Meat Grinder Hill Read online

  “Hey, big Sarge!” Frankie said, bouncing up and down and rubbing his hands together as he approached Butsko. “How're ya doin'?”

  Butsko looked up; his face was like a block of stone. “Well, well, well,” he said, “look who's here.”

  Frankie sat down at Butsko's feet. “I heard you were here and thought I'd come over to say hello. How're you feeling?”

  “Not bad. How're you feeling?”

  “They say I'm just about all better. They're gonna send me back to the front any day now. Hope they take their time. I'm trying to figure out who to pay off so's I can stick around here for a while.”

  Butsko shrugged. He didn't like Frankie but didn't dislike him either. Frankie had been in his platoon and Butsko felt a certain closeness to him for that reason only.

  Frankie sensed that Butsko wasn't overjoyed to see him, but that didn't stop him. He was overjoyed to see Butsko. Like most of the men in the recon platoon, Frankie worshipped Butsko.

  “You fucking any of these nurses yet, Sarge?”

  “Are you?”

  “You're goddamn right I am. Some of them are real easy, and the others play a little hard to get, but they all give in sooner or later. The ugliest ones are the easiest. I guess they never got so much attention in their lives. I just ran into a real fabulous blonde who told me where you were. You know who she is?”

  “She kinda tall?”

  “Yeah, around five seven, I'd say.”

  “That's Nurse Crawford. She's the head nurse of this section.”

  “She can give me some head anytime.”

  Butsko scowled. “She's a tough broad. She don't look it but she is.”

  “I think she needs a good stiff cock, and I'm just the man to give it to her.”

  “Good luck,” Butsko said.

  “You try to fuck her yet, Sarge?”

  Butsko gave Frankie an angry look that made Frankie turn away.

  “It's real nice here,” Frankie said, anxious to change the subject. “It's hard to believe there's a war going on back at Guadalcanal, huh?”

  “It ain't hard for me to believe.”

  “I wonder what the guys in the old platoon are doing right now.”

  “Probably up to their asses in shit someplace.”

  “Probably. I wish I didn't have to go back there.”

  “Maybe they'll send you someplace else.”

  “I wish I could stay here. If I could type, I could get one of them office jobs. That'd be fine with me. Three hots and a cot and whole lots of pussy.”

  Butsko didn't reply. It was tiresome to make conversation about nothing.

  “You hurt bad?” Frankie asked.

  “Not that bad.”

  “You don't think they'll send you back to the States.”

  “No.”

  “I bet you could stay here if you wanted to.”

  “I don't want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don't like it here.”

  “There's cunt all over the place, and nobody's shooting at you, and you don't like it here?”

  Butsko looked around and didn't see Nurse Crawford anyplace. He took out another Camel and lit it up.

  “I know where there's a good crap game tonight,” Frankie said. “You interested?”

  “Take a walk, willya, Frankie.”

  Frankie couldn't believe his ears. “Whatja say, Sarge?”

  “I said take a fucking walk.”

  “Whatsa matter, Sarge? I do something wrong?”

  “I got no time for your bullshit, Frankie. Take a fucking walk.”

  “Sure thing, Sarge. Anything you say.”

  Stung, Frankie got up and walked away, his hands in his pockets and his head inclined toward the ground. He thought of himself as a dashing, interesting guy and couldn't understand why Butsko wanted him to take a walk. Well, Butsko's always been a psycho case, Frankie thought. He's been shot up too many times. I wonder where that pretty nurse went. Maybe if I play my cards right, I can get into her pants.

  TWO . . .

  Bannon approached the desk of Sergeant Major Ramsay. “I'm Sergeant Bannon from the recon platoon. I understand the colonel wants to see me.”

  “He's busy right now. Have a seat.” Bannon sat on a folding chair inside the big walled tent, laying his carbine across his lap. His face had darkened to the color of mahogany, due to the Guadalcanal sun, and his uniform was dusty and frayed. He'd shaved before coming to Regimental Headquarters, but his straw-colored hair covered the tops of his ears and grew low on his neck. He was twenty-five years old and had been a ranch hand and foreman in Texas before the war.

