by Len Levinson
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“Hey, Butsko!” Bannon yelled.
“Whataya want?” replied Butsko from somewhere in the jungle ahead of them and slightly to the right.
“Longtree's here and he's found the bunker!”
“Longtree!” Butsko bellowed.
“Hup, Sarge!” Longtree replied.
“Get your ass over here!”
“Yo!”
Longtree turned and headed toward Butsko's voice. Everybody in the platoon had heard the conversation and stopped where they were, because they figured new orders would be coming down soon. They dropped to the ground and took swigs from their canteens or lit cigarettes. They wiped the grit and perspiration from their faces and wished they were someplace else.
Longtree found Butsko with Lieutenant Breckenridge and Craig Delane sitting around in the jungle. Lieutenant Breckenridge had his map out and was trying to figure out where he was, relative to the Japanese airfield. Delane was listening to his walkie-walkie, trying to pick up some news, and Butsko puffed a cigarette, a pissed-off expression on his face.
“Where is it?” Butsko asked.
Longtree pointed in a westerly direction. “Over that way. Maybe it'd be better if I showed you.”
“Okay,” Butsko said, pushing himself up off the ground. “I'll be right back,” he said to Lieutenant Breckenridge.
“Don't get shot,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied.
Butsko grunted something that could have meant anything as he joined Longtree. Together they disappeared into the green sweltering sea that was the New Georgia jungle.
“Delane,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge. “Get me Captain Ilecki.”
“Yes, sir.”
Delane pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Red Rover calling Boomer. Red Rover calling Boomer. Can you read me, Boomer? Can you read me, Boomer? Over.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his map as Craig Delane tried to make the connection with Captain Ilecki's command post. Lieutenant Breckenridge was as tired and miserable as the others, but he was their officer and he had to set an example. The men could complain, and even Master Sergeant Butsko could piss and moan, but not Lieutenant Breckenridge. Although he was an OCS graduate, a ninety-day wonder instead of a West Pointer, he was from an old Virginia family that traced itself back to the Revolutionary War, and he had a keen sense of honor and obligation. Butsko could bully the men and push them around, but Lieutenant Breckenridge had to inspire them even when he didn't feel very inspired himself.
“I've got Captain Ilecki, sir,” Craig Delane said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge took the walkie-talkie. “I've found that bunker, sir.”
“You think you can take it out yourself?”
“It's only got one machine gun, as far as we know. We should be able to handle it.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge handed the walkie-talkie back to Craig Delane, then pulled out an Old Gold cigarette and lit it up. He took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his close-cropped light-brown hair. Putting his helmet back on, he puffed his cigarette and lay on his back, stretching out, closing his eyes. He'd learned to rest whenever he could, because rest renewed his energy, and energy was the key to survival.
Craig Delane sat cross-legged a few feet away and looked Lieutenant Breckenridge over. Like Lieutenant Breckenridge, Craig Delane was from an old patrician family whose roots extended back to colonial days, but Delane was from New York City, and he had no leadership ability that he was aware of. One of the smallest men in the recon platoon, he was only five feet eight inches tall, built on the slender side, and was amazed at how well Lieutenant Breckenridge ran the platoon, keeping even Master Sergeant Butsko in line.
Delane used to think that Lieutenant Breckenridge was an effective leader because he was so big and his size intimidated everyone, but after a while he'd been forced to admit that it wasn't just size. Lieutenant Breckenridge had a special quality that made people respect him. It was a certain inner strength and confidence, a quality of self-assurance that Craig Delane had never had in his life. Whenever the war quieted down and Delane had time to reflect on the differences between Lieutenant Breckenridge and himself, he became depressed. He felt inadequate, as if he'd missed the boat someplace in his life. Disgusted with himself, he lit a cigarette and held the walkie-talkie against his face in case somebody tried to reach the recon platoon.
TWO . . .
It was hotter inside the bunker than in the steaming, sweltering jungle. Constructed of logs and sandbags, its only ventilation came from the narrow slit provided for the barrel of the machine gun, and the heat of the firing made the confined space as hot as an oven.
