by Len Levinson
Shilansky thought about Jewish women and little children being gassed and cremated. He couldn't understand why the world didn't do something about it, because it seemed that something could be done. But maybe nothing could be done, like the newspaper article said, except the promise to punish Nazis when the war was won, if the war was won.
Shilansky also thought about the men like him who were gassed and cremated. Why didn't they fight back? He knew he would've fought back, or at least he thought he would. Maybe Jews like him had fought back but it wasn't reported in the newspapers because nobody knew about it.
The worst part was that Shilansky had no one he could talk with about the concentration camps. He couldn't say something because then everybody would see him as just another Jew who complained all the time, and he didn't want to be thought of that way. So he'd have to keep his mouth shut and pretend it wasn't bothering him, although it was bothering him, festering and seething inside his soul.
Finally he came to Headquarters Company and passed the command post, on his way to the armorer's tent. Pfc. Levinson, the regimental clerk, happened to be outside, inspecting tent stakes for the storm he thought might be brewing, and Levinson happened to notice Shilansky. Levinson and Shilansky knew each other vaguely and were aware that they were Jews, but never mentioned it or even had a conversation that lasted longer than three sentences.
“Hello Shilansky,” Pfc. Levinson said. “How're you feeling?”
“Okay,” Shilansky replied, and kept on walking.
Shilansky wondered if Pfc. Levinson knew about the death camps, and would've liked to talk with him about them, but if he and Levinson were seen talking privately together everyone else might think two Jews were conspiring to take over the world.
What the fuck, Shilansky said to himself. I can't save those Jews. I can't even save myself. He decided to keep his mouth shut and just go on with his life as if nothing happened, but whenever he closed his eyes he saw those little children going up in flames.
It was night in the jungle. Butsko sat in the clearing outside the medical tent, his cane lying on the ground beside him. He raised his cigarette to his mouth and took a drag. The usual trucks and jeeps rolled by on the road. Groups of wounded soldiers sat around shooting the shit. One had a guitar and strummed an old Kentucky bluegrass tune, while a few GIs sang along about doomed love and the suffering endured by hearts on fire. Butsko was thinking about his leg, of how it had improved during the past few days, and how he hoped to get around without the cane in a few more days.
“Hi,” said the voice of Lieutenant Betty Crawford above him.
Butsko looked up and saw her pretty face in the shadows. They hadn't spoken since the big blow-out on the path near the nurses’ tent.
“You still mad at me?” she asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Go right ahead.”
She sat cross-legged on the grass in front of him and their eyes met, but she quickly averted her gaze. She looked as if she was embarrassed. There was something about Butsko that intimidated her, and she didn't think it was just his physical bulk.
“That court-martial's not going through,” she said to him.
He didn't reply.
“Don't you even want to know why?” she asked.
“Why?” he answered.
“Because all the nurses refused to testify for the one who wanted to court-martial you, and without witnesses she's got no case.”
Butsko was surprised. “Those nurses won't testify against me?”
“That's what I said.”
“Why not?”
“I guess they like you, and they don't like her.”
“Who could like her?” Butsko asked.
She took out her package of Chesterfields, and he flicked his Zippo, lighting one up for her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Don't mention it,” he replied.
She puffed her cigarette and he puffed his. The faint evening breeze blew the smoke away in long wispy trails. The wounded soldier strumming his guitar sang that old Army song, “The Reenlistment Blues.”
Betty turned to Butsko and looked him in the eye. “What're we going to do, Butsko?”
“About what?” he asked. He knew exactly what she was referring to, but was in a rotten mood and didn't feel like cooperating.
“About us,” she said.
“Why do we have to do something about us?”
“You wanna just forget about everything?”
“Naw,” he said, “I don't wanna forget about everything.”
“Then what are we going to do?” she asked.
Butsko winked. “Why don't we go into those woods over there where we can be alone?”
“C'mon Butsko—be serious. We've got to talk things over.”
