Nightmare Alley

by Len Levinson

  She found Headquarters Company of the Twenty-third Regiment and parked the Packard in the lot with the jeeps and Army OD Chevrolets. Nearby, a group of soldiers loaded crates onto a deuce-and-a-half truck, and they all turned around to look as she stepped out of the Packard, showing a bit of leg. One of them whistled; of course he was Frankie La Barbara, who never could behave himself when attractive females were around.

  Diane ignored the whistle and crossed the street, looking both ways, heading for the orderly room. Men rushed around her carrying full field packs, wall lockers, footlockers, and crates of various sizes. They all stopped whatever they were doing to look at her, but she held her head high and climbed the steps to the orderly room. She pulled open the screen door and stepped inside.

  Master Sergeant Gerald Kurkin looked up from his desk and couldn’t believe his eyes. Pfc. Lawrence Nagle, who was stacking bound volumes of Army regulations in a crate, dropped a volume on the floor.

  Sergeant Kurkin spotted the lieutenant’s bars on Diane Latham’s collar and responded like a true soldier. He leaped to his feet and screamed: “Ten-hut!”

  Pfc. Lawrence Nagle jumped to his feet and held his hands stiffly down at his sides. The door to Captain Spode’s office opened and that stalwart military commander poked his head out to see what the commotion was about. When his eyes fell on the voluptuous Diane Latham, he puffed out his chest and smiled suavely, stepping into the orderly room.

  “Can I help you, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Lieutenant Breckenridge,” she replied.

  “I believe he’s with his platoon.” Captain Spode looked at Pfc. Nagle. “Escort this officer to Lieutenant Breckenridge.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Captain Spode returned his gaze to Diane Latham. “If I can help you with anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, even though he was shipping out in the morning and wouldn’t have time to help her with anything; but men can’t stop themselves from trying whenever there’s a pretty woman in their vicinity.

  “Thank you, Captain,” she replied.

  Pfc. Nagle sprang forward and approached Diane Latham. “This way, sir—I mean ma’am—I mean Lieutenant. . . .”

  Diane followed him out of the orderly room and down the steps to the ground and into the pandemonium of men rushing about.

  “His platoon’s in that barracks over there,” Nagle said, pointing to the building next to the mess hall. “You’ll have to wait outside while I go get him.”

  “Very well.”

  “I hope you’ll be safe out here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be safe out here?”

  “We got some crazy people in this company, sir—I mean ma’am—I mean Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Butsko told me all about them.”

  “You know Sergeant Butsko?”

  “He’s assigned to my ward.”

  “No kidding? Well, him calling the men in this company crazy is like the stove calling the frying pan black.”

  Diane smiled.

  “You wait here,” Pfc. Nagle told her. “I’ll be right back. Don’t take any guff from any of the guys around here.”

  Pfc. Nagle climbed the steps and entered the barracks. Diane stood beside the banister, her hands clasped behind her back, aware that all eyes were on her and that those eyes were filled with insane, animalistic lust. Instead of being frightened, it turned her on a little bit. She sometimes had weird, disgusting sex fantasies of many men screwing her, going down on her, having a big orgy, etc., but she was not the kind of person who would let herself be carried away by mere sex fantasies.

  Craig Delane turned the barracks corner and came into view, carrying a bazooka under his arm. He took one look at Diane Latham and said: “Hello, there. Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m being helped, thank you.”

  “You’re certainly very lovely,” Craig Delane said with a smile, taking off his fatigue hat, hoping she’d appreciate his aristocratic features. “Why, you’re like a vision, standing here in front of the barracks—a vision of beauty and grace. Do you mink we could get together for a drink a little later?”

  “Aren’t you shipping out in the morning?” she asked.

  He blushed. “That’s right too.”

  At that moment Pfc. Nagle and Lieutenant Breckenridge appeared, and Lieutenant Breckenridge saw Craig Delane making an obvious pass at Diane Latham.

  “Get lost, Delane!” he said.

  “Yes, sir!”

  Delane turned around and walked away swiftly, carrying his bazooka. Pfc. Nagle smiled at Diane Latham as he passed her and headed back to the orderly room. Lieutenant Breckenridge descended the barracks stairs cautiously, looking at Diane Latham. He was amazed that she was there to see him.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hello,” she replied.

  He stepped to the ground and looked down at her face, while she looked up at him. Soldiers ran all around them, but it was as though the young lieutenant and the beautiful nurse were in the calm eye of a hurricane.

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

  “Sergeant Butsko told me you were shipping out in the morning, and I thought I’d come to say good-bye and to apologize. Is there anyplace we can be alone?”

  “I don’t think there’s anyplace around here.”

  “My car’s over there,” she said, pointing toward the parking area. “We can go for a ride.”

  “I remember what happened last time we went for a ride.”

  “I’m sorry about what I did, but I was very angry at the time.”

  He nodded. “I guess I shouldn’t have done what I did, either, but sometimes I use people, I suppose, and that’s not nice.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “I take it that Lieutenant Utsler didn’t behave like a gentleman.”

