Go for Broke

by Len Levinson

  Lieutenant Breckenridge stuck his head out of the window and roared, “Jump in the river and swim for it!”

  “Are you serious?” screamed Frankie.

  “You got any better ideas?”

  Whang! A Japanese bullet hit the side of the truck near Lieutenant Breckenridge’s head. He pulled back into the truck and fired one more burst from his submachine gun, then ducked down and slung the weapon across his back. Frankie cut the wheel to the right so he could drive down the riverbank instead of toppling the truck over the end of the bridge. The bank was muddy and Japanese soldiers lay on it, firing at the truck. Frankie drove the truck over their bodies and accelerated hard at the last moment. The truck smashed into the water and kept going until water came into the cab.

  “Everybody out!” yelled Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  He pushed open the door and dived into the fast-moving current. The weight of his body and all the equipment on it dragged him beneath the surface, but he kicked his feet and rose up again. Japanese bullets zipped into the water near his head, so he took a deep breath and dropped beneath the surface again.

  On the back of the truck, all the GIs leaped over the sides except Sergeant Cameron, whose jumping days were over. Smoke from the blast still made visibility murky, and it was difficult for the Japs to get clear shots. The GIs splashed into the swollen current, which swept them up in its relentless gush through the jungle. Some of the wooden slats had come loose from the truck when it hit the water, and the GIs held on to them. Frankie La Barbara hit the water a few seconds after Lieutenant Breckenridge, and the straw seat followed him out. He clutched the seat and watched Japanese soldiers running along the riverbank in front of him, waving their arms and shouting. Some stopped to fire shots, but the GIs were low in the water, and the current was swift.

  The jungle was thick and tangled, and the Japanese soldiers couldn’t run far on the riverbank. They had to stop and watch helplessly as the American soldiers floated around a bend in the river, out of sight—gone.

  SEVEN . . .

  Dusk came to New Guinea, and the US Army prepared for its morning attack. The rain had stopped and it was hoped that the morning would be clear, so the Air Corps could support the troops on the ground. Supplies and reinforcements continued to move to the front. Commanders adjusted their lines and hooked up with units to their left and right. The Signal Corps laid new wires for telephone communications, and Engineer units strung concertina wire in front of the American positions. Listening posts were set up in no-man’s-land to make sure the Japs didn’t pull a nighttime sneak attack.

  Colonel Hutchins sat in his tent near the front lines, smoking in the light of the kerosene lamp that hung over his head. He was heavily medicated, feeling little pain. A weaker man would have been knocked out by all the medication, but not Colonel Hutchins. He’d built up a high tolerance to medication over the years.

  Puffing a cigarette, he studied the personnel records of First Lieutenant Samuel Porter from George Company, who’d been recommended to Colonel Hutchins by Major Cobb. Colonel Hutchins wanted to send out patrols to find out what the Japs were doing, but he didn’t have his recon platoon to do this kind of dirty work anymore. Therefore he needed a substitution.

  The recon platoon had always been Colonel Hutchins’s pet project, and most of the regiment resented it, but Colonel Hutchins never let the disapproval of others dissuade him from doing what he thought was right. He wanted his recon platoon to be completely reliable, comprising the toughest, meanest men in his regiment, who could do the toughest, meanest jobs.

  Unfortunately the toughest, meanest men in his regiment proved to be the most troublesome. When they didn’t have any Japs to fight with, they fought among themselves. Many had been criminals in civilian life. Most had spent time in Army stockades. Few had any talent for barracks soldiering, but that wasn’t Colonel Hutchins’s forte either. He wanted tough brutal men with nerves of steel, and his recon platoon had never let him down.

  Colonel Hutchins read the sheets of paper in Lieutenant Porter’s file and could see why he’d been recommended by Major Cobb. Porter had been trained as a paratrooper but had transferred out of the Eleventh Airborne Division, for which no reason was given in his records. He’d been a pfc, when he went ashore on Guadalcanal, and had won the Silver Star and a battlefield commission during the fight for the Gifu Line on Guadalcanal. He’d joined the Army in 1938 and was from Spanish Fork, Utah. A Mormon, he’d joined the Army immediately after graduating from high school.

