by Len Levinson
“Hold on,” she said. “You're not hurt that badly.”
Private Gundy dropped down beside her and grabbed Bannon's wrist, looking at his watch. Then he let go of Bannon's wrist and took away the bandage Butsko had put on. Blood welled up from a hole the size of a half-dollar. He sprinkled on the coagulant powder to stop the bleeding, then reached into his haversack for an ampule of morphine.
Lydia realized she could leave then. No more shells were falling, and few bullets were being fired over her head. The battle was somewhere else; the GIs were ready to storm the fortress.
She stepped back and looked on as Gundy jabbed the ampule into Bannon's ass. It was a great picture, but she didn't feel like lifting her camera. Looking around, she saw the side of the hill littered with bodies of American soldiers and pockmarked with shell craters. Blood was everywhere, and her eyes fell on a leg severed from a body.
“My God,” she thought, feeling nauseous, and dropped onto her ass. She felt vertiginous and weak. So many men have been killed and wounded—for what? A hill on an island nobody has ever heard of? What the hell's going on up here?
Leo Stern appeared next to her, his face smudged with dirt. “You okay?” he asked.
“I feel sick.”
“My God, what a battle! Why aren't you taking any pictures?”
“I don't feel so good, Leo,” she said, covering her face with her hands.
“C'mon, don't be such a woman. Let's show the folks at home what it's like out here.”
“You go on without me. I'll catch up.”
Leo gripped his pen and pad and ran up the hill. Lydia, still shaky, took out a cigarette and lit it, trying to put her thoughts in order. She recalled what Lieutenant Breckenridge had said about whether she could show the war as it really was.
All her pictures made the war appear interesting. The attack on Kokengolo Hill had looked through the lens of her camera like a wild, thrilling charge, and indeed it actually had seemed that way to her while the attack was going on. The GIs who'd been shot had appeared heroic as they dropped to the ground, like brave warriors on their way to Valhalla, but now, surrounded by blood and gore, she saw the war in a new way. It may have been thrilling and heroic for a while, but now it was all horror and misery.
The folks back home should see this part too, she thought, raising her camera to her eyes. Looking through the viewfinder, she saw the American bodies lying on the side of the hill, some doubled up in pain, others motionless forever.
Click!
She moved closer to one soldier, whose eyes were shut, his mouth trickling blood and his rib cage blown apart. The peaceful expression on his face somehow didn't fit with his bones glistening in the sun. Lydia's teeth were on edge as she carefully composed the picture.
Click!
She heard running footsteps and turned around. Two medics were carrying Bannon away on a stretcher, and his lifeless hand hung over the side, bouncing up and down.
Click!
She lowered the camera. “Is he going to be all right?” she called out after the medics.
They paid no attention to her as they ran with Bannon toward the surgical tents set up in the jungle. The sun rose in the morning sky behind them, silhouetting them against the blue sky, while dead soldiers lay everywhere amid shell craters and pieces of equipment that had been thrown away.
Click!
Troops from the Thirty-eighth US Regiment breached the northeast wall of the fortress, hollering and screaming, bayoneting Japanese soldiers.
“Hold fast!” shouted Sergeant Suzuki.
The Mosquito turned to see hand-to-hand fighting at the other end of the fortress. He couldn't see how it was going, but he was scared to death. From all sides, Americans were converging on the shattered walls, and he knew he'd be fighting hand-to-hand with one of them soon if he didn't do something first.
Sergeant Suzuki spotted him. “Turn around and fight!” he screamed.
The Mosquito hated Sergeant Suzuki. He wanted to raise his rifle and shoot him down, but he didn't have the guts. Facing straight ahead again, he saw American soldiers only a few yards away!
“Over the top!” yelled Lieutenant Breckenridge, leaping into the air.
He sailed over the Mosquito, who became so frightened that he fainted dead away. He collapsed on the ground and Lieutenant Breckenridge landed behind him, followed by Butsko and the rest of the recon platoon.
Lieutenant Breckenridge found himself a few paces in front of Sergeant Suzuki, who aimed his pistol at him.
Blam!
