Tough Guys Die Hard Read online

  He sat at the base of a tree and leaned his back against the trunk, puffing the cigarette. Somewhere out there the recon platoon was getting ready to jump off. He’d know they were under way when the firing and explosions started up. Too nervous to sleep, he thought he’d stay where he was and wait for the battle to start. He glanced at his watch and it was almost four o’clock in the morning.

  Maybe tomorrow I’ll be better, he thought. Maybe tomorrow I can rejoin my platoon.

  “Are you Sergeant Butsko?” the pudgy soldier asked.

  “That’s me,” replied Butsko.

  “I’m Corporal Lamm,” the pudgy soldier said. “I’m the new medic for the recon platoon.”

  “I think you’re gonna have a busy day,” Butsko said.

  Lamm patted his haversack full of medicine and bandages. “I’m ready.”

  “Siddown and take a load off your feet.”

  Corporal Lamm sat on the moist earth and crossed his legs. He wasn’t too happy about the sudden turn of events that had brought him from the safety of the division medical headquarters to the front lines in less than twenty-four hours. Lamm’s father had died when he was little, and he was basically a momma’s boy. He wasn’t exactly the strongest person in the world, either physically or mentally.

  Butsko looked at his watch. It was a few minutes before four in the morning. I guess we’re gonna jump off late, he thought, sitting on a log. Hurry up and wait. That’s the Army way.

  He heard the sound of an engine, and turned his head toward a jeep arriving in the Easy Company area. The jeep stopped and tall, lean Major General Clyde Hawkins jumped down, neat and spiffy in clean, recently ironed fatigues, his boots highly polished, his steel pot low over his eyes. General Hawkins walked toward Colonel Hutchins, Lieutenant Colonel Lechler, and Captain Mason, who all snapped to attention and saluted.

  General Hawkins returned the salute, and then all the officers went into a huddle. Butsko was impressed by all the brass who’d come to see the recon platoon and Easy Company off. It was as though it were a major operation, although it wasn’t a major operation at all. It was just a little reconnaissance that could get dirty.

  “Sergeant Butsko!” Captain Mason called out.

  “Yes, sir!” replied Butsko.

  “Front and center!"

  “Yes, sir!"

  Butsko stood and slapped the dirt off his ass. He slung his M 1 and marched swiftly toward all the big-shot officers, stopping and saluting as if on parade.

  “Sergeant Butsko reporting sir!”

  Colonel Hutchins couldn’t help smiling, because he could see that Butsko was showing off in front of General Hawkins.

  “Well,” said Colonel Hutchins, “this is it, Butsko. It’s time to move out.” Colonel Hutchins turned to General Hawkins. “Have you ever met Sergeant Butsko, sir?”

  “No,” replied General Hawkins, “but I’ve heard a lot about Sergeant Butsko.” He held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Sergeant.”

  “Glad to meet you too, sir.”

  Butsko wanted to laugh out loud, because he wasn’t glad to meet the general, and he knew the general wasn’t glad to meet him. It was all bullshit.

  “Good luck out there,” General Hawkins said to Butsko, and General Hawkins’s mustache bristled with excitement underneath his nose.

  “Thank you sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins set his jaw and spoke through his yellowed teeth: “Take 'em across Sergeant.”

  “Right now, sir?”

  “Right now.”

  Sergeant Butsko walked back toward his men. Captain Mason followed him part of the way.

  “I’ll stay about fifty yards behind you,” Captain Mason said. “Stay in touch with your walkie-talkie.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good luck, Butsko.”

  “You too, sir.”

  Captain Mason veered to the right, returning to his company. Butsko continued his trudge toward his platoon. They were lying around in the jungle, catching up on their sleep or smoking cigarettes. Tronolone and Schlegelmilch muttered to each other, holding a conference of some kind.

  “On your feet!” Butsko said. “This is it!”

  The men arose and slung their rifles. They straightened their helmets on their heads and fieldstripped their cigarettes.

  “Let’s go!” Butsko said. “Column of ducks!”

