Too Mean to Die Read online

  “AWOL, AWOL, where you been?”

  “AWOL, AWOL, where you been?”

  “Down in Honolulu, drinking gin!”

  “Down in Honolulu drinking gin!”

  “Sound off!”

  Butsko puffed his cigarette and turned around.

  “Here comes the bus,” Bannon said.

  Butsko looked at it, painted OD green like everything else in sight. The other soldiers were lining up, and Butsko took another drag from his cigarette as his men joined the rear of the line. Butsko got behind them and thought about Dolly, his wife, who lived in Honolulu. He hadn’t heard from her in a long time and he hadn’t written her, either, although they were legally married and she was receiving his allotment. They’d broken up in the summer of 1941 after he’d punched her in the mouth a few times. He’d found out that she was carrying on with other guys, so he got a little drunk and worked her over. After a few months in the Schofield Barracks post stockade, they’d shipped him to the Phillipines just in time for the Japanese invasion. Butsko had been on the Bataan Death March, escaped from a Jap POW camp in northern Luzon, and survived to fight another day.

  The soldiers loaded onto the bus. Butsko was the last one on. Bannon sat beside Longtree. Frankie was sitting all by himself, but Butsko didn’t feel like sitting next to Frankie all the way into Honolulu, listening to his bullshit, so Butsko sat alone on the wide bench at the rear of the bus.

  The driver shifted into gear and headed toward the main gate. Butsko looked out the window at two-story wooden barracks and wondered if he ought to visit Dolly while he was in Honolulu or just get drunk and go to a whorehouse.

  Somehow he couldn’t make up his mind. He wanted to see Dolly, because he still felt something for her, but he also didn’t want to see her, because she had the capacity to piss him off, and he didn’t want to wind up in the stockade again. The Schofield Barracks post stockade was notorious for its brutality and oppressive living conditions. It had been almost as bad as that Jap POW camp on Luzon.

  I’ll have a few drinks as soon as I hit Honolulu. Butsko thought. Then I’ll make up my mind.

  TWO . . .

  Colonel William Stockton, commanding officer of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment, sat behind his desk in a new quonset hut on Guadalcanal and looked over rosters of men and officers being assigned to his regiment.

  The Twenty-third was gradually being brought to full strength for the campaign that everyone knew would begin soon on New Georgia, the next island up the Solomon chain from Guadalcanal. General MacArthur and Admiral Nimitz wanted the Jap airfields on New Georgia so they could bomb enemy strongholds on Bougainville and New Britain, which were the key islands in that part of the South Pacific. With the Solomon Islands in US possession, and New Guinea under control, MacArthur would then be free to invade the Philippines, and Nimitz could rip into the Gilbert and Mariana Islands, heading directly toward Japan itself.

  Colonel Stockton had not yet been told of the role the Twenty-third Regiment would play in the invasion of New Georgia, but he hoped it would be significant. He’d already presented his own invasion strategy to General Hawkins, the commander of the Eighty-first Division, but hadn’t heard anything about it yet. Colonel Stockton was a professional soldier and he wanted his regiment to spearhead the invasion. He was always afraid of being shunted aside where he wouldn’t be noticed and where his career would languish.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Yes?” he said.

  The door opened and Sergeant Major Ramsay entered his office. Ramsay closed the door behind him and walked to Colonel Stockton’s desk, bending over it and saying softly: “There’s a General Oglesby out there who says he wants to speak with you, sir.”

  Colonel Stockton smiled, because General Oglesby was an old friend of his. “Send him in,” Colonel Stockton said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ramsay turned around and left Colonel Stockton’s office, while Colonel Stockton smoothed down his silvery hair and made sure there were no tobacco ashes on his shirt. The door opened again and General Oglesby entered, a tall gangly man with a big nose, who reminded Stockton of a bird of prey.

  Colonel Stockton stood at attention and saluted, and General Oglesby saluted back.

  “How are you, Bill?” General Oglesby said, holding out his hand.

