Hit the Beach

by Len Levinson

  “I will when I get a chance.”

  “Get somebody else to fire this machine gun. You're supposed to be leading your squad, fuck-up.”

  Bannon looked around but couldn't see anybody from his squad. The carnage surrounding the machine-gun nest was almost beyond comprehension. He wondered if he was dreaming.

  “I don't see anybody from my squad, Sarge.”

  “Ain't that one of your guys over there?”

  “Where?”

  Butsko pointed, and Bannon saw Craig Delane crouching in a trench and reaming out the chamber of his M 1 with his cleaning tool.

  "Delane, get up here!”

  Delane looked up, saw Bannon, and crawled weakly out of the trench. Butsko turned to Bannon.

  “Find out how many men you've got left in your squad and let me know.”

  “Right.”

  “Whatsa matter with your leg?”

  “I can walk on it.”

  Butsko nodded and jumped out of the machine-gun nest. Bannon watched him go, rolling his shoulders seemingly as energetic as always.

  “Jesus,” Frankie said, “did you get a look at that ax he was carrying?”

  Bannon nodded. The ax had been covered with blood and gristle. Butsko was splattered with blood. It even flecked his eyebrows.

  Craig Delane approached the machine-gun nest. “What do you want?”

  “Get in here and help Frankie with this gun.”

  Delane groaned, because Frankie La Barbara wasn't exactly the favorite member of his squad. He climbed over the sandbags while Frankie sat behind the gun and sighted in.

  Bannon moved out of the way. “When'the Japs come, mow ‘em down,” he said. “If you need me for anything, I'll be around.”

  Bannon flopped over the side of the sandbag and slid into the trench beside it, looking around for the rest of his squad.

  Colonel Hodaka stood stiffly beside a coconut palm, watching the remnants of his regiment return to the jungle. They were cut up, battered, and panicked, dropping to the ground and trying to catch their breaths. Colonel Hodaka had ordered them to retreat and regroup when he realized they would not break through the American lines. Somehow the Americans had stopped them cold. It had been like running up against a brick wall.

  Colonel Hodaka considered his failure a disgrace that would stain his soul forever, and the only way to wipe it out was by committing hara-kiri. But he couldn't commit hara-kiri, because his men were in trouble and they needed him.

  Major Noguchi, his uniform torn, marched toward Colonel Hodaka. “The men behaved disgracefully!” he screamed. “They are not fit to be called Japanese soldiers! We must attack again!”

  “We will attack again. Can you contact Colonel Tsuji on the radio?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Noguchi searched for the radio operator while Colonel Hodaka sat near the trunk of a tree. He tried to figure out what had happened. After the bombardment, his regiment should have gone through the Americans like a knife through butter. He didn't think he'd been outnumbered. What had gone wrong?

  Major Noguchi dragged the radio operator toward Colonel Hodaka and pushed him to the ground. Then Major Noguchi kneeled beside him and spoke the call letters of Colonel Tsuji into the small black microphone. He heard whistling and thought it was coming from the radio.

  “Get down!”

  The Japanese soldiers dived to the mud as the first American artillery shell crashed into the ground and exploded, knocking over trees and blowing men into the air. Colonel Hodaka and Major Noguchi huddled side by side on the ground as Colonel Tsuji spoke his call letters over the radio.

  Major Noguchi handed the microphone to Colonel Hodaka. “Colonel Tsuji, my attack has failed,” Hodaka confessed.

  “Failed? What do you mean, failed?”

  “We were outnumbered. I called a retreat when it appeared certain that my men would be wiped out.”

  “What's that sound?”

  “Now we are being subjected to an artillery barrage.”

  “I see. Well, this is not the news we expected.” Tsuji's voice was clipped and businesslike, but Hodaka could detect the anger between the lines. The ground shook with the force of the artillery bombardment, and nearby a Japanese soldier whined in pain.

  “Has the Ichiki Regiment attacked yet?” Hodaka asked, referring to the second feint at the center of the American line.

  “That's under way right now. I'll have to hold the Yaksuko and Shunsake regiments back until the bombardment ends in your sector.”

