Down and Dirty Page 4

  Butsko held his M 1 ready and moved sideways between the boulders, entering the cave. Bannon was behind him, nearly gagging on the fetid smoke. On the floor of the cave were charred bodies torn apart by the hand-grenade blasts.

  “Bannon, go back and see how far the cave goes!”

  “Yo.”

  Bannon walked toward the rear of the cave and the light became dimmer. His foot touched something soft, and he looked down at the outline of another charred body. He also could perceive boxes and tin cans on the ground. Several steps later he came to the rear of the cave.

  “This is the end of it!” Bannon shouted.

  “Okay, let's get out of here!”

  Bannon followed the others out of the cave and gulped down the fresh air outside.

  “We might as well break for chow right here,” Butsko said. “Squad leaders, post your guards.”

  THREE . . .

  It rained that night, and in the poor visibility ten Japanese destroyers, carrying men and supplies, made their way through the American blockade of Guadalcanal, unloading near Cape Esperance.

  Among the troops paddling to shore was Colonel Kumao Imoto, a staff officer under General Hitoshi Imamura, who commanded the army group that was fighting in the Solomon Islands and on New Guinea.

  Colonel Imoto had helped draw up the evacuation plan for the Seventeenth Army on Guadalcanal and had been ordered to present the plan to General Harukichi Hyakutake, who commanded the Seventeenth Army. Colonel Imoto was short and dapper, wearing a freshly laundered and pressed uniform and highly polished knee-high boots; a thin mustache covered his upper lip.

  The first thing he saw when he hit the beach was a bloated dead body, and he'd been a staff officer for so long that it shocked him. Why doesn't somebody bury him? he thought.

  The landing party organized and began its long trek toward General Hyakutake's headquarters. The pouring rain drenched Colonel Imoto's uniform, and soon he looked like just another worn-out and bedraggled Japanese soldier on Guadalcanal, except that he was stouter, for staff officers in Rabaul ate better than frontline troops on Guadalcanal.

  Around midnight Colonel Imoto came to General Hyaku-take's camp, a complex of shacks and tents near Tassafaronga Point. Rain poured down on him as he spoke with guards who told him where General Hyakutake's command post was. Imoto followed directions and soon came to a raggedy tent pitched at a bizarre angle, and inside he found Colonel Haruo Konuma and several other officers. The roof of the tent was leaking and the officers lay on beds made of coconut leaves. In a corner, Major Mitsuo Suginoo was shaving by candlelight. Suginoo recognized Imoto because they'd once served together in the same regiment.

  “Well, well, well,” said Suginoo, brandishing his razor, “look who's here.”

  Colonel Imoto squinted his eyes. “Is that you, Mitsuo?”

  “It is indeed.”

  “What in the world are you doing?”

  “I am preparing to die tomorrow.”

  “Are things as bad here as I've been told?”

  “I'm sure they're even worse than you've been told,” said Suginoo, cutting a swathe through the beard and shaving soap on his cheek. “A hundred Japanese soldiers are dying of starvation on this island every day. There are reports of cannibalism in the field. Approximately one-third of our soldiers are so weak from hunger that they can no longer walk. We place them in holes with their rifles and they fight as best they can. Do you want to hear more?”

  “No, thank you,” said Colonel Imoto, horrified by what he had heard. “Where's General Hyakutake?”

  “In a tent not far from here, but you'd better speak with General Miyazaki before you see General Hyakutake.”

  Colonel Konuma and Mayor Suginoo escorted Colonel Imoto to a tent nearby that was the headquarters of General Shuichi Miyazaki, who was General Hyakutake's chief of staff. General Miyazaki was seated at his desk, drinking a cup of weak tea, when the three officers entered. Rain pelted the slanting roof of the tent, but none leaked through. Colonel Imoto saluted and reported.

  “Have a seat, Colonel,” General Miyazaki said. “What brings you to our lovely island?”

  Imoto sat erectly on his chair. “I have brought General Imamura's order for the evacuation of Guadalcanal,” he said. General Miyazaki blinked, then glanced at Major Suginoo and Colonel Konuma. “Evacuation from Guadalcanal?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  General Miyazaki groaned. “I don't believe it.”

