by Len Levinson
Lieutenant Breckenridge blinked, fascinated by the photograph. It could have been taken on Guadalcanal, New Georgia, or any other fucked-up island in the South Pacific, and it was being used to sell tires. Jesus, he thought, they've turned the war into a sales-promotion gimmick.
He closed the magazine and pushed it away. He had to stop looking at the magazines, because they were pissing him off. Everything in them was money, money, money, and there was no recognition of what the war was really about. It's just business as usual back in the states, he thought. Even a world war can't stop that.
The door to Colonel Stockton's office opened and Major Cobb walked out, followed by Lieutenant Harper. Both officers smiled at Lieutenant Breckenridge as they passed him by, and he smiled back. They left the office and Lieutenant Brecken-ridge stared out the window at the black night. He wished he had a book to read, but there were no bookstores near the front on New Georgia. They probably had books in the rear areas, but that was no good to him.
The telephone on his desk rang and he picked it up. “Lieutenant Breckenridge speaking, sir.”
“This is Colonel Stockton,” said the voice on the other end. “Come in a moment, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge stood, strapped on his Colt .45, and tucked his helmet under his arm. He walked toward the door, opened it, and entered Colonel Stockton's office, advancing to his desk and saluting.
“Lieutenant Breckenridge reporting, sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge sat, leaned back, and crossed his legs. Colonel Stockton's white hair shone in the light of the kerosene lamp on his desk, and he puffed a pipe, filling the air with the earthy fragrance of Briggs tobacco.
“Have a smoke if you want to,” Colonel Stockton said.
“Thank you, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge took out a cigarette and lit it up with his old battered Zippo, blowing smoke into the air over his head. The office filled up with smoke so fast that it might have appeared to an outsider as if a fire were burning someplace in there.
“Who was wounded in the recon platoon tonight?” Colonel Stockton asked.
Lieutenant Breckenridge was tempted to smile, because the recon platoon was Colonel Stockton's pet project and the colonel was interested in everything that happened to it. “Frankie La Barbara was knifed in the stomach, and Morris Shilansky was kicked in the groin.”
Colonel Stockton wrinkled his forehead in pain. “Ouch,” he said. “How serious?”
“I don't know yet, sir. They're back at the battalion aid station, last thing I heard.”
“Let me know when you find out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton puffed his briar. “How's everything else in the recon platoon?”
“Okay, sir.”
“Ready for the big offensive tomorrow?”
“As ready as we'll ever be.”
“How're you getting along with the men?”
“Not bad. We're getting used to each other.” Lieutenant Breckenridge was the first officer the recon platoon had ever had, and he'd held the job for only a few months.
“Get along okay with Butsko?”
“No problem.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. I promised you when you took over the recon platoon that if you did a good job, I'd give you a company to command and you'd get your captaincy shortly thereafter. I meant what I said. After the campaign on New Georgia is over, you'll get your company. So think about it. Get yourself ready.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge shrugged. “I don't know, sir. I might want to stay in the recon platoon for a while longer.”
Colonel Stockton grinned. “They kind of grow on you after a while, don't they?”
“I guess they do, sir.”
“You can learn a lot from Butsko.”
“I already have.”
“Well, what should I do about your company?”
“Can you hold off on that for a while, sir?”
“I thought you wanted to be a company commander.”
“I did, but now I'm not so sure. I'm not a career officer, you know. When the war's over, I'm going back to civilian life. It might not be a bad idea for me to spend the war with the recon platoon.”
“The war might go on for a long time. They say that the road to Tokyo will be paved with young lieutenants like you. The more rank you have, the safer you'll be.”
“I don't know, sir. A lot of company commanders have been getting killed lately.”
“That's true,” Colonel Stockton said, frowning. “Some colonels have bit the dust too. Nobody's safe, but young platoon leaders like you are in the most dangerous positions.”
