Do or Die

by Len Levinson

  The officers drew their swords and pistols and brandished them, thinking they could change the course of the war if they defeated the Americans on Bougainville, and bring honor and glory to the Land of the Rising Sun.

  Lieutenant General Masatane Kanda, the commander of the notorious Sixth Division, raised his hand. “May I speak, sir?”

  “By all means, General.”

  General Kanda placed his hands on his hips and opened his mouth. “This is a crucial campaign!” he said. “Let us have no doubts about that! Defeat is unthinkable! Victory must be ours, and it will be ours if we fight with every ounce of strength in our bodies! We must fight to avenge the shame of our country's humiliation on Guadalcanal and New Georgia! There can be no rest until our bastard foes are battered and bowed in shame, until their blood adds luster to the badge of the Sixth Division! Our battle cry will be heard around the world! Our courage will be spoken of for centuries to come! Our victory will change the direction of history! We must not fail! We cannot fail! There will be no retreats! There will be no surrender! Every officer and man will fight to the death!” General Kanda, his face flushed with emotion, raised his samurai sword high in the air. “Banzai!”

  The other officers shook their swords and pistols truculently. “Banzai!” they replied. “Banzai!”

  That afternoon Colonel Hutchins unpacked his duffel bag, and one of the items he pulled out was a photograph of himself as a young lieutenant in the Argonne Forest during World War One.

  He gazed at the photograph for several seconds, then walked ‘ across his office and set it on his desk.

  Usually officers placed photographs of their wives and children on their desks, but Colonel Hutchins had no wife and no children that he knew about. Colonel Hutchins wasn't a family man. He was a drunk, a whoremaster, and a gambler. He was married to the Army—loved it as much as any man loved his wife—and it exasperated him at times, just as men got exasperated by their wives.

  He sat at the desk, rested his chin on his hand, and studied himself in the photograph. When it was taken, he'd been only twenty-two years old, lean as a rail, full of energy and confidence, raring to go at all times, and the strongest beverage he had ever drunk was black coffee in the morning.

  Now he was forty-six, with a big beer belly; he was plagued by doubts and drunk all the time. What happened to me? he wondered. I've gone downhill so fast, it scares the shit out of me.

  Those long years of peacetime boredom had done him in. There was nothing else to do except drink and eat and go to whorehouses. Butsko had taken him to a couple of good ones in Manila before the Japs arrived. Colonel Hutchins had become lazy. The military system had ground him down. He didn't graduate from West Point and knew they'd never make him a general. He also knew that most officers looked down at him because he was such a drunken bum, without a good education or background, a redneck from Arkansas.

  The picture of himself traveled with him wherever he went to remind him of when he'd been a sharp young soldier. He might be older and thick around the middle now, but he knew that the young lieutenant was still inside him, and all Colonel Hutchins had to do was let him come out.

  The phone on his desk rang, scattering his thoughts. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Lieutenant Breckenridge is here to see you, sir.”

  “Who the hell's he?”

  “He used to be in this regiment, sir. He was Butsko's platoon leader.”

  “Was he any good?”

  “Butsko liked him.”

  “Send him in.”

  Colonel Hutchins plucked his flask off his desk and tucked it into his back pocket. The tent flap was pushed aside and big Lieutenant Breckenridge ducked his head as he entered the office. He approached the desk and saluted, and Colonel Hutchins thought: This guy looks like he could stop a tank with his bare hands.

  “Have a seat,” said Colonel Hutchins. “What can I do for you?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge laid his records on the desk, then sat down. “Well, sir, I used to be in this outfit, and I requested a transfer back.”

  “Where you been?”

  “Training recruits at Fort Dix.”

  “How come you left this outfit?”

  “I was wounded on New Georgia, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Stomach.”

  Colonel Hutchins grimaced. “You're okay now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why you want to come back here?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked down toward the floor. “It's hard to explain, sir. I just felt that my place was with my men. I felt like a slacker back there in Fort Dix.”

  Colonel Hutchins nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean. A soldier gets to thinking that he's not doing his duty. He misses his buddies and worries about them. He feels like he's not worth much. Do you drink, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Have one on me.” Colonel Hutchins threw him the flask. “You used to run the recon platoon, I understand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Butsko's an old friend of mine. We fought in the Philippines together. I understand you got along with him pretty good.”

  “Butsko's a great soldier. He taught me a lot.”

  “I learned a few things from him too. You'll be the platoon leader of the recon platoon again, effective tomorrow morning. We're expecting a big fight pretty soon, so get yourself ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  ‘Toss back that flask, will you, boy? Save some for your old colonel, for Chrissakes!”

  The motorcycle and sidecar stopped in front of Captain Kashiwagi's tent, and Captain Kashiwagi climbed out of the sidecar.

  Sergeant Kato straddled the motorcycle, goggles over his eyes, twisting the accelerater handle so that the engine wouldn't conk out.