The pistol fired, and Lieutenant Breckenridge heard the bullet whistle past his ear. He leveled his carbine and fired a shot from the waist, but Sergeant Suzuki didn't fall down. Sergeant Suzuki steadied himself and took aim at Lieutenant Breckenridge, pulling the trigger, but before his Nambu pistol fired, a group of GIs got in the way.
Blam!
One of them dropped to the ground, and the rest turned toward Sergeant Suzuki, opening fire. Two of them missed but three didn't, and their bullets lifted Sergeant Suzuki into the air. His pistol dropped from his hand and he fell onto his back, where he lay still, never to issue a command again.
Lieutenant Breckenridge saw the Japanese soldiers retreating toward the doors and passageways that led to the bowels of the fortress. American soldiers pursued them, shooting them in their backs, while other Japanese soldiers couldn't run away because they were engaged in hand-to-hand fighting with American soldiers.
Butsko faced one of them, a steely-eyed Japanese corporal with a Fu Manchu mustache. The Japanese soldier bent his knees and lunged at Butsko, thrusting his rifle and bayonet forward, and Butsko parried it easily, slamming the Jap in the mouth with his rifle butt, kicking him in the balls, and bashing him again with his rifle butt. The Japanese soldier fell to the ground and Butsko rammed his bayonet through his heart, the blood gushing out red and shiny in the light of the morning sun.
“Stay after them!” shouted Lieutenant Breckenridge. “Follow me!”
He headed toward one of the passageways, which was pitch- black inside. He couldn't see anything, so he fired a few rounds from the waist as he ran forward, to make sure no Japs were standing there.
Suddenly a Japanese hand grenade came flying out of the black hole and landed at Lieutenant Breckenridge's feet. He bent down, picked it up, bobbled it, got a grip on it, and threw it toward the passageway. The grenade flew about ten yards and exploded in the air, driving chunks of shrapnel into Lieutenant Breckenridge's chest, stomach, and pelvis. He felt as if his body were being torn apart, and he bellowed in pain as he staggered from side to side, dropping his rifle, pressing his hands against the bleeding holes.
I'm hit! he thought. He didn't know what to do. A terrible chaos came over his mind, and he felt his legs give out underneath him. He tried to catch his footing but didn't have the strength, and he fell onto his face.
He wanted to get away. Pulling together all his energy, he pressed his hands against the ground and tried to raise himself. He managed to push himself up a few inches, then everything went black and he fell onto his face again.
Butsko ran toward him. “Medic!”
“Yo!” replied Private Gundy, working on a wounded soldier from another outfit.
“Lieutenant Breckenridge is hit!”
“Be right there!”
Butsko looked down at Lieutenant Breckenridge and saw all the holes. He's a goner, Butsko thought. But Lieutenant Breckenridge's chest rose and fell with his breathing. He was a big strong man and he was still alive. Butsko thought about Bannon, Frankie La Barbara, Gomez, Shaw, and all the others who'd been wounded. There ain't gonna be no recon platoon left after today.
Colonel Stockton appeared in that section of the fortress, followed by Major Cobb, Lieutenant Harper, and Private Levinson, who carried a backpack radio. The fighting on the top of the fortress was over, and bodies of soldiers, most of them Japanese, were everywhere. The sounds of shouting and shooting could be heard from the pass
ageways and trapdoors, because the fighting now had moved to the labyrinth below.
Colonel Stockton's eyes fell on Butsko. “What the hell are you doing, Sergeant?”
Butsko looked up, a dazed expression on his face. “It's Lieutenant Breckenridge, sir!”
“You're not a medic! Get back to your damned platoon!”
“Yes, sir!”
Butsko jumped up, adjusted his helmet on his head, took one last look at Lieutenant Breckenridge, and turned away, running toward the passageway from which the grenade had been thrown. Colonel Stockton looked at Lieutenant Breckenridge and thought he must be dead. He moved to find out if that was so, when Private Levinson called out to him.
“Major Berman wants you, sir!”
Colonel Stockton reached for the headset and pressed it against his face. “Colonel Stockton here!”
