by Len Levinson
DEATH’S FACE!
Something compelled Jimmy O’Rourke to look up. He froze with fear at the sight of a Japanese soldier aiming an Arisaka rifle at him, about to pull the trigger. The Japanese soldier was too far away for Jimmy to attack, and Jimmy couldn’t run from a bullet. All he could do was remain on his knees, straddling the dead Japanese soldier underneath him, and wait for the bullet to come.
The Japanese soldier tightened his finger on the trigger . . .
Also by Len Levinson
The Rat Bastards:
Hit the Beach
Death Squad
River of Blood
Meat Grinder Hill
Down and Dirty
Green Hell
Too Mean to Die
Hot Lead and Cold Steel
Do or Die
Kill Crazy
Go For Broke
Tough Guys Die Hard
Suicide River
Satan’s Cage
Go Down Fighting
The Pecos Kid:
Beginner’s Luck
The Reckoning
Apache Moon
Outlaw Hell
Devil’s Creek Massacre
Bad to the Bone
The Apache Wars Saga:
Desert Hawks
War Eagles
Savage Frontier
White Apache
Devil Dance
Night of the Cougar
* * *
Nightmare Alley
* * *
Book 11 of the Rat Bastards
by
Len Levinson
Excepting basic historical events, places, and personages, this series of books is fictional, and anything that appears otherwise is coincidental and unintentional. The principal characters are imaginary, although they might remind veterans of specific men whom they knew. The Twentythird Infantry Regiment, in which the characters serve, is used fictitiously—it doesn't represent the real historical Twentythird Infantry, which has distinguished itself in so many battles from the Civil War to Vietnam—but it could have been any American line regiment that fought and bled during World War II.
These novels are dedicated to the men who were there. May their deeds and gallantry never be forgotten.
NIGHTMARE ALLEY
Copyright © 1985 by Len Levinson. All Rights Reserved.
EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-852-0
Library ISBN 978-1-62460-193-4
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover photo © TK/iStock.com.
ONE . . .
Pfc. Frankie La Barbara found out about the new orders long before anyone in the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment received official notification. Frankie happened to be at division headquarters one afternoon, dozing on a bench in a corridor, when he heard a scrap of conversation between a brigadier general and a colonel who were walking by.
“They say New Guinea’s got the worst health conditions in the world,” the brigadier said, grim resignation in his voice.
“If we can handle Bougainville, we can handle anything,” the colonel replied. “Let’s go to the officers’ club for a drink.”
Frankie opened his eyes and recognized the officers. They were on the staff of Major General Clyde Hawkins, commanding officer of the Eighty-first Division, parent unit of the Twenty-third Regiment. The two officers might have thought Frankie wasn’t paying attention, but Frankie wasn’t as dumb as he looked. Frankie knew how to put two and two together, and it sounded to him as if he’d be going to New Guinea before long.
Frankie took out a package of Chesterfield cigarettes and fired one up with his Zippo lighter. He looked at the backs of the officers silhouetted against the bright Hawaiian sunlight shining through the windows at the end of the corridor. Farther down he could see other officers and enlisted men coming and going. Frankie felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, because he didn’t want to leave Hawaii and all those pretty girls in downtown Honolulu. He didn’t want to return to the hell of the front lines.
It was May twentieth, 1944. The Eighty-first Division had been evacuated from bloody Bougainville on April fifth, after beating the shit out of the Japs there, although the Eighty-first had taken nearly sixty-five percent casualties. The survivors had been transported to Hawaii for R&R, and Frankie hoped they’d spend the rest of the war there, playing soldier in the hills of Oahu and fucking whores. Frankie thought the Eighty-first had done enough fighting. They’d been among the first Army troops to go ashore on Guadalcanal, and they’d assaulted New Georgia, in addition to goddamn Bougainville. Let somebody else do the fighting for a change.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked a voice nearby.
Frankie looked up and saw First Lieutenant Dale Breckenridge, platoon leader of the Twenty-third Regiment’s reconnaissance platoon, of which Frankie was a member. Frankie was so stricken by the thought of going to New Guinea that he hadn’t noticed the approach of Lieutenant Breckenridge, whom he’d driven to division headquarters.
Frankie stood up, his face pale, He was from New York City, stood six feet tall, and weighed 195 pounds. “I just heard something,” he said. “I heard we’re going to New Guinea before long.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge wrinkled his brow. He was four inches taller than Frankie, with broader shoulders and a bulky, muscular physique. People said he controlled the maniacs and ex-criminals in the recon platoon through sheer physical menace and intimidation. “Where’d you hear that?”
“General Sully and Colonel Jessup just walked by and they said it.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked down the corridor. “I don’t see them.”
“They’re gone now, but they were just here. Why is it that nobody ever believes me? Why is it that everybody thinks I’m a fucking liar?”
“Because you are a fucking liar.”
