Suicide River

by Len Levinson

  "Yes sir!”

  “Is there any man here who's afraid of Japs?”

  ’No sir!”

  “What regiment are you in?”

  "The Twenty-third Regiment!”

  “Who commands the Twenty-third Regiment?”

  "Colonel Robert Hutchins!”

  “What's the best regiment in the whole entire United States Army!”

  "The Twenty-third Regiment!”

  “Take a break in place!” Colonel Hutchins said.”Light ‘em if you got ‘em! The sergeant major'll be out in a little while with your assignments!”

  Colonel Hutchins turned and walked away, pleased with his performance. They'd all kept their eyes on him while he'd been talking; he'd had them in the palm of his hand. He walked to his tent, thinking about the white lightning, when he noticed a shadow approaching out of the corner his left eye. He looked in that direction and saw a barrel-chested soldier approaching, his hand held in front of him.

  “Permit me to introduce myself,” the barrel-chested soldier said in an upper-class patrician accent, his big meaty hand dangling in the air. “My name's Worthington, Private Randolph Worthington from Connecticut, sir. I used to do a lot of hunting before the war, and I'm a crack shot. If you need a crack shot for any special purpose, sir, I'm your man.”

  Colonel Hutchins looked him up and down, amazed at the man's audacity. Colonel Hutchins stared at Private Worthington's hand as if it were a piece of shit or a dead rat. Didn't Worthington know that full bird colonels didn't shake hands with privates? Worthington got the message, and withdrew his hand.

  “Forgive my boldness, sir,” he said, “but a crack shot like me is hard to find, and you may have a special use for me.”

  “What did you use to hunt?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  Worthington had a jaw like a fist and a confident, almost cocky manner. “I've hunted just about everything all over the world, sir, but I've spent most of my time in Africa. I've shot elephants, lions, leopards—you name it.”

  Colonel Hutchins turned so he could face Worthington more directly. “If you ever talk to me again without going through the chain of command first, I'm going to shoot you,” he said evenly. “Do you get my drift.” “Yes sir.”

  “Get back with the others.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Private Worthington saluted smartly, executed a neat about-face, and marched back to the assembly of replacements. Colonel Hutchins decided to put Worthington into the recon platoon. Worthington had made a good impression on him. The man evidently had guts. He might be a good leader someday.

  “Look at them guys!” one of the recruits said.

  Colonel Hutchins's attention was drawn toward the recruits. They all were looking to their right, and he turned in that direction also.

  Staggering toward him out of the jungle was a raggedy, bloody group of GIs with camouflage paint on their faces and hands, their faces frozen into expressions of fatigue. Colonel Hutchins recognized them instantly. It was the patrol he'd sent out last night from the recon platoon, led by Lieutenant Breckenridge, limping slightly on his left foot.

  “Well I'll be goddamned,” Colonel Hutchins said. “Look what the cat just dragged in.”

  The men from the recon platoon shuffled and hunched toward Colonel Hutchins, and he could see they'd had a bad time. A few wore bloody bandages, and all had that haunted glow in their eyes. The closer they got, the worse they looked. Lieutenant Breckenridge came to attention in front of Colonel Hutchins and saluted, as the new replacements looked on with their mouths hanging open.

  “Patrol from the recon platoon returning, sir.”

  “You look like shit, Breckenridge.”

  “It's been a rough night, sir.”

  “Got anything interesting for me?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “You don't need medical attention, do you?”

  “I don't, but a few of my men could use a medic.”

  “You come with me.” Colonel Hutchins looked at the other men from the recon platoon. “Those of you who need medical attention, get your asses over to the medics. The rest of you are dismissed.”

  Colonel Hutchins turned around and walked toward his command post tent. Lieutenant Breckenridge followed him, and the rest of the recon platoon broke up, some heading toward the medics, the rest veering toward the recon platoon bivouac. The replacements stared at the beat-up bloody soldiers, and the reality of the situation sank into their minds. The replacements wore clean new uniforms and didn't have any scratches on them, but they knew they'd look like these soldiers after a few days, if they weren't dead by then.

