by Len Levinson
“You showed up in the nick of time.”
“Anybody seen the recon platoon?”
Lieutenant Atkins looked at Butsko and the others. “Aren't you the recon platoon?”
“We're only part of it.”
“I haven't seen the other part.”
Butsko looked around, trying to orient himself. He determined where the recon platoon's position had been and pointed in that direction.
“Go that way!” he said to Shilansky. “Everybody else back in the truck!”
The men jumped into the rear of the truck. Butsko took his position on the running board and Shilansky got behind the wheel. Shilansky shifted into gear, let up the clutch, and hit the gas. The old deuce and a half careened across the clearing and entered the jungle. Shilansky steered around trees and easing over shell craters. The jungle thinned out after fifty yards and the truck roared into another clearing being overrun by Japs. The Americans in the area had already fled and the Japs were speeding toward the American rear. They were led by an officer waving a samurai sword in the air.
“Banzai!”
Shilansky steered toward the mass of Japanese soldiers, and the ones on the right became aware of the truck bouncing toward them. When they turned to see what was going on, the GIs on the truck opened fire with their machine guns, wiping out most of that flank. Shilansky continued to aim the truck at the biggest groups of scattering Japanese. The GIs fired their submachine guns from behind the cab, cutting a swathe through the Japanese detachment.
The Japs fled in all directions, trying to escape from the path of the truck. A few brave ones stood their ground and raised their rifles to fire at the GIs, and a few managed to get off some wild shots, but then they were ripped apart by submachine-gun fire. Shilansky drove over the dead and wounded Japs, crunching their bones as the withering hail of submachine-gun fire blew down still more of the enemy. Shilansky headed toward a road at the other end of the clearing, leaving behind stacks of dead Japs.
Shilansky stepped on the gas when he reached the road. He took the first corner with the truck listing hard to the left. A column of Japs appeared on the road in front of him, heading in his direction. The Japs saw the truck, stopped, blinked, and leaped into the woods. The truck roared past and the GIs fired at the backs of the fleeing Japs, shooting down about a third of them. Shilansky accelerated as they rumbled down the straightaway. He cut the wheel and turned the next corner, skidding around it on two wheels, while the soldiers in back held on for dear life.
Ahead was the M Company area, where the Americans were making a gallant last stand in a network of bunkers dug into a ridge. The Japs were attacking up the side of the ridge, exchanging fire with machine gunners in the bunkers. The old deuce and a half drove up behind the Japs, who turned around to see what was making all the horrible noise.
They saw the truck speeding toward them, with Butsko hanging on to the right running board, firing his submachine gun; Bannon and Frankie La Barbara on top of the cab, standing up and holding their submachine guns tight to their waists, spraying out lead; and the other GIs in back of the truck, their submachine guns also blazing.
The first bursts of submachine-gun fire stopped the Japanese charge cold in its tracks. The Japs couldn't go up and they couldn't go down. All they could do was stand in the middle of the murderous crossfire or get down on their stomachs; but that didn't do any good, because when they lay full-length on the hill, their bodies became easy targets for the submachine guns.
Shilansky stopped the truck at the base of the hill and the GIs poured bullets into the Japs, while the soldiers in the bunkers ripped them up from the other side. It was a massacre. When all the Japs were dead or wounded, Butsko turned to Shilansky.
“Move it out!”
Shilansky jerked the wheel to the left and hit the gas. The truck rolled onto a road, passed through some thick jungle, and emerged in the George Company area, which was swarming with Japanese soldiers looting tents.
George Company had retreated, leaving everything behind, and the Japs were looking for souvenirs. Some had American walkie-talkies hanging from their necks. A few had US Army Colt .45s tucked into their belts. Several had found American food and were gobbling cake and canned fruit. One Japanese soldier stared at a picture of a blond American girl and thought she was the strangest-looking creature he'd ever seen in his life.
