by Len Levinson
Sergeant Harrington looked at Bannon and came back to his senses. “La Barbara, Jones, Shilansky, help Bannon with the wounded!”
The last soldiers jumped from the net into the landing craft.
“Shove off!” yelled one of the sailors.
Another sailor pushed against the hull of the transport ship, and a chief petty officer gunned the engine. The landing craft motored forward and turned to the left, toward the green island two thousand yards away. Bannon kneeled next to Pfc. Bennington and saw blood and guts from Bennington's chest to his groin. He touched Bennington's pulse but couldn't feel anything. He didn't know if Bennington was alive or dead because the engine was throbbing loudly and the boat was trembling. He didn't know whether to waste sulfa on a dead man, but then something told him that Bennington was a goner. If he wasn't dead then, he would be before long. He looked around for another wounded man to treat, but the other men had pitched in and were taking care of them. Bannon returned to his position at the gunwale, took out a Chesterfield, and lit it up with his Zippo. He looked back and saw the transport ship keeling over in the water, a thick plume of black smoke trailing into the blue sky. It was a beautiful day and the sun was shining brightly. Somehow the gunfire and explosions didn't fit in. He heard the snarl of airplane engines above him and turned around to see.
“Get down!”
Everybody dropped to the bottom of the landing craft as a squadron of Zeros dived toward them on a strafing run. Bullets whacked into the side of the landing craft and ricocheted into the air. Somebody screamed and somebody else cursed. Bannon looked out from under the brim of his helmet and saw the Zeros soar past. In seconds they were gone, looking for new targets.
Water seeped into the landing craft through cracks where the ramp joined the walls. Blood mixed with the water and everybody was getting messy. Bannon looked around and saw fear on some faces and rage on others. Sergeant Harrington had taken charge again and was giving orders. Bannon saw no enemy planes coming toward him, so he peeked over the gunwale to see what was going on.
He was surprised at how orderly everything was. His landing craft was part of a wave of similar vessels plowing through the ocean toward the island in the distance. The island looked beautiful and serene, a little paradise, but it had become the crucible in the war between the United States and the Japanese Empire.
Bannon lowered his head and unslung his rifle. He opened the bolt, looked inside, and closed it. Then he tried the bolt a few times to make sure everything worked smoothly. He checked his bandoliers of ammunition, his canteen, and his cartridge belt. Everything was okay. The landing should be a cinch anyway. They were going ashore on Lunga Point, which the Marines already held, so all they'd have to worry about were Japanese bombardments and strafing runs. If the US Navy had enough ships and planes, the GIs wouldn't even have to worry about that, but it was October of 1942 and the bulk of American men and equipment was being earmarked for the campaigns in North Africa and Europe. The war in the Pacific had the last priority. The generals called the battle for Guadalcanal Operation SHOESTRING.
The landing craft roared toward the beach, and Bannon couldn't wait to get ashore. He'd dig himself a little hole underneath a tree someplace and stay there for as long as he could. There's nothing like a little cover and concealment to raise a man's morale.
Frankie La Barbara crabwalked toward Bannon. “How're you doing, buddy?”
“Okay. What about you?”
“This BAR is a pain in the ass. Every time I move, the legs hit me in the fucking head. Why the hell do I have to carry the BAR?” Frankie's eyes bounced around in their sockets and his jaw chomped his chewing gum. He scratched his ass and took out a cigarette, and Bannon gave him a light. “I hate this fucking Army. You deserve this shit, Bannon, because you enlisted, but I didn't enlist. It took them a long time to find me, and if I'd been a little sharper, they wouldn't have found me at all.”
“Bullshit. They would have got you sooner or later. You're too healthy to be a 4-F.”
A few feet away Private Billie Jones, the former itinerant preacher from Georgia, was reading aloud from his handy pocket-size Bible. “ ‘Lord,’” he said loudly, his voice trembling with emotion, “ ‘deliver me from mine enemies and show yourself gloriously before me. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Praise be to the Lord.’”
“Knock that shit off!” Frankie La Barbara growled over his shoulder. “I don't want to hear it.”
