Suicide River

by Len Levinson

  General Hawkins leaned forward and gazed at Colonel Hutchins's bulldog face. “Hutchins, I really don't like you,” he said. “I've been wanting to tell you that for a long time, and now I'm telling you.”

  “That's okay General,” Colonel Hutchins replied, “because I've always hated your fucking guts too.”

  Both men stared at each other for a few moments. General Hawkins thought Colonel Hutchins incredibly ugly, with his puffy features and red bulbous nose, while Colonel Hutchins saw weakness and indecision on General Hawkins's face, and thought his mustache a ridiculous affectation. The moments passed and neither man averted his eyes. It was a test of will, but General Hawkins realized he had work to do and couldn't play the game indefinitely. He tore his eyes off Colonel Hutchins's face and looked at his watch.

  “I've got a meeting to attend,” he said. “You're dismissed.”

  “What about the Jap attack?” Colonel Hutchins asked. “We haven't decided anything.”

  “Maybe you haven't, but I have. The division will go on full-scale ready alert as of today, and we'll be especially ready on the night of July ninth. I'll do what I can to convince General Hall to take the same measures. That's it. I believe I just told you you're dismissed.”

  Colonel Hutchins rose to his feet. “Glad you finally came to see things my way,” he said, stiffening into the position of attention.

  He saluted, did an about-face, and marched out of the office. General Hawkins puffed his cigarette and looked at his desk calendar. July 9 was only four nights away. He'd have sufficient time to get his division ready, but his division couldn't stop the Japanese Eighteenth Army alone. Somehow General Hall would have to be convinced, and General Hawkins didn't look forward to going to Persecution Task Force Headquarters and trying to convince him. It was never a good idea to argue with your superior officers, because they tended to remember when it came time to fill out efficiency reports, and promotions were based to a large extent on efficiency reports.

  Well, General Hawkins thought, I'll give it a try, but I won't push too far. For all I know the attack won't come on the night of July ninth, and I don't want to look too bad if it doesn't.

  NINE . . .

  It was the next morning. Master Sergeant John Butsko sat with his back against a tree and smoked a cigarette, his cane lying on the ground beside him. He watched Lieutenant Frannie Divers walking toward him, carrying her tray of medication.

  “Morning Sergeant,” she said with a friendly smile.

  “Morning,” Butsko replied.

  She stopped in front of him. “How're you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  She held out a little paper cup. “Your medication.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took the cup and upended it, spilling the pills into his mouth. She poured water from a pitcher into the same cup and he raised it to his lips, washing the pills down. He handed her the cup back and she placed it on the tray with the other used cups. Their eyes met for a moment. She looked away quickly, but he didn't. He checked her out carefully and could see that she was a healthy big-boned woman with large breasts, taller than most women, probably strong as a horse. Her face didn't have the neatly sculpted features of Lieutenant Betty Crawford's face, but Lieutenant Divers was pretty in her own rawboned, tough-looking way.

  “See you later,” she said.

  “I hope so,” he replied.

  She walked away and he measured her from behind. It was difficult to see exactly what a woman had when she wore fatigue pants and a shirt that had been manufactured to fit men, but it appeared that she had a nice big ass and long healthy legs, not skinny beanpoles. Butsko felt an erection stir in his pants. He'd like to get his hands on Lieutenant Divers, and wondered how he could do it.

  “How're you doing there, you fucking goldbrick!”

  Butsko turned in the direction of the voice and saw Colonel Hutchins walking toward him.

  “Morning sir!” Butsko said.

  Colonel Hutchins kneeled in front of Butsko and looked furtively from side to side. “I brought you a present.”

  Butsko looked down at Colonel Hutchins's hands, and they were empty. Colonel Hutchins unfastened his cartridge belt,’ and Butsko could see that Colonel Hutchins was wearing two cartridge belts, one over the other.

  Colonel Hutchins handed him the outer cartridge belt, to which was fastened a canteen in a case made of thick canvas dyed o.d. green.

