River of Blood, page 17
“They’re flying awfully low,” Butsko muttered. “They must be looking for something.”
General Saito heard the planes coming and dropped down onto his stomach. They were headed straight for him and he looked through the branches, seeing the white star on their gray wings, knowing they were Americans looking for him. The American planes were flying just above the treetops, and he wondered if they could detect the camouflaged Japanese army in the jungle below.
Pow-pow-pow-pow—General Saito heard the bark of one of his antiaircraft guns. Pow-pow-pow. Then he heard an explosion in the air.
“Stop that gun!” General Saito screamed, although he knew it was too late and the damage had been done.
Lieutenant Haruma got on the radio, trying to locate the battery firing the gun. The American planes snarled as they pointed upward and climbed into the sky. General Saito felt sick to his stomach, because if the American planes hadn’t seen his division before, they knew where he was now because of the antiaircraft gun.
“I found them, sir,” Lieutenant Haruma said. “It’s a gun in the third Battery of Field Artillery Battalion A.”
“I want the commander of that gun brought here immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Haruma passed the order on, and General Saito rose from the ground. The Americans know where we are now, he thought. We will not be able to surprise them now. He took out his map and looked at it, figuring out how to deploy his men. He knew the Americans would attack soon; they liked to attack in the morning, fight all day, and sleep at night.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Haruma, “the sergeant in charge of that gun is being brought here right now.”
“Good. Radio our patrols and tell them to press their efforts to make contact with the Americans.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sound of airplane engines became louder again. The Americans were going to make another pass.
“Get down!” yelled General Saito. “Hold your fire!”
The American planes came in just over the treetops again, and General Saito knew what they were doing: taking a good second look at the 105th Division. The sound of their engines riled up General Saito’s fighting spirit; he was anxious to fight the Americans. Here we are, he thought as he looked up at the planes. Come and get us.
“Headquarters wants you,” Plotnik said to Butsko.
Butsko held the radio to his face. “Yeah?”
“Return back to our lines immediately,” Lieutenant Harper said. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Butsko handed the radio to Plotnik.
“What he say?” asked Gomez.
“The patrol’s over; we’re going back. Turn the men around.”
“Go back?” asked Gomez in his peppery conversational style. “Whataya mean, go back? We just got out here!”
“I said turn the men around and go back. Don’t gimme no shit.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Gomez motioned with his hand and turned the men around. They retraced their steps through the jungle, heading for their own lines.
In his headquarters tent Colonel Stockton was jubilant. The Cactus Air Force had given him the location of the Japanese force, and it wasn’t far away. He drew lines on his map, detailing the paths for his battalions and companies. Chesty Puller was doing the same thing in the south. Major Cobb, Lieutenant Harper, and the rest of Colonel Stockton’s staff waited tensely for the final orders to attack. The air was filled with electricity and the officers twitched and shifted from foot to foot, smoking cigarettes and sipping water from their canteens.
Sweat dripped from Colonel Stockton’s forehead to the map below him as he pinched his lips together and drew the final lines. Then, satisfied with his plans, he took a step backward from the table, wiped his forehead, and checked his work. He told his officers to gather around the table so that he could give them their final orders.
Not far away from Colonel Stockton’s tent, Japanese patrols were making contact with the Twenty-third Infantry’s defense perimeter. They could hear men digging, cursing, and laughing, and the clank of equipment and the snap of rifle bolts. The Japanese soldiers smiled at each other, and their patrol leader made marks on his map, indicating where the Americans were.
Then he motioned with his hand and led his men away from the American lines, so that he could find a safe quiet spot from which to call General Saito’s headquarters and tell him where the Americans were.
Meanwhile, Butsko and the Third Squad were roving through the jungle on their way back to their own lines. McGibney still had the point, with the rest of the men in a single file about twenty yards behind him. They weren’t being especially quiet, because they were nearing their own lines and had no idea Japanese patrols were about.
