by Len Levinson
The only thing to do would be attack them where they were, before they began large-scale operations. Evidently that was the conclusion that General Imamura had reached. How terrible it would be if General Hyakutake sent all his men against the American beachhead and the Americans attacked his main air-bases in the south of Bougainville from the sea.
But orders were orders. General Hyakutake had to formulate plans to wipe out the American beachhead at Empress Augusta Bay. His army consisted mainly of the Sixth Division, which was notorious because it was the division that had captured Nanking in China in 1937, unleashing an orgy of murder, rape, burning, and pillage that shocked the world. He also had several battalions of the Seventeenth Division that General Imamura had sent down in November. His total strength was twenty-one thousand men. He estimated that the Americans had no more than thirty thousand men, many of them engineers and Air Corps people, not combat effectives.
General Hyakutake figured that numerically his soldiers and the Americans were evenly matched, but Japanese soldiers were better fighters. He'd send them across Bougainville toward Empress Augusta Bay, where they'd surround the small American force there and hammer them to death.
The Japanese general smiled, because it would give him great pleasure to wipe out the Americans. They'd defeated him on Guadalcanal and now he'd get his revenge. The men of the Sixth Division were extremely vicious soldiers. They'd know how to do the job. The Americans would realize that General Harukichi Hyakutake was no pushover.
General Hyakutake rose and walked toward the closet to get his pants, his skinny legs moderately bowed. He wanted to get dressed so that he could go to his office and start planning his attack on the Americans on Cape Torokina. Opening the door to his closet, he took down his pants and stuck in his left leg, nearly tripping and falling on his ass, such was his haste to begin planning the destruction of the Americans.
She was blond and beautiful, with blue eyes and nice boobs. Opening the door to her apartment in New York City, she wore a black cocktail gown cut low but not too low in front, with a flared taffeta skirt.
Standing in front of her in the hall was First Lieutenant Dale Breckenridge, US Army, wearing the crossed rifles of the infantry on the lapels of his uniform jacket, and the blue Combat Infantryman's Badge over his left breast pocket. His tie was askew, his brown hair mussed, his eyes a little droopy.
“Sorry to be late,” he muttered.
“You've been drinking.”
“Only a little.”
“I think you'd better sit down.”
“Naw, I'm all right. You ready to go?”
“Have a seat and we'll go in a few minutes.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge followed her into her apartment and sat heavily on the sofa. Nearby on a table was a picture of the woman when she was a cheerleader at the University of Virginia, only two years before. He'd been first-string fullback on the football team, and that's how they'd met.
“Want some coffee?” she asked.
He looked at his watch. “Haven't got time.”
“It's already made.”
“Okay, I'll have a cup.”
She walked to her kitchen, and Lieutenant Breckenridge leaned back on the sofa. He was stationed nearby at Fort Dix and was company commander of 160 recruits in basic training. He was on a weekend pass. He avoided his orderly room as much as possible and let his first sergeant run the company.
She brought him the cup of coffee and placed it on the table in front of him. He lifted it and took a sip, hoping it would wake him up. He'd been drinking since three o'clock in the afternoon, starting at the officers’ club at Fort Dix and continuing in the cocktail lounge of a hotel near Pennsylvania Station. Now he was much more drunk than he looked. He was barely able to stand.
But Marge knew him well and could perceive how drunk he was. They were very close. He'd taken her cherry when she was a coed, and sometimes they talked about getting married. She looked at him with concern on her face. She thought he was turning into an alcoholic.
He turned to her and flashed a lopsided grin. “You'll never guess what I did this morning.”
“You got drunk.”
“No, I didn't get drunk until the afternoon. I put in for a transfer this morning.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
‘To where?”
“To my old outfit.”
Her eyes widened. “The Twenty-third?”
“That's the one.”
“My God!”
He placed his hand on her knee and looked into her eyes. “I don't know what to say.”
“I guess there's nothing to say. When are you leaving?”
“Probably another month or so.”
“You're crazy—you know that, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents know yet?”
“Not yet. I'm gonna take a furlough; I'll tell them then.”
“I need a drink,” she said.
“Make one for me.”
She got up and went back to the kitchen. He watched her ass sway underneath her cocktail dress. I really must be crazy, he thought. All he knew was that he couldn't tolerate garrison life anymore. It was turning him into a drunk. Somewhere in the South Pacific his old outfit was fighting for their lives, and he felt like a coward and a slacker. He hated the war and was afraid of getting killed or wounded, but he couldn't stay away from it either. The civilians he met made him sick, because all they cared about was money. His fellow officers out at Fort Dix were for the most part a bunch of tin soldiers. He'd come to the conclusion that the only place in the world where he belonged was at the front with his good old recon platoon.
Marge returned with two glasses; his was an old-fashioned glass with two ice cubes and straight Old Grand-Dad. She handed it to him, then walked to the big window and looked out at the Manhattan skyline, sipping her bourbon and soda.
“Can you tell me why you're going back?” she asked.
“No.”
“I didn't think so.”
“It has nothing to do with you. I still love you. I just have to go back.”
“You have to go back?”
“That's right.”