The Japanese soldiers sat around their machine gun, stripped to their waists, their bodies glistening with sweat. They knew that American soldiers were trying to locate them and sooner or later their position would become known. Then the Americans would attack in overwhelming numbers and eventually kill them all.
The Japanese soldiers tried to be brave and think lofty thoughts of joining their ancestors in heaven and dying for the glory of their Emperor, but they also couldn't help thinking that they'd soon be shot down like dogs, or blown to bits by American hand grenades, or burned alive by American flame-throwers.
Sergeant Koji Ryufuku was in charge of the machine-gun section. He was a small wiry man with a thin mustache and a head that had been shaved smooth ten days earlier but was now covered with stubble a quarter of an inch long. He was wondering about Private Ono, who'd left to move his bowels fifteen minutes before and never returned. Some of his men thought they'd heard Private Ono shout something, but they couldn't be sure because the jungle was full of strange sounds, and they couldn't hear much anyway inside the thick-walled bunker.
Under normal circumstances they kept the rear door open, but it was closed and sandbagged now that the American soldiers were so close. Two Japanese soldiers peered out the narrow slit through binoculars, hoping to spot American soldiers. Another sat behind the gun, ready to fire. And Sergeant Ryufuku squatted on his heels in a corner, wishing he could smoke a cigarette, but the air was foul enough as it was.
They were all farmers, as were most of the ordinary soldiers in the Imperial Army. They were accustomed to hardship and were at home in the wilderness. This is what made them such outstanding jungle fighters. Colonel Hirata, who commanded the 229th Infantry Regiment, had ordered them to kill ten American soldiers each and to fight to the death.
All the Japanese soldiers in the bunker were determined to do just that. Their families would be proud of them when they learned that they'd died in battle, defending the glory of their Emperor.
Longtree crawled over the jungle floor with Butsko a few feet behind him. Branches scraped over their helmets and backs, and bugs bit their necks. It was nearly noon and the sun was at its peak in the bright blue sky. Steam wafted up from the floor of the jungle, along with the fetid odor of rotting vegetation. The fronts of their uniforms were covered with mud, and Butsko was getting a headache. He wished he'd brought his APC pills with him, but they were in his pack and his pack was back with Lieutenant Breckenridge.
Longtree stopped, twisted toward Butsko, and motioned with his finger for Butsko to come forward. Butsko dug his elbows and knees into the ground and advanced until he was beside Longtree, who pressed his forefinger against his lips, then pointed straight ahead through the bushes.
At first Butsko couldn't see anything, but then, among the leaves and branches, he picked out the unnatural lines of logs and sandbags. It was the usual Japanese bunker, solidly constructed, difficult to destroy without a howitzer, and howitzers couldn't be moved through thick jungle.
“You stay here and keep an eye on it,” Butsko told Longtree. Longtree nodded. Butsko slithered around and made his way back to Lieutenant Breckenridge.
“When will they come?” asked Private Ebara, sitting beh
ind the machine gun inside the bunker.
“Soon enough,” replied Sergeant Ryufuku. “Change places with Ishikura and be alert.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Private Ebara moved from behind the machine gun and accepted the binoculars from the hands of Pfc. Ishikura, who took Ebara's place behind the gun. Pfc. Ishikura worked the bolt one time and looked through the sights at the jungle ahead. The suspense was becoming unbearable. Even Sergeant Ryufuku, the old battle-hardened veteran, felt the rise of panic inside his heart.
“Let's settle down,” said Sergeant Ryufuku. “Dying for the Emperor is the greatest glory that can come to any man.”
“I feel hungry,” said Private Kanda from the left side of the machine gun, his binoculars held to his eyes.
“Eat something,” said Sergeant Ryufuku. “I'll take your place.”
“No, I'll stay at my post,” Private Kanda said. “It's all right.”
“I said eat something.” Sergeant Ryufuku leaned forward and gently took the binoculars from Private Kanda's hands. “It's time for lunch anyway. We can take turns eating until the Americans come.”
