by Len Levinson
“Try harder!”
Corporal Teramoto spoke into the headset. Captain Shimoyama lay on the ground beside him, and Sergeant Kikusaki sat with his back against the trunk of a tree.
“You shouldn't have told them to fire at the first sight of the Americans,” Sergeant Kikusaki said. “You should have told the men to wait until the Americans were closer. Now the Americans will probably get away.”
“They will not get away!” Captain Shimoyama said through teeth clenched in anger. “If you thought my previous order was wrong, why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't think it was my place to lecture the famous captain from Seventeenth Army Headquarters on field tactics.”
Captain Shimoyama thought he'd blow a fuse, but he made himself calm down.
“Sir,” said Corporal Teramoto, “I have Corporal Shimabukuro.”
Corporal Teramoto held out the headset, and Captain Shimoyama spoke into it. “What's going on out there?”
“One squad charged the Americans, and the Americans opened fire with automatic weapons. We believe the squad was annihilated.”
“You believe? Don't you know?”
“We're checking right now. Any further instructions?”
“Hold the line. Report the disposition of that squad as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Shimoyama handed the headset back to Corporal Teramoto, then looked at Sergeant Kikusaki. “The Americans have automatic weapons and therefore must be a unit of substantial size. Direct the company to move out and encircle them.”
“May I say something, sir?”
“Go ahead.”
“The American unit may not be of substantial size at all. It could be a small unit armed with submachine guns. American patrols are sometimes armed with submachine guns. I think you should rush them en masse and overwhelm them.”
“Are you crazy? If you're wrong, half of them will be slaughtered. Too many Japanese soldiers have been killed already in this war as the result of outmoded strategies such as the one you now suggest. Follow my orders, and hurry!”
Japanese rifles, ammunition, and the samurai sword lay on the grass beside Longtree and Bannon, who were stripping off the Japanese soldiers’ uniforms as Butsko had ordered. Both could guess what Butsko had in mind. They'd disguise themselves as Japanese soldiers and try to slip through their lines.
“I hear something,” Longtree said.
Bannon perked up his ears and heard nothing, but he trusted Longtree's ears. Both hunkered down behind the bodies of the dead Japanese soldiers. In front of them, five Japanese soldiers appeared, advancing cautiously. They seemed unsure of themselves, because they knew American soldiers were in the vicinity. One of them spotted their dead comrades and pointed.
“Now!” said Bannon.
He and Longtree raised their submachine guns and pulled the triggers before the Japs knew what was happening. The submachine guns barked viciously, and the bodies of the Japanese soldiers became peppered with .45-caliber holes. They spun through the air, spurting blood in all directions, and collapsed on the ground.
“Let's get out of here!” Bannon said.
Gathering up the Japanese weapons and uniforms, Bannon and Longtree dashed back toward Butsko and the others.
"What was that?” Captain Shimoyama shouted.
He'd just heard the firing of Bannon's and Longtree's submachine guns and wondered why the Americans were firing and his men weren't. He pondered moving to that sector of his line and taking command of it himself, but then who'd command the company?
“Corporal Shimabukuro is on the radio, sir.”
Corporal Teramoto handed over the headset, and Captain Shimoyama put it on. “What's going on out there?”
“I sent out five men to find out what happened to the two squads and they haven't returned either,” Corporal Shimabukuro said.
“I see.” Captain Shimoyama tried to think of something significant to do, but nothing came to mind. “Don't send out any more men, because we don't want to lose them too. Stay put and await further orders.”
Captain Shimoyama gave back the headset and tried to think. His eyes fell on Sergeant Kikusaki, who was smiling sarcastically.
“What's so funny?” Captain Shimoyama demanded.
“Nothing, sir.”
“What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Captain Shimoyama scowled. Front-line command was proving to be loathesome from every conceivable point of view. Captain Shimoyama felt himself losing his temper. “Well, Sergeant Kikusaki, if you're so smart, what would you do right now?”
