by Len Levinson
Major Sakakibara was so stunned he could barely speak. “I sir?”
“Yes you.”
Major Sakakibara was flabbergasted. He’d thought he was going to be court-martialed or reprimanded for his foul deeds, but instead he had been chosen to lead the Eighteenth Army’s last attack! “But sir,” he said, “you have so many officers with higher rank and a more noble background than mine. Why me?”
General Adachi looked him straight in the eye. “Because you are a mad dog, Major Sakakibara, and that’s what I need right now.”
Now suddenly the conversation made sense to Major Sakakibara, because it was easy for him to see himself as a mad dog. For a long time he had thought deep in his heart that he was made for high command, because he was a fighter, and now General Adachi realized that too.
Major Sakakibara bowed his head. “I am honored, sir.”
“I am promoting you to lieutenant colonel herewith, Major Sakakibara, and you will be an acting full colonel when you lead the attack. Now come to the map table with me, and I will show you what I want you to do.”
Colonel Hutchins swung his legs out of the front seat of his jeep and planted them on the ground. He pushed his weight onto his legs and nearly fell onto his face, his legs trembled so much.
His alcohol and nicotine withdrawal were coming on strong. Pfc. Nick Bombasino looked at him from behind the wheel of the jeep.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look so fine.”
“Who the fuck asked you?”
Colonel Hutchins hobbled toward his command post tent. It was set up in a thick dark part of the jungle north of Afua, and camouflage netting was hung in the trees overhead just in case a stray Japanese bomber might fly by. He entered his orderly room, and his face was drained of color. Master Sergeant Koch, the sergeant major of the Twenty-third Regiment, sat behind his desk and looked up at Colonel Hutchins.
“Are you all right, sir?”
Colonel Hutchins turned toward him. “Why're you asking me if I’m all right? Who do you think you are: one of those goddamned pill rollers up at division?”
“You look a little peaked, sir.”
“Your ass is a little peaked. Anything happen while I was gone?”
“Lieutenant Jameson was here. He said he had to speak with you about something important, and he’d be back later. Major Cobb also wants to have a talk.”
“Tell him I’m back.”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Hutchins shuffled past Pfc. Levinson, the regimental clerk, who sat at his typewriter and pounded away at the keys. Pfc. Levinson didn’t look up from the document he was typing, and Colonel Hutchins entered his office. He hung his steel pot and submachine gun on a peg and dropped down in his chair behind his desk.
I can’t go on like this, he thought. I need a smoke and I need a drink.
He opened the top drawer of his desk, and lying in front of him were five packs of Chesterfield cigarettes. His mouth watered at the thought of smoking them, but he couldn’t smoke them. He’d given General Hawkins his word and a man’s word was supposed to mean something.
He opened another desk drawer and saw three canteens full of white lightning. He knew if he kissed the mouth of one of those canteens his jitters would go away and he’d feel wonderful, but he couldn’t do it. He had to break his drinking habit. I’m a colonel in the American Army and I can do anything, he tried to tell himself.
The phone on his desk rang, and he jumped six inches in the air. He picked up the phone. “What is it?”
He heard Sergeant Koch’s voice. “Lieutenant Jameson is back, sir.”
“Send him in.”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Hutchins leaned back in his chair and ran his tongue over his teeth. His heart was racing and his lungs felt as though they were balloons with holes in them.
Lieutenant Jameson entered his office, marched to his desk, and saluted. Colonel Hutchins returned the salute haphazardly and told the lantern-jawed officer to sit down.
“What’s on your mind, Jameson?”
“I saw something very disturbing today, sir. A sergeant in this regiment evidently had been fighting with an enlisted man, and evidently he beat him up.”
“So what?” Colonel Hutchins asked grumpily.
“That’s a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, sir. It’s a court-martial offense. Moreover, the noncom behaved in a surly manner to me when I questioned him about the incident.”
“Who is this noncom?”
“Sergeant Bannon, of your recon platoon.”
