Down and Dirty

by Len Levinson

  He came like a demolition charge with a long fuse. His orgasm fizzled and sizzled, sending sparks through the tissues of his skin, and then the flame touched his main charge and he exploded. His cream shot into her mouth, and she swallowed furiously but couldn't contain it all. It dribbled down her chin and still she kept sucking, draining him dry. Spasms racked his body, and the head of his cock tingled maddeningly. He bucked like a wild bronco and she held on like a rodeo rider, never letting that big fat thing fall out of her mouth. It squirted again and again, and then nothing would come out, but she continued to work. He thought she would suck up his balls, guts and heart, but he didn't care. It was pure delirium.

  Gradually her motion diminished and he went flat on the ground. His cock softened and she let it fall from her mouth. Exhausted, she crawled up his body, kissed his lips, wiggled her fanny, and stuffed his cock inside her. He felt her, warm and wet, and didn't think he could do much for her, but she kept wiggling and soon he was hard again. She rocked and twisted, and Bannon placed his hands on her ass, enjoying its warmth and smmothness. They were both tired, so this time they made love languorously, with lots of moans and sighs and

  SEVEN . . .

  The sun shone brightly in the sky, but its golden rays didn't reach the jungle encampment of General Hyakutake's headquarters. The thick leaves and tangled vines of the dense jungle area blocked out the sun and made the encampment dank and gloomy. Colone Saburo Shibata marched across the clearing, his left hand resting on the handle of his samurai sword, a scowl on his face. He was still pissed off about the escape of the American prisoners the night before, and the wound in his shoulder bothered him. The medical corporal had removed the bullet and bandaged the wound. He'd applied no painkilling drugs or antiseptics, because medical care in the Japanese army was primitive compared to the US Army.

  Colonel Shibata entered one of the headquarters tents and was ushered into a cramped area that had a map table in its center. Surrounding the table were General Miyazaki, Colonel Imoto, and Major Suginoo. The air smelled like stale, rotting canvas, and a kerosene lamp illuminated the map. Colonel Shibata drew himself to attention and saluted General Miyazaki.

  “Colonel Shibata reporting, sir!”

  “At ease, Colonel,” General Miyazaki replied, smiling faintly. “I hear you had a little trouble last night.”

  “Yes, sir. Some American prisoners got away with the help of natives, as far as we can tell.”

  “You were wounded, I see.”

  “It's nothing, sir.”

  “Good.” General Miyazaki looked down at the map. “Na-tives have been bedeviling us ever since we came to this godforsaken island. They have not responded to our offers of friendship and brotherhood, preferring instead to remain lackeys of British and American imperialism. Well, so be it. They will pay for their stupidity.” General Miyazaki pointed to Cape Esperance on the map. “We're retreating to here, where the ships will pick us up so that we can leave Guadalcanal.” General Miyazaki looked at Colonel Shibata. “Your battalion will act as a block, slowing down the Americans and making them think our intentions are to defend Guadalcanal to the death and not abandon the island. You will move your men to the front today and relieve troops fighting here, in the vicinity of the Bonegi River. Then you will slowly give up ground, making the Americans pay for every inch of it, and withdraw to Cape Esperance, where you too will be evacuated. Do you have any questions, Colonel Shibata?”

  Colonel Shibata looked down at the map, glowing in the flickering light from the kerosene lamp. “How many American troops are there on Guadalcanal?”

  “We estimate thirty thousand, maybe more.”

  “How can my battalion hope to hold back thirty thousand men?”

