by Len Levinson
Bannon wished Butsko was there. It was weird being in command of so many men. You were afraid to make a mistake for fear of getting some of them killed. And out here in no-man's-land on patrol, there was no one higher up to whom you could pass the buck. You were on your own and had to make all the decisions.
Longtree returned about fifteen minutes after he went out. “The tracks just keep going,” he said.
“They're probably on their way back to wherever they came from. I'd better report them to Major Cobb. DelFranco, gimme the walkie-talkie.”
DelFranco handed the portable radio over and Bannon held it to his face. “This is Red Dog calling Hot Dog Three. This is Red Dog calling Hot Dog Three. Do you read me? Do you read me? Over.”
A few seconds later the reply came from Lieutenant Hutchinson at the regiment's operations section. “This is Hot Dog Three. This is Hot Dog Three. I read you loud and clear. I read you loud and clear. Over.”
“Is the major there?” Bannon asked.
“Just a moment.”
Bannon waited, then heard the deep, calm voice of Major Cobb. “What is it, Bannon?”
“We've just run into an enemy patrol of approximately squad strength. Nobody was hurt and the Japs ran away. Should we go after them?”
“No, your mission is to screen the regiment. Keep moving ahead as ordered.”
“But the Japs'll probably go right back to their base. We can follow them back and find out where it is.”
Major Cobb thought for a few moments. “Okay, you can follow them, provided you don't deviate too much from the general direction of the regimental advance. You're our eyes up there, understand?”
“Yes, sir. Has the regiment moved out yet?”
“We're moving out now. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Stay in touch. Over and out.”
Bannon handed the radio back to DelFranco. “All right, everybody, assemble around me!”
The GIs got up from their resting spots and gathered around. Bannon told them they were going after the Jap patrol, with his old First Squad on the point and Longtree leading. The men adjusted their packs, and the squad moved out. The sun was a big red basketball on the horizon as the recon platoon set out through the jungle in a column of twos.
The sun rose in the sky and the day became hotter. The soldiers’ uniforms were plastered to their bodies by perspiration, which also trickled into their eyes and burned. The jungle was thick, smelly, and dark. Longtree moved among the branches and leaves as if he'd lived there all his life, but the rest of the men were scratched and bruised. They sank to their knees in muck and were eaten alive by swarms of insects. Bannon kept checking his map and compass to make sure he was moving in the same general direction as the regimental advance.
It took two hours to get through the jungle, and then they came to a field of kunai grass. The grass was as tall as they were and so thick you couldn't see somebody hiding a few feet away. Longtree went in first, still following the trail left by the Japanese patrol, but soon encountered a number of other trails crisscrossing through the field; many patrols had come through there. He was able to discern the freshest and follow it, the rest of the platoon behind him.
Bannon also realized that many patrols had come through the field and figured a concentration of Japs must be someplace up ahead. If took an hour to get through the kunai grass. On the other side were palm trees and more jungle.
“Take a break!” Bannon said as soon as they were in the jungle. “DelFranco, gimme the radio!”
Bannon sat heavily on the ground and DelFranco handed him the walkie-talkie. Bannon called Major Cobb again and told him of the heavy patrol activity in the kunai grass.
“Where are you?” Major Cobb asked.
Bannon looked down at his map. “Grid Four Twenty-five.”
“You're moving into the hills and mountains now. That's probably where the Japs are holed up. Watch your step and report immediately any contact with the enemy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Bannon handed the radio back to DelFranco, then looked at his maps. The Japanese patrol was evidently heading toward the foothills to the southwest of Mount Austin, which also was the direction in which the regiment was going. Bannon took out a cigarette and lit it up, looking around at his men, feeling a sense of satisfaction because everything was going okay so far. Even old Butsko couldn't have done any better, he thought.
Butsko lay on the examining table as Nurse Betty Crawford removed the bandages from his chest and Dr. Henderson looked on.
“This might hurt a little,” Betty said.
“Don't worry about it,” Butsko replied.
Betty peeled the last layer of gauze away, revealing the ugly stitched-up red gash on Butsko's chest two inches above his nipple. It looked to Betty as if it were healing normally. She noticed all the other scars on his torso. The poor man looked as if he'd been through a meat grinder.
“I'll examine him now,” said Dr. Henderson, wearing a tan uniform with the collar unbuttoned. He bent over Butsko, probing and searching around the wound, testing the stitches, looking for infections. Standing to the side, Betty Crawford looked down at Butsko's naked upper body and felt a weird tickle deep inside her.
“How does the wound look, Doctor?” she asked.
“He's healing nicely. You've got a healthy constitution, Sergeant.”
Butsko grunted. The doctor turned to Betty. “The stitches can come out on Monday. Bandage him up again, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Butsko looked up at the doctor. “When will I go back to my outfit?”
“Another three or four weeks or so, I'd say.”
Dr. Henderson looked at his watch. “I have to be at a meeting. Nurse Crawford, I'll be back on the ward this afternoon around one.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dr. Henderson left the tiny room.
“Just relax, Sergeant Butsko, and I'll have you bandaged up in a minute.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Go ahead.”
