River of Blood Read online

  “Here they come,” Bannon whispered.

  Frankie was hallucinating Mulberry Street again. “Who’s coming?”

  Bannon stared at him, noticing his glittering eyes and unhealthy complexion. “You sure you’re all right, Frankie?”

  “Yeah—why the fuck not?”

  Bannon had known Frankie since they’d trained in boot camp at Fort Ord, California, and knew he was a little wacky, but Frankie always straightened out when Japs were around. Now he seemed to be in another world. Bannon raised his hand to touch Frankie’s forehead, and Frankie reached up, catching Bannon’s wrist in midair.

  “What the fuck you think you’re doing?” Frankie asked.

  “I wanna see if you’ve got a fever.”

  “Check your own fever, cowboy.”

  “Ssshhhh.”

  “Ssshhh yourself. Don’t tell me to ssshhhh.”

  Frankie was raising his voice, and Bannon knew something must be wrong with him. If nothing else, Frankie always had a stong sense of self-preservation, but now he was jabbering while Japs were coming down the trail.

  “Hey, look!” Bannon whispered. “What’s that?” He pointed behind Frankie.

  “What’s what?”

  Frankie spun around. Bannon slammed the butt of his submachine gun against the side of Frankie’s head, and Frankie went down for the count. Bannon bent over Frankie and touched the palm of his hand to Frankie’s forehead. It was like touching a loaf of bread that had just been taken from the oven. Now Bannon knew what was wrong: Bannon knew Frankie had malaria.

  He heard a branch crack beneath a foot and looked up. The first Jap appeared on the trail, holding his Arisaka rifle at high port arms, glancing from side to side and up at the treetops. He wore a short-sleeve tan uniform with leggings, and on his head was a soft cap with cloth hanging over his ears and the back of his neck. Behind him came another Jap and then another. They were proceeding with extreme caution, and Bannon realized they must have heard something.

  More Japs came into view, and Bannon counted ten of them. They carried no packs—a nighttime hit-and-run patrol. The Japs hunched through the darkness, looking all around them, muttering to each other. They passed the GIs hiding in the jungle, and Bannon thought it was an ideal ambush. They could cut down all the Japs easily, but they were under orders to avoid contact with Japs until they knocked out the observation post.

  The Japs stopped, and one of them whispered urgently to the others while they crouched and glanced around. They’d heard sounds coming from this part of the jungle and were on their guard. Finally one of them said something and they started moving again.

  At that moment Frankie La Barbara came to his senses. He looked up at Bannon, who was holding his submachine gun ready to fire, and felt a pain in his head, realizing that Bannon had sucker-punched him. “You son of a bitch!” Frankie screamed, reaching for his bayonet. “I’ll cut your fucking balls off!”

  The Japs stopped in their tracks and spun around, but before they could get set, Butsko opened fire on them, and a split second later the rest of the squad, except Bannon, pulled their triggers too. They took the Japs by surprise and tore them apart.

  Meanwhile Bannon had his hands full with Frankie La Barbara, who was trying to stab him with his bayonet. Frankie lunged at Bannon as the jungle exploded with gunfire all around them. Bannon dodged, grabbed Frankie’s wrist, pivoted, and threw Frankie over his shoulder. Frankie crashed onto the ground and Bannon dived on him, punching down hard. The blow landed on Frankie’s chin. If Frankie had been normal, it would have only dazed him, but because he was suffering from malaria, it knocked him cold.

  Bannon arose and the jungle had become quiet. Butsko charged toward him through the jungle, fury on his face. “What the fuck’s going on here!”

  “Frankie just cracked up,” Bannon replied. “I had to cold-conk him. I think he’s got malaria.”

  Butsko bent over Frankie La Barbara and pressed his palm against Frankie’s forehead. “Wow, he’s burning up.”

  Private Morris Shilansky, who’d been a holdup man in civilian life, pushed through the branches and vines with his submachine gun. “I’ll kill that son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  Longtree was behind him, and next came Private Billie Jones, who’d been an itinerant preacher in Georgia before the war. Following Jones was Craig Delane, the rich guy from New York, and Jimmy O’Rourke, the former movie stuntman.