  “You won't be fighting them in an open field, Colonel. The terrain here is extremely difficult, consisting of thick jungle, swamps and mountains. Fighting usually breaks down to small-unit activity. The Americans are scattered all over the island, but you will concentrate your battalion near the coast to protect our withdrawal from Cape Esperance. The Americans don't know that we're withdrawing. When they run into your fresh troops, they'll probably think we're mounting a counterattack. They'll dig in instead of pressing forward. They'll be confused. And all of us will get away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” General Miyazaki looked at Major Suginoo. “Get the bottle of sake.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Miyazaki smiled at Colonel Shibata. “We shall drink a toast to the health of the Emperor before you leave.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Colonel Shibata watched Major Suginoo pour sake into little tin cups. Colonel Shibata was not pleased with his assignment because it was a rearguard action, a dirty, inglorious job. He would have liked to have a part in a major attack, not an ignominious retreat. But still, orders were orders. He would do his best, and perhaps he could find some natives to punish for what had happened the previous night.

  The little tin cups half full of sake were passed around, and General Miyazaki raised his in the air. ‘To the Emperor!” he shouted.

  ‘To the Emperor!” cried the others in the tiny tent.

  For Nutsy Gafooley it was like the recurrence of a bad dream. He was in the coconut plantation again, leading George Company toward the mansion. George Company was deployed in a series of diamond formations, with Captain Orr at its center, as it made its way through the rows of trees. Nutsy, up front with the point man, Pfc. Edwin Garfield, remembered how the recon platoon had been fired upon by the Japs and how they'd attacked the big white mansion, which should be straight ahead. Nutsy was afraid they'd have another big fight with the Japs, and he didn't think he could go through it again.

  Toward noon Pfc. Garfield stopped suddenly. “There it is!”

  Nutsy peered through the coconut grove and saw the whiteness in the distance. “I see it too.”

  Garfield waved his hand, and Captain Orr came running forward with his new executive officer, Lieutenant Holt.

  “What is it?” Orr asked.

  Garfield pointed. “There's the house, sir.”

  Captain Orr and Lieutenant Holt looked ahead. Captain Orr was old for his rank, because he'd been an enlisted man in the Army for nearly twenty years before becoming commissioned as an officer shortly after Pearl Harbor. Lieutenant Holt was fresh out of the University of Utah and Officer Candidate School.

  “There she is,” Captain Orr said. “Send a squad up to that house to see if anybody's home.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take Nutsy with you. He's been here before.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Nutsy felt tense as he walked off with Lieutenant Holt. He didn't want to get near that mansion; it was a place of horror for him. He'd come too close to getting killed and seen too many of his buddies lying dead on the floor.

  Lieutenant Holt hadn't been with George Company very long, but he knew that Sergeant Kaczmarczyk was a good man. He approached Kaczmarczyk and told him to take his squad forward to check out the house.

  Kaczmarczyk was short and husky, with close-cropped blond hair and tattoos of girls, daggers, skulls, and regimental crests up and down both his arms. On the back of his left hand it said Death Before Dishonor, and his top two front teeth had been knocked out by a Japanese rifle butt, which made him look fearsome.

  “Okay, let's go, boys,” he muttered.

  His men stood and adjusted their packs on their backs. He looked at Nutsy.

  “Stay close to me.”

  Kaczmarczyk inclined in his head toward the mansion, and they set out in that direction, spreading into a skirmish line and keeping their heads low. Nutsy remembered what had happened the day before, when the Japs had turned loose their machine guns as soon as the recon platoon got close. He crouched closer to the ground than the others and was ready to hit the dirt at the first hostile sound.

  They moved closer to the mansion and stopped at the edge of the lawn. Kaczmarczy
k looked at the big building in amaze-ment, because he'd never seen anything like it on Guadalcanal.

  “Gafooley,” he said, “come with me. The rest of you cover us.”

  Nutsy's blood turned to ice. The last thing he wanted to do was walk across that lawn. He looked at the windows and expected Jap machine guns to suddenly appear and spit lead.

  Kaczmarczyk stepped onto the lawn and Nutsy followed him. Kaczmarczyk's knees were bent and his shoulders hunched, because he, too, expected a sudden shot. He carried his carbine in both hands with one finger on the trigger. His eyes swept back and forth across the windows, looking for the telltale movement that would betray the presence of Japs. Nutsy remembered how he and the recon platoon had charged the man-sion across that very lawn and how it had been quiet like that before all hell broke loose.