  “What makes you think it will end, Colonel Tsuji?”

  “All artillery barrages end sooner or later, Colonel Hodaka, and if it doesn't end in time to suit our purposes, we shall attack right through it.”

  “What are my orders, Colonel Tsuji?”

  “Reorganize your men. Tell them you will attack again as soon as the bombardment stops. Tell them there will be no retreat this time and that they will either emerge victorious or fall upon the field of battle. That goes for all of you. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Colonel Tsuji.”

  “Then be sharp and run those American dogs into the ground.”

  “Yes, Colonel Tsuji.”

  “The best of luck to you. Over and out.”

  Colonel Hodaka handed the microphone and headset back to Major Noguchi.

  “What did he say?” asked Noguchi.

  “When the bombardment ends, we attack and fight to the death. Pass the word along.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Major Noguchi called the battalion commanders on the radio as shells exploded all around them and shrapnel whistled through the air. Colonel Hodaka saw Sergeant Kazu lying on his stomach but managing to hold the regimental flag high in the air. Miraculously the flag hadn't been touched by shrapnel yet, and Colonel Hodaka considered that a good omen. Perhaps defeat could be turned to victory. The Americans had been defeated before, and they could be defeated again. And this time he personally would lead the charge. The sight of him in front would give the men heart. Perhaps he would personally be the factor that would turn the tide of battle.

  “Noguchi,” he said.

  Major Noguchi had been talking to a battalion commander and paused to hear what Colonel Hodaka had to say. “Yes, sir?”

  “Tell them all that I personally will lead the next attack.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the machine-gun nest Frankie La Barbara gingerly touched the scab forming on his cheek. “Jesus Christ, I'm gonna be disfigured for life,” he said. “You got a mirror on you, Delane?”

  “What would I be doing with a mirror?” Delane asked, sitting next to the boxes of ammunition and trying to catch his breath.

  “Look at me,” Frankie said.

  Delane looked at him.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Well, it's not bleeding anymore.”

  “Do you think I'm gonna be disfigured?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Aw, fuck you,” Frankie said angrily. “Kiss my ass. Suck my dick.”

  Frankie always knew he could be killed on the battlefield, but he never thought that he might be disfigured for life. He considered himself a handsome man and always had plenty of girl friends. He even had a wife, who was a good Italian girl and would stand by him always, even if he was disfigured, but he'd rather be dead than have an ugly, misshappen face.

  “Shit,” Frankie said, touching the scab with his fingertips, “why'd this hafta happen to me? Why couldn't it've happened to a guy like you, who's ugly anyway?”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Craig Delane, who'd always considered himself a fine speciman of a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant male. “I'm much better-looking than you!”

  “Horseshit! You look like a fucking queer! You ever been laid, Delane?”

  “None of your business.”

  “You couldn't get laid in a whorehouse if you had a fistful of twenties, you fucking creep.”

  Actually Delane had enjo
yed sexual relations in whore-houses and had even managed to bed down a few society girls. “You don't know what you're talking about Frankie. Decent women prefer men like me to loudmouths like you.”

  Frankie laughed viciously.

  “Go ahead and laugh, but you know I'm right.”

  “Fuck you, you're right. You ain't never been right in your life, you punk-creep-scumbag.”

  “The women that I go out with would spit on men like you,” Delane said, getting angry. “Men like you wait on their tables and sweep their floors.”

  “I ain't never waited on a table in my life, and I ain't never swept a floor till I wound up in this motherfucking Army. But let me tell you something about those fancy girls you go out with: They may act very la-de-da with guys like you, but when they're with guys like me, they're like fucking animals, they're so starved for some good cock.”

  Craig Delane pshawed. “How would you know?”