Sergeant Kikusaki scratched his tiny nose and said casually, “I already told you what I'd do. I'd order an all-out charge against those Americans and wipe them out. There can't be many of them. A large unit could not have penetrated this deeply into our lines.”
Sergeant Kikusaki's condescending manner irritated Captain Shimoyama. “Very well,” he said, “if that's what you think, you may order the charge and lead it yourself. Report the results to me here when you're finished.”
Sergeant Kikusaki drew himself to attention and threw a snappy salute. “Yes, sir!” He did a smart about-face and marched away.
Captain Shimoyama collapsed onto the ground. What have I done? he asked himself. If he's successful, I'll lose face. No one in the company will have respect for me anymore. I'll become a laughing stock. Captain Shimoyama didn't smoke cigarettes, but he felt like starting. He found himself hoping that Sergeant Kikusaki's banzai charge would fail miserably and that Sergeant Kikusaki would be killed in action.
“Everybody ready?” Butsko asked.
The others grunted in assent or nodded. Bannon, Longtree, and Nutsy Gafooley wore Japanese uniforms, but only Nutsy fit into his. Bannon's and Longtree's were too tight, with the sleeves and pants too short, while Butsko and Shaw couldn't fit into Japanese uniforms at all, because Butsko and Shaw were enormous men.
Butsko took out his compass and figured out which way to go. He pointed to the left, because he wanted to sneak around the Japanese positions in front of him. “This way! Longtree take the point, and keep your fucking eyes open!”
Butsko lifted Homer Gladley onto his shoulders. Bannon and Shaw carried Frankie La Barbara, who was unconscious and drooling onto the front of his uniform. Longtree led the way and disappeared into the thick, leafy jungle.
The Japanese soldiers stood in a long skirmish line, shifting nervously from foot to foot, checking their rifles and bayonets, trying to work themselves into the mood for a wild banzai charge.
Sergeant Kikusaki paced back and forth, checking them over, making sure everything was right. He wanted desperately to wipe out the Americans in front of him, because that would humiliate Captain Shimoyama, whom he despised. He'd picked thirty of his best men and figured that was all he'd need. They'd roll over the Americans and kill them all!
“Are we ready?” Sergeant Kikusaki asked.
His men nodded, holding their rifles and bayonets tightly, their eyes glazed with excitement.
Sergeant Kikusaki drew his samurai sword and turned around, facing the last known position of the Americans. He waved his samurai sword in the air and screamed: "Banzai!” then jumped into the air and hurled himself toward the American lines, running as fast as he could.
"Banzai!” replied his men, following him through the jungle, which resounded with the echoes of their voices. Monkeys looked down at them curiously, and birds shrieked, scattering in all directions. "Banzai!” the Japanese soldiers cried. "Banzai!” bellowed Sergeant Kikusaki.
They charged through the thick foliage, shaking their weapons, eager to kill Americans before the Americans opened fire with their submachine guns. The Japanese soldiers tried not to think of those submachine guns as they sped through the jungle. They preferred to think positively of stabbing American soldiers with their bayonets or shooting them with their rifles.
They reached the spot where their five comrade
s had been gunned down and jumped over the bodies because once a banzai charge was under way, it didn't stop unless it ran into a brick wall.
"Yaaaahhhhhhh!” screamed Sergeant Kikusaki. "Kill them all!”
He saw the scattered, bullet-torn corpses of the two squads that had been massacred by submachine-gun fire, but was so excited he didn't notice that some of the bodies had been stripped of their uniforms and that their rifles and ammunitions were missing.
"Follow me!” he yelled, slashing his samurai sword through the air.
"Banzai!” replied his men, rushing through the jungle.
Leaves and branches scratched their faces and arms, but they kept on going. Some tripped over exposed tree roots and fell on their asses, but they leaped to their feet and continued the charge. Sergeant Kikusaki and his men rampaged through the jungle, expecting to hear the rattle of automatic-weapons fire.
"Banzai!” they screamed. "Banzai!”
They ran past the area where Butsko and his men had rested, but didn't notice the flattened grass and other signs of recent activity. Their breath came in short gulps. They expected the fight to begin at any moment.