“You don't want to hear the words of the Lord?” Jones asked, astonished. He was heavyset, with a meaty red face and wire eyeglasses perched halfway down his button nose.
“That's right! Shut your fucking yap!”
“If you don't listen to the words of the Lord, the Lord might smite you down today, La Barbara.”
That was all Frankie had to hear. He lunged toward Jones, grabbed him by the lapels of his fatigue shirt, and shoved him up against the wall of the landing craft.
“I said shut your fucking yap—understand?”
It happened so fast that Jones took a second or two to assimilate it, then drew back his fist and punched Frankie in the mouth. Frankie loosened his grip and saw stars for a split second. Sergeant Harrington jumped between them as Frankie reached for his bayonet.
“Knock it off you two!” Harrington bellowed. “What the hell's the matter with you? Save it for the goddamn Japs!”
Frankie relaxed and glowered at Jones. “If you ever see me coming when we get on that beach, you'd better start running, cocksucker.”
“I don't run from heathens,” Billie Jones replied.
Harrington pushed Frankie away. “Take a position over there and don't move until I tell you, understand?”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Harrington pushed Billie Jones to the other side of the landing craft. “You get over there, you stupid asshole!”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Bannon looked up at the sky and saw dogfights taking place everywhere, but in the distance he could see a huge number of planes circling around and getting into position. Bannon figured out what they were doing. They were Jap Zeros and they were going to attack the beach as soon as the landing boats started to unload. He raised his head and saw the beach three hundred yards away. We're almost there, he thought, holding his M 1 ready. He looked at the coconut palms and the long sandy beach. It was gorgeous, but it wouldn't be for long.
“Get ready, men!” said one of the sailors.
“You heard him!” Sergeant Harrington yelled. “This is it! Keep your fucking eyes open and do what I say! As soon as that ramp goes down, hit the beach and get behind that treeline!”
“What time is chow?” asked Homer Gladley.
Some of the men laughed, but Gladley hadn't been trying to be funny. Whenever he was nervous he became hungry, and right now he was extremely nervous. Gladley was the giant in the platoon, six feet two inches tall and tipping the scales at two hundred and fifty pounds. He had worked hard on his father's farm for most of his life and was extremely strong, but he didn't have much of a brain.
Bannon sucked his cigarette and settled himself down. As soon as the ramp fell he was going to take off. If anybody was in front of him, he'd go right over him, and if he couldn't go over him, he'd go under him. He would be safe in the woods. The Jap planes wouldn't hang around forever. Things should quiet down pretty soon.
The landing craft pushed through the water as the Japanese fighter planes peeled off for their strafing run. Bannon flexed his leg muscles, his cigarette dangling from the comer of his mouth. Nearby, Frankie La Barbara was cursing and rattling the bolt of his BAR. “Fucking piece of shit,” Frankie muttered. “Never works right.”
The landing craft grounded on the coral and the ramp splashed down into the water. Bannon looked ahead and saw palm trees leaning lazily in the sun.
"Hit it!” Harrington screamed.
The men grabbed their weapons and charged toward the opening as the Zeros dived like angry wasps through the sky. T
heir machine guns chattered as the men jumped into the chesthigh water and made their way toward the beach.
"Keep moving!” Harrington yelled.
Bannon leaped as far as his long legs would take him and dropped into the water. He landed on an uneven piece of coral, lost his balance, and fell forward, slamming his right knee against the coral and ripping apart his flesh. He hollered under water and raised his head, boiling mad. The Zeros roared past overhead, and machine-gun bullets zipped into the water all around them.
Bannon raised his M 1 above his head and pushed against the water. He heard a deadly whistling sound and then the beach in front of him exploded, sending a ton of sand flying into the air. Another shell landed in the water, blowing up a few men from Easy Company. Bannon's skin tingled as if he'd been plugged into an electrical circuit. He cut through the water with long strides; he was submerged only to his waist now, his knee stinging from the salt in his wound. Machine-gun bullets peppered the water all around him, and men screamed and twisted, dropping their weapons and sinking into the water.
"Don't stop, you fucking bastards!” Sergeant Harrington hollered. "Keep moving!”
