by Len Levinson
“Sir,” he said, “we need medics and reinforcements up here. We're in real bad shape. I've only got about forty men left in the company.”
“We can't get through to you yet,” Stockton replied. “You're cut off.”
Scofield blinked as he struggled to digest that fact. "Cut off?”
“That's right, but we hope to link up with you soon. Just sit tight and hang on.”
Scofield wanted to say he didn't think he could hold on, but all he could say was “Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Butsko jumped into the hole and sat on his heels. “Well,” he said, “it looks like it's gonna be down and dirty from here on in.”
Lieutenant Scofield nodded. “I'm afraid you're right, Sergeant.”
Bannon found Pfc. Longtree lying on his back on open ground, his stomach torn apart. Private Shilansky was bending over him.
“How is he?” Bannon asked.
“He's in a bad way, but he's alive.”
“We'd better move him to a hole someplace.”
“You're not supposed to move people who've been fucked up like this.”
“Well, we can't leave him here. You take his legs and I'll take his arms.”
They lifted Longtreer who came to semiconsciousness and groaned at the stretching of his torn innards.
“Take it easy, Chief,” Bannon said. “You'll be all right.”
They laid him in the shelter of some broken trees and rubble. The blood from the stomach wound seeped through the dressing Shilansky had laid on.
“He's gonna die if he doesn't get help soon,” Shilansky said.
“He's a tough Indian. He'll come through.”
Longtree groaned. “I wouldn't bet on it if I was you.”
Bannon perked up his ears. The sound of fighting had become closer. “Jesus, they're coming back,” he said.
“Oh, fuck.”
“You got ammo for that rifle?”
“Yeah.”
“Well get ready to use it.”
Shilansky closed his eyes. “We don't have a chance.” “There's always a chance,” Bannon said. “You're an old crapshooter. You know that.”
Shilansky nervously wiped his nose, forgetting it was broken. “Ouch!”
“Settle down,” Bannon told him. “We've got through some bad times today, and we'll get through this one too.”
The Japanese were retreating pell mell through the jungle, and the Marines were hot on their heels. The mortar fire had stopped because the Marines were too close, and the Marines were mopping up the Japs with rifle and bayonet, shooting the fleeing Japanese in their backs.
Count Yaksuko limped along, hanging on to a sergeant who was helping him. Yaksuko saw his great regiment evaporating before his eyes, so many brave soldiers. Sick at heart and in intense pain, he was looking for someplace to commit hara-kiri.
“Are you all right, sir?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes. Let me go and save yourself.”
“I'll stay with you, sir. I'll bring you back.”
Yaksuko wanted to tell him that he didn't want to go back, but thought he'd better keep quiet about it. If his men knew he was going to commit hara-kiri, it would take the last ounce of hope out of them, and he didn't want to do that yet. We should come to the first American line pretty soon, he thought. After that I'll be able to do what I must.
Delane was all alone in the foxhole and he was scared to death. He wished Bannon would return, because he felt vulnerable all by himself. He wanted to call out Bannon's name, but there might be Japs around and it would give away his position. The sound of fighting was very close; he knew the Japs were coming back. The sky was aglow with flares, and it appeared to him that every shadow contained Japs. I'm going to die, he told himself. God, I don't want to die. He thought of the dances he'd attended at the Plaza Hotel, and the quiet dinners at the Metropolitan Club. He remembered the debutantes he'd loved, and the face of his mother, who was one of the grandes dames of New York high society. He'd never see her again. He was twenty-two years old and he was going to die.
The shadows moved in front of him, and he saw two figures emerge.
"Halt—who goes there!” he shouted.
The two soldiers reached for their weapons, and Delane knew they were Japs. He drew a bead on one and fired, and the Jap dropped to the earth. Before Delane could fire again, the second Jap fled into the bushes.
"Here they come!” Sergeant Butsko yelled.
The First Platoon survivors raised their rifles and opened fire at the backs of retreating Japs, who now were getting it from both ends. Their officers and noncoms tried to hold them together, but the soldiers ran in all directions, seeking shelter wherever they could find it. There were no more cries of "banzai, “ only shouts of terror and pain. The two Japanese regiments had been decimated, and now the attackers were running for their lives.