“Depends on who you're with. I'll take my chances with the recon platoon for a while.”
“It's up to you, Lieutenant.” Colonel Stockton looked at his watch. “Well, I guess it's time for me to turn in. If you change your mind, let me know, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may return to your desk now, and don't bother saluting. It's a little late at night for that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge stood, tucked his helmet under his arm, and returned to the desk in the orderly room, sitting down behind the Life magazines and the reports about Japanese infiltrators.
A few seconds later the door opened and Colonel Stockton walked out of his office, carrying briefcase and with his helmet on his head.
“Good night, Lieutenant,” he said.
“Good night, sir.”
Colonel Stockton left the office and closed the door behind him. Lieutenant Breckenridge took out a fresh cigarette and lit it up, thinking he ought to cut down on his smoking. He recalled Colonel Stockton's offer of a company and a captaincy, and reflected on his answer. Colonel Stockton had taken him by surprise, and he'd answered off the top of his head, but now he was wondering if he'd done the right thing.
Colonel Stockton is right, he thought. Life would be safer if I was a captain. But if that was true, why did I say I wanted to stay with the recon platoon? Lieutenant Breckenridge shook his head. I've been in the jungle too long. I must be losing my mind.
FOUR . . .
At the crack of dawn, fighter planes and bombers from Guadalcanal swooped down on the Japanese airstrip at Munda Point. They came in low and steady over the trees, strafing and dropping bombs. The Japanese soldiers ran to their posts, manning artillery and machine guns as bombs fell around them and bullets stitched across the runway.
At the edge of the jungle Colonel Stockton lay on his stomach and watched the action through his binoculars. He saw the initial bombs fall, and then the airfield became wreathed with smoke. The bombs continued to fall and the bombers screeched through the sky and dived down on the airstrip. Red flashed of explosions glowed within the smoke and then caused more smoke to billow and churn. Colonel Stockton lowered his binoculars and turned to Major Cobb, who was lying next to him. “Just when we need some wind, we don't get it.”
Major Cobb peered through his binoculars, trying to catch a glimpse of Kokengolo Hill. “I don't think they hit that fort, sir.”
“Of course they didn't hit it. It's like dropping a can of C rations down a cat's throat at twenty feet. The men will have to take that fort with hot lead and cold steel.” He looked at his watch. ‘It won't be long now. We'd better get back to the CP.”
They crawled back into the jungle until it was safe to stand up. Then they got to their feet, brushed themselves off, and headed toward the CP.
Not far away the recon platoon and Able Company were poised at the edge of the jungle, waiting for the order to attack. They watched the planes wreak devastation on the airfield, but all the old veterans knew that the bombing wasn't bothering the Japs too much, because the Japanese tunnel system was dug deep underground, beyond the range of the explosions.
Nearby the tanks rumbled their engines and belched oily
black smoke into the air. The tank commanders stood in the hatches, wearing their funny hats, looking at the airfield through binoculars. All the hatches on the tanks were open, and the crew members smoked in the fresh air, their movements nervous and erratic, because tanks are awfully big targets and nobody wants to get blown to bits.
After a while the Japanese fighter planes arrived from Rabaul, and dogfights took place throughout the sky. A few of the Japanese planes broke through the American defensive cover and dropped bombs on the jungle but did little real damage.
The attack was supposed to begin at 0630 hours, and the minutes were ticking away. Everyone looked nervously at his watch, the men apprehensive about putting their heads on the chopping block again, and the officers hoping their elaborate plans would prove successful.
Lieutenant Breckenridge climbed up on the tank that his platoon would follow into battle. “Hi there,” he said to the commander. “I'm Lieutenant Breckenridge and my men will be traveling with you.”
The commander was smoking a thick black cigar, and he held out his hand. “I'm Sergeant Schuman. How're you doing?”
“Okay.”
‘Tell your men to stay close behind us, because this tank'll be the only protection you'll get.”