  He felt ill at ease at Headquarters, having the enlisted man's normal fear and hatred of officers. He knew that Butsko had often been called by Colonel Stockton for conferences and figured he'd have to go too someday.

  “Mind if I light one up, Sarge?”

  “Go ahead.”

  Bannon took out a Chesterfield and lit it, inhaling deeply but not too deeply, because he had a bayonet wound in his side that still bothered him. He'd gotten it in the big battle after the regiment had crossed the Matanikau River ten days earlier, and he'd lost a lot of blood, but the medics said nothing vital had been damaged, and in fact one of them had taken the stitches out yesterday. If you could walk, the bastards would send you right back to the front.

  Officers entered and left Colonel Stockton's office in a steady stream, and Bannon recognized the colonel's battalion commanders and staff personnel, the big, heavy brass in the regiment. Bannon puffed his cigarette and flicked the ashes into a nearby butt can with an inch of water in the bottom. The day was heating up and his uniform stuck to his body. I must smell like hell, he thought.

  “You can go in now, Bannon,” Sergeant Major Ramsay said. “Put out your cigarette first.”

  Bannon dropped his cigarette into the butt can, stood, slung his carbine, and carried his helmet under his left arm as he approached the tent flap that led to Colonel Stockton's office. He pushed the flap aside and saw Colonel Stockton sitting behind his desk, while Major Cobb, the regimental operations officer, sat on a chair in front of the desk. Bannon marched to the desk and saluted smartly.

  “Sergeant Charles Bannon reporting, sir!”

  “Have a seat Bannon.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bannon sat stiffly on one of the chairs. Colonel Stockton was a lean, silver-haired West Pointer from Maine; Major Cobb was shorter, heavyset, bald, and wearing glasses.

  “Well, how's my recon platoon doing?” Colonel Stockton asked.

  “Just fine, sir,” Bannon replied, although the recon platoon was just as fucked up as ever.

  “How're you getting along without Butsko?”

  “Not so bad, but we all miss him, sir.”

  “1 know you've got a rough bunch of boys in that platoon, Bannon. You handling them all right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No problems?”

  “None I can't handle, sir.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.” Colonel Stockton lifted his briar out of his West Point ashtray and filled it with fine old Virginia burley. “You may smoke if you like, Bannon.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Bannon took out another Chesterfield and lit it up, aware that Major Cobb was scrutinizing him. What are these two fucking officers setting me up for? Bannon wondered, puffing his cigarette.

  “You know, Bannon,” Colonel Stockton said, “that the recon platoon is very important in this regiment.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I know that.”

  “You know because you've been in the recon platoon since the beginning, and the recon platoon's been in a lot of tight spots. I guess it's no secret that I organized the recon platoon myself and I make the decision on every man who gets assigned to it. I've put the toughest men in the regiment into the recon platoon, men who couldn't get along anywhere else, men who've been in and out of the stockade. You were in the stockade recently yourself, so you know what I'm tal
king about.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Butsko was the kind of NCO who could keep men like that in line, but now that he's gone, I haven't really known what to do with the recon platoon.” Colonel Stockton lit his pipe, and his head disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. “I've been under pressure to put an officer in charge of the platoon, but quite frankly I'm short of officers as it is, and I couldn't think of anybody suitable anyway. The same is true of top-rankings NCOs. Therefore I've decided to leave you in charge of the recon platoon if you think you can handle it.”

  Bannon shrugged. “I think I can handle it, sir.”

  “Maybe you'd better think that over a little, Bannon. The recon platoon hasn't done much since we crossed the Matanikau, but we're moving out tomorrow and your men will be our advance screen into no-man's land. There can't be any slipups or funny business, because there are too many lives on the line. There'll be a lot of pressure on you, let's make no bones about that. If you're not sure, I can put somebody else in charge.”

  “I don't know, sir,” Bannon said. “It's up to you.”

  “I know it's up to me. I just asked you how sure you are that you can handle the recon platoon in combat.”