  “It's true. I have the documents right here.” Colonel Imoto took them from his briefcase and placed them on General Miyazaki's desk.

  General Miyazaki examined the papers, his eyes drooping and the muscles in his face going slack. “So it's finally come to this,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “What a tragedy.”

  The tent became silent except for the sound of rain on the canvas and wind thrashing the palm trees nearby. Colonel Imoto felt uncomfortable, like an intruder at a family gathering. General Miyazaki raised his eyes and looked at him.

  “How can we evacuate Guadalcanal after losing so many men here?” General Miyazaki asked.

  “The details of the evacuation are in the documents, sir.”

  “I know that, but I mean how can Headquarters let the island go after so much Japanese blood has been spilled here? Why cannot the effort be made to drive the Americans back into the sea?”

  “Lack of equipment, men, and ships, sir. We are fighting on many fronts. It has been decided in Tokyo to consolidate our perimeter so that we can defend it more easily.”

  “But how can I order my men to run away with their tails between their legs after I've told them to fight to the death in their foxholes?”

  “I don't know, sir.”

  General Miyazaki turned down the corners of his mouth. “After all we've been through here, it is unthinkable that we would retreat now. We do not mean to be disobedient, but we cannot carry out the order. We must fight on with furious intensity and die bravely, thus giving everyone an example of Japanese army tradition.”

  Colonel Imoto was flabbergasted by General Miyazaki's response, but before he could think of what to say, Colonel Konuma spoke. “The evacuation order is ridiculous. It simply is not feasible to withdraw at this time. Our front is too entangled with the enemy, and if any of our men did manage to get on the ships, they'd end by drowning. It's impossible, so please return to Rabaul and leave us alone.”

  Colonel Imoto was beginning to think that he had walked into a nightmare. The rain, the tents, the rickety shacks— together with the bizarre behavior of the officers—were unsettling him. It seemed as if normal army discipline was breaking down on Guadalcanal. Gathering together his courage and will, he pointed to the orders on General Miyazaki's desk.

  “Don't you realize,” he said, “that those documents'constitute a legal order from the commander of the army group based on the wishes of the Emperor? Are you telling me that you refuse to obey the wishes of the Emperor?”

  General Miyazaki looked at Colonel Konuma. They were confused and embarrassed.

  “You say the Emperor is behind this?” General Miyazaki asked Colonel Imoto.

  “Yes. The Emperor himself has made this decision.”

  “I see,” said General Miyazaki. “In that case you are quite correct. This is not my decision to make. General Hyakutake will make the final decision. I will take you to him now.”

  General Miyazaki put on his steel helmet and raincoat, then led Colonel Imoto out of the tent and into the clearing. It was still raining and the sky was lighter because it was dawn behind the thick cloud layer. Everything looked wasted and desolate to Colonel Imoto, like the end of the world.

  Finally they came to a tent pitched near the roots of a gigantic tree. General Miyazaki announced himself, and a high-pitched voice from within told him to enter. General Miyazaki threw the tent flap to one side, and Colonel Imoto saw the famous General Hyakutake sitting cross-legged on a blanket, his hands folded in his lap. A small black st
atue of the Buddha sat on an empty ammunition crate in front of him; evidently he'd been meditating. He was a slender, severe-looking man of fifty-five, and his eyes were as sorrowful as a dog's.

  “This is Colonel Imoto,” General Miyazaki said. “He has orders for you from Rabaul.”

  Colonel Imoto bowed and handed over the orders. General Hyakutake, still sitting cross-legged, read them, his eyes gradually widening. Then he laid the orders in his lap and sighed. “This is a most difficult order to receive,” he said.

  “I can appreciate that, sir.”

  “I cannot make up my mind right now. You'll have to give me some time.”

  Colonel Imoto was confused. “I'm afraid I don't understand, sir.”

  “What don't you understand, Colonel?”

  “I don't understand what you have to make up your mind about.”

  “About whether to obey this order.”

  “But it is the wish of the Emperor.”

