by Len Levinson
Colonel Hutchins walked into the quonset hut, and his eyes fell on the tallest man he’d ever seen in his life. Colonel Hutchins estimated that the giant was nearly seven feet tall and weighed at least three hundred pounds. His feet were immense and he had a head like a basketball whose sides had been flattened in. He must be hell in hand-to-hand combat, Colonel Hutchins thought.
Colonel Hutchins stepped in front of the man and looked up at his face. The man had the expression of a little boy trying to appear serious and grown up. He had a nose like a big fat sausage, and his dark brown hair was thick and curly on top of his head. Sergeant Frick sidled up to Colonel Hutchins.
“That one doesn’t have all his marbles,” Sergeant Frick said.
“What’s your name, soldier?” Colonel Hutchins asked the giant.
“My name, sir?” the soldier asked in a goofy singsong voice.
“You’re the one I’m talking to, ain’t I?”
The soldier looked to his left and right to determine whether or not Colonel Hutchins might be talking to somebody else. Then he grinned. “I guess yer talkin’ to me.” Now he became confused. “What was it you wanted to know?”
“Your fucking name.”
He smiled again. “Name is Joshua Edward McGurk.”
“Where are you from, McGurk?”
“The Eighteenth Regiment, sir.”
“I mean where in the States?”
“Maine, sir.”
“Where in Maine?”
“Town of Skunk Hollow, sir.”
Colonel Hutchins grinned. There was something about this big goofball that he liked. “What’re you doing in here, McGurk?”
McGurk frowned. “Hit somebody,” he said in a low voice.
Sergeant Frick butted in. “That’s like saying the Titanic hit an ice cube. McGurk hit an officer and fractured his skull. The officer is still trying to figure out who he is and what freight train ran over him.”
Colonel Hutchins looked up at McGurk. “What’d you hit the officer with?”
“My hand.”
“What’d you hit him for?”
“What I hit him for?”
“Yes McGurk—what was the reason you hit him?”
“Reason I hit him?”
“Yes—the reason you hit him.”
McGurk’s face clouded over. “Was mean to me. Said I was too dumb to live.”
“Can you fire a rifle, McGurk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you remember your score on the firing range?”
McGurk smiled proudly. “Won the Marksman’s Medal, sir.”
If McGurk won the Marksman’s Medal, that meant he was an average shot. That was good enough for Colonel Hutchins.
“Can you fieldstrip an M 1?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Yes, sir. Learned how to do that at Fort Campbell, Kentucky.”
“How do you feel about Japs, McGurk?”
McGurk turned down the corners of his mouth. “Hate Japs.”
“Why?”
“Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”
Colonel Hutchins turned to Sergeant Frick. “I’ll take this man.”
“But he’s a moron!”
“He’s not a moron, and don’t ever say that to him again!”
Sergeant Frick swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Colonel Hutchins turned to the side and looked at the other men. They were lined up on both sides of the quonset hut, standing at attention in front of their cots, six of them in all. Colonel Hutchins stepped to the side and looked into the face of the next prisoner.
The prisoner had a long, thin nose and a haughty manner. His light hair was clipped close to his head and his eyebrows were raised in disapproval. He was a six-footer, built on the bony side.
“What’d this one do?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“He’s yeller,” Sergeant Frick replied. “He won’t fight.”
“Won’t fight?” Colonel Hutchins said to the soldier. “What’s your name.”
“Theophilus Hampton, sir.”
“Why won’t you fight, Hampton?”
“Because the war is stupid, and so are the officers directing operations.”
“Where you from, Hampton?”
“I lived in England before the war.”
“But you’re an American, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are you from in America?”
“New York City, sir.”
“How’d you like to have the Japs take over New York City?”
“They’ll never take over New York City.”
“Why not?”
Hampton appeared flustered. “Well, I suppose because the United States armed forces will stop them before then.”
“You’re damned right we will, and you’re going to do your part too!” Colonel Hutchins turned to Sergeant Frick. “I’ll take him.”
Hampton scowled. “I won’t fight. I refuse to participate in the madness of this war.”
“You’ll either fight or you’ll die,” Colonel Hutchins said, “but you’re not going to spend the rest of this war in a nice comfortable stockade someplace, you son of a bitch!”
Colonel Hutchins sidestepped in front of the next prisoner, who was five feet tall and five feet wide.
“What’s your name!” Colonel Hutchins demanded.
“Schlegelmilch, W.J.,” the man said.
“What are you doing in here?”
“I was framed.”
Colonel Hutchins looked at Sergeant Frick. “What’s he doing in here?”
“He raped a nurse.”
“You raped a nurse!” Colonel Hutchins yelled at Schlegelmilch. “Why, you stinking son of a bitch!”
Schlegelmilch grinned and wiggled his ears. “She liked it, sir.”
“You’re disgusting, Schlegelmilch!”
“She was playing hard to get, sir. I know it when a woman’s playing hard to get.”
Sergeant Frick cleared his throat. “The son of a bitch had her tied against a palm tree, with a gag in her mouth.”
