by Len Levinson
Frankie La Barbara clawed in the dirt and found the steel khaki boxes of ammunition. He lined them up beside the machine gun and blew sand off the cartridges on top. Sam Longtree heaved a log into the gap in the machine-gun nest's wall.
Frankie fed the ammunition belt into the slot on the side of the machine gun, and Bannon worked the bolt so that the gun's mechanism would grab the belt. Bannon sat behind the gun, flicked up the rear sight, took aim at the jungle, and lifted the trigger. The machine gun roared as he fired a burst of six rounds. In basic training they taught you always to fire in bursts of six, to give the barrel a rest. If you fired more than that, the barrel could melt down and misfire, causing the gun to blow up in your face.
“Sounds good,” Frankie La Barbara said, as he made himself comfortable beside the machine gun.
“Yeah, it's working,” Bannon said, relief in his voice.
He ran the gun from side to side on its transverse mechanism, then elevated the rear of the gun so he could enfilade the free-fire zone in front of him. Sam Longtree looked around and saw trenches and foxholes nearby filling up with soldiers whose faces and clothing were blackened by soot.
“Not much room in here for three,” Sam Longtree said. “I'll go someplace else.”
Before Bannon or Frankie La Barbara could say anything, Sam Longtree had jumped out of the nest. Walking hunched over, he searched for a suitable place in which to fight.
Frankie La Barbara licked his lips nervously and looked at the jungle. “I wonder when they're coming,” he said.
“Shouldn't be long now,” Bannon replied, squinting through the sights of the machine gun.
Butsko burst through some bushes and saw in a clearing ahead a group of men sitting around talking.
“Hey, what the fuck you think this is!” Butsko screamed. “Get up on that fucking line!”
The men turned toward him, and Butsko recognized the round florid face of Captain Gwynne.
“What the hell are you doing, Butsko!” Captain Gwynne demanded. “Who put you in charge around here!”
Butsko nearly tripped over his two feet, then righted himself and approached his company commander, who had been sitting with his executive officer, Lieutenant Ames, and his runner, Pfc. Caldwell, the latter trying to fix the company's field radio, which had been hit with a piece of shrapnel.
Gwynne stood and Butsko saluted him. “Sir,” he said, “I just saw Colonel Stockton and he told me to put everybody on the line that I could, because the Japs are gonna attack any moment.”
“They are?”
“Yes, sir. When I was on patrol I saw a few battalions of them out there.”
Captain Gwynne looked at the broken radio and realized that Colonel Stockton probably had been trying to reach him. “Okay, Butsko, keep doing what you're doing.” He turned to Ames and Caldwell. “Forget the radio; let's go put the company together.”
Butsko went in one direction, Lieutenant Ames in another, and Captain Gwynne, accompanied by Pfc. Caldwell, in another. They fanned out through the company area, shouting at men and sending them toward the front lines.
Lying underneath a bush, his helmet covered with branches and leaves, a Japanese scout peered through his binoculars at the American lines in front of him. He was on the edge of the jungle, only a few feet from the free-fire zone, and he could see smoke and flames all across the American positions. The devastation had been widespread, and there appeared to be great confusion among the Americans. The scout grinned as he backed away from the bush. He crawled several feet, then stood and ran through the jungle, eager to be the first scout to report the disposition of the Americans in that sector.
Craig Delane ran across a clearing, carrying a bucket of water in each hand, when Sergeant Butsko came out from behind a tree and booted him in the ass. Delane went flying through the air and fell to the ground, the water splashing all over him.
"Get up on the line, fuck-up!” Butsko bellowed. "Let's go!”
Delane picked himself up from the ground, but he wasn't moving fast enough for Butsko, so Butsko kicked him again. “I said move!”
Delane jumped up like a jackrabbit and ran with a limp toward the front line, certain that Butsko had dislocated his hip. Stupid son of a bitch, Delane thought bitterly. What good will I be if he crippled me for life?
Delane felt angry and frustrated. The bombardment had driven him to the point of insanity, then he'd nearly collapsed from fatigue while trying to put out fires, and now Butsko had damaged his leg. I hate this damned Army, Delane thought. What am I doing here?
Delane came to the trench and jumped in. He saw Private Billie Jones at its bottom, reading from his Bible, and Homer Gladley looking at the Bible over Jones's shoulder.
