by Len Levinson
At least it’s over for me now, he thought. The wound in his shoulder was his fourth, and he’d been told that he’d be shipped back to the States. He’d probably spend the rest of the war training troops on some peaceful post somewhere back in the States. Lieutenant Breckenridge had done that before and hadn’t liked it, but he thought he could handle it now. I’ve had enough of this war, he thought. Let somebody else do the fighting for a change.
He looked down at Yabalonka. But what about this poor son of a bitch here? Yabalonka looked like he wouldn’t last long. Lieutenant Breckenridge knew vaguely that Yabalonka had been a longshoreman in San Francisco before the war, but that was all he knew about Yabalonka’s past. He knew much about Yabalonka’s present, though. Yabalonka was a good soldier who followed orders and did his best. He was the kind of man you could rely on to give one hundred percent all the time. Now he looked like he was going to die. Lieutenant Breckenridge felt almost like crying. He’s just a kid, Lieutenant Breckenridge thought. What a fucking shame.
“Hi Lieutenant Breckenridge,” said a voice behind him.
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned around and saw Private McGurk limping toward him, a bandage wrapped around his left thigh.
“You’re here too?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“Well I ain’t someplace else.” Private McGurk gritted his teeth in pain as he knelt down on the other side of Yabalonka.
“What happened to you?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“Bannon shot me.”
“What!”
“I said Bannon shot me.”
“He did!”
“He damn sure did.”
“What the hell’d he shoot you for?”
“I gave him some shit, I guess.”
“And he shot you?”
“Yep.”
Good God, thought Lieutenant Breckenridge, what in the hell is going on back there in the recon platoon?
McGurk leaned over Yabalonka and looked at his pallid features. “How’s Yabalonka doing?”
“He don’t look so good to me,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“Yesterday the doctor told me he had a fifty-fifty chance of pulling through.”
“At least that’s even odds.”
“He looks worse today,” McGurk said. “Yesterday he talked a little, but he didn’t make much sense.”
“Poor son of a bitch must be delirious.” Lieutenant Breckenridge looked up at McGurk. “How’s everything back in the platoon?”
“A fucking mess, sir.”
“Whataya mean?”
“Sergeant Bannon’s gone a little loco. He’s getting real mean.”
“That’s the only way to handle you guys. Do you think it’s easy to handle you guys?”
“Guess not,” McGurk said. “The doctor said I’d be fit for duty again in about a week. I sure hate to go back to that platoon.”
“I don’t know,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Sometimes I miss the old gang.”
“The old gang’s just about all gone now,” McGurk said. “Ain’t much to go back to anymore.”
The jeep stopped and Colonel Hutchins jumped out of the passenger seat. He walked toward his command post tent with his chest puffed out and his gut sucked in, his Thompson submachine gun slung barrel down over his shoulder.
He felt terrific. His regiment had beaten back a Jap attack and he’d stood toe to toe with Japs in the thick of the battle without feeling any fatigue. If I’d known I’d feel this good I woulda stopped smoking and drinking years ago.
He entered his tent and looked at Sergeant Koch. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
“I piled some correspondence on your desk, sir.”
“That all?”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Hutchins entered his office and hung his helmet on the peg. He tossed his submachine gun on top of his cot and sat down behind his desk. His first instinct was to open his drawer and take out a package of cigarettes, but he stopped himself because he knew no cigarettes were there. His second instinct was to pull out his canteen full of white lightning and take a swig, but his canteen was full of plain old water now. He pulled it out anyway and drank some down.
Burping, he put his canteen back into its case and looked at the pile of correspondence on his desk. On top of the pile was the request for court-martial proceedings against Sergeant Bannon, signed by Lieutenant Jameson in triplicate, and Colonel Hutchins picked up the forms. Frowning, he read the charges against Bannon.
