River of Blood, page 6
Slowly and arduously he crawled back to the others, who had taken cover in the heavy underbrush.
“What took you so long?” Butsko asked.
“Japs,” Longtree replied. “Four that I could see, and probably more in a bunker. They’re the crew of a big fucking cannon.”
“Shit,” Butsko said. “Just what we need.” He took off his cap and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Well, there’s no point in waiting around. Lead the way, Chief.”
Longtree stood and estimated a wide arc that should take them around the artillery piece, then ducked his head and moved through the underbrush, leading the rest of the squad in that direction.
The men made their way through the thick jungle, trying to be quiet, snorting and cursing under their breaths. Bannon slouched along next to O’Rourke and Billie Jones, who were carrying Craig Delane, and Delane looked as if he were turning blue. Bannon touched Delane’s wrist; there still a pulse. He wasn’t bleeding anymore, but evidently he was in deep shock. Bannon hoped they’d get him to the medics before it was too late.
Farther back, Shilansky slipped on a pile of animal shit and fell on his ass, dropping Frankie La Barbara. The sudden lurch woke Frankie out of his delirium, and he looked around in horror. “Japs!” he screamed. “Japs!”
Shilansky punched him in the mouth, and Frankie dropped off into unconsciousness again. Excited chattering and shouts of alarm came from the vicinity of the Japanese artillery emplacement. Butsko motioned for his men to get down and heard them fall to their stomachs all around him. He tried to think of what to do. The alternatives boiled down to two: fight the Japs or try to get away. If Longtree’s estimate was correct, the Japs outnumbered them, so a fight might not be a good idea. The area was infested with Japs, and all of them would be alerted. The rest of the trip in broad daylight would be tough, but Frankie and Delane might die if they waited until nightfall to move.
It was a difficult situation and Butsko realized he had to take drastic action. Already he could hear the Jap artillerymen entering the woods, looking for them.
“O’Rourke!” he said.
“Hup, Sarge!”
“Gag that son of a bitch so he doesn’t make any more noise!”
“Hup, Sarge!”
O’Rourke took his filthy, snotty hankerchief out of his back pocket and stuffed it into Frankie La Barbara’s mouth. Butsko looked over the rest of his men, trying to figure out who should get the dirty work. He decided it would have to be him and Bannon.
“Bannon,” he said, “you stay here with me and we’ll try to hold off the Japs. Longtree, you lead the others back to our lines. Get going!”
Longtree took a moment to get his bearings, then plunged into the jungle, heading toward Henderson field. The others followed him, carrying Frankie and Delane. They made a considerable amount of noise, and the Japs shouted excitedly to each other, indicating they’d heard something.
Bannon crawled beside Butsko. “Whataya want me to do?”
“We gotta draw their attention to us. Give ‘em some lead and make ‘em think they’re under attack.”
They raised their submachine guns to their shoulders, aimed in the direction of the Japanese artillery emplacement, and opened fire. The stillness of the jungle was shattered by the explosions of their bullets, and leaves in front of them trembled before the withering fire.
“Let’s get closer!” Butsko said.
They stood and charged toward the artillery emplacement, firing from the waist, shouting to make it appear that a major attack was under way. They heard frantic Japanese voices as the artillerymen ran for cover. Butsko knew from experience that rear-echelon soldiers like artillerymen were unaccustomed to close battle and could be counted upon to flee as soon as one started.
Butsko and Bannon came to the edge of the artillery emplacement, raking it with submachine-gun fire, while the Japs hid in their bunker, taking an occasional wild shot. Butsko had one hand grenade left, and the opening to the bunker was too tempting for him to pass up. He pulled the grenade from his lapel, yanked the pin, drew back his arm, and threw it like Joe Dimaggio in Yankee Stadium. The grenade sailed through the air and was swallowed up by the darkness of the bunker opening.