  “Because I used to fuck uptown girls all the time. Everybody knows they're the most twisted sick fucking bunch of broads in the world. I picked one up one day on Fifth Avenue. She was doing her shopping or some shit, and I took her to a restaurant a friend of mine manages nearby and fucked her standing up in the broom closet. She didn't even know my name, for Chrissakes, and there she was with her dress up to here,” Frankie pointed to his belt; “with one foot on the mop bucket, fucking me like a rabbit. Afterward she sucked my cock and I came in her hair. So don't tell me about fancy uptown broads. They fuck just like any other kinda broads, only they like it more.”

  “I doubt,” Craig Delane said, “that a girl like that could be from a good family. She probably was some little shop girl, but you wouldn't know the difference.”

  “Bullshit. She talked real fancy like you, Delane. She probably was your kid sister.”

  Delane had a kid sister and thought of her in a broom closet with Frankie La Barbara. Outraged, he dived at Frankie, who delivered a fast uppercut, knocking Delane cold. Delane fell on his back beside the machine gun, and Frankie knelt over him, slapping his face lightly.

  “Hey, wake up, you fuck! The Japs might attack any moment now and I might need you!”

  Bannon roamed through the trenches looking for the men in his squad. He found Shilansky with a broken nose and a cut across his chest, but a medic had applied a big bandage, and Shilansky appeared to be all right. Shilansky was sitting in a foxhole, smoking a cigarette and watching the jungle blowing apart in front of him.

  “You see the Chief?” Bannon shouted above the sound of explosions.

  “Ain't seen the Chief.”

  “Butsko is trying to organize the platoon. Go down there near that machine-gun nest and find some cover.”

  “What's down there?”

  “Frankie La Barbara and Craig Delane are manning that gun.”

  Shilansky wiped his tender nose with the back of his hand and stood up in the hole. He held his M 1 in his right hand and trudged toward the machine-gun nest. Shilansky had joined the Army because a judge said it was either that or go to jail again. Now, after fighting with Japs in the middle of the night, he wished he'd gone to jail.

  He reached the machine-gun nest and saw Frankie sitting behind the gun, with Craig Delane pushing himself up from the ground.

  “I hate you!” Delane said through teeth rinsed with blood. “Some day I'm going to kill you!”

  “Your mother's pussy,” Frankie snarled, lighting up another cigarette.

  Bannon found Sam Longtree sitting at the bottom of a trench, sharpening his bayonet on a piece of Washita stone he'd brought with him from civilian life. A bandage was tied to his head, forcing his helmet back, and his arms were cut up, but other than that he seemed okay.

  “How you doing, Chief?” Bannon asked.

  “Could be better,” Sam Longtree said.

  “I'm forming up the squad over there.” Bannon pointed toward the machine gun nest. “Why don't you finish sharpening your bayonet over there?”

  “Okay.”

  Sam Longtree dropped his Washita stone into his shirt pocket, fixed his bayonet to his M 1 rifle, and walked away. Bannon lit another cigarette and wondered if he should get permission to go back to a field hospital, because his leg hurt like hell. Maybe he'd do that in the morning, after everything quieted down.

  He walked toward the machine-gun nest, surprised that most of his squad was still alive. Looking down, he saw dead bodies everywhere. Stretcher bearers carried away the wounded, and a few men wandered around, firing pistols in the heads of wounded Japanese soldiers. Something glittered in the flash of an artillery explosion, and Bannon bent low to see what it was.

  It was a Thompson submachine gun and it was lying across the chest of a lieutenant from George Company whose name Bannon didn't know. Bannon figured it would be a neat weapon to have in close fighting and picked it up, slinging it muzzle-down from his shoulder. He also gathered up the dead lieutenant's ammunition pouch and hung it from his neck.

  Limping toward the machine-gun nest, an ugly, bloody apparition rose up in front of him.

  “How's your leg?” asked Butsko.

  “I don't know,” Bannon said. “I guess it's okay.”

  “If you can walk on it, it can't be too bad.”

  Bannon remembered Butsko axing the Jap who'd been about to kill him. “Thanks for helping me back there, Sarge.”

  Butsko looked surprised. “What I do?”

  “You killed a Jap who was fixing to stick me with his bayonet.”

  “Where's your squad?”

  “I'm looking for them right now.”

  “Maybe you'd better get that leg looked after.”

