by Len Levinson
“It won't take much time.”
Gladley knelt over the dead Japanese soldier, rolled him onto his back, and tore open his pack. He found dirty underwear, a tiny two-inch statue of the Buddha, some smelly socks, and two tin containers. Unscrewing the top of one container, he found some cooked rice that had an unhealthy odor. The other container was half full of a paste that smelled like fermenting wine.
“What kind of food is this?” Gladley asked, wrinkling his nose.
“If you wanna stay here, you can stay,” Frankie said, “but I'm going.”
Frankie returned to the ditch, picked up the walkie-talkie, and hung it around his neck. He brought the radio to his face and pressed the button.
“Red Dog One to Hot Dog... Red Dog One to Hot Dog ... Over.”
His earpiece crackled with static, then Butsko's deep harsh voice came over the airwaves. “Hot Dog to Red Dog One... Hot Dog to Red Dog One... Over.”
“Lotsa Japs coming,” Frankie said.
“How many?”
“I don't know, I can't see them in the dark, but it could be a battalion, and maybe even more.”
“Where are they?”
“About a mile from where you are.”
“You're not hearing things, are you, fuck-up?”
“Nope. We just killed two of their scouts.”
“Get back here as fast as you can.”
Frankie let the walkie-talkie hang loose and looked down at Homer Gladley, who was opening tins in the second Jap's pack.
“How can they eat this stuff?” Gladley wondered, frowning in distaste.
“I don't know about you, but I'm heading back,” Frankie said, stepping toward the American lines.
Gladley jumped up and ran after him. “Wait for me!”
Bannon slept in a ditch, continuing his dream of a warm Texas morning, the sun rising in the sky over Pecos. He and Ginger were still going at it in her bedroom, their bodies streaked with sweat, huffing and puffing and screwing like sex degenerates, going out of their minds.
She scratched her fingernails across his back, and he dug his teeth into her neck. Her legs were wrapped around his waist; he long-stroked her up and down and from side to side, waves of ecstasy rolling over him and the bed creaking as if it were going to collapse.
He held her ass in his hands and fucked the jelly out of her beans. Her head thrashed from side to side on the pillow and Bannon was afraid his mind or maybe his spine was going to snap. The pleasure was so great, it was almost unendurable. This was turning out to be the best fuck of his life, and now, for the fourth time that morning, he felt an orgasm about to explode. His movements became spasmodic and he gasped for air as the sweet pressure increased in his groin.
She hugged him tighter, and suddenly Bannon was kicked powerfully in the ass. He rolled onto his back, opening his eyes. Butsko stood above him.
“Wake your men up. The Japs are coming again.”
“Hup, Sarge.”
Butsko stomped off to wake up the next squad leader, and Bannon scrambled to his feet, his head still reeling with sleep. He had a hard-on and still could feel Ginger against him. A terrible sense of anguish dropped over him as he thought that he was in a wet jungle, far away from her, and might never see her or any other woman again. His pain turned to anger, and he spun around, kicking Private Shilansky in the ass.
“On your fucking feet!” he shouted. “Let's go!”
“Sir,” said Colonel Stockton into his telephone, “I'm receiving reports from all my outposts that a large Japanese force is bearing down on my position right now. It might even be a regiment.”
“I see,” said General Vandegrift, standing next to the telephone hookup in his conference room. “I wonder what the hell they're up to now.”
“My regiment has been cut to shreds. I don't know if I can hold off a large striking force.”
“What about those Marines I sent you?”
“They've been cut up too.”
“We'll see what we can do. I'll get right back to you.”
General Vandegrift walked to the map table and looked down at the arrows and pins. The Japs had attacked the Hell-hounds once, then hit the center of his line, and now appeared to be striking the Twenty-third Regiment again. Was this finally their main effort? Vandegrift tried to put himself in General Hyakutake's shoes and decided it would be a good idea to deliver a serious attack against fresh green troops. The assault on the center of his line most probably had been a feint. But should he reinforce the Twenty-third now or wait and see what developed? Perhaps the reports were exaggerated. The Twenty- third was green, after all, and new troops tended to exaggerate everything. But yet, there must be something out there. They wouldn't be making it all up.