  “There's good likker in there,” Colonel Hutchins said with a wink. “Ought to speed up your recovery.”

  “Thank you sir,” Butsko replied. “Good likker's the best medicine in the world.”

  “It's Sergeant Snider's old recipe, so you know it's the best.”

  “God bless that dirty old son of a bitch.”

  The cigarette dangled out of Butsko's mouth as he fastened the cartridge belt around his waist. Colonel Hutchins looked around and spat at the ground. The heat of the sun came on strong and big globules of perspiration clung to his forehead.

  “Heard the news?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  “I hear lots of news,” Butsko replied. “What news are you talking about?”

  “The news about the big Jap attack.”

  “You mean the one that's supposed to come on the ninth?”

  “You heard about it! Who told you?”

  “Lieutenant Breckenridge stopped by last night. He said the regiment's getting ready.”

  “We are, and so's the division, but we don't know about the rest of the units out here.”

  “That's what the lieutenant told me.”

  Colonel Hutchins wrinkled his brow. “Where did he hear about all this stuff?”

  “Word gets around,” Butsko said.

  “I guess there ain't no secrets around here.”

  “Not about something like that.”

  Colonel Hutchins looked at the ground around Butsko. “You got a weapon?”

  “Only that hunk of wood I use for a cane.”

  “I'd better send you something.”

  Butsko sat straighten “You think the Japs'll get this far back?”

  “They might. According to what we know so far, the entire Japanese Eighteenth Army is coming through here on the night of July ninth, and we can't be sure the Eighty-first can stop them alone.”

  “The Eighty-first shouldn't have to stop them alone. What about all the other outfits in the area?”

  “There's a problem,” Colonel Hutchins replied. “The top brass doesn't believe the Japs're really gonna attack on July ninth.”

  “Why not?”

  “They just don't believe it.” Colonel Hutchins shrugged. “You know how some people are. If an elephant walked into this clearing right now, and you said, ‘Look at that elephant over there,’ there'd be somebody around here who'd tell you you're making an assumption. Some people don't believe what's standing right in front of them until it's too late.”

  Butsko's cigarette was smoked down to the last three-quarters of an inch. He pushed the lit end against the ground until it was out, then tore the paper off and field-stripped the butt.

  “I hate this fucking Army,” Butsko said, “and I hate this fucking war. There are too many dumb bastards around. It wouldn't be so bad if there weren't so many dumb bastards around. Can't somebody go have a talk with General Hall and tell him what we gotta do?”

  “General Hawkins is supposed to do that this morning, but I don't give him much of a chance. He's got no guts. If General Hall says no, General Hawkins'll just turn around and walk out of his office with his tail between his legs.”

  “Dumb fuck.”

  “You shouldn't talk about your commanding officer that way, but he is a dumb fuck and there ain't no two ways about it.”

  Butsko looked at Colonel Hutchins. “Why don't you go speak to General Hall?”

  Colonel Hutchins snorted. “Hey Butsko, this is the U.S.

  Army, remember? Colonels don't go over the heads of their division commanders to talk to the
commander of something like the Persecution Task Force.”

  Butsko continued to look Colonel Hutchins in the eye. “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  “Yeah, I know why not,” Butsko said, “but sometimes you gotta do what you're not supposed to do if you wanna get what you want.”

  Colonel Hutchins shrugged. “Maybe you're right. If General Hawkins doesn't do any good with General Hall, maybe I'll go have a talk with him myself. It might cost my job, but so what?”

  “It won't cost your job if you handle it right. You've been in the Army long enough to know how to handle things.”

  “We'll see,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  General Hawkins walked into General Hall's command post and saw Sergeant-Major Seymour Bunberry seated behind one of the desks.

  “General Hall in?” General Hawkins asked.

  “No sir,” replied Master Sergeant Bunberry, who had a weight problem because rear-echelon headquarters always got the best food. “He's out inspecting the Hundred Fourteenth RCT.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Near the airfields.”