  Shilansky calmed down when he saw Frankie La Barbara sprawled out cold on the ground. The rest of them crowded around.

  “He’s got malaria,” Butsko said. “That means he’s out of his mind more than usual.”

  “What’re we gonna do with him?” Shilansky asked.

  “I don’t know yet. Carry him out of here while I think about it.”

  Bannon took Frankie’s arms and Shilansky grabbed his legs. They carried him toward the trail and Bannon saw the bodies of the Japanese soldiers lying in the muck and draped over bushes. Pfc. Shaw was going through their pockets, looking for maps or written information that might be useful. He found letters and pieces of indentification, but nothing else. Holding the stuff in his hand, he walked back to the crowd around the prostrate Frankie La Barbara.

  Butsko took off his soft fatigue cap and scratched his head. “I don’t know what the fuck to do with him. We can’t take him with us, because he’ll probably get us killed. We can’t leave him by himself, because he’ll probably get himself killed. I can’t spare anybody to take him back to Henderson Field. Anybody got any bright ideas?”

  Nobody said anything. Frankie La Barbara groaned and opened his eyes. His face was flushed and covered with perspiration. “Where am I?” he asked.

  “Shaddup,” Butsko growled.

  “Why’re you always telling me to shaddup, Sarge?” Frankie said in a crazy sing-song voice.

  “How long you had malaria, scumbag?”

  “A few days.”

  “Ain’t you been taking your Atabrine pills?”

  Frankie grinned, his lips trembling.

  “He ain’t been taking his Atabrine pills,” Butsko groaned. “This is what happens when you don’t take your Atabrine pills.”

  “They make your dick fall off,” Frankie said.

  “Shaddup.”

  Bannon looked down at Frankie and thought he should have known that Frankie wasn’t taking his pills, because Frankie was the one man in the squad who’d believe the rumor about Atabrine pills causing impotency. “I think we’ll have to leave somebody here with him, Sarge,” he said. “We can pick both of them up on the way back.”

  Butsko needed every man he had for the assault on the observation post, but he realized Bannon was right. Now he had to determine who to leave with Frankie. He would have liked to leave the least useful person in the platoon, and that probably was Craig Delane, but he didn’t think Delane could handle Frankie La Barbara. He’d have to leave one of the bigger men: Shaw, Shilansky, Longtree, or Billie Jones. He couldn’t leave Longtree, because Longtree was the best scout in the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. Shilansky and Frankie had never gotten along and probably wouldn’t start being friends now, and Frankie hated Billie Jones’s religious baloney. That left Shaw, the ex-boxer, who was friendly with Frankie.

  “Shaw,” said Butsko, “you’re gonna have to stay with La Barbara until we come back. You think you can handle it?”

  Shaw didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t want to admit it. “Anything you say, Sarge.”

  “Backtrack with him to the place where we came out of that grass, and wait for us there. If he gives you any trouble, cold-conk the son of a bitch. Got it?”

  “Hup, Sarge.”

  Shaw handed over the letters and papers he’d taken from the dead Japanese soldiers, and Butsko put them in his pack. Butsko gathered together Bannon and the others and sent Longtree out on point again. Shaw kneeled behind Frankie and watched them move through the darkness toward the mountain range. Soon they were swallowed up by the jungle and
the night.

  TWO . . .

  On the western side of Guadalcanal, deep in the jungle, Major General Michio Ooka of the Japanese Imperial Army walked among the forty-three light tanks assigned to his division. The tanks were lined up under tarpaulins and camouflage netting, where they were being worked on by mechanics in preparation for a surprise attack that General Ooka would make against Henderson Field when General Hyakutake thought the time was right.

  The tanks gleamed dully in the light of kerosene lamps. Some had their tracks removed while their roller bearings were being greased, while the engines of others were being disassembled on sheets of canvas and overhauled for the big push against the Americans. Gun crews reamed the barrels of cannons and machine guns, and officers lectured their men on tactics and maneuvering, conscious of the fact that the famous General Ooka was among them, listening to what they were saying, caring enough to be with them in the middle of the night. They knew that General Ooka considered them his elite unit and was relying on them to bring the battle for Guadalcanal to a successful conclusion.

