Meat Grinder Hill Page 4

  “Hey, DelFranco!” Gomez called out. “Gonna join the game?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Gomez laughed. He'd known DelFranco wouldn't join. DelFranco spent all his time with his Bible. DelFranco didn't believe in gambling, but the Reverend Billie Jones did. The Reverend Billie Jones was a gambling fool, but then he'd turn around and start giving you a sermon on morals and shit. Gomez couldn't figure Billie Jones out.

  DelFranco continued on his way to the latrine. He knew the others thought he was odd, and he was totally miserable in the Army, but he was trying to do his duty. Sometimes he thought he should have become a priest when he had the chance, but he hadn't done it because he didn't think he was smart enough or moral enough. He had too many lewd thoughts and believed he was too selfish to be a priest. But he was working on it. You always had to work on it to make yourself worthy of the Kingdom of God.

  A group of soldiers whom he didn't know came walking toward him, and they looked like a big, rowdy bunch.

  “Hey, this looks like one of them here!” said Sergeant Fowler, who was leading the pack through the jungle.

  “He's just a little guy,” Private Engle replied. “He looks like a pansy to me.”

  “Hey, are you a pansy?” Sergeant Fowler asked DelFranco.

  DelFranco knew trouble when he saw it. He just kept on walking.

  “Hey, I'm talking to you, sissy-boy!”

  DelFranco kept on walking.

  Fowler rushed toward him and grabbed the front of his shirt. “I just asked you a question, punk!”

  DelFranco looked up at Sergeant Fowler, his heart beating like a tom-tom. “I am under no obligation to answer your questions,” he said in a voice that was so steady, it surprised him more than it surprised Fowler.

  Fowler stared at him in disbelief, then laughed and pushed him out of the way. “Get lost, fag.”

  DelFranco wanted to tell him to drop dead, but a good Christian was supposed to turn the other cheek, so he just smoothed his shirt and continued on his way to the latrine.

  Meanwhile, back at the blanket, Corporal Gomez was getting the crap game under way. He was shaking the dice in his fist three inches from his ear and talking to them. “Come on, Mamacita, Chiquita, Pupusita—come on, seven—come on, eleven—talk to me!”

  He threw the dice; his eyes bulged as the cubes bounced over the blanket, rolling to a stop and coming up snake eyes.

  “You son of a bitch bastard!” Gomez said. “You dirty fucking cunt! You maricón whore!”

  Next to him Private Shilansky, the former bank robber from the Boston area, picked up the dice. He was among the tallest men in the platoon and had a very violent nature, with numerous courts-martial to prove it. He shook the dice high in the air. “Come, seven—come, eleven—and I'll be in heaven.”

  He let the dice fly, and they came up with a five and a three.

  “Eight's your point,” said Shaw.

  “I can read, asshole,” Shilansky said, picking up the dice again. As he was about to shake them again, he heard footsteps. Looking up, he saw Sergeant Fowler and the others approaching in the twilight.

  “Well, what we got here?” asked Fowler. “Looks like a little crap game!” He spread his legs and crossed his arms.

  “You're welcome to join, boys,” Shilansky said, blowing on the dice. “Just lay your money down.”

  “We don't play dice with scumbags and punks.”

  Suddenly everything became very quiet. Shilansky looked at Shaw. Shaw looked at Longtree. Longtree looked at Gomez, who already was reaching for the switchblade he'd brought with him all the way from the back alleys of Los Angeles. The recon platoon stood up.

  Shilansky smiled. “I don't think I heard you right, friend. What was that again?”

  “I ain't your fucking friend, and I said we don't play dice with scumbags, punks, and creeps who spend all their time kissing the colonel's ass.”

  Shilansky looked at Shaw. Shaw looked at Longtree. Long-tree looked at Gomez, whose hand was in his pocket, his thumb on the button of his switch. The rest of the recon platoon crowded around. The group in front of them outnumbered them by around ten men, but they'd faced worse odds than that since they came to Guadalcanal and had come out okay.

  “Well,” said Shilansky, “I guess it's gonna be one of them days.”

  “Looks that way,” Longtree agreed.