What a crock of shit this is, Colonel Hutchins thought, turning down the corners of his mouth. At the bottom of the form was a space where he was supposed to sign his name. He leaned back in his chair and his brow became furrowed with thought. He liked Bannon and didn’t feel like signing the form.
“Fuck it—I won’t,” he muttered.
He tore up the forms and threw the scraps into his waste-basket.
The survivors of the recon platoon sat around in the village of Afua, eating C rations out of cans. It was two o’clock in the afternoon and Frankie La Barbara had found a huge aluminum pot two feet high, in which he was cooking something.
The Reverend Billie Jones looked at a mask he’d found hidden under some debris in one of the huts. The mask was painted black and had a long sloping nose with a small birdlike mouth.
“Lookit this,” Billie said, chewing cold spaghetti and meat balls while holding the mask in the air. “It’s some kind of pagan god, I bet. The natives probably bowed down and worshiped it, the damn fools.”
“No, that’s not what it was used for,” said one of the newer men in the recon platoon. His name was Addison and his rank was private.
“How do you know what it was used for?” asked the Reverend Billie Jones.
“Because I studied anthropology before the war.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“It’s the study of primitive cultures, and I’ve done a bit of research on the South Sea Islands.”
“No shit,” said the Reverend Billie Jones.
“I wouldn’t shit you, buddy.”
Bannon looked down at the mask. “What the hell was it used for, then?”
“I can’t say exactly, but I believe it’s the kind of mask that was used in the yam cult rituals.”
“The what?”
“The yam cult rituals.”
“What the hell’s that?”
Addison paused to put his thoughts in order. He had straight brown hair that needed to be barbered, and sharp scholarly features partially hidden by his beard, filth, and grime. “The tribes on these islands lived by hunting, gathering food, and primitive agriculture,” he said. “Food often was scarce, and long-term famine was common. Many tribes planted yams to supplement their diets, and elaborate rituals developed out of the planting and harvesting of yams, because a good crop meant they ate well and a bad crop meant they walked around hungry for a few months. They used masks like that one in their ceremonies, which consisted of chanting and dancing to invoke the assistance of their various gods. They also had a great number of other rules and rituals such as, for instance, only young boys who’d never had sexual relations were chosen to plant the seeds, because it was felt that men who’d had sexual relations contaminated the seeds.”
“Dumb pagans!” the Reverend Billie Jones said. “Damned heathens!”
“Well,” said Private Addison, “evidently it worked.”
“The yams probably woulda grown the same way without all that pagan stuff,” Billie Jones replied.
Bannon threw an empty C-ration can over his shoulder. “How do you know?” he asked.
“Because it don’t make sense.”
“Maybe not to you.”
“That’s right,” Private Addison agreed. “We shouldn’t look down on primitive cultures just because they don’t do things the way we do things.”
The Reverend Billie Jones refused to budge. “They was just pagans and heathens. They didn’t know Christ so they was damne
d to hell.”
Frankie La Barbara looked up from the potful of boiling water. “Aw, fuck you!” he said to the Reverend Billie Jones.
“Whataya mean—fuck me?” Billie Jones asked, getting to his feet.
“Just what I said: fuck you!”
Bannon cleared his throat. “Settle down, you two.”
“He can’t talk to me that way,” the Reverend Billie Jones complained.
“Sit the fuck down.”
“I don’t feel like sitting down.”
Bannon reached for his M 1 rifle. “I said sit the fuck down.”
The Reverend Billie Jones sat the fuck down. Bannon pulled a can of fruit salad out of his pack and pried it open with his GI can opener. “What’re you cooking over there, Frankie?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Frankie replied.
“What’re you mean—nothing? You’re cooking something, aren’t you?”
“Nope.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m boiling something.”
“What’re you boiling?”
Frankie La Barbara looked inside the pot. He drew his Ka-bar knife, stuck it into the pot, and came up with Colonel Sakakibara’s head!