“They know.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge jumped down from the tank and returned to the recon platoon, dropping to his knees beside Butsko and looking at his watch. ‘Ten more minutes,” he said.
Butsko nodded, puffing a cigarette. He was jumpy and tense, because he was afraid of getting killed. He'd been in so many attacks already, he couldn't add them up, but he'd never been able to overcome the fear completely.
Lieutenant Breckenridge was scared too. Not so scared that he couldn't function, but scared enough to make his hands tremble slightly. Not far away, Bannon lay with his cheek on his forearm and his eyes closed, trying to calm himself down. He'd been feeling demoralized ever since Frankie La Barbara got his stomach cut up. He and Frankie had been together since basic training, and he'd always thought Frankie was his lucky charm. He thought he'd be okay as long as Frankie was okay, but now Frankie was back in the field hospital, and nobody could say for sure whether he was alive or dead.
“All right,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Let's get ready.”
The men stood up and looked around, trying to draw courage and strength from each other. Butsko led them toward the tank and they formed up behind it. On the airstrip American airplanes were still bombing and fighting off Japanese planes from Rabaul. All around the airfield other companies and battalions were getting into position, and farther back in the jungle General Hawkins was choreographing it all through his field telephones and backpack radios.
Everybody kept glancing at his watch as the final moments ticked away. The men tried not to think of the hell they'd be stepping into as soon as the big hand on their watches reached the six. In the turret of the tank Sergeant Schuman chewed his cigar stub and looked at his watch. Over the airstrip the American bombers were making their final run.
Sergeant Schuman raised his right hand straight up in the air and then moved it forward. “Roll it out!” he yelled.
Something clanked deep within the bowels of the tank and it lurched forward, spewing out fumes at the GIs behind it. The GIs turned around and coughed, waiting for the tank to get several yards away. Sergeant Schuman climbed down into the tank and closed the hatch.
“Okay,” shouted Lieutenant Breckenridge, “move it out.”
The men from the recon platoon hunched over behind the tank and followed it out of the jungle. The American bombers. climbed high in the sky, heading back to Guadalcanal, while the fighter planes stayed behind to keep the Japanese Zeros off the GIs.
The tank rumbled out of the jungle, and so did the other tanks from the Ninth Marine Defense Battalion, each followed by a group of GIs. Gradually the smoke from the bombs lifted and the tank cannons opened fire at targets at the trench system on the edge of the airstrip. Inside the trench system the Japanese soldiers had set up their machine guns and antitank guns. The soldiers with rifles opened fire on the tanks bearing down on them.
The air filled with bullets and flying shells. Japanese mortar rounds dropped down among the Americans, and bullets ricocheted off the tanks. The men from the recon platoon kept their heads low and huddled behind the protection of the tank. They stumbled over the shell holes and moved closer to the edge of the airstrip, numbed by the terrific explosions taking place all around them.
A Japanese antitank shell hit a tank to the right of the recon platoon, and it disappeared in a huge ball of smoke. The smoke cleared and the tank became visible, crushed and twisted.
Bannon shuddered. No one could have survived that explosion. He imagined what it would be like to be in a tank and take a direct hit from a Japanese antitank gun. Probably wouldn't feel a thing. One moment you're here and the next moment the war is over for you.
The tanks approached the first Japanese trench network. Sergeant Schuman's machine guns strafed the trench from side to side, and his cannon blew a section of it into the air. The front of the tank reached the trench, nosed down, and crushed the three Japanese soldiers in its path. The tank driver shifted down and gave it some gas, and the tank climbed up the other side of the trench.
The tank rolled over the trench and kept going toward Kokengolo Hill. Lieutenant Breckenridge looked straight ahead and saw that the trench was filled with Japs, and the longer it took his men to get inside it, the more time the Japs would have to get ready.
“Follow me!” he shouted, breaking into a run. “Take that trench!”
