Suicide River

by Len Levinson

  “Yes sir!”

  ‘Take down this order!”

  Captain Parker was one of General Hall's aides, and he got out his pen. “I'm ready, sir.”

  “Double our patrols and our guard. Make certain adequate ammunition and supplies are close to the front, but not too close because we don't want everything blown up in an artillery bombardment. Place all units on a twenty-four-hour alert.” General Hall took a deep breath. “That'll be it for now. I want a meeting of all staff officers and division commanders in this office at,”—he looked at his watch—“fifteen hundred hours. Have you got all that?”

  “Yes sir,” said Captain Parker.

  “Good. That will be all for now. Major Rainey—make certain a copy of those documents is transmitted to General Krueger without delay. The rest of you follow through on the orders I just gave Captain Parker. Are there any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “That's all for now,” General Hall said. “This meeting is dismissed.”

  FOUR . . .

  “What's things like back in the States?” the Reverend Billie Jones asked.

  “Things've changed a lot since I was there last,” Bannon replied. He sat cross-legged on the ground, smoking a cigarette, and the rest of the recon platoon formed a circle around him. “Everybody, even little kids, have got ration books, and nobody can buy things unless they use the coupons in the ration books. Gas for cars is real scarce. There's collections for paper, tin cans, rags, and you name it. I can't say things are real tough, but in a lotta ways they're tougher than they were before the war, because before the war you could buy anything you wanted if you had the money, but now money don't matter so much. You gotta have them coupons in the ration books.”

  “I bet there's a lot of black-market shit going on,” Frankie La Barbara said.

  “I suppose there is,” Bannon replied. “I never really saw any of it firsthand.”

  “Are the folks at home getting mad at us?” Yabalonka asked.

  Bannon was surprised by the question. “What for?”

  “Because we haven't won the war yet, and they have to make sacrifices.”

  “Naw,” said Bannon. “The folks at home are behind us one hundred percent. They're proud of us and most of them feel guilty that they're not doing more for the war effort. Even old men wanna join up and fight. Teenage kids lie about their ages to join up. Women are working in the factories. In fact, in a certain way things are better than when I left the States, because the Depression's over. Everybody's got a job, and lotsa them jobs pay big money with overtime and all.”

  “They's lucky,” said McGurk. “Wish I had a good job with overtime.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge chortled. “You got the overtime. You just haven't got the good job.”

  The men snickered. They thought that was kind of funny. Private Bisbee leaned forward, and he didn't have a baby face anymore. His face looked like it'd been through a meat grinder.

  “How're the women back there?” he asked.

  “Same as usual,” Bannon replied. “No fucking good.” He was thinking of Ginger, but then realized he'd better say something else so the men wouldn't think their wives and girlfriends were stepping out on them. “Waal,” he said, “only some of them are no damn good, I guess. Most of the women are behaving themselves.”

  Frankie spat at the ground. “Yeah, sure.”

  “They are.”

  “Bullshit,” Frankie said. “As soon as they start getting hot pants they'll run off with somebody else.”

  Bannon didn't think this was a very good topic of conversation, and he decided to change the subject. “I saw Butsko this morning,” he said.

  “How was the old son of a bitch?” Frankie asked.

  “Full of piss and vinegar as usual.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge took a drag from his cigarette. “He's up for the DSC,” he said.

  “He is?” Bannon replied.”I didn't know that. He didn't mention it.”

  “He wouldn't,” said the Reverend Billie Jones.

  “He shoulda got it a long time ago,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.

  “You think they'll give it to him?” Frankie La Barbara asked.

  “I don't know,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “Depends on what criteria they use when they pass out the DSC.”

  A stubborn expression came over Frankie's face. “I hope they give it to him, because if they do they'll ship him out and I won't have to look at the son of a bitch anymore.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge smiled. “Why don't you like Butsko, Frankie?”

  “Because of that time on Bougainville when we were on patrol and he wanted to leave me behind enemy lines when I got sick.”