  “I've already led some of them during the times Butsko wasn't around. I guess I could do it about as well as most people, but you understand, sir, that I don't have the experience of somebody like Sergeant Butsko.”

  “Neither does anybody else around here.”

  The room was silent for a few moments. Bannon puffed his cigarette as both officers looked at him, evidently waiting for him to say something.

  “Well,” Bannon drawled, “if you don't have anybody around like Butsko, I guess I could handle the recon platoon about as well as anybody. On top of that, I already know all the men—what their strengths and weaknesses are. Somebody new would have to learn all that.”

  Colonel Stockton looked at Major Cobb, then turned to Bannon again. “That's good enough for me. You'll continue to lead the recon platoon until Butsko gets back or unless circumstances change.”

  Bannon knew what Colonel Stockton meant by that. If Bannon fucked up, someone else would be put in charge of the recon platoon.

  “From now on you'll report directly to Major Cobb here,” Colonel Stockton said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The regiment will move out in the morning, as I said, but I'll want the recon platoon to get into position tonight. Come behind the desk here and I'll show you where I want you to go.”

  Bannon rose and sauntered behind the desk, looking down at the map. He recognized all the geographical configurations immediately, because ever since Butsko had been wounded, Bannon had been spending half his life looking at maps.

  “The Japs have pulled back to these hills and mountains,” Colonel Stockton said, pointing at them, “and it's there that they evidently intend to make their last stand on Guadalcanal. The only problem is that we don't know exactly where they are. Our Air Corps spotters can't find them, so the recon platoon will have to do it. The regiment will be traveling through this area here tomorrow, and I want the recon platoon to go first and be the screen. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “After chow tonight, move your men into position. Stay in close touch with Major Cobb on your radio. At daybreak tomorrow, move your men out and, again, stay in touch with Major Cobb. Report anything unusual. Don't let the regiment walk into a hornets’ nest of trouble. We'll be depending on you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything you want to say?”

  “Yes, sir: We need a medic. We ain't had a medic since we crossed the Matanikau.”

  “I'll get you a medic. Do you have any questions about the operation?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Sergeant. You're dismissed. Good luck, and don't forget to stay in touch.”

  Bannon moved in front of Colonel Stockton's desk, saluted, and marched out of the office. Colonel Stockton looked at Major Cobb, who shook his head.

  “What's the matter?” Colonel Stockton said.

  “I still think you should put an officer in charge of the recon platoon.”

  “Who?”

  “I don't know who. Anybody would be better than nobody.”

  “I don't agree. The recon platoon is like a violin: Start monkeying with it and it'll go out of tune.”

  “If you'll permit me to say so, sir, I think your choice of words is a little inexact. The recon platoon's not like a violin. They're just a bunch of bad eggs, and this Bannon is as bad as any of them. You know yourself that he beat up an officer a few weeks back, and if that officer hadn't subsequently been killed in battle, Bannon could have gotten a firing squad. I don't trust Bannon or any of the other hoodlums in the recon platoon, and I've never thought that much of Butsko either. He's worse than all the rest of them put together.”

  ‘That's why he can handle them.” Colonel Stockton's briar. was out, and he placed it next to his ashtray. “You seem to forget, Major, that the recon platoon has done some pretty incredible things out here.”

  “That's true, they've been nothing but trouble otherwise.”

  “We have to pay a price for everything, and I guess that's the price we have to pay for the recon platoon.”

  “I still think you ought to break them up and ship them to other units and then form a new recon platoon.

  “Out of what?”

  “Out of the best men in the regiment.”

  Colonel Stockton leaned forward. “Major Cobb, I think the recon platoon already contains the best men in the regiment. War isn't a parade, you know. I'd hate to have the recon platoon in a parade, and if I was on an Army post with them back in the States, I'd probably have to put the whole bunch of them in the stockade. But out here, on Guadalcanal, I need fighters, and if there's anything the recon platoon is good at, it's fighting.”

  “Yes, but sometimes they forget who they're supposed to be fighting.”

