by Len Levinson
“Go talk it over with the chaplain. The colonel's got better things to do.”
“It's important.”
“You trying to say that the chaplain doesn't listen to important things?”
“It's not a religious matter,” Bannon explained nervously. “You see, we were out on patrol last night and one of our men was taken prisoner. I wanna get Colonel Stockton's permission to get him back.”
“You talk it over already with Butsko?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“What he say?”
“He said no.”
“Then it's no.”
“But I'm sure if Colonel Stockton knew the situation, he'd do something about it.”
“I already told you that Colonel Stockton's got more important things to do.”
“But, Sergeant—”
“Hit the road, young Corporal, before you make me mad.”
“But Sergeant, if only—”
Master Sergeant Ramsay's face turned to stone. “I said get out of here, and I ain't gonna tell you again.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Bannon walked out of the tent just as a jeep pulled up in front of it. Three MPs got out and entered the tent, approaching Master Sergeant Ramsay's desk.
“We'd like to take a look at the morning report from Head quarters Company,” said Master Sergeant Peterson.
All of the regiment's morning reports had already gone to Division, but Ramsay kept copies, although they hadn't been filed yet. He lifted them from his Out box and found the one from Headquarters Company, handing it to Peterson.
“Any problem?” he asked.
‘Tell you in a minute.”
The MPs huddled around the morning report. Frankie La Barbara, Sam Longtree, Homer Gladley, and Morris Shilansky were all listed as missing in action.
“Well,” said Sergeant Peterson, “I guess the case is closed.” He gave the morning report to Sergeant Ramsay. “There's no problem. Thanks a lot.”
The MPs walked out of the tent, and Ramsay tossed the morning report back into his Out box. I hope I can get some work done without any more interruptions, he thought.
Captain Kashiwagi awoke at noon and swung his feet to the floor. “Private Sasagawa!” he screamed.
His small, skinny aide ran into the tent. “Yes, sir!”
“Have Lieutenant Sono report to me immediately! Bring me breakfast! Hurry!”
“Yes, sir!”
Private Sasagawa ran outside. Captain Kashiwagi washed his face and hands in the basin on a stand in the corner of his tent, then put on a clean pair of pants. Lieutenant Sono arrived and saluted.
“You wished to see me, sir!”
“Any news from General Hyakutake's headquarters about the prisoner?”
“They're sending an intelligence officer. He should arrive sometime this afternoon.”
“Anything else to report?”
“No, sir.”
“How's the prisoner?”
“Last time I looked, he was sleeping.”
“Good. That is all. You're dismissed.”
Lieutenant Sono withdrew. Captain Kashiwagi laced on his boots. Private Sasagawa returned with a platter of rice in vinegar sauce and some fish that had been canned. He placed the platter on Captain Kashiwagi's desk and sped off.
Captain Kashiwagi sat and devoured the food, washing it down with water. He could have drunk sake but didn't like to use alcohol early in the day, because it and the heat made him drowsier then he would normally be. After his meal he donned the rest of his uniform, put on his hat, and walked outside, heading for the new prisoner compound.
It was near the middle of the clearing and the sun shone directly on it. The prisoner lay on his stomach, resting his head on his arm. Captain Kashiwagi drew closer, studying Frankie La Barbara.
Frankie heard footsteps and opened an eye. He saw a Japanese officer in a spiffy ironed uniform, gazing at him intently, and he realized it was the same officer who had been in charge of the Japs who had taken him prisoner the previous night. The Japanese officer stopped, crossed his arms over his chest, and observed Frankie as if he were an animal in a cage.
Frankie sat up and checked out the officer. He was bigger than most Japs and quite muscular, maybe twenty-eight years old. He looks like he's trying to figure out how to kill me. Frankie was sweating, and now he sweat even more.
Captain Kashiwagi saw how Frankie's uniform was plastered to his body with sweat, and admired his bulging muscles and swarthy features. Captain Kashiwagi had been taught to think westerners were ugly, but this one was a magnificent specimen, although not as attractive as a Japanese, of course. Still, he had a special something. The prisoner's warrior spirit shone through, even if he was an American.