  Captain Kashiwagi pulled up his goggles. “You're dismissed!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Sergeant Kato twisted the handle and the motorcycle's engine snarled. Its rear wheel spun on the ground and it leaped away like a gazelle. Captain kashiwagi entered his tent, hung up his goggles and hat, and paced back and forth in front of his desk, because he was too excited to sit down.

  He'd just returned from a meeting at Colonel Miura's headquarters, where he'd learned the mission of his company in the upcoming major offensive. All his prayers had been answered; his company would participate in the attack on Hill 700, directly opposite his position.

  He wanted to attack Hill 700 because he believed the perfidious American soldier was stationed there. Although the wounds on his face and head were healed, the wounds to his heart and psyche were still there. He'd longed for the opportunity to attack that hill, so maybe he could confront the American soldier again and kill him this time. He'd been foolish and sentimental before. He'd thought he could be friends with the American. But now he knew better. The only way to treat Americans was to kill them before they killed you.

  Captain Kashiwagi dropped to his knees, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head. He prayed for victory over the Americans on Hill 700, and hoped the perfidious American was still stationed over there, so he could kill him this time and remove the only blemish on his otherwise pristine military career.

  Frankie La Barbara was on Hill 700 at that moment, watching Butsko carrying an OD green five-gallon can on his shoulder.

  “What the hell's he got in there?” Frankie wondered aloud. Frankie sauntered toward Butsko's foxhole as Butsko jumped into it and got real low, as if he were hiding something. Frankie slowed down as he approached the foxhole, so Butsko couldn't see him. He advanced on his tiptoes, wrinkled his nose, and snuck close enough to see Butsko pouring liquid from the five-gallon tank into his canteen.

  Butsko became aware of Frankie and glanced up, spilling some of the colorless liquid onto the ground. “What're you doing here?”

  “Nothing,” Frankie replied, sniffing the unmistakable odor of homemade booze, the highly popular jungle juice. “Whatcha got th
ere, Sarge?”

  “None of your business. Take a walk.”

  “Smells like jungle juice to me.”

  “I said take a walk.”

  “Can 1 have some, Sarge?”

  “Get lost.”

  “But, Sarge...”

  A whoop went up at the other end of the clearing. Butsko and Frankie looked over there, and their eyes goggled at the sight of GIs crowding around their ex-platoon leader.

  “It's Lieutenant Breckenridge!” said Frankie.

  “I'll be a son of a bitch!”

  Butsko climbed out of his foxhole and took three steps toward Lieutenant Breckenridge, then stopped because he realized he'd left the can of jungle juice in there, and it wouldn't be there when he got back. He jumped back into the foxhole, picked up the can, and dragged it out, hoisting it to his shoulder. He ambled toward the crowd gathering around Lieutenant Breckenridge, and Frankie walked behind him, his nose twitching at the smell of jungle juice that had dripped onto the side of the can when Butsko was pouring.

  The men slapped Lieutenant Breckenridge on the back and told him they were glad he was back. They said he was looking great and asked if he had got any good pussy back in the States. Lieutenant Breckenridge laughed and joked with them, at ease for the first time since he woke up in that hospital bed. He was back at the front with his men, where he belonged. He saw Sergeant Butsko approaching.

  “Well, here he is,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, “the toughest soldier in the world.”

  “What're you doing back here?” Butsko asked.

  “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “I ain't doing so good.”

  “What's the matter?”

  “These guys are getting out of control. I been thinking about transferring out of here.”

  “You can't go now that I'm back, Sergeant. How'm I gonna run this platoon without you? What you got in that can there?”

  “This can here?”

  “Yes, that one there.”

  Butsko didn't know what to say. He couldn't admit the truth.

  Frankie knew what to say. “It's goddamn jungle juice, and he's keeping it all to himself, the chintzy bastard.”

  “Jungle juice!” hollered the Reverend Billie Jones. “Lemme have some!”

  He dived toward the can on Butsko's shoulder, and Butsko kicked him in the gut. The Reverend Billie Jones keeled over and fell to the ground.

  “See what I mean?” Butsko asked. “These guys have gone crazy.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge cleared his throat. “I want to speak with Sergeant Butsko alone! All you guys clear out of here!” He pointed toward the Reverend Billie Jones. “Somebody carry him away!”

  Homer Gladley lifted Billie Jones as if he were as light as a feather, and the men dispersed, looking back over their shoulders at Butsko and Lieutenant Breckenridge, wondering what they'd say to each other.

  “If you can't keep them under control,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, “things must be pretty bad.”

  “They are,” replied Butsko. “I nearly killed Frankie La Barbara not too long ago, and all the rest of them are acting up worse than ever. I think about the only thing that can be done with this platoon now is line ‘em up against the wall and mow ‘em down.”

  “I think I know what's the matter.” Lieutenant Breckenridge looked around at the men in the distance. “Have them stand formation at seventeen-hundred hours today, just before chow. I want to talk with them.”

  “Yes, sir, but it won't do no good. These guys are past the talking stage. The only thing they understand are fists, boots, and the barrels of guns.”