“Leave him alone,” Colonel Hutchins said.
“Leave him alone?”
“You heard me. Leave him alone.”
“But he was fighting.”
“That’s what soldiers are supposed to do.”
“Not among themselves!”
“Sometimes that’s necessary too.”
“But the Army’s still the Army, sir. Basic discipline has to be maintained.”
Colonel Hutchins pointed his finger at Lieutenant Jameson. “The main thing is to win battles, and the recon platoon has come through for me more times than I can count. I know what they are. They’re the scum of the earth, but so what. Leave them alone.”
“I’m afraid it’s a little too late for that, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I spoke with Sergeant Bannon and placed him under arrest. Now I have to follow through.”
Colonel Hutchins groaned. “Jameson, why are you making all this trouble for me?”
“I’m not making any trouble, sir. It’s Sergeant Bannon who made all the trouble, and we can’t let him get away with it.”
Colonel Hutchins’s guts twitched inside his stomach. His heart pounded like Gene Krupa’s drums. He didn’t feel like arguing with Lieutenant Jameson over Sergeant Bannon. All he wanted was a drink and a smoke.
“Levinson!” he hollered.
“Yes sir!” replied a voice in the other section of the tent.
“Get your ass in here!”
A moment later Pfc. Levinson burst into the office. He was skinny, nineteen years old, with black hair and a big hooked nose. “Yes sir?”
Colonel Hutchins opened his top drawer and took out his three packs of cigarettes. “Get rid of these for me.”
“Yes sir.”
Pfc. Levinson scooped up the cigarettes. “Can I have them, sir?”
“Just don’t smoke them in front of me.” Colonel Hutchins opened his bottom drawer and pulled out his three canteens full of white lightning. “Pour this shit out in the latrine.”
“Yes sir.”
“Get going!”
“Yes sir.”
Pfc. Levinson stuffed the cigarette packs into his pockets, and then picked up the canteens. Colonel Hutchins resumed his conversation with Lieutenant Jameson.
“So you want to court-martial Bannon,” he said.
“That’s right sir.”
Colonel Hutchins wondered what to do, as Pfc. Levinson fled from the office. Colonel Hutchins realized he was in no position to buck the military justice system just then, because he was in trouble himself over his excessive drinking. If he said no to Lieutenant Jameson, Lieutenant Jameson would initiate court-martial proceedings without him, and Colonel Hutchins would appear to be obstructing justice. That would be bad timing, because it would coincide with Dr. Epstein’s recommendation that Colonel Hutchins be relieved of command. Colonel Hutchins realized he was in the soup again, and this time it was serious. It wouldn’t be a good idea to attract too much attention to himself just then. He’d better keep his head down and his mouth shut.
“All right,” he said to Lieutenant Jameson, “you do whatever you think you have to do. If you want to have Bannon court-martialed, I won’t stand in your way, but I’m telling you right now: I like Bannon because he’s a good soldier and a natural-born leader of men. If you have him court-martialed, I’ll
appear as a character witness for him. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Jameson replied.
“Anything else you want to bring up with me?”
“Yes sir. Just one thing. I and many like me can’t understand your devotion to the criminals, goons, and roughnecks in your recon platoon. We consider them a menace to the regiment.”
“Is that so?” Colonel Hutchins asked. “Well let me tell you something, young Lieutenant. Those criminals, goons, and roughnecks have saved the asses of people in this regiment many times, and that includes your ass too.”
“Not my ass,” Lieutenant Jameson said. “I’ve had very little to do with your recon platoon, thank God.”
“You don’t know what they’ve done for you, but I do,” Colonel Hutchins told him. “Just because you haven’t had much to do with them personally, that doesn’t mean they haven’t saved your ass at long range, without your knowledge. But if you want to court-martial Bannon, go right ahead. It’s your privilege. Do what you have to do, but get the fuck out of this office right now. I’m tired of talking with you about this.”
“Yes sir,” said Lieutenant Jameson.