They pushed through the jungle, although some were getting tired and couldn't yell so loud anymore. Leading them, Sergeant Kikusaki wasn't sure of what was happening. Where are the Americans? he wondered as he hurdled a log. How far have we come? he asked himself as he dodged around a tree.
He wanted to sit down and take a rest, but how could he do that when he was leading an all-out banzai charge? The only thing to do was keep going, and he kept going. His tongue hanging out of his mouth, he trotted through the jungle because he could no longer run. His feet felt like lead and so did his samurai sword. Thorns ripped open his shirt, and then he tripped over a rock and fell on his stomach.
His men didn't know what to do. They didn't want to disgrace him by acknowledging that he'd lost his footing, so they made believe it hadn't happened and ran past him, shouting "Banzai!” weakly, staggering through bushes and gulping down air. They were beginning to think that maybe the Americans had flown the coop.
Sergeant Kikusaki raised himself to his knees, his chest heaving. “That's enough!” he croaked through his parched throat. "Halt! Come back!”
His men stopped, looked at each other in dismay, and dragged their feet back to where their sergeant was. Their great banzai attack had been a bust.
The recon platoon had hit the dirt and set up a defense perimeter when they heard the commencement of the charge. It soon became clear to them that the Japanese soldiers were charging the place where they had been, not where they were now.
“Listen to them,” Butsko said, a sneer on his face. “Japs are the biggest assholes in the world. They only know how to do two things: charge like maniacs, and sneak up on a GI at night and slit his throat. If I had two .30-caliber machine guns and ten more men with rifles, I could wipe them all out. Let's get going. Saddle up and move out!”
FOUR . . .
Sergeant Kikusaki approached Captain Shimoyama, his face flecked with anxiety. It would be painful for him to confess that the charge had failed miserably. Captain Shimoyama could deduce from one quick glance at Sergeant Kikusaki that something had gone wrong, and his spirits improved instantly. He crossed his arms over his chest and his eyes glittered with pleasure.
“Well?” he asked. “What happened?”
Sergeant Kikusaki gazed at the ground. “Nothing happened, sir.”
"Nothing happened. But surely something happened, Sergeant. Did the charge take place?”
“Yes, sir, but the Americans weren't there.”
“Weren't there? Then, where are they?”
“I don't know, sir.”
Captain Shimoyama smiled for the first time in days. “But how can that be? You're supposed to be so experienced in these matters, Sergeant, whereas I am a mere staff officer—a rank amateur, as it were—yet, I think I know where they are. They are probably trying to circle one of our flanks in an effort to return to their lines. Please notify our flank units to be on the lookout for them. And, Sergeant, please don't walk around here with such a sorrowful expression on your face. I don't want you to demoralize my troops.”
With a chuckle Captain Shimoyama turned away. Sergeant Kikusaki made his way to the field radio, murder in his heart.
Longtree was on the point again, dressed in a Japanese uniform that was several sizes too small for him. He couldn't even button the shirt, and it hung loose over his bronzed skin. The seat of the pants were torn because he'd bent over and ripped it out. Japanese blood was on the shirt and it spooked Longtree. He thought the soul of the dead Jap was hanging around him, and he had enough to worry about.
“DARE SOKO!” said a voice in front of him.
Longtree dived toward the ground. A Japanese soldier was out there talking to him, thinking he was Japanese because of the uniform. Behind Longreee, the others hit the dirt too.
“DARKE SOKO!” the voice said again.
Longtree looked behind him for instructions. Butsko pulled a hand grenade from his lapel and held it in the air. Longtree understood what Butsko wanted. He withdrew a hand grenade from his belt and pulled the pin.
“DARE SOKO!” the voice called out with greater urgency.
Longtree aimed at the direction of the voice and threw the grenade. It sailed through the air and landed with a thud. Longtree heard scrambling in the underbrush as the Japanese soldier tried to get away.
