Too Mean to Die

  Butsko snarled and jumped to his feet. One of the Marine sergeants was on his knees, and Butsko kicked him in the teeth, then darted in the direction of the other Marine, who was on his feet, raising his arms to protect himself. Butsko punched toward his face, but the Marine’s fists were raised to protect himself and he blocked the blow, although its force shook him up. The Marine swung down with a hook to Butsko’s kidney and landed on target, but Butsko was too angry to feel pain. He grabbed the Marine by the throat and squeezed hard, and the Marine clawed at Butsko’s hands, drawing blood, but Butsko wouldn’t let go.

  “Stop it!” Dolly screamed. “You’ll kill him!”

  Butsko heard her and came back to his senses. He loosened his grip and let the Marine, whose face now was blue, drop to the floor.

  A crowd of women and servicemen were in the hallway, and one of the women screamed: “You killed him . . .”

  Also by Len Levinson

  The Rat Bastards:

  Hit the Beach

  Death Squad

  River of Blood

  Meat Grinder Hill

  Down and Dirty

  Green Hell

  Hot Lead and Cold Steel

  Do or Die

  Kill Crazy

  Nightmare Alley

  Go For Broke

  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

  * * *

  Too Mean to Die

  * * *

  Book 7 of 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.

  TOO MEAN TO DIE

  Copyright © 1984 by Len Levinson. All Rights Reserved.

  EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-848-3

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-189-7

  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.

  * * *

  Too Mean to Die

  * * *

  ONE . . .

  The C-47 cargo plane made a wide right turn through the blue sky and came in low and steady for the landing. Master Sergeant John Butsko sat beside a window and looked at the hangars and administration buildings of Hickam Field whizzing past his eyes. His seat belt was tight and he wore a tan Class A uniform with his stripes on his sleeves and the blue Combat Infantryman’s Badge above his left breast pocket. A smile creased his gnarled, battle-scarred face as he looked off into the distance toward the city of Honolulu, full of bars, whorehouses, and gambling dens. “Wow!” said Frankie La Barbara, sitting beside Butsko and rubbing the palms of his hands together. “We’re here! Holy fuck, I don’t believe it!”

  The plane touched down, bounced, and touched down again. The wings flapped up and down and Frankie was afraid that one of them might drop off. He hadn’t flown many times in his life and couldn’t understand how something as big and heavy as a C-47 could sail through the air. The plane steadied itself and sped down the runway. Frankie chewed the wad of gum in his mouth, worked his shoulders, and sniffed the air nervously. This was his first furlough since he hit the Guadalcanal beach eight months earlier, and he couldn’t wait to get into Honolulu.

  Next to Frankie was Corporal Charles Bannon from Pecos, Texas, who was tall and rangy, tanned and weatherbeaten, with his cunt cap low on his forehead and tilted to the side. The first thing he wanted to do was get laid.

  On the other side of Bannon was Pfc. Sam Longtree, a full-blooded Apache Indian from a reservation in Arizona. Longtree was quiet and expressionless, for he had been trained since youth not to show emotion, but he was anxious to get away from everything military and feel normal again.

  The four of them were members of the reconnaisance platoon of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. The commander of the Twenty-third Infantry, Colonel William Stockton, had awarded them a seven-day furlough for the good work they’d done during a dangerous mission on the Jap-held island of New Georgia. The other survivors of the mission were in the hospital on Guadalcanal, recuperating from wounds.

  The pilot turned down the flaps and hit the brakes. The big C-47 slowed and headed for the hangars. All the passengers sat on benches that lined both sides of the fuselage. Every seat was taken and gear was piled in the middle of the deck. Many of the passengers were officers, and the men from the recon platoon were on their best behavior, because they didn’t want any trouble before they got into Honolulu.

  The plane taxied to a stop and everyone fastened his seat belt. The officers stood up, and one of them took a pipe out of his shirt pocket, placing it in his mouth. He wore thick glasses and the insignia of the Medical Corps on his collar.

  Butsko looked out the window and saw a staircase on wheels being rolled to the side of the plane by the ground crew. One of them climbed the stairs and fastened the staircase to the side of the plane. The door to the cockpit opened and one of the flyboys came out, a battered cap on his head and a grin on his face.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Welcome to Hawaii.”

  He opened the cargo door and all the soldiers stood up, gathering their gear together. The men from the recon platoon had nothing with them; they were lucky to have Class A uniforms that fit. Each of them carried over a hundred dollars in back pay in their pockets, and they’d buy whatever they needed. They stood around impatiently, looking at each other, bending occasionally to peer out the window and see what was going on.

  Some wounded soldiers were unloaded first, and then the officers tiled up and marched out of the door, descending the staircase. After the last officer was out of the door there was a moment of hesitation, and then the GIs rushed toward the door, elbowing each other, pushing and cursing, causing a bottleneck.