  Porter had never been in any trouble, and Colonel Hutchins held that against him. He didn’t see how a man could be worth anything if he’d never been in any trouble. A man who’d never been in any trouble lacked imagination and daring, Colonel Hutchins believed, but if Lieutenant Porter had won the Silver Star and a battlefield commission, he couldn’t be all bad.

  Colonel Hutchins sipped lukewarm coffee from his canteen cup. Sergeant Koch stuck his head through the tent flap. “Lieutenant Porter is here, sir!”

  “Send him right in.”

  Sergeant Koch drew his head back, and two seconds later a short, well-built man marched into the office, carrying his helmet under his left arm. His hair was prematurely gray and clipped short, and his jaw was square with a cleft in the middle. He stopped in front of Colonel Hutchins’s desk and saluted, stating his name and rank in a firm, metallic voice.

  Colonel Hutchins looked the lieutenant up and down a few times. He’d expected somebody taller. Flicking through Lieutenant Porter’s records, he saw that Porter was five feet six inches tall. Colonel Hutchins hadn’t noticed that particular bit of information before.

  Yet, despite his height—or the lack of it—Lieutenant Porter appeared to be a powerful man. His sleeves were torn off at the shoulders, and he had huge biceps and forearms. His shoulders were wide and his waist thin. His arms were covered with cuts and lumps, the emblems of the veteran of hand-to-hand combat.

  “Have a seat,” Colonel Hutchins said.

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Lieutenant Porter sat with his back straight and his chin tucked in, the upper portion of his body at attention. He had the air of the regular Army professional soldier about him, and Colonel Hutchins liked that. He fingered through the papers in Lieutenant Porter’s file and saw that Porter was thirty years old.

  Colonel Hutchins smiled. “Good evening, Lieutenant Porter.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “How’ve you been getting along?”

  “Can’t complain, sir.”

  “Sure you can complain. You know the old saying: If the troops aren’t complaining, they’re not happy.”

  “I got nothing to complain about, sir.”

  “Well, I have.”

  Lieutenant Porter appeared ill at ease. He wasn’t accustomed to sitting around in tents with full bird colonels, shooting the shit. His discomfort made Colonel Hutchins uneasy. Colonel Hutchins preferred soldiers who weren’t too awed by him. But Colonel Hutchins didn’t have much to choose from. Half of his regiment had been put out of the war during the past thirty-six hours.

  Colonel Hutchins folded his hands on Lieutenant Porter’s records and leaned forward. “We might as well get right down to business, Lieutenant. Do you know anything about my recon platoon?”

  “A little.”

  “What do you know?”

  “They do most of the regiment’s reconaissance and patrolling.”

  “Do you know where they are right now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “They’re all missing in action.”

  Lieutenant Porter was surprised and raised his eyebrows.

  “Yes,” Colonel Hutchins said. “Not one came back.”

  Lieutenant Porter didn’t reply. He knew Lieutenant Breckenridge vaguely, and had seen the recon platoon pass through the George Company area. They didn’t have a very good reputation in the regiment. Some said they were a bunch of crooks, and others said they brown-nosed the colonel all the
time. Lieutenant Porter always thought Lieutenant Breckenridge was okay, although he was sort of a wise guy.

  “Anyway,” Colonel Hutchins continued, “I need a new recon platoon. Would you be interested in heading it?”

  Lieutenant Porter was surprised. He was a career soldier and would have to think about whether or not the job would be good for him in the long run. “How much time do I have to think about it?”

  “About a minute.”

  Lieutenant Porter knew Colonel Hutchins would be angry if he turned down the job, so on the basis of that he said, “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. I want you to pick about twenty good men and organize them into units of four or five each. I want you to send out the men here, here, here, and here,” he said, pointing at spots on the map. “Have them probe forward toward the Driniumor River, if they can get that far, or if they can’t get that far, have them go as far as they can and then return here and report to me or Major Cobb. And I want you to lead one of the patrols. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Think you can handle it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How soon can you leave?”