Bannon plowed through the water. He had only twenty more yards to go. Glancing to his left and right, he saw that he was in front of everybody, the first man to hit the beach. The water came up to his knees and he jumped ahead like a wild horse, shouting with excitement and shaking his rifle in the air.
A bomb dropped into the forest in front of him, and Bannon watched with fascination as trees were sliced down by flying chunks of shrapnel. A little voice in his ear told him to drop down into the sand and stay there, but something else told him to follow orders and get to the treeline. A bomb landed on the sand with a terrifying clap of thunder, and Bannon felt the ground shake like an earthquake underneath him. It was an entirely new sensation, but he didn't have time to reflect on it.
"Double time!” Sergeant Harrington cried somewhere behind Bannon. "Move it . . .”
Harrington's voice trailed away in mid-sentence, and Bannon turned around to see his platoon sergeant falling into the water. Bannon didn't know whether to turn around and get him or keep running into the woods. Then he heard an artillery shell screaming down to earth, and it sounded as if it was going to land right on top of him. Bannon dropped onto the sand as the beach erupted ten yards away, deafening him and filling the air with gray smoke. Clods of wet sand showered onto him, and he looked back to see Private Delane from New York City pulling Sergeant Harrington to shore by one arm.
Bannon realized it really didn't matter where you were on the beach at Guadalcanal, so he took a deep breath and ran back into the water to help Delane with Sergeant Harrington. Bannon kicked his knees high and held his rifle at port arms. He was halfway to Harrington before he realized that he didn't have his helmet on anymore.
Private Constanza looked up as Bannon passed. “Hey, you're going the wrong way, Bannon!”
Bannon charged toward Delane, who was slowly dragging Sergeant Harrington to shore. Sergeant Harrington's chest was covered with blood and his eyes were closed. Bannon grabbed Harrington's other arm and pulled him toward safety. He could have gone faster, but Delane couldn't keep up.
“Delane,” Bannon said, “take my rifle; I'll carry Sergeant Harrington!”
Before Delane could answer, Bannon threw his rifle at him, then lifted Sergeant Harrington and draped him over his shoulder.
“Follow me!” Bannon shouted to Delane.
Bannon adjusted the heavy weight of Sergeant Harrington on his shoulder and ran with him toward shore. He saw Private Constanza up ahead spin around suddenly and fall onto the wet sand. Machine-gun bullets raked back and forth on the beach and explosions were taking place everywhere. Bannon didn't see how he could reach the treeline in one piece, but it was his only chance. In his excitement he yelled a wild Texas catcall, and Billie Jones nearby let loose a rebel yell. Private Sam Longtree, a full-blooded Indian from Arizona, gave out an Apache war whoop, and Frankie La Barbara cursed with all the strength of his mighty vocal chords. The first platoon of Fox Company swarmed across the beach and ran in a zigzag fashion toward the jungle. Frankie La Barbara was the first one to reach it and he dived headlong into a bush. Billie Jones and Homer Gladley were next, and they jumped into a shell crater behind some trees that had been mutilated by a bomb. Private Ramsey, who had been so worried about getting hit, entered the forest and just kept running, anxious to get as far away from the beach as he could, but an artillery shell from a Japanese battleship landed on top of him, and he never had to worry about getting hit again.
Branches slapped Bannon in the face as he ran into the jungle, and he spotted a shell crater straight ahead. Trudging toward it, he jumped inside and gingerly laid Sergeant Harrington down. Then he crouched beside him as Private Delane slid into the hole.
Bannon leaned over Sergeant Harrington and saw that his platoon sergeant's face was ashen. Harrington's clothes were soaked with blood, and a lot of it was on Bannon's shirt.
“Is he dead?” Delane asked.
Bannon felt Harrington's pulse and it seemed as if there was something very faint.
"Medic!” screamed Bannon.
“Isn't the medic dead?” asked Delane.
Bannon unbuttoned Harrington's shirt and peeled it back. Harrington's hairy chest was covered with blood, but the wound itself didn't look that big. It was awfully close to his heart, though. Bannon opened the first-aid pouch on his belt and took out the dressing. He tore off the wrapper and pressed the dressing against the gash, then rolled Harrington to the side so he could tie the dressing around his torso.