Captain Kashiwagi noticed that no shade fell on the American, and he appeared to be in distress. Somehow it made the American appear martyrlike. One should not let a fellow warrior suffer, even if he was an American.
“Guard!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Get Lieutenant Sono for me!”
“Yes, sir!”
The guard held his rifle at port arms and ran off. Captain Kashiwagi continued to stare at Frankie La Barbara, looking him up and down, and with shocking suddenness Frankie La Barbara got the message. This son of a bitch likes me, he realized.
Frankie wasn't surprised. Back in New York City he had countless girl friends and a beautiful young wife who adored him and put up with all of his shit. Wherever he went he had no trouble seducing women, and sometimes they seduced him before he even got started on them. Many women had told him that he resembled the popular actor Victor Mature. Gentlemen of the homosexual persuasion tried to pick him up all the time.
Lieutenant Sono came running across the clearing, halting in front of Captain Kashiwagi and saluting. “Yes, sir?”
“Why is this man here in the sun?”
“It was felt that it would be harder for him to escape here in the middle of the clearing. To give him shade, we'd have to keep him close to the jungle, and perhaps he would slip away somehow.”
“I see. Well, we want to keep him alive for the interrogator on his way here from General Hyakutake's headquarters. Have the men erect a structure of some sort above this prisoner, to provide shade. I don't suppose he's been given anything to eat?”
“No, sir.”
“See that he's fed and give him water.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have a hole dug so he can move his bowels decently.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry out your orders.”
Lieutenant Sono ran off and the guard resumed his former position. Captain Kashiwagi returned his gaze to Frankie, who decided to flirt with him. He didn't know if it'd do any good, but it'd be worth a try. Maybe Frankie could make the Jap think he had the hots for him, too, and maybe the Jap would open the gate. Then Frankie would take off for the jungle like a bat out of hell.
Frankie raised his face and smiled at Captain Kashiwagi. He winked and pursed his lips in a kiss.
Captain Kashiwagi's jaw dropped open and he turned a dark shade of green. Balling up his fists, he turned and marched resolutely across the clearing, entering his tent and closing the flap behind him.
He was in a state of extreme agitation. Until Frankie winked at him, Captain Kashiwagi had been able to think that he was just one warrior admiring the physical development of another; but when Frankie winked and blew the kiss, he'd felt a strange lustful feeling that scared him half to death. I can't be that way, Captain Kashiwagi thought. It's impossible.
He lurched toward his desk and opened the drawer, pulling out his bottle of sake. Unscrewing the top, he raised the bottle to his lips and froze. What am I doing? Have I gone mad?
He tried to pull himself together. It must be the heat. It was normal for him, a samurai, to admire other warriors. What was wrong with that? He looked at his watch. I haven't done my workout yet. I'd better do my workout.
Captain Kashiwa
gi took off his uniform and changed into his karate uniform. Barefooted, he squared his shoulders and went outside to run through a few katas and punch a few trees. He tried not to think of the handsome American prisoner, but a vision of the man continued to float tantalizingly before his eyes.
Butsko sat in his foxhole and gnawed on a one-pound chunk of stolen ham. They'd buried most of the hams in the jungle and taken only a few with them on the patrol yesterday. Next to him was a package of K rations torn open and his canteen sitting in the dirt.
He heard a stampede of footsteps and turned around. What he saw caused him to stop chewing. The entire reconnaissance platoon was walking toward him, with Bannon and Sergeant Cameron in front. What's this? Butsko wondered.
The recon platoon approached Butsko, who took a bite out of the ham. I'm not gonna get up for those assholes, he thought. I'm just gonna keep doing what I'm doing. The men came closer and surrounded his foxhole. Butsko made believe they weren't there. He swallowed down a mouthful of ham, bit off half a cracker, and raised his canteen to his lips, taking a few gulps, making his Adam's apple bounce up and down.
“We wanna talk to you,” said Bannon.