“This is Major Berman, sir. Colonel Hunt has been killed in action, and I'm taking command of the Third Battalion, with your permission, sir!”
“Continue your attack!” Colonel Stockton replied.
Private Gundy ran toward Lieutenant Breckenridge and knelt beside him, dropping his haversack onto the ground. He unbuttoned Lieutenant Breckenridge's shirt and looked at the holes. None of them bubbled, which meant neither lung had been punctured. He could see that Lieutenant Breckenridge still was breathing, so he took out the blood coagulant powder and sprinkled it over the wounds.
Colonel Stockton and his entourage walked away, leaving Private Gundy alone with Lieutenant Breckenridge and a carpet of motionless American and Japanese soldiers. Gundy unwrapped bandages and taped them to Lieutenant Breckenridge's chest and stomach. Then he bent over and pressed his ear against Lieutenant Breckenridge's heart.
It beat strongly and steadily. This guy's as strong as a horse, Gundy thought, becoming erect again. Something moved in his line of vision and he turned to it. His eyes bulged as he saw a Japanese soldier raising his head and shoulders from the ground, aiming a Nambu pistol directly at him!
Gundy couldn't believe his eyes. The Jap's arm shook as he tried to aim, and Gundy could see him gritting his teeth. He was lying in a pool of blood.
Blam!
The bullet whizzed past Gundy and brought him back to the real world. He knew he had to do something, and he had no desire to become a casualty. He picked up Lieutenant Breckenridge's carbine.
Blam!
The Japanese soldier fired and missed again. Coughing blood, he drew a bead on Gundy, who lined up the sights of the carbine on the Jap's face, holding steady and pulling the trigger.
Blam!
His aim was off; the bullet hit the ground in front of the Jap and ricocheted upward, hitting the Jap on the throat, severing his windpipe. Blood spurted out of the Jap's mouth and his head dropped down to the ground.
Gundy stared at him, his jaw hanging open. I've killed a man! He blinked his eyes, wishing that the dead Jap and the whole battlefield would go away and that he was back at Saint Joseph's Abbey in Massachusetts, safe with all the other Trappist monks. But when he opened his eyes the dead Jap still was there, lying in an ever-widening pool of blood. I've killed him!
Gundy closed his eyes and all his strength drained away. He toppled to the side and fell onto the ground, where he lay still beside Lieutenant Breckenridge, trying to think.
He'd left the abbey because he felt he had to help stop the evil being spread through the world by the Nazis and the Japs. He'd become a medic because he didn't want to kill anybody, but now he'd killed somebody just to save his own skin.
I should have let him kill me, Gundy thought. I should have turned the other cheek as Christ said I should. Then I would've been killed, but I would've had eternal life with Christ. Now I don't know what will happen to me.
He recalled that he hadn't hesitated a moment before shooting the Jap. He'd had no tug of conscience, no second thoughts. He'd just killed the poor son of a gun. His prayer life, his three years at the abbey—nothing had mattered when he'd seen the Jap. He was just like everybody else: trying to save his skin instead of trying to save his soul. I'm a fraud, he thought. I don't really believe what I say I believe. Oh, God, I'm sorry.
“Hey, looks like they got one of our medics.”
Gundy opened his eyes and saw legs and feet nearby. He pushed himself upright, and a medic he'd never seen before ran toward him.
“Hey, you all right, buddy?”
Gundy nodded. “Yes, I'm all right.”
The medic cocked his head to the side as he examined Gundy's face. “What happened to you?
“I must've passed out.” Gundy pointed at Lieutenant Breckenridge. “He needs to be evacuated right away.”
The medic turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Stretcher-bearers!”
Two medics with a stretcher ran toward them and lay their poles on the ground, moving the canvas under Lieutenant Breckenridge and lifting him.
“Gee, he's heavy,” one of them said as they carried him away.
Gundy picked up his haversack and adjusted it on his shoulder. He walked toward the dead Jap and gazed down at him. God forgive me, he thought.
Nearby, a wounded GI moaned. Gundy turned toward him and put one foot in front of the other, moving jerkily, like a robot. I've got to keep going, Gundy told himself. Later, when things settle down, I'll think about all this.