  The men lined up in two ranks. Butsko could see the fear on the faces of Crow and Hampton. Crow looked like he was going to pass out, and Hampton appeared on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  Butsko examined his men and hoped there were few Japs on the far side of the river, because he didn’t have much confidence in this bunch. There were only eighteen of them out of a platoon that should number forty. Butsko’s walkie-talkie hung from his shoulder, and he hadn’t even selected a runner yet for himself. Pfc. Craig Delane had been his runner, but Delane was in the hospital with a big hole in his stomach. Butsko walked to the front of the two columns.

  “Route step—march!” he said.

  He stepped out smartly with his left leg, and the new understrength recon platoon headed for the banks of the Driniumor River. They made their way through Easy Company and passed the assembly of high-ranking officers, who inspected them with hooded eyes. The officers stood confidently, chests out and stomachs in, but it was difficult for them to feel confident about such a motley bunch of soldiers.

  Butsko’s combat boots squished into the muck and cracked branches and twigs lying on the ground. They swished through leaves and finally he came to the bank of the Driniumor River.

  “I want the First Squad to form a skirmish line on my left,” he said, “and the Second Squad to form a skirmish line on my right! Let’s go—move it!”

  The men broke ranks and formed the skirmish lines, holding their rifles at port arms, staring at the swirling currents of the Driniumor River and the dark, ominous jungle on the other side. Butsko looked to his left and right and saw that his men were in place. Frankie La Barbara had dropped back to bring up the rear and shoot anybody who tried to retreat, an assignment that pleased Frankie and made him feel important.

  Butsko knew he had to appoint a runner. He’d procrastinated because he hadn’t known who to choose, but he couldn’t procrastinate anymore. He couldn’t direct the operations of the platoon and make walkie-talkie calls at the same time. He had to pick somebody reliable, who could function on his own if need be.

  “Sergeant Plunkett!” he said. “Front and center!”

  Sergeant Plunkett ran toward him, his rifle at port arms. “Yes Sergeant?”

  “I need a runner. It has to be somebody from your squad who’s fast and reliable, with a cool head and common sense.”

  Sergeant Plunkett was an old professional soldier, the kind who was the backbone of the Army, and he had a name right on the tip of his tongue. “Pfc. Guiteau,” he said.

  “He ever been a runner before?”

  “No, but he can do it.”

  “Get him over here.”

  “Guiteau!” Sergeant Plunkett said. “Front and center!”

  A peculiar-looking soldier with a small torso but long arms and legs double-timed toward Plunkett and Butsko. He wore a mustache and had a face like a fox. Even his eyes were slanted like the eyes of a fox, and he had excessively long eyelashes.

  “Yes Sergeant!” Guiteau said.

  “You’re gonna be Sergeant Butsko’s runner from now on,” Sergeant Plunkett replied.

  “I am?” asked Guiteau, only nineteen years old.

  “You are.”

  Butsko handed him the walkie-talkie. “Stay close to me and do what you’re told, got it?”

  “I got it.”

  “Good. Sergeant Plunkett, return to your squad!”

  “Yes Sergeant!”

  Sergeant Plunkett turned and double-timed back to his squad. The atmosphere was tense. The Driniumor River rushed past their feet.

  “Fix bayonets!” Butsko said.

  The me
n drew their bayonets and affixed them to the ends of their M 1 rifles. They licked their lips and felt the adrenaline pouring into their arteries. Crow was so scared he wanted to faint. Hampton was furious about the whole situation, because he was sure he’d die for nothing during the coming hours. He felt like sitting down and daring them to make him move, but Frankie La Barbara would shoot him; he had no doubts about that.

  “Everybody all set?” Butsko asked.

  Most of the men grunted or nodded, indicating they were ready. Crow said nothing, shivering like a cat shitting brass tacks. McGurk looked at the other side of the river and all he knew was he was going to kill or be killed. Tronolone and Schlegelmilch winked at each other, because they’d sworn secretly to gang up on Butsko and kill him the first chance they got. Bisbee, the thief, speculated about all the loot he could lift from dead bodies. The Reverend Billie Jones uttered a prayer, asking God to deliver him from his enemies, but before he could finish the prayer he heard Butsko’s voice speaking softly just above the roar of the river.