  “Thanks.”

  General Hawkins turned around and walked swiftly out of the office. He left the tent and made his way to his jeep, jumping into the passenger seat.

  “To the airfield!” he said to his driver, Private Lou Grogan, a former Boston cab driver, and they say if you can drive in Boston, you can drive anywhere.

  “Yes sir,” replied Grogan, shifting into gear and stomping on the gas.

  The wheels spun in the soft moist earth, and then grabbed. The jeep shot forward like a bat out of hell. Grogan steered toward the road and turned left, kicking down the accelerator again, shifting into second and speeding toward the Tadji airfields.

  A squadron of P-40 Warhawks took off one by one from the fighter strip at the Tadji airfield area. They rocked and rumbled as they rolled over the runway, made of corrugated steel matting because poor drainage made the ground too mushy to carry the weight of aircraft. The planes hurtled into the sky and headed to sea, to escort transport ships into the port of Aitape.

  Near the airfield, General Hall trooped the line. The 114th Regimental Combat Team was arrayed company by company in front of him, with all their equipment, tanks, artillery, and other materiel. They'd arrived by ship only yesterday and many hadn't recovered fully from their sea voyage, but they stood with eyes front as General Hall marched before them, followed by aides and subordinate officers, and at his side was Brigadier General Charles Guthrie, commanding officer of the 114th RCT.

  General Hall wore his steel pot on his head and his service Colt .45 strapped to his waist. All the other officers were similarly armed. Individual company commanders saluted as General Hall walked by, and the men presented arms. General Hall and all the other officers saluted as they marched along. It was the first time General Hall saw these new men, and the first time they saw him. The ceremony was the formal introduction between them. It would be followed by a brief parade, with music provided by the Persecution Task Force band.

  General Hall scrutinized the men as he trooped the line. They looked healthy and ready for action, some wearing new fatigues and some wearing old ones. A few were a little green around the gills, not fully recovered from their seasickness. They were ready to go to war, but General Hill still didn't know exactly where to put them. He could leave them next to the Tadji fighter strip and use them as a reserve, or put them directly into the line. He had to make up his mind that afternoon, and he was leaning toward leaving them where they were, to deploy them as they were needed, plugging holes after the Japanese attack began.

  General Hall came to the last company. He turned to his right and headed toward the spot where he'd review the march-past, his shoulders squared and his chin tucked in, because he knew all the men in the 114th RCT were watching him, sizing him up, wondering what kind of man their new leader was. General Hall wasn't worried about what they thought. He didn't suffer from lack of self-confidence. He knew what kind of man he was, and believed he was as good as any other officer in the world, if not better.

  He reached the spot where he'd review the new men, and performed a snappy about-face. His aides and the officers from the 114th RCT coalesced around him. Nearby stood the band, wearing ordinary Army fatigues, and their conductor raised his baton in the air. The drummers lifted their drumsticks and the trombone players held the mouthpieces of their instruments to their lips. The conductor lowered his baton and the band began the first strains of “El Capitan” by John Philip Sousa. Orders were shouted and the first company of the first battalion from the 114th RCT advanced to begin the parade.

  The band wasn't the New York Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Arturo Toscanini, but it sounded fine to General Hall. The thrilling music caused him to stand straighter and made him glad he was an American. In the distance he saw the companies moving forward and turning left, preparing to circle around and march in front of him. He puffed his chest out and smiled faintly. We'll stop the goddamn Japs somehow, he thought. I don't know exactly how we'll do it, but we'll do it.

  General Adachi sat behind his desk, holding the palm of his right hand over his stomach. He hurt inside and wondered what was wrong with him. The pain began months ago as mild gas pressure, and General Adachi had thought it mere indigestion, but it grew worse every day until now he had a sharp pain in his stomach nearly all the time.

  “Lieutenant Ono!” he shouted.

  “Yes sir!”

  Lieutenant Ono leapt into the office and stood at attention, his arms stiff down his sides.