“Maybe they won't come,” said Private Ebara. “Maybe they'll go around us.”
“I don't think we can count on that,” Sergeant Ryufuku said.
Private Kanda unscrewed his metal container of cold cooked rice and picked some up with his chopsticks, placing the rice on his tongue. It was silent inside the bunker, except for the heavy breathing of the men and the sound of Private Kanda eating. The Japanese soldiers had expressions of grim resignation on their faces. Each knew that the bunker soon would become his tomb.
The recon platoon's Second Squad, under Corporal Lupe Gomez, the ex-pachuco from Los Angeles, crawled forward on a line perpendicular to the front of the bunker. They moved slowly and cautiously, because they wanted to see the Japs before the Japs saw them. Their mission would be to occupy the center of the recon platoon line and lay down a heavy base of fire from fixed positions, pinning the Japs down, attracting their fire, and distracting them from the recon platoon's main effort, which would come from the First Squad.
Bannon led the First Squad forward on the left flank. Beside him was Private Tommy Shaw, a former heavyweight boxer, who carried the recon platoon's flamethrower. Shaw would be the key to victory over the bunker. All efforts were geared to getting him close to the opening of the bunker so he could pour the fire in and roast the Japs alive.
On the right flank of the recon platoon line the Third Squad moved forward under Sergeant Larry Cameron, a dirt farmer from Louisiana. The Third Squad's mission was to attack in tandem with the First Squad and then swing around to make sure no Japs escaped from the rear of the bunker.
After the Second Squad was on its way, Lieutenant Breck-enridge moved his right hand forward, and the two sixty-millimeter sections from the weapons squad advanced. They'd set up their tubes to the rear of the Second Squad and lob mortar rounds at the bunker. Their mortar rounds wouldn't do any serious harm, but they'd make it difficult for the Japs to see clearly and think straight with explosions taking place all around them.
The two machine-gun sections from the heavy-weapons squad was with Corporal Gomez's Second Squad and would pepper the Japanese bunker, helping to keep the Japs pinned down.
The tactics were tried and true, used successfully against bunkers ever since the recon platoon had landed on New Georgia. But the recon platoon had never yet assaulted a bunker without taking at least one casualty, and everybody wondered if this time it would be him.
“I hear them!” said Private Ebara inside the bunker.
“Ssshhh,” replied Sergeant Ryufuku.
They listened, and sure enough the sound of a large number of men coming through the jungle could be heard. The Americans were attacking, and it sounded like a whole army of them.
“Don't fire until I give the order,” Sergeant Ryufuku whispered as he scanned the jungle ahead through his binoculars. His nerve endings tingled and his pores oozed with fresh perspiration. He knew that the last act in the story of his life was about to be played.
Private Ridgefield was the first man in the Second Squad to see the bunker. “There it is!” he muttered.
“Where?” asked Gomez.
Ridgefield pointed. “There.”
Gomez followed his finger and saw the sandbags and logs in the thick jungle ahead. “Ah,” he said. “Excelente. The rest of you guys move up until you see it, but for Chrissakes, don't let them see you.”
His men crawled forward stealthily while Gomez raised his walkie-talkie to his face. “Red Dog One calling Red Rover. Red Dog One calling Red Rover. Do you read me? Over.”
“It's Corporal Gomez,” said Craig Delane. “He's in position.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch; it was nearly high noon. He, Delane, and Sergeant Butsko were moving forward behind the Second Squad, and the excitement was building inside them. They'd done this many times already, but when your life is on the line, every time is like the first time.
“I think this is about far enough,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, dropping to his knees on the ground. “The Second Squad's just ahead.”
Craig Delane wrinkled his brow as Sergeant Cameron reported in on the walkie-talkie. “The Third Squad is in position,” he said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge took a deep breath. “Good.”
“I'll leave for the First Squad now,” Butsko said.
“Okay.”
Butsko angled off to the side, walked several paces crouched over, and then lowered himself onto his belly, crawling toward the First Squad, the crucial place to be in the attack.
As he was moving up, Bannon's voice came in over Craig Delane's walkie-talkie. “First Squad in place,” he said.