  “He certainly didn’t.”

  “I guess I’d better not ask what he did.”

  “No, you’d better not.”

  He looked at his watch. “I don’t think I can go for a ride. I’ve got a lot to do here. Let’s go over by the mess hall. There’s less going on there. Jesus, these guys are looking at you like you’re something to eat.”

  He placed his arm over her shoulder and they walked together toward the mess hall, while everybody in the vicinity wondered how Lieutenant Breckenridge, with his old acne scars and thick features, could get such an attractive girl friend. Lieutenant Breckenridge and Diane Latham left the tumult behind them and made their way to the rear of the mess hall, next to one of the less important roads in the area.

  “This okay?” he asked.

  “It’s fine.”

  He took out his pack of cigarettes, offered her one, and lit both with his Zippo. He leaned his broad shoulders against the side of the mess hall, and she stood with her back to the streetlight on the corner, which made a halo around her golden hair.

  “I wish,” she said, “that we didn’t get off to such a bad start with each other. I think that we might have been friends or—who knows—maybe even something more.”

  “It was my fault,” Lieutenant Breckenridge admitted. “I just used you to get some information out of Jack Utsler.”

  She smiled dourly. “You told him I was a bad girl, didn’t you?”

  “Afraid I did.”

  “That was very cruel.”

  “Yup.”

  “But I suppose that doesn’t excuse me from nearly killing you.”

  “It does seem like rather excessive punishment.”

  She laughed, and then he laughed too. It wasn’t loud, boisterous laughter, but the laughter of amusement and relief. They felt as if they had more rapport, now that their initial encounters were placed into a comical perspective. But then, almost immediately, they thought of the war again.

  “I wish you weren’t shipping out tomorrow,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  She looked at his face but saw no fear on
it, only concern and a bit of worry. “The damned war!” she said. “The damned Japs! They’ve turned the whole world upside down!”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it,” he said, resignation in his voice. “We have to do our duty. The war is a big steamroller, and people like us can’t stop it.”

  A salty mist covered her eyes. “Please be careful out there, Dale.”

  He laughed bitterly. “It doesn’t matter how careful a soldier is. A bomb can fall on him when he least expects it. Or a stray bullet can knock him out of the ball game forever.”

  “Be careful anyway, would you, please?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.” He looked at his watch. “I think I’d better get back to my men. I’ll walk you to your car, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He placed his arm around her shoulders and they walked slowly toward her Packard, wishing they could spend more time together. Lieutenant Breckenridge wondered whether he could take a short drive with her and throw a fast fuck into her someplace, but somehow it didn’t seem like such a good idea. The time would drag on, and he couldn’t be away for long. There was still so much to do.

  The passed the mess hall and came to the company area again, turning right in the direction of her Packard which gleamed in the light of the street lamp.

  “Do you have a girl friend back in the States?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “I do.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In New York City.”

  “What does she do there?”

  “She’s a model.”

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “We went to college together.”

  “I see. Do you love her?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen her for a long time.”

  “Oh.”

  They crossed the street and approached her car. She knew how he felt, because she had a few boyfriends that she was supposed to be in love with. But they were far away, and love grows cool without regular fuel. She opened the door beside the steering wheel and turned to face him.

  “Well, I guess this is good-bye,” she said.

  “Yep,” he replied. “I wish we could spend more time together.”

  “I do too.”

  They looked at each other and felt the powerful, invisible pull.

  “Kiss me, Dale,” she said.

  He took a step forward and clasped her in his arms. Their lips met and pushed against each other as she touched the back of his neck with her hands, moaning softly. He backed off slightly and kissed her more tenderly, feeling her firm breasts against his chest, becoming intoxicated by her rosebud fragrance. Their lips touched softly and their tongues entwined. An erection grew in his fatigue pants, and she pressed her belly against it.

  Their private, blissful little paradise was shattered by the clapping of hands, whistles, and whoopees. Lieutenant Breckenridge tore his lips from Diane’s and saw a group of his men standing beside the mess hall, grinning and applauding, leering in his direction.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge blew his top. He turned away from Diane Latham and charged toward his men, who scattered in all directions. Frankie La Barbara ran to the left of the mess hall, and Corporal Lopez took off to the right. Craig Delane sped toward the orderly room, because he didn’t believe that Lieutenant Breckenridge would murder him in front of Captain Spode; and the Reverend Billie Jones headed toward the barracks where he lived. Morris Shilansky dived underneath the mess hall, hoping Lieutenant Breckenridge wouldn’t come after him there.

  Diane Latham burst into laughter, because it was all so ridiculous. Lieutenant Breckenridge heard her and came back to his senses. He stopped, turned around, and trudged back to her.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do with those guys,” he said wearily.

  “I think they’re funny.”

  “You wouldn’t think they were so funny if you had to deal with them day in and day out. They’re driving me crazy.”

  “I think they like you,” she said.

  “What makes you think they like me?” he asked.

  “Because they wouldn’t have dared do that if they didn’t like you.”