“Well, I’m not lying about this.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge narrowed his eyes and looked at Frankie, trying to figure out what Frankie’s angle was, because Frankie always was playing one angle or another. Frankie was from New York City, after all.
“Don’t believe me,” Frankie said with a shrug. “See if I care.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge couldn’t imagine what Frankie’s angle might be, so he thought maybe Frankie was telling the truth. “What exactly did they say?”
“General Sully said something about New Guinea, and Colonel Jessup said we’d move out soon.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes I’m sure.”
“You didn’t dream it?”
“No.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge wondered if the division really was going to New Guinea. He glanced at his watch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and he didn’t have anything else to do except pick up some correspondence and bring it to Colonel Hutchins. He had time to snoop around and confirm what Frankie had told him, but it was top-secret information and nobody would tell him even if they knew. He’d have to use more subtle methods, but couldn’t think of any off the top of his head.
“Did General Sully and Colonel Jessup say anything else?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“That was it,” Frankie replied, “except something about going to the officers’ club and getting drunk.”
“Now I know you’re lying. They’d never say out loud in Headquarters that they were going to get drunk.”
Frankie shrugged. “They said they were gonna go to the officers’ club and have a drink, but you know it won’t be just one. Officers never drin
k just one. They’ll have six or seven, and somebody’ll have to carry them home afterward.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge knew that Frankie La Barbara was right. The two officers would probably get smashed. Lieutenant Breckenridge thought that maybe he should go to the officers’ club and have a drink himself. Perhaps he would overhear something. He had plenty of time, and he wanted to know where the division would be going next, partially out of curiosity and partially because he wanted to get himself psyched up as soon as he could.
“Drive me to the officers’ club, Frankie.”
“I had a funny feeling that was where you’d want to go, Lieutenant.”
“Shut up and move out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge strolled toward the door, rolling his massive shoulders. He was much taller than everyone else in the corridor and reception area. He had a big head covered with light-brown hair cut short and parted on the side, and his face was scarred slightly by the acne attacks of his youth. He pushed open the door, and Frankie La Barbara followed him outside into the bright sunshine.
A lawn extended down a gentle incline from the headquarters building; then came a sidewalk and the street. Soldiers and WACs walked back and forth on the sidewalk, and military vehicles rumbled past on the street. On the other side of the street were wooden buildings painted pale yellow and flying the American flag and individual unit flags.
Frankie La Barbara sat behind the wheel of the jeep, and Lieutenant Breckenridge climbed in beside him. Frankie started the engine and backed out of the parking spot, turning the wheel and spotting a blond WAC on the sidewalk.
“Wow—looka there!”
“Keep your eyes on the road and let’s go, La Barbara.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frankie cut the wheel and stomped on the gas pedal. The jeep accelerated down the road, and Lieutenant Breckenridge ducked behind the windshield so he could light a cigarette. He puffed until the end of the cigarette was cherry red and then leaned back in the seat, wondering if the division really would be in New Guinea in a month.
Lieutenant Breckenridge wasn’t anxious to return to the front. He’d been wounded on New Georgia and again on Bougainville, and had only recently returned to duty. He still felt dull pain in his left leg, especially when it rained. Life was easy far from the war, and he’d grown accustomed to it. He wished he didn’t have to go back and fight.
He didn’t even like to think about war. It was just too awful, bloody, and gruesome. So many of his men had become casualties. Even his platoon sergeant was in the hospital, recovering from wounds. The food was awful. The constant tension made you crazy. You had to shit in holes in the ground instead of nice comfortable toilets.
“Oh, fuck,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“What’s the matter, sir?” Frankie asked.
“Shut up and keep driving.”
They passed rows of barracks and saw men marching in close-order drill on parade grounds or returning from the boonies, carrying full field packs, their uniforms filthy and sweaty, their faces sagging with fatigue.
Lieutenant Breckenridge, like Frankie, had hoped the division wouldn’t have to fight anymore. New divisions were arriving from the States all the time, and Lieutenant Breckenridge wanted to believe that they’d do the fighting. The Eighty-first Division had become part of the Oahu Defense Force, but that was a joke. The Hawaiian Islands were in no danger of a Japanese invasion. The Japanese were being pushed back all over the South Pacific. They’d been kicked off the Solomon Islands, and their big base at Rabaul was being starved out. The American Navy had won major victories in the Coral Sea and at Midway, and the Army had recently taken Hollandia and Aitape on New Guinea in brilliant attacks masterminded by General MacArthur himself. General MacArthur was working his way across New Guinea toward the Philippines, his ultimate goal, where he’d vowed to return someday.
Two soldiers wearing fatigue pants, combat boots, and khaki T-shirts ran into the intersection ahead, turning to face the traffic and standing at parade rest, with their feet apart and their hands clasped behind their backs. Frankie hit the brakes, which slowed down the jeep. It came to a stop in front of one of the soldiers.
The soldiers were road guards for a larger unit that approached the intersection from the right, at double-time. They all were dressed like the road guards, and they ran in step with each other, the hair on their heads shorn short and their T-shirts soaked with sweat.