  “I will as soon as I find the rest of the guys in my squad.”

  “Where you gonna be?”

  “Around that machine-gun nest over there.”

  “I'll see you there in a little while.”

  Butsko walked away, and Bannon reflected for a moment on his platoon sergeant's good mood. Butsko had seemed friendly and almost gentle. Bannon remembered what Butsko had said when they were being shelled in no-man's-land, something about war bringing out the best in people. Well, it certainly had brought out the best in Butsko.

  “Corporal Bannon?”

  Bannon spun around and saw soldiers moving back and forth, ghostlike, in the night. Flashes from explosions made their movements appear jerky and bizarre. Medics treated the wounded and stretcher bearers carried bodies away. Two figures materialized out of the night, and Bannon recognized Billie Jones and Homer Gladley, their uniforms torn and splattered with blood. Gladley had a big dent in his helmet and Jones was limping, but otherwise they seemed okay.

  Bannon was glad to see them. “How're you doing, boys?” Smith raised his palms to the sky. “'The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.’”

  “I know, but how're you doing?”

  Gladley took off his helmet, showing a big bruise on his forehead. “I got a headache,” he said.

  "That all?”

  “I think so.”

  “How about you, Reverend?”

  “Some Jap stepped on my foot. I think it's broke.”

  “You look like you can walk all right.”

  “More or less.”

  “Then it probably ain't broke. Come on with me.”

  Bannon led them toward the machine-gun nest. Flocks of artillery shells whistled over their heads, and the jungle to their right flashed red and orange as high explosives rained onto it.

  TEN . . .

  Colonel Tsuji paced back and forth in front of General Hyakutake's desk, as Sergeant Kaburagi stood at attention nearby. Muffled explosions could be heard faintly in the distance, and the jungle was alive with the chirps and buzzes of insects.

  “I can't imagine what could have gone wrong,” Tsuji said. “The Yamubashi Regiment should have decimated those green Americans.”

  “Perhaps,” replied General Hyakutake, “the Americans weren't so green. Perhaps our intelligence was wrong and they were battle-
tested veterans.”

  Tsuji snorted. “All American soldiers are of low quality, regardless of their experience. There must have been many more of them than we thought.”

  “Perhaps they had a secret weapon.”

  “Perhaps.” Tsuji stopped pacing and wrinkled his tiny nose. “Regardless, I think we should send the Ichiki Regiment forward now and continue with our original plan.”

  General Hyakutake didn't like the way the first wave of the attack had gone, but it would be ignominious to retreat from the battleground now. The noble spirit of Japan would prevail in the end, he hoped.

  “I quite agree,” he said. “And send the Yaksuko and Shun-sake Regiments in.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Tsuji marched toward the radio operators in the next room of the tent and had the orders transmitted to the front.

  The GIs huddled in their trenches and holes, waiting for the bombardment to stop. The word had been passed along that they would attack when the last shell fell, and they prepared their weapons and ammunition, smoking their final cigarettes and thinking of the next bloody battle they'd have to fight.

  They had difficulty believing that they'd pushed the Japs back, because until now they'd been in awe of Japanese soldiers, who were supposed to be fantastic fighters, able to exist on a handful of rice a day. The Japs had defeated the British, Dutch, and Americans so many times that they had appeared unbeatable, but the Hellhounds knew that they'd beaten them. They didn't talk about it much to each other, but they felt proud. The gory battle had drawn them together and given them a sense of identity. Many of the soldiers realized that they'd actually enjoyed the battle, despite its danger and horror. They'd experienced an excitement that they'd never known before, and the battle had provided an outlet for the pent-up rage and frustrations of their lives. Some of them couldn't wait to go after the Japs again.

  In one of the foxholes Homer Gladley and Billie Jones crouched at the bottom, watching the sky pulsate with the reflections of explosions. Gladley chewed a matchstick and waited for somebody to tell him what to do. His mind was a black nothingness tinged with anger and dread. He wished Jones would read the Bible to him, but Smith appeared to be undergoing some kind of personal crisis.