The men from the recon platoon spread out into a skirmish line as they charged the trench. Inside it the Japanese leaned against the dirt walls and worked the bolt actions of their rifles, opening fire. Private Murdock from the Third Squad caught a bullet in the kneecap and tripped to the ground, hollering in excruciating pain, and Pfc. Barnard was shot through the heart and was dead before he hit the ground.
Lieutenant Breckenridge jumped into the trench, and both of his size eleven combat boots landed on the face of the Japanese soldier in front of him. The Japanese soldier fell onto his back, and Lieutenant Breckenridge kicked his face in to make sure he'd be out of the war for a while, then turned around and saw a Japanese officer running toward him, waving a samurai sword in the air.
“Banzai!” shouted the Japanese officer.
“Banzai your ass!” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied, pointing his rifle and bayonet toward the Japanese officer and planting his feet solidly on the ground.
The Japanese officer swung down with his samurai sword, and Lieutenant Breckenridge raised his rifle, stopping the blade with his rifle stock. Sparks flew into the air, and Breckenridge tried to knee the Japanese officer in the balls, but his aim was off and he hit the officer on the leg. The officer raised his sword for another blow, and Lieutenant Breckenridge punched him in the face with his rifle butt. The officer was stunned and his eyes crossed. Lieutenant Breckenridge drew his rifle butt back and whacked him again. The Japanese officer's head spun around nearly 180 degrees and he fell to the ground like a tree felled by lumberjacks.
A Japanese soldier with rifle and bayonet jumped in front of Lieutenant Breckenridge, screamed, and lunged forward. Lieutenant Breckenridge parried the thrust and the Japanese soldier continued his forward motion, losing his balance and falling onto his stomach. When he landed, Lieutenant Breckenridge was over him and harpooned him through the back. The Japanese soldier screamed, and Lieutenant Breckenridge was about to harpoon him again, when he heard footsteps coming up fast behind him.
He spun around and saw two Japanese soldiers charging him. Lieutenant Breckenridge pulled the trigger of his M 1, the shot rang out, and a red dot appeared on the filthy pale-green shirt that the Japanese soldier on the left was wearing. The Japanese soldier stumbled and dropped as the other Japanese soldier fired point-blank at Lieutenant Breckenridge, who felt the impact of the bullet and tho
ught he was a goner.
But he still was standing, his hands stinging. The bullet had hit the triggerguard of his M 1, shattering it and saving his life. The Japanese soldier pushed his rifle and bayonet forward, trying to impale Lieutenant Breckenridge, who dodged to the side, and the Japanese bayonet tore across Lieutenant Breck-enridge's biceps.
Lieutenant Breckenridge was so keyed up that he barely felt the pain. He regained his balance and so did the the Japanese soldier. Both men faced each other, getting ready to kill each other again, when a shot rang out and the Japanese soldier's legs gave way beneath him. Lieutenant Breckenridge looked around and saw a Japanese officer aiming a Nambu pistol at him. In a flash Lieutenant Breckenridge realized that the Japanese officer must have shot one of his own men by mistake, but it didn't look as if he'd make the same mistake again. Lieutenant Breckenridge couldn't run and hide. He thought the party was over.
Then, before his astonished eyes, the Japanese officer's head was split apart by a samurai sword. The force of the blow sent the Japanese officer crashing to the ground, and behind him stood Butsko, the bloody samurai sword in his hand.
“Yaaaahhhhh!” screamed Butsko, spinning around and whacking the samurai sword sideways into the ribs of the Japanese soldier. “Yaaahhhhhh!” He swung down diagonally, catching another Japanese soldier on the neck and hacking halfway through his rib cage. A third Japanese soldier lunged at him with his rifle and bayonet, and Butsko danced lightly to the side, swinging down, chopping off one of the Japanese soldier's arms. The Japanese soldier dropped his rifle and stared in horror at the stump of his arm gushing blood, and Butsko swung again, lopping off the Jap's head.
