Hit the Beach
Page 21
Old Jap Hyakutake had better watch his ass, because the Twenty-third was coming.
TWELVE . . .
As dawn broke on Guadalcanal the First Platoon moved back to their regimental headquarters. The rain had stopped, and scattered clouds in the sky were a molten red. Birds sang in the trees and monkeys chattered, while beneath them the ground was ravaged and Japanese corpses were bloating and turning purple.
Butsko walked in front, his rifle slung over his shoulder and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. His uniform was caked with dried blood and he had bandages on his arms and left cheek. He wanted to find a hole in which to sleep, but the platoon had been ordered to report to Colonel Stockton. Butsko wondered what the colonel wanted, and he knew it couldn't be good.
Behind Butsko came Bannon and Frankie La Barbara, walking side by side. Bannon carried a carbine with the barrel pointed down to the ground, and he, too, was covered with bandages. In retrospect the battle seemed like a nightmare to him. His ears rang and he saw white dots in front of his eyes, but he was happy, because he knew he'd been part of a battle that the Americans had won. He thought of Ginger Gregg and hoped a letter from her would be waiting for him. He missed her and couldn't be sure he'd ever see her again.
Frankie La Barbara was pissed off. Whenever he sat to take a rest, somebody told him to do something. He was exhausted and his feet were made of lead. He was certain he would feel better if he could punch somebody in the mouth.
Shilansky, with his broken nose, and Homer Gladley thanking God for delivering him from the hands of the Japanese, carried the stretcher on which Sam Longtree lay unconscious, shot full of morphine, a huge bandage over his stomach.
Bringing up the rear of the first squad was Craig Delane, strutting like a bantam rooster, proud that he had conquered his fear in the hell that was Guadalcanal. He had not let his family down. Someday he hoped to sit with his friends in the Metropolitan Club in New York and tell them of his first night in action in the Pacific War.
The platoon passed through lines of American fortifications, and the GIs and Marines looked at them in awe. The word had spread like wildfire across the island that one platoon had met the spearhead of the Japanese attack and had beat them back, got surrounded, and fought free. The soldiers and Marines looked at Butsko and the others and could see that they'd been through hell. They were ragged and bloody, and they looked ready to do it all again.
“Boy,” said one young Marine, gazing in admiration, “they look like one bunch of tough rat bastards, don't they?”
“I wonder how they did it?” said another Marine, standing nearby.
“I'd sure hate to mess with them.”
The First Platoon made their way through the rubble of the battle. The Graves Registration squads carried away dead American soldiers, and medical units swarmed over the battlefield, treating wounds and performing on-the-spot operations. Everyone turned to gaze upon the platoon trudging in their midst, looking like men who'd returned from the grave.
“Hey, how was it out there?” somebody asked.
No one in the First Platoon said a word. They just kept moving, not unmindful of the attention they were receiving, but not giving a shit either. They all knew full well what they'd been through, and they all knew that they'd survived without the help of anybody except Lady Luck. They'd tasted blood and stared into the face of death, and there was a special aura about them, a kind of glow that could be perceived through their torn uniforms and bloody faces.
They approached regimental headquarters, and Colonel Stockton came down the steps, a big smile on his face. Army photographers were there and clicked off pictures. The bloody and battered First Platoon lined up in four squad ranks and stood at attention, holding their heads high. Butsko took three steps forward and saluted.
“First Platoon, Fox Company, reporting for duty, sir!”
Colonel Stockton returned the salute as snappily as when he'd been a cadet at West Point. He shook Butsko's hand, slapped him on the shoulder, and looked into his glazed eyes.
“Good work, sergeant,” he said.
“Thank you, sir.”
Colonel Stockton walked around Butsko and headed for Bannon, standing tall at the end of his squad. Stockton could see that the lanky corporal had taken a beating, and then, as his eyes roved over the rest of the men, he could sense deep down for the first time the ordeal that they'd undergone. They looked like his old Company B after they'd taken Blanc Mont Ridge in the Argonne Forest, battered and bloody, heroes all.
Colonel Stockton stopped and was overcome by love for these soldiers. They'd done so much, and he, by comparison, had done so little. The emotion of the moment almost brought him to tears, but he straightened his backbone and marched in front of the young corporal at the end of the first squad.
“What's your name, soldier?”
“Corporal Charles Bannon, sir.”
“Where are you from, Corporal?”
‘Texas, sir.”
Colonel Stockton held out his hand. “You did a great job out there.”
“Thank you, sir.”
They shook hands, and Colonel Stockton moved down the line, chatting with the men of the First Platoon, as the photographers snapped more pictures and the regimental staff officers stood to the side, wondering how such a motley bunch of ordinary GIs could have held off the best the Japanese had.