“Why do we always have to talk?”
“Listen to me,” she said. “I'm not one of those silly nurses who sleeps with everybody. I'm twenty-four years old and I only slept with four men in my life. One was Bob, and we were going to get married but he's dead now.”
“He might not be dead,” Butsko replied. “He's missing in action and could turn up again any day now.”
“Extremely unlikely,” Betty said. “There was another boy-friend I had in college, and another boyfriend I had all the time I was in high school, and then there was you. I don't go to bed with men for the hell of it. I am not a promiscuous woman. When I go to bed with a man it's because I love him, and I fell in love with you, you big lug. But you never fell in love with me. I'm beginning to realize that I'm just another girl to you, just another port in a storm, isn't that so?”
“No,” Butsko said. “I love you too, baby.”
“You don't sound very sincere about it.”
“Well what else am I supposed to do?”
“You're not supposed to do anything. Either you're sincere or you're not.”
Butsko puffed his cigarette and looked at her. The moonlight dappled her hair, and shadows played across her cheek, but somehow she didn't look so good to him anymore. She was annoying him with her incessant horseshit, and he didn't need any more hassles in his life. He looked her in the eyes again, and they were the eyes of a frightened child, not the smoldering coals he'd thought he'd seen before.
“You're getting to be a pain in the ass, you know that?” he said.
Her hair bristled on her head and her backbone became as straight as the barrel of a rifle. “What!”
“I said you're getting to be a pain in the ass. I don't need all this shit. I got enough on my mind.”
She looked at his face and realized how ugly and beat-up he was, and he was so much older than she, with bad manners and a foul mouth. “Well,” she said huffily. “I can see you really don't care about me at all.”
“Gimme a break, willya kid?” Butsko picked up his cane and planted its end in the ground beside him. He rested his hand on the top part and pushed himself up.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
‘To bed.”
She stood also and brushed the leaves and twigs off the rear end of her uniform. “You just can't walk away like this,” she said.
“Oh no?”
He turned away from her and leaned on his cane, hobbling toward the tent. She didn't know whether to run after him or throw a rock at him. She decided to do neither. He didn't love her as much as she wanted to be loved, so she might as well forget about him.
She put her hands in her pockets and walked toward the area where the nurses lived, passing the soldier strumming his guitar, singing of old battles, undying love, and lost illusions.
SEVEN . . .
It was midnight and the recon platoon moved cautiously through a deep dark part of the New Guinea jungle. McGurk was on the point, about twenty paces ahead of the others, clearing the way, the eyes and ears of the platoon as it advanced through Japanese-held territory on the east side of the Driniumor River.
Lieutenant Brecke
nridge was farther back, carrying his submachine gun slung barrel-down over his shoulder, looking to the left and right, alert and observant, expecting to run into Japanese soldiers at any moment, and it was imperative that the GIs saw the Japanese soldiers before the Japanese soldiers saw them.
Private Worthington walked behind Lieutenant Breckenridge, carrying the patrol's walkie-talkie; Lieutenant Breckenridge had given Private Worthington the job of being his runner. Worthington also carried an M 1 rifle instead of a submachine gun, because the M 1 rifle was an accurate weapon and Worthington was supposed to be a crack shot.
Worthington wasn't as nervous as he'd thought he'd be. The patrol reminded him of going on safari in an area full of hostile natives, and wild beasts like lions and leopards who'd like to eat you for dinner.
Private Worthington had hunter's eyes and instincts. He examined the trees and bushes all around him, looking above his head periodically to see if anything or anybody was lurking there. He found himself envying Lieutenant Breckenridge, because Lieutenant Breckenridge was in charge. Private Worthington realized he'd like to lead a patrol himself. He was smart and had good instincts in the wilderness. He was sure he could do a good job.