“I read you loud and clear,” Delane replied.
The jungle was silent. Inside the bunker Sergeant Ryufuku sat behind the machine gun, swinging it from side to side, peering through its sights at the jungle in front of him. He knew that the Americans were in position and that their attack would come any moment now.
Private Ebara sat to his left, feeding the belt into the chamber of the machine gun. Private Kanda was to the right of the gun, aiming his Arisaka rifle out the slit. Pfc. Ishikura was to the left of Private Ebara, and he also had his Arisaka rifle ready to fire.
“It won't be long now,” Sergeant Ryufuku said, perspiration streaming down his face. “I shall give the order to fire, and remember that our orders are for each of us to kill ten American soldiers.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge grunted as he crawled beside Gomez, who pointed straight ahead. Lieutenant Breckenridge focused his eyes and picked out the details of the bunker. “Well, well, well,” he said. “So that's the place. Corporal Gomez, direct your squad to open fire.”
“Open fire!” screamed Gomez.
The silence of the jungle was torn apart by the sound of rifles, Browning automatic rifles, and .30 caliber machine guns. Bullets slammed into the bunker, splintering the logs, ricocheting off rocks, and kicking up dirt in front of the narrow slit. Nearly simultaneously the First and Third squads also opened fire, and then mortar rounds landed behind the bunker.
“Tell the mortar sections to readjust their fire twenty yards forward!” Lieutenant Breckenridge shouted to Craig Delane.
“Yes, sir!”
Flashes of light leaped out of the hole in front of the bunker as the Japs opened fire. The Japanese bullets slashed through the jungle over the heads of the GIs or around them. The GIs had only a tiny target, the opening in front of the bunker, while the Japs had the whole jungle.
“Yooowwwwww!” shouted Pfc. Vitagliano, going limp on the ground, a bullet hole in his face. His cry was brief because he went unconscious immediately.
Private Gundy crawled toward him, rolled him over, and looked at the wound. It was big and ugly and in a bad place. He felt for Pfc. Vitagliano's pulse and found that there was none at all.
The battle for the bunker
had claimed its first victim.
Inside the bunker the Japanese soldiers fired their weapons in a frenzy. Sergeant Ryufuku swung the machine gun from side to side, keeping the trigger depressed, but it was difficult for him to see through the tumult in front of his eyes. Dirt and spent American bullets flew in all directions, mortar rounds shook the bunker, and American lead sprayed through the narrow hole.
“Stay calm and keep firing!” Lieutenant Ryufuku yelled, shaking up and down with every recoil of the machine gun. “Make every shot count!”
Butsko lay next to Bannon on the left flank of the recon platoon line. All the soldiers pumped bullets into the bunker except for Shaw, who was behind them, fingering the nozzle of the flamethrower, a little jumpy because men with flame-throwers usually didn't live long.
“Okay!” Butsko shouted. “Move it out!”
The men from the First Squad gritted their teeth and began their long, slow crawl toward the Japanese bunker's right side.
Private Kanda's finger froze on the trigger of his rifle. “Look!” he said, pointing with his rifle. “They're attacking from over there!”
Sergeant Ryufuku swung his machine gun to the side, but it wouldn't go far enough. He fired a few bursts in that direction anyway, then turned to his front again.
“Don't worry!” he said. “The only way they can get us is from the front! Keep firing!”
Pfc. Ishikura flew backward as if he'd been shot out of a cannon. He smashed against the rear wall of the bunker and slid to the floor, a huge bloody wound on his forehead. Private Kanda stared at him in horror.
“Face front!” Sergeant Ryufuku ordered. “Maintain your fire!”
The First Squad worked itself around until it was on the blind left side of the bunker.
“Everybody okay?” Butsko asked, looking around.
Nobody said anything.
Butsko looked at Pfc. Hart, who carried the walkie-talkie. “Tell the lieutenant we're ready to roll.”
Pfc. Hart pressed the button and called Craig Delane, transmitting the message. He waited, listened, and then turned to Butsko.