Shilansky drove the deuce and a half into the middle of the George Company area, taking the Japs by surprise. The GIs fired at the Japs from the truck, mowing them down, and Shilansky gleefully drove up and down the rows of tents, circling around to make sure no Japs could get away. The Japs ran one way and then the other, weighed down by their loot, and the GIs leveled streams of .45-caliber bullets at them. A few Japs made it to safety in the jungle, but the rest were wiped out.
Shilansky found a road heading south. He steered onto it and kicked the gas pedal. The truck bounced and rolled through a forest, then came to the L Company bivouac. Near the command post a detachment of Japanese soldiers were lining up twenty American prisoners of war, who stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, many of them bloody from wounds and beatings.
Butsko became enraged. It reminded him of the Bataan Death March, the most horrific experience of his life. “Charge!” he screamed.
Shilansky sped toward the Japanese soldiers and their prisoners. The Japanese soldiers hid behind their prisoners and fired at the GIs on the truck, and the GIs ducked as Shilansky steered toward the Japs and American POWs. Shilansky saw a Japanese soldier raise his rifle and take aim at him. The ex–bank robber ducked down in the seat and the bullet exploded through the windshield, burrowing into the metal behind the place where his head had been.
The Japanese soldiers and their prisoners ran out of the way of the truck. Shilansky slammed on the brakes and crashed into the big walled L Company CP, knocking down tent poles and running over the company commander's desk. The truck came to a stop and the GIs jumped down, chasing the Japanese soldiers, gunning them down. The American POWs picked up the Arisaka rifles belonging to the dead Japanese soldiers and helped the men from the recon platoon. Some Japs stood their ground and fought, but the firepower of the Thompson submachine guns was too much for them. A few ran away. The L Company area was won back in five minutes.
“Who's in charge here?” Butsko asked.
An old sergeant, bleeding from a cut on his cheek, stepped forward. “I am.”
“You think you can hold this area?”
“I think so.”
“Anybody know where the recon platoon is?”
The sergeant pointed. “I believe they were yonder.”
Butsko jumped back onto the running board. “Let's get out of here!”
The rest of the recon platoon men dived into the rear of the truck and loaded their Thompson submachine guns as Shilansky steered around trees and made a wide turn past the L Company latrine. Standing on top of the cab, Bannon and Frankie La Barbara looked down into the latrine and saw a dead American soldier lying on top of all the shit.
“What a way to go,” Frankie said.
Shilansky came to a road. “Should I take it?” he asked Butsko.
“Might as well.”
Shilansky turned onto the road and stepped on the gas. The truck gained speed but the ride was rough, due to two flat tires and an engine that was skipping badly. The needle on the temperature gauge moved closer to the danger zone. Shilansky didn't think the old truck had many more miles in it.
The road snaked through the jungle and the GIs were vigilant, looking around for Japs, but they didn't see any. Butsko didn't know whether the Japs had gone past that point yet. The road curved to the left and Shilansky followed it, coming to a large open area that had been cleared for the construction of the regimental motor pool. The clearing was bounded by jungle on all four sides. Piles of construction equipment were everywhere, and a bulldozer sat beside one of the piles. Several roads led away from the clearing, and Shilansky
didn't know which one to take.
“Which road?” he asked Butsko.
Butsko scratched his chin with his fingernails. He'd never been on that part of Hill 700 and didn't know where the roads led. He took a cigarette out of his pack and lit it up, realizing how tired he was. It'd been a helluva morning and it wasn't even over yet.
They heard a fusillade of gunfire in the distance. Butsko looked in the direction from which it was coming and saw a road with a sign that had a red cross and an arrow on it, indicating the regimental aid station.
“That way!” Butsko said, pointing.
Shilansky shifted into gear and kicked the gas pedal. The truck shot forward and Shilansky steered it onto the road, then shifted into higher gear. The road was smooth, almost like a highway. The truck reached a speed of forty miles per hour; Shilansky couldn't make it go any faster. Bannon and Frankie La Barbara held on tightly to the top of the cab, the wind buffeting their faces. They could hear the sounds of an intense gun battle ahead. In the back of the truck, Shaw, Gladley, and Billie Jones bounced around on the seats. Gladley tried to drink some water from his canteen and spilled it all over his face and shirt.