  “That's why I have to think about it.”

  General Miyazaki bowed. “We'll leave you to your thoughts, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  General Miyazaki dragged Colonel Imoto out of the tent by his sleeve.

  “This is a most peculiar place,” Colonel Imoto said as the rain dropped from the leaves of the trees onto his hat. “I've never been in a situation before where Japanese officers decided which orders they'd obey and which they wouldn't.”

  General Miyazaki smiled faintly. “Welcome to Guadalcanal.”

  “Everybody up!” said Butsko. “Drop your cocks and grab your socks!”

  Bannon opened his eyes inside the tiny pup tent he shared with Craig Delane. It still was dark and the rain was pouring down.

  “I really can't take much more of this,” said Delane, whose feet had slipped underneath the tent during the night and were resting in a puddle of mud.

  “That's what you think,” Bannon replied.

  Outside they heard the clatter of the recon platoon waking up. Men cursed, knocked down tent poles, and checked their M 1s to make sure they were dry. Bannon reached for a cigarette and lit it up. Letting the cigarette dangle from the corner of his lips, he groped for his socks and pulled them on, smelling his armpits and the unwashed body of Craig Delane.

  “I'd do anything for a nice hot shower,” Craig Delane said.

  “Don't talk about it,” Bannon replied. “Don't even think about it.”

  “I really don't know what I was thinking about when I joined the Army,” Delane grumbled.

  “I don't want to hear it,” Bannon told him. “I've heard it too many times already.”

  It was true: Delane couldn't stop talking about it. He came from one of the wealthiest and most socially prominent families in New York City, and his father could have paid somebody to have him declared 4-F, but Craig Delane enlisted in the Army infantry out of a weird sense of patriotism and the hope that pretty debutantes would admire him in a snappy uniform. He even turned down a commission because he wanted to be just another soldier, an ordinary GI Joe. This is where idealism gets you, Delane thought. Up Shit Creek without a paddle.

  Bannon pulled on his socks; his toes hurt because he had a mild case of trench foot. His cheek was swollen where he'd been hit with the grenade fragment the day before, and his stomach growled with hunger. Delane farted and Bannon covered his nose with his shirt.

  “Sorry,” said Delane.

  Bannon opened the tent flap to let some air in, but the rain came in too. It was a chilly, miserable morning and all his clothes were damp. He put them on, laced up his boots, grabbed his M 1 rifle, and crawled out of the tent, his mouth tasting foul, his teeth loose in his gums.

  He stood up and looked around. Everything was gray and the ground was a slimy layer of mud. He remembered the sunny golden days on the ranch back in Texas, and it was like another world. This fucking war is wearing me down, he thought. I'm not as strong as I used to be. I'll probably get shot any day now.

  He went to the latrine and took a shit while mosquitoes sucked blood out of his ass. Then he returned to his tent, where he'd left his helmet out all night so it could catch rainwater. His helmet was full and he washed his hands in the cool water, rinsed out his mouth, splashed his face, and dried himself with his old moldy towel.

  Next came breakfast; it was K rations again. The wood was too wet to make a fire, so he couldn't have hot coffee. But at least he could finish it off with a cigarette. He took out a Chesterfield and lit it up, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs as water dripped from leaves and branches onto him and a cloud of mosquitoes buzzed around him.

  Bannon saw Shaw walk across the clearing toward Butsko's tent for Butsko's morning orientation meeting, and Bannon felt relieved that he didn't have to go through that shit anymore. It was nice not to have the responsibility and headaches. Let Shaw have it if he wanted it. Fuck ‘em all.

  Bannon knew they'd be moving out before long and thought he'd better check his M 1. He looked at it; the layer of oil he'd poured on the night before was covered with drops of water. He opened the bolt and looked down the barrel, and there was water in there too. He poured some oil on a patch and ran it through the barrel to get the water out and keep the metal from rusting. Wiping down the metal parts of the rifle with an old sock, he added another thick layer of oil.

  Shaw came back and told the First Squad to break camp because they were moving out.

  “Where we going this time?” asked Frankie La Barbara.

  Shaw pointed west. “Thataway.”

