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  Frankie saw the blade coming at him . . .

  “Banzai!” screamed Captain Sato, swinging downward with all the strength in his muscular arms.

  Frankie La Barbara couldn’t run and couldn’t hide. His only option was to raise the ax for protection, and . . . CRACK! the samurai sword cleaved the handle of the ax in half. The samurai sword continued its downward rush, but Frankie leaned backward in time to save himself from being castrated.

  Frankie looked down at half the ax handle in his two hands and the rest of the ax lying on the ground. Captain Sato smiled as he raised his samurai sword for the death blow, but Frankie wasn’t going to stand there and get wiped out. All he had to fight with was that ax handle, and he threw it at Captain Sato’s face . . .

  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

  Nightmare Alley

  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

  * * *

  Go For Broke

  * * *

  Book 12 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.

  GO FOR BROKE

  Copyright © 1985 by Len Levinson. All Rights Reserved.

  EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-853-7

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-194-1

  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.

  * * *

  Go For Broke

  * * *

  ONE . . .

  It was June of 1944, and dawn came to the New Guinea jungle where the Twenty-third Regiment was digging in. Around them were trees and vegetation blasted by the artillery and mortar bombardment of the night. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and the curses of men as they hacked into the root-entangled earth. They had just captured the ground they were on, after fighting Japs all night long.

  Lieutenant Dale Breckenridge, six feet four inches tall, weighing 260 pounds, gazed ahead at the jungle, expecting the Japs to counterattack at any moment. His left leg was covered with blood from a bayonet wound in his thigh, and his uniform was torn to shreds. He had cuts on his arms, chest, and shoulders from the brutal hand-to-hand clash that had just ended. The Japs had gone for broke in their big night attack, but the GIs stopped them cold and pushed them back.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch: It was six o’clock in the morning. He couldn’t understand why the Japs hadn’t counterattacked yet. The men from the Twenty-third were tired, low on ammunition, and hungry. They were vulnerable, and surely the Japs knew it; but maybe the Japs were tired, low on ammunition, and hungry too. Maybe they couldn’t mount another attack after the beating they’d just taken.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge lit a Lucky Strike and looked around. The battlefield was a nightmare of shell craters and devastated jungle. Bodies of Japanese soldiers lay everywhere, and here or there a stray arm or leg could be seen, blown off the body from which it had been attached. Lieutenant Breckenridge knelt on one knee, raised his binoculars to his eyes, and examined the jungle in front of him for the trembling of leaves or the sudden peculiar movement that would signal the onslaught of more Japanese soldiers.

  Next to Lieutenant Breckenridge, Pfc. Craig Delane from New York City, a former socialite and playboy and now Lieutenant Breckenridge’s runner, dug a hole for both of them in the ground. Delane was of medium height, built on the slim side, with blond hair and delicate facial features. His entrenching tool was bent into its Lposition, and he swung it like a pickax at a root as thick as his wrist that was hindering his progress.

  Pfc. Delane gritted his teeth and perspiration streaked his face. He raised his entrenching tool in the air and brought it down with all his strength, but the blade of the entrenching tool merely bounced off the root.

  “Son of a bitch!” he said.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge turned toward him. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I can’t get through this goddamn fucking root!”

  “Lemme try it.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge stood and limped toward the hole, which had been a shell crater. He jumped inside and took the entrenching tool from Pfc. Delane, who stepped back out of the way. Lieutenant Breckenridge spread his legs far apart, gripped the entrenching tool tightly in his hands, and poised it over his head. He took aim and swung the entrenching tool downward.

  Smack!

  The root was cut in half. Lieutenant Breckenridge handed the entrenching tool back to Pfc. Craig Delane. “Here.”

  Pfc. Craig Delane took the entrenching tool, and Lieutenant Breckenridge climbed out of the trench. He lay on his stomach, because he didn’t want to present too inviting a target to any Jap snipers, and raised his binoculars again, scanning the tree-tops. Footsteps approached from his left.

  “Sir?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge turned and saw lanky Sergeant Cameron kneel beside him. Sergeant Cameron’s nose had been broken during the night and was covered with a bloody dirty bandage.

  “Eight dead and twelve wounded,” Sergeant Cameron said.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge frowned. Before the battle last night, he’d had forty men and one officer. Now he was down to twenty men and one officer. “Shit,” he said.

  Sergeant Cameron shrugged and took a pinch out of his package of Beech-Nut chewing tobacco, placing the tobacco in his right cheek. He, too, was cut and torn by bayonets, and his eyes were half closed with fatigue.

  “Tell the men to get ready, because I think the Japs are coming back any minute now,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.

  “What about chow?”

  “They can eat after they dig in, if there’s time.”