Lieutenant Jameson stood, gathered up his papers, saluted, and walked out of the office. In the outer tent area he saw Sergeant Koch sitting behind his desk and Pfc. Levinson standing in a corner, shuffling papers. The packages of cigarettes and canteens full of white lightning lay on top of his desk.
Lieutenant Jameson departed, and Pfc. Levinson told Sergeant Koch he had to run some errands for Colonel Hutchins. Sergeant Koch told him to hurry back.
Pfc. Levinson put the canteens and cigarettes into his light field pack and carried them out of the tent. He ran across the regimental headquarters area to the radio tent and ducked inside.
“Can I use one of these radios for a minute?” Pfc. Levinson said to Sergeant Rowse, in charge of the communications center. “I’ve got to transmit a quick message for the colonel.”
“Go right ahead,” Sergeant Rowse said. He lounged behind his desk, reading a copy of the Army Times, and didn’t even look up.
Pfc. Levinson sat beside one of the radio operators and asked him to initiate a radio transmission to the front.
Bannon sat in his foxhole, thinking about the events of the day. He and his men had just finished lunch, and they were dug into their positions. He smoked a cigarette and blew smoke out the corner of his mouth. He was exhausted, but couldn’t fall asleep. His nerve endings tingled with anxiety as he wondered what the Japs were doing in front of him.
No Japs had had been seen all morning, and Bannon thought they might be massing for a sneak attack farther back in the jungle or on the plateaus of the Torricelli Mountains. It wasn’t like them to run away and stay gone. Bannon didn’t realize that the Japs were beaten too badly to attack again so soon. He knew them to be savage fighters even in defeat. They’d retreated before, but never stayed away for long.
Pfc. Worthington, his runner, lay in the foxhole with him, his walkie-talkie glued to his ear in case a message came through. Suddenly his eyes opened wider and he spoke his code identification into the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie. Then he turned to Bannon.
“It’s for you,” he said.
“Who is it?”
“Somebody at regiment.”
Oh-oh, Bannon thought. He took the walkie-talkie from Worthington’s hand and held it against his face.
“Sergeant Bannon speaking, sir.”
A voice came to him over the hills and through the jungle via the miracle of shortwave radio. “This is Pfc. Levinson at regiment,” it said.
“Oh hi,” replied Bannon, who knew Levinson somewhat because they’d both been with the regiment since the first landings at Guadalcanal. “What’s going on?”
“I just thought I oughtta tip you off to something I just heard about. You’re gonna get court-martialed.”
“I been expecting it,” Bannon said. “Are you sure it’s gonna go through?”
“I think so,” Pfc. Levinson replied. “Lieutenant Jameson just had a meeting with the old man about you. The old man tried to talk Lieutenant Jameson out of the court-martial but he couldn’t.”
“What’s Lieutenant Jameson gonna court-martial me for?”
“He said you beat up one of your men, and then you were insubordinate when he questioned you about it.”
“Shit!”
“Just thought I’d call to let you know about it.”
“When'll the court-martial take place?”
“A week or two, maybe more.”
“Fuck!”
“That’s all I got to say. I gotta get back to work. See ya later, Bannon. Good luck. Over and out.”
The shortwave connection went dead in Bannon’s ear. Bannon handed the walkie-talkie back to Private Worthington.
“What’s going on?” Worthington asked.
“I’m gonna get court-martialed,” Bannon replied, taking a long deep drag on his cigarette, “for kicking Frankie’s ass.”
“He deserved it.”
“Maybe you should be a witness for me.”
“Why me?” Worthington asked.
“You saw everything, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but I don’t want any trouble.”
“Forget it,” Bannon said. He turned away from Worthington and puffed his cigarette, feeling morbid and depressed. If the Japs don’t get me, the court-martial will, he thought. Son of a bitch.