She shrugged. “Well, I guess if you have to go back, you have to go back. I suppose I'll still be here waiting for you when the war's over.”
He rose from the sofa and staggered toward her. “I don't deserve you,” he said, looking at her photogenic profile, for she was a top-dollar model.
She turned to him and forced herself to smile. “I knew this was coming,” she said. “I felt it in my bones. Please try to come back, Dale. I don't know what I'll do if you don't come back.”
“I'll try my best.”
He took her in his arms, kissing her forehead. Over her blond hair he could see the Empire State Building all lit up, and the Chrysler Building to its left. Below him were the streets of the city, the street lamps shining and the headlights of cars moving up and down the avenues.
“I really must be crazy,” he mumbled, hugging her closer, lowering his head and kissing her cheek.
“You are,” she replied, “but you've always been strange, and I guess I'm getting used to you.”
They touched lips as horns beeped in the street below and the lights of Manhattan glittered like diamonds.
THREE . . .
The Twenty-Third Infantry Regiment debarked at Cape Torokina and moved inland to relieve the Second Marines on Hill 700. A road led up the hill and the Twenty-Third climbed it in a column of companies, with Headquarters Company going first. The recon platoon was part of Headquarters Company.
Colonel William Stockton, the commander of the Twenty-third Regiment, made the trip in his jeep with his executive officer, Lieutenant Colonel Francis Lynch, and his operations officer, Major Irwin Cobb. Pfc. Nick Bombasino from Philadelphia drove the jeep and brought it to a halt before the headquarters tent of the Second Marines, where a group of leathernecks were loading crates into a deuce-and-a-ha
lf truck.
Colonel Stockton climbed out of the jeep, slapped his swagger stick against his leg, and marched toward the tent. He was tall and lean, with silvery hair showing underneath his steel helmet. He carried a Colt .45 in a holster strapped to his waist. Entering the tent, followed by Lieutenant Colonel Lynch and Major Cobb, he stopped and looked around as his eyes adjusted to the dimness.
“Ten-hut!” cried the Marine sitting at the desk.
The men in the little office jumped to their feet and stood at attention.
“As you were. I'm Colonel Stockton. Is Colonel Greely in?’
“He's been waiting for you, sir.”
Colonel Stockton pushed aside the tent flap and entered the office of Colonel Greely, commander of the Second Marines, who was seated at his desk. Colonel Stockton smiled and held out his hand. “Hi, I'm Bill Stockton.”
“Glad to see you.”
The two colonels shook hands and Colonel Stockton introduced Lieutenant Colonel Lynch and Major Cobb. They chit-chatted about the weather and the war and then got down to business. Colonel Greely stood and walked to the map that lay on a table nearby.
“You've got Japs here, here, and here,” Colonel Greely said, pointing to the mountains that faced Hill 700. “They can look down here and see everything we're doing. They harass us at night sometimes, and they lob shells over here from time to time, but basically they're just biding their time. I don't know what they're waiting for, but they're waiting for something. We and they patrol the valley between us, to make sure nobody'11 pull a fast one, and from time to time our patrols run into their patrols and do a little shooting. The big question is, who'll attack first, us or them.”
“I hope it's us,” Colonel Stockton replied.
“I don't know. This ground's easier to defend than attack. I'd suggest you send out frequent patrols and have plenty of listening posts at night.”
“Will do.”
“Good. Well, since you're here, I guess there's no reason for me to be here too. I'll have this tent struck and we'll pull out. How long before your main body arrives?”
“My headquarters company should be here in about an hour.”
“Good. My men will stay until they arrive, but I guess I can head down to the harbor.” Colonel Greely held out his hand. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Headquarters Company arrived on Hill 700 at 1100 hours and relieved the Marines dug in there. The Marines had struck their tents and loaded their equipment into trucks waiting along the sides of the road. The Marines stood around and smirked as the exhausted GIs marched through their area.
“Here come the doggies,” said a Marine who was leaning against a tree, a cigarette dangling out of his mouth.
“Sorry-looking bunch of bastards, ain't they?” asked his buddy, leaning against the other side of the tree.
“I guess that's why they call ‘em doggies, because they look like a bunch of damned mongrel dogs.”
The recon platoon happened to be passing nearby, and Frankie La Barbara heard the remark.
“Your mother's a mongrel,” he snarled out the side of his mouth.
The Marine leaning against the tree stiffened. “What was that?”
“I said your mother's a mongrel.”
The Marine couldn't believe his ears. He was a mean killing machine, the veteran of numerous gruesome battles, and somebody dared to call his mother a mongrel?
“You're lucky you're in formation,” the Marine said to Frankie La Barbara. “Otherwise I'd kick your doggie ass.”
Frankie La Barbara stepped out of formation and walked toward the Marine. He heaved his shoulders and the straps of his full field pack slid down his arms to the ground. He tossed his rifle onto his pack and looked at the Marine.
“I ain't in formation now! What are you waiting for?”
The Marine looked to his left and right and saw no officers. He unslung his rifle and gave it to his buddy, then passed him his steel helmet. Squaring his jaw, he raised his fists and walked toward Frankie, who also raised his fists. When the Marine came close, both threw punches at the same time, hitting each other on the chest; but both were big men, and a punch to the chest didn't faze them.