Vandegrift looked up and turned to Colonel McWhorter. “Shift one battalion from the Four Hundred and Nineteenth and two from the Three Hundred and Twenty-third to the sector by the Hellhounds, and move them up on the line as soon as they arrive. Report to Colonel Stockton the action that you've taken.”
"Halt—who goes there!”
Frankie La Barbara and Homer Gladley stopped cold in their tracks. They'd been speeding back to their lines on the trail and finally had made contact.
"Private La Barbara and Private Gladley!” Frankie called back.
"Advance to be recognized!”
Frankie and Gladley crept forward, hoping no trigger-happy GIs were in front of them.
"Halt!”
Frankie and Gladley stopped.
“Betty,” the guard said in a quieter voice.
“Grable,” Frankie said.
“Pass on.”
Frankie and Gladley advanced down the trail. Private Rut-ledge of the Weapons Platoon came out from behind a bush. “I thought it was you, Frankie,” Rutledge said.
“So what you put us through all that shit for?”
“You might have been some sneaky Japs.”
“Aw, you fucking jerk.”
Frankie and Gladley made their way across the Fox Company lines to the Second Platoon, where they found Butsko hollering at people and telling them where to set up positions.
“We're back, Sarge,” Frankie said.
“Big fucking deal. Why didn't you go see how many Japs were coming.”
“Who can see anything in the night?”
Butsko grunted angrily. “You could've seen if you wanted to see. I know you, La Barbara, you just do what you have to do, and no more.”
“I ain't no fucking hero, Sarge.”
Butsko narrowed his eyes. “What was that?”
“Nothing Sarge,” Frankie stuttered, taking a step backward.
“I thought I heard you cracking wise just now.”
“Who me? Not me, Sarge.”
“Report to Bannon, you fuck-up,” Butsko growled.
“Hup, Sarge.”
Frankie and Gladley made their way through the jungle toward the second squad. Rain poured onto thick green leaves and rolled off to the ground, and the night visibility was further impeded by clouds of mist. It looked like a nightmare land, with soldiers hacking at the mud with their entrenching tools or trying to chop through the roots of trees.
Finally they found Shilansky digging a hole with Sam Long tree. “Where's Bannon?” Frankie asked.
“Over there.”
They looked and saw Bannon and Craig Delane also digging in. Walking toward them, Frankie knew what was coming next. He'd have to dig a hole with Gladley, and by now he was sick of being with Gladley. He'd much rather shoot the shit with Bannon, who could tell you the goddamnedest stories once he got going.
“Hiya, Bannon,” Frankie said. “We're back.”
“Yeah,” added Gladley, looking around. “You see my pack around?” he asked, anxious to swallow down a can of C rations.
Bannon looked up. “Look who's here. I guess we don't have anything to worry about anymore. Dig in over there.” He glanced at Gladley. “Your pack's probably where you left it.”
“I'll be
right back,” Gladley said, running off to search for his pack and the C rations it contained.
Bannon returned to hacking the ground at his feet. “Heard you saw some Japs out there.”
“A whole shitpot of them.”
“Then you'd better get dug in pretty quick.”
“I don't have an entrenching tool anymore. Remember we left our packs up at...”
Bannon interrupted him. “Yeah, I remember. Here, take mine. We've almost got this hole dug.”
Frankie took the entrenching tool and walked toward the spot Bannon had pointed out to him. He wished he could have stayed with Bannon, especially since Bannon's hole was nearly dug, but there was no way he could have asked with Craig Delane there. It would've sounded weird. But Frankie always thought he'd have a better chance in a fight if he was with Bannon, because Bannon was smart. Homer Gladley was strong as hell, but he didn't have a brain in his head.
