River of Blood Read online

  More Japs charged Bannon and he waded into them, certain every moment would be his last but no longer caring. Fighting like a wild man, he stabbed, bashed, kicked, and screamed, dodging blows, feeling bayonet cuts on his arms and the sides of his body. But he fought on, always in motion, broke through the Japs, encountered more, and ran the first one through. As he turned and struggled, a rifle butt came out of nowhere and slammed him on the hand, making him drop his rifle. Baring his teeth, he leapt forward and took his enemy by the throat . . .

  Also by Len Levinson

  The Rat Bastards:

  Hit the Beach

  Death Squad

  Meat Grinder Hill

  Down and Dirty

  Green Hell

  Too Mean to Die

  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

  * * *

  River of Blood

  * * *

  Book 3 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.

  RIVER OF BLOOD

  Copyright © 1983 by Len Levinson. All Rights Reserved.

  EBook © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.

  Trade ISBN 978-1-62064-844-5

  Library ISBN 978-1-62460-185-9

  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.

  ONE . . .

  The First Squad of the recon platoon slipped into no-man’s-land shortly after night came to Guadalcanal. A light drizzle fell, hissing against the leaves and branches of the jungle. Corporal Sam Longtree, a full-blooded Apache Indian from Arizona, had the point position, moving along the narrow winding trail twenty yards in front of the others, his Thompson submachine gun held high, ready for anything.

  Behind him came the rest of the squad in a single file, peering around them into the jungle, listening for dangerous sounds, aware that Japs could be stalking them. Grizzled old Master Sergeant Butsko was in front, and Buck Sergeant Bannon was behind him, examining every bush and shadow.

  Bannon was a former cowboy from Texas, six feet tall and lanky, with sandy hair and green eyes. He’d made buck sergeant a few weeks earlier, after returning from a bloody patrol behind enemy lines. Now he was going out again; his life was an endless round of patrols, battles, and digging holes in the ground.

  He didn’t think tonight’s patrol would be too difficult. Air Corps pilots had spotted a Japanese observation post on a ridge west of the position held by the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. The Japs were in a cave, and the pilots didn’t think they could get them with bombs. All they could do was radio the position of the Japs to General Vandegrift’s headquarters.

  Shortly thereafter the order had come down to the regiment to send out a patrol and get rid of the observation post. The recon platoon handled assignments like that, so Butsko assembled his First Squad and marched them away after dark.

  Bannon looked up but couldn’t see the ridge line through the drizzle and darkness. His uniform was soaked with perspiration and rain, and his feet alternately burned and itched, because he had a moderately severe case of trenchfoot. Ahead he could barely see Longtree, who faded from view periodically and then came back. A monkey shrieked high in the trees, and farther off a wild dog howled.

  Longtree held up his hand and everyone stopped. Longtree didn’t motion for them to get down, so Bannon figured there was no trouble. Longtree was hunched over, evidently examining something in his hand, and Bannon figured it was his compass. He was getting his bearings. An Indian with a compass. Bannon would have thought it funny if his feet weren’t bothering him so much.

  Butsko turned around, his gnarled, lumpy face scowling as usual. He, too, had been promoted after the last patrol. Now he was a master sergeant again. Butsko had been in the Army fifteen years and had been busted up and down the ranks so many times, it was as if he were on a roller coaster. He looked at his men, making sure they were okay. Then he turned around again to wait for Longtree to move out.

  Longtree waved his hand in the signal to move forward and they resumed their trek through the jungle. Bannon thought they were making a terrific amount of noise, but there was no way eight men could move silently in the jungle when they had to knock out a Jap observation post five miles away and return before daylight. You could only be quiet if you could go slowly.

  Something moved to the right of the trail and everybody flopped down on their stomachs. They peered into the bushes and heard something rustling. Something definitely was in there. It could be a bird or it could be a Jap.

  Butsko pointed to Bannon, then pointed toward the sound. Behind Bannon was Pfc. Tommy Shaw, a former professional heavyweight boxer, and Butsko pointed to him also.

  Bannon and Shaw cradled their submachine guns in their arms and crawled into the dense bushes, keeping their heads low. Branches scraped the tops of their steel pots as they scrutinized the jungle in front of them, trying to spot the movement of a Jap before the Jap spotted them.

  They fanned out until they were six feet apart and then advanced in tandem, ready to fire their submachine guns at any unusual movement. The jungle floor stank of decomposing vegetation, and thick vines hung around them. The monkey kept shrieking in the distance, and Bannon wished somebody would put a bullet through his head.

  Suddenly Bannon heard a commotion in front of him: The Jap was charging. He flicked the safety off his Thompson submachine gun, whipped back the bolt, and pulled the trigger.