  General Ooka was husky and tall, fifty-one years old, with a pencil-thin mustache and a brusque soldierly manner. It was true: General Ooka did consider this small tank detachment of critical importance in the attack. During 1939 he’d been a military attaché with the German army and had observed the blitzkrieg tactics utilized by General Heinz Guderian in the panzer attack against Poland. He’d learned that a concentration of armor and infantry in one sector of the enemy’s line could produce a breakthrough and astonishing gains in a short period of time, but unfortunately most of the officers in the Japanese army didn’t understand the new techniques, perhaps because they were accustomed to winning victories the old way, using tanks in support of infantry.

  General Ooka knew from his observations with the German army that tanks shouldn’t support anything, that they should be used as the spearhead of an attack, to gouge huge holes in the enemy line and charge forward to blow up his supply dumps, cut his lines of communication, and harass his rear, while infantry poured through those holes and mopped up.

  He thought the problem with Japanese officers was that they were too accustomed to fighting ill-equipped Chinese soldiers and British and American troops who were taken by surprise. He realized that Guadalcanal was a wholly new situation for the Japanese army, because it was here that the Americans had counterattacked for the first time and had been beating back every Japanese attack, taking ground, and gradually expanding their position on the island.

  General Ooka believed he could turn the tide of battle on Guadalcanal and ensure victory for the Imperial Army in the Pacific if he could demonstate the effectiveness of blitzkrieg techniques. Then the generals in Tokyo would be obliged to follow his example. His theories would be facts. He, an obscure general, could lead the Emperor’s forces to victory. Who knew what lay in the future for an officer who could perform such an astounding feat?

  Satisfied that tank preparations were going well, he slapped his riding crop against his leg and walked back to his vehicle, followed by his aides. His driver, seeing him coming, jumped to the ground and saluted.

  “To General Hyakutake’s headquarters,” General Ooka said.

  “Yes, sir!”

  The driver held the door and General Ooka climbed into the car. One of the general’s aides sat in front with the driver, and the other two sat in back with him. General Ooka crossed his long legs and looked again at the tanks. He could imagine them in a solid phalanx smashing through the thin American defenses near the airfield and pressing on to victory.

  General Ooka was itching to defeat the Americans, because on the night he and his Forty-eighth Division had arrived on Guadalcanal, their convoy was attacked by the US Navy. He had lost half his division, and the ship he was on had been sunk. The sharks had nearly gotten him, but he was rescued and carried ashore in a lifeboat. Ever since, he’d been thirsting for revenge.

  The driver got behind the wheel, started up the engine, and drove off through the jungle, heading for General Hyakutake’s headquarters. During the three weeks since General Ooka had arrived on Guadalcanal, more reinforcements had arrived and his division had been brought to full strength again. Tanks and artillery pieces had also landed. The Imperial Command in Tokyo was finally taking Guadalcanal more seriously. They realized if the Americans could be stopped on Guadalcanal, it was unlikely they’d dare to attack the Imperial Army anywhere else. They’d run away with their tails between their legs and ask for a peace settlement.

  And the hero of the Pacific might very well be General Michio Ooka. He smiled as he contemplated receiving the congratulations of the Emperor, and the car rocked from side to side as the driver steered over the uneven jungle path.

  Private Tommy Shaw held Frankie La Barbara’s arm around his shoulders and carried him over the trail toward the field of kunai grass. Frankie was only half conscious, dragging his feet on the ground and mumbling incoherently. His fever was so high, Shaw felt like he was near a hot stove. “You fucking asshole, Frankie, you shoulda took your Atabrine pills.”

  Frankie couldn’t hear him and didn’t know where he was. He felt like he was falling through black bottomless space and didn’t even know his own name. He was just a bewildered, frightened mind with no identity, unable to see, wondering if he was dead. “Francesca,” he said. “Hey, Francesca.”

  “Who the fuck’s Francesca?” Shaw asked.

  Shaw’s voice shot through to Frankie’s brain, and he clung desperately to it. “Who’s there?” he asked feebly.

