by Len Levinson
Like many left-wing idealists, Yabalonka vastly misjudged the mood of average, ordinary people. He thought he knew how to talk to them, but he didn’t, and wound up in a succession of barracks brawls, finally doing time in various stockades. In the early part of 1944, while a guest at the Lompoc Disciplinary Barracks in California, he decided to keep his mouth shut from then on, give up on his efforts to change the world, and attempt to get through the war as best he could.
That’s what he’d tried to do ever since, but now, on a remote battlefield in New Guinea, with artillery shells and mortar rounds falling all around him, and his eardrums nearly bursting from the roaring god-awful explosions, he wondered whether or not he should have remained a conscientious objector.
Pfc. Frankie LaBarbara, lying next to him, chewed his gum ferociously and wondered what to do. He didn’t like the idea of being exposed on open ground, without any protection, and realized that the Reverend Billie Jones was a follower, not a leader, which meant that Frankie La Barbara would have to take charge and do something quickly.
He glanced around and saw an artillery shell land on a big walled tent, engulfing it in an orange blast; then a big puff of smoke hid everything. Another shell hit a palm tree and obliterated it totally. In the distance, through the smoke and flames, he saw three soldiers running; but then a shell landed nearby, blowing them all into the air, arms and legs akimbo.
He spotted a shell crater straight ahead, about thirty yards away. He thought he’d be safe if he could get in that hole, and if a shell fell on him while he was trying to reach it, that would be better than lying on the ground like a sitting duck and getting killed that way.
He gritted his teeth, grabbed his rifle, and jumped up. “Let’s go!” he shouted. He held his helmet on his head with one hand and clutched his rifle in his other hand as he sped toward the shell crater. A mortar round landed near him, the concussion wave pushing him to the side, nearly causing him to lose his balance, while shrapnel whistled all around him. But Frankie maintained his footing and kept going, chewing his gum like a maniac, huffing and puffing, snot dripping out of his nose.
Behind him came the Reverend Billie Jones and Victor Yabalonka. They were so accustomed to following orders that they were doing what Frankie told them, without questioning his rank. He sounded as though he knew what he was about, and that was enough for them.
Frankie approached the hole and dived in head first. He landed with a thud and his helmet fell off, but he put it back on as the Reverend Billie Jones and Victor Yabalonka dropped on either side of him. They burrowed into the soft, warm earth as artillery shells and mortar rounds detonated everywhere, transforming the battlefield into a nightmare holocaust, making the ground heave like the deck of a ship in a typhoon, while the smoke obscured the rays of the sun, transforming day into night.
Their ears pulsated with the cacophony of explosions. Their hearts were chilled by the fear that an artillery shell or mortar round might fall directly on them at any moment and blow them all to hell. They tried not to think of themselves being blasted to smithereens, but they couldn’t ignore the bombardment. They felt every concussion wave along every inch of their nervous systems; dirt and rocks showered onto them; and they knew that the worst was yet to come, because when the bombardment ended, the Japs would attack.
•••
To the east of the American position, long columns of Japanese soldiers streamed through the jungle, carrying rifles and bayonets, machine guns and mortars, pistols and samurai swords, moving toward their attack positions. The American artillery bombardment rained hell upon them, but still they came, showing no fear, determined to demolish the Americans facing them.
Many of the Japanese soldiers had lost comrades in the fight that took place during the night. Vengeance was on their minds; more than that, however, they wanted to wipe out the stain of defeat. For a Japanese soldier, defeat was a terrible humiliation. It was a betrayal of their Emperor, whom they considered a god. The defeat of last night must become the resounding victory of today.
No one felt this more strongly than Captain Yuichi Sato, leading his company through the fierce, tumultuous bombardment. He was twenty-nine years old, with an athletic, muscular build, and he had been a member of the Japanese Olympic team that participated in the Olympics in Germany in 1936. His specialty had been the decathlon, and he had placed eighth overall.