Behind Private Worthington was Corporal Bannon, second in command in the recon platoon and second in command on that particular patrol. He carried his submachine gun in his hands, and felt the old familiar atmosphere and danger cover him like a cloak. This was his first patrol since Bougainville, and his instincts were rusty. He'd grown accustomed to the soft life in hospitals and the warm arms of Homer Gladley's sister, but now his life was on the line again, and it didn't feel so good. Somehow he'd have to sharpen his senses and combat skills if he wanted to survive the war, and he definitely wanted to survive the war so he could go back to Nebraska and marry Priscilla Gladley.
Suddenly Bannon became aware that everyone around him was scattering into the bushes on the left side of the trail. He was the last one to take cover in the thick foliage, and raised his head, trying to figure out what was going on. Private McGurk crawled back to Lieutenant Breckenridge, and Bannon crept closer to hear McGurk's report.
“Hear Japs,” McGurk said.
“Where?”
McGurk pointed ahead on the trail.
“You're sure?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked, because he didn't hear anything.
McGurk nodded his head, and it was so big his fatigue cap sat on top of it and looked as though it'd fall off at any moment.
“Okay,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Stay put here.”
McGurk lay down like a big dog and held his submachine gun in his hands, wrinkling his brow, facing the sound he claimed to have heard.
Private Worthington was on the other side of Lieutenant Breckenridge, and he leaned closer to Lieutenant Breckenridge because he wanted to say something softly so that McGurk wouldn't hear. “I don't hear any Japs,” Private Worthington whispered.
McGurk turned around and scowled. He'd heard every word. Worthington was embarrassed and smiled stupidly at McGurk.
“I just don't hear anything,” Worthington repeated.
“Be still,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
Worthington became irritated whenever Lieutenant Breckenridge gave him an order. He'd never felt that way when officers gave him orders in basic training, but he'd played football against Lieutenant Breckenridge and thought of him almost like a friend. It was turning into a very perplexing problem for Private Worthington.
Then he heard the sounds. At first it was like an onrush of wind rustling leaves and branches faintly, but then Private Worthington realized a fairly substantial number of soldiers were headed toward the patrol. He had to admit big stupid McGurk had sharper ears than he.
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned his head around and looked at Bisbee, pointing to him. Then he beckoned with his finger, and Bisbee crawled forward.
“Get ready with your knife,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
Bisbee nodded. He yanked his Ka-bar knife out of its scabbard, and it gleamed in the darkness. It was razor sharp; Bisbee kept it that way. His face still was bruised and battered, but it was healing. He still hated Frankie La Barbara, but that would have to wait for later. Holding the knife by its blade, the ex-carnie got ready to throw it.
The sounds of Japanese soldiers drew closer, and then they came into view on the trail. The GIs saw a long column of Japanese soldiers carrying large crates on their backs, headed toward the Driniumor River. The Japanese soldiers were skinny and bony, and it appeared the crates should be too heavy for them, but the Japanese soldiers carried them anyway, never faltering or complaining, moving along the trail only a few feet away from the GIs.
Lieutenant Breckenridge took out his notepad and wrote down what he saw. It confirmed what he'd been told already, that the Japanese Army on New Guinea had no transport and carried supplies around by hand. It also confirmed reports that Japs were moving supplies up to the Driniumor, probably in preparation for their big attack.
The GIs watched the Japanese soldiers pass by. The column was a long one, and Lieutenant Breckenridge counted twenty-eight Japs so far. None of the GIs made a sound. For Bannon, these were the first Japs he'd seen since Bougainville, and he couldn't help recalling past battles where he'd shot Japanese soldiers with his rifle, stabbed them with his bayonet, fried them with flamethrowers, and blown them to shit with hand grenades. Now there they were again, and he hated them as before. They were the ones who'd started the war. They were the ones who sneak-attacked Pearl Harbor and butchered American soldiers on the Bataan Death March. They were the ones who were keeping him from Priscilla Gladley back in Nebraska. The old rage came back to Bannon. He wanted to raise his submachine gun and mow the bastards down.