He wished Sergeant Butsko was there to take all the heat, instead of him. Bannon wondered where Butsko was just then and what he was doing. He wished Butsko would come back soon and take charge of what was left of the recon platoon, because Bannon didn’t think he could handle it much longer. I hate these fucking guys, Bannon thought. The whole bunch of them aren’t worth the powder to blow them to hell.
SIX . . .
In other parts of the world, people didn’t worry about imminent Japanese attacks or possible courts-martial. The baseball season was in full swing back in the States, and President Roosevelt ran for re-election against Thomas A. Dewey, the former governor of New York. Men went to sleep at night in most of the world without worrying about Japanese soldiers crawling next to them and slitting their throats.
Young men and women danced in ballrooms to the music of Benny Goodman and Artie Shaw, and children played in meadows carpeted with clover. Artur Rodzinski conducted the Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra of New York, and the hit movie of the summer was The White Cliffs of Dover, a romantic drama starring Irene Dunne and Alan Marshal. Life magazine featured a full-page photograph of an Arizona woman writing her Navy boyfriend a thank-you note for the Jap skull he’d sent her, and the skull was shown sitting on her writing table.
The sun shone bright and hot over the Hawaiian Islands. The Schofield Barracks were on the island of Oahu, not far from Honolulu, and as Bannon lay worrying in his foxhole, Master Sergeant John R. Butsko, walking with a slight limp, approached the building that housed the records of all soldiers stationed at the military installation.
Butsko’s face was bruised due to a barroom brawl in which he’d been an instigator two nights before. The bandages underneath his uniform covered wounds sustained in battle on the island of New Guinea. Butsko was six feet tall, built like a brick shithouse, and had a face that some considered quite gruesome, while others considered it merely ugly. It was scarred and his nose was bent out of shape. His eyes resembled the slits in the turret of a tank.
At his side was Lieutenant Lou Norton, from the Public Information Office. Lieutenant Norton’s assignment was to keep Butsko out of trouble, because Butsko had been in that barroom brawl two nights ago. It had been an embarrassment to the Army, because Butsko was supposed to receive the Congressional Medal of Honor in a week or so. Heroes who received the Congressional Medal of Honor weren’t supposed to get into barroom brawls.
Norton was taller than Butsko and quite brawny, because the previous officer who’d been assigned to look after
Butsko had been too small to handle him. Lieutenant Norton won the Congressional Medal of Honor himself at Saipan, so he was no stranger to violence. He was twenty-three years old and from Tucson, Arizona.
Together they walked up the steps of the building and entered its lobby. A sergeant sat behind a desk and Butsko sauntered toward him.
“I’m looking for my records,” Butsko said. “Where the fuck are they?”
“What outfit are you with?”
“I’m not in any outfit.”
Lieutenant Norton leaned over the desk. “He’s in transit.”
“Room two-twenty-three,” the sergeant said.
Butsko and Lieutenant Norton climbed the stairs at the right side of the lobby. Butsko wanted to see his records because he wanted to find out where his wife, Dolly, was living.
He’d thought she was living in a suburb of Honolulu, but when he went there to see her, he’d found out that she’d moved away. He knew she was receiving his pay allotment, so her current address should be in his records.
They reached the second floor and walked down a long cool corridor. Soldiers and other officers got out of their way because they were two rather large men. Butsko wore his Combat Infantryman’s Badge over the left pocket on his khaki shirt, which meant he was a combat veteran, and Lieutenant Norton wore one solitary ribbon over his shirt pocket. It showed white stars against a blue field, and indicated that he had won the Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest medal the United States of America awarded for heroism in battle.
They came to Room 223 and went inside. The first thing they saw was a counter behind which male and female military clerks worked. Butsko leaned against the counter and waited, but nobody asked him what he wanted. He shifted his weight from foot to foot and wondered where in hell Dolly was. Her whereabouts had become a nagging mystery to him.
He and Dolly had never got along well. They were the kind of married couple that caused neighbors to call the police, because they fought so much. Butsko was convinced she married him so that she could get his allotment and not have to work. She was a lazy bitch and all she wanted to do was drink, dance, and fuck.