  The jungle resounded with the roar of his submachine gun burst as he fired straight ahead. Gunsmoke billowed around him and he got up on his knees, his finger still pulling the trigger back.

  “Where is he?” Shaw asked.

  Bannon couldn’t see the Jap but he still could hear him crashing through the underbrush. He sounded very close; where the hell was he? Then Bannon noticed movement on the jungle floor. Looking down, he saw a wild boar rushing toward him, eyes gleaming with hate and two sharp tusks pointed straight up in the air. Bannon aimed and opened fire on the beast, but it was charging too fast. His bullets tore up the ground behind the boar and drove it forward even more quickly. Bannon jumped into the air as the boar lunged at his ankles, then kicked the boar in the ass on his way down.

  The boar squealed, turned around, glowered murderously
at Bannon, and charged again. Bannon dodged to the side like a matador and the boar sped past him, realizing too late that he’d been faked out again. The boar turned once more.

  Shaw rushed toward Bannon. “What’s going on?”

  “Stay where you are!”

  The boar’s sides expanded and contracted as he glanced back and forth between Bannon and Shaw’s voice. Then he pawed the ground and wagged his haunches, snorting and drooling as he prepared to charge again.

  Bannon dropped to one knee and took aim at the boar, who flattened his ears, squealed, and charged. Bannon pulled the trigger of his submachine gun, its butt punching his shoulder. Hot lead streamed out, ripping the boar’s head apart. Bones, blood, and brains flew in all directions, and the headless creature sprawled into the dead leaves on the jungle floor.

  “Got him,” Bannon said.

  Shaw scrambled through the thick vegetation and came to the spot where Bannon was standing. “Where is he?”

  Bannon pointed to the boar. “Right there.”

  Shaw squinched up his nose. “That’s what you shot?”

  “Yeah. Let’s get back to the others.”

  They pushed through the jungle and came to the rest of the squad, hiding behind trees and boulders and in depressions in the ground.

  “He shot a fucking pig,” Shaw said.

  “A fucking pig?” Butsko asked incredulously.

  “Yeah, a fucking pig.”

  Butsko frowned as he stood up. “Every Jap on the island knows we’re here now. All right, let’s move it out. Line up and get going.”

  The men of the First Squad got in line, and Butsko signaled to Sam Longtree to resume the march. Longtree stepped toward the ridge, and the rest of the squad followed him. Bannon’s knees buckled with every step, because his feet hurt worse now from jumping around the boar. This fucking war is ruining me, he thought.

  Butsko figured it might be a good idea to put distance between them and the spot where Bannon had fired his submachine gun, so he pumped his fist up and down in the air, the signal for double-time, and the men kicked out their legs and ran along the trail.

  Longtree turned to find out what was going on and saw Butsko running ahead of the others, pumping his arms, so Longtree sped through the jungle, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs. He ran as fleetly as a deer, taking long strides, holding his submachine gun high as he scanned the jungle ahead for signs of Japs. The exercise invigorated him and he gulped down lungfuls of air, feeling free and wild, the way he had felt as a kid back on the reservation. He would have liked to run all night, but after a few hundred yards he heard the others slow down behind him, so he broke stride and continued to walk, examining the jungle on all sides, leading the squad toward the ridge.

  Farther back, Butsko was in a rotten mood. Huffing and puffing from the run, suffering from jock itch, he was angry with himself for not being able to concentrate totally on the patrol, but he’d received a letter from his wife, Dolly, at mail call that morning, and he’d been fucked up ever since.

  They’d split up nearly two years earlier, because he found out she was screwing other guys. He’d slapped her down and thrown her out, then put in for a transfer and wound up in the Philippines. Shortly thereafter the Japanese attacked, and he was taken prisoner on Corregidor. He’d been on the Bataan Death March and finally escaped from the Jap POW camp in northern Luzon, but had never forgotten Dolly. He still loved her, although she was a rotten, faithless bitch.

  And now she had to write to him, saying she thought of him all the time and missed him like crazy. She said he was the only man she had ever really loved. The letter so upset him that he tore it up and burned it. He knew he could never trust Dolly again. The moment you turned your back, she was screwing the milkman or the paperboy. She had no concept of loyalty whatsoever. She even screwed officers occasionally, and there was nothing lower than that She’s lucky I didn’t kill her, Butsko thought.

  Butsko wished he’d saved the letter so he could read it again. At least he should have saved her address so that he could write her. He felt like he was going insane, because one part of him hated her and the other part loved her as wildly as on the day they first met in St. Louis, when he was stationed at Fort Leonard Wood. If only there was some way to cut out the part that loved her.

  “Hey, Sarge,” said Bannon, “I think the Chief wants you.”

  Butsko focused through the mist and saw Longtree beckoning to him. He should have noticed Longtree before Bannon, but he’d been daydreaming about Dolly again. That bitch is going to get me killed yet, he thought.

