Suicide River Page 3

  Sergeant Koch, the regiment's sergeant major, sat behind his desk and studied the morning's correspondence and communiqués. Opposite Sergeant Koch, Pfc. Levinson, the regimental clerk, pounded his Remington typewriter. Colonel Hutchins cleared his throat. Sergeant Koch and Pfc. Levinson spun around and faced him.

  “Get me some coffee,” Colonel Hutchins croaked.

  Sergeant Koch turned to Pfc. Levinson. “Get the colonel some coffee.”

  Pfc. Levinson jumped out of his chair as if he had a rocket up his ass, and ran out of the command post tent.

  “Did the patrol get back all right?” Colonel Hutchins asked.

  “It's not back yet,” Sergeant Koch replied.

  Colonel Hutchins felt a sinking sensation in his stomach, because the patrol should've been back by then. “Let me know when they get back.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins returned to his cot and picked his clothing off the chair beside it. He dressed himself, pausing to puff his cigarette and sip his white lightning. Pfc. Levinson arrived with a canteen mug full of hot black coffee.

  “Put it on my desk,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  Pfc. Levinson placed the coffee on the colonel's desk and ran out of the office. Colonel Hutchins sat behind his desk and raised the canteen cup to his lips. The coffee tasted like kerosene, and Colonel Hutchins always wondered why Army coffee never tasted like regular civilian coffee. It was one of the great mysteries of his life, because he'd been told that Army coffee was identical to civilian coffee, and was brewed the exact same way.

  Army cooks'd fuck anything up, he thought as he sipped the coffee. The whole army's fucked up. So's the world. Colonel Hutchins muttered and grumbled to himself as he tried to wake up and face the day. He wondered what had happened to his patrol from the recon platoon. If they weren't back yet, something bad must have happened to them.

  Shit, he thought. Those bastards had better get back here soon. I don't have time to put together a whole new recon platoon.

  American troops in the Aitape vicinity were code-named the Persecution Task Force, and were under the command of Major General Charles P. Hall. As the sun rose in the morning sky, the Persecution Task Force came to life. Trucks rumbled over the bumpy dirt roads, carrying men and supplies. Artillerymen zeroed in their big guns and prepared for action. Smoke rose into the sky from mess halls; clerks tapped typewriters; and infantry soldiers dug holes, cleaned weapons, and cursed their miserable lot.

  At the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters, Master Sergeant John Butsko from McKeesport, Pennsylvania, tried to stand up next to his cot. He'd been shot in the left leg three days ago when he wasn't completely recovered from a shot in that same leg sustained on bloody Bougainville. The original wound had been so bad the doctors wanted to amputate, but Butsko had fought them successfully and managed to stop the operation.

  Butsko was six feet tall and built like a tank. He had scars all over his body and a few on his face, which was the face of a killer. His arms, chest, and back were as hairy as a gorilla, and his thick spiky black hair was crew-cut. He was going nuts in the hospital, because he wasn't the kind of man who could lie around on his ass all day.

  He was pleased to discover that he actually could stand up on his leg. Then he tried to take a step and nearly fell on his ass. His left leg simply wouldn't hold up all of his weight. He sat on his cot and reached for his pack of Camels, lighting one up. All around him other wounded soldiers lay on cots, smoking cigarettes, reading Yank, Life, and other magazines nurses had given them.

  Son of a bitch, Butsko thought. He was angry because he couldn't walk around, and he needed his mobility. A soldier without mobility was as good as dead, and just because he was in the hospital tent, that didn't mean he was safe. Japanese infiltrators could slit his throat while he was asleep at night. A strong Japanese attack could put the hospital behind Japanese lines. A soldier had to be mobile if he wanted to stay alive.

  His leg felt stronger than yesterday. Maybe in a few days he could walk on it. He was a strong man with powerful recuperative powers. If the Japs left him alone for a few days, he was sure he'd be all right.

