by Len Levinson
Lieutenant Gedo walked toward Lieutenant Higashi, bent low, and whispered in his ear: “All is ready.”
“Excellent,” said Lieutenant Higashi.
General Yokozowa opened his eyes. “What was that?”
“Lieutenant Gedo just told me all is ready.”
“Then let’s get on with it.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenants Higashi and Gedo lifted General Yokozowa up by his armpits and carried him to the tatami mat. They lowered him gently, and General Yokozowa crossed his legs underneath him. General Yokozowa wore a full-dress uniform with all his insignia, decorations, and medals. He even had his boots on.
The two lieutenants let General Yokozowa go, and he sagged first to one side, and then to the other. He leaned forward, and then backwards.
“Are you all right sir?” Lieutenant Higashi asked.
“Unbutton my shirt,” General Yokozowa croaked.
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Higashi kneeled before the general and unbuttoned his shirt, baring the bandages on his stomach. He also loosened the general’s belt and unbuttoned his fly.
“Is that all right, sir?”
“Remove the bandages,” General Yokozowa said.
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Higashi swallowed hard and dug his fingernails into a corner of the bandage. He hoped he wouldn’t tear General Yokozowa’s guts out when he pulled the bandage. Taking a deep breath, he tugged the bandage.
“Do it quickly!” barked General Yokozowa.
Lieutenant Higashi set his teeth on edge and yanked strenuously. He heard a tearing sound as the bandage peeled away from General Yokozowa’s skin, revealing the stitched edges of his wound.
General Yokozowa nearly fainted from the pain. He closed his eyes and heard air rushing in his ears.
“Are you all right sir?” Lieutenant Higashi asked.
“Leave me alone.”
“Yes sir.”
General Yokozowa heard the footsteps of his aides recede into the distance. He opened his eyes and saw the jungle gleam like an emerald in the sunlight. The breeze kept away the insects. Blinking his eyes, he focused on the knife before him. The time had come to commit hara-kiri.
He lifted the knife and removed it from its sheath. Sunlight caught the blade and made it shine like diamonds. General Yokozowa held the knife up to the sun and prayed that his ancestors would forgive him for failing to succeed in the attack. He expressed gratitude for the opportunity to expunge himself of the vile American blood polluting his veins.
Sucking in air between his clenched teeth, he turned the blade toward him and held the hilt in both his hands. Looking down, he saw his stitched belly. He was in terrible pain, and knew it would worsen considerably as soon as he plunged in the knife. It was best to get everything over with as soon as possible.
He drew himself erect, looked down, and touched the blade against the skin on the left side of his stomach. His task would be to cut his stomach open from the left side to the right side, so that his soul could escape and fly to heaven.
I apologize for all the wrong I’ve done, and for all the good that I haven’t done, he thought. I apologize for my stupidity and weakness.
He plunged the knife into his stomach, and was overcome by an ocean of pain. It was so fierce that he blacked out for a few seconds, his back bending forward and his head hanging in his lap. Blood poured out of the wound and onto his pants.
He opened his eyes, realizing that the pain was greater than he’d thought. He hadn’t believed it was possible for a human being to endure such fierce pain. I’ve got to get this over with quickly, he thought, otherwise I might bungle the job.
He took a deep breath and summoned together his strength. Holding the hilt of the knife with both hands, he pulled it across his stomach, slicing through skin, stitches, and guts, but his strength ran out as the blade cut into his navel.
General Yokozowa was engulfed by the most terrifying pain of his life. His vision became blurred, but he could see his intestines spilling out onto his lap, along with pints of blood. It was a horrible ghoulish sight, and he couldn’t handle it. The loss of blood was too great. The knife fell out of his hands and he groaned as he fell to the side.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Higashi and Gedo watched him from behind a scraggly mountain bush nearby.
“I think he did it,” Lieutenant Gedo said.
“I’ll take a look,” Lieutenant Higashi replied.