Beside them ran an older man, evidently a sergeant, with thinning hair and gnarled features on his face.
"Run a mile!" he shouted.
“Run a mile!” they replied.
"Every day!”
“Every day!”
"All the way!"
“All the way!”
"One-two!"
“One-two!”
"All the way!"
“All the way!”
Lieutenant Breckenridge puffed his cigarette as he watched them pass. They were a company of infantry evidently, because other types of soldiers didn’t run around like that in the middle of the day. Other soldiers were busy typing letters, fixing trucks, and doing the other things that support troops do, but the infantry was out there training all the time, getting ready for war.
The infantry company double-timed through the intersection and the road guards pulled back. Frankie shifted the jeep into first gear and drove toward the officers’ club. Lieutenant Breckenridge realized he’d have to start training his recon platoon real hard if they were going back to the war. He’d double-time their asses into the ground so they’d be ready when they hit the beach on New Guinea. And he’d have to stop smoking, because cigarettes cut your wind. He took his Chesterfield out of his mouth and looked at it, telling himself that he ought to throw it away. But he decided to finish it: It would be his last one.
Frankie shifted up to third gear and then hit the brakes to make a right turn. He shifted down to second, let up the clutch, and whacked the gas pedal. The wheels of the jeep screeched as it zipped around the corner, and Lieutenant Breckenridge held the dashboard grips so he wouldn’t fall into Frankie’s lap.
“Slow down, you crazy bastard!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“I’m only going thirty miles an hour.”
“Take those corners slower! Where’s the fire?”
Frankie sniffed and grumbled something. A fire constantly raged inside him. Frankie was high-strung; he was always chewing gum and smoking cigarettes, pacing back and forth, looking for deals, listening for news, and trying to screw anything in a skirt.
He saw a skirt on the sidewalk to his right. It was another of those blondes, and Frankie really liked blondes. She wore the white uniform of a nurse, and he really liked nurses. He hit the horn of the jeep and she turned to look. He winked and waved. Lieutenant Breckenridge wanted to punch Frankie in the mouth.
“Keep your eyes on the road, La Barbara!”
“They are on the road!”
Lieutenant Breckenridge blew smoke out the side of his mouth. He wondered why he’d chosen Frankie to drive him to division headquarters. He should have known he’d have trouble with Frankie La Barbara. Everybody had trouble with Frankie La Barbara, but Frankie had been nearby when Lieutenant Breckenridge had to go to division headquarters, so he’d picked Frankie absentmindedly.
My mind’s going soft too, Lieutenant Breckenridge thought. If I don’t start waking up, I'm going to get my ass shot off on New Guinea.
The officers’ club, a large, manorial structure with low sloping roofs, loomed up ahead, military and civilian vehicles parked all around it. Officers could be seen swarming toward its doors, because it was approaching five o’clock in the afternoon and officers all over the post were going off duty.
A Chevrolet painted OD green backed out of a parking spot in front of the building, and Frankie slowed down so he could pull in next. The Chevrolet drove away and Frankie aimed the nose of the jeep into the spot. He shifted into neutral, hit
the brakes, and turned off the engine.
“Here we are, Lieutenant.”
“Wait here for me, and you’d better be here when I come out.”
“You can trust me, sir. What time you think you’ll be out?”
“I’ll ask the questions, La Barbara. You just wait for me and stay out of trouble, got it?”
“I got it.”
“Good.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge swung his long, thick legs out of the jeep and planted his big feet on the pavement. He stood and walked toward the officers’ club, pulling up his belt and tucking in his shirt, so he’d look neat. He wore green fatigues, combat boots, and a fatigue hat styled something like a baseball hat. Other officers swaggered up the sidewalk that led to the front door of the officers’ club. Lieutenant Breckenridge stood out, because he was so much bigger than they.
Frankie watched him enter the officers’ club and wished he could go in there, too, because that’s where the nurses hung out. If he were an officer, he wouldn’t even bother going into Honolulu to pick up girls. He’d just hustle the nurses in the officers’ club. There were so many of them on the post. But other than the nurses, Frankie didn’t suppose there was much interesting going on in the officers’ club. Officers were all assholes, so what did they know about having fun? They probably just sat around and tried to act like General MacArthur while they got blind drunk.
Frankie leaned back in his seat and looked at his watch. It was quarter to five in the afternoon. He hoped Lieutenant Breckenridge wouldn’t be in there too long, because Frankie didn’t like to sit in one place for long. He lit another cigarette and watched the officers walk by, heading for the club. They joked and guffawed with each other, relaxing after a day of work. Some were extremely serious, as if they’d had a hard day’s work, but Frankie couldn’t imagine what they’d done that was so hard, because what did officers do? Just give orders and lay around. Even Lieutenant Breckenridge had become a lazy son of a bitch since the division came to Oahu. He’d gained twenty pounds, and sometimes you wouldn’t see him for days at a time.