  “About an hour, sir.”

  “Any questions?”

  “Yes, sir. Exactly what kind of information are you looking for, sir?”

  Colonel Hutchins didn’t like that question. An infantry officer should know what to look for. Lieutenant Breckenridge and Sergeant Butsko would never have asked a question like that.

  “You don’t know what to look for, Lieutenant?” Colonel Hutchins asked. “How can an officer have the experience you have and not know what to look for?”

  Lieutenant Porter blushed. “I know what to look for in general, sir, but I wondered if you had any specific objectives.”

  “If I had, I would have told them to you. In the absence of my having told you, you are to report anything and everything of military intelligence value. Do you know what I mean by that, or do I have to explain further?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “And you’re not to get into any fights out there if they’re avoidable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Colonel Hutchins looked at his watch. “It’s now eighteen-thirty hours. I’ll expect you to be crossing into no-man’s-land no later than twenty-thirty hours.”

  Lieutenant Porter glanced at his own watch. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lieutenant Porter snapped to attention, saluted smartly, executed a flawless about-face, and marched out of the office. Colonel Hutchins closed Lieutenant Porter’s personnel files and sighed, wishing he had his good old reliable recon platoon back.

  It was dark in the jungle, and the Driniumor River surged and rippled along, carrying coconuts that had fallen in, branches, leaves, dead animals, rotted planks, dead soldiers, articles of military equipment, and occasionally even a live soldier.

  “Over here!” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, holding on to a branch overhanging the riverbank.

  He looked out into the murky darkness and saw the heads and shoulders of his men bobbing up and down in the river. Eddies swirled them around, and whirlpools sucked them under, but the current was not so strong that they couldn’t fight it. The sky was black without a star shining, and all shapes were indistinct. The jungle on the far side of the river could be perceived only as a mass of blackness a few shades darker than the sky.

  The men kicked their legs and paddled toward the riverbank where Lieutenant Breckenridge was. Each hung on to his piece of debris, his log or something he’d grabbed from the Japanese truck that had driven into the Driniumor. Frankie La Barbara hugged his seat cushion with both arms and kicked his legs in the cascading current. His wavy hair was slicked down by the water; his helmet was long gone. Approaching the riverbank, he saw a clear stretch of beach and went aground, his knees scraping the rocks on the river bottom. He stood, staggered toward dry land, tripped on a rock, and fell, scraping his knees on the rocks.

  “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.

  “Not so loud!” said Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “Fuck you,” Frankie mumbled, raising himself up. He stepped forward carefully, nearly losing his balance again, his arms and legs exhausted, and collapsed on the riverbank, rolling over onto his back, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.

  The others made their way to the shore, and they, too, were badly fatigued. They’d traveled approximately a mile on the Driniumor, fighting the current every foot of the way, and there was always the possibility that they’d pass a platoon of Japs who’d shoot the shit out of them.

  Sergeant Snider hung on to a log, and he was damn near dead from loss of blood. The Reverend Billie Jones stayed near him, helping him along, his hand grasping the shoulder of Sergeant Snider’s shirt. The Reverend Billie Jones pulled Sergeant Snider to the spot on the riverbank where Frankie La Barbara had gone ashore.

  “You okay, Sarge?” Billie Jones asked.

  “I need a drink,” Sergeant Snider said weakly.

  Sergeant Snider’s toes and knees touched bottom. He let go of the log and stood up, but his head spun so swiftly, he lost his balance and collapsed into the water with a big splash. The Reverend Billie Jones lifted him by his armpits and dragged him to the shore, letting him down beside Frankie La Barbara, whose chest was still heaving.

  “Oh, this fucking war,” Frankie wheezed. “This goddamn fucking shitty war. I can’t take this goddamn fucking war anymore. I gotta get outta this goddamn fucking war somehow. I don’t know how I’ll do it, but I’ll do it.”

  Pfc. Morris Shilansky came to the shore on his hands and knees like a dog. “The only way you’ll get out of this war will be in a fucking pine box.”

  “Fuck you,” said Frankie.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge raised his voice. “Keep it down over there!”