“Good grief!” said Delane.
Bannon stared at Harrington's back, or what was left of it. The Japanese bullet had made a small hole going in, but it had torn away ribs and meat on its way out. Bannon could have placed both his fists in the exit wound and there still would have been room for one of Delane's fists in it.
“Well,” Bannon said, “I think old Sergeant Harrington has come to the end of his road.”
Delane nodded. Bannon let Harrington roll onto his back again and stared at him, wondering if he was dreaming. Sergeant Harrington had been just about the most important person in his life for six months, and now all of a sudden he was dead. It was unbelievable.
“What're we going to do without a platoon sergeant?” Delane asked. “I wonder if Corporal Turtle's around. Corporal Tuttle!”
There was no answer.
Bannon opened Sergeant Harrington's first-aid pouch and took his dressing in case he needed it for himself later. The wrapper was covered with Harrington's blood, but it was supposed to be waterproof. Bannon dropped it into his own firstaid pouch, snapped it shut, took Sergeant Harrington's helmet off his head, and put it on his own.
Delane peered into the palm grove. “I wonder if there are any Japs around here.”
“Naw, the Marines have this area secured.”
“Don't you think Lieutenant Scofield should know that Sergeant Harrington is dead?”
“Yes, but where in hell is he?”
A Japanese artillery shell fell not far away and sent palm trees crashing to the ground. Bannon looked through the wide leaves above him and saw planes streaking past. The Japs would pound the beach for as long as they could, so the smart thing to do was to move inland as soon as possible, but somebody had to give the order.
Bannon cupped his hands around his mouth. "Anybody see Lieutenant Scofield?”
Nobody answered. Bannon would have liked to give the order himself, but he didn't have the rank. He was used to giving orders, because he'd worked as a ranch foreman before joining the Army.
A voice carried through the grove. "Who's lookin’ for Lieutenant Scofield?”
"Private Bannon! Tell him that Sergeant Harrington's dead!”
"Holy shit!”
Bannon picked up his rifle and worked the bolt a few times. Delane saw what he was doing and checked his own bolt.
“D
o you suppose we should load our rifles?” Delane asked.
“What the hell for? You wanna shoot a Marine?”
“What if some Japs show up?”
“There ain't no Japs on this part of the island. Don't you remember what Captain Gwynne said in the orientation lecture on the ship?”
“Yes, but I'd feel safer if I loaded up.”
“Then go ahead, but keep your safety on and leave the chamber clear.”
“Right.”
Delane picked a clip of ammo out of a bandolier and stuffed it into the chamber of the M 1. He held the clip down with his thumb and slid the bolt over it so that a bullet wouldn't ride into the chamber.
"Hey, Bannon, you around here?” said Frankie La Barbara from someplace not far away.
"I'm over here!”
The earth heaved with explosions, and the Japanese Zeros continued their strafing runs. Bannon heard artillery being fired in the distance but couldn't figure out whose it was. The worst thing about the Army was never knowing what the hell was going on. He lay beside Delane in the shell crater and noticed the bottom filling up with water. Mosquitoes buzzed around him and he slapped his neck. Sergeant Harrington's blood oozed into the mud.
“Somebody's coming!” Delane said.
Bannon raised his head and wished he'd loaded up his M 1 too. You never knew who might be out there. Japs were sneaky and could show up anyplace.
“Cover him,” Bannon said as he took a clip of ammo from his bandolier and fed it into his M 1. When he slid the bolt forward he let a round enter the chamber. Fuck the rules. He wasn't going to be caught unprepared.
Frankie La Barbara's head appeared underneath a bush. “Bannon?”
“Over here.”
Frankie crawled forward. “Guess who's dead?”
“Lieutenant Scofield?”
“Naw, he's too stupid to die. Corporal Turtle got hit just before we reached the treeline.”
“You didn't shoot him, did you Frankie?”
“Naw, I didn't shoot him. A fucking bomb fell on him.”
Frankie slithered into the shell crater and looked at Sergeant Harrington. “He dead too?”