Butsko grunted and bit off a chunk of ham. “Well, I don't wanna talk to you,” he said through a mouthful of the smoked pig meat. “Don't you guys have work to do?”
“We wanna go get Frankie La Barbara, and we want your permission. You don't haveta go with us. Just give us permission.”
Butsko shook his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don't haveta answer your questions. You guys'd better get back to work. What is this bullshit anyway?”
“C'mon, Sarge,” said Bannon. “Let us go.”
“Yeah,” added Morris Shilansky. “Don't be such a prick.”
Butsko looked up at them. “You guys'd better get back to work before you make me mad.”
Sergeant Cameron shrugged. “They're going after Frankie whether you give them permission or not, so why don't you give them permission?”
“Because I think it's a stupid thing to do and I don't wanna take the responsibility. You wanna take the responsibility, you give them permission.”
“I can't give them permission. I'm not the platoon sergeant.”
“Then shut the fuck up.”
“What a prick you are,” said Shaw.
“Yeah,” said Nutsy Gafooley.
“Yeah,” agreed Jimmy O'Rourke.
“The Lord said we must help our brothers,” said the Reverend Billie Jones.
“Frankie ain't my brother.”
“Maybe not,” said Bannon, “but Frankie was one of the guys who freed you when the Japs had you on Guadalcanal. Is this any way to pay him back?”
“That was different.”
“Why was it different?”
“Because he was following orders. That goldbrick wouldn't lift a finger for anybody if he didn't get a direct order.”
“Maybe so, but he was there all the same.”
“Yeah,” said Homer Gladley.
Butsko looked around at all his men. “I hate you fucking guys. You don't even let me eat in peace.”
“You don't have to like us,” Bannon said. “Just give us permission so we won't get in trouble.”
“If I give you permission and you all get killed, then I'll get in trouble.”
“We won't get killed. We'll be real careful.”
“Who's gonna be in charge?”
“Me,” said Bannon.
“You?”
“Yeah, me.”
Butsko laughed. “What a joke. The blind leading the blind. Gimme a break.”
“Okay,” Bannon said. “We just thought we'd ask. Now we'll do what we gotta do.” They turned to walk away.
“Wait a minute!” said Butsko.
They stopped.
“Are all of you jerks going out to get Frankie?”
“Just six of us,” Bannon said.
“He's probably dead, you know.”
“Maybe not.”
“You don't even know where he is. Longtree hasn't come back yet.”
“He'll be back in a little while.”
“He might be dead too.”
“If he ain't, and if he found out where Frankie is, we're gonna go get Frankie tonight.”
Butsko shrugged. “If you wanna go get killed, that's okay by me. I'm sick of you guys anyways. I just don't wanna know anything about it, and as far as I'm concerned, this conversation never took place. Got it?”
“I got it,” Bannon said.
“Good. Get the fuck away from me and lemme finish my breakfast.”
SEVEN . . .
Beside his tent, Captain Kashiwagi leaped through the air, punching and kicking. He wore his white karate pants and black belt with no shirt, and was barefoot on the jungle floor, which had been leveled and was kept free of twigs and stones by a detail of soldiers every day.
He performed a few katas, spinning and lunging, demolishing imaginary opponents. Sweating profusely, taking deep breaths, he was reminded of the havoc he'd wreaked on the Chinese citizens of Nanking, and how much pleasure it had given him. Somehow those thoughts fused with images of the captured American soldier, exciting Captain Kashiwagi and giving him increased energy. He stood flat-footed in front of a tree, bent his legs, and pounded his fists against the rough bark, to build up the calluses on his knuckles. Grunting, perspiration trickling down his cheeks, he punched the tree, feeling the solid jolts in his arms and shoulders. He turned, jumped up, and threw a flurry of karate punches so quickly, his fists were a blur. He kicked an imaginary adversary behind him, kicked one beside him, and jabbed the extended fingers of his right hand between the ribs of an opponent in front of him, jerking back and pulling out bones and lungs.