  ‘Tell Dr. Nojima that I want to speak with him!”

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Of course I'm all right. I just gave you an order. Carry it out.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Lieutenant Ono left the office. General Adachi looked down at the documents on his desk. The top one contained a report about American reinforcements arriving in the area, and it bothered General Adachi a great deal. Every new American replacement was an obstacle to the victory he hoped to achieve in only three days. He knew he was outnumbered and the odds against him were growing every day. He felt increasingly desperate about the battle, and the pain in his stomach became sharper. It felt as though something was terribly wrong inside him. The pain was so severe he broke out into a cold sweat, and he bent forward, hoping that would ease the pressure, and in fact it did, but not by much.

  He ground his teeth together and swore underneath his breath. He wished the battle would take place that night, so he could get it over with before more American soldiers arrived.

  Three more days, he muttered. Only three more days.

  The parade was over and General Hall walked back to his jeep, followed by his aides. He'd just congratulated General Guthrie on the fine appearance of his men.

  A tall rangy figure loomed up in front of him. It was General Hawkins, in the middle of a salute. “I wonder if I could ride back with you, sir,” General Hawkins said, snapping off the salute. “There's something important I'd like to discuss with you, and it can't wait.”

  General Hall returned the salute. “If it's that important, certainly you can ride back with me.”

  General Hawkins fell in with General Hall's retinue and followed him back to his jeep. The other officers headed toward their respective jeeps, and General Hawkins climbed into the jump seat behind General Hall.

  “Back to my headquarters,” General Hall said to Private Darrell Sweeny, his driver, a former professional racer who'd competed in the Indianapolis 500 before the war.

  “Yes sir!”

  Pfc. Sweeny let out the clutch and drove off at breakneck speed. He was a wilder driver than Pfc. Grogan, and took the first corner on two wheels. General Hawkins nearly fell out of the jump seat.

  “Slow down!” he yelled.

  ‘Too fast for you?” General Hall asked.

  General Hawkins thought twice as he hung on for dear life. He didn
't want to appear a coward or sissy in front of General Hall, so he said, “No, I'm all right now.”

  “We can slow down if this is too fast for you.”

  “That's okay—I'm used to it now.”

  But General Hawkins wasn't okay, and he hung on to the sides of the jeep with all his strength. General Hall could see General Hawkins was in trouble, and realized General Hawkins was bullshitting him, trying to be tough when in fact he should've been prudent and insisted the jeep slow down. If General Hawkins wanted to be an ass, General Hall was perfectly willing to let him be one.

  “What was it you wanted to speak with me about?” General Hall asked.

  At that point Private Sweeny hit a bump in the road, and the jeep flew into the air several feet. It landed on one wheel, bounced around a few times, settled down, and kept going. General Hawkins held on to the sides of the jeep, color draining from his face. General Hall nudged Private Sweeny, the signal for Sweeny to slow down. Sweeny eased off on the accelerator, and General Hawkins took a deep breath, trying to collect his thoughts, because he thought he'd fall out of the jeep at any moment.

  “What was that, sir?” he asked.

  “I said what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

  General Hawkins took a deep breath and pulled himself together, which wasn't too difficult now that the jeep moved along the jungle road at a reasonable clip. “I wanted to talk with you about the night of July ninth, sir. I don't know whether the Japs're gonna attack on that date or not, but my men'll be ready in their holes with loaded guns, wide awake. If the Japs don't attack, that'll be okay with me. I'd rather be wrong than dead. If the Japs do attack, we'll be ready for them, but we won't be able to stop them by ourselves. I think the rest of the Persecution Task Force should be ready on that night too.”

  “You attended the meeting in my office the other day, didn't you?” General Hall asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then you heard what Colonel Mackenzie had to say.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Trees whizzed past the jeep as General Hall leaned closer to General Hawkins. “I want every unit in my command to be ready for an attack at all times, even right now. Is your division ready right now?”