He tiptoed out from behind the bush and advanced cautiously toward General Yokozowa, who lay on his side, his legs still crossed and his right knee sticking straight up in the air. The breeze sent him a whiff of General Yokozowa’s guts, and it smelled dreadful, like rotting feces. Drawing closer, the young lieutenant saw General Yokozowa lying in a pool of blood. Guts hung out of General Yokozowa’s stomach. Lieutenant Higashi kneeled and saw that the general had only cut halfway across his stomach, and the general still was alive, moaning softly.
Lieutenant Higashi saw the knife lying near General Yokozowa’s hand. He picked it up, held it in his fist, and stabbed the point into General Yokozowa’s throat, where his jugular vein was located. Warm blood gushed out onto Lieutenant Higashi’s hand. General Yokozowa sighed and went limp on the ground. He was dead. Lieutenant Higashi wiped the blood off the knife with his handkerchief, and stood up.
“He’s dead!” he called back to Lieutenant Gedo.
Lieutenant Gedo crawled out from behind the bush and advanced toward Lieutenant Higashi. He’d seen General Yokozowa during his heyday, and now he was just another bloody corpse.
The young lieutenants laid General Yokozowa’s body on the stretcher and lifted it up. They carried the stretcher down the mountain trail, heading toward the steaming jungle below.
The sun sank toward the horizon. Colonel Hutchins was in the throes of alcohol and nicotine withdrawal. He paced back and forth behind his desk, his hands clasped behind his back. He tried to think of war, peace, naked women, and even his childhood, but his lungs cried out for a cigarette and his mind begged for booze.
Sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and he clicked his teeth nervously. It was tormenting to know that he could have a cigarette just by walking into his outer office and asking for one. He could have a drink if he went to the mess hall and ordered Corporal Dunphy to brew up some white lightning. Relief was available, but Colonel Hutchins didn’t want to be relieved. He had to beat his addictions somehow.
He chewed his lower lip and snorted like a bull. He wished he could sit down, but he couldn’t be still. He had to keep moving because motion somehow kept his longing under control. He wondered how much longer he’d suffer. They said the first few days were the hardest. He was in his fifth day now and it was still tough going.
His mind became weak. He wondered why he was making himself suffer. What was he trying to be a hero for? Why was he so persistent? Just so he could command a regiment in war? What was so great about that? What was so terrible about going to Washington, D.C.?
I’ve fought in enough wars, he thought. Why do I want to keep fighting? What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I just go back to the States and take it easy in my old age? I’m getting too old for this shit. To hell with the war.
He clenched his fists and let them loose again. He licked his teeth with his tongue. He wanted desperately to smoke a cigarette, and then get roaring drunk. His knees felt weak and his toes tingled. I can’t go on like this, he thought. I’m gonna crack up any moment now.
He was tempted to walk out to where Sergeant Koch was sitting and bum a cigarette, but he couldn’t do it. He’d given his word to General Hawkins that he’d stop smoking and drinking, and a man wasn’t worth anything if he wasn’t worth his word.
I’m gonna beat this stuff, he said to himself. I don’t know how I’m gonna do it, but I’m gonna do it.
He flared his nostrils and sucked in air. Lifting the cup on his desk, he swallowed down the tepid coffee in it.
“
Levinson!” he shouted.
“Yes sir!” replied Pfc. Levinson in the outer office.
“Get me some more coffee!”
“Yes sir!”
He heard a rustle in the other office, and assumed that was Pfc. Levinson running toward the mess hall. Colonel Hutchins thought his head would explode. He felt like screaming and jumping up and down. He wanted to strangle somebody. Maybe he should see the pharmacist and get a sedative, but no, he didn’t want to be groggy and then have the Japs attack. He wanted to stay on his toes just in case. He almost wished the Japs would attack, so he could be distracted from cigarettes and booze.
He pushed aside the tent flap and walked toward the desk of Master Sergeant Koch, who looked up at him in alarm.
“Are you all right sir?”
