Satan's Cage Read online

  “See anything?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.

  “I see lots,” McGurk replied.

  “What do you see?”

  “Tracks. They ran in here.”

  “Which way were they headed.”

  McGurk pointed east. “That way.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked toward the east and figured the Japs who’d ambushed the truck probably were trying to work their way back to their lines. He glanced up at the sky and saw thick cloud formations. It probably would rain soon. The Japs had a three-and-a-half-hour start on him, but if he and his men moved fast they could make it up.

  McGurk stood and wiped his hands off on his fatigue pants. His Thompson submachine gun was slung crossways over his back. They’d taken a Jap bullet out of his back last night, but the bullet had been pretty much spent by the time it hit him, and it hadn’t touched any vital organs. The doctors dug it out and sewed up the little hole. Such a wound would have hospitalized another man for a month, but McGurk was strong as an ox. It’d take more than a stray bullet to stop him.

  “There’s probably around twenty of them,” McGurk said.

  “That many?”

  “Looks that way, sir.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge glanced at his men. He’d only brought eight with him. He wondered if he should send for more, but decided not to because that’d waste valuable time. The main thing was to get going after the Japs.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s move out. McGurk, take the point.”

  McGurk unslung his Thompson submachine gun, holding the weapon in both hands in case he had to use it suddenly. He bent low and pushed into the bushes, following the trail the Japs had made. Lieutenant Breckenridge waited until McGurk was nearly out of sight, and then followed him on the trail. Behind Lieutenant Breckenridge came Sergeant Bannon, Pfc. Frankie La Barbara, Pfc. Morris Shilansky, Private Victor Yabalonka, and Pfc. Billie Jones. Bringing up the rear was Private Clement R. Bisbee, the former carnie, an expert knife thrower but unfortunately a pathological thief also.

  The patrol from the recon platoon entered the jungle in a long meandering file. Back on the road, the MPs watched them go. The devastated truck had been towed away long ago. The dead soldiers were already in Aitape, in caskets that looked like long wicker baskets, awaiting shipment to cemeteries back in the good old U.S. of A.

  Lieutenant Akiyama opened his eyes. He blinked because at first he didn’t know where he was. He’d been dreaming that he was attending a luncheon at the royal palace in Tokyo. It had been summer and ladies in thin cotton kimonos walked along paths of the royal gardens, admiring royal flowers. It had been a beautiful gathering, and he wore his white cadet uniform with gold braid on his epaulets, but now he was back in the jungle of New Guinea, trapped behind enemy lines, in a desperate and perhaps hopeless situation.

  He looked at his watch. It was 1800 hours. The sun was sinking toward the horizon. Soon it would be dark and he could move out with his men. The first thing they had to do was find water. His throat was parched and he was sure his men were thirsty too. The American food they’d stolen had been very salty. In fact it had been too salty. He’d thought it dreadful food, but he also thought that Americans were dreadful people. They had no dignity, honor, or finesse, he believed. Their food was like garbage and they were the garbage of the earth, a mongrel race of mixed lineages, unlike the pure Japanese race that was descended from gods.

  He wondered whether he should wake up his men early and get a head start. He looked at the sun, a molten red ball near the horizon, and decided to let them sleep for a bit longer. They’d need all their strength for the long trek back to Japanese lines.

  Lieutenant Akiyama stood, walked into the bushes nearby, and took a leak. Returning to where he’d slept, he sat cross-legged on the ground and took his map out of his haversack. He unfolded the map and tried to figure out where he was. It was hard to know for sure. He could climb a tree and take azimuths of prominent landmarks that could be located on the map, but didn’t think that was necessary. He knew generally where he was, and that would be good enough.

  All around him he heard sounds of activity. American bivouacs were everywhere, with their trucks and jeeps driving around, their officers and sergeants shouting orders, the men dropping mess kits or cleaning their weapons. He estimated that he was approximately a half mile from the nearest American bivouac, but that was too close for comfort. He thought many such bivouacs were between him and his own lines, and he wondered how he could get through them with his twenty-two men.

  Maybe I shouldn’t go through them, he thought. Maybe I should go around them. He traced his dirty fingernail along the map. I could go south and get away from these Americans altogether. Then I could head east. It might be safer that way and easier to search for water if there are no Americans around.

  It seemed to be a reasonable plan. He decided to do it. Glancing at the sun again, he saw a sliver of it beneath the treeline. The shadows were growing longer. Lieutenant Akiyama took out a package of Lucky Strikes that he’d found in one of the American field packs. He couldn’t read English and thought the red orb in the center of the back was similar to the red orb in the center of the Japanese flag, indicating the rising sun. He thought it strange that Americans carried the symbol of Japan on their cigarette packs. He wondered why they put the Japanese flag on their cigarettes instead of the American flag. How very peculiar, he thought, taking a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it up. What an odd people they are.

  The jungle was thick and tangled, and the recon platoon moved slowly along the path made by the Japanese soldiers. McGurk led the way, peering at the ground and leaves, holding his submachine gun ready to fire in case the Japs had laid an ambush for them.