However, the Japanese patrols in the area were being much more cautious, because they were closer to the American lines than to their own. They slipped slowly and silently through the jungle, in contrast to the noisy speed of Butsko and the Third Squad, and finally one of the Japanese patrols stopped suddenly in the jungle, dropping down on their stomachs, because they heard something coming toward them from the direction of their own lines. The Japanese sergeant pointed forward with his bony finger and one of his privates darted forward like a squirrel to see what was ahead. A few minutes later he returned and told his sergeant that a squad of American soldiers was approaching.
The sergeant wasn’t looking for a fight so close to the American lines. He decided the best thing to do would be to hide with his men in the jungle and wait for the Americans to pass.
The Japanese soldiers crawled into the thickest bushes, camouflaged themselves, and lay down, listening to the approach of the American patrol.
The sun was hot, and mists boiled up from the floor of the jungle. Butsko took off his helmet and wiped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. He and his men had been on the move steadily ever since they had received orders to return to their lines, and he thought it was time he gave them a break.
“Take ten,” he said.
The GIs sprawled out in the jungle, lighting up cigarettes. It was 1030 hours, and some took out candy bars, munching them down. They sucked water out of their canteens and took off their helmets.
Butsko looked at his watch to make sure that he didn’t let the men rest too long. The attack would start soon, and he didn’t want to get caught in the middle of it. The Twenty-third Infantry was moving toward the Japs even as he was sitting there. In fact, Baker Company was probably not where he’d left it, and he’d probably wind up fighting with some other outfit under a new officer who was even worse than Captain Franklin.
Butsko heard somebody cough behind him and he didn’t think anything about it at first, but something bothered him about it, and then he realized that all the men in the Third Squad, plus Bannon and Plotnik, were right in front of him.
If they were right in front of him, then who had coughed behind him?
His heart racing and his skin going prickly, he turned around casually and saw a bush behind him. Good God, Butsko thought, don’t tell me there’s a Jap in there.
As if in answer to his questions, a Japanese hand grenade came flying out of the bush.
“Hit it!” Butsko screamed.
The GIs didn’t know what was going on, but they dived to the ground anyway. Butsko watched the trajectory of the Japanese hand grenade, leaped toward it, caught it on the first bounce, and threw it sideways as far as he could. The throw set him off balance and he fell to the ground, landing on his right shoulder as the bushes behind where he’d been sitting erupted with small-arms fire, and the grenade exploded harmlessly far away.
The Japanese patrol had the element of surprise on their side, and bullets flew all around the Americans. Private George Parkinson of Manchester, New Hampshire, was shot through the head, and Pfc. Victor Madonia from Buffalo, New York, took a slug in the chest. Rolling on the ground to make a difficult target, Butsko tore a grenade from his lapel, pulled the pin, and hurled it into the bush. The Japs screamed and ran out of the way, and the GIs fired at them as they ran through the jungle, but the Japanese sergeant was as tough as Butsko, and he scrambled through the bush, picked up the grenade, and threw it at the GIs.
His throw was high, and it was headed toward Plotnik, who jumped high in the air, caught it over his head, and threw it back. Before Plotnik could get back on his stomach, one of the Japanese soldiers shot him through the neck, the impact of the bullet making him do a somersault in the air.
The grenade exploded, blowing the sergeant and the few Japs in the bushes with him into the air. The rest of the Japs were fleeing through the jungle toward their lines. The smoke cleared and Butsko lay still on his stomach, poised to fire at anything that moved. He didn’t know all the live Japs had run away.
Bannon crawled toward Plotnik, who was lying on his face, not moving. “Plotnik,” he said, “are you okay?”
As Bannon crawled closer, he could see Plotnik’s head lying in a pool of blood. Bannon felt a sick emptiness in his stomach when he saw the hole in the back of Plotnik’s neck, blood oozing out of it. He rolled Plotnik onto his back and saw the entrance wound in his throat, tearing apart his jugular. Bannon touched his finger to Plotnik’s pulse and felt nothing. Plotnik was dead.
