by Len Levinson
“Okay, let's take a break,” he said. “Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
The men collapsed onto the ground, took out their cigarettes, and passed them to those who didn't have any. Bannon, soaked to his skin, puffed his cigarette and felt miserable. He missed Mary in every cell of his body, and his wounded leg was bothering him. It had been all right when they'd begun to march, but had slowly worsened as the hours passed.
He thought of Mary crying in her hut, and the vision of her devastated him. He wished now that he'd never grabbed her behind that bush, because if he hadn't he wouldn't be so unhappy now and neither would she.
He wondered why he missed her so, because he'd slept with other women and felt very little when he left them the next morning. What was so great about her? Why did he love her so?
He thought he'd better do something to take his mind off her. He arose, limped a few steps, and knelt beside Private Hilliard, whose chest was one big bandage. Hilliard was conscious but woozy, shot full of morphine. He was the youngest man in the platoon, having lied about his age to join the Army and fight for his country.
“How're you doing?” Bannon asked, looking down into Hilliard's pale face.
Hilliard turned his head to look at Bannon and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“How is he?” Bannon asked Blum, the medic.
“Piss poor. He's lost a lot of blood.”
“Will he make it?”
“I don't know.”
Bannon looked down at Hilliard again. “Sure you'll make it,” Bannon said, touching his hand to Hilliard's shoulder. “We'll have you to a hospital before you know it.”
Hilliard stared at Bannon but didn't see him and didn't understand what he was saying. He was from the Florida panhandle and hallucinated about the Gulf of Mexico, about the girls in their bathing suits swimming in the warm azure water, and about eating a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich that his mother had made for him when he'd left home earlier in the day.
In another part of the jungle Colonel Shibata stood under a tarpaulin held by four posts; he was looking down at his portable map table. His aides surrounded the table, and he'd just received word that his forward elements had made contact with the US Army. He pointed to his present position on the map and traced a curving line through the jungle.
“While Battalion A holds the Americans in front,” he said, “Battalion B will move around them to the left and Battalion C will do the same on the right. We will catch them in a pincer and squeeze the life out of them. Battalion D will be kept in reserve. I want the pincers to swing out quite far on the flanks so that none of the Americans will get away. Then we will dig in on a broad front and respond to whatever moves the Americans make next. Does anyone see any flaws in this plan?”
Nobody said anything.
“Carry the plan out,” Colonel Shibata said.
The officers moved away from the map table to transmit the orders down to the line units. Colonel Shibata held his hands behind his back and continued looking at the map. His blood was stirring in his veins; he smelled victory. In the history of the Imperial Army, small numbers of troops had often won major battles against superior enemy forces, and he thought that perhaps, with his fresh troops and intelligent strategy, he might be able to win a decisive contest against the Americans.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Isangi, holding out the field telephone, “General Miyazaki is on the telephone.”
Colonel Shibata narrowed his eyes and reached for the telephone. “This is Colonel Shibata,” he said calmly.
“Colonel Shibata!” shouted General Miyazaki on the