The Marine threw a hook to Frankie La Barbara's head and Frankie raised his left arm, blocking the blow and stepping inside, delivering an uppercut to the Marine's jaw. The Marine's head snapped back and his lights went out. He fell backward, out cold, and Frankie moved forward to stomp on his face, when somebody grabbed his arm.
It was Butsko. “That's enough!”
The fight had started and ended quickly, but everybody nearby saw it. Lieutenant Horsfall came running, and so did a Marine captain, while Marines and GIs crowded around Frankie and the fallen Marine, who was still out cold.
“Get back!” Butsko shouted, his fist still on Frankie's arm. “All you guys, get back!”
Lieutenant Horsfall broke through the crowd. “What's going on here?”
“Nothing, sir,” replied Butsko, trying to keep Horsfall cooled out. “Just a little disagreement.”
Lieutenant Horsfall stared at the Marine lying on the ground. “He looks like he's dead.” Dropping down, he felt for the Marine's pulse. “Medic!”
“Yo!” replied Pfc. Gundy, the recon platoon's medic.
‘Take care of this man!”
“Yes, sir.”
Gundy pushed his way through one end of the crowd. The Marine captain came through from the other end.
“Atten-hut!” shouted Lieutenant Horsfall.
Everybody snapped to attention except the Marine lying on the ground and Private Gundy, who knelt beside him.
The captain looked at the Marine on the ground and was mystified. Everything had been peaceful and quiet, and now all of a sudden there was a big drama. “What's happened?”
Lieutenant Horsfall cleared his throat. “Looks like there was a little altercation here, sir.”
“Altercation!” The captain pointed at the Marine. “Is he alive?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Gundy. “He's just out cold.”
“Who did this?”
Everybody looked at Frankie La Barbara.
“He did,” said Lieutenant Horsfall.
The Marine captain tried to think of what to do. The Army was moving in and he was supposed to move out. He didn't want anything to prevent him from getting the hell out of there, so he thought he'd pass the buck and get moving.
“This man is in your unit?” the captain asked Lieutenant Horsfall, referring to Frankie La Barbara.
“Yes, sir.”
“I'm sure you'll know how to discipline him. Move your men into the area, Lieutenant, and I'll withdraw my men. I think we should both keep our people apart so there will be no repetitions of this incident.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain called for some Marines to carry their buddy away, and Lieutenant Horsfall ordered his men to move back. The Marines and GIs separated, leaving the unconscious Marine lying on the ground. Two other Marines grabbed him, one by the arms and the other by the legs, and carried him away. Sergeants shouted the orders that would keep the Marines and GIs apart.
Butsko still held Frankie La Barbara by the arm. Lieutenant Horsfall pointed his finger at Frankie La Barbara's nose. “I'm going to throw the book at you, you son of a bitch! You're under arrest as of right now!”
Among the Japanese soldiers on the mountain facing the Twenty-third Regiment was a company commanded by Captain Ryoji Kashiwagi, a karate black belt, who was barefoot and stripped to the waist, performing a formal karate exercise called a kata in a clearing near his tent.
Lean and hard, with muscles like ropes, Captain Kashiwagi punched and kicked imaginary opponents as he moved around the clearing. He was thirty years old and had been a young lieutenant during the infamous rape of Nanking. Every time he punched he imagined himself busting through the rib cage of an American soldier. His kicks were calculated to separate an American soldier's head from his sh
oulders. He even had a move where he'd thrust the stiffened fingers of his hand into an American soldier's throat and rip out his windpipe.
Captain Kashiwagi was nobody to mess with. He could crack two-by-fours with the blade of his hand and split bricks with power kicks. In hand-to-hand combat he had demolished every American near him, but once one of the cowardly Americans had shot him and Captain Kashiwagi had spent a few months in a hospital. He hadn't been right since, but was working to build up his strength.
Sergeant Kato approached cautiously through the jungle. He had an important message for Captain Kashiwagi but was afraid to disturb him while he was practicing karate. Captain Kashiwagi had a terrible temper, and Sergeant Kato didn't want the captain to turn on him and break his arm or crack his skull, so he just moved into Captain Kashiwagi's line of vision and waited for him to say something.
Captain Kashiwagi suddenly stopped when he saw Sergeant Kato, because he realized Sergeant Kato wouldn't dare disturb him unless it was important. “What is it?”
“Something is happening on the American line. Evidently one unit is moving out and another unit is moving in.”
“Have you transmitted the message to Headquarters?”
“We were waiting for your authorization, sir.”
“Send it immediately, then bring the information to me in my tent.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will personally view the American lines.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Kato saluted, turned, and walked away swiftly. Captain Kashiwagi pulled his shirt down from a nearby branch and put it on, heading toward his tent. If new troops were moving in, it might be a good time to hit them with a surprise raid at night. The new troops would be confused, and perhaps he could kill many of them. Maybe he could seriously disrupt their activities. Captain Kashiwagi loved night attacks. He preferred to take the Americans by surprise, rather than face them during the day, because the Americans had more troops in the area than he.