  Frankie pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Lieutenant Breckenridge. “Listen to that fucking asshole, willya?”

  The other men came ashore one by one. Private Victor Yabalonka’s hands were so ravaged, he could barely move his fingers. The water had caused the edges of the wounds on his hands to puff up, but the bleeding had stopped. He dropped to the muck and rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily.

  Pfc. Craig Delane crawled toward the riverbank and stopped moving when his head and shoulders were out of the water. His cheek lay on the mud and he sucked in air through his nose and throat. His chest hurt and he thought he was going to have a heart attack.

  Pfc. Gotbaum, the tubby little medic, had lost his eyeglasses when he’d jumped off his tree trunk, and now he stumbled toward the others, following the sounds of their voices because he couldn’t see much. He had not lost his haversack full of medicine, though. It dripped water but still was slung crossways over his back and chest. Pfc. Gotbaum fell to the ground and lay still, his jaw hanging open.

  “Hey, pill-roller,” said Private Yabalonka, “looks like you need a medic.”

  Gotbaum didn’t answer. His strength was gone. The other men shuffled ashore and collapsed in the tiny clearing on the riverbank. Lieutenant Breckenridge pulled himself branch by branch toward the clearing and climbed up the riverbank, his .45-caliber submachine gun hanging from his back. He unslung the submachine gun, sat, and lay it across his lap, wondering if it would fire when he pulled the trigger.

  He let the men rest, because he knew he couldn’t do much with them as they were. He wasn’t that tired himself. He could have moved into the jungle, but not them. He pulled out his map to see how badly the water had damaged it. The map was encased in a zipper oilcloth envelope, but water had seeped through the zipper. The map was soaking wet, but the colors hadn’t run. Lieutenant Breckenridge unfolded the map carefully, lay it on the ground, and bent over to examine it.

  Visibility was poor, but he could make out a few salient details. He could see the Driniumor River and estimate where he and his men had come ashore. But the map couldn’
t tell him who held the land he was on, the Japs or his own army. He had no way of knowing how much ground the Japs had captured in their morning attack.

  He glanced at his watch: The hands told him it was six-thirty in the evening. Holding the watch closer to his eyes, he perceived that the face was half covered with water. He pressed the watch against his ear and heard no clicks. The watch was waterlogged. Six-thirty was the time he’d hit the water. He estimated that at least an hour had elapsed since then.

  “Sergeant Cameron?” he asked.

  “Sergeant Cameron’s dead,” replied Pfc. Morris Shilansky.

  “He’s dead?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked, astonished.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “He got shot in the neck. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Me too,” said Craig Delane.

  Several other GIs indicated that they’d seen Sergeant Cameron get hit too. Lieutenant Breckenridge stared at them in disbelief. It was difficult for him to accept the fact that Sergeant Cameron was dead. Sergeant Cameron had been in the recon platoon even before Lieutenant Breckenridge, and he’d always been one of the most durable, reliable members of the platoon.

  “Anybody get his dog tags?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.

  “Who had time?” Shilansky replied.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge wished he had a dry cigarette to smoke. Sergeant Cameron’s death made him more aware of his own mortality. If Sergeant Cameron could get killed, so could he. Death could come suddenly, from out of nowhere. One moment you were alive and the next moment you were gone forever.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge didn’t have time to wonder about life in the hereafter. He had to appoint somebody to be second in command. Who should he appoint? He didn’t have much to choose from. Sergeant Snider was the highest-ranking man under Lieutenant Breckenridge, but Sergeant Snider was a mess sergeant; he knew nothing about basic tactics and fighting in the jungle.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge glanced around at the men clustered in the tiny clearing as the Driniumor River roared past. He didn’t think any of the survivors from the recon platoon were worth a damn, and the three stragglers from Headquarters Company who’d come this far weren’t even real infantry soldiers. Corporal Froelich was a signalman, Pfc. Wilkie had been a clerk on Major Cobb’s staff, and Pfc. Gotbaum was a pill-roller. It was a ticklish situation, but according to Army regulations, the ranking enlisted man should be appointed second in command.