  “Tommy Shaw, your old buddy—remember me?”

  Frankie tried to think, but his feverish brain couldn’t make connections. “No,” he muttered, and dropped off into unconsciousness again.

  Shaw came to the field of kunai grass and breathed a sigh of relief. Now he just had to find a place to hide until Butsko and the rest of the guys came back in the morning. He’d have to be well hidden, because he knew now that Japs also used that trail, but he had to be close enough so he wouldn’t miss Butsko and the others.

  The rain stopped and the mud squished around Shaw’s boots. Visibility was shit, so he’d just have to carry Frankie into the woods and see if he could stumble onto a decent spot to spend the night. Dragging Frankie alongside him, he crashed through the bushes and maneuvered around trees. After twenty yards he found a spot that was flat and covered with leaves, and he thought, What the fuck, this is as good as anyplace else.

  Gently he lowered Frankie to the ground. He took off Frankie’s pack and rested Frankie’s head upon it. Frankie opened his eyes, surprised by the comfortable new position. “What’s going on?” Frankie asked.

  “Nothing’s going on,” Shaw said, searching through his own pack for his Atabrine pills. He found them, popped two into his mouth, and washed them down with water from his canteen.

  “Hey,” Frankie said weakly, “those things are gonna make your dick fall off.”

  “I been taking them for a month and it ain’t fell off yet.”

  Frankie clutched his groin with both hands. “I might die, but mine ain’t gonna fall off.”

  “You won’t die,” Shaw said. “Only the good die young.”

  Frankie’s eyes clouded over. “Hey, Francesca!” he said.

  “Who’s Francesca?”

  “She’s my old lady. Hey, Francesca!”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  Frankie whispered, “Hey, Francesca.” He was thinking about his wife, to whom he’d been unfaithful practically from the day he had gotten married, but she was the one who had cooked his meals and taken care of him when he came home drunk, the one he thought of when he felt like he needed somebody. “You still there, Shaw?”

  “Yeah.” Shaw was opening a can of C rations; it was franks and beans again.

  “I ever tell you about my wife?”

  “Is that the one who dances at Radio City Music Hall in New York?”

  “Naw, that’s my girl friend. She’
s somebody else. I’m talking about my wife, Francesca. I ever tell you about my wife, Francesca?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Aw, she’s a sweetheart. Never complains. Cooks and cleans all day. Puts up with my shit. Goes to mass and says the Rosary every day. I bet she’s praying for me right now.”

  “I wanna hear about the girl who dances at Radio City Music Hall.”

  “That’s Cindy Gates. I don’t think she’s ever been inside a church in her life. She wouldn’t know a prayer if she fell over one.”

  “I bet she’s a great fuck, huh, Frankie?”

  “The best. You ever fuck a dancer?”

  “Naw.”

  “They’re the best. Really know how to move. Drain you dry. Hey, I’m getting cold.”

  Frankie hugged himself and shivered. His teeth chattered and his whole body shook violently. “I’m freezing,” he said, digging his fingers into his arms. “Jesus, it’s cold.”

  Shaw whipped off his fatigue shirt and laid it on Frankie, who was turning pale. He took out his poncho and put that over Frankie too. Shaw knew malaria made you alternately hot and cold, and he didn’t relish the prospect of playing nurse all night to Frankie.

  “Cigarette,” Frankie said. “Gimme a cigarette.”

  Shaw took a cigarette out of Frankie’s shirt pocket and lit it up for him, then placed it between Frankie’s trembling lips. Frankie sucked the smoke deep into his lungs, trying to get warm, but it was no use. “I’m gonna die,” he mumbled. “I won’t see another morning.”

  “You ain’t gonna die, you fuck.”

  “You’ll see.” Frankie rolled to the side and raised his knees to his chest. “I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Sure you can.” Shaw spooned some franks and beans into his mouth, thinking about Cindy Gates. If Frankie died and he survived the war, he’d go to Radio City Music Hall and look her up. Say he was a friend of Frankie’s. Tell her he was with Frankie when he got it. Take her out for a drink and try to put his hand up her dress.