Something snapped inside of Bannon’s head, and his hands started shaking. Plotnik had been alive only moments ago, and now he was no more. He’d risked his life to save the squad from the grenade, and lost. Plotnik’s face was pale from loss of blood and Bannon looked at the blackheads and grease, feeling tears well up in his eyes. Plotnik had been born behind an eight ball and people had been cruel to him all his life. He had been ugly and his profession as a mechanic had ruined his complexion, but funny-looking, weird old Plotnik had saved Bannon’s life and the lives of the other men in the squad when he’d caught that grenade and threw it back.
Bannon covered his face with his hands. We all treated you like shit, Bannon thought, but you saved our lives, you poor sorry sad-sack son of a bitch.
Meanwhile, Butsko and the others checked out the bushes and realized the Japs had run for the hills. A few dead Japs were in the bushes, and Butsko emerged with a shiny new Nambu pistol tucked into his belt. He saw Bannon blubbering over Plotnik, and kneeled beside Bannon, placing his hand on his shoulder. “Hey, take it easy, kid,” he said. “Nobody lives forever, you know.”
Bannon heard Butsko’s voice but somehow couldn’t break loose from the pit of gloom he was in. Frankie La Barbara, Craig Delane, and Homer Gladley were in the hospital, Sergeant Harrington was dead, and now poor Plotnik was gone too. And there had been so many others. Bannon had kept himself under control whenever one of them had been carried away, but Plotnik was so pathetic, a poor fucking sad sack. How could anybody shoot a poor fucking sad sack?
“Look at it this way,” Butsko said gently, “he won’t have to go out on patrol anymore, or do KP, or stand guard duty, or any shit like that. Nobody can touch him where he’s at now. The war is over for Plotnik.”
“Those fucking Japs!” Bannon said between his teeth.
“Yeah, they’re the ones who did it to him, but we’ll pay ‘em back, don’t you worry about it.” Butsko reached out, grabbed Plotnik’s dog tags, tore one away, and dropped it into his shirt pocket. “Okay, let’s get out of here before the shit really hits the fan.”
“Lemme get his wallet,” Bannon said. “I’ll send it back to his folks.”
The other survivors in the patrol watched as Bannon rolled Plotnik over and took the wallet out of his back pocket. Bannon realized the others were looking at him and tried to pull himself together. There was nothing he could have done to save Plotnik. There was nothing anybody could have done. It was the fucking war.
Bannon stood and took a deep breath, tucking the wallet into his back pocket beside his own. “Rest in peace, you poor bastard,” he whispered to the corpse of Louie Plotnik.
“Let’s move it out,” Butsko said.
The squad formed a column and plodded back toward their lines. Bannon looked over his shoulder and saw Plotnik lying in the clearing with Parkinson and Madonia. So long, old buddy, he thought, and then there was a bend in the trail, and Louie Plotnik disappeared behind the green leaves and brown branches of the jungle.
THIRTEEN . . .
The Americans knew where the Japanese were, and the Japanese knew where the Americans were. The Twenty-third Infantry, the Seventh Marines, and the 105th Japanese Division moved inexorably toward each other in the green hell of the jungle. Each unit had forward elements probing for contact with the enemy. General Saito, Chesty Puller, and Colonel Stockton studied their maps and evaluated reports from the front, trying to stay on top of the situation and not be taken by surprise. It was only a matter of time before all the units collided and the jungle exploded with violent battle.
Meanwhile the Third Squad of the recon platoon was making its way back to its lines. Butsko was keeping an eye on Bannon, who seemed to be recovering well from the death of Plotnik. Bannon wasn’t happy, but he wasn’t prostrate with grief either; he felt sick to his stomach, and his mood alternated between rage at the Japanese and despair over the futility of war.