“They're in the pocket of my robe over there.”
She plucked the pack of cigarettes out of his robe and handed it to him, watching him light up.
“Lie still, now.”
He smoked his cigarette, holding it away from her as she cleaned the wound and taped on a new bandage, her fingers touching his hairy chest, while he appeared unconcerned, as if his mind were far off someplace. She glanced down at his flat stomach and then the white pajama bottoms. He flinched as she pressed down the tape.
“Sorry,” she said.
“S'okay.”
He was so bulky and muscular that he reminded her of a horse—not an elegant Arabian stallion or a racehorse, but one of those big incredibly powerful workhorses she used to see on the farms in California.
“Ouch!” he said.
“Sorry.”
She pressed down another strip of tape.
“You can put your shirt on now.”
Butsko got up from the table, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Is there any way I can get out of this hospital sooner than the doctor said?”
“I don't think so. Everybody has to go through the same procedures. What's your hurry.”
“I'm getting bored around here.”
“If you kept busy, you wouldn't be so bored.”
“Busy doing what?”
“The other men play checkers, read books, go to the movies, play cards...”
“I hate all that crap.”
“What do you like?” she asked.
“Nothing around here.”
She could not conceal the hurt in her expression. "Nothing around here?”
Butsko shuffled his feet awkwardly. “I didn't mean you, Nurse Crawford. You're an awfully nice nurse and a real sweet kid too. I'm talking about this hospital here. I don't like hospitals.” “When you leave here, you'll only go back to the front. Are you in a hurry to
get into the war again?”
“I don't know. I just want to get the hell out of here.”
“I'll do whatever I can, Sergeant Butsko.”
“I'd appreciate it, Nurse Crawford. And thanks for bandaging me up. You got the hands of an angel.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Butsko.”
“See you around.” Butsko winked, opened the door, and left the room.
Nurse Crawford stood in the silence for a few moments, then stripped the sheet from the examining table, feeling the warmth of his body in her hands.
FIVE . . .
At noon the recon platoon was approaching the grassy open slopes of Hill Thirty-one. Longtree was still in the lead, following the trail of the Japanese patrol. The sun was straight overhead and the GIs gasped for breath. Their uniforms were soaked with sweat and their brains roasted inside their heads. Bannon wanted to get the men into the treeline ahead before breaking for chow.
The men climbed the lower slopes of the hill, bending forward under the weight of their packs, their knees aching, each one wishing he was someplace else.
They entered the treeline, and the shade made everything cooler. The forest was thick, with wide green leaves everywhere. Bannon decided to continue until 1300 hours and then break for lunch. The men were tired and hungry, but the more ground they covered now, the less they'd have to go in the latter part of the afternoon, when the temperature rose.
They continued up Hill Thirty-one with Longtree in the lead. Longtree peered ahead through the wall of leaves and branches, trying to see what was ahead, but he couldn't see more than ten or twenty feet. The Japanese patrol had gone straight up that way; it was easy to follow their trail. He stepped over a rotting fallen tree and was suddenly struck by the awareness that something was wrong. Pausing, he crouched and looked around. He couldn't see anything, but his old Apache sixth sense told him that danger was ahead. He could almost smell it in the air. He raised his hand, and the recon platoon stopped behind him.
Longtree dropped to one knee behind the log. Behind him, the men of the recon platoon dropped onto their stomachs Bannon held his rifle in his right hand and ran crouched over toward Longtree.
“What's the problem?” Bannon asked, dropping down beside Longtree.
“Something's up there.”
“Where?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Then what makes you think there's something there?”
“I smell Japs.”
Bannon sniffed the air. “I don't smell nothing. Maybe you've been on point too long. Chief. I'll send Shaw up here.”
“Naw, I'm okay,” Longtree said. “I can keep going.”
“I think you need a rest.”
“I'm not tired. I'm just telling you there are Japs up there.” Longtree pointed up the hill.
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
Bannon spat at the floor of the jungle and tried to think of what to do. He couldn't tell Major Cobb that he was stopping because he thought there were Japs up ahead. He'd need proof. He looked at Longtree and wondered if he was imagining things or if Japs really were up there. Bannon recalled that Butsko had always trusted Longtree's judgment one hundred percent.
“If there are Japs up there,” Bannon said, “we'll have to find out where they are and tell regiment.”
He made a circular motion above his head with his hand, the signal for his men to gather around him. They slouched up the hill, keeping their heads low, and gathered around him.
“The Chief thinks there's Japs up ahead,” Bannon said, “so form a skirmish line and let's go find them. I want the First and Second squads on my left and the Third and Fourth squads on my right. Let's go, move it out!”
The squads formed up to the left and right of him, a straight skirmish line with six feet between men. Longtree went back to the First Squad, which he normally led, and Bannon and DelFranco positioned themselves behind the skirmish line so Bannon could see what everybody was doing.