Dedicated to his Emperor and his country, convinced of the necessity for defeating the decadent West on the field of battle, he never flinched at artillery shells landing in his vicinity. He believed that a coward dies a million times, but a brave man dies only once. His head was shaved and he had high cheekbones. He wore no mustache or goatee, considering them ridiculous decorations, and his mouth was small and pursed, like a rosebud. He raised his samurai sword over his head and waved it around.
“Advance!” he hollered. “Follow me!”
The Twenty-third Infantry Regiment was part of the Eighty-first Division, and the commanding officer of the Eighty-first Division was Major General Clyde Hawkins, a graduate of West Point and a first captain while he was there. Hawkins had blond hair and a blond mustache, and his headquarters was in a large walled tent nearly two miles behind the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment.
The Japanese bombardment didn’t reach his headquarters, but he could hear it reverberating in the distance as he stood with his hands behind his back and gazed down at his map of the battlefield, trying to make rational decisions about how to proceed.
Beside him was his chief of staff, Brigadier General Bernard MacWhitter, a skinny, bony officer five years older than General Hawkins. But General MacWhitter had not been first captain when he was at West Point, and somehow he didn’t have quite the commanding presence that General Hawkins had. It had taken General MacWhitter longer to become a general, and even he knew it was unlikely that he would rise much higher in the Army, unless he did something spectacular, which he had to admit was extremely unlikely.
General Hawkins puffed a cigarette in an ebony holder as he wondered how to respond to the Japanese bombardment. He knew that the bombardment was a prelude to something, but what? Was the activity in front of the Twenty-third Regiment a feint, or would the main enemy thrust come through there? General Hawkins had studied enough tactics and seen enough war to know it was extremely important to identify as soon as possible the point of the enemy’s main thrust.
He examined his position, and it wasn’t good. He and his division had landed on New Guinea only yesterday morning, and were attacked last night before they had a chance to dig in. Their mission had been to defend the Tadji airfields at Aitape, only a few miles west of his headquarters. He’d deployed his Twenty-third Regiment along the Driniumor River; one battalion of his Fifteenth Regiment on the northern beaches, to guard against a seaborne attack; and one battalion from his Eighteenth Regiment to the south, facing the Torricelli Mountains. Everything else was in reserve, to be shifted around to wherever they were needed.
A principle of offensive warfare was to fake your enemy out so he’d commit his reserves to a spot other than the main thrust. A principle of defensive warfare was to hold your reserves and not commit them until you knew where the main enemy thrust would be. Commanding officers suffered ulcer attacks and nervous breakdowns, trying to figure out where and when to commit the reserves.
However, General Hawkins had a cool head, as a rule. He’d learned long ago that a commanding officer had to have nerves of steel. A commanding officer couldn’t panic when reports of heavy casualties came in. A commanding officer had to remain calm and make sensible decisions. That was what separated great commanders, like General MacArthur, who was General Hawkins’s idol, from mediocre officers who suffered nervous breakdowns and were relieved of command.
General Hawkins held his ebony cigarette holder in the air and made his decision. He would do nothing until the battle developed to a greater degree. He would not reinforce the Twenty-third until later in the game. He kn
ew that no matter what he did he’d take casualties, but they would be less overall if he could counterattack at the right place.
General Hawkins puffed his cigarette, blew smoke in the air, and turned to General MacWhitter. “Direct all units to stay put and fight where they are,” he said. “There will be no retreats without my authorization. All enemy activity must be reported to this headquarters immediately. Do you have any questions?”
General MacWhitter leaned forward and rested his fists on the edge of the map table. “You’re not going to reinforce the Twenty-third, sir?”
“Not until the enemy’s intentions become known.”
“But, sir, the Twenty-third was badly mauled last night. They may not be able to hold up against a serious attack. The enemy might very well achieve a breakthrough across the Driniumor.”
General Hawkins squinted, because smoke from his cigarette was getting into his eyes. He moved his cigarette holder away from his face and said: “If the Japs break through, we’ll catch them farther back with one or more of our battalions in reserve.”