  The Reverend Billie Jones looked at the sky. “Lord, we try to stay out of trouble, but what can we do when trouble come looking for us?”

  At that point Bannon arrived to join in the crap game. “What's going on here?”

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked Sergeant Fowler, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Bannon glanced around and perceived in an instant that something heavy was about to go down. “Who wants to know?” Bannon asked.

  Sergeant Fowler noticed the three stripes on Bannon's arm and figured he must be the recon platoon sergeant, the one Sergeant Page had told him about. “Are you Bannon?”

  “What's it to you?”

  “I've been wanting to meet the recon platoon sergeant, because I heard he's Colonel Stockton's asshole buddy.”

  Bannon wanted to take Sergeant Fowler's head off, but he knew, from a court-martial point of view, that he shouldn't be the one to throw the first punch. “I think you'd better turn around and get out of here while you're still in one piece, fuckface.”

  “What you call me?”

  “Fuckface.”

  “You know, I'll bet you're that Bannon feller, Colonel Stockton's asshole buddy.”

  “Are you looking for a fight by any chance, Sergeant?”

  “Who, me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because you're someplace where you shouldn't be. If you come here to fight Bannon, here I stand.”

  The atmosphere crackled with electricity. The men in the recon platoon knew Bannon was trying to egg the other man on, to make him throw the first punch. Most of the men in the recon platoon had been through courts-martial and knew that score.

  Sergeant Fowler uncrossed his arms and lowered his hands to his sides, making fists. “So you're Bannon, huh?”

  “Did you come to talk or did you come to fight, shithead.”

  “I come to rearrange your face.”

  Sergeant Fowler raised his fists and charged, and the men he'd brought with him charged behind him. He threw an overhead right at Bannon's face, but Bannon got under it and dug an uppercut into Fowler's solar plexus. Fowler wheezed and Bannon punched him in the mouth. Then he went downstairs and hit him in the belly. Fowler swung wildly and Bannon threw a left hook that broke Sergeant Fowler's nose, blood spurting in all directions. Fowler swung wild again and Bannon threw a right hook that landed squarely on Fowler's jaw. Fowler was stunned and reached out to hang on to something, but Bannon smashed him in the mouth again and Fowler went down for the count.

  Shaw, the ex-heavyweight pro, was happy to have the opportunity to do some sparring, but his happiness soon turned to boredom. The first guy who came at him was wide open and Shaw knocked him out with a stiff left jab. The next guy telegraphed every punch and Shaw put him down with a left-right combination. The third guy was more tentative, pawing at Shaw with his left while trying to set him up with a right. Shaw let himself get set up, watched the right come, dodged to the side, and buried his fist almost to the wrist in the other soldier's fat stomach. The soldier fell down and Shaw thought, Oh, shit, isn't there anybody around here who can fight?

  He looked around and saw a big guy who looked stupid, pounding on Private Kroll, one of the smaller men in the recon platoon. “Hey, scumbucket!” Shaw shouted at the big soldier.

  The soldier looked at Shaw. Shaw winked and beckoned to him. The soldier turned from Kroll and moved toward Shaw like a big lumbering elephant. Shaw got up on the balls of his feet and started dancing, hoping this guy would give him a workout. The soldier stopped in puzzlement, g
rinned, and charged, trying to grab Shaw around the waist in a bear hug. Shaw danced backward, throwing a left, a right, and then another left at the soldier's head, connecting each time, but the soldier kept coming. Shaw dodged to the side, but the soldier followed him and lunged suddenly, wrapping his big arms around Shaw's waist. The big soldier squeezed and Shaw could feel sharp pressure on his spine.

  There was nothing for him to do except insert one finger in the soldier's left nostril, another finger in the right corner of the soldier's mouth, and pull. The soldier's face ripped apart in a bloody red jagged line, and he screamed, letting Shaw go. Shaw put all of his two hundred and ten pounds into a left punch that landed squarely on the soldier's mouth, breaking teeth and staggering him. Another punch, exactly the same, sent the big soldier sprawling into the mud.