“You got any chewing gum, Koch?”
“Yes sir.”
“Lemme have some.”
“Yes sir.”
Sergeant Koch took a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint gum out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Colonel Hutchins.
“Mind if I take two sticks?”
“Help yourself, sir.”
Colonel Hutchins pulled two sticks out of the pack and returned to his office. He unwrapped the gum and folded it into his mouth, chewing ferociously. I don’t know how I’m gonna get through this, he thought, but somehow I’ll do it.
SEVEN . . .
General Hall sat behind his desk, drafting a letter to General Krueger at Hollandia, describing progress in the campaign at Aitape. There was a knock on his door.
“Come in!”
The door opened, and Colonel MacKenzie entered the office. Colonel MacKenzie had freckles, red hair, and a complexion that was perpetually peeling because his skin couldn’t hold a tan.
“Have you heard the news about Hitler, sir!” Colonel MacKenzie asked.
“What news!”
“An attempt on his life was made this morning!”
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
“Is he incapacitated at least?”
“No.”
“Damn!”
Colonel MacKenzie sat on a chair in front of General Hall’s desk. “Some of his top-ranking Army officers did it, sir. There’s speculation that Rommel was in on it.”
“Where’d it happen?”
“At Hitler’s headquarters in Rastenburg. They put a bomb underneath his map table. Evidently Hitler moved before the bomb went off, and it killed some other Nazis. But it only wounded Hitler. He gave a speech that said he was all right.”
“Too bad they missed him,” General Hall said. “But even if they got him, I don’t suppose it’d make much difference. Tojo resigned a few days ago, and the war’s still going on. There are always plenty of fanatics to take over when one fanatic dies or resigns.”
“Yes sir, but it looks as though the Axis powers are starting to crack, sir.”
“Not fast enough for me.” General Hall leaned back in his chair. “Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I wonder,” said General Hall, “if there’s a widespread dissatisfaction with Hitler in Germany, or if this attempt on his life was made by a small group of conspirators?”
“We don’t know that, sir. We’ll probably never know all the facts about the Nazi regime until the war is over.”
“I suppose you’re right. Oh, by the way, it doesn’t look as though I’ll be able to give you that regiment in the Eighty-first Division, as we’d discussed. General Hawkins wants to keep his drunken colonel in command. Claims he’s irreplaceable.”
Colonel MacKenzie smiled indulgently. “Well, General Hawkins certainly is an unusual officer.”
“Something else’ll open up for you before long, so don’t worry about it. Perhaps that colonel of his will really screw up, and he’ll have to let him go.”
“I’m perfectly willing to wait, sir,” Colonel MacKenzie lied. “I’m in no hurry.”
“Good. Patience is a virtue in war, as it is in every other field of endeavor.”
It took a few days, but Acting Colonel Sakakibara had finally assembled the approximation of a staff for his Southern Strike Force.
The officers were lined up in front of him, standing at attention in a jungle clearing. Few of them had ever held staff positions before, but that didn’t mean anything to Colonel Sakakibara. He had deliberately selected the most aggressive officers in the Eighteenth Army for his new Southern Strike Force command, even though many of them had records nearly as bad as his.
Colonel Sakakibara walked back and forth in front of them, gazing into their eyes, examining their faces for cowardice or weakness. They kept their eyes front, not daring to move their eyeballs, because they were terrified of Colonel Sakakibara. His reputation had spread far and wide in the Eighteenth Army ever since receiving command of the Southern Strike Force. Everyone knew how cruel he was, both to American prisoners and his own officers and men who had the misfortune to displease him.
Colonel Sakakibara inspected the last officer in the rank, and then performed an about-face, marching back to a point facing the center of the rank. Everyone expected him to let them stand at ease while he gave his speech, but he made them remain at attention.
He squared his shoulders and stood at attention also, his arms stiffly down his sides and his fists balled up. He leaned forward slightly, and some officers were certain he’d fall on his face, but somehow, miraculously, he managed to defy the laws of gravity and remain on his feet.