In the middle of the clearing, beneath a roof of leaves that Japanese soldiers were building, Frankie ate rice with his fingers and watched Captain Kashiwagi work out. That guy is a fucking maniac, Frankie thought. He's nobody to mess with. I'd better be real careful when I'm around him.
Frankie knew he'd have no chance against Captain Kashiwagi hand-to-hand, but Frankie was a big, tough guy and he didn't always play fair. If he could be alone with the Japanese officer, he might be able to distract him and then cold-conk him. He'd take away Captain Kashiwagi's gun and shoot the son of a bitch.
Captain Kashiwagi used the blade of his hand like a hatchet and split apart an imaginary soldier's skull, just as he'd split the skulls of unarmed men and women in Nanking. He drilled his fist into a soldier's solar plexus, paralyzing him, just as he'd paralyzed the citizens of Nanking. During those wonderful days of rape and carnage, he'd learned for the first time that his karate techniques actually worked on real people, that he could chop up and tear apart human beings with his bare hands.
His workout lasted for a half hour, then he got down on his knees and bowed in reverence to the Emperor and the pantheon of Shinto gods. Standing, he walked into his tent to take a bath in water that Private Sasagawa was preparing.
“Is it ready?” asked Captain Kashiwagi, untying his black belt.
“Yes, sir.”
“You may leave.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Kashiwagi dropped his karate pants and stepped into the small tin tub, sitting down. The water was cool, just the way he liked it in hot weather. He closed his eyes and went limp in the tub, his knees sticking up in the air. His thoughts drifted out to the American prisoner in the barbed-wire compound. I've got to calm down, Captain Kashiwagi told himself. I mustn't turn this situation into a crisis or a tragedy. Whatever will be will be.
In the compound, Frankie put down his empty bowl and picked up the jug of water, taking a swig. He still felt hot, but at least the sun wasn't shining directly on him anymore. The Japanese soldiers were finishing their work on the thatched roof, chattering among themselves while a sergeant issued orders. The roof was supported on four posts dug into the ground, and the posts were far enough from Frankie so
that he couldn't climb up them and get away.
Now Frankie needed a cigarette. “Hey, boys!” he said to the Japanese soldiers. He held two fingers against his mouth and moved them back and forth as if smoking.
The Japanese soldiers looked at him, then at each other. They didn't know what to do. On one hand he was a hated American, especially despicable because he'd surrendered; but on the other hand, he'd been around for a while and they were getting used to him, seeing that he was a human being and a soldier more or less like them.
The sergeant said something, then took out a cigarette, lit it, and tossed it into the compound, where it landed near Frankie's feet.
“Thanks, cocksucker,” Frankie said, picking up the cigarette and putting it in his mouth. He took a drag. It tasted exotic, because it was a Japanese cigarette, but it satisfied him.
Things are going okay, Frankie thought, sitting cross-legged in the middle of his compound. His stomach was full, he wasn't thirsty anymore, he had some shade, and he'd even managed to bum a cigarette off his Jap captors. Frankie figured that the Japanese army was like the American army: Everything came down from the top. The Japanese officer was treating him well, so the men were nice to him too.
Frankie looked at the tent into which the Japanese officer had gone. I bet the silly son of a bitch tries to mess with me pretty soon, he thought. When he does, I'll knock him out when he's not looking, take his gun, and shoot my fucking way out of here.
As Frankie puffed his cigarette Corporal Sam Longtree watched him from behind a bush at the edge of the clearing. Longtree lay on his stomach. Beside him was the Japanese Arisaka rifle he'd taken from one of the Japanese soldiers he'd run into on the trail. Their hand grenades were in his pockets. He'd encountered other Japanese patrols, but he'd avoided them and then slipped through the Japanese defensive perimeter outside the camp—not too difficult a task because the Japanese weren't too vigilant; they weren't expecting a silent American Indian to pass through that afternoon.
Longtree lay still as his eyes roved around the encampment, noting the position of tents, the soldiers working on the roof over Frankie's head, the guard pacing back and forth in front of Frankie. Longtree wondered whether to wait for night to try to release Frankie, or attack after the soldiers were finished with the roof.