  Gomez ran through the crowd, waving his switchblade in the air, but everyone got out of his way; nobody wanted any part of that cold razor-sharp weapon. A path opened wide in front of Gomez, and at its end stood a Mexican like himself, holding a switchblade pointed straight up in the air.

  Gomez stopped. Both men stared at each other. Then they began their deadly dance, circling round each other, waving the blades of their knives back and forth in the air. Gomez could see that his opponent was skilled with a knife, maybe as skilled as he, and he felt that intoxicating rush that accompanied mortal combat. Gomez feinted with his knife and the other man darted backward. He feinted again and the man moved to the side. The man feinted but Gomez didn't budge; he was anxious to get it on. The other man lunged suddenly, and Gomez tried to grab his wrist with his left hand, but he missed and his fingers closed around the blade of the other man's knife. The knife cut Gomez's hand to the bone, but Gomez didn't make a sound as he held on tightly and rammed his switchblade into the man's belly. The man staggered, his eyes rolling up into his head, and collapsed at Gomez's feet. Gomez held his hand in front of his face and looked at the deep gash as soldiers grunted and shouted all around him, throwing punches, kicking, rolling around on the ground, trying to strangle each other.

  Homer Gladley, the biggest man in the recon platoon, wasn't a particularly skillful fighter, but he had tremendous power. He waded through the men from Fox Company, swinging wildly, and no one had the strength to block his punches; he sent a succession of men crumbling to the ground, and once they landed they didn't get up again.

  Corporal Sam Longtree, built tall and lanky, like Bannon, relied on speed and fighting skill, always throwing more punches than his opponents and landing more, darting about as if his legs had springs in them; he was especially good at slipping punches.

  Longtree loved to fight and, as an Apache, had been taught since he was a child that fighting was a man's main function in life. A soldier from Fox Company threw a punch at him, and Longtree bent low, letting the punch fly over his head. Longtree grabbed the soldier by his belt and his shirt, lifted him into the air, and threw him to the ground, the impact of landing knocking the soldier senseless. Longtree jumped on the soldier's face, flattening out his nose, then leaped away and found himself facing another soldier from Fox Company.

  The soldier swung, but Longtree swung first, whacking the soldier's head back. The soldier's punch went wild and Long-tree punched him twice in the stomach, doubling him over. An uppercut sent the soldier flying through the air.

  Another soldier jumped on Longtree's back, wrapping his arms around Longtree's neck. Longtree shot his elbow backward, burying it in the soldier's ribs. The soldier grunted and loosened his hold on Longtree's neck, and Longtree dropped to his knees, slipping out of the soldier's grasp. He turned around, tackled the soldier, and pushed him to the ground, then straddled him and punched his face until the soldier was unconscious.

  The recon platoon ripped through the men of Fox Company as if they were made of paper. The battle didn't take long, but it lasted long enough for Captain Leach to hear the commotion and stick his head out of the tent. He couldn't see much through the thick foliage, but he knew something improper was going on. Pulling his head back into the tent, he looked at Sergeant Page's empty chair.

  “Where's Sergeant Page?” he asked Pfc. Sawyer.

  “I dunno, sir.”

  Captain Leach put on his helmet and walked in long strides toward the sound of the tumult. When he was halfway there he spotted Sergeant Page walking quickly toward the CP tent, an expression of horror on his face.

  “What's going on over there, Sergeant?”

  Sergeant Page hadn't noticed Captain Leach because Sergeant Page was stunned by the way the fight had turned out. The recon platoon was kicking the shit out of Sergeant Fowler and his men. “Huh?”

  “I said what's going on over there?”

  “Over where?”

  Captain Leach pointed. “Over there.”

  Sergeant Page looked in that direction. “There?”

  “Yes, where you're coming from.”

  “Um... I...”

  “I think you'd better come with me, Sergeant.”

  They made their way through the jungle, but by the time they got to the scene of the fight, it was all over. The ground was strewn with men from Fox Company, while the men from the recon platoon were jubilant, slapping each other on their backs, lighting up cigarettes, discussing the fun they'd had. The new recon platoon medic, Private Joel Blum, was trying to stop the bleeding of the Mexican who'd been knifed by Gomez. About ten men from Fox Company had fled when they realized the battle was going against them, and they could be heard in the distance, crashing through the jungle.