  Bannon said, “That's because you fight with him every time he tells you something to do.”

  “Fuck him and fuck his mother,” Frankie replied.

  “You gotta understand Butsko,” Bannon said. “He's very bitter about life, and he's not sentimental at all. He's seen too much. He doesn't have any patience, but he's a great man anyway because he's usually right about things.”

  “Bullshit,” said Frankie. “He's just another asshole as far as I'm concerned.”

  “Everybody's an asshole as far as you're concerned, Frankie.”

  “That's right, and that includes you, cowboy.”

  “You're not that different from Butsko,” Bannon said, “because that's the way he thinks too. If he'd been the one who'd been sick behind enemy lines, you'd be the first who'd want to leave him behind.”

  “Fuck you,” Frankie said. “Who asked you anyway?”

  “Well,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, “we've probably seen the last of Butsko for a long time. If he gets the DSC they'll probably send him back to the States for a war-bond tour.”

  McGurk nodded his head eagerly. “With movie actresses and shit like that!”

  “That lucky bastard,” Frankie said. “Every time he falls into a pile of shit he comes up smelling like a rose.”

  “You're just jealous,” said Bisbee.

  “Shaddup before I fuck up your face again, scumbag.”

  “Oh yeah?” Bisbee said. “Well let me tell you something, buddy. Next time I'm not going to walk up to you and just stand there like last time. Next time I'm gonna stick a knife in your ass.”

  “Try it and see what happens to you,” Frankie growled. “I'll make you eat the fucking knife.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge stood up and wheezed. “I get so sick of you guys arguing,” he said. “I wish I could leave you all behind someplace, and start out clean with a new platoon.” Lieutenant Breckenridge turned and walked away, putting on his steel pot, adjusting his submachine gun slung over his shoulder.

  “Fuck him too,” Frankie said underneath his breath. “He's just another dipshit officer around here, and he'd better watch his step. Them silver bars on his collar don't mean a fucking thing to me.”

  Bannon stubbed out his cigarette on the ground, then field-stripped it, tearing off the paper, scattering the crumbs of tobacco on the ground. He rolled the paper into a tiny ball and threw it over his shoulder. “Okay,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It's nearly time for chow. Let's police up this area and get ready to go. Let's hit it—on your feet!”

  “Shit,” Frankie said. “Everybody wants to be a boss.”

  “Let's go,” Bannon said. “We ain't got all fucking day.” Bannon got to his feet, and so did the other men, although they took their time. Bannon led them to the edge of the clearing and lined them up, as they grumbled and complained.

  “Let's move it out!” Bannon told them. “If God didn't put it there, pick it up!”

  The men advanced across the clearing, their faces surly, bending over to pick up empty C-ration cans, scraps of paper, and other bits of debris that were strewn around their bivouac.

  Lieutenant Betty Crawford walked from the surgical tent to the tent where she and the other nurses lived. She was on a twisting jungle trail, and she moved ov
er it with her hands in her pockets and her GI fatigue cap askew on her head. She'd piled her curly blond hair underneath the cap, but her hair was unruly and much of it peeked out. Her fatigue pants were baggy and made her look like Charlie Chaplin. Often she missed the pretty dresses she'd worn when she was a civilian, but her mind wasn't on pretty dresses just then.

  She was thinking about Master Sergeant John Butsko, and she was greatly disturbed. She thought there must be something wrong with her for having such strong sexual feelings for a man who was so much older than she—twelve years—and who was brutal, crude, and even quite vulgar at times.

  Yet she also knew he could be soft and tender. His harsh voice could become gentle and husky, and it really turned her on when it got that way. He was a creature of extremes and contradictions. From a certain point of view he was ugly and even monstrous, but yet she had to admit she found him extremely exciting sexually. She wasn't engaged to him. She hardly knew him. And yet she lusted after him, although her ex-fiancé was barely cold in his grave.