The road wound through the jungle. The engine lugged up the hills and the truck slowed down to twenty miles an hour, then sped down the other sides with the transmission in top gear and Shilansky pushing the accelerator to the floor. Branches scraped the side of the truck, and a thick one whacked Frankie La Barbara on the head, but he was wearing his helmet and he only saw stars for a few moments.
The sounds of battle grew louder. Shilansky steered the big truck around a corner and roared into a large clearing, the centerpiece of which was the regimental aid station, where a fierce battle was taking place. Japs surrounded the Americans, who were defending the hospital tents behind a hastily erected barrier of sandbags, jeeps, trucks, and crates of supplies. The Americans were outnumbered, and as Butsko leaned forward on the running board, it appeared that the Japanese soldiers had just breached one side of the barricade.
Butsko pointed to the breach in the wall. “That way!”
Shilansky hunched over the wheel and steered toward the breach. Behind the cab, Bannon and Frankie La Barbara stood and fired their submachine guns from their waists, spraying the Japanese soldiers with .45-caliber bullets. The Japanese soldiers turned around and couldn't believe their eyes. The GIs in the back of the truck fired their submachine guns at the Japs through the slats on both sides of the truck's bed, and Butsko crouched on the running board, his cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Japs melted away before their withering fire. The truck rumbled toward the breach in the barricade and Shilansky hit the brakes. Butsko jumped off the running board, lost his balance, fell down, rolled over, and jumped to his feet, firing his submachine gun. Bannon and Frankie La Barbara dropped down from the roof of the cab and followed Butsko, waving their submachine guns from side to side, mowing down Japanese soldiers. The GIs in the back of the truck leaped over the slats and hit the dirt running, their submachine guns roaring.
Butsko led them in a counterclockwise direction around the barricade, gunning down Japanese soldiers. Their firepower was tremendous, while the Japanese soldiers were armed only with rifles and bayonets. A few Japanese officers and sergeants had Nambu pistols and samurai swords. They didn't have a chance against the rampaging GIs, but they stood their ground and fought bravely until those big .45-caliber slugs put them out of action.
Some fired lucky shots. One bullet from an Arisaka rifle nicked Homer Gladley's leg and really pissed him off. He leveled a stream of fire at the Japanese soldier who'd shot him, and the Japanese soldier's head disintegrated, torn apart by the big bullets, blood and brains and bits of bone flying in all directions.
Another lucky shot grazed Butsko's helmet, making a crease in the metal and knocking him off his feet. He thought for sure he had a serious head wound, but he touched his hand to the sore spot and felt no hole or blood. Putting on his helmet back on his head, he rejoined the charge around the barricade.
Bannon saw a Japanese officer carrying a samurai sword. The Japanese officer's jaw hung open and he appeared dazed by the appearance of this machine-gun platoon. He raised his samurai sword in a half-hearted aggressive motion, and Bannon pulled the trigger of his submachine gun, blowing the Japanese officer's chest, heart, and lungs all over the landscape.
The submachine gunners from the recon platoon worked their way around the barricade, shooting down Japanese soldiers. The air was filled with the roar of guns and the smell of smoke. Behind them was a trail of bloody Japanese soldiers filled with holes. The GIs attacked on the double, and when one had an empty clip, the others covered him while he reloaded.
They shot their way around the barricade and then came to piles of dead Japanese soldiers in front of the breach that had been made. Nearby was the two-and-a-half-ton truck, smoke trailing into the sky from the engine compartment. They'd fought their way around the barricade and were back at the place they'd started from.