“Halt—who goes there!” shouted a voice in the bushes ahead.
The Third Squad of the recon platoon stopped, happy that they’d finally made contact with their regiment. They looked to Butsko to handle the challenge for them.
“Sergeant Butsko and the recon platoon, returning from patrol!”
“Advance to be recognized!”
Butsko and the platoon moved forward, feeling as if they were returning home.
“Halt!”
Butsko and the squad halted.
“Silk,” said the soldier in the bushes, in a softer voice.
“Stockings,” replied Butsko.
“Pass on.”
The squad moved forward and came upon a large number of men advancing through the jungle.
“What outfit is this?” Butsko asked.
“Fox Company,” somebody replied.
Butsko stopped and tried to orient himself within the regiment, estimating where Baker Company might be. Neither he nor Bannon made the connection between Fox Company and Captain Hargreaves, who was its commanding officer.
Twenty yards in front of the Third Squad, Master Sergeant Carberry pushed his way through the jungle and looked up to see Butsko and Bannon. He recognized them instantly and ran toward Captain Hargreaves.
“Sir,” he said. “Look!”
Captain Hargreaves’s face still was bandaged and his jaw was wired up. He focused on the GIs in front of him and recognized Butsko and Bannon. “Sergeant, gather up a few men and come with me.”
Sergeant Carberry called the names of three men and assembled them behind Captain Hargreaves, who marched with eyes blazing toward Butsko and Bannon. Corporal Gomez noticed them moving closer but didn’t know who they were. “Somebody’s coming,” he said.
Captain Hargreaves walked up to them and pointed to Bannon. “Take that man into custody!” he ordered.
“Hey!” Butsko said. “What’s going on here?”
The soldiers and Sergeant Carberry clustered around Bannon, aiming their rifles at him.
“I’ll take that,” Sergeant Carberry said, lifting the M 1 out of Bannon’s hands.
Bannon looked at Captain Hargreaves and knew he was in a whole world of trouble.
Captain Hargreaves took a step toward Bannon. “What’re you doing out of the stockade, soldier!”
“The stockade was bombed,” Bannon replied, “so I went back to my platoon.”
“In other words you’re AWOL!”
“He ain’t AWOL,” Butsko said calmly. “He’s with me.”
“He may be with you,” Captain Hargreaves said, “but he’s AWOL and you’re aiding and abetting.” Captain Hargreaves looked at Sergeant Carberry. “Take this man into custody too!”
Sergeant Carberry reached for Butsko’s rifle, but Butsko stepped back and jerked it out of his reach. “Keep your fucking hands off me,” he said.
The Third Squad moved to protect Butsko and Bannon, and the atmosphere became tense.
“Sergeant Carberry,” said Captain Hargreaves, “I think you’d better get some more men over here.”
“Yes, sir!”
Sergeant Carberry cupped his hands around his mouth and called the names of all the men he saw nearby. Soon the clearing became crowded with armed men, who surrounded Bannon and Butsko and the Third Squad.
Captain Hargreaves turned to Butsko and the Third Squad. “You men—lay your weapons on the ground.”
“Don’t do it!” Butsko said.
The men of the Third Squad held on to their weapons. They knew they were outnumbered, but nobody was going to push them around.
Captain Hargreaves took two steps toward Butsko, leaned forward, and stared into his eyes.
“Are you disobeying the orders of an officer?” Captain Hargreaves asked.
“The Japs are nearby and we’re not giving up our weapons.”
“You’re being insubordinate!”
Butsko wanted to put another fracture in Captain Hargreaves’s jaw, but he tried to keep himself calm. “I think you should call Colonel Stockton and let him settle this.”
“Don’t you say sir when you talk to an officer!”
“Sir.”
“I’m the commander of this company and I’ll do as I see fit,” Captain Hargreaves said, turning white with rage. He looked at Bannon. “You’re a deserter, and in wartime you can be shot on the spot.”
