by Len Levinson
The Twenty-third had crashed through, and the Japanese responded by directing at it all its strength on Kokengolo Hill. The Japanese had stopped the Twenty-third and rocked it back on its heels. Now the Japanese were counterattacking, and since the Twenty-third was weak and tired, the Japanese might break through.
General Hawkins wasn't overly concerned, because his ass was safe. He had the Thirty-Eighth Regiment between him and the Japs, and all he had to do was move them in behind the Twenty-third and counterattack the counterattack. Colonel Brill, the CO of the Thirty-eighth, was a tough, resolute commander. He'd turn the tide. The Japs couldn't have that many soldiers out there.
He looked at Brigadier General Searles, his executive officer. “Tell Colonel Brill to bring his regiment up on the line here,” he said, pointing to the map.
The Japs were only twenty yards away, and the GIs kept firing their rifles and machine guns, poised to jump up and fight hand-to-hand. Bannon held the trigger of the machine gun pulled up all the way, and the bullets chopped down the charging screaming Japs, but there were so many of them—too many of them. They shouted as they fell to the ground, and the ones on their feet shouted as they charged forward, eager to recapture the trench for the glory of the Emperor.
They were so close that Butsko couldn't hold still anymore. His eyes fell on the flamethrower lying on the ground beside Private Shaw, and he got an inspiration. In quick, decisive moves he picked up the flamethrower, hoisted one of its straps onto his right shoulder, and aimed the nozzle at the Japanese soldiers, who now were only a few yards from the rim of the trench, led by an officer waving his samurai sword in the air. The other GIs were standing up, pointing their rifles and fixed bayonets at the Japs, hoping to impale them on the way down.
Butsko flicked the switch on the nozzle, and flaming, gelatinous petroleum shot out. Lumps of the hideous burning stuff fell on the first wave of Japs and set them afire. The officer with the samurai sword became a sheet of flame jumping up and down, shrieking horribly. The jelly burned his flesh and melted his bones, and he sizzled as he fell to the ground. Butsko angled the nozzle upward, and the flaming jelly fell on the Japs like rain, burning through their uniforms and flesh and kept burning no matter how they tried to snuff it out.
Butsko stood upright, swinging the nozzle from side to side, and the flame-thrower accomplished what bullets couldn't: The Japanese attack faltered right on the edge of the trench. No one, not even a fanatical Japanese soldier, can move when he's on fire, and the thought of burning up alive was enough to dishearten even those soldiers who hadn't yet been touched by fire.
The GIs got down and resumed firing their rifles as Butsko sprayed the Japs with flames. The horrible stench of burning flesh filled the air, and a black cloud of smoke rose to the sky. The Japs couldn't advance and didn't want to retreat, and the GIs pumped lead into them, slaughtering them in bunches. The bodies piled up, many still burning, and then even the bravest and wildest Japanese soldiers couldn't take it anymore. Nobody gave an order, but they broke and ran. Those still able to reason concluded that they'd be more valuable to the Emperor alive than dead, and the rest just ran for their lives. They turned tail and hotfoooted it toward Kokengolo Hill, while the GIs kept firing. Bannon's machine-gun bolt flew forward, made a clunk sound, and stayed there. He looked and saw that the belt had run out. He had no more ammunition. The attack had been turned back in the nick of time.
Butsko turned off the nozzle of the flamethrower. He unhooked the harness from his arm and let the apparatus fall to the ground. Picking up his rifle, he put the butt to his shoulder and wearily sighted down the barrel so that he could kill a few more of the Japs before they reached the safety of Kokengolo Hill. But it was difficult for him to fire from the level of the trench, because so many dead Japs were piled up in front of the parapets, still burning, giving off a horrendous odor. He heard a sound like a herd of horses behind him and turned around.
It was I Company moving up on the line. Captain Hastings, the company commander, landed in the trench beside Butsko and looked around as his men jumped amid the exhausted, hollowed-eyed men from the recon platoon.