  That was an exaggeration, but people in emotional crises often exaggerate. Her ex-fiancé had been a Navy pilot, missing in action for a year. He'd been shot down in some minor air battle in the South Pacific, a decent young man from the Midwest, which was where Betty Crawford was from. They'd been right for each other in every way, but while he still was alive she'd met Butsko on New Caledonia and gone to bed with him in that cheesy hotel, betraying Bob, her fiancé, and causing her to realize she wasn't the sweet young thing she'd always thought she was.

  Now she was wondering why she was getting mixed up with Butsko again. They certainly weren't going to get married, and in fact he was married already, She'd committed adultery with him once, and wasn't sure she wanted to do it again. There was no future for her and Butsko, and she was sure he didn't love her, so why had she been behaving as though all she wanted in the world was to get alone with him someplace and tear off her clothes?

  I've really got to get hold of myself, she said to herself. I'm behaving like those silly promiscuous nurses I disapprove of so much, who sleep with all the officers, and Butsko isn't even an officer.

  She reached into her shirt pocket and took out a Philip Morris cigarette, lighting it with her trusty Ronson. She took a puff and turned a bend in the trail. Monkeys chattered in the trees above her, jumping from branch to branch, eating fruits and nuts, spitting the seeds and shells to the ground below.

  She walked past a tree with a thick trunk, thinking about Butsko, when suddenly a figure lurched in front of her from behind the tree.

  “Hi there,” said Butsko.

  There he was, standing in front of her. She blinked and did a double take, not knowing what to say.

  “You look like you just had a death in your family,” Butsko said, leaning on the cane Bannon had made for him. “Why so glum, chum?”

  “What're you doing here?” she asked. “You shouldn't creep up on people this way.”

  “Why not?” he replied. “It's good practice. Keeps me in shape.”

  She recovered her composure and recalled the gripe she had with him. “What'd your wife have to say in her letter?” she asked.

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “You can't talk to me like that,” Betty said, pushing him out of her way so she could continue her walk.

  But just because she pushed him, that didn't mean he moved. She weighed 105 pounds, and he weighed nearly two-and-a-half times that much. He didn't budge at all. She pushed him again. “Get out of my way!” she said.

  “What's the matter with you?” he asked.

  “I want to go home.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I want to go home.”

  “I thought you wanted to go for a little walk in the woods with me.”

  “I changed my mind.” She pushed him again, but it was like pushing the Rock of Gibralter.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked.

  “None of your fucking business,” she replied.

  “Nice talk,” he said.

  “I learned it from you.”

  ‘Too bad you didn't learn more from me.”

  “Get out of my way.”

  “You sure that's what you want?”

  “That's what I want.”

  “Okay,” Butsko said, limping to the side. “Have it your way.”

  The path was clear in front of her, but she hesitated.

  “What are you waiting for?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I thought you were in a hurry to get going.”

  “I am.”

  “I don't see you moving.”

  Lieutenant Betty Crawford didn't know what to do. On one hand she wanted to walk away from Butsko, but on the other hand she thought if she walked away from him they'd be finished for good, and she wasn't sure she wanted it to be over for good.

  “Looks like you're not in the hurry you thought you were,” Butsko said.

  She looked into his eyes. “Butsko, what'm I gonna do about you?”

  He winked. “Do you really want me to say it out loud?”

  She shook her head and sighed. “Oh God,” she said.

  He smiled and placed his big hairy hand on her shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Take it easy, kid,” he said. “You're getting yourself all worked up over nothing.”

  “But what am I going to do about you, Butsko?”

  “You don't have to do anything about me. I didn't realize I was making you feel bad. Hell, the war's shitty enough without people making each other feel bad. You're a good kid and I never should've got mixed up with you in the first place.” He pushed her gently toward the tent where the nurses lived. “Get along now. Stop worrying about old Sergeant Butsko. He ain't worth it.”

  She looked up at him and was afraid she might cry. “Yes you are worth it.”

