just a bunch of farmers and city boys who got drafted into the Army or enlisted out of a patriotism that disappeared after a few weeks of basic training.
Longtree heard the faint sound of a voice up ahead. The sound was so obscure, it could have been the breeze whistling through the leaves above, or his ear might be playing tricks on him. Often he heard buzzes and beeps deep inside his ears. He veered off the trail and crouched behind a tree, listening. A few seconds later he heard the sound again. It definitely sounded like someone up ahead on the trail, talking, and it had to be a Jap. Longtree wanted to get closer to determine whether it was one Jap or more.
Dropping onto his belly, he crawled through the jungle alongside the trail, proceeding slowly so that he wouldn't make noise. He slithered over leaves and across puddles of rainwater and mud. Insects flew around him and landed on his shirt, sticking tiny tubes into him and sucking his blood. The sky above him was filled with large, puffy clouds, and one of them drifted in front of the sun, making the jungle a few shades darker.
He stopped and listened. The sound was much clearer, and he recognized two distinct voices speaking Japanese, shooting the shit like a couple of American GIs. Longtree shook his head disgustedly. Some soldiers simply didn't know how to be quiet.
Longtree knew how to be quiet. He slowed his pace and advanced toward the Japanese soldiers. Sliding over the ground like a snail, it took him twenty minutes to bring the Japanese soldiers within his range of vision. He parted the leaves of some ferns and there they were, sitting cross-legged on the ground, their rifles cradled in their laps, chatting in low tones. They wore soft caps with flaps hanging down over their ears and necks, and thick swathes of cloth were wrapped around their ankles and calves.
Longtree could go around them, but then he'd never know when they might come up behind him on the trail. The only thing to do would be to kill them.
Longtree drew his bayonet and placed its blade between his teeth. He circled around through the jungle, crawling slowly and silently, so that he could attack the Japs from behind. One of the Japs opened his pack and took out chopsticks and a small tin can. He unscrewed the lid and proceeded to eat cold rice. Longtree's mouth watered as he crept closer, and his saliva coated the blade of the bayonet. If he was successful, he'd get that rice for himself; and if he wasn't, it was a good day to die.
He drew closer to the Japanese soldiers. Soon he was only ten feet away. He stopped and took the bayonet out of his mouth, holding it blade-up in his fist. He ran his thumb over the edge. It was sharp enough to shave with. He'd have to be fast and his aim would have to be true. There was no reason to wait; the time had come to kill.
He leaped up and charged the two Japs. They heard him coming and reached for their rifles, but before they could do anything he was on top of them. He kicked the Jap on the left in the face and then slashed down with his bayonet at the other Jap, but that Jap had enough presence of mind to raise his rifle, blocking Longtree's thrust, so Longtree followed up with a swift kick to the balls. The Japanese soldier dropped his rifle and cried out in pain, and Longtree slashed again, severing the Jap's windpipe, sending a spray of blood flying through the air.
The other Jap was still stunned, groping for his rifle. Longtree sidekicked him in the face and sent him crashing to the ground, then dived onto him and thrust his bayonet into the Jap's jugular vein. Blood spurted out like a geyser and Longtree pulled back so that none would fall on him.
He froze and listened, in case other Japs were in the vicinity, but he heard nothing. Wiping his bayonet on the nearest dead Japanese soldier's trouser leg, he inserted the bayonet into its scabbard. He picked up one Arisaka rifle and pulled the ammo pouch off the Jap's belt, fastening it to his own. Rummaging through the Jap's pockets, he found tins of rice and dropped one inside his shirt.
Then he had an idea. He'd noticed long ago that Japanese men and Indians resembled each other somewhat, and thought it might be smart to put on one of the Japanese soldier's uniforms for camouflage. He looked at both the Japs; they were smaller than he, but no living Jap would get close enough to see that the uniform was too small.
Bending over, he unbuttoned the shirt of one of the Japanese soldiers.