Frankie stopped, rested his M 1 against a tree, raised the entrenching tool above his head, and smashed it into the ground. It penetrated only about a quarter of an inch and then was stopped cold by the root of a tree, making his hands sting.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted, shaking his hands in the air.
Count Yaksuko held up his hand, and the long column behind him snaked to a stop. The American lines sounded quite close now. He listened and could perceive men's voices and digging tools whacking the earth. Colonel Sungawa's heart raced with excitement. A new poem popped into his mind, and he took out his notebook to write it down:
Silver raindrops
Fall on my gleaming sword
As I ride into battle
He wasn't riding into battle, but thought he could take the poetic license. Two scouts ran toward him. They saluted, and the one on the left said excitedly, “The enemy is two hundred yards ahead in the jungle.”
Count Yaksuko turned to his adjutant. “Have the men form skirmish lines.”
“Yes, sir.”
The adjutant whispered the orders and they were passed along. The Japanese soldiers moved off the trail and into the jungle, making as little noise as possible, knowing that surprise is a key factor in battles. They slipped among the trees, anticipating the battle that lay before them. They thought they outnumbered the American force in front of them and would break through their lines easily, pushing forward to the American airfield, which they'd finally capture after months of fighting. Expertly they formed their long skirmish line and waited for the order to attack.
Count Yaksuko stood on the trail, waiting to receive the reports that all his men were in place. The time was approaching for his glorious attack, which he intended to dedicate to the Emperor. A new inspiration struck him, and he whipped out his notebook again:
The Emperor's soldiers
like vicious tigers
are poised to attack his enemies.
Craig Delane nervously chewed up the insides of his mouth as he waited for the Japanese attack to begin. Over and over he checked his rifle and bayonet, his shoelaces, his cartridge belt. He wished the battle would start, because the waiting was making him crazy, and he also wished the battle wouldn't take place at all.
“Calm down,” Bannon said.
“Huh?”
“I said calm down. You're shaking worse than a dog shitting razor blades.”
Delane closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He hated to look foolish among people whom he considered socially inferior to himself. Finally he succeeded in projecting an outer calm and opened his eyes again.
“Must have been a chill,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Delane laid down behind the BAR Bannon had assigned to him. It was longer than a rifle and twice as heavy, with its front barrel resting on two metal legs and a replaceable clip sticking out of the bottom of its chamber.
“Maybe they're not coming,” Delane said.
“They're coming. Don't worry about it.”
“I should think we would have heard them by now.”
“Maybe not. A Jap can be awful quiet.”
Delane looked at Bannon, and the tall, lanky Texan lay sprawled behind his rifle, chewing an unlit cigarette.
“Bannon,” he said, “nothing ever seems to bother you. How do you stay so calm all the time?”
“I'm not as calm as I look.”
“You're a lot calmer than I am.”
“You worry too much, Delane. You're like a fucking woman.”
Bannon's remark was like a slap in the face. “What do you mean by that?”
“You worry about silly things. The way I look at it, we're stuck out here and there ain't a fucking thing we can do about it. All we can do is our best, and if we get killed, well, so what? Nobody lives forever, no matter where they are.”
“Well,” Delane said huffily, “it's certainly true that no one lives forever, but we're young men and we have forty or fifty more years ahead of us if we survive this war. Maybe you don't have anything to live for Bannon, and the next forty or fifty years don't mean anything to you, but they mean a lot to me, because I have something to live for.”
Bannon eyed him coldly. “What?”
Delane shrugged, feeling uncomfortable about the ground he was embarking on. “Well, you know, my family is well off. I lead a comfortable life and can do pretty much whatever I like.”
“You were in college, weren't you?”
“They drafted me just after I graduated.”
“You should've been an officer, Delane. You're definitely officer material. You and that asshole Scofield are two of a kind.”