  A nurse entered the tent, and Butsko recognized her instantly. She was Lieutenant Betty Crawford, whom he knew from the Army hospital on New Caledonia, where he'd been shipped after being shot in the stomach on shitty Guadalcanal. He'd managed to screw her the night before he returned to Guadalcanal, and hadn't seen her again until a few days ago at the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters. He wanted to get her alone someplace, and knew she wanted him to get her alone someplace, but he couldn't walk, and that made romance difficult.

  He watched her strolling through the tent, chatting with soldiers, but knew damn well she was there to see him. She was trying to be subtle about it, as if anybody would suspect that such a beautiful young nurse, as sweet and nice as the girl next door, could ever fall for nasty, grouchy old Sergeant Butsko.

  Finally she approached his cot, and he looked up at her, puffing his cigarette. Their eyes met and lust simmered in the air between them. Sweet young blondes turned him on, and she'd always had a weakness for tough guys.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Butsko,” she said.

  “Morning, Nurse Crawford,” he replied. “How's it going?”

  “Very well, thank you. How's it going with you?”

  “It's not going at all. I can't walk on my fucking leg.”

  “Watch your language, Sergeant Butsko.”

  “Sorry, Nurse Crawford. Guess I forgot where I was for a moment there.”

  “I put in a requisition for a pair of crutches for you, Sergeant Butsko, and I should have them later on today. That should help you get around, don't you think?”

  He saw the twinkle in her eye and was amazed by how proper she appeared on the outside, and how passionate and even raunchy she was beneath that facade. She was doing her best to make him mobile, so they could go off into the bushes someplace and fuck like wild animals.

  “Should help a lot, Nurse Crawford,” he said.

  “Perhaps we can have some walking lessons this afternoon.”

  “That'd be real nice, Nurse Crawford.”

  “See you later, Sergeant Butsko.”

  “Yes ma'am.”

  She turned around and walked away. She wore combat boots and baggy Army fatigues that disguised the shape of her body, but he knew how curvaceous it was. He'd held her in his arms in that hotel room in New Caledonia and fucked the jelly out of her beans. She had a great figure, a real corn-fed country girl, and she loved to make love. Butsko got horny just thinking about it. She left the tent and Butsko hoped those crutches would arrive soon, so he could take a walk with her someplace.

  He saw a tall lanky soldier walking toward him. It can't be! Butsko said to himself. The soldier had sandy hair and carried his helmet under his left arm. It was Bannon, and Butsko hadn't seen him since that bad night on Bougainville when most of the old recon platoon was wiped out.

  Bannon grinned from ear to ear as he held his hand down to Butsko. “How ya doing, Big Sergeant,” he said.

  Butsko shook his hand. “Not too bad,” he replied. “When'd you get back?”

  “Last night.”

  “How is everybody?”

  “I don't know. They were all out on a patrol, and they still weren't back when I left to come over here.”

  Butsko looked at his watch. “Not back yet? They should've been back by now. Maybe their luck ran out back there.”

  “I hope not,” Bannon said.

  “I hope not, too.” Butsko looked at the cot beside him. “Have a seat.”

  “It's stuffy in here,” Bannon said. “Let's go for a walk.”

  “I can't walk,” Butsko said.

  Bannon raised his eyebrows and looked down at Butsko's bandaged leg. “What happened to you?”

  “I got shot in the leg.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Not that bad, but I can't walk around yet. They'
re getting me a pair of crutches this afternoon.”

  “Think a cane might help?”

  “If I had one it would.”

  Bannon stood and pulled his Ka-bar knife out of its scabbard. “I'll go out and cut you one.”

  “Good deal,” Butsko said.

  Bannon walked toward the tent flap to go outside, and Butsko puffed his cigarette, watching him go. Bannon always had been one of his favorites in the old recon platoon. The Texan was smart, crafty, and a born leader of men. He'd even been able to keep that maniac Frankie La Barbara under control. Bannon usually stayed calm in hot circumstances and was able to make sensible decisions when the other guys were blowing their corks. Butsko was glad to see him again, particularly since Bannon was cutting him a cane that would enable him to take a walk in the woods with Nurse Betty Crawford.