“Gentlemen, I will be frank with you!” Colonel Sakakibara declared. “This war is being lost because of cowardice at all levels of command! There are too many fancypants generals walking around with their maps and their bottles of sake! I want you to know that there will be none of that foolishness in the Southern Strike Force! Our duty is to attack and kill, and that is what we shall do! We need no special maps, because we know where the enemy is! We need no long staff meetings, because we know what we must do! Our task is quite simple, and we don’t need to make it complicated! Our task is to annihilate Americans, and we must not give any thought to our own lives! We must resolve here and now to consecrate our lives to the Emperor, and then we must go out and fight as if we are no longer in possession of our lives! There must be no hesitancy when we attack the Americans! There must be no thought whatever about saving our skins! We must think only of killing as many Americans as possible, regardless of the risk of our own lives, because our own lives are not our own anymore, they now belong to our mighty and holy Emperor! Do you have any questions?”
Nobody dared to say anything. Everybody gazed straight ahead, not moving a muscle.
“I hate stupid questions!” Colonel Sakakibara said. “I’m pleased that you’re not asking any! I consider that a good omen! When I dismiss you I want you to take command of your units and speak to your men as I’m speaking to you! Make certain they understand that you expect them to die for the Emperor when we attack! In this attack we hold nothing back! We have no reserves and there will be no retreat! We go into battle to win or die for the glory of our Emperor! Is that clear?”
Again, no one said anything. Colonel Sakakibara drew his sword from his scabbard and held it high in the air. “Banzai!” he shouted. “Tenno heika banzai!”
“Banzai!” they replied. “Tenno heika banzai!”
It was evening, and the sun sank toward the horizon. The recon platoon had just finished chow. Bannon sat in his foxhole and felt awful. He had a headache, and his broken nose hurt him. The men in his platoon gave him an argument every time he asked them to do something. Bannon was getting angrier and angrier at them. He wanted to shoot a few of them, especially Frankie La Barbara. I never wanted to be a platoon sergeant, he thought. Why does all the shit have to fall on me?
“Message for you,” said Private Worthington lying next to him, listening to the walkie-talkie.
Bannon took the walkie-talkie and held it to his ear. “Sergeant Bannon speaking, sir.”
“This is Captain Mason,” said the voice on the other end. “I want you to take a patrol out tonight to grid thirty-four on your map. You know where grid thirty-four is?”
Bannon whipped his map out of his pocket and found the grid. “I’ve got it, sir.”
“Do you see the trail that intersects the grid?”
“Yes sir.”
“That’s a major trail and we want to know if anything’s happening on it after the sun goes down. You’re to leave at nightfall and return at dawn. Got it?”
“How many men should I take, sir?”
“As many as you think you need. Any other questions?”
“No sir.”
“Over and out.”
Bannon groaned as he handed the walkie-talkie back to Worthington.
“What’s the matter?” Worthington asked.
“We gotta go out on patrol.”
“Do I have to go?”
“Yes.”
“How come I always have to go?”
“Because you’re my runner, and where I go, you go.”
“Why can’t somebody else be your runner?”
“Because I want you.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what I said.”
Bannon climbed out of the foxhole and looked around. His men were sprawled out in their foxholes, anticipating a night of quiet sleep. They wouldn’t want to go out on patrol. Bannon knew who he wanted. First of all, he’d need McGurk to take the point.
“McGurk!” he said.
“Whataya want?” asked McGurk, raising his head above the rim of his foxhole.
“You’re going out on patrol tonight.”
“I don’t feel so good,” McGurk complained.
“Neither do I, but we’ve got to go.”
“Maybe they can get some other platoon to go.”
“You know better than that. We’re going, and there’s no way out of it. Be ready to move out when the sun goes down.”
“I’m tired of these patrols,” McGurk said.
“So’m I,” Bannon replied, “but we gotta do what we gotta do.”