  “It'll be up to you to keep that clear in their minds. It shouldn't be that much trouble. Bannon seems to be a sensible man, doesn't he?”

  “He'd better be,” Major Cobb said, “because I will not tolerate any insubordination.”

  “No, or course not. This is still the Army, after all.”

  “Just as long as Bannon and the others understand that, everything'll be all right,” Major Cobb said.

  Deep in the jungle, twenty miles from Colonel Stockton's tent, was the headquarters encampment of the Japanese Seventeenth Army on Guadalcanal. In one of the tents sat Colonel Tsuji, stern and slender, studying his maps and planning the last-ditch defense of Guadalcanal. The order had already gone out, under General Hyakutake's signature, that they would fight to the last man. Tsuji had planned most of the disastrous (for the Japanese Army) battles on Guadalcanal and now was organizing a series of impregnable defensive positions to hold off the Americans until General Imperial Headquarters in Tokyo decided what to do.

  The afternoon was hot, and sweat dripped down Tsuji's face. He had plenty of water to drink, but food was in short supply, and a hundred soldiers were dying of starvation each day. The Imperial Navy had been unable to resupply the Imperial Army, due to the aggressive patrolling of the US Navy. Reports had been received of cannibalism in the field. Even General Hyakutake was losing weight on his diet of rice, boiled grass, and small quantities of rationed canned meat and fish. General Hyakutake had ordered that all troops be placed in one of three classifications:

  (1)able to fight and walk

  (2)able to fight but not walk

  (3)unable to fight or walk.

  The situation had become more desperate than anything Colonel Tsuji could have imagined, but the men were dug into strong defensive positions and prepared to fight to the death. They were well camouflaged, and the Americans wouldn't see them until it was too late. Tsuji was making certain that the Americans would pay a heavy pri
ce for Guadalcanal.

  “Sir!” said Sergeant Kaburagi, outside the tent. “A message has just arrived for you from Imperial Headquarters in Tokyo!”

  Tsuji sat erect in his chair. “Bring it here at once!”

  Sergeant Kaburagi entered the tent and held out the message, which Colonel Tsuji snatched from his hand.

  YOUR APPLICATION FOR TRANSFER TO SEVENTEENTH ARMY NOT APPROVED. RETURN HERE TO REPORT ON BATTLE SITUATION.

  Tsuji sank into his chair. “You may leave, Sergeant Kaburagi.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sergeant Kaburagi saluted, turned, and marched out of the tent. Colonel Tsuji stared at the message, trying to digest it. He'd previously requested a formal transfer to the Seventeenth Army on Guadalcanal, because technically he'd only been on temporary duty with General Hyakutake, supervising operations in the field for Imperial Headquarters in Tokyo. He'd wanted to make sure he'd stay on Guadalcanal and defeat the Americans or die an honorable death instead of leaving the battlefield on which he'd made so many erroneous decisions.

  But now he had to return to Tokyo. Orders were orders. How ignominious it would be to leave the battle now that it was approaching its final hour. But at least he could tell the generals and admirals of their complicity in the defeats, because they'd never taken Guadalcanal seriously enough and never supplied enough men, ammunition, food, air cover, or anything else.

  If I have to leave, Tsuji thought, the sooner the better. Perhaps I can convince the generals and admirals to give us what we need to win on Guadalcanal, so that all those who died will not have died in vain. Standing, he put on a fresh shirt and positioned his cap squarely on his head. He strapped on his samurai sword and stormed out of his tent, walking swiftly across the clearing, which was covered with camouflage netting so that American planes wouldn't spot them. He tried not to look at the emaciated soldiers listlessly cleaning their weapons or digging ditches. Some chewed leaves, green scum covering their lips. What a disaster, Tsuji thought. Who would ever have guessed it would come to this?

  He entered General Hyakutake's command tent, nodded to the staff officers at their desks, their eyes dull with hunger and defeat, and entered the office of General Hyakutake, who was lying on his cot, taking a nap. General Hyakutake opened his eyes and reached for his sword at the approach of Tsuji.