  Colonel Hutchins cleaned himself with a washcloth and a basin full of tepid water, and shaved his ugly face. Then he had his morning coffee and two slices of GI issue bread, plus some scrambled powdered eggs. Finally he sat behind his desk and looked over the morning's correspondence, reports, communiqués, orders, and other trash that filled his IN basket every morning. He looked through the papers quickly, initialing some, signing others, not giving a shit about them either way because he was a combat commander and knew the only thing that really mattered in a war was killing as many Japs as possible.

  Sergeant Koch poked his buzzardlike head into the office. “Sir?”

  “What is it?”

  “Some new replacements have just arrived. Would you like to see them?”

  “How many?”

  “Ninety-four.”

  A faint smile creased Colonel Hutchins's face for the first time that morning. “I'll be right out.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sergeant Koch withdrew his head. Colonel Hutchins stood behind his desk and put on his steel pot. He strapped his cartridge belt around his considerable girth, and attached to his cartridge belt was a holster containing his Army-issue Colt .45 and a clip full of bullets. He checked himself in his tin mirror and was satisfied with his appearance. He looked like a gruesome old wardog, and that's the way he wanted his replacements to see him.

  I'll give ‘em my standard pep talk, he thought, stomping out of his office. He had to make the new men realize they were in for rough days ahead, but not too rough because he didn't want to discourage them right off the bat. He passed through his outer office and the desks of Sergeant Koch and Pfc. Levinson, then stepped outside.

  It was another bright hot day on New Guinea. The sun hung in the sky like a frying pan and insects buzzed everywhere. The jungle smelled like rotting vegetation, and in front of his command post tent were four ranks of new replacements wearing fresh green fatigues, looking bewildered, probably tired and sick after their ocean voyage. Sergeant Donnelly from Headquarters Company had marched them here and made himself ramrod straight, hollering: "Attention!”

  The replacements snapped to attention and Colonel Hutchins advanced toward them, his helmet low over his eyes, looking mean as hell. His green uniform was faded and torn in a few places, and he knew he looked like a fat old man to them, but they'd find out all about that soon enough. "At ease!” Colonel Hutchins shouted.

  The men kicked out their left feet and clasped their hands behind their backs. Some were tall and some were short. Some were on the hefty side and some were on the skinny side. Their faces were maps of Ireland, Italy, Poland, England, and various other European countries. They came from all over America, from all walks of life; some had enlisted, some had been drafted. They'd had sixteen weeks of basic training, a trip on a boat, and now they were at the front on New Guinea.

  Colonel Hutchins threw back his shoulders, sucked in his chest, and hollered, "Good morning, men!”

  "Good morning, sir!” they replied.

  "Can't hear you!” he told them.

  "Good morning, sir!” they shouted louder.

  "Still can't hear you!”

  "Good morning, sir!” they screamed at the tops of their lungs.

  "You sound like a bunch of cunts! Let's hear it one more time!”

  "Good morning, sir!”

  Their voices reverberated across the Headquarters Company area, making tent poles tremble and scaring birds roosting in the trees. Soldiers looked in the direction of the sound to see what was going on. Mess gear rattled in the mess hall, and the voices even carried to the other side of the Driniumor River, where Japanese sentries wrinkled their foreheads and wondered what the hell was going on.

  “That's better,” said Colonel Hutchins. “You're supposed to be men and I expect you to sound like men, not a bunch of goddamned cunts. Is that clear?”

  "Yes sir!”

  “Good.” Colonel Hutchins placed his fists on his hips and looked them over. “My name's Hutchins,” he said, “Colonel Robert Hutchins, and I'm the commanding officer of this regiment. That means I'm your boss from now on, and when I tell you to shit, I want you to say how much, what color, and where. I don't take any guff and if any one of you thinks you can give me some we can go in back of this tent here and have it out right now. Anybody wanna try that?”

  Nobody moved a muscle, and that's what Colonel Hutchins expected. He knew none of them would dare step out of line. They were too intimidated by the whole Army system. It had ground them down and fucked them over until they'd become American Fighting Men.

  “Very fine,” Colonel Hutchins said. “I'm glad there ain't no dopes among you. I don't want no dopes in this regiment, because this is the greatest regiment in the Army. This is the fighting Twenty-third Infantry, and in this war we've seen action on Guadalcanal, New Georgia, Bougainville, and now we're here in the asshole of the world, New Guinea. Your mommas never told you about New Guinea, did they?”