“ ’By the blast of God they perish,’ “ Jones said, “ ’and by the breath of his nostrils are they consumed. The Lord is my staff and my salvation. The Lord will deliver me from my affliction.’”
“Amen, brother,” said Homer Gladley, an expression of reverence on his face.
Craig Delane groaned as he loaded up his M 1. How did I wind up with all these ignoramuses and savages? he wondered. He'd never dreamed that the Army could be so horrible. It would be tolerable if all he had to worry about were the Japanese, but he hated the men in his outfit even more. They were cretins and barbarians without the smallest trace of sensitivity and human decency. His father could have kept him out of the Army, and he was a fool not to have let him.
Delane set his sights at 150 yards and hugged the buttplate tight against his shoulder. The mud in the ditch reached his ankles and made his feet burn and itch at the same time. His uniform was torn and singed and his ears still ached from the bombardment. When he'd enlisted in the Army he'd somehow imagined that he'd always be on dry land, doing heroic things. He'd imagined himself returning to New York one day, covered with medals, and then all the debutantes would fall at his feet. The young men would slap him on the back and shower him with admiration. Their elders would invite him to quiet corners where they would smoke cigars and he would tell them about the war.
Delane bit his lip angrily. He sighted down his rifle at the trees in the jungle, wondering when the Japs would come and whether he'd be alive after the fight was over.
If he hadn't been such an idiot, he could be at the Metropolitan Club right now, dry and comfortable, drinking Scotch and looking out the window at the girls walking by on the sidewalk. I can't believe I was so stupid, he thought. If I ever get out of this war alive, I'll never volunteer for anything again.
In the darkness of the jungle Colonel Hodaka sat on waterproof canvas, sipping cold tea. In the distance he could hear the roar of explosions caused by flames reaching ammunition dumps and gasoiine tanks. The sky glowed orange and the shouts of Americans could be heard far away.
An aide bent toward him. “The scout has returned,” he said.
Colonel Hodaka arose as the scout walked toward him, the leaves and branches on his helmet flopping from side to side. His eyes glittered and he smiled thinly as he saluted. “The Americans are in disarray,” he said. “There has been widespread destruction within their defense perimeter. The bombardment has been most effective.”
“Good work,” said Colonel Hodaka.
Colonel Hodaka puffed out his chest and turned down the corners of his mouth. His helmet looked comical on his large round head, but there was nothing funny about the look in his eyes.
“Deploy the regiment for attack!” he said.
“Maybe they're not coming,” Frankie said, chewing gum and tossing his shoulders around. “Maybe they were headed someplace else.”
“I don't think so.”
Frankie slapped a mosquito on his cheek and shifted his position in the mud. He was sitting to the side of the machine gun, a belt of ammunition trailing from the chamber of the gun to a metal box near Frankie's feet. “I think you're mad at me, Tex. That right?”
Bannon said nothing, but it was true: He was mad at Frankie for nearly getting himse
lf killed a few times.
“You're not even talking to me?” Frankie asked. “Well, if that's the way you feel about it, go fuck yourself.”
“I shoulda shot you while I had the chance,” Bannon said.
“You don't have the guts.”
“Wouldn't take any guts at all. It'd be like shooting a snake in the grass.”
“Who're you calling a snake in the grass!”
"Shaddup in here!”
Bannon and Frankie looked around and saw Sergeant Butsko behind them.
“Whataya think this is?” Butsko asked. “A debating society? Shut the fuck up and keep your eyes front!”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Butsko crawled into the machine-gun nest, pushed Bannon out of the way, and examined the machine gun. The bolt was clear and it was sighted properly. The field of fire was perfect. He couldn't have done better himself.
“The Japs are coming soon,” he said. “No matter how close they get, don't abandon this machine gun here, because if you do, they'll just turn it around and shoot you in the back, got it?”
Bannon and Frankie nodded. Butsko grabbed his carbine and climbed out of the machine-gun nest. He moved down the line, checking the other soldiers and their weapons.
The Hodaka Regiment was poised at the edge of the jungle, ready to attack. They were keyed up and felt wild, because they'd have to charge across the free-fire zone and be out in the open for two hundred yards before they would actually engage the Americans. They knew many of them would die for the Emperor, but there could be no higher glory than that.