Schlegelmilch shrugged. “She liked to get tied up, she told me.”
Sergeant Frick said: “He gave her a black eye too.”
Schlegelmilch winked. “She told me she likes to get manhandled a little.”
Colonel Hutchins looked Schlegelmilch in the eye. “Are you as tough with the Japs as you are with women?”
“Killing Japs is almost as much fun as fucking nurses,” Schlegelmilch said.
“I’ll take him,” Colonel Hutchins told Sergeant Frick.
Colonel Hutchins turned around and faced a man of medium height with a fresh scar on his swarthy cheek and a harelip. “What’d you do?” Colonel Hutchins demanded.
“I shot my company commander,” the man said in a surly voice.
“Jesus Christ, what for?”
“Because he was a dumb prick.”
“Sir,” Sergeant Frick prompted.
“Because he was a dumb prick, sir.”
“What’s your name?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Joseph Tronolone, sir.”
“Where are you from?”
“Minneapolis.”
“You don’t like officers, eh?”
“I hate their fucking guts.”
“I’ll take him,” Colonel Hutchins said.
“But, sir!” Sergeant Frick protested. “He shot his company commander! Next time he’s liable to shoot you!”
“If an enlisted man shoots an officer, it proves the officer was a poor leader. I said I’ll take him.”
Colonel Hutchins swaggered in front of the next prisoner, who was of medium height and had a baby face.
“What’re you in for?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
The young man smiled in an engaging manner. “I didn’t do it,” he said.
“What didn’t you do?”
“I don’t remember.”
Colonel Hutchins turned to Sergeant Frick. “What’d the scumbag do?”
“H
e stole his buddy’s wallet.”
Colonel Hutchins turned up the right corner of his lip. “You stole your buddy’s wallet!”
“I didn’t do it, and he wasn’t my buddy anyway.”
“You’re a lowlife!” Colonel Hutchins said.
“I’m innocent. I’d never do a thing like that.”
Sergeant Frick thought he should clarify matters. “The wallet was found inside his pack.”
“How’d the wallet get inside your pack?” Colonel Hutchins asked the young man.
“I don’t know.”
“A little bird put it there?”
“Maybe.”
“What’s your name, thief?”
“Clement R. Bisbee, sir.”
“I’ll take him,” said Colonel Hutchins.
“But he’s a crook!” Sergeant Frick said.
“If we catch him stealing anything, we’ll shoot him.”
Colonel Hutchins stepped in front of the last man, who was pale and skinny, with sloping shoulders and a long, gawky neck.
“What’s your name?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Crow, Phillip T., sir.”
“What’re you in for?”
Crow averted his eyes. “I’m a coward, sir.”
“You are?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hell you wanna be a coward for?”
“I don’t wanna be a coward sir. I just am, that’s all.”
Sergeant Frick put in his two cents. “Whenever he sees a Jap, he runs the other way.”
“You do?” Colonel Hutchins said to Crow.
“Yes, sir.”
“You got piss in your blood, Crow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well we’ll wring it out of you.” Colonel Hutchins glanced at Sergeant Frick. “I’ll take him.”
“But he ain’t worth a fuck!”
“Sir.”
“But he ain’t worth a fuck, sir!”
“He’ll either fight the Japs or fight me, but either way he’ll fight.”
“No I won’t,” said Crow.
“Yes you will, you son of a bitch!”
Sergeant Frick was greatly agitated. “But, sir, you’re taking every man out of my stockade!”
“So what?”
“I won’t have a job anymore!”
“Grab a rifle and shoot some Japs. That’s what you should be doing anyway.” Colonel Hutchins looked at the prisoners. “All right, men, from now on you’re in the fighting Twenty-third Regiment, the best goddamned regiment in the entire fucking Army, and my name’s Hutchins—Colonel Bob Hutchins. I’m your new boss and when I say go I want you to go, and if I say shit I expect you to say how much, what color, and where. Now fall outside in a column of ducks—go!”
The men sauntered casually toward the door, and Colonel Hutchins reared back his leg and kicked Crow in the ass, lifting Crow six inches into the air, sending him crashing against Bisbee. Tronolone turned around and looked at Colonel Hutchins as if Colonel Hutchins was out of his mind, and Colonel Hutchins punched him in the mouth, splitting his lip and bending back four teeth. The other men turned on the quicks and rushed out of the door. Bisbee picked himself up off the floor and lurched outside, followed by Crow. Tronolone scrambled to his feet and glared at Colonel Hutchins as if Tronolone was going to attack Colonel Hutchins.
Colonel Hutchins beckoned with his finger. “C’mon, you son of a bitch.”
Tronolone bared his teeth and dived toward Colonel Hutchins, who timed him coming in and kicked him in the face. That reversed Tronolone’s forward motion and sent him sprawling out the door.
Sergeant Frick shook his head sadly. “Sir, I don’t think you appreciate what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“They’ll make a great bunch of soldiers,” Colonel Hutchins replied, wiping his hands on each other, strolling toward the door.
FOUR . . .