  They struck tents, unbuttoned them, and rolled up the shelter halves with their blankets. Everything was soggy and wet, covered with mud and leaves.

  “Delane,” Bannon said, “I think I'm gonna get it today.”

  Delane shrugged and lit a cigarette. He didn't have the energy to disagree with Bannon because he was constipated and had a headache, and on top of that he wasn't sure that he had much longer to live either.

  Butsko carried his full field pack, and his helmet was low over his eyes. He walked to the center of the clearing and shouted, “Fall in!”

  The GIs hoisted their packs onto their shoulders and formed four squad ranks in front of Butsko, dressing right and covering down, standing at attention.

  “Report!” said Butsko.

  Jesus Christ, thought Bannon. What does he think this is, a parade?

  Shaw saluted snappily. “First Squad all present and accounted for!”

  Butsko saluted back. The other three squad leaders reported. Bannon figured Butsko was trying to get a little military discipline going in the recon platoon.

  “At ease!” said Butsko.

  The GIs moved their left feet out and clasped their hands behind their backs. Butsko looked them over, a scowl on his face. He, too, was unshaven, but his beard was thicker than theirs and grew higher on his cheekbones, which gave him a wild-animal appearance.

  “All right,” he said, “we're going Jap-hunting today. Pay attention, keep your eyes open, and I don't want any fuck-ups. If we run into any Japs, we'll take care of them ourselves unless there are a lot of them, and then we'll call for help. Any questions?”

  Nobody said anything.

  “Okay, now, I've been wandering around here this morning and I've been hearing a lot of pissing and moaning. You don't like the weather. You're sick of the chow. You wish you were home, sucking your mothers’ titties. I'm getting sick of hearing it. You sound like a bunch of cunts. You make me sick. You'd better straighten out your backbones and wake the fuck up, because a dopey soldier soon becomes a dead soldier. Any questions?”

  Nobody dared to open his mouth.

  “All right, let's move it out. First Squad take the point.”

  Shaw led the First Squad in a single column into the jungle, and Gomez ran up ahead to be the eyes and ears of the platoon. The rest of the men followed, trudging into the jungle, soaked to their skins. Bannon remembered what Butsko said and tried to sharpen his senses, but it didn't work. He felt too ro
tten. The day was too awful. He had nothing to hope for. Fuck it, let ‘em kill me, he thought.

  The recon platoon made its way through the jungle on a narrow, winding trail. Rain fell, pinging on their helmets and dripping down their backs. Blisters formed on their wet feet and bugs ate them alive. The temperature rose and many of the men felt that they simply could not go on, but they did, placing one foot in front of the other, thinking about home and the wives or girl friends they'd left behind. All felt queasy in their stomachs from the constant diet of C rations and K rations. Frankie La Barbara thought of shooting himself in the leg so he could be sent back to the hospital on New Caledonia.

  Branches scratched their faces and clawed at their clothes. Leeches dropped onto them from trees; the men didn't even feel them sucking their blood. They smoked cigarettes even though they knew cigarettes cut their wind, but they were young men and had vast reserves of energy. If they were twenty years older, they couldn't have kept up that pace for more than an hour.

  At eleven o'clock in the morning they were still on the move and hadn't even taken a break yet. They were all exhausted, pissed of, and in pain. On the point, Gomez was in better shape than any of them, because he knew they all were relying on him. He willed himself to stay vigilant and strong and called on Jesus Christ to help him, for Gomez was religious in his own way and wore a gold cross around his neck with his dog tags, although he'd been a petty hoodlum in civilian life, rolling drunks and breaking into people's homes. He had even killed three men from rival gangs with his long, lethal switchblade.

  The jungle thinned out in front of him and he came to the edge of a coconut plantation. The trees grew in neat rows and leaned lazily in all directions. The terrain was wide open compared to the jungle, and Gomez thought he'd better stop, because Butsko might want to go around the plantation rather than directly through it.

  He leaned against a tree and looked up at the sky. The clouds were still dark and oily and the rain came down. When is this rain going to stop? he wondered. I feel like I'm drowning in it.