Colonel Hodaka peered at the American positions through binoculars. He saw palm trees on fire and huge clouds of smoke that stank and made the soldiers cough. Americans ran about, but it was difficult to perceive what they were doing.
The time had come to attack. Colonel Hodaka drew his sword and raised it high over his head.
"Tenno hei-ka banzai!” he screamed.
"Tenno hei-ka banzai!” replied the men around him.
Howling and shrieking, the Japanese soldiers smashed through the jungle and ran into the free-fire zone. Holding their rifles and bayonets high, they jumped over shell craters and dodged debris as they raced toward the American lines.
"Banzai!” they shouted. "Banzai!”
“Here they come!” said Frankie La Barbara, his face draining of color.
In the darkness the Japanese soldiers looked like little bugs swarming out of the jungle. Bannon aimed at the group nearest to him and opened fire. The machine gun trembled on its tripod and barked viciously. Every fifth bullet was an orange tracer, and Bannon watched them arc down into the Japanese soldiers.
"Banzai!” they screamed, charging through the hail of bullets.
Rifles crackled all along the line held by the Hellhounds, and machine guns raked the Japanese with hot lead. Mortars had been set up, and their crews lobbed rounds into no-man's-land, but still the Japanese kept coming. Exhilarated by the prospect of joining their ancestors in heaven, they charged into the bullets and flying shrapnel, hoping for victory or a clean noble death. Their comrades were cut down around them, and others were blown up into the air, but their officers and sergeants urged them on, and they responded magnificently.
"Banzai!” they echoed across no-man's-land. "Banzai!”
They surged halfway across no-man's-land, and Bannon could see them more clearly. Frankie fed in the belt of ammo, and Bannon moved the machine from side to side on its transverse rod, mowing the Japanese soldiers down like wheat in a field. Bannon's mind was like ice, and it was focused sharply on the business in front of him. The machine gun spit death, and Bannon sat stolidly behind it, firing in bursts of six, picking targets carefully and aware that the firepower of the Hellhounds wasn't stopping the Japs.
“Jesus Christ!” Frankie said. “Jesus Christ!” He chewed his gum and made funny faces as he gazed in horror at the advancing Japanese. It looked as though there were a million of them, and they weren't stopping or even slowing down. Frankie wished he still had his BAR instead of the flimsy carbine he'd taken on patrol. Gazing over the battlements, he could see Japanese faces in front of him, their mustaches and eyeglasses.
Finally he could sit still no longer. Letting go of the belt of machine-gun ammunition, he grabbed his M 1, placed it on a sandbag, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. He saw a Jap fall, but there was no time to cheer. He moved his carbine an inch to the left, sighted in on another Jap, and pulled the trigger. His carbine fired the shot, and he saw another Jap fall. At that range he couldn't miss.
Without Frankie's assistance the machine-gun belt twisted and snaked in the air as it was swallowed up by the breech of the machine gun. The gun shook erratically on its tripod, but Bannon could handle it. The Japs were less than a hundred yards away now, and Bannon continued to rake them with fire. Something told him the Japs weren't going to stop. They would soon be inside the American fortifications, and then it would be cold steel against cold steel in hand-to-hand combat.
Heaps of Japanese dead lay in no-man's-land, and the charging Japs leaped over their dead comrades. They screamed "Banzai!” and bared their teeth as they sped over the mud and shook their rifles and bayonets. The machine gun kicked and bounced on its tripod, but still Bannon swung it from side to side, slicing down the front rank of Japanese soldiers.
Behind the front rank there were many more ranks, and the Japanese steadily advanced. Bannon pulled the trigger of his machine gun and saw a Japanese head blown apart by his bullets. Blood spurted from the chest of another Jap, and a third went down clutching his gut and shrieking horribly. The sandbag in front of Bannon exploded from the bullet of a Japanese rifle. Bannon flinched for a second, then resumed his fire.
Suddenly the machine gun stopped firing. Bannon frantically pulled the trigger but nothing happened. Looking to the left side of the gun, he saw that the first crate of ammunition was empty, and Frankie La Barbara was too busy firing his M 1 to notice.
"Load me up!” Bannon shouted.