  Captain Leach blinked and his jaw dropped open at the sight of the devastation.

  “What's going on here?”

  “Sir,” said Sergeant Page, “it looks as if the recon platoon has attacked some of our men.”

  “What were our men doing over here in the recon platoon area?”

  “I...ah...”

  Captain Leach saw Bannon laughing and smoking with Longtree and Shilansky. "Bannon!”

  Bannon's head snapped around. "Yes, sir!”

  "Get over here!”

  Bannon threw away his cigarette and put on a straight face, running toward Captain Leach, saluting. “Yes, sir!”

  “What the hell's going on?”

  “Well, sir,” Bannon explained, “a little while ago, just as my men were getting ready to sack out, some of your men came over and picked a fight with us. We didn't throw the first punch, sir. One of your men did. He's over there someplace.” Bannon pointed with his thumb behind him to the spot where Sergeant Fowler lay, his face like hamburger.

  “That's a lie!” Sergeant Page exploded. “My men would never start trouble like this!”

  Captain Leach looked at Sergeant Page. “Then what were they doing over here?”

  “Over here?” Sergeant Page wrinkled his forehead. “Maybe they came over to welcome the recon platoon to our company area.”

  Somehow that didn't ring true to Captain Leach. Then he remembered Sergeant Page rushing from the scene of the fight. “What were you doing over here, Page?”

  “Who, me?” Sergeant Page took a step backward, pointed to his chest, and shook his head. “I wasn't over here, sir.”

  “I saw you coming from this direction. What were you doing over here?”

  “Um ... just taking a walk, sir.”

  “And you didn't hear the fight?”

  “No, sir.”

  Captain Leach knew that Sergeant Page had to be lying, because anyone in the area would have heard the sound of fighting. Moreover, he'd caught Sergeant Page lying numerous times in the past, so he knew Sergeant Page wasn't a particularly truthful person. He recalled the argument Sergeant Page had had with Bannon in the CP tent earlier that day. Captain Leach put two and two together. Sergeant Page had probably connived to have some men from Fox Company beat up the recon platoon, but the recon platoon had turned the tables. “Sergeant Page,” he said. “Get the company medics over here right away. And then I want to speak with you in my tent.”<
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  “Yes, sir.”

  Sergeant Page, an unhappy look on his face, walked away, his big belly bouncing up and down over his belt. Some of the men from Fox Company were getting up and staggering back to their company area. Others were still out cold. The man whom Corporal Gomez had knifed had lost a lot of blood, and Private Blum was struggling to keep him alive.

  Bannon shrugged. “I'm awfully sorry about this, sir, but your people came over here; we didn't go over there.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Lieutenant Leach felt as if he should apologize to Bannon, but one doesn't apologize to one's inferiors. “If any of your men need medical attention, just ask our medics for help. They'll be here soon.”

  “We got our own medic, sir.”

  “I doubt whether anything like this will happen again, but if it does, I hope you'll come directly to me before it gets out of hand.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That is all. Carry on.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bannon saluted and Captain Leach walked away. Bannon turned around and smiled, joining the men from the recon platoon who gathered around him, bruised, their knuckles bleeding.

  “What he say?” asked Shaw.

  “What could he say?” replied Bannon. “He knows what happened. Evidently that fat fuck of a first sergeant set the whole thing up. Anyway, let's get cleaned up and hit the sack. We gotta get up early tomorrow.”

  The men dispersed and headed for their pup tents. Shaw looked back at the men from Fox Company who were still lying unconscious on the ground. Gee, he thought, I bet Frankie La Barbara would've liked to have been here for this.

  The 1939 Chevrolet staff car, painted khaki, came to a stop in a desolate part of the jungle on new Caledonia. Frankie La Barbara pulled up the emergency brake and turned off the ignition, then faced chubby brunette Lieutenant Wanda Gleason from Toledo, Ohio. “Let's take our clothes off,” he said.

  “Frankie, we just got here!”