Everybody stared at the head in horror. Private Addison gagged. Private Wiley, another of the newer men, put his hand over his mouth and ran into the woods.
Frankie tossed the head back into the pot. “I’m boiling all the skin off it,” Frankie said. “A good Jap skull like this can go for fifty bucks to one of them dopey sailors who’s got more money than he knows what to do with, and this head belonged to an officer, so maybe I can get seventy-five.”
Bannon looked down into his can of fruit salad, and somehow he didn’t feel so hungry anymore. “Frankie, you’re a fucking animal, you know that?”
“Fuck you,” Frankie replied.
Bannon stood, slung his M 1 over his shoulder, and walked away, carrying his can of fruit salad in one hand and his pack in the other. The rest of the soldiers gathered their gear and dispersed to other parts of the village also, leaving Frankie alone with his pot of boiling water and Colonel Sakakibara’s head floating around inside.
The bungalows were constructed only fifteen feet apart, and formed a three-sided rectangle with the open side facing the street. Each had a front porch that opened on a sidewalk that ran perpendicular from the street, and little children played on the sidewalk and porches as Lieutenant Norton parked the o.d. green Chevrolet across the street. A radio blared on one of the porches, and the Andrews Sisters were singing: “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree with Anybody Else But Me.”
Butsko pointed to the bungalows. “I think the address is over there.”
Lieutenant Norton turned off the radio and flipped the ignition key. The engine coughed and died. “Well, let’s go over there and see if your wife’s home.”
“I hope the hell she ain’t home,” Butsko said.
“You mean we came all the way out here to see your wife, and you hope she isn’t home?”
“That’s right,” Butsko wheezed.
“Listen,” Lieutenant Norton said, “don’t worry about anything. If there’s any trouble, I’ll handle it. Just don’t punch anybody, got it?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you do, because if you punch somebody you’re going right back to the front.”
“I think I’d be better off at the front than here.”
“You’re even dumber than I thought. Let’s go.”
“Lemme take a drink, first.”
“You’d better not drink too much of that stuff.”
“Just a couple swallows will set me straight.”
Butsko opened the glove compartment and took out a brown paper bag. Inside the bag was a bottle of Philadelphia Blended -Whisky. He removed the bottle, unscrewed the top, raised the bottle to his mouth, and threw his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Take it easy on that stuff,” Lieutenant Norton said.
Butsko moved his head forward and held the bottle up. The fluid inside the brown bottle was diminished by one-third. He returned the bottle to the bag and stuffed the bag into the glove compartment. Lighting a cigarette, he pushed open the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
He slammed the door of the Chevrolet and looked across the roof to the complex of bungalows across the street. The children on the porches and sidewalks wore helmets and carried wooden rifles. They were playing war, mimicking sounds like gunshots and machine-gun fire with their voices. Butsko flashed on his old recon platoon fighting with loaded guns somewhere in the jungles of New Guinea.
Lieutenant Norton got out of the Chevrolet and slammed the door shut. “Let’s go,” he said.
Lieutenant Norton crossed the street, and Butsko followed him. The children noticed them coming and stopped playing. One of the kids shouted: “Ten-hut!”, and all the other kids snapped to attention.
“At ease!” said Lieutenant Norton. “As you were!”
The children rushed forward and crowded around Lieutenant Norton and Butsko.
“Are you guys tankers?” one of the kids asked.
“No,” said Lieutenant Norton.
“Did you ever kill a kraut?”
“We’re in the Pacific Theater. That’s where the Japs are.”
“Are they really as sneaky as they say?”
“Sneakier.”
Butsko looked at Dolly’s address on the piece of paper in his hand. The numbers on the bungalows were close to her number. Evidently she lived somewhere in the bungalow complex.
A door opened and an elderly man appeared on a porch nearby. He wore a white Air Raid Warden helmet, tan slacks, and a dirty white tanktop undershirt that made him appear as though he was pregnant. He descended the steps in front of the porch, as a female voice came on the radio singing “There’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover.”