Bannon and Shilansky lay side by side in the hole, firing their rifles as fast as they could pull the triggers. When their empty clips clanged into the air, they stuffed in new ones and continued firing. The Japs appeared unwilling to trade shots with them. They were just trying to get away.
Bannon saw Japs come pouring through the bushes and didn't have to aim carefully. He fired into their midst, saw a Jap fall, and fired again. The Japanese soldiers, in a mad panic, wanted only to get away. There were so many Japs running around that the first platoon couldn't kill them all, and one tried to jump over Bannon's foxhole, but Bannon raised his rifle in the air and shot him in the crotch. The Jap scissored his legs in midair and fell in a heap on the other side of the foxhole. Bannon swung around and shot him on the ground, then turned again and directed his fire to the Japanese soldiers retreating through the woods.
Butsko had found a BAR and was firing at its high-speed setting, five hundred rounds a minute, and he kept the trigger depressed because he didn't give a damn if the barrel melted. Dead Japs piled up all around him, and still he kept firing, moving his shoulders from side to side, cutting them down like hay before a scythe. His teeth were clenched and he felt a fabulous joy, because Japs like these had kicked and butted him on the Bataan Death March and had beat him daily at the POW camp on Luzon.
"Come on, you fuckers!” he yelled "Come on!”
The barrel finally melted out of alignment and the chamber blew up in his face. Tiny bits of metal tore into his cheeks, leaving pinpoints of blood, and at first he thought he'd been shot in the head, but then the smoke cleared and he realized he was still alive. He pushed the BAR to the side, picked up an M 1 rifle, took aim, and shot a Jap who was only five yards away. The Jap dropped his rifle and stumbled as if drunk, then fell to his knees and looked at Butsko, imploringly.
“I surrender,” said the Jap in his Oriental accent. “Surrender.”
“Surrender your ass,” Butsko growled, firing again and blowing the Jap away.
Craig Delane was alone in his foxhole and thought for sure that he was going to die. Japs thronged past him and he crouched low, pretending he was dead and hoping they didn't see him.
They appeared not to, as they hotfooted it back to their lines. Out of the comer of his eye he could see them in an absolute rout. He was amazed, for weren't these Jap soldiers supposed to be invincible? They looked even more scared than he was.
More scared than I am? He thought of himself cowering in the hole and became disgusted with himself. Even his mother wouldn't cower in a hole like that. She was all nerve, and when she was angry, she scared him more than Butsko or Bannon. And he knew she'd be angry at him if she saw him just then. He was letting her down and all the other Delanes, who had been in America since colonial times and had fought in all of America's wars.
Delane became so ashamed that he rose up in the hole. He thought it would be better to be dead than disgrace his family. Bringing his rifle to his shoulder, he rested the stock on the dirt in front of him, aimed at a Jap, and brought him down. Then he moved the barrel an inch to the right, fired again, and ano
ther Jap went crashing to the ground.
He felt as if steel chains that had been binding him were breaking apart. With a smile he aimed at another Jap, fired, and hit him in the face. The Jap's head exploded but his legs kept going for a few more steps; then he collapsed. Delane fired at another Jap and hit him in the chest, sending him to the land of his ancestors. Another bullet brought down a fourth Jap, and now Delane had hit his stride, aiming and firing, aiming and firing, and the dead Japs began to pile up around his foxhole.
He felt proud of himself, as if he was a real soldier at last. So what if I get killed, he thought to himself. It's like Corporal Bannon said: Nobody lives forever.
Count Yaksuko hobbled alone through the woods. The sergeant who'd been helping him had been shot down, and now Yaksuko was free to look for a place to kill himself. He'd hoped that one of the Americans would shoot him, too, and although men next to him had dropped in multitudes, he had survived.
He'd made his way past the American positions and now was looking for a secluded spot for the final ceremony of his life. Stumbling and bleeding, he made his way through the jungle, finally coming upon a network of foliage that he thought would provide the necessary concealment.