“Where's all the Japs?” Captain Hastings demanded excitedly.
“Gone,” replied Butsko. “You're too late.”
“Who's in charge here?”
“Lieutenant Breckenridge. He's down thataway.”
Captain Hastings, who had the face and build of a bulldog, charged down the trench, looking for Lieutenant Breckenridge. He saw him with Private Gundy, bending over the prostrate body of Private Stevenson, who had a stomach wound and was screaming and twisting around.
“I've got no more morphine, sir,” Private Gundy said.
“Lieutenant Breckenridge?” asked Captain Hastings, kneeling down.
“That's me,” replied Breckenridge. “You got a medic with you?”
“Sure do.”
“Get him over here, will you?”
“Kaloudis!” shouted Captain Hastings.
“Yes, sir!”
“Get over here!”
“Yes, sir!”
A short, stout, swarthy soldier, huffing and puffing, a red cross on his arm, waddled toward them, carrying his medicine back.
“Help this man out!” Captain Hastings said.
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge stood, took off his helmet, and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.
“I heard you were being overrun by Japs,” Captain Hastings said. “Where the hell are they?”
“They retreated,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “They didn't overrun us. We pushed them back.”
“Well, I suppose I should report that.”
“You do that,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “And while you're at it, ask for medicine and ammunition, because my platoon is out out of the first and almost out of the second.”
“Sure thing, Lieutenant,” Captain Hastings said, gazing at the mounds of charred Japanese soldiers. “What the hell happened here, anyway?”
“I'll tell you after you make the call.”
SIX . . .
The big walled tent was set up in a thick part of the jungle, and the jeep screeched to a halt beneath the camouflage netting. Colonel Stockton jumped out, his pipe sticking out of his mouth, and carried his briefcase into the tent, making his way to General Hawkins's desk, saluting, and reporting.
“Come back here and tell me what happened,” General Hawkins said.
Colonel Stockton walked behind the desk, looked at the map spread out in front of General Hawkins, and described the attack, counterattack, and subsequent events.
“Some of my units held and some didn't,” he said. “My reserves moved into position in the nick of time, and when the Thirty-eighth arrived, the line really solidified.”
“Yes, good,” General Hawkins said, although from his point of view it was immaterial whether or not Colonel Stockton's regiment held, because the Thirty-eighth Regiment would have stopped the Japs anyway. “Where did you say you were?”
“From about here to about here,” Colonel Stockton said, pointing to the map.
General Hawkins made marks on the map. “Your approximate casualties?”
“I'd say my regiment is less than half strength.”
“That bad?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I'll have to give you less of the line to cover. We don't want to spread you too thin, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“Swing to your right and occupy a length of line from here to here, understand?”
Colonel Stockton took his map out of his briefcase and marked the spots. “I'm having an ammunition shortage in some units,” he said, “and I need medical supplies desperately.”
“All front-line units will be resupplied today and tonight,” General Hawkins said with irritation, because Colonel Stockton was introducing a new subject when the old one wasn't finished yet. The man always was a damned hothead, in a hurry to go nowhere. “Yo
u'll link up with the Thirty-eighth Regiment on your right, with the ocean here on your left. Don't let any of the Japs get around your flanks on the ocean side, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
‘Tomorrow we intend to harass the Japs and make them think we're attacking, but we won't. The next day we'll attack, bright and early, with reinforcements from Corps and plenty of artillery preparation. The Japs on Kokengolo Hill won't be able to do the damage they did today.”
“It'll be hard to get them in there,” Colonel Stockton pointed out. “They're dug in deep.”
“All we want to do is keep them out of action until the men are knocking on their doors. Then we'll break down the doors and get them on the inside, like rats in their holes.”
“That won't be easy, sir.”
“I never said it would be easy, but I said we're going to do it, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Colonel Stockton.
Throughout the rest of the day the GIs rearranged their line. The Twenty-third Infantry Regiment swung left, occupying approximately two-thirds of the line that it had held in the morning. The recon platoon was on the far left flank, in the jungle next to the beach.