  Colonel Hutchins entered the outer office of his tent and stopped at the desk of Master Sergeant Koch.

  “Sergeant,” he said, “there's a man out there named Worthington. I want him assigned to the recon platoon.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins strolled into his office and sat behind the desk. He took his flask of white lightning out of the top drawer.

  “Have a seat,” he said to Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge took off his pack and collapsed onto a seat in front of colonel Hutchins's desk. Colonel Hutchins raised the flask to his mouth and gulped some down, then screwed the lid back on and tossed the flask to Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “Help yourself,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge unscrewed the cap, threw his head back, and gurgled down the white lightning. There were times in the jungle when he thought he'd never make it back to safety, but he'd done it somehow, and it was good to be back.

  “When I said help yourself, I didn't say drink it all,” Colonel Hutchins told him.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge replaced the cap on the flask, threw it back to Colonel Hutchins, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That's fine stuff,” he said.

  “You bet your ass,” Colonel Hutchins replied, dropping the flask into the top drawer of his desk and slamming it shut. “What happened on the patrol?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge leaned back in the chair and cleared his throat. “First of all, there's a lot of troop movement on the other side on the river and a lot of supplies being carried around.”

  “The Japs are up to something,” Colonel Hutchins concluded. “What you're telling me confirms other reports that've been coming in. The big question is when that asshole up at division is going to do something about it?”

  Colonel Hutchins was referring to Major General Clyde Hawkins, commanding officer of the Eighty-first Division, of which the Twenty-third Regiment was a part. Colonel Hutchins didn't like General Hawkins and everybody knew it. They argued constantly, and on one occasion Colonel Hutchins had accused General Hawkins of not having any guts.

  “I don't know what he's gonna do about it,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “I'm so tired I can't even think straight. Can I get on with my report?”

  “You goddamned well better. I ain't got all day.”

  “That road you wanted me to check out isn't there. We spent half the night looking for it, and couldn't find a trace of it. Either the jungle has grown over it, or it was never there in the first place.”

  “Our maps are based on the maps the Dutch drew up. They had the road on their maps.”

  “It's not there now. I looked for it and I can assure you that it doesn't exist anymore.”

  “Anything else?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  “This.” Lieutenant Breckenridge opened his pack and withdrew the papers he'd taken from the young Japanese officer Private Bisbee had killed. He tossed the papers onto Colonel Hutchins's desk.

  Colonel Hutchins picked up the papers. “Where'd you get this stuff?”

  “Private Bisbee killed a Jap officer, and we found it in his pack.”

  “Looks important,” said Colonel Hutchins.

  “Might be his laundry list.”

  “It's on official paper. I'll give you a laundry list right in your head.” Colonel Hutch
ins raised his chin an inch and shouted, “Sergeant Koch—get your ass in here!”

  “Yes sir!” replied Sergeant Koch in the outer office.

  A few seconds later Sergeant Koch entered Colonel Hutchins's inner office. “Yes sir?”

  “Find Lieutenant Harper and tell him I wanna see him right away. Tell him I want him to hand-deliver something to General Hawkins. Get going.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sergeant Koch spun around and ran out of the office. Colonel Hutchins looked at the pages covered with Japanese characters.

  “I imagine General Hawkins'll have to forward this stuff to Persecution Headquarters. They got somebody there who can read Jap.”

  “I don't have anything more to report,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Can I go sack out now?”

  “You mean you're still here?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  Sergeant Butsko hobbled out of the medical tent, leaning heavily on Bannon and the cane Bannon had cut for him out of a thick, knobby branch. Bannon had included an offshoot of the branch for a handgrip, and the cane bore a slight resemblance to an Irish shillelagh. Nurses, doctors, orderlies, and other wounded GIs couldn't help noticing the battle-scarred, brutal-looking sergeant making his way toward an open clearing.