  “Don’t you think you should get that leg looked at, sir?’

  “It’s not that bad.”

  “I’ll send the medic over.”

  Sergeant Cameron walked away. Lieutenant Breckenridge raised his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the jungle straight ahead. He wondered if the Japs had been beaten so badly last night that they wouldn’t come back. He’d been told that the Japs had three divisions west of the Twenty-third
Infantry Regiment’s position, but he didn’t know how much of that force was in the vicinity.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge’s cigarette dwindled to one inch, so he took out another one and lit it with the burning end of the butt. He knew he shouldn’t smoke so much, that it cut his wind and made his mouth taste like shit, but his veins were full of adrenaline and he couldn’t help himself. The battle had just ended and might start again at any moment. He couldn’t calm down.

  “Sir?” said a voice from behind him.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge glanced behind him and saw Pfc. Dailey, the recon platoon medic, a scrawny fellow with sad eyes.

  “Sergeant Cameron said you got a bum leg,” Pfc. Dailey said, kneeling beside Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “If I can still walk on it, it can’t be that bad.”

  “Mind if I take a look at it, sir?”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge wheezed as he rolled over onto his back. He took off his helmet and gazed up at the clear blue sky. A bird darted past overhead, and all around him he could hear the sounds of shovels and entrenching tools striking the earth.

  Pfc. Dailey rolled up his pant leg and exposed the wound, which was one big mass of clotted blood. “How’d you get this, sir?”

  “Bayonet.”

  “Ah.” Pfc. Dailey upended his canteen and poured water on the wound, then dabbed it with gauze, cleaning away the dried blood. Gradually the true shape of the wound emerged, a red slit resembling a woman’s vagina in miniature. “Looks deep.”

  “It’s not that deep.”

  “You should go back to the battalion aid station and get it stitched up, sir.”

  “I’ll go back when things settle down.”

  “If you move around a lot, it’ll probably open up.”

  “Fix it so it won’t.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge puffed his Lucky Strike as Pfc. Dailey poured coagulant powder onto the wound. It stung, but the pain didn’t particularly bother Lieutenant Breckenridge. He’d been wounded many times, in many places, and was used to it, but he could not overcome the onrushing fatigue so easily.

  Pfc. Dailey tied a fresh bandage around the wound. “You really should go back to the battalion aid station, sir.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge grunted. He wasn’t going back to the battalion aid station because he expected the Japs to attack at any moment, and he didn’t want to miss the action. This wasn’t because he loved war and its bloody hand-to-hand combat but because he felt responsible for his men. He didn’t think they’d get along well without him, and felt that his proper place was with them.

  Pfc. Dailey rolled down Lieutenant Breckenridge’s pant leg. “That’s it, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pfc. Dailey stood and walked away. Lieutenant Breckenridge rolled onto his stomach again and raised his binoculars to his eyes. The jungle ahead was still. There was no wind to trouble the leaves. It was going to be another hot, humid, horrible day.

  “Sir!” said Pfc. Delane, holding up the walkie-talkie. “Captain Spode wants to talk to you!”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge walked on his hands and knees to the hole and slid inside. He took the walkie-talkie from Pfc. Delane and held the instrument to his ear.

  “Lieutenant Breckenridge speaking.”

  “How’re you doing out there?” asked Captain Spode, the commanding officer of Headquarters Company.

  “Eight dead and twelve wounded.”

  “The ammo truck’s just come up. Send a detail of men over here to get whatever you need.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any problems?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge handed the walkie-talkie back to Pfc. Delane.

  “The hole deep enough now?” Delane asked.

  “No.”

  Delane grumbled as he accepted the walkie-talkie and laid it on the ground. He tightened the nut that held the blade of his entrenching tool in place, then raised the entrenching tool high in the air. Lieutenant Breckenridge cupped his hands around his mouth.

  “Sergeant Cameron!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Get over here!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge felt dizzy and sat on the ground. The day was becoming wanner and the humidity was rising. He’d lost blood from his various wounds and had a stomachache. Taking a deep breath, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It seemed as though he had no strength left in his body. The adrenaline in his body had spent itself, and he was coming down from the high of the fight.

  Sergeant Cameron walked toward him, the bloody bandage on his nose making him appear ridiculous. “Yes, sir?”

  “Captain Spode just told me he’s got ammo at headquarters. Take a detail and get some for us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Make it fast. The Japs might come back any time now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sergeant Cameron walked away, his M 1 rifle slung over his shoulder. He had a ferocious headache, although he’d taken numerous aspirin. The medic had told him that his nose might be broken and that he should go back to the battalion aid station, but Sergeant Cameron thought he’d do that later. He didn’t want to be back at the battalion aid station when the Japs attacked again. Like Lieutenant Breckenridge, he didn’t think the recon platoon would survive without him.