  Colonel Stockton shook it. “Not bad—how about you?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “When did you arrive on Guadalcanal?”

  “This morning,” General Oglesby replied, sitting on a chair in front of Colonel Stockton’s desk.

  Colonel Stockton returned to his seat, and both men looked at each other for a few moments. They’d been in the same cadet company at West Point and graduated in the same class. Now Oglesby was a general on the staff of General MacArthur in Australia, and Stockton was still a colonel working out of a quonset hut in the jungle. They hadn’t seen each other for about two years.

  “What brings you to Guadalcanal?” Colonel Stockton asked.

  “The New Georgia invasion.”

  “Are the plans set?”

  “Yep.”

  “What part will we be playing.”

  “As it stands right now, the Eighty-first Division will be in reserve.”

  Colonel Stockton closed his eyes. “Shit.”

  “Don’t let it get you down. I’m sure you’ll see action before the campaign is over.”

  “Who’s going in first?”

  “Right now we’re planning three landings. A lot of units will take part, but the bulk of the men will be from the Forty-third Division.”

  “But they’re all green!”

  “They have to learn somewhere.”

  “They’re the ones who should be in reserve, Frank. If those green soldiers meet heavy resistance, they won’t get far.”

  “They’re going ashore in most places with seasoned units, including Marines, and if the offensive stalls, then we’ll move in our tough guys, like the ones in your regiment.” General Oglesby smiled.

  “Hell,” said Colonel Stockton, “we’re pretty green ourselves.” He held up the rosters of new men. “Only about thirty-five percent of my original regiment is fit for duty.”

  “You’ve done a great job here on Guadalcanal, Bill.”

  Colonel Stockton shrugged bitterly. “It hasn’t done me much good.”

  “Oh, yes it has.”

  “You know something I don’t, Frank?”

  General Oglesby leaned back in his chair. “You’re up for a star, Bill.”

  “I am?”

  “Yep.”

  Colonel Stockton closed his eyes. More than anything in the world, he wanted the star of a brigadier general on his collar. “What are my chances?”

  “It’s all up to the old man.”

  “General MacArthur?”

  General Oglesby nodded.

  Colonel Stockton took his old briar out of his ashtray and filled it with Briggs smoking mixture. He’d never met General MacArthur, although he’d seen him many times at military functions. He thought MacArthur was a talented strategist and field commander, but in recent years he’d become sort of a ham actor. “How much do you think MacArthur knows about me?”

  “Everything important.” Colonel Oglesby looked away for a few moments. “There’s only one thing that could go against you.”

  “My wife?”

  “Right.”

  “But the son of a bitch is divorced himself!”

  “That’s true, but his wife didn’t run off with a captain in the Air Corps.”

  Stockton flinched as if he’d been slapped in the face.

  “Sorry about that, Bill,” General Oglesby said, “but if there’s going to be a problem, that’s the direction it’ll come from. I’m giving you the straight poop. I’m not going to hem and haw with you.”

  “I appreciate that, Frank.”

  The room fell silent as Colonel Stockton lit his pipe. General Oglesby took out a cigarette
. Colonel Stockton knew that the Army didn’t fool around when it gave out generals’ stars. You had to be an outstanding officer, and your personal life had to be in reasonable order. A man whose wife drank too much and made a fool of him by running off with a young captain in the Air Corps, didn’t have his personal life in reasonable order.

  Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe, and his head disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. “That bitch!” he said viciously.

  General Oglesby smiled. “Well, you’ve never had very good taste in women, Bill. All your women have been pretty—don’t get me wrong—but they’ve all been a little on the strange side.”

  “Most pretty women are on the strange side,” Colonel Stockton muttered.

  “Maybe you should have married one who wasn’t so pretty, but who would’ve been a good wife.”