  “Lemme get to that tree over there,” Butsko wheezed, hopping up and down every time he took a step. “Goddamn—I'm moving right along, ain't I?” As soon as the words were out of Butsko's mouth he lost his footing and collapsed onto the ground.

  “Yep, you're really moving right along,” Bannon said, bending over to help Butsko up. “You've just about got that cane whipped.”

  “Don't be a wise guy,” Butsko snarled, getting to his feet again.

  He looked around and noticed everyone staring at him. He wanted to crown them all with his cane, but couldn't move. He was a cripple. Butsko thought he'd rather be dead than a cripple. He took another halting step, heading toward the tree, and everything went fine so he stepped out again.

  “Just take it slow, Sarge,” Bannon said. “You got all day.”

  “Maybe you got all day, but I ain't got all day,” Butsko replied.

  They made their way toward the tree and finally reached it. Butsko sat down heavily and laid the cane beside him on the ground, leaning his back against the trunk of the tree. Bannon dropped down next to Butsko and both men took out their packs of cigarettes, lighting up. They looked around them at wounded men lying on the ground, and the medical personnel coming and going. They were near a dusty dirt road, where trucks and jeeps rolled back and forth. Butsko relaxed, letting the tree hold the full weight of his massive upper body. He puffed his cigarette and felt weird, because he'd received morphine shots for the wounds in his leg.

  “How're you doing, Sarge?” Bannon asked.

  “I'm doing just fine,” Butsko replied. “It's good to be alive. I wish the fucking war was over, but there ain't nothing I can do about that. How're you doing?”

  “Not bad,” Bannon said. “Sometimes I hurt inside, but the doctors said I'm fit for duty, so here I am.”

  “How long you been away?”

  “About four months.”

  “They should give you a couple more months to rest up.”

  “I'm sure they wouldn't've sent me back here if I wasn't okay.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The doctors know what they're doing, don't they?”

  “I don't know—do they? The bastards wanted to cut off my leg on Bougainville, and I fought them on it. Finally they admitted they made a mistake. They got my X rays mixed up with the X rays of some other poor chump. So don't ever rely on doctors. They're assholes just like everybody else. In fact, sometimes I think they're worse assholes than everybody else.”

  “If I feel bad I'll go on sick call,” Bannon said.

  “Good luck.”

  Both men sat and puffed their cigarettes. They'd known each other since Guadalcanal, which had been Bannon's baptism of fire. Butsko's baptism of fire had come long before that. He'd joined the Army in 1935, during the Depression, because he couldn't get a job. He'd been on the Philippines when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, and had fought under General Jonathan Wainwright in the terrible losing fight on Bataan. He was a survivor of the infamous Bataan Death March, and escaped from a Jap prisoner-of-war camp in northern Luzon.

  “How was your furlough, kid?” Butsko asked.

  “Real nice,” Bannon replied.

  “Get any pussy?”

  “Jesus Christ, Sarge.”

  Butsko turned to Bannon and raised his eyebrows. “What's the matter with you, cowboy?”

  “It's awful the way you talk about women, Sarge. They're all not bad. In fact, some of them are awfully nice.”

  “Oh shit,” Butsko said, “don't tell me you're in love again. Who's the unlucky bitch this time?”

  “She's not a bitch. She's a very decent young woman.”

  Butsko snorted. “Don't make me laugh.”

  “You don't have to believe me if you don't want to.”

  “They're all bitches,” Butsko said. ‘Take it from me—I know. If they're not nagging in one way, they're nagging in another way. All women nag. Anyway, who is this decent young woman you've been plunking?”

  “You'll never guess,’ Bannon said.

  “Okay, I'll never guess,” Butsko replied. “Why don't'cha just tell me and get it over with so's I can have some cheap thrills in my old age.”

  Bannon puffed his cigarette and twitched his nose. “Homer Gladley's kid sister.”