Rifles were fired in fusillades behind him, and he dropped to his knees on the ground. He withdrew his short ceremonial dagger from its scabbard at his waist, held it in both his fists, and aimed the point at his stomach. Then he realized he should unbutton his shirt. The blade would cut easier that way. Disgusted with himself for his clumsiness in this most important single act of his life, he laid down the knife, unbuttoned his shirt, and took it off. His torso was lean and boney and he gripped the knife again, pointing it toward the left side of his abdomen.
He uttered a brief prayer to his ancestors, because he knew he didn't have time to waste. He asked for forgiveness and mercy, because he'd failed to win a victory for his Emperor, and then took a deep breath. His hands trembled, and he thought that in the next few seconds he would be faced with the terrible pain that he must inflict upon himself. Despite the pain, he would have to cut open his belly so that his soul could escape and fly to heaven. He gritted his teeth and squinched his eyes, thinking of his young wife back in Tokyo, his parents, and the Emperor. The time has come, he thought. I must do it now.
Summoning up all his will and strength, he sucked in air through his teeth and plunged the point of the dagger into the left side of his abdomen. The sudden horrible pain nearly made him faint. He almost cried out but bit his lips as a frightening chaos overwhelmed his mind. His hands shaking violently, he grasped the handle of the knife and pulled it across his stomach. The blade moved slowly and every fraction of an inch produced an increase in blinding, unbearable suffering. He blacked out for a moment, then came back and tugged at the knife again. He wished he would die immediately, but he was all too alive, experiencing a profound paralyzing horror. Glancing down to see how close he was to the end of his ceremony, he saw that he'd only moved the knife a few inches. A piece of intestine as large as his thumb protruded from the wound. He head ached and his hands felt numb. When he closed his eyes he thought he was speeding over the surface of the earth at a hundred miles an hour.
Opening his eyes, the speeding stopped abruptly. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the knife with all his strength, tearing open his stomach three more inches. His guts burst loose and hung down like sausages. He had cut halfway to his navel now, and blood poured into his lap. The gruesome pain sent him into a coma that he struggled to come out of. He thought of shooting himself in the brain, but that would be a violation of the ceremony. He was a samurai and he had to perform the ancient ritual to perfection. Then he would fall like a chrysanthemum at the peak of his life.
The image of a falling chrysanthemum distracted him from the pain. He fumbled for the knife again, wrapped his twitching fingers around it, and cut with all his strength. The blade moved another few inches, and his intestines tumbled into his lap.
The pain was so intense it made him dizzy. He heard bells and koto music in his ears. His body felt as if it had been plunged in boiling oil, and a rain of chrysanthemum blossoms fell upon him. He ripped the knife across the final inches of his abdomen, looked down, and saw that the deed was done. He was weak and almost unconscious, but not yet dead. ‘Take me away,” he whispered. “Take me away.”
His body went into convulsions, and he fell to the side. He vomited blood and rolled over on the ground, becoming entangled in his bloody guts. He looked up and saw walking toward him through the fall of chrysanthemum blossoms the figure of a man. He didn't know if he was dreaming or not. Was it one of his ancestors coming to carry him into heaven?
Count Yaksuko held his hand out to the man. “Help me,” he said in Japanese. “Please help me.”
The man was Frankie La Barbara, who'd seen the Japanese officer staggering through the woods and had decided to follow him. He'd noticed the samurai sword in the Jap's scabbard and wanted it for a souvenir, since he had no idea what had happened to the first samurai sword he'd acquired.
When the Japanese officer sat down in the clearing, Frankie watched from behind the bushes to see what he was up to. Fascinated, he'd seen the Jap cut open his belly. Frankie had heard about hara-kiri, and now he was watching it. It was quite a show.
But the Jap hadn't died, and Frankie thought the time had come to finish him off and take whatever he had. He walked toward the Jap, glancing around to make sure another Jap wasn't creeping up on him. He drew close to the Jap officer and could smell guts and bowels. Frankie wrinkled his nose and pointed his rifle at the Japanese officer, who held out his hand.