Once again Craig Delane was crushed by an insult hurled by a social inferior. It was true that he felt a close compatibility with Lieutenant Scofield, but Lieutenant Scofield treated him like all the other men, perhaps because he didn't want to be accused of showing favoritism. Delane knew now that he should have gone to OCS and become an officer, but it was too late. When he had the chance, he thought it would be more heroic and adventuresome to become an ordinary soldier, sort of like the characters in one of the favorite novels of his youth, Beau Geste.
“No, Bannon, I think you're the one who should have been an officer,” Delane said. “Evidently the brass thinks you're a natural leader of men.”
“Shaddup, Delane. You're getting on my nerves.”
“You were a nice person before you made corporal.”
“I said shaddup!”
Captain Reiko marched up to Count Yaksuko and saluted in the darkness. “Sir, the regiment is ready to attack.”
Count Yaksuko was almost rapturous. As he drew his sword, he imagined his illustrious royal ancestors gazing down at him from heaven. He raised his sword over his head and waved it around three times.
"Tenno hei-ka banzai!” he screamed.
"Banzai!” hollered the men all around him.
"Banzai!” echoed the Japanese soldiers in the jungle.
Count Yaksuko pointed his sword toward the Americans and marched stiffly toward them on the trail, while in the jungle his men scrambled forward to engage the GIs.
“Here they come!” yelled Bannon.
The jungle in front of him churned with the movement of Japanese soldiers, and he fired blindly into the night, because there wasn't enough light to permit him to aim through the peep sight. He fired his M 1 as fast as he could pull the trigger, while beside him Craig Delane fired bursts from his BAR.
The Hellhounds laid down a murderous base of fire, and Japanese bodies fell in the jungle, but the majority of them continued to move forward.
"Banzai!” they screamed. "Banzai!”
Craig Delane could barely see them in the dark, but he could hear them and felt as if somebody had plugged him into an electric circuit. He held his BAR tightly to his shoulder and pulled the trigger again and again, firing bursts of three, because a BAR barrel couldn't take more than that. The air filled with deadly whistling sounds, as weapons platoons throughout the Hellhound Regiment fired mortars into the jungle ahead of them. The
jungle flashed and trembled with the sound of the explosions, and then flares went up all along the line.
The jungle became lit by an eerie glow, and Craig Delane swallowed at the sight of the Japanese soldiers in the jungle ahead of him. The light glinted on their eyeglasses and the steel of their bayonets as they charged forward into the hail of hot lead. Delane's BAR danced on its two skinny legs, and he pulled the trigger again and again until the bolt went clunk, indicating that the clip was empty.
He hit the button, pulled out the clip, and slapped the new one in. Then he pulled the trigger again and saw to his horror that the Japs were drawing closer. The Japs fired wildly as they charged, while the Twenty-third held fast and methodically cut them down.
Bannon fired his M 1 as fast as he could and knew the Japs would be on him at any moment. They were less than twenty yards away, twisting through the jungle and dodging bullets. Closer and closer they came, screaming and shaking their rifles.
"Kill Malines!” they screamed. "Banzai!”
The bolt of Delane's BAR went clunk again, and he ejected the cartridge, only to find that it still was half full.
“The BAR's jammed!” he shouted.
“Lemme have it!” Bannon replied.
Bannon took it from Delane's hands and slammed the barrel against a boulder lying beside the foxhole. Then he pushed in a fresh clip, leveled the barrel against the advancing Japs, and pulled the trigger. The BAR danced on its legs again; the blow had cleared out the obstruction in its gas-operated ejector system.
Bannon saw a Japanese soldier rear back and throw something in his direction. A burst from the BAR brought the Jap down, but a second later a black metal hand grenade fell into the foxhole. Delane stared at it in horror, and Bannon picked it up quickly, throwing it at the Japs. It exploded in midair, its shrapnel mutilating a few Japanese soldiers, but others still charged. They were almost even with the front line of the First Platoon.
Bannon noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a figure running toward the Japs. It was Butsko, kicking his knees high, holding a Thompson submachine gun in his hands.
"Up and at ‘em!” Butsko yelled. "Follow me!”