The men ate C rations for dinner and watched the sun sink on the horizon. They didn't look forward to nightfall, because they expected Jap infiltrators to bother them and maybe even launch a full-scale night attack intended to roll up the flank.
Butsko sat down next to Bannon and dug his spoon into his can of franks and beans. “You did a good job with that machine gun today. ‘Course, I expect you to do a good job all the time, but just thought I'd mention it.”
Bannon was eating sausage patties, chewy and greasy, the worst kind of food to eat in the tropics. “Thanks, Sarge.”
Butsko chewed on a length of frankfurter. Flies buzzed around his can, and he wiped them away with a wave of his hand, but then they came back and he resigned himself. One probably would get into the can and die and he'd probably eat it, but he'd eaten bugs before. All you had to do was open your mouth and one would fly down your throat.
Butsko glanced at Bannon. “You've been acting strange today, kid. Anything wrong?”
Bannon looked at Butsko guiltily. “How've I been acting?”
“I dunno, kid. You don't have your usual moxie.”
Bannon sighed and his shoulders drooped. “I don't feel so good, Sarge.”
“You sick?”
“No, I'm not sick.”
Butsko waited for Bannon to explain, but Bannon gloomily continued eating.
“What's bothering you, kid?” Butsko asked.
Bannon shrugged. “It's a hard thing to talk about, Sarge.”
“You get bad news from home or something?”
“We ain't had any mail since we got here.”
Butsko didn't feel like asking any more questions. If Bannon didn't want to say what was bothering him, to hell with it. He relaxed and finished eating his franks and beans, tossed the empty can over his shoulder, and opened the can of fruit salad, his favorite portion of the C ration package, except for the cigarettes.
Bannon lit a cigarette and blew smoke toward the afternoon sky. “Sarge, do you ever think about dying?”
“All the time.”
“You ever had a strong feeling that you might get killed.”
“Sure.”
Bannon sucked smoke out of his cigarette, held it in, and inhaled while saying, “I think I'm gonna get it tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because that's what I think.”'’
“How come?”
Bannon smiled sheepishly. “This is gonna sound fucked-up.”
“It won't be different from anything else you ever said.”
“I think I'm gonna get it because of Frankie. He and I've been together since Fort Ord, and I always figured I'd stay alive as long as he was okay, but now he's dead for all I know, and I think I'm going too.”
Butsko leaned back his head, held the empty can of fruit salad in the air, and let the last drops fall into his open mouth. Bannon watched, amazed, because he'd expected Butsko to take his revelation more seriously than that.
“Goddamn, I love that stuff,” Butsko said. “If I ever get out of this war, I'm gonna eat fruit salad until it comes out of my fucking ears.” He tossed the can over his shoulder and lit up a cigarette. “Well, kid, lemme tell you something.” He tucked his pack of cigarettes back into his shirt pocket. “Every soldier, sooner or later, thinks he's gonna die the next day. We see other guys get it and we can't help thinking it's gonna happen to us, especially when one of our buddies gets it. But one thing doesn't have anything to do with the other. I've been through a lot more of this war than you, and I'm still here. If you use your head, you've got a better chance than the guys who are walking around with their heads up their asses, like Frankie La Barbara. So don't worry so much, although it won't do any good for me to just tell it to you like that. And as for Frankie La Barbara, you don't know that he's dead. He's too much of a stupid asshole to die. Only the good die young, and he's no fucking good, he never has been any fucking good, and he never will be any fucking good. And you're no good, either.”
“Gee, thanks, Sarge,” Bannon said sarcastically. “I really feel a lot better now.”
“Glad to help you out, kid.” Butsko puffed his cigarette and looked at his watch. “It's gonna be dark soon. Come on with me and I'll tell you where I want you to put your people tonight.”