  “It’s too late for that now.” Colonel Stockton wrinkled his brow. “But hell, Frank, there’s a war on. I think the ability to command troops in battle should take a certain precedence, and I think my Twenty-third Regiment has done pretty damn well. We’ve kicked the shit out of the Japs ever since we landed on this goddamn island, except for a few setbacks here and there, and hell, we were the ones who cracked the Gifu Line, which was the toughest Jap stronghold on Guadalcanal. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

  “It means a lot,” General Oglesby said. “I’d say if it weren’t for your wife, you might have the star in the bag, but to be honest with you, you’re not the only colonel in the Army with an excellent combat record, and there aren’t that many stars around.”

  “I get it,” Colonel Stockton said. “The competition is tough.”

  “Very tough.”

  “Well, since I can’t do anything about Jennifer, I guess I’ll just have to do better on the job.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. Of course, you can rely on me to put in a good word for you every now and then with the old man.”

  “I appreciate that, Frank.”

  “We go back a long way together, Bill. I’ll do everything for you that I can.”

  THREE . . .

  The bus stopped in front of the terminal and the soldiers unloaded onto the sidewalk. The men from the recon platoon had sat toward the rear of the bus and now moved forward eagerly, bending down to look out the windows as men hopped down from the bus one by one. They saw other servicemen and seedy buildings that housed bars, pawnshops, penny arcades, and businesses that sold insignia and other uniform items to servicemen.

  “Where’s the fucking broads?” Frankie asked. “Ain’t mere no broads in this fucking city?”

  Frankie was the first one off the bus, and the first thing he did was reach for his package of cigarettes. He looked all around him and his hands trembled because he didn’t know what to do first. Bannon got off the bus next.

  “Looks like every bus terminal in every town I ever been in,” he said. “The only thing different about this place is the palm trees.”

  “I need a drink,” Frankie said, “and then I’m gonna get laid.”

  Longtree stepped down from the bus and glanced around stiffly, still not showing any emotion, although he wanted to do a war whoop.

  “Where you headed, Chief?” Frankie asked.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  Butsko joined them, taking out his pack of Luckies. “Well, here we are,” he said, spearing one between his thick lips. “I’ll see you guys later. Stay out of trouble.”

  “Hey, Sarge,” Bannon said, “where’s a good cathouse around here.”

  “There ain’t no good cathouses around here,” Butsko replied. “You have to go down to the docks if you want to go to a good cathouse.”

  “Which way’s the docks?”

  Before Butsko could answer, Frankie La Barbara cut in: “Is there a good gambling joint around here?”

  “Not in this part of town.”

  Longtree took his turn. “Is there some quiet place where a man can be alone?”

  Butsko looked at the faces of his three men and realized they needed him. He had to tell them what to do and where to go, otherwise they’d get all fucked up in Honolulu and piss their money away.

  “Let’s go into one of these gin mills and have a drink,” Butsko said. “I’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  He led them underneath the three bronze balls of a pawnshop into a saloon called The First Base Cafe. It was full of soldiers, sailors, and Marines getting drunk out of their minds, waiting for buses or just getting off them and needing to moisten their mouths. A jukebox was playing Benny Goodman, and middle-aged waitresses with an excess of makeup on their faces carried beer bottles and shot glasses to customers sitting in the booths. They were the only women in the joint.

  The men from the recon platoon elbowed their way up to the bar, and Butsko sidled between two sailors sitting on stools, raising his hand in the air.

  “Hey, barkeep!” he said.

  “Be with you in a moment!” replied the bartender, pouring cheap whiskey into a row of shot glasses while the other bartender clanged the cash register.

  “Wow,” said Frankie La Barbara. “These fucking people are making money hand over fist. Would I like to have a piece of this place.”

  “What’re you drinking?” Butsko asked him.

  “Anything—I don’t give a fuck.”

  “How about you?” Butsko asked Bannon.

  “Whatever you’re having,” Bannon said.

  “Me too,” Longtree added.

  Butsko leaned over the bar. “Hey, barkeep!” he shouted.

  “I said I’ll be right with you!”

  Butsko frowned and turned around, brushing against the sailor to his left.