  “At ease!” Butsko shouted, watching them fighting to get out the door. He grabbed Frankie La Barbara by his wavy black hair and yanked him backward. “Line up and calm the fuck down!” He clutched another GI by the neck and slammed him against the fuselage of the plane.

  The GIs heard Butsko’s roaring voice and were scared shitless. They lined up as he said and filed out the door, climbing down the stairs. At the bottom were two MPs wearing chrome helmets and white gloves, checking papers.

  “Have your orders ready,” one of the MPs kept repeating over and over, as he looked at transfer orders, furlough authorizations, et cetera.

  Bannon was the first man from the recon platoon out of the plane, and he looked up at the clear blue sky, the buildings scattered ar
ound the runway, and the B-17 bombers lined up on the apron. He felt weird, as if he were having a dream. Many times on Guadalcanal he thought he’d never see civilization again, and now here it was stretched out in front of him, peaceful and inviting. No bombs ever fell on Hawaii and it received no artillery bombardments. No Japanese soldiers would try to slit your throat while you were asleep at night.

  In a daze Bannon walked down the ladder. He was so moved he thought he might cry. For seven days he’d be able to sleep in a real bed and walk down the streets of a real city. He’d be free from military discipline and could do whatever he liked.

  “Have your papers ready,” said the MP.

  Bannon handed him the sheet of mimeographed orders signed by Colonel Stockton. The MP looked them over, glanced at the Combat Infantryman’s Badge on Bannon’s shirt, and handed him the orders back.

  “Have a good time,” said the MP, “but stay out of trouble.”

  “Yo,” said Bannon.

  Bannon stood to the side and waited for the others. Frankie La Barbara thrust his orders at the MP, snapped his gun, and shifted nervously from foot to foot. Like Bannon, he wore his cunt cap low over his eyes and slanted to the side. His khaki shirt was a little too small and looked as though it would burst its buttons if he breathed too hard. The MP handed the orders back to Frankie and he folded them into his shirt pocket, moving toward Bannon.

  “Rear echelon assholes,” Frankie muttered. “I been getting shot at since last summer and they treat me like a fucking convict.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “I’d like to see them start something with me. I’d just like to see them.”

  Bannon turned away from Frankie, because he didn’t want to take any chances with the MPs. Longtree came through the line next, his face like stone, with superb military bearing. The MP checked his orders, and Longtree sauntered toward Bannon and Frankie La Barbara.

  “Whataya think of them MPs?” Frankie asked Longtree, a little too loudly. “Ain’t they something?”

  “You talk too much, Frankie,” Longtree said.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t afraid of them fucking MPs,” Frankie said. “If I ain’t afraid of Japs, I sure as hell ain’t afraid of MPs.”

  One of the MPs turned his head around. “You say something, soldier?”

  “Who, me?” Frankie asked, pointing his thumb to his chest.

  “Yeah, you.”

  “I didn’t say nothing. You must be hearing things, buddy.”

  The MP turned around as Butsko held out his orders. Frankie snickered in the background, and the MP looked at him again.

  “You better watch your step, soldier,” the MP said ominously.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Frankie replied. “Worry about yourself.”

  The MP reached for his stick and felt a firm hand on his wrist. It was Butsko with a big smile on his face.

  “He’s one of my men,” Butsko said. “I’ll take care of him.”

  The MP looked at the scars on Butsko’s face, the master sergeant’s stripes on his shoulders, the Combat Infantryman’s Badge on his shirt. Butsko had a big head with thick black hair, and his cunt cap was so small it looked as if it would topple off over his nose.

  “Combat fatigue,” Butsko said with a wink. “He can’t help himself. I’ll watch him.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge,” the MP said.

  Butsko folded his orders into his back pocket and walked toward the other three men from his recon platoon, glowering at Frankie La Barbara.

  “Hey, what I do?” Frankie said.

  “Shut up!” Butsko muttered.

  Frankie wasn’t afraid of many people in the world, but he was scared to death of Butsko.

  “Frankie,” Butsko said, “someday you’re gonna wind up in a jackpot if you’re not careful.”

  “I know what I’m doing, Sarge. Don’t worry about me.”

  “I’m not worried about you, kid. I’m just telling you for your own good.”

  They walked across the airfield, and the hot afternoon sun beat down upon them. Soldiers, pilots, and mechanics strolled about near the hangars, while planes flew around in the sky. Bannon, Longtree, and Frankie La Barbara followed Butsko, who knew his way around because he’d been stationed nearby at Schofield Barracks for a few years before the war.