  The trail was difficult to follow. Untrained eyes probably couldn’t see it at all, but McGurk was an experienced woodsman. Back home in the forests of Maine he’d even been able to sneak up on foxes, the most sensitive and aware creatures in existence, and sometimes got close enough to actually touch them. When he did they nearly jumped out of their skins and ran away so quickly it appeared as if they’d suddenly vanished off the face of the earth.

  McGurk’s knees were bent and his torso folded over at the waist. He sniffed the air as he examined the branches and the ground. He saw the prints of Japanese combat boots on the leaves that covered the soft muck of the jungle. He noticed branches bent ever so slightly out of shape. The tracks weren’t very old. The Japs weren’t far away. McGurk heard something in the bushes straight ahead. He stopped, held up his hand, and the men behind him stopped also.

  McGurk dropped onto his belly, and so did the men behind him. Had the Japs set an ambush? Were they waiting for the recon platoon to blunder into it? McGurk crawled forward silently. His big nose twitched and his long lantern jaw nearly scraped on the ground. He held his submachine gun in both hands and his finger was on the trigger.

  A bird suddenly leapt into the air straight ahead. McGurk raised his submachine gun and nearly shot the bird, before he realized what it was. The sound had been made by that bird. McGurk stood up, and so did the men behind him. He walked forward in a crouch and saw the wrapper of a Hershey bar lying on the grass where the bird had been. McGurk bent over and picked up the wrapper.

  “What’ve you got there?” asked Lieutenant Breckenridge, catching up with him.

  McGurk held out the wrapper. Lieutenant Breckenridge took it.

  “A Jap must’ve dropped it,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “I bet the son of a bitch stole it from one of the GIs on that truck.”

  “Japs must be hungry,” McGurk said.

  “I wonder how long ago they were here.”

  McGurk got down on his hands and knees and looked at the ground. “About two hours, I’d say.”

  “Let’s go,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “We don’t want them to get too far away.”

  McGurk bent low and moved forward on the trail. Lieutenant Breckenridge followed with the rest of the re
con platoon.

  Night came to the jungle and the stars came out. All the clouds had been driven away by the tropical winds and the full moon shone high in the sky. It didn’t appear that it would rain after all.

  “Everybody up,” said Lieutenant Akiyama. “Time to go.”

  His men roused themselves and got up off the ground. They drank some water, trying not to be too greedy because they didn’t have much left. Then they went into the bushes and relieved themselves as Lieutenant Akiyama took a final look at his compass and map.

  “Sergeant Okamoto.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Come here.”

  Sergeant Okamoto walked toward Lieutenant Akiyama and squatted down.

  “I’ve decided to change the direction of our march,” Lieutenant Akiyama said. “There are too many Americans to our east. We will go south and skirt around them. How does that sound to you?”

  “It will be safer to the south, but it will take so much longer.”

  “Time is of no importance to me. The safety of the men is my principal consideration right now.”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  “Take out your compass.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Sergeant Okamoto removed his compass from the little pouch attached to his belt.

  “Head in the direction of approximately one hundred and seventy degrees. I’ll tell you when to stop, and then we’ll move in an easterly direction again.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Be very careful. Americans are everywhere around here.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That is all.”

  Sergeant Okamoto stood and gathered his men around him. He told them of Lieutenant Akiyama’s decision and designated Private Kitagima as the point man. Private Kitagima held his compass in his hand and adjusted himself in the direction of 170 degrees. Then he moved into the thick dark jungle. Sergeant Okamoto followed him with the rest of the men. Lieutenant Akiyama brought up the rear.

  Forty-five minutes later, Private McGurk found the clearing where the Japanese soldiers had eaten C rations and taken their nap. He motioned for Lieutenant Breckenridge to come forward.

  “What’s wrong?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong, sir. The Japs slept here for a while.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked around. “Here?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because of the way the ground is.”

  “Show me.”

  McGurk got down on his knees, and Lieutenant Breckenridge joined him. McGurk pointed to the grass and shoots growing on the jungle floor. “If they’d never been here,” McGurk said, “the grass would be growing straight up and down, but it’s not growing straight up and down, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If they only were here for a little time, the grass woulda been bent over, but not that much. But this grass is laying almost flat, so that means they were here for a long time.”

  “Where did they go?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.

  “Lemme look around.”

  Private McGurk proceeded to crawl around the clearing. Lieutenant Breckenridge sat on the ground and wished he could smoke a cigarette, but the lit end could be seen too far at night.

  “I’m tired,” Frankie La Barbara said on the other side of the clearing. “When’re we gonna take a fucking break.”

  “Shut up,” said Bannon.

  “Fuck you,” Frankie replied. “You shut up.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “It is down.”

  “No it’s not. You sound like a fucking foghorn.”

  “Your mother’s a fucking foghorn.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge groaned. Frankie La Barbara always was such a problem, but he was useful whenever there was fighting to be done. Lieutenant Breckenridge stood up and walked toward Frankie, who saw him coming and turned to face him.

  “The Japs might be close by,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said to Frankie, “and you’re talking too loud. You’re liable to get yourself shot, but that doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that you’re liable to get somebody else shot. So shut up.”