A moment later there were hysterical screams as Japs ran out of the bunker. Bannon mowed them down with his submachine gun, and seconds later the grenade went off, detonating the artillery shells stored in the bunker.
The ground heaved with the violence of the explosion, and the bunker was blown apart, Japanese soldiers with their arms and legs outstretched flying through the air along with clods of earth and boulders. The artillery piece was knocked over onto its side, and Bannon’s ears rang as if an eardrum were burst; he dived to the ground.
Lying beside Butsko, he watched the debris and dead bodies fall to earth. The artillery emplacement had been devastated.
“Let’s get out of here,” Butsko said.
They rose and moved back into the jungle, trying to pick up the trail left by Longtree and the others.
FIVE . . .
Butsko and Bannon caught up with the others in an hour and made it back to Henderson Field without incident. Frankie La Barbara and Craig Delane were carried to the medics, and the rest of the squad returned to the platoon area while Butsko reported to Colonel Stockton.
Butsko still had the same filthy bandage on his arm, and his clothing was torn and cruddy. He smelled like a water buffalo in heat, and a two-day growth of black beard bristled all over his face. He climbed the steps to regimental headquarters, threw open the door, and stepped inside.
Two young lieutenants and Sergeant Major Ramsay looked up at him as he stomped across the floor. The men and officers at headquarters didn’t know what to make of Butsko, whom they considered a brawling, violent fool, and yet he was the only man in the regiment that Colonel Stockton was friendly with. The colonel and Butsko sometimes spent hours together behind the closed doors of Colonel Stockton’s office, and often their laughter could be heard. Everyone wondered what two such dissimilar men could have in common, for Colonel Stockton was a scholar as well as a regimental commander, and Butsko was a brute and a killer.
“The colonel in?” Butsko asked, stopping at Ramsay’s desk.
“No. He’s at a meeting with General Vandegrift.”
“Anything cooking?”
“Yes—something big.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow I think.”
Butsko groaned and sat on the chair near Ramsay’s desk. He’d hoped he and his men could rest for a few days, but now it appeared they wouldn’t have much time to recoup. He was getting worried about them: They were all worn out and showing signs of strain. Even Bannon, who ordinarily was the coolest head in the platoon, was getting jumpy.
“That arm of yours all right?” Ramsay asked.
“My arm?” Butsko looked at the bandage and remembered the wound. “I think it’s all right.”
“Maybe I’d better get a medic over here,” Ramsay said, reaching for his telephone.
“Naw, I’m okay. When do you think the colonel will be back?”
“Shouldn’t be long now. He’s been gone for nearly two hours.”
Butsko extended his arm and peeled off the dirty bandage. Ramsay and the two young officers peeked surreptitiously at the gruesome scab on Butsko’s arm. Might as well let the air get to it, Butsko thought.
“How’d you get that?” Ramsay asked.
“Who the fuck knows?” Butsko replied, because he was drowsy and didn’t feel like talking about it. He checked his watch; it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Closing his eyes to rest them, he quickly dropped off to sleep, snoring loudly.
The two young officers left the orderly room, and Sergeant Major Ramsay wished he could do something about Butsko snoring with his head hanging to the side. It didn’t look right for men who looked like Butsko to sleep in regimental headquarters. But Ramsay was afraid to say anything to Butsko, who was Colonel Stockton’s favorite in the regiment. Ramsay adjusted the wire-rimmed eyeglasses on his nose and tried to work, although it sounded as if a buzzsaw were sitting next to him.
Bannon sat in a foxhole in the recon platoon area, eating a C ration can of cold chicken stew. He knew that hot chow would be served in about an hour, but he couldn’t wait. The hunger he’d suppressed during the mission had attacked him as soon as he’d sat down. He’d eat C rations now and a hot meal later.