  There was silence for a few seconds.

  “I thought I just asked you fuckheads a question!” Colonel Hutchins said.

  "No sir!” the men replied.

  Colonel Hutchins cupped his right hand next to his ear. “Can't hear you,” he said.

  "No sir!” the men hollered, and once again mess gear rattled in mess halls and tent poles trembled in the ground.

  “That's better,” Colonel Hutchins said. “For a moment there I thought I had a bunch of Red Cross girls in front of me. Now where was I? Oh yeah—I was gonna tell you about this island of ours. Well, it ain't gonna be a vacation, gentlemen. We got scorpions, snakes, and every bug you ever dreamed of, including some even the scientists never heard of before. And if you think it's hot right now, this is only morning. This is the cold part of the day. It'll probably get up to a hundred degrees in the shade this afternoon, because it gets up to that every afternoon unless it rains, and when it rains you're gonna wish the sun was out, because when it rains on this rotten fucking island, it really rains. The ground turns into the consistency of rat shit. Does everybody here know what rat shit is like?”

  "Yes sir!”

  Colonel Hutchins stuck his little finger in his ear and wiggled it around. “There go them fucking Red Cross girls again.”

  "Yes sir!”

  “Well that's what it gets like here,” Colonel Hutchins continued, “rat shit. But if all we had to worry about was rat shit and the weather, we'd be okay, because there's one more problem we got here that's the worst of all, and that's the Japs. Now all you men know what Japs are, don't you?”

  "Yes sir!”

  “That's bullshit,” Colonel Hutchins told them. “You don't know what Japs are because you never faced them in battle, and let me tell you, gentlemen, that real war is a damned sight different from what they taught you in basic training. War is hell, somebody famous said, but I think it's worse than hell. How can anything be worse than hell? you might wonder. Well you're gonna find out in a little while, maybe even today. Now where was I? Oh yeah, I was gonna tell you what Japs are like. Well first of all, Japs are the ugliest sons of bitches you ever seen in your life. Most of them are runts and look something
like monkeys, except they ain't as smart or as decent as monkeys. They got this sick-looking yellow skin, and some of them are even a pale-green color like a fucking lizard. What a Jap doesn't have in brains, he makes up for in sneakiness. You got to stay alert here on the front lines, gentlemen, otherwise a Jap will crawl beside you and cut your fucking throat. You won't hear him coming. He won't say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you.’ He'll just rip out your jugular vein and that'll be the end of you. So keep your eyes open. Don't ever fall asleep unless your buddy is awake, because Japs love to cut throats at night. Any questions?”

  "No sir!”

  Colonel Hutchins scratched his nose. “Now there's one last thing I wanna tell you about Japs,” he said. “They're scrappy little sons of bitches and all they wanna do is die for their Emperor. It's up to you to be decent American soldiers and help them out. Whenever you see a Jap, I expect you to kill him. If he's far away, shoot him, and if he's right in front of you, stick him with your bayonet before he sticks you. If he's in a pillbox you'll cook him with a flame thrower or blow him up with a hand grenade. There's all kinds of ways to kill Japs and I don't have time to go into all of them here, but you'll learn them all, provided you don't let one of the scummy little bastards kill you first. There's one important thing you gotta understand, and if you don't remember anything else I say here today, you gotta understand this one. Japs are tough. They like to fight. You can even say they're fanatics. They keep fighting even when you think they should be dead. So when you kill your Jap, make sure he's dead. Shoot him an extra time for good measure. Run your bayonet across his throat once more so he won't get up again. And whatever you do, don't expect a Jap to play fair. A Jap'll never give you an even break. Japs don't play fair. Japs play dirty, and if you wanna kill a Jap, you gotta play even dirtier. It's okay to kick Japs in the balls. There ain't no Army regulations against that. It's okay to gouge out their eyeballs. You can shoot ‘em in the back when they're running away, although Japs usually don't run away. You can do anything at all that you want, as long as you kill the sons of bitches. Is that clear?”