  “Hey, who the fuck you pushing!” said the sailor.

  “Shaddup before I put your face through the bar,” Butsko replied.

  The sailor took a closer look at Butsko’s face and saw the scars and sheer brutality written all over it. He also noticed Butsko’s Combat Infantryman’s Badge. The sailor decided to shut up and drink his beer.

  Butsko looked at Bannon. “The best cathouse in town—at least in the old days, anyway—is the Curtis Hotel on Seaview Avenue, near the docks. Write it down.”

  “I can remember it.”

  Frankie appeared interested. “Good-looking babes there?”

  “I thought you wanted to gamble.”

  “Maybe I’ll do a little fucking first.”

  “If you wanna gamble, they have good games in back of the Pineapple Pool Room, also down near the docks. I don’t remember the street, but you can probably find it in a phone book.”

  “Got it,” Frankie said.

  The bartender appeared behind Butsko. “What’ll you have, buddy.”

  Butsko turned around and looked at the bartender, a big overweight man who had a lot of muscle under his fat. “Four double whiskies straight up,” he said.

  The bartender poured the drinks, and Butsko looked. “If you wanna be alone, Chief, get yourself a good hotel room—that’s all I can tell you. But I don’t know how alone that’s gonna be, because I imagine every hotel in town is full to the rafters with servicemen walking around drunk, screaming and hollering; you know what servicemen are like once they get a few drinks in them.” Butsko turned around and motioned with his hands. “Like this.”

  Men laughed, shouted, and cursed all around them. One of them pinched the fat bottom of a waitress and she hit him over the head with her round little tray, causing more laughing and whooping.

  Butsko glanced about disapprovingly. “What a fucking bust-out joint this place turned out to be.”

  “Two dollars,” said the bartender.

  Butsko turned around and threw two one-dollar bills and some change on the bar. Then he picked up the double shot glasses and passed them around. He raised his shot glass into the air. “To the gang back on Guadalcanal,” Butsko said.

  The men clicked glasses and gulped down some whiskey. Frankie wrinkled his nose and turned down the corners of his lips
. “Jesus, who pissed in my glass?” he said.

  “I’ve drunk worse,” Bannon replied.

  “You’re a fucking cowboy, what do you know?”

  Longtree savored the sweet burning sensation of the whiskey as it trickled down his throat. It made him feel warm and his mind became light. He hadn’t drunk any whiskey for a long time.

  Butsko drained his glass in two gulps and didn’t bat an eye. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey, barkeep—four refills here!”

  “Coming up,” said the bartender.

  Bannon reached into his pocket. “I’ll get this round,” he said.

  “Keep your fucking money where it is,” Butsko replied. “I got it.”

  “You got the last one.”

  “I said keep your fucking money where it is. You guys don’t make shit.”

  The sailor next to Butsko was feeling uncomfortable with all the big soldiers crowding around him, and he decided to drink someplace else. He stood unsteadily, pushed away from the bar, and headed for the door, angling a little to one side and then to another, as if on the deck of a ship in high seas.

  Bannon pointed to the barstool. “Have a seat, Sarge.”

  “I’m okay. Sit down yourself, kid.”

  “I’m not tired.”

  “Well, I am,” said Frankie La Barbara, sitting on the stool. “Hey, bartender!” he shouted. “You make this whiskey out of old combat boots?”

  The bartender frowned as he pushed forward four more double shots. Butsko threw his money on the bar and passed out the glasses.

  “Who’ll we drink to this time?” asked Frankie La Barbara.

  “Who’d we drink to last time?” asked Butsko.

  “The guys back on Guadalcanal,” replied Longtree.

  “Well, this time let’s drink to Colonel Stockton, because without that old gray-haired tight-assed son of a bitch, we wouldn’t be here.” Butsko raised his glass in the air. “To Colonel Stockton!”

  “To Colonel Stockton!” the other three repeated.

  They all slugged their whiskey down. The record on the jukebox changed and Carmen Miranda came on, singing about bananas.