Twenty-five miles east of the Driniumor River, deep in the sweltering jungle, the headquarters of the Japanese Eighteenth Army was being set up.
Soldiers pitched the huge walled tents that would constitute the offices and residences of the officers. Other soldiers strung camouflage netting over the area. Trucks rumbled about, carrying radios, desks, file cabinets, food, and ammunition. Sergeants shouted orders and the soldiers worked frantically, because General Adachi had ordered that the headquarters be operational by twelve o’clock.
Lieutenant General Hatazo Adachi was the commanding officer of the Eighteenth Army, comprised the Twentieth, Forty-first, and Fifty-first divisions. He was fifty-four years old and wore a thick slanted mustache that made him look almost Hispanic. A graduate of the Japanese Military Academy (1910) and the Japanese War College (1922), he had been commander of the Eighteenth Army since November 1942.
General Adachi sat underneath a tree and drank a cup of tea as his headquarters was being established in front of him. He’d just arrived from Wewak, the site of his previous headquarters, so he could better direct the battle to retake Aitape.
General Adachi was not supposed to retake Aitape. His orders were to bypass Aitape and move his Eighteenth Army through the jungle to the western part of New Guinea, to meet American attacks there.
But General Adachi knew from bitter experience that a long withdrawal through hundreds of miles of jungle would destroy his army, which was in bad enough shape as it was. He’d decided he’d lose fewer men in an attack on Aitape than in the bypass operation.
On the other hand, if he’d stayed in Wewak, his army would rot on the vine. It would lose morale and honor. It would be disgraced. So he’d decided to go all out in one titanic effort to recapture Aitape from the Americans.
Maps were spread out at his feet. He knew that stupid mistakes had been made during the past few days. Japanese units had made foolish piecemeal attacks against the Americans and had suffered huge casualties. The local Japanese commanders had been too anxious and reached too far with their available resources.
But now General Adachi would personally direct the fight. He looked down at his maps, formulating tactics and strategy as he sipped his cup of tea. He’d been working on this master plan for weeks, and he still wasn’t finished. He wanted the plan to be perfect. He had to win a great victory, and if he didn’t, it would be better to die with honor than be ground to pieces by the cruel jungle.
His situation was desperate, and he knew it. The Americans defending Aitape and the Tadji airfield could be resupplied from the sea and air, while he had with him all the supplies and troops he’d ever get. He had been able to concentrate twenty thousand soldiers for the attack, but only eight thousand were trained infantrymen. He was low on food, ammunition, and other supplies. His communications equipment was practically nonexistent. He had few trucks. Some of his forward units were subsisting solely on sago palm starch.
But General Adachi believed Japanese fighting spirit could conquer the weak, cowardly Americans despite all their disgusting material advantages. The Imperial Army would prevail. The gods would smile on them.
His executive officer, General Tatsunari Kimura, approached and saluted. “All work is proceeding on schedule,” he reported.
“Good,” said General Adachi. “Sit down and have a cup of tea.”
The big deuce-and-a-half truck came to a stop in front of the Twenty-third Regiment’s command post. Colonel Hutchins opened the front door on the passenger side and jumped down to the ground. He walked around to the rear of the truck and let down the tailgate.
“Everybody out!” he said.
The six men from the stockade moved toward the rear of the truck and jumped to the ground, glancing around suspiciously, wondering what would become of them.
“Fall in over here!” Colonel Hutchins said.
The men lined up behind the truck and stood at attention. Colonel Hutchins walked to the side of the truck, where the driver could see him.
“Take it back to the motor pool!”
The driver shifted into gear and
drove away. Colonel Hutchins returned to the six men from the stockade and placed his hands on his hips, looking at them from left to right and right to left.
“You’re the scum of the earth,” Colonel Hutchins told them, “but I’ve given you a chance to redeem yourselves. You can get an honorable discharge if you do as you’re told and live through the war, and if you don’t live through the war, tough shit. Any questions?”
Nobody said anything. Private Tronolone, the one with the harelip who’d shot his company commander, snickered.
“You say something, Tronolone?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No.”
“You don’t say sir, Tronolone?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t feel like it.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You wanna bet you start feeling like it?”
“How much you wanna bet?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“You’re on,” Tronolone said.
Colonel Hutchins took ten steps backward. “Private McGurk, front and center!”
McGurk pointed his thumb at his chest. “Me?”
“Your name’s McGurk, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Front and center—goddammit!”
The giant stepped out of ranks and marched to a spot in front of Colonel Hutchins. “Private McGurk reporting, sir!”
“McGurk—do you know who I am?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who am I?”
“The colonel.”
“And what am I to you?”
“You tell me what to do and I do it.”
Colonel Hutchins pointed at Tronolone. “Who’s that?”
“Tronolone.”
“You like him?”
“No.”
“I want you to go over there and stand beside Tronolone,” Colonel Hutchins said, “and whenever he doesn’t say sir to me or any other officer, I want you to beat the piss out of him, understand?”
“Beat the piss out of him, sir?”
“That’s right. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes sir.”
“You think you can do it?”