  They drew closer to the mansion, and Nutsy saw bodies lying on the front porch. The breeze picked up and he could smell rotting flesh. At the foot of the stairs Kaczmarczyk stopped and looked up at the building, checking the windows again.

  “C'mon,” he said.

  They climbed the steps and walked across the porch. Nutsy looked at the dead, bloated bodies of Private Perloff and Pfc. Gilleland. Flies swarmed around their bodies and clusters of maggots ate their flesh. There were no Japanese bodies around.

  They approached the front entrance of the mansion; a big jagged hole was where the door used to be. Kaczmarczyk pressed his back against the door and looked inside, seeing wreckage and more dead bodies. The building was completely silent. Kaczmarczyk motioned with his head and entered the main living room, followed by Gafooley, who saw more of his buddies lying around and rotting. The stench was powerful and Nutsy felt the bile rise in his throat.

  Kaczmarczyk took a dirty handkerchief out of his back pocket and held it over his nose. Nutsy covered his face and his hand, but the stink came through. There was Private Reid lying at the foot of the fireplace with maggots all over his face.

  “Jesus,” said Kaczmarczyk, “it looks like a slaughterhouse in here.”

  “It was,” agreed Nutsy.

  Kaczmarczyk walked down a corridor toward the room where the recon platoon had made its last stand. He climbed over the wreckage in front of the door. Just then he heard a rustling, thrashing sound. Something moved in a corner of the room, and Kaczmarczyk held his carbine in both hands, flicked off the safety, and pulled the trigger.

  The carbine was in its automatic mode and fired like a submachine gun at a big black shadow moving toward the window. It was a buzzard, and the bullets ripped through his feathers. The buzzard collapsed on the windowsill, a piece of flesh in its mouth.

  The mansion was silent again. Kaczmarczyk realized that if buzzards were in the house, there probably weren't any live Japs around. The stink was getting to him. Many bodies were mutilated beyond recognition by explosions.

  “Let's get out of here,” he said.

  They ran down the corridor, across the living room, and out the door. The rest of George Company was assembled at the edge of the woods and watched them flee across the front porch and leap down the steps. Kaczmarczyk and Nutsy dashed across the lawn and entered the woods.

  “What's wrong?” said Captain Orr.

  “Building's full of dead GIs,” Kaczmarczyk said. “Stinks like hell. I don't think there are any Japs in there.”

  Captain Orr motioned for his radio operator to come closer and called Colonel Stockton but couldn't get through. Looking around, he saw some hills in the distance. The tops of hills were usually the best places from which to transmit messages. He decided to head in that direction, but first he'd better do something about the building. The Japs might occupy it again, so maybe it would be best to bum just the damn thing down.

  “Lieutenant Holt!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Take some men and torch that building.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Holt gathered together some men and they walked across the lawn toward the building. Nutsy dropped to his knees beside a tree and threw up his breakfast. The smell and horror of seeing his dead buddies had been too much for him. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Are you all right, son?” asked Captain Orr.

  “I'm okay, sir,” said Nutsy, reaching for his canteen and looking up at Captain Orr.

  Captain Orr's face was scarred with acne, and his eyes were tiny and steel-blue. “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Orr walked away, and Nutsy took a swig of water, swishing it around in his mouth and swallowing it. He wondered whether the entire recon platoon had been wiped out or if some had gotten away. It was hard to tell, since so many bodies had been blown to bits. He couldn't imagine Butsko being dead. Butsko had always seemed invincible to him. They were probably all dead. Nutsy didn't think he could deal with it.

  He looked up and saw smoke billowing out of the windows of the mansion. The men from George Company were inside, setting fire to the stuffing from furniture and piles of splintered wood. It was a hot, sunny day, unusual for the month of January, which was the wettest month of the year on Guadalcanal; the mansion, made of old wood, wouldn't last long.

  The GIs ran out of the building and across the lawn, reporting to Lieutenant Holt, who told Captain Orr that fires were raging throughout the first floor of the building.