Bannon waved his arm forward, and the skirmish line advanced up Hill Thirty-one. The men kept their heads low and moved slowly, being especially cautious, holding their rifles in both hands, ready to fire. It was like swimming through a sea of green leaves, and Bannon realized it would be an ideal area to set up a defensive position. Nutsy Gafooley from the Second Squad tripped over a rock and fell on his face. Billy Klump from the Fourth Squad found the going so tough he had to take out his machete and hack his way through the green tangle. The soldiers grunted and farted as they pushed their way up the hill, looking for Japs.
Suddenly a machine gun opened fire somewhere in front of them, and three men from the Second Squad were mowed down. The rest of the platoon hit the dirt as soon as the first bullets started to fly.
"Medic!” screamed Bannon.
“Yo.!” replied Private Joel Blum.
"Get the fuck over there!”
“Yo!”
"Anybody see where that machine gun is?”
Nobody said anything.
"Longtree, take the First Squad and find out where that machine gun is!”
Longtree motioned with his hand and the members of the First Squad moved out on their bellies. Private Blum made his way toward the three men who'd been shot down. The first one had stopped a bullet with his face and was almost unrecognizable. The second had a bullet in his gut. The third had been hit in the leg. Blum went to work on the one who'd been shot in the stomach.
Meanwhile, Longtree and the First Squad crawled up the hill. They'd only gone fifteen yards when two machine guns opened fire on them, stopping them cold. The jungle was so thick that they couldn't see where the machine guns were; individual rifles were firing also.
"We can't move!” Longtree called back.
“Gimme the radio!” Bannon said.
DelFranco passed it to him and Bannon called Major Cobb.
“Sir,” he said, “we've run into two Japanese machine guns on Hill Thirty-one but we can't see where they are.”
“Have you sent somebody up to find out?”
“Yes, but they didn't get very far.”
“Try to take it on the flank. We'll have to know if it's just an isolated nest or part of something bigger.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Bannon tried to work out a plan. He figured the machine-gun nest was probably straight ahead, so he'd send one squad way out to the left and another squad way out to the right. That ought to determine if the machine-gun nest was isolated or not.
"Everybody assemble around me!”
The men crawled back on their stomachs and crowded around him. Nearby, Blum worked frantically on the wounded man.
“Longtree, swing the First Squad about one hundred yards to the left and probe for that nest. Stravopoulis, take the Fourth Squad to the right about a hundred yards and do the same thing. Don't take any chances. Get going.”
The two squads separated themselves from the platoon and swung out on the flanks to probe for the machine-gun nest. Bannon took out a cigarette and lit it up.
“How's those men?” Bannon asked Blum.
“One dead, one not too bad, and the other needs a doctor quick.”
Bannon debated in his mind whether two men should be assigned to carry the wounded man back. He decided to do it. “Pinkston! Duffy! Carry that man back!”
Pinkston and Duffy tied their shirts together into a makeshift stretcher while Bannon looked ahead in the direction of the machine-gun nest. The First Squad and the Fourth Squad were already out of sight. There was nothing to do now except wait.
Sergeant Stravopoulis led the Fourth Squad to the right and then, after two hundred yards, turned them up the slope of Hill Thirty-one. They'd only gone another hundred yards before they came under intense machine-gun fire directly in front of them. They couldn't see exactly where it was coming from, but it was one gun supported by small-arms fire. Stravopoulis, black-haired with a thick growth of beard, called Bannon on the
walkie-talkie.
“We just ran into another nest,” Stravopoulis said. “We can't move forward.”
“Can you see where it's coming from?”
“Nope, but it's someplace in front of us.”
“Stay where you are. If things get hot, get back here on the double.”
Longtree led the First Squad up the left side of the hill, and after a short distance machine guns and rifles stopped him cold. He called Bannon to report his situation, and Bannon gave him the same orders: Stay put unless there was trouble. Then Bannon radioed Major Cobb and told him what had happened.
Major Cobb was with the Regimental Headquarters Company in a grove of coconut trees about three miles away. Troops streamed past on their way forward, and a company of engineers nearby was clearing a road for jeeps and trucks. Major Cobb spread a map out on the ground and found Hill Thirty-one.
“Stay where you are,” he told Bannon. “Don't take any chances. I'll send a couple of companies up there to wipe out those machine-gun nests and then you'll continue with your mission. Any questions?”
“When'll they get here?”
“A few hours.”
“I hope that's before dark.”
“It'll be before dark. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Over and out.”
The jungle was a mass of GIs and equipment moving toward the parts of the island held by the Japanese. Major Cobb found Colonel Stockton sitting in his jeep, talking on the radio to one of his forward units. Colonel Stockton wore his steel pot, puffed his pipe, and wore strapped to his waist a samurai sword that Sergeant Butsko had given him. He looked every inch the frontline combat officer, eager for battle and smart as a fox. He finished his radio transmission, and Major Cobb told him about the machine-gun nests the recon platoon had found.
“I'm sending two companies to clear them out,” Major Cobb said. “Which ones would you suggest, sir?”
Colonel Stockton looked at his map. Hill Thirty-one was in the sector in front of the Second Battalion, commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Joe Smith, a cigar-smoking pugnacious old combat veteran. “It's in Colonel Smith's sector,” Colonel Stockton said. “Apprise him of the situation and let him handle it.”