  Butsko was astounded. He regained his composure and glanced sideways at Bannon. Private Homer Gladley had been killed on Bougainville, and he'd been one of the most popular members of the recon platoon. He was a big farm boy from Nebraska who went berserk whenever he saw a Jap.

  “We're engaged to get married,” Bannon said shyly.

  “But you're already married to that native girl on Guadalcanal—what's her name?”

  “I don't remember,” Bannon said. “That one didn't count anyway, because we were married by a witch doctor, and not by a chaplain or a justice of the peace. She couldn't even speak English, and I sure as hell couldn't speak what she spoke.”

  “How'd you meet Homer Gladley's sister?” Butsko asked.

  “Waal,” Bannon replied, “it was like this. I went back home to Texas to see my old girlfriend Ginger—you remember Ginger—I believe I told you about Ginger.”

  “Yeah, you told me about Ginger,” Butsko said. “She sounded like a real hot piece of ass.”

  “Yeah, well Ginger's a little too hot for her own good,” Bannon continued, “and when I got home she was shacking up with another guy.”

  Butsko interrupted him. “You can't trust them hot bitches,” he said. “They'll fuck anything. I know because my wife's a hot bitch, and I can't trust her any farther than I could throw’ this entire goddamn fucking island.”

  Bannon smiled, because he'd met Butsko's wife once in Honolulu. “Yeah, but Dolly's okay. I'm sure she's worth the trouble.”

  “Sometimes I wonder about that,” Butsko said, “but anyway, what happened when you found Ginger with that other guy?”

  “Whataya think happened?”

  “You beat the piss out of him.”

  “Right.”

  “And then somebody called the cops.”

  “Ginger called the cops.”

  “She didn't!”

  “Oh yes she did.”

  “Why that rotten bitch!”

  “Waal, she thought I was gonna kill her.”

  “Were you gonna kill her?”

  “As a matter of fact I was.”

  “She deserved it.”

  “She damn sure did, but I held myself back at the last moment and decided maybe I'd better get out of town. To make a long story short, I went to the bus station, and the sheriff caught up with me there. He wanted to arrest me, but a crowd of people wouldn't let him because I was a wounded soldier and all that shit, so the sherif
f let me go on the condition I'd get out of town and never come back. I didn't know exactly where to go, but somehow I started thinking of good old Homer—don't ask me why—and I thought it might be a good idea to visit his folks and tell them what a great guy he was and that he was brave and he died fighting for his country.”

  “And to freeload a little,” Butsko said.

  “Right,” Bannon replied.

  “And maybe get into bis sister's pants?”

  “I didn't even know he had a sister. That part came later.”

  “Don't lie,” Butsko said. “You knew he had a sister. Even I knew he had a sister.”

  “I knew he came from a big family with a lot of brothers and sisters, but I didn't know he had this particular sister.”

  Butsko grinned lewdly. “She's that pretty, huh?”

  Bannon nodded. “She's a real good-looker, Sarge.”

  “She dumb like Homer was?”

  “No. She's kind of smart, in fact.”

  “Then what does she see in you?”

  “You'd have to ask her.”

  “I'd love to ask her. What does she look like?”

  “Waal, she's kind of big, like Homer.”

  “That big?” Butsko asked.

  “No, not that big,” Bannon replied, “but she's just about as big as me.”

  “That's pretty big,” Butsko admitted, because Bannon was a six-footer and then some. “What else?”

  “She's a blonde,” Bannon said, “a real healthy girl, up at the crack of dawn milking cows, cooking and baking all day long, sometimes working out in the fields with the men, strong as an ox and pretty as a picture.” Bannon smiled happily. “We're gonna get married, Sarge. I gave her a ring.”

  “What do her folks say about all this?”

  “They thought it was a good idea.”

  “They all must be dumb like Homer.”

  “No, they're not as dumb as Homer. They just know a good thing when they see it.”

  “How'd you get into her pants?” Butsko asked.