  “Get down, you guys,” Butsko said.

  The men dropped to their stomachs and Butsko ran forward to see what Longtree wanted. Longtree stood with his submachine gun in his hands, looking straight ahead, and as Butsko drew close he could see that the jungle had come to an end and a vast field of kunai grass lay ahead.

  “Should we go through it or around it?” Longtree asked.

  “Through it; we ain’t got time to fuck around.”

  Longtree moved into the field of grass, and Butsko motioned for the rest of the squad to join him on the double. They ran toward him like a herd of elephants, and he cringed, hoping no Japs were around.

  They followed Longtree into the kunai grass, which was as tall as they were; the blades were as sharp as razors. The grass was so thick that a Jap could be five feet away and you wouldn’t see him. The drizzle coated the kunai with water, which was sopped up by the men’s uniforms as they moved through the field.

  Longtree’s head bobbed and swiveled on his neck as he searched for signs of Japs. He knew the whole squad was depending on him for advance warning of danger, and he felt keyed up and electrified, almost hoping trouble would break out so he’d have an outlet for his pent-up energy. He figured they should come to the foothills of the mountain range pretty soon, and then the real difficulty would begin. It was easier to move across level ground than climb a mountain.

  Bringing up the rear of the column was Frankie La Barbara from New York City’s Little Italy. Frankie was tall and broad-shouldered, with thick, straight black hair, and he was sure he had malaria. His head felt like it was roasting in an oven, and he was overcome periodically by weakness, which made him trip and almost fall. He hallucinated birds with brilliant plumage and even saw the streets of New York amidst the kunai grass. Sometimes he giggled to himself, and occasionally he’d pop a quinine pill into his mouth. He’d gone on sick call but he only had a 102-degree temperature, and you needed 103 to be hospitalized.

  Frankie knew the malaria attack was his own fault, because he didn’t swallow the Atabrine pills the medics gave out with every meal. Atabrine pills were supposed to stop malaria before it started, but according to rumor it also made you impotent and Frankie thought he’d rather have malaria than not be able to fuck anymore.

  So he had malaria. He hadn’t told anybody, because he was afraid he’d be transferred out of the recon platoon if he did. All his buddies were in the recon platoon and he didn’t want to leave them. The kunai grass glowed phosphorescently around him and he heard the tinkling of bells. He saw old ladies in black dresses standing in the doorways of the tenements on Mulberry Street, and they waved to him as he passed by.

  They passed through the field of kunai grass and entered the jungle again. Butsko checked his watch and realized they’d been on the move for two hours. He raised his hand and they all stopped.

  “Take a break,” he told them.

  They sat on logs or sprawled in the mud and leaves. The drizzle was tapering off and clouds of mist rose from the floor of the jungle. Butsko ran forward and caught up with Longtree, telling him to take a break. They sat down side by side and Butsko took out his map, unfolding it carefully so that the wet paper wouldn’t tear.

  Longtree leaned toward the map. “The mountains should be dead ahead,” he said.

  Butsko pointed to them on the map with his big stubby finger. “About a half mile away, I’d sa
y.”

  “‘Bout that.”

  Butsko looked at his watch again. It was almost 2230 hours, and somehow they had to climb the moutain, kill the Japs, climb down, and return to Henderson Field before daylight. Butsko didn’t think they could do all that in the time allotted. They might have to spend the next day on the ridge and return on that night. It wouldn’t be much fun spending all day in no-man’s-land, but they’d been through worse together.

  Longtree perked up and spun around. “I hear something.”

  Butsko listened but could hear only the normal sounds of the jungle. He had learned to trust Longtree’s instincts, though. “What is it?”

  “Somebody’s coming from that way.” Longtree pointed south. “Must be a Jap patrol.”

  “We’d better get back to the others.”

  They rose and jogged back to the rest of the squad.

  “Take cover!” Butsko whispered. “Japs are coming! Don’t shoot unless they spot us!”

  The GIs plunged into the jungle, hiding behind trees, boulders, and bushes, and diving into depressions in the ground. Frankie La Barbara tripped over a log and fell flat on his face, making a terrific racket. Butsko gnashed his teeth and wanted to shoot Frankie on the spot. Bannon, who usually hung out with Frankie, grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. Together they made their way deeper into the jungle, then dropped behind a tangle and vines.

  “You okay?” Bannon asked Frankie.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You look a little green around the gills.”

  Frankie shrugged. “Maybe I’m turning into a fish.”

  The squad settled down, holding their submachine guns at the ready, waiting for the Japs. For a few minutes they couldn’t perceive anything and wondered if Japs really were coming, but then heard the faint sounds of bodies moving through the jungle and feet slogging through muck and slime.