  “Let's stick around to make sure,” Captain Orr said.

  They knelt at the edge of the lawn and watched huge tongues of flame lick the windows. Curls of smoke rose from the roof, and sheets of flame could be seen through the opening where the front door had been. Nutsy was right; the dry old wood was going fast. The inside became an inferno, and flames crept up the outer walls. There was a huge booming sound and sparks flew out the windows as one of the floors collapsed. The GIs could feel the heat against their faces and had to move back. “Let's get out of here!” said Captain Orr.

  George Company formed into a column of twos, and Lieutenant Holt led them in the direction of the hills nearby. Nutsy looked back and saw swirling flames envelope the old mansion, which had become a funeral pyre for his dead friends in the recon platoon.

  EIGHT . . .

  Bannon lay on the grass and the native girl still was on top of him, nuzzling his neck while he smoked a cigarette. Now that the sex was over, Bannon was getting scared. He'd been in the forest for a long time with the girl, and Butsko would figure out that he'd screwed her. Bannon was afraid that Butsko could cut off his dick just like he said he would, and the thought of it sent a tremor through his body.

  “What's wrong?” the girl asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You are cold?”

  “I'm not cold.”

  “You are having bad dreams, I think.”

  “Yeah, that's it.”

  “I know what you think now,” she said sadly.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Come on, tell me.”

  “I bet you think maybe you not want to marry me like you said before when your thing was hard.”

  “No, no,” Bannon said. “That's not it.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It's kinda complicated.”

  “You think I am a dumb girl? You think I will not understand?”

  “No, it's not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Well,” Bannon said, “it's like this. You know who Sergeant Butsko is?”

  “You mean the big ugly one with arms like this?” She held the palm of her hand near her upper arm to indicate Butsko's nineteen-inch biceps.

  “That's the one.”

  “Well, he said that if any of us does dooby-do with one of you girls, he'll cut our things off.”

  Her jaw dropped open. “Not”

  “Yes.”

  “Why he say that?”

  “Because he don't want no trouble.”

  “What trouble could happen?”

  “Some of the guys in the platoon don't have all
their marbles.”

  “Their what?”

  “They're a little crazy. They might do something wrong, like rape somebody.”

  “Oh.” The native girl pinched her lips together. “You think one of those men would do something like that?”

  “I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet.”

  “Oh, my goodness sake!”

  “Yeah, they're a bad bunch.”

  “Well,” she said, “I tell him to not cut off your thing. He have to kill me first!” Her brow became furrowed. “You think he'd kill me?”

  “No. Butsko's very polite to women, usually.”

  Her face brightened. “We gonna get married anyways!”

  “Right.”

  “Let's go back and tell my father.”

  “You don't think he'll mind?”

  “No, because he always say it time I get married.”

  “To an American soldier?”

  “My father love American soldiers. He be very happy to have you as his son.”

  They picked up their clothes and got dressed. The girl wrapped herself in her sarong and Bannon put on his clean uniform, which felt strange next to his skin. It was the first time he had worn a freshly laundered uniform in over a month. But he'd left his boots behind in the tent, so he had to follow her barefoot as they returned to the huts.

  With every step Bannon felt increasing fear and misgiving. He knew that once Butsko got mad, he wouldn't listen to reason. He'd just attack and cut off Bannon's dick. There would be no time for explanations. Bannon glanced at his watch; he'd been in the woods nearly three hours and was extremely hungry. Butsko would know by now that he'd run away with the native girl. A shiver passed up Bannon's spine as he thought of Butsko waiting for him, big and ugly, with a machete in his hand.

  They approached the huts. Bannon shuffled his feet, but the girl held his hand and pulled him along. Through an opening in the bushes Bannon saw Frankie La Barbara sitting underneath a tree, smoking a cigarette and talking with two little kids, laughing and joking. The kids turned around suddenly at the approach of Bannon and the girl, and Frankie stood up. He spotted Bannon and the girl coming through the woods and walked toward them.