They arose and brushed the mud and dirt off their uniforms. Slinging their rifles, they trudged toward the beach, two dirty nondescript GIs with helmets askew on their heads and helmet straps hanging loose, smoking cigarettes, their eyes glazed over with war-weariness. Butsko glanced up at the treetops, because there always were rumors about Jap snipers in the trees, and Bannon gazed at the ground, certain he'd be killed as soon as the fighting started again.
American intelligence was right about Kokengolo Hill: It covered a labyrinth of hidden tunnels and rooms dug deep into the ground. Two companies of Japanese soldiers lived like moles in the cool, dank maze, augmented by two platoons of artillery, and they gathered that late afternoon in one of the larger underground rooms to hear an address from their commander, Captain Kazuyoshi Hisahiro.
The room was damp, and the only light came from a solitary kerosene lamp. At one end of the room were crates of ammunition, rice, canned goods, and other supplies, and at the other end Captain Hisahiro stood with his back to the dirt wall, the flickering lamp making shadows dance on his thin, sallow face. Before him, packed tightly together, were all the men in his command except those on guard duty on the upper floors of the mission fortress.
“Men,” said Captain Hisahiro, “the Americans will attack tomorrow morning, and we can expect their attack to be more severe than the one today, which we stopped. Americans are poor fighters individually, and they can defeat us only if they outnumber us hugely in men and material. They are bringing up reinforcements, and I imagine we can expect a thorough artillery bombardment in the morning, followed by their attack.
“It has been my experience,” Captain Hisahiro continued, “that Americans can be stopped by determined, spirited fighting. Japanese spirit always can overcome American material, for even in death we are victorious, because our cause is just. I am speaking with you now because I want you to be prepared for tomorrow. I expect you to fight with desperate intensity, with the full knowledge that your ancestors are watching you and judging you carefully to determine whether or not you will be worthy to join them in heaven. So do your best tomorrow. Fight hard. Remember that Colonel Hirata has ordered each of us to kill ten Americans, but I say to you that you must kill ten Americans every day if you want to call yourselves good Japanese soldiers.
“Our time is drawing near. The Americans will attack in twelve hours or so. I have nothing more to say to you at this time, except that I would like to wish you good luck. When we meet again in the land of our ancestors, we shall smile and embrace
, for we shall always be comrades throughout all eternity. You may return to your posts now.”
“Atten-hut!” shouted Sergeant Akai.
The soldiers bumped into each other as they scrambled to their feet. Captain Hisahiro marched out of the room, and his footsteps echoed back through the earthen corridor outside. Then the men filed out of the room, those closest to the door leaving first, putting on their helmets, carrying their long bolt-action Arisaka rifles.
Toward the rear of the room, standing in the darkest shadows, was Private Takashi Nanamegi, barely over five feet tall, with a scrawny frame; the others called him Mosquito. He was from Tokyo and had been a pimp and pornographer before being drafted into the Imperial Army. He'd tried to buy his way out and had paid a lot of money, but he'd been cheated by crooks in high places who'd been more clever than he.
He watched the other soldiers leave the room and hated them all. Nearly all of them were farmers from prefectures far from Tokyo, and they were ignorant and naive, just the kind of fools who'd be moved by Captain Hisahiro's sentimental little speech. They'd actually fight like maniacs, thinking of their ancestors in heaven. The Mosquito wanted to spit disgustedly on the floor, but he didn't dare do that. Sergeant Suzuki would punch him in the mouth if he tried it.
The room emptied out slowly, and finally the Mosquito could leave. He followed the others into the corridor and made his way through the dark passageways to the room where he lived cheek by jowl with the other twenty-two soldiers left from his platoon, which originally numbered fifty men.
The Mosquito found a vacant spot in a corner and lay down on his side, resting his head on his hand. Some soldiers prayed silently nearby, sitting in the lotus position, and others muttered in little groups. Sergeant Suzuki sat with his back against a wall, staring blankly into space. The Mosquito wanted to smoke a cigarette, but smoking was permitted only in the upper floors of the fortress, where there was fresh air, and the Mosquito didn't like to go up there unless he had to, because you never knew when a bomb would fall on you.