  “Let’s move it out!” Butsko said.

  The recon platoon advanced into the boiling rushing river. The water was muddy and lukewarm, nearly the temperature of human blood. Butsko watched his men step forward, the water climbing up their legs to their knees. He looked to his left and right; they were maintaining a fairly even line, with each man six feet from each other man. Butsko turned to Guiteau.

  “I’m gonna be depending on you, kid. You better not let me down.”

  “I won’t let you down, Sergeant,” Guiteau said, looking Butsko straight in the eye.

  Butsko knew in a flash that the foxy little son of a bitch would be all right. You could always rely on the judgment of professional soldiers - like Plunkett. Too bad he didn’t have more like him in the recon platoon. Butsko turned around and looked at Frankie La Barbara.

  “You know what you gotta do, right, Frankie?”

  “I know what I gotta do, Sarge.”

  Butsko faced front again. His men were up to their waists in the roaring Driniumor River. It was time for him to get wet too. He stepped out with his left foot and went ankle-deep into the murky water. With another step he was halfway up to his knees. He pushed forward and the river rushed against him, trying to drag him downstream. He followed his men across the black foaming river, expecting Japanese soldiers to open fire at any minute. The water rose to his waist and he held his rifle and bayonet high. He tripped on a rock and sank in to his chest, but found his footing and raised himself up again. He continued to plod forward against the current, glancing to his left and right, gazing straight ahead at the opposite bank of the river.

  So far so good, he thought. Seem like there ain’t no Japs over there right now.

  Butsko was wrong. One Japanese soldier sat high in a tree on the opposite side of the river, cradling his Arisaka rifle in his hands, watching the Americans come across. It would be easy for him to pick them off one by one, because their torsos were silhouetted clearly against moonlight twinkling on the water.

  But the Japanese soldier was under orders not to shoot anyone coming across the river. His job was to report the presence of American soldiers as soon as he saw them. He pushed his ass off the branch he’d been sitting on and shinnied down the tree. When he hit the ground he took off like a bat out of hell, running toward his company headquarters to report what he’d seen.

  In the middle of the river, Tronolone and Schlegelmilch were side by side, two rotten motherfuckers with battered faces and their hearts filled with hatred for Butsko. The water was up to their chests, and they lunged forward like two sleek dogs against the current, anxious to get to the opposite shore where they’d find safety and the opportunity to shoot Butsko.

  Tronolone looked at Schlegelmilch and grinned. Schlegelmilch grinned back. Pfc. Guiteau saw the exchange but thought nothing of it. He was too busy trying to keep his walkie-talkie and M 1 rifle dry. He was a lightweight and having difficulty countervailing the current. Slipping on the bottom, he was sucked under by a whirlpool. Butsko noticed him going down and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulling him up.

  Pfc. Guiteau regained his footing and moved forward again. “Thanks Sarge,” he whispered breathlessly.

  “Keep that walkie-talkie dry,” Butsko growled.

  The water was as high as Pfc. Guiteau’s neck, but it was only up to Butsko’s chest. Butsko passed the midway point in the river and continued to hope no Japs were on the other side. He wondered whether Japs were there, waiting until the GIs got close so they could shoot them down at close range. Butsko’s heart beat faster and his mouth was dry. His bum leg hurt due to the exertion of pushing constantly against the currents and eddies of the Driniumor.

  Just a little bit more, Butsko thought, and then we can take cover.

  To the left front of Butsko, Private Theophilus Hampton was so mad he could spit, and in fact he did spit, right into the ripples of the river. It freaked him out to think that his life was in danger and he couldn’t do anything about it. He considered himself the most intelligent man in the vicinity, a student of philosophy, a man accustomed to the finer things of life, and yet there he was, like a puppet on a string, being manipulated by forces beyond his control, pushing him onward into the very jaws of hell.