The Air Raid Warden walked toward Lieutenant Norton and Butsko. “Can I help you fellers?”
“I’m looking for my wife,” Butsko told him.
“You kids get lost!” the Air Raid Warden said. “Go on! Beat it!”
The kids scattered in all directions, hiding behind porches and bushes, looking at Lieutenant Norton and Butsko.
“What’s your wife’s name?” the Air Raid Warden asked Butsko.
“Dolly Butsko.”
The Air Raid Warden smiled. “Dolly Butsko! So you’re her old man!” The Air Raid Warden held out his hand. “I’m pleased to meetcha. My name’s Ruby Pacheco.”
Butsko shook his hand and introduced him to Lieutenant Norton. Pacheco’s eyes widened when he saw the Congressional Medal of Honor ribbon on Lieutenant Norton’s shirt.
“Where does my wife live?” Butsko asked.
Pacheco pointed. “That house over there, but I don’t think she’s home right now.”
“She live alone over there?” Butsko asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Butsko’s face got mean. He looked at Lieutenant Norton, then turned back to Ruby Pacheco. “Who’s she living with?”
“Her name’s Muriel Hathaway.”
“Muriel Hathaway?”
“That’s right, and I believe Muriel’s home right now. Why don’t you go over there and say hello to her.” Pacheco pointed. “It’s the house right there.”
Butsko looked at Lieutenant Norton, then squared his shoulders, straightened his cunt cap on his head, and marched toward the house Pacheco had indicated. Lieutenant Norton slapped Pacheco on the arm and followed Butsko. The bungalows were made of wood and painted yellow. The radio now was playing “Pennsylvania 6-5000” performed by the Glenn Miller Orchestra.
Butsko ascended the steps to the porch. The entire bungalow shook as he crossed the porch and banged his fist on the door. “Anybody home?” he roared.
Lieutenant Norton caught up to him. “Who’re you talking to: the mayor of San Francisco? Keep your voice down.”
Butsko pounded on the door again. The children and Ruby Pacheco watched him. Butsko’s cigarette dangled out of the corner of his mouth. He didn’t know exactly what to expect, but he was going to tough it out anyway.
The door opened and revealed a willowy brunette in a white satiny robe. The brunette’s hair was mussed and she looked as though she just got up. She looked at Butsko, blinked, and pointed her forefinger at him.
“I know who you are!” she exclaimed. “I seen your picture! You’re Dolly’s husband!”
“You’re damn right I am,” Butsko replied. “Where the hell is she?”
“She’s at work.”
“Where the hell does she work?”
“McBride Aircraft Corporation. She works days and I work nights this week. Next week she works nights and I work the days. We’re on the swing shift.”
“What the hell does she do?” Butsko asked.
“She’s a riveter,” the brunette replied. “She helps build bombers.”
Butsko turned to Lieutenant Norton. “She builds bombers,” he said incredulously.
“I toldja things weren’t as bad as you thought.”
“What did you think?” the brunette asked Butsko.
“I thought Dolly’d be shacking up with some guy.”
“Do I look like some guy to you?”
“You sure don’t, baby.”
“My name’s Muriel.”
‘This is Lieutenant Norton.”
“Hi Lieutenant Norton.”
“Hi Muriel.”
Butsko snuffed out his cigarette on the heel of his shoe, and field-stripped the butt as if he was still in the jungles of New Guinea. “Where the hell’s this factory where she works?”
“You can’t go there now,” Muriel said.
“The hell I can’t. Where the hell is it?”
She told him the address. “But you can’t go there now,” she insisted.
“Oh yes I can.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Because I go where the fuck I wanna go.” Butsko turned to Lieutenant Norton. “Let’s hit it,” he said.
“Wouldn’t you guys like a cup of coffee first?” Muriel asked.
“Maybe later,” Butsko replied, “but right now I got things to do.”