TWELVE . . .
Butsko ran through the dark tunnel and caught up with the remnants of the recon platoon. They pressed their backs to a wall of the tunnel, and Private Morehouse tried to peer around the corner to see if any Japs were there.
Beeooowwwwww went a Japanese bullet, ricocheting past his nose.
“We got a flamethrower here?” Butsko asked.
“Nope,” replied Sergeant Cameron, his face streaked with sweat and filth.
“Morehouse, get outta the way.”
Morehouse moved away from the wall and Butsko took his place. Butsko tore a hand grenade from his lapel, yanked the pin, and held the lever down.
“When this grenade blows, follow me,” he said.
The men poised themselves.” Butsko bent his knees and chucked the grenade around the corner as hard as he could. Three Japanese bullets whizzed past in the moments his hand was out. He heard the iron grenade fall with a thud on the dirt floor of the tunnel, and the Japs jabbered frantically. Butsko held his M 1 rifle up like a baseball bat, because he knew what would happen next.
Sure enough, the grenade came flying back, having been thrown by one of the Japs. Butsko swung his rifle as if he were Joe DiMaggio trying to hit the center field bleachers at Yankee Stadium. His rifle butt connected with the grenade and batted it back.
The grenade exploded with a deafening roar that echoed around and through the tunnel system. Clods of earth fell from the walls and ceiling, and Butsko jumped around the corner, aiming his M 1 from the waist.
“Follow me!”
He saw Japanese soldiers everywhere in the dimness. Some lay on the floor, some were huddled on their knees, and others ran away. He shot into the Japs crouching before him, and then came a fusillade of fire from the recon platoon. The bullets cut up the Japs still alive in that section of the tunnel system, and Butsko waded through them, kicking and kneeing, stabbing with his bayonet. In the distance he could hear the footsteps of the Japs running away.
Butsko advanced cautiously, and the light became dimmer as he moved into the tunnel system. He noticed a torch standing in a holder mounted on the wall of the tunnel. Taking down the torch, he flicked the wheel of his Zippo and set it afire. The tunnel glowed and trembled in the light of the torch.
“Delane?” Butsko said.
“Hup, Sarge.”
“Hold this.”
Butsko passed the torch to Delane, then motioned with his hand. He moved deeper into the tunnel system, and Delane walked beside him, holding up the torch to light the way.
The tunnel slanted downward, and the air became cool and damp. Sections of the tunnel were shored up by l
og posts and beams. Butsko heard muffled explosions and gunshots coming from other sections of the tunnel system. He knew that only a small percentage of the Japs had been killed in the initial assault on the fortress, and most of them had retreated into the tunnel system, where they were now fighting GIs in a last ditch hara-kiri defense. Butsko wished he had a flamethrower, but he had to get along as best he could with what he had. The battle for New Georgia was almost over and he was hoping for a nice long rest before the next campaign. That kept him anxious to kill all the Japs and get the battle over with.
They came to another curve in the tunnel. Butsko motioned with his hand, indicating that they should get close to the wall. “Gimme the torch,” he whispered to Delane.
Delane handed it over, and Butsko held it in his big fist. He drew back his arm and threw the torch around the corner, hearing it land on the floor of the tunnel. A split second later the tunnel filled with the sound of rifle shots as Japanese soldiers opened fire. It sounded as if at least ten of them were ahead.
Butsko gritted his teeth in frustration, because this kind of fighting was worse than anything that happened aboveground. It was difficult to see, and all the Japs had to do was wait for them to move out into the open.
Butsko peeked around the corner to see where the Japs were, and a Japanese bullet hit a rock a few inches from his nose, sending flakes of the rock into Butsko's face. He pulled back quickly, and little dots of blood appeared where the bits of rock had embedded themselves.
“See anything?” asked Sergeant Cameron.
“Not a goddamned thing.” Butsko wiped the blood away with the back of his hand. “We're not gonna make much headway here without a flamethrower.” He looked at Craig Delane. “Go topside and get us a flamethrower.”
“From whom?”
“That's up to you to figure out. Get your ass in gear.”