Frankie's stomach grumbled and ached. It felt as empty as the Grand Canyon. His mouth and cheek hurt from the beating Butsko had given him. He sat inside a barbed-wire compound ten feet square. The Japs hadn't even dug a hole for him to shit in, but he was also constipated, so it didn't matter.
The hot sun shone down on him and he sweated like a pig. They'd given him no water and his tongue was like flannel. He looked around and saw a Jap guard pacing back and forth a few feet away, his rifle slung over his shoulder and a canteen of water swinging on his hip.
“How about a sip of that water?” Frankie asked, hoping the Japanese soldier could speak English.
But he couldn't. He just looked at Frankie disdainfully, because Japanese soldiers considered it a terrible disgrace to be taken prisoner. They thought anybody who'd let that happen had to be a real low-life.
“Aw, shit,” Frankie mumbled. “Fuck you and the Yankees too.”
A group of soldiers were doing close-order drill on the other side of the clearing, the way American GIs did close-order drill. Frankie never had observed a Japanese military installation from the inside. Except for the language and uniforms and a certain harshness in the way Japs talked with each other, it was substantially like an American military camp.
The Japs had taken Frankie's watch, so he didn't know what time it was. He wondered what they were going to do with him. He thought they'd torture him for a while and then kill him in a terrible, gruesome way. Somehow I've got to get out of here. First chance I get, I'm gonna run.
It was ten o'clock in the morning, and Butsko was sound asleep in his foxhole, snoring like a buzz saw, while all around him the men of the recon platoon who hadn't been on patrol the night before performed their duties. The chow truck had come and gone. Lieutenant Horsfall was at a meeting at Regiment. Nutsy Gafooley jumped into the foxhole with Butsko, and Butsko came to life, reaching for his rifle.
“Those MPs are here!” Nutsy said excitedly. “They're headed this way!”
“Shit,” said Butsko through lips still numb from sleep. He burped, farted, and sat upright in the foxhole, reaching for his canteen. He raised it to his mouth and took a swig, swishing it around in his mouth, then swallowed it.
“Here they come,” said Nutsy.
Butsko turned his head to look over his shoulder and saw them approaching from his rear. “Get lost. I'll take care of them.”
Like a jackrabbit, Nutsy bounde
d out of the foxhole. Butsko reached for his pack of Pall Malls and took the next-to-last one. He lit it with his Zippo and sucked in a huge lungful of smoke that made him dizzy.
“You Sergeant Butsko?” asked the MP master sergeant.
“That's my name.”
“I'm Sergeant Peterson, and this is Sergeant Schneer and Sergeant Glick.”
“What can I do for you?”
“We're looking for Private Morris Shilansky and Private Homer Gladley. We understand they were out on a patrol with you last night.”
Butsko took a deep breath and groaned. He climbed out of the foxhole and faced the MPs, a sorrowful expression on his face. “That's right, they were.”
“Where are they now?”
“Missing in action. Probably dead.”
The MPs looked at each other. They hadn't expected this. “You mean they didn't come back?” Master Sergeant Peterson asked.
“If they're mising in action and probably dead, I guess they didn't come back,” Butsko said dryly.
“Just them two?”
‘Two other men are missing too. It was a tough patrol. Sorry I can't help you.”
“I guess they're all listed on your morning report as missing in action.”
“Naturally.”
“That's all, Sergeant Butsko. Thank you very much.”
“My pleasure.”
The MPs walked back to their jeep, and Butsko wondered if anybody had saved him any chow from breakfast.
At regimental headquarters Bannon approached the desk of Master Sergeant Howard Ramsay, the Twenty-third's sergeant major. Bannon carried his helmet under his arm and was scared to death, because he was intimidated by all the brass wandering around the headquarters area.
Ramsay was a stout man with close-cropped gray hair, of which he didn't have much left on the top of his head. He wore glasses and looked up at Bannon standing in front of him, shifting nervously from one foot to another.
“Whataya want?”
“I wanna see Colonel Stockton, Sergeant.”
“What the fuck for?”
“A personal matter.”