Bannon was in a rotten mood because he’d been thinking that his days were numbered and it wouldn’t be long before he stopped a bullet or a piece of shrapnel. He’d been on Guadalcanal for nearly five weeks and had seen many of his friends get killed or wounded. The law of averages said that he was long overdue. He was starting to get scared, and the awareness of that troubled him more than the possibility of pain or actual death itself, because a scared man was a danger to his buddies.
Bannon was mad at himself and the world. He knew that the GIs and Marines on Guadalcanal were being shortchanged in reinforcements and supplies. If the War Department was serious about Guadalcanal, they could have taken it long ago, but instead they were fucking around, and men were getting killed as a result. Those big shots always acted as though they were so smart, but when you got right down to it, they didn’t know a bull’s ass from a banjo.
On top of everything else, he hadn’t received a letter from his girl friend, Ginger Gregg, and just knew she was shacking up with another guy. Ginger always had hot pants and needed her fucking. A pretty girl like that never had to look very hard for men, because men were coming at her all day long, tripping over each other, trying to do favors for her, buy her drinks, send her flowers, and shit like that. Ginger would have to give in sooner or later. It nearly drove Bannon wild to think of another man in bed with her and her touching him in that special delicate way she used to touch him. She probably felt guilty about all her screwing around, and that’s why she didn’t write him. She didn’t realize that if she just wrote something nice, no matter if it was a lie or not, it would make him happy and he wouldn’t worry so much. But she had always been a dizzy broad. You could never rely on her to do the sensible thing.
Bannon threw the empty C ration tin over his shoulder and lit a cigarette. He was starting to hate women. Several guys in the platoon had gotten Dear John letters already, and many of the others had girl friends who’d stopped writing them altogether. All the married guys were sure their wives were fucking around on them. It’s all they ever talked about. Only Homer Gladley was completely sure that the girl he was going to marry was still a virgin, but he was practically a moron, and he might be dead by now for all Bannon knew. Gladley had been wounded so badly that they’d shipped him out to the naval hospital at Tulagi, thirty-five miles away across Ironbottom Sound. His girl friend was probably blowing the mailman right now.
Bannon thought he wouldn’t feel so bad if Frankie La Barbara was around. Frankie was the worst lowlife he’d ever met in his life, but he was always good for a few laughs. There never was a dull moment when Frankie was around. Frankie got letters from his wife and several other women back in New York City. Frankie was the kind of guy who really knew how to handle women. He’d told Bannon many times that the worse you treated women, the more they loved you, and the moment you started being sweet to them, that’s when they decide to fuck your best friend.
“What’s this C ration can doing over here, soldier!”
Bannon turned around and saw a captain in a steel pot looking down at him. Beside the captain was a master sergeant. Bannon had never seen either one of them before. At their feet was the C ration can he’d just thrown over his shoulder.
Bannon was in an ornery mood. He knew he was headed for trouble, but he didn’t give a shit. “What C ration can’s that?” Bannon asked.
The captain got red in the face. “Don’t you stand up when an officer talks to you, soldier?”
Bannon pulled himself to his feet and stood listlessly in the foxhole. “This good enough for you, sir?”
“I think you’d better come out of there and pick up this C ration can, soldier!”
“Yes, sir.”
Bannon climbed out of his foxhole and picked up the C ration can while the captain and sergeant looked around at other C ration cans, empty packs of cigarettes, and other debris.
“Who’s in charge here?” the captain asked.
“Actually I am, sir.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Sergeant Charles Bannon, sir.”
“Where are your sergeant stripes?”
“I ain’t had a chance to sew them on yet, sir.”
“What outfit is this?”
“This is the recon platoon, sir.”
The captain and the sergeant exchanged glances. “So this is Colonel Stockton’s famous recon platoon, eh? You guys are supposed to be the big heroes in this regiment, aren’t you? Well, you sure as hell aren’t showing me much. This area is a mess. Assemble your men and clean up around here.”
Bannon looked at the captain and all the rage and frustration bubbled into his brain. “My men just came back from an operation and they’re tired,” he said gruffly. “I’m not gonna make them do anything until they get rested up.”