“The Twenty-third will take a beating if that happens, sir.”
General Hawkins looked down at his map table, his face showing no emotion whatever. “Casualties are unavoidable in war,” he said.
The bombardment continued like roaring, swirling hell. The Twenty-third Infantry Regiment’s position was raked from end to end by explosions, fire, and general destruction. Every tree that was standing was blown away. Logs and branches lay everywhere. The ground was pockmarked with shell craters. One shell landed on the ammunition that had been delivered to Headquarters Company, and the subsequent blast demolished Captain Spode’s headquarters. The concussion burst Captain Spode’s eardrums, and blood dripped out of his ears. His radio communications were destroyed. Headquarters Company was cut off from the rest of the world, and Captain Spode was in a daze. Master Sergeant Koch, the company’s first sergeant, had taken over command of the company, but he didn’t have anybody to order around except his clerk, Pfc. Levinson, who lay in a shell crater with his M 1 rifle and his Underwood typewriter, wondering how he’d replace all the records and Army regulations that had been blown to shit in the big explosion.
Casualties were mounting as artillery shells and mortar rounds fell on or near foxholes. GIs were blown into the air, dismembered, hacked apart by red-hot shrapnel with edges sharp as razors. The wounded hollered for their medic, and young Pfc. Dailey, his face covered with pimples, roved across the battlefield, braving the fury of the bombardment, tying tourniquets and bandages, shooting morphine into the asses of soldiers howling with pain, pouring sulfa and coagulant powder on wounds; but then, while running from one foxhole to another, he was hit in the chest with a chunk of shrapnel, and Headquarters Company was minus one medic when it needed him the most.
Colonel Hutchins didn’t know that Pfc. Dailey was dead, or that Captain Spode was unable to snap out of his daze. He didn’t know that ammo had been blown up, along with trucks, artillery emplacements, and machine-gun nests. But he did know that his regiment was in trouble. He knew that the bombardment was taking its toll. And he knew that the Japs would attack soon on the ground.
He picked up the walkie-talkie, held it against his face, pressed the button, but heard only static. He spoke the code name of his headquarters, released the button, but still heard static. He was cut off from his headquarters. All he could do was wait for the bombardment to end, like every other GI in the Twenty-third.
He pulled his flask out of his back pocket and took a swig, then held the flask out to Lieutenant Breckenridge, who took it and raised it to his lips. Colonel Hutchins looked at his watch and estimated that the bombardment had been going on for nearly twenty-five minutes, but it felt more like twenty-five hours.
Lieutenant Breckenridge handed back the flask and winked. “I thought you said the Japs weren’t going to attack this morning!” he shouted.
Colonel Hutchins shrugged. “Guess I was wrong!”
Colonel Hutchins didn’t mind being wrong. Everybody was wrong once in a while. The main thing was to try to minimize the damage. He wanted to contact General Hawkins and ask for reinforcements. It was clear to him that the Japs were about to mount a major attack, otherwise they wouldn’t be wasting so much artillery ammunition. Colonel Hutchins didn’t think his regiment could stand up to a major attack. They’d barely survived the last one; what’s more, they were low on ammunition and hadn’t slept all night, and many hadn’t even had breakfast.
Colonel Hutchins’s ears pricked up. The artillery bombardment was slackening. That meant it was going to stop at any moment. The attack was about to begin.
“Get ready!” he shouted.
Lieutenant Breckenridge also was aware that the artillery bombardment was diminishing. He lay on his side and held his carbine in both hands. Colonel Hutchins grabbed his .45-caliber Thompson submachine gun. As soon as the Japs attacked, he was going to lead his men in a counterattack. There was no point in waiting for the Japs to swarm over the Twenty-third Regiment. It would be much better to hit the Japs on the run.
The bombardment continued to slacken for several seconds, and then suddenly stillness descended on the Twenty-third Regiment. The men’s ears continued to ring, but no more artillery shells or mortar rounds fell. A haze of smoke hung over the battlefield, while in the distance the American artillery bombardment continued its deadly work.