  “In that case, I wish they didn’t like me.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe I don’t.”

  He looked at her and realized that their magic moment had passed. He had to get back to work. Maybe some other time.

  “I’ve got to get going,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to go.”

  She nodded. They gazed into each other’s eyes and thought of all the fun they could have together, but the war came first. He placed his hands on her shoulders, bent forward, and touched his lips to hers. The kiss was short and sweet. He pulled back.

  “I hope I see you again, Diane,” he said.

  “I hope I see you, too, Dale. Please be careful.”

  “I apologize for all the shitty things I did.”

  “So do I.”

  He pinched his lips together and took a step backward, raising his hands in despair. Then he let them fall to his sides as he turned around and walked back to the barracks area, stuffing his hands in his pockets and looking down at the ground, thinking about lost opportunities and dreadful possibilities.

  She watched him go, a tall, broad-shouldered man who wasn’t particularly attractive at first sight but who had a lot of charm, perhaps because he was from the South. She watched as he walked up the steps to the barracks building where his men lived and stopped in front of the door, then turned back toward her. He waved, and she stood on her tiptoes, waving back. Then he lowered his hand and entered the barracks. Lieutenant Diane Latham opened the door of her car and sat behind the wheel, brushing the tears from underneath her eyes. She started up the engine, backed out of the parking spot, and drove off into the night.

  EIGHT . . .

  The Eighty-first Division loaded onto four transport ships the next day and spent the next night in the holds of the ships, sweating in the dim light of electric light bulbs and stacked in narrow cots six high. The following morning they departed Pearl Harbor with an escort of destroyers, light cruisers, heavy cruisers, and an aircraft carrier.

  The convoy hit a tropical storm southeast of the Marshall Islands, and the urinals became filled with vomit. Men puked everywhere, even in their cots, and the vomit dripped down to the men on the cots below them, and then those men puked too.

  There was puke on the banisters of the ladderwells and puke on the deck. A man could eat dinner out of a metal tray and have the man sitting next to him puke all over the table. It was absolutely disgusting. All the transport ships smelled like puke, and the sailors sneered contemptuously at the soldiers who couldn’t handle a little rough weather.

  The storm lasted nearly twenty-four hours, the ships plowing through waves as tall as three-story buildings. Then the storm stopped, and a few hours later the sun came out. The sea flattened and the soldiers, pale and gaunt, climbed up to the deck for some fresh air.

  The convoy passed through the Solomon Islands, and the old combat soldiers could see Guadalcanal on the far horizon, the green island evoking terrible memories of violence and pain. The convoy turned in a northwesterly direction after leaving the Solomons behind and cruised up the northern coast of New Guinea, passing the Huon Peninsula, where so much Japanese and American blood had been spilled already, staying beyond the reach of any shore batteries the Japanese might have at Madang.

  The convoy arrived at its destination on the night of June 28 and dropped its anchors in the waters off Aitape, not far from the Driniumor River. The next morning the men went ashore in boats and landed in an area designated as blue beach, which was well within the American defense perimeter. They unloaded their equipment, regrouped, and futzed around while General Hawkins and his
staff reported to Major General Charles P. Hall, commander of all US troops at Aitape, code-named the Persecution Task Force. General Hall told them that natives had reported considerable Japanese activity in the vicinity of the Driniumor River, where the Eighty-first’s positions would be.

  The men had C rations for lunch and then moved through the thick, tangled jungle toward the positions they were expected to hold. There was great confusion and much consultation with maps and compasses, not to mention radio calls back and forth across the jungle; but by nightfall most units were more or less where they were supposed to be, having replaced a screen of soldiers from the 127th Regimental Combat Team, which had been holding the area and praying the Japs wouldn’t start some shit.

  The Japs hadn’t started any shit, except for an occasional skirmish here and there. But Japs were definitely in the area, in small numbers so far, with their main units approaching from the direction of Madang. Japs, in fact, were high in the trees on the east side of the Driniumor, observing through binoculars the new American unit moving into the region. The information was relayed back from headquarters to headquarters until it reached the command post of the Japanese Eighteenth Regiment, located in the hilly, heavily forested terrain along the southern branches of Niumen Creek.

  The commander of the Eighteenth Regiment was Colonel Yukio Katsumata, and he lived in a tent on the top of a hill. Part of the tent was his bedroom, and the other part was his office. He was short, barely over five feet tall, with a moon face and a crew cut, thirty-eight years old, and he was sitting at his desk when Lieutenant Shoichi Hozumi, his aide, entered with a document in his hand.

  “Message from Captain Unuma,” Lieutenant Hozumi said, not bothering to salute, because Colonel Katsumata was easy-going about unimportant military protocol at the front.

  “What does it say?”

  “A large American unit is moving into the area, two regiments at least.”

  “Ah, so,” replied Colonel Katsumata, looking down at the map on his desk. This was not good news. The Japanese Eighteenth Army was planning a major offensive against the American defenders of Aitape, and it had appeared to be a not insuperable task. But now, if the Americans were being reinforced, the task would become much more difficult.