Barrrooooommmmmm! The grenade exploded in a reddish-orange blast, and the concussion pounded Longtree's ears. He sprang up and charged the spot where the Japanese soldier had been, and found him splattered all over the area. Running feet approached from Longtree's rear and he spun around. It was Butsko and the others, coming up fast.
"Keep moving!” Butsko said. "Go!”
The unconscious Homer Gladley bounced up and down on Butsko's shoulders as Butsko ran in the direction of the American positions, while the rest of his patrol followed him. Butsko suspected that the Japs had only a thin skirmish line in the vicinity, and if he could break through it, he'd be home free.
Longtree sprinted in front of Butsko so he could take the point again, and Shaw and Bannon dragged Frankie La Barbara. Nutsy Gafooley brought up the rear, carrying his M-l rifle with telescopic sight attached. The GIs heard Japanese voices to their right and left, and knew that every Jap in the area would converge on the sound of the grenade blast. The GIs ran as fast as they could to get as far away as possible.
Captain Shimoyama jumped six inches off the ground when he heard the grenade explode on his right flank. "What's that?” he screamed. He turned around and faced his right flank, thinking furiously. The explosion meant there was fighting going on there, although he didn't hear any shots. What was the cause of the explosion?
“Sergeant Kikusaki!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Find out what that explosion was all about!”
“It sounded like a hand grenade, sir!”
“I'm not interested in your opinions! Find out for sure!”
Sergeant Kikusaki snatched the radio headset out of Corporal Teramoto's hands. Captain Shimoyama rubbed his fingers over his stubbled chin. The explosion must mean that the Americans are trying to break through my right flank, he thought. If I shift my line in that direction, perhaps I can stop them!
Captain Shimoyama's eyes narrowed, and he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. He thought that his mind was functioning clearly and rationally and that he could outsmart the Americans. It occurred to him that small-unit tactics were basically not very different from the large-scale operations he'd planned at General Hyakutake's headquarters, except that now he could do whatever he wanted, without having to compromise on a decision with other people and then get the decision approved by old fuddy-duddy officers who were afraid of their own shadows.
“Sir,” said Sergeant Kikusaki, “one of our men has been blown to bits, apparently by an American hand grenade, as I suggested a f
ew minutes earlier! A great many footprints of American boots have been found in the area! Evidently the Americans have broken through our right flank!”
“Exactly as I suspected,” Captain Shimoyama said coolly.
“Nothing to worry about. Shift platoons A, B, and C behind our right flank so that we can block the retreat of the Americans. Do you think you can handle that, Sergeant Kikusaki, without any more mistakes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Carry out your orders.”
The patrol from the recon platoon was taking a break after their headlong dash through the jungle. They sat around, hidden by the dense foliage, and smoked cigarettes. Nutsy Gafooley examined Homer Gladley ‘s wound and saw that it wasn't bleeding and wasn't turning green. Homer's pulse was steady and strong. Homer would pull through if he could get to a doctor within the next several hours.
Nutsy moved to the prostrate Frankie La Barbara, peeled off the bandage on Frankie's leg, and looked at the wound. It didn't look very serious. Frankie's problem was the malaria. Frankie's face was pale and his forehead was hot. Occasionally he moaned softly. Nutsy wasn't afraid to be near Frankie, because malaria was contagious only through the bloodstream—from the bites of infected mosquitoes, infected hypodermic needles, or blood transfusions from those who had malaria already. Once you caught malaria, you could get recurrent attacks for the rest of your life.
Butsko puffed his cigarette and watched Nutsy pour water from his canteen onto his handkerchief and press the handkerchief against Frankie's forehead. Butsko tried to figure out his next move. He thought that if he were a Jap, he'd try to deploy his men between the American patrol and the American lines, and if the Japs were doing that, Butsko's best response would be to outmaneuver the Japs. This meant that he'd have to move either to his right or left. But which direction should he choose? Butsko had no way of knowing where he was in relation to the Japs.
It was six of one and a half a dozen of the other. He might as well leave it to Lady Luck. “Hey, Nutsy!”