Colonel Hutchins raised his head over the edge of the shell crater and peered through the smoke at the jungle straight ahead. He couldn’t see much, because there was no wind to blow the smoke away, but he knew the Japs were getting ready to charge.
“Any minute now,” he said to Lieutenant Breckenridge. “How’re you doing?”
Lieutenant Breckenridge was perched on his knees, holding his carbine with fixed bayonet in his hands. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”
Not more than three hundred yards away, Captain Sato lay on his stomach in a shell crater as the American bombardment continued. The din was so terrific that he didn’t hear the Japanese shelling terminate, and his visibility was poor also, due to all the smoke and tumult.
His radio operator turned to him and poked his arm.
“What is it!” asked Captain Sato.
“The order has come down to attack, sir!”
Captain Sato stood and drew his long samurai sword out of its scabbard. American shells fell all around him, but he didn’t acknowledge their presence. He raised his samurai sword high in the air and then pointed it forward toward the American lines.
“Banzai!” he screamed. “Tenno heika banzai!”
He bounded forward and began his long headlong dash toward the Americans. He swung his samurai sword in a circle over his head, and it caught a ray of the sun, glinting as if studded with a massive diamond. Dodging around trees, vaulting over shell craters, he sped toward the American lines with the vigor of an Olympic champion.
“Banzai!” he hollered. “Tenno heika banzai!”
“Banzai!” shouted his men as they surged out of their holes and followed him into battle. They shook their rifles and bayonets and bared their teeth as they charged through the flaming, churning jungle. They knew that the faster they ran, the sooner they would be free from the terrible bombardment. But they weren’t out of the horror yet, and many were blown into the air by explosions.
Still, they charged with all the passion and determination that was part of their fanatical tradition. They streamed through the jungle, their tan uniforms soaked with sweat, their armpits stinking like raw fish that had been left in the sun too long. They elbowed bushes out of their way and jumped over fallen trees. They dashed through puddles of mud, splashing the muck in all directions, and plunged into thick, tangled vegetation, gritting their teeth, always pushing onward, anxious to close with the Americans and impale them on the ends of their bayonets.
Captain Sato was far in front of them, roaring at the top of his lungs. If the Americans shot
him down, it would be a great honor to be killed while attacking the enemies of the Emperor. A shell exploded nearby and a small piece of shrapnel the size of an acorn blew a hole in the sleeve of his shirt, but it didn’t even scratch his body.
“Banzai!” screamed Captain Sato, considering the near-hit as an omen that the gods were on his side. “Banzai!” he bellowed. “Banzai!” Ahead he saw a stretch of jungle that was receiving no shelling whatsoever. His heart leaped in his chest when he realized that was the American position. He was almost out of the bombardment area. “Charge!” he yelled. “Tenno heika banzai!”
He rushed toward the area receiving no shelling. His muscular legs carried him over the body of a dead wild pig and through a mangled bush, and then he was in the clear, away from the bombardment. Ahead, not more than one hundred yards away, he could perceive the outlines of American steel helmets inside holes.
“There they are!” he screamed, pointing his samurai sword toward the Americans. “Banzai!”
Colonel Hutchins narrowed his eyes as he watched the Japanese soldiers pouring out of the jungle ahead of him. American machine guns opened fire, cutting down Japanese soldiers like wheat before a scythe. Other American soldiers fired their M 1 rifles and carbines. A few fired BARs (Browning Automatic Rifles), but the American resistance was not nearly as stiff as it had been during the Japanese attack of the night before. Many American soldiers had been killed since then, and many machine-gun nests put out of action. Everyone was low on ammunition. The Japs were having an easier time now.
Colonel Hutchins waited for the Japs to get closer. He didn’t fire his Thompson submachine gun because it wasn’t worth a shit at long range. Lieutenant Breckenridge didn’t have the same problem with his M 1 carbine. He rested it on the edge of the hole, lined up the sights on the chest of a Japanese soldier, and squeezed the trigger.