  Butsko staggered into Sergeant Major Ramsay's orderly room, carrying the five-gallon can of jungle juice. His feet were unsteady, not because the can was heavy, but because he'd imbibed too much of its contents.

  “The colonel in?” Butsko asked.

  “He said to send you in as soon as you got here.”

  Butsko pushed aside the tent flap and entered Colonel Hutchins's office. The colonel was seated behind his desk, looking at a paper containing top-secret information, and his eyes lit up at the sight of Butsko.

  “You got the goods?” the colonel asked.

  “Damn sure have.”

  “Lemme see.”

  Butsko placed the can on the floor beside the colonel, who unscrewed the cap, bent over, and sniffed the contents.

  “Smells pretty potent.”

  “It is.”

  “You sample it already?”

  “Yep.”

  “Taste okay?”

  “It's your regular white lightning, sir. Knock you right on your ass.”

  Colonel Hutchins took a small funnel out of the top drawer of his desk, inserted it into his hip flask, and lifted the can, pouring the concoction into the mouth of the funnel.

  “You did a good job,” Colonel Hutchins said, a big smile on his face. “How much this cost?”

  “It's on the house. The mess sergeant of George Company sent it along with his compliments.”

  The colonel filled the flask, sat behind his desk, and took a swig. He let the burning liquid roll over his tongue, then swallowed it down.

  “Not bad at all. Please convey my thanks to the mess ser-geant at George Company. What's his name?”

  “Snead. Al Snead. And he makes a helluva beef stew.”

  “Maybe I oughtta transfer the son of a bitch up here to Headquarters Company.”

  “Might not be a bad idea.”

  Colonel Hutchins wrote a message on his notepad to remind him to effect the transfer. His eyes fell on the top-secret information that he had been looking at when Butsko arrived.

  “Some bad news just came in,” Colonel Hutchins said. “Reports of major Jap troop movements all over the island. Jap patrols have been cutting our barbed wire. Our patrols keep bumping into substantial columns of Japs. Looks like the Japs are getting ready to strike. You might want to take a truck down to the beach and get one last load of supplies.”

  “I'll leave as soon as I can report back to Lieutenant Breckenridge.”

  “They'll probably attack tonight or tomorrow morning, so hurry back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins raised his flask off the desk. “You wanna sip of this before you leave?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Butsko rushed back to the recon platoon and reported to Lieutenant Breckenridge, who sat in a foxhole, studying a map, familiarizing himself with the terrain.

  “Sir,” said Butsko, “I just came from Colonel Hutchins's office. He says the Japs might launch a major attack tonight or tomorrow morning. I'm gonna take a deuce and a half back to the beach to get some more supplies, just in case.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. He felt a tingling in his nerve endings, a liveliness in his mind. It was the old front-line adrenaline rushing through his body, just like in the old days on New Georgia.

  “Maybe we'd better have that formation right now,” he said.

  “I'll call the men together.”

  “You been drinking?”

  “Do I act like it?”

  “No, but you smell like the corner bar on a Saturday night.”

  “I'm at my best when I've got a few belts in me.”

  “You smell like you've got more than a few belts in you.”

  “I'll call the men together, sir.”

  Butsko climbed out of the foxhole and walked toward the center of the clearing. Lieutenant Breckenridge watched his gait and it looked steady, but he didn't want his platoon sergeant getting too looped. No one functioned better with a few belts in him.

  “All right, you guys, fall in right here! Let's go!” Butsko waved his arms and stomped his feet. “Double-time, god-damnit! I said fall the fuck in!”

  The men headed toward Butsko from all ends of the bivouac. They lined up in four squad ranks, dressed right, covered down, and stood at attention. Butsko looked them over, scowling and
stinking like a distillery.

  “Report!” Butsko yelled.

  Bannon saluted sharply. “First Squad all present and accounted for, Sergeant!”

  Butsko saluted back, and then Longtree reported. Sergeant Gomez was next, and then came Sergeant Cameron. Butsko kicked back his right leg and did a smart about-face. Lieutenant Breckenridge marched toward Butsko and stopped two feet in front of him.

  Butsko saluted. “Reconnaissance platoon all present and accounted for, sir!”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge saluted back. “At Ease!”

  The men spread their legs and clasped their hands behind their backs. Lieutenant Breckenridge, his carbine slung over his right shoulder, walked toward them, seeing familiar faces and new replacements all mixed together. The old crew— Bannon, Longtree, Gomez, Shaw, and the others—had been with him during his baptism of fire on New Georgia. They had followed him trustingly and he had given them the best he had until he was shot down during the assault on Kokengolo Hill.

  He stopped, pulled back his shoulders, and opened his mouth. “First of all, I want to say that I'm glad to be back with this platoon! The rest of the division may think you're a bunch of dirty rat bastards, but I've fought side by side with many of you and I think you're the best the Army has!

  “Sergeant Butsko has told me that discipline has been lax in this platoon during the past couple of months. He's told me that some of you have been behaving like hooligans instead of soldiers. He said it's got so bad that he's been waiting to transfer out of here.