Frankie couldn't hear him in the tumult of the battle. Bannon grabbed his shoulder and Frankie spun around, his face pale, pointing his loaded M 1 at Bannon's face.
“Load me up!” Bannon yelled.
“Yeah, sure!” Frankie said, bending over to open the next box of ammunition.
Bannon looked up and saw the Japs closing in quickly. They were just a few yards away. A Japanese bullet ricocheted off the top of the machine gun, and another slammed into a sandbag.
“Frankie—stand up!”
Frankie looked and saw Japs swarming toward him. He grabbed his M 1 and quickly affixed his bayonet to the end, and Bannon did the same. Three Japs jumped toward the machine-gun nest; Bannon and Frankie shot both of them in midair. The third landed inside the nest, but he lost his footing and Bannon lunged forward with his bayonet, plunging it to the hilt into the Jap's chest. Pulling backward, his carbine wouldn't budge because its bayonet was caught in the Jap's ribs. Bannon bent to pick up the Jap's long rifle and bayonet, when something slammed him in the head. He saw stars and fell through space, landing on his back outside the machine-gun nest. Looking up, he saw a Jap standing above him, about to shove a bayonet through his heart.
Bannon rolled over quickly, yanking his Nambu pistol out of his belt. He stopped suddenly, aimed at the hulk above him, and pulled the trigger. The Nambu kicked in his hand and the Jap leaned backward, blood pouring from his throat. Bannon jumped to his feet. Another Jap rushed him with rifle and bayonet. Bannon aimed the Nambu and fired. The Jap's face became a bloody mask and he went sprawling to the ground.
Bannon snatched the rifle and bayonet out of the dying Jap's hands. Bannon was bareheaded, his helmet having fallen off when he'd been clobbered in the machine-gun nest. His fingers tingled and he'd never felt so blazingly intense. He saw a Jap in front of him, screaming bloody blue murder, and charged him. The Jap saw him coming, planted his left foot behind him, and prepared to parry Bannon's lunge, but Bannon feinted, pu
lling the Jap off balance, and then Bannon thrust forward, stabbing the bayonet in the Jap's gut.
The Jap's eyes nearly popped out, and he dropped his rifle. Bannon ripped to the side, and the Jap's guts oozed out of his stomach. Bannon stepped back and the Jap fell squirming to the ground, trying to stuff his guts back in. Bannon kicked his head, jumped over him, and found himself in front of a Japanese officer who was aiming his Nambu pistol at him. Bannon dived low at the officer's ankles as the Nambu exploded over his head. Crashing into the officer's legs, the officer tripped and fell over Bannon's back.
Bannon spun around and jumped on the officer, who was raising his pistol for another shot. Bannon grabbed his wrist with both hands and kneed the Jap in the balls. The Jap hollered in pain and the Nambu exploded an inch from Bannon's ear. Bannon snatched the Nambu from the officer's hand and smashed him in the face with it, busting his nose and cheekbone. The Jap officer, though dazed, was still very much alive, and he tried to grab the Nambu out of Bannon's hand, but Bannon hit him in the face again, splitting the Jap's lip and knocking in four teeth.
The Jap knew he was in trouble now and fought back like a wild animal. Bannon kept slamming him in the face with the Nambu, and the Jap's struggle diminished. His face became a bloody pulp, and you couldn't even tell where his mouth was anymore. Bannon leaned back and fired the blood-splattered Nambu at close range. The Jap's head blew apart, blood and brains flying in all directions.
Bannon jumped up and saw Japs and GIs locked in combat all around him. He drew the other Nambu and waded into the thickest part of the fighting, firing Nambus from each hand at close range. One Jap had a GI on the ground and was about to run him through when Bannon shot the Jap in the back. The Jap screeched in pain, blood spurting from his kidney, and fell to the ground. Three Japs charged Bannon through the smoke and confusion, but Bannon stood his ground, firing the Nambus in both his hands. The Japs fell one after the other, and Bannon jumped over them, shooting a Jap in the face at point-blank range. Bannon kicked the Jap out of the way and saw a samurai sword streaking toward his head. Dodging to the side, Bannon fired both Nambus from a crouch and brought down the Japanese officer wielding the sword. The officer's aide-de-camp, standing nearby, saw his commander fall and fired his own Nambu at Bannon, hitting him in the leg.