The captain couldn’t believe his ears, and an expression of incredulity came over his face. “What!”
“I think you heard me, sir.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to, soldier?”
“I don’t know; I never saw you before.”
Bannon turned away to jump back into his foxhole, but the captain grabbed him by the arm
“Now see here . . .”
Bannon spun around and brought one up from the ground. It hit the captain underneath his chin and lifted him into the air, sending him sprawling onto his back. The captain blinked and shook his head as blood dribbled out the corner of his mouth. The sergeant helped the captain to his feet as soldiers from the recon platoon gathered around.
The officer spoke with difficulty, because his jaw was broken. “You’re going to pay for this,” he said to Bannon. “You’d better not go anywhere.”
“Where the fuck am I gonna go?” Bannon asked.
Butsko was fast asleep in regimental headquarters when Colonel Stockton walked inside, carrying his briefcase. Lieutenant Harper followed him in.
Sergeant Major Ramsay stood behind his desk. “Sergeant Butsko has been waiting to talk with you, sir.”
Colonel Stockton smiled faintly and moved toward Butsko, shaking his shoulder.
“Huh—what?” Butsko said, jumping up, looking for his submachine gun.
“Come into my office,” Colonel Stockton said.
Colonel Stockton pushed open the door to his office and Butsko staggered as he followed him in.
“Sorry to fall asleep, sir,” Butsko said, “but I’m a little tired.”
“Guess you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“None at all.”
“Have a seat.”
Lieutenant Harper stuck his head into the office. “You need me for anything else, sir?”
“Not right now, Harper. Come back in about a half hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Harper closed the door, leaving Butsko and Colonel Stockton alone. Colonel Stockton opened his briefcase, took out some papers and maps, laid them on his desk, and sat in his chair, filling his pipe with tobacco.
“We got your message on the Japanese observation post,” Colonel Stockton said. “Have any problems?”
“Lots of problems. One of my men was wounded, another one got sick with malaria, and a Jap cut me.” Butsko held up the wounded forearm.
“Maybe you’d better get that looked at.”
“It’s all right.”
Colonel Stockton lit his pipe, and his head disappeared in billows of pale blue smoke. “What did you find at the Jap observation post?”
“About a dozen Japs and a radio.”
“No prisoners?”
“No.”
“What could they see from where they were?”
“Just about everything down here.”
“They’ll probably send another observation post to that ridge.”
“Probably.”
Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe. “Henderson Field will never be safe unless we take that ridge, but first we’ve got to get across the Matanikau, and we’re going to do that tomorrow night.”
Butsko became more alert. “Tomorrow night?”
“Yes, and the recon platoon will lead the way, as usual.”
“Sir,” said Butsko, “my men need some rest. They’ve been on the go for too long and some of them are starting to crack.”
“They can rest until tomorrow night. That should be enough, don’t you think?”
“I imagine so, but what they really need is a couple of weeks of R&R.”
“We could all use some of that, Butsko, but we can’t have any. There are too many Japs out there and not enough of us.”
“How’re we gonna cross the Matanikau, sir?”
“Come here, I’ll show you.”
Colonel Stockton stood and spread the maps out on his desk. Butsko lit a cigarette without asking Colonel Stockton’s permission: Because he spent so much time in the colonel’s office, he felt at home. Colonel Stockton pointed to the three red circles drawn over the river.
“After dark tomorrow night,” he said, “three teams will cross the Matanikau in rubber boats and secure the far bank long enough for the engineers to put pontoon bridges across. Then I’ll move my main forces across, with tanks and artillery, and start clearing out those woods. There aren’t many Japs over there, and I imagine we’ll make pretty good headway until old Jap Hyakutake finds out what we’re up to. Then the resistance will stiffen, but I think we’ll have enough momentum to carry us forward to the mountains. The Seventh Marines will back us up.”