The GIs inside the barricade ran out, cheering and jumping for joy. The Japs had been wiped out, and among the defenders was the other part of the recon platoon. Longtree and Nutsy Gafooley hollered happily and jumped on top of Butsko, hugging him and knocking him to the ground. Craig Delane, Sergeant Cameron, and Sergeant Gomez slapped Bannon on the back. The men from the recon platoon had a joyful reunion, laughing and yelling, and the other GIs who'd been trapped behind the barricade joined in the celebration. A grim, deadly situation had been turned around by the sudden appearance of Butsko and his men. Everybody lit cigarettes and drank water from their canteens. Private Gundy led Butsko back to Lieutenant Breckenridge, who was lying on the ground, his thigh bandaged and a copious amount of morphine in his bloodstream.
Butsko knelt beside Lieutenant Breckenridge. “How're you doing, sir?”
Lieutenant Breckenridge stared at him as if he weren't there. “Not bad, I don't think. I should be ready for duty in a little while.”
Butsko looked at Gundy for confirmation, but Gundy shook his head.
Butsko tapped Lieutenant Breckenridge on the shoulder. “You'll be okay, buddy, Just take it easy for a while.”
“What the hell's going on out there, Butsko?”
“It's a big fucking mess, sir.”
TWELVE . . .
In the late afternoon Colonel Hutchins stood behind his desk, looking down at the map of Hill 700, trying to figure out what he still held and what the Japs had taken away from him. Standing at his side was Major Cobb, his operations officer, and Lieutenant Harper, his aide.
Reports from the front indicated that the regiment had been hit hard and knocked off balance, but it had recovered and reoccupied the line it had held that morning except in one area.
That was a saddle between the summit of Hill 700 and a rise to the west that was nicknamed Pat's Nose. Baker Company had been pushed off Pat's Nose, and a Japanese unit now occupied all the bunkers, pillboxes, and foxholes there. The Japs had brought up light and heavy machine guns and strengthened the fortifications, and now had a staging area for further assaults on Hill 700.
Colonel Hutchins placed his forefinger where Pat's Nose was indicated on his map. “We've got to take this back.”
“First we have to know how many Japs are there,” Major Cobb said.
“I know how many Japs are there. They can't have more than a battalion, because Pat's Nose isn't that big. Plan on beating a battalion. I want the Japs out of there by this time tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Hutchins turned to Major Cobb. “Did you see what Butsko did today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He and his men were damned effective, don't you think?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think we should arm the entire recon platoon with submachine guns, give them a few trucks, and use them as shock troops. Let them lead the attack on Pat's Nose.”
“Yes, sir.”
; Colonel Hutchins sat on his chair. His shoulder wound bothered him and he was so full of morphine, he didn't feel like drinking.
“God, what a day it's been.”
“Yes, sir, but we still control ninety percent of this hill.”
“Tomorrow at this time we'll have it all again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get to work on it. I want to see your battle plan no later than two thousand hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
On Pat's Nose, Captain Kashiwagi walked along his line, inspecting fortifications. He was in a great mood, because he'd discovered that his company was the only one that had achieved its objective on Hill 700. All the other Japanese companies had been pushed back. Colonel Muda had told him to expect an attack in the morning and to hold his ground at all cost.
Captain Kashiwagi intended to follow those orders to the letter. He vowed to hold his network of fortifications or be killed in them. There would be no retreat or surrender.
Walking along with his hands clasped behind his back, he watched his men rebuild a pillbox, shoveling stones and dirt onto the roof. Inside the bunker a heavy-machine-gun crew was laying out its field of fire. Behind the bunker a squad of soldiers was setting up a mortar in a trench. A column of soldiers walked by the trench, carrying packs of food and ammunition to the position.
Captain Kashiwagi was elated. Colonel Muira was giving him what he needed to hold the hill. If he was successful, they'd probably make him a major. If he failed, he'd commit hara-kiri.
He stepped behind a bush to take a leak and saw a dead American soldier lying there. The soldier had the same build as Frankie La Barbara. Captain Kashiwagi kicked his boot under the dead American soldier, flipping him over.
A terrible stench rose to his nostrils and made him step back. The American soldier's guts had been ripped out and maggots swarmed over them. The American's face was wrenched in pain; it wasn't the face of Frankie La Barbara. Captain Kashiwagi took out his wang and peed on the maggots.