  “I wasn’t talking that loud,” Frankie said sullenly.

  “I said shut up.”

  Frankie pinched his lips together. He was mad because he didn’t like to take orders, but he didn’t feel like defying Lieutenant Breckenridge, because Lieutenant Breckenridge had kicked his ass a few times in the past. Frankie was a six-footer, but Lieutenant Breckenridge was six-four and outweighed Frankie. Frankie had found out the hard way that Lieutenant Breckenridge punched harder than he did. Frankie decided to shut up.

  “I don’t want to hear another peep out of you until we get back,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said with overtones of menace and undertones of threat.

  Frankie said nothing. He felt that he was being singled out for public humiliation, and that didn’t go down well with him. He’d remember this incident. Frankie La Barbara never forgot a humiliation, and revenge was sweet to him.

  McGurk approached Lieutenant Breckenridge. “I found out which way they went,” he said.

  “Which way is it?”

  McGurk pointed in a southerly direction. “That way.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge was surprised at first, because the Japanese lines weren’t in that direction, but after he thought about it for a half minute, he realized what the Japs were up to. They were trying to work their way around the American lines instead of going straight through them. It’s what Lieutenant Breckenridge would’ve done if he was trapped behind Jap lines.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “When’re we gonna get a break?” Frankie asked. “We been on the go all night, and all last night, and we didn’t hardly get no sleep today.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at him. “I’m going to break your fucking neck if you don’t shut up.” He turned to McGurk. “Take the point.”

  McGurk entered the jungle on the trail made by the Japanese soldiers. Lieutenant Breckenridge motioned with his hand, and the rest of the patrol followed McGurk. Lieutenant Breckenridge positioned himself about halfway in the column, and Sergeant Bannon brought up the rear.

  The patrol filed into the jungle. The moon shone brightly overhead. Nightbirds sang and in the distance a wild dog howled insanely. McGurk pushed his way through the thick foliage, studying the trail in front of him. He estimated that the Japanese soldiers were only about an hour in front of him.

  Lieutenant Akiyama sat on a log and frowned as he heard Private Yotsuda vomiting into the bushes. The young seventeen-year-old soldier had become ill only minutes ago, and the whole patrol had to wait for him. Evidently Yotsuda had eaten too much of that greasy American food. Lieutenant Akiyama knew he should have monitored the men’s consumption of American rations. He hadn’t realized they didn’t know how to think clearly and take care of themselves accordingly. They’re so stupid, Lieutenant Akiyama thought. You can’t trust them to do anything.

  Lieutenant Akiyama looked at his watch. It was one o’clock in the morning. He’d thought the night would be the best time to travel, but now he couldn’t travel because of the stupidity of one soldier.

  Lieutenant Akiyama was certain that American soldiers were following him. He didn’t know how far away they were, but he figured the Americans wouldn’t just forget about Japanese soldiers who’d ambushed a truck. They’d try to track the Japanese soldiers down, just as Japanese soldiers would try to track down American soldiers who’d conducted an ambush behind their lines.

  Lieutenant Akiyama was anxious to get moving. He contemplated leaving Private Yotsuda behind, but decided against it. He’d give him one more chance.

  Private Yotsuda finished vomiting. He returned to the main group sitting along the trail, an expression of embarrassment on his face.

  “Sit down,” Lieutenant Akiyama commanded.

  “Yes sir.”

  Private Yotsuda sat on the
damp leaves that covered the trail. He felt sick to his stomach and weak in his limbs. The moisture of the ground made his rear end itchy. He also had a headache.

  “Listen to me all of you,” Lieutenant Akiyama said. “We are in an extremely dangerous and precarious situation. American soldiers probably are trying to track us down even as I speak. From now on, I will not stop if anybody gets sick. If you get sick, that is your problem. If one of you can’t keep up with the rest of us, he will be left behind. I cannot jeopardize the lives of twenty-two men for the sake of one man. Is that clear?”

  The men nodded, their expressions reflecting the gravity of the situation.

  “Very good,” Lieutenant Akiyama said. “Let’s get moving again.”

  At the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters, Butsko sat in the jungle and smoked a cigarette.

  Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around his face and arms but didn’t land because he was covered with foul-smelling citronella. Everyone else in the area was asleep except for those on duty during the night, but Butsko couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about going back to the States, and that’s what was keeping him awake.

  Butsko wasn’t looking forward to seeing Dolly again. He and she fought constantly and it was the kind of fighting he hated the most. Fighting against men with bullets and bayonets was brutal, but it didn’t drive him crazy the way fighting with Dolly did. Dolly, like most women, was an expert in psychological warfare. She was able to hurt him more deeply than any Japanese bullet or bayonet ever could. He thought maybe he should get a hotel room in Honolulu and not go home to her. Everything would be okay if he didn’t love her, but the problem was that he did love her, despite her dishonesty and infidelities. He couldn’t understand how he could love such a faithless dizzy bitch, but he loved her anyway. She turned him on and always had, ever since he first met her at that bar near Fort Benning. She was a big busty broad, a real sexy number, and she really knew how to get to him.