But he didn't raise his submachine gun and mow them down. His patrol wasn't supposed to start wars. It was out to gather information, and if it got into trouble it'd have to fight, but otherwise it was supposed to be invisible and silent.
The column of Japanese soldiers continued to pass by. The Japanese soldiers wore soft caps and had Arisaka rifles slung crossways over their backs. Their uniforms were ragged and they wore leggings above their battered combat shoes. A Japanese soldier approached, having difficulty with his load. This Japanese soldier was even smaller and skinnier than the others, and his legs were buckling under the weight of the crate he carried on his shoulders. He staggered to one side of the trail and then to the other side. Another Japanese soldier said something to him, and when the skinny Jap replied his voice was weak and broken.
A boulder Jutted up from the ground on the trail, and the Japanese soldier tripped over it. He fell to the ground, the crate landing nearby. He tried to get up but didn't have the strength. Other Japanese soldiers shouted to someone else. The column continued to move forward, leaving the Japanese soldier behind.
Another Japanese soldier ran back to the skinny one lying on the ground. This Japanese soldier carried a samurai sword in a scabbard attached to his belt and evidently was a sergeant. He shouted and screamed at the Japanese soldier on the ground, but the fallen soldier couldn't get up. He was on his back and dug his elbows into the ground, but was devoid of energy.
The Japanese sergeant got pissed off. His column marched out of sight around the bend, and this scrawny soldier at his feet was holding up the production. The Japanese sergeant screamed at the Japanese soldier and kicked him in the ass. Bending over, he slapped him across both cheeks, because it was acceptable and quite common for sergeants to beat up enlisted men in the Japanese Army. The sergeant hollered louder and kicked the soldier in the ribs. He smacked him across the mouth again.
Lieutenant Breckenridge decided to take a prisoner. He turned to Bisbee and said, “When I say the word, kill that sergeant.”
Bisbee nodded and gripped his knife more firmly. Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at McGurk. “You pick up the little Jap lying on his ass when I say so, got it?”
McGurk nodded. The Japanese sergeant contin
ued to shout and beat the soldier on the ground, who tried to get up.
“Do it,” Lieutenant Breckenridge whispered to Bisbee.
Bisbee reared back his arm, took aim, and threw the knife. It flew silently through the air, its blade flashing instantaneously, and then chung—it slammed into the heart of the Japanese sergeant.
The Japanese sergeant didn't know what hit him, and collapsed onto his back. The Japanese soldier lying nearby raised his head, because the sergeant suddenly had disappeared from his line of vision.
“Go!” said Lieutenant Breckenridge.
He and McGurk charged through the bushes and jumped onto the trail. Lieutenant Breckenridge swung down with his Ka-bar knife, slashing the throat of the officer to make sure he was dead, and McGurk swept the diminutive Japanese soldier up in his arms.
The Japanese soldier didn't know what was going on. One second his sergeant was kicking the shit out of him, and the next second a giant was carrying him into the jungle. The Japanese soldier was weak and sick, and couldn't handle it. He passed out in McGurk's arms.
Lieutenant Breckenridge yanked the Nambu pistol out of the Japanese sergeant's holster and stuffed it into the space between his cartridge belt and shirt. Spinning around, he followed McGurk into the jungle. The other GIs joined the rush to get as far away from the trail as possible. They ran around trees and jumped over fallen logs, dodging bushes, bending under low-hanging vines, while behind them on the trail there was silence; the Japanese soldiers carrying crates didn't yet know what had happened.
The little Japanese soldier opened his eyes. The jungle was dark around him, because clouds obscured the moon. He lay on leaves on the jungle floor, and glanced to his left and right, his heart nearly stopping as a result of what he saw.
He was surrounded by big burly American soldiers, and opened his mouth to scream. A hand clamped over his mouth, and the head of an American soldier appeared in front of him. The American soldier had a kindly face, and placed his finger in front of his mouth, indicating that the little Japanese soldier should be quiet.