  Butsko led them to an opening in the chain fence that bordered the airfield. Two MPs guarded the opening, and once again the GIs had to show their orders. The MPs waved them through and the GIs found themselves on a sidewalk next to a curb where military vehicles were parked bumper to bumper. Jeeps, three-quarter-ton trucks, and Chevrolets painted khaki drove by on the street. It reminded Bannon of when he was in basic training at Fort Ord, California. He was assailed by confusing thoughts. On one hand he wished he could be stationed here, far from the grim and bloody war, and on the other hand he felt contempt for the men he saw, because he didn’t consider them real soldiers.

  Butsko walked confidently down the sidewalk, his big shoulders squared and his eyes straight ahead. The other three gawked at everything like visitors from another planet, which in a sense they were. Hickam Field on Hawaii was a radically different world for them from Guadalcanal.

  They heard an explosion and all of them, including Butsko, hit the dirt instinctively. It was only a truck backfiring on the street near them, and they got up sheepishly, brushing off their uniforms. Soldiers nearby looked at them curiously, and they continued down the street.

  Frankie La Barbara spotted two WACs on the other side of the street and took off like a bolt of lightning, while the others kept following Butsko. Frankie held his hat on his head and dodged trucks and jeeps in the middle of the street, defying death itself to get closer to the women. They saw him coming and pretended not to notice. One was a blonde and the other a brunette; they were nothing special.

  But to Frankie La Barbara, after all those months on Guadalcanal, every woman was special. He jumped onto the sidewalk in front of them and winked, chewing his gum ferociously.

  “Howya doing, girls?” he said with a big smile.

  They glanced at him and passed him by as if he were a green light. They had their reputations to maintain, and it wouldn’t do to let themselves be picked up by an ordinary GI in broad daylight on Hickam Field.

  Frankie ran after them and got in front of them again, walking backward, grinning and gesticulating with his hands. “Hey, what’s the hurry? Is there a law around here against talking to soldiers?” He pointed to the blonde. “Don’t I know you from someplace? Where you from, sweetheart?”

  Nothing worked. The WACs kept walking, ignoring him. Frankie was the persistent type and would have hounded them forever, but he noticed Butsko and the others moving farther away and realized he’d probably have better luck in Honolulu.

  “See you later, girls,” Frankie said, taking off his cap. “I gotta go, and when you gotta go, you gotta go. Watch out for all the VD that’s going around.”

  The girls raised their eyebrows, and Frankie dashed off into the street again, threaded his way through the traffic, and made it to the other side, where he ran to catch up with Butsko and the others.

  “Coupla fucking skags,” Frankie muttered, catching up with them. “Not worth the trouble.”

  They came to a bus stop, where several soldiers were waiting on benches, leaning against the telephone poles, or standing with their hands in their pockets underneath the roof shelter that would protect them if it rained.

  “The bus into town stops here,” Butsko said, reaching into his shirt pocket for his package of Luckies. He took one out and lit it with his old Zippo.

  All the men lit up cigarettes and looked in the direction from which the bus would come. They were eager to get into town and cut loose. The faint breeze rustled the leaves of the palms trees nearby. A lieutenant approached and all the soldiers at the bus stop snapped to attention and threw highballs. The lieutenant saluted back and walked by, and the men from Guadalcanal noticed that he
wasn’t wearing the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, which meant that he was a rear-echelon soldier and not really worth their respect.

  Frankie spat into the gutter. “Cocksucker probably pushes papers around all day, and he thinks he a soldier.”

  “Hey, Frankie,” Bannon said, “you never got anything good to say about anybody.”

  “Fuck off, cowboy.”

  Butsko’s ears perked up, because he heard soldiers counting cadence not far away. He turned around and saw road guards moving toward the intersection, standing at parade rest and stopping traffic. They wore fatigues, helmets, and cartridge belts, and carried M 1 rifles. A few moments later the main body of soldiers came marching through the intersection. At their side was a grizzled old sergeant wearing his helmet so low over his eyes it was a miracle that he could see anything.

  “Sound off!” sang the old sergeant.

  “One-two!” replied the soldiers.

  “Sound off!”

  “Three-four!”

  “Cadence count!”

  “One-two-three-four-one-two . . . three-four!”

  The sergeant kicked a soldier in the ass because he was out of step, and straightened the rifle of another soldier. He returned to his position at the side of the formation and resumed the cadence.

  “I don’t know but I been told . . . !”

  “I don’t know but I been told . . . !”

  “. . . Eskimo Pussy is mighty cold!”

  “. . . Eskimo pussy is mighty cold!”

  “Sound off!”

  Butsko couldn’t suppress a grin. They were still marching to the same old silly shit. He used to march men around the same way in the old peacetime Army, but that seemed long ago and far away to him. The group of men passed through the intersection, counting cadence, and then the road guards pulled back to the formation, permitting the traffic to resume. Butsko still could hear them sounding off.