  In addition to his flattened nose, Sergeant Cameron had a bayonet wound on his right arm and a nick, also from a bayonet, on his right side. His uniform was torn and bloody, and his boots were rotting apart from the humidity. But he was an old war dog with a nasty disposition, and he wasn’t stopped easily. A professional soldier, he’d enlisted in the Army in 1936, during the Depression, when his father had lost the farm to the goddamn fucking bank.

  He approached a shell crater containing a machine gun mounted on a tripod. A soldier lay on either side of the machine gun, sound asleep, and Sergeant Cameron blew a fuse. He jumped into the shell crater and kicked one of the soldiers square in the ass.

  “Get up, you son of a bitch!”

  Moving around the machine gun, Sergeant Cameron bent over and smacked the other soldier in the mouth.

  “On your feet, you fucking goldbrick!”

  “Huh?” asked Pfc. Frankie La Barbara, blinking his eyes. “What?”

  “On your feet, I said!”

  Frankie La Barbara raised himself to a sitting position and looked up at Sergeant Cameron. Frankie had black hair and a swarthy complexion. He was from New York’s Little Italy and was built like a tall light heavyweight. “What the fuck’s the matter with you, Sarge?”

  “On your feet, you son of a bitch!”

  “What do I hafta get on my feet for? Are you nuts or something?”

  “Yeah,” said Pfc. Morris Shilansky, the other soldier in the shell crater. He was an inch taller than Frankie La Barbara and a bit slimmer. “Why don’t you fucking relax, Sarge?”

  “Relax?”

  Sergeant Cameron lunged toward Shilansky and drew back his foot, then kicked at Shilansky’s head. Shilansky calmly raised his hands and caught Sergeant Cameron’s foot in his hands, twisting it around. Sergeant Cameron lost his balance and fell on his ass. Frankie and Shilansky laughed.

  “You fucking clown,” Frankie said.

  Sergeant Cameron was spitting, pissing mad. He jumped to his feet, unslung his M 1 rifle, rammed a round in the chamber, and flicked off the safety switch, aiming the barrel at Frankie La Barbara.

  “Whataya gonna do now?” Frankie asked. “You gonna shoot me? Okay, go ahead and shoot me. See if I care.”

  Frankie lay back on the ground and closed his eyes. Sergeant Cameron’s lips and hands trembled violently. In his feverish mind he debated whether or not to shoot Frankie. He desperately wanted to shoot him, because Sergeant Cameron bated Frankie. Frankie always complained and never wanted to do anything. He was a lazy, worthless son of a bitch, a typical Yankee from
New York, not worth the powder to blow him to hell.

  “Relax, Sarge,” said Shilansky, who had been a professional bank robber in the greater Boston area before the war. “If you shoot him, they’ll shoot you in front of a fucking firing squad.”

  Frankie grimaced. “He ain’t gonna shoot me. He ain’t got the guts to shoot me.”

  That was the last straw for Sergeant Cameron. His head hurt, his arm hurt, and the night battle had taken its toll. He was thirty-five years old and didn’t have the stamina of the younger men. He aimed his M 1 rifle at Frankie La Barbara and squeezed the trigger. Shilansky leaped to his feet and tackled Sergeant Cameron.

  Blam!

  The rifle fired, but Shilansky had upset Sergeant Cameron’s aim. The bullet shot into the clear blue sky, and Sergeant Cameron fell to the ground, Shilansky landing on top of him.

  “Calm down, there, Sarge,” Shilansky said soothingly.

  “Let me go!”

  “I’ll let you go when you calm down.”

  “I said let me go!”

  Frankie jumped to his feet and danced around, waving his fists in the air. “The son of a bitch tried to kill me! Lemme at him! I’ll whip his fucking ass!”

  Frankie dived on top of Shilansky and Sergeant Cameron, trying to punch Sergeant Cameron in the mouth, while Sergeant Cameron tried to kick Frankie in the balls. Shilansky was in the middle, and somehow all the blows were landing on him.

  “Hey, cut it out, you two!” he yelled.

  But they wouldn’t cut it out. They punched and kicked each other, snarling and spitting, pummeling and mangling Shilansky in the process.

  “Halp!” shouted Shilansky.

  A powerful voice thundered above them. “What in the hell is going on here?”

  It was a familiar voice, and the three men in the bottom of the hole froze. They swallowed hard and turned pale. Turning around and looking up, they saw Colonel Robert Hutchins, the commanding officer of the Twenty-third Regiment, standing above them, a Thompson submachine gun in his hands. He was five feet eight inches tall and had the jowls of a bulldog; his big potbelly hung over his cartridge belt.