  He wanted to turn around and go back, but didn’t dare. There was no doubt whatever in his mind that Frankie La Barbara would shoot him. It was obvious to Hampton that Frankie La Barbara was a lunatic and a homicidal maniac who’d love to have the excuse to shoot somebody. Hampton craned his neck around and saw Frankie back there plodding along through the river, holding his rifle high, and Hampton figured Frankie’s finger was right on his trigger, the son of a bitch.

  Hampton gritted his teeth in rage. He considered himself a potentially great man whose mind might alter the course of the intellectual history of the world, and his great mind was being risked foolishly in a stupid war that couldn’t possibly solve anything when it was over.

  “These bastards!” Theophilus Hampton muttered. “These idiots! They’re going to get me killed, and nobody even cares!”

  Hampton became more pissed off with every passing second. He was a bomb getting ready to explode.

  To the right of Hampton, Private Crow realized that the water was receding down his chest, and he’d passed the midway point in the river. He looked ahead to the far shore, and it was peaceful and picturesque in the moonlight.

  But he was sure there were Japs lurking there, waiting for him to get close so they could shoot his damn fool head off. He imagined a bullet striking his forehead and making a little hole, then dragging all his brains and half his skull out of a massive hole in the back of his head. He imagined himself sinking down, his head shattered, into the currents of the river and floating off to sea, deader than a mackerel.

  Crow knew all about mackerels, because he was from Gloucester, Massachusetts, the second largest fish town in the state (Boston was number one). His father owned a wholesale fish business and Crow had been the bookkeeper in the office, because his father didn’t trust strangers.

  Now he was crossing a river on a fucked-up island nobody really gave a shit about, and Japs were waiting on the other side to kill him.

  Crow wasn’t especially afraid of pain. That wasn’t what was bothering him. His main concern was death itself. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him when he died. It was very possible that he’d go to hell, because he frequently embezzled small sums of money from the family business. He had a guilty conscience, like most people who are afraid of dying, but back in Gloucester he couldn’t stop himself from dipping his long skinny fingers into the till, so he could have extra money for quick trips to Boston and the roaring nightlife around Scollay Square.

  He couldn’t imagine not being alive. It was inconceivable that one day the world would continue to spin without him, and where would he be? Floating in ink for the rest of eternity? Dancing among the flames in hell?

  And actually
the thought of pain did bother him, although he hated to admit it to himself. He’d heard of soldiers who’d been gut-shot by the Japs and left to suffer for hours and even days before they died. He’d also been told about soldiers who’d been shot in the kneecaps, the most painful place to get shot. The thought of having his stomach ripped open by a Japanese bayonet was enough to make his hair stand on end. Sometimes Japanese soldiers gouged out the eyes of their enemies in hand-to-hand combat.

  Crow was starting to panic. He turned around and saw Frankie La Barbara back there, with his orders to shoot anybody who tried to run away. Crow wanted to run away, but Frankie would shoot him down. He was caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea. All he could do was keep advancing toward the Japanese side of the river.

  It was still dark in the jungle. Colonel Yukio Katsumata paced back and forth in his tent, anxiously waiting for news from the Driniumor River. A cigarette hung out the corner of his mouth, and his hands were clasped behind his back. Every time he turned around to go the other way, his mustaches swirled in the air.

  The tent flap was swept to the side, and Major Tadashi Honda entered, a sheet of paper in his trembling hands.

  “They’re crossing the Driniumor!” Major Honda declared.

  “How many!” demanded Colonel Katsumata.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Colonel Katsumata’s jaw dropped open. “Only twenty-one?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We’re going through all this trouble just for a patrol of twenty-one men?”

  “They may be the vanguard for a larger group, sir.”

  “Where are they?”

  Major Honda strode to the desk and pointed his finger at the map. “Here.”

  Colonel Katsumata leaned over the desk and squinted his eyes. “There?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “It’s exactly where we expected them to cross,” Colonel Katsumata said, raising his upper torso so that he was erect again. “But only twenty-one men? Well anyway, I suppose we should proceed according to plan. Notify the local commander to let the Americans advance, but keep them under observation. I expect to be notified if any other Americans cross the Driniumor. Understand?”