“Please,” the officer said, blood drooling out of his mouth.
“Bye-bye,” Frankie muttered, and pulled the trigger.
His bullet shattered the Jap's head like a rotten watermelon. The Jap bounced a few inches in the air, then fell back and lay still. Count Yakusko had finally gone to meet his ancestors.
Frankie kneeled beside the body. He unbuckled the officer's belt and scabbard, fastening them to his own waist. He took the Jap's Nambu pistol and thrust it into his belt. The ceremonial dagger lay a few inches from the Jap's outstretched hand, and Frankie picked up the gory weapon in his fingertips. He wiped it clean on the Jap's shirt and held it before his eyes. The handle was made of silver and had Japanese characters on it. Frankie figured he could sell it to a sailor for at least fifty dollars, or maybe he might even keep it himself, as a trophy of the war.
Frankie felt the Jap's pockets and pulled out a wallet. Opening it, his eyes fell on the photograph of a beautiful young Japanese woman. Her face had a freshness and innocence that captivated him. Oh, baby, he thought, if only you were here now.
He placed the photograph in his shirt pocket and chucked the wallet over his shoulder. The Jap wore a watch that still was ticking; it had been made in Switzerland. Frankie took it off and affixed it to his own wrist, above the Bulova he already wore.
Then he stood, looked down at the Jap officer, shrugged, and walked away. The sounds of battle were winding down, and GIs shouted victoriously. He returned to his squad and saw the survivors kneeling around Pfc. Sam Longtree. Bannon turned around when he heard Frankie approach.
“Where the hell have you been?” Bannon asked.
“Down to the corner bar for a beer,” Frankie replied sarcastically.
Back at regimental headquarters Colonel Stockton was jubilant. He could barely sit still behind his desk as he read reports coming in from his battalions and companies. He was bareheaded, the light of the kerosene lamp gleaming on his silvery hair, and he puffed his old briar, filling the room with smoke.
His Twenty-third Regiment had held fast and fought like sons of bitches. They'd taken heavy casualties but had wiped out a vastly superior Japanese attacking force. The Marines had helped, of course, but the Twenty-third had borne the brunt of the fighting. One of the Fox Company platoons, the one commanded by Sergeant Butsko, had piled up a remarkable toll of Japane
se dead and had advanced farther than any other unit in the regiment. What a bunch of tough bastards they must be, he thought. They're going to be my new recon platoon and I'd better send for them right now.
The phone on his desk rang, and he picked up the receiver. “Colonel Stockton speaking.”
“This is General Vandegrift,” said the voice on the other end. “I wanted to congratulate you personally for a job well done. You've fought off a very determined large-scale Japanese attack, and your men did a magnificent job.”
Colonel Stockton's chest swelled with pride, and he could imagine the stars of a general on his collar already. “Thank you, sir,” he said modestly. “I've got a great bunch of men out there, and they couldn't have done more.”
“You did all right yourself, and I intend to give you full credit in my reports to Admiral Nimitz and General MacArthur. Tomorrow morning I want to visit your sector and say hello to your men. I haven't met them yet, and I'm looking forward to it.”
“I'm sure they'll be very glad to see you, sir.”
Colonel Stockton hung up the phone and paced back and forth behind his desk. He'd known he could do a good job if they ever gave him a chance, and now he'd proven it. It had been touch and go for a while there, but victory always goes to the side that digs in its heels and fights the hardest. The Twenty-third had become a winning team at last. All his fondest dreams had been realized.
He flashed on that platoon in Fox Company and remembered that he'd wanted to call them to his headquarters. One of the lessons he'd learned in war was that one small unit could set an example that could turn the tide of a great battle. That small platoon, commanded by a sergeant who'd been charged with murder, could very well have been the factor that had made the difference. He was anxious to see them right away and picked up his telephone to order them back.
As he waited for the connection to be made, he thought of upcoming operations. With his new prestige he was confident he could sell General Vandegrift his plan to assault the east side of the Matanikau River. He could probably get rolling on the day after tomorrow at dawn, and maybe he could get some air support and even a few tanks.