  “I feel rotten,” Butsko said. “I think I'm gonna lie down someplace. I'll talk to you later.”

  Butsko turned away from her, pushing his cane in front of him, placing its tip against the ground. He took a faltering step, moved the cane forward again, and then took another faltering step.

  The nurse in Betty Crawford got the best of her. “Let me help you,” she said, moving to his right side, grabbing his arm.

  “Naw, that's okay,” he said, trying to shake her loose. “I can make it myself.”

  “I'll help you back to your tent.”

  “I toldja I can make it myself.”

  “I know you can make it yourself, but it'll be easier if I help you.”

  They heard the laughter of a woman's voice, and looked up. A group of nurses appeared on the trail in front of them, talking and joking with each other, on their way back to their tent. They saw Betty with Butsko and slowed down.

  “Is Sergeant Butsko all right?” asked a red-headed nurse with a bug bust, whose name was Lieutenant Frannie Divers.

  “Yeah, I'm all right,” growled Butsko.

  “What's he doing back here?” asked a short fat nurse with a terrible acne condition, her curly black hair resembling the hair of a French poodle. She was Lieutenant Agnes Shankar. “Is he a Peeping Tom or something?”

  Butsko looked at her. “Who in the hell would want to peep at you, you ugly bitch.”

  There was a loud hissing sound as all the women on the path sucked wind through their open mouths.

  Lieutenant Shankar's eyes nearly popped out of her skull. “That's no way to talk to a woman!” she screamed.

  “Fuck you in your ass,” Butsko snarled.

  "What!” Lieutenant Shankar screamed.

  “I said fuck you in your ass,” Butsko told her. “You want me to say it again? Fuck you in your ass.”

  Tiny red marks appeared on her face underneath her acne zits. She pointed her sausagelike forefinger at Butsko. “I'm gonna have you court-martialed!” she said.

  Lieutenant Frannie Divers blew air out the corner of her mouth. “Oh come off it,” she said.

&nbs
p; Lieutenant Shankar spun around angrily and faced her. “Come off what!” she demanded. “This filthy bastard here just insulted me, and I'm an officer in the United States Army! I'm gonna bring him up on charges!”

  “Fuck you,” Butsko said to her. “Who gives a shit?”

  Butsko maneuvered his cane in front of him, and it wasn't easy for him because he wasn't accustomed to it yet. He hobbled toward the hospital tents, and Betty continued to hold his arm and keep him steady, because she didn't know what else to do.

  “What's your name—soldier!” Lieutenant Shankar hollered.

  “Fuck you,” Butsko replied.

  “Calm down,” Betty said softly.

  “I am calm.”

  “Stop talking to her that way, because she's a troublemaker. She hates men.”

  “I'm a troublemaker too,” Butsko said, “and I hate her, so that makes us even.”

  Betty sighed. “Butsko, I don't know what to do with you.”

  “Then why don't you go take a flying fuck at the moon?” Butsko's temper was riled now, and once his temper was riled it wasn't easy for him to relax. He turned to her and narrowed his eyes. “You're always telling me that you don't know what to do with me, and I'm getting sick of hearing it. If you don't know what to do with me, get the fuck away from me. Who the hell needs you anyway? I don't need you! I don't need anybody!”

  Butsko pulled his arm out of her grip, shot her a dirty look, and limped away. She wanted to run after him and help him, but she had her pride, and besides, the other nurses were watching her. She took a deep breath and walked toward the women.

  Lieutenant Divers's hands were in her pockets. “He's sure an ornery son of a gun, isn't he?” she asked no one in particular.

  “He sure is,” Betty agreed.

  Lieutenant Shankar was pissed off. “I'm gonna have him court-martialed!” she said, waving her arms around wildly in the air. “You're all my witnesses! We can't let him talk to women like that!”

  “Oh, shut your mouth,” Betty told her. Betty was so upset she'd lost her cool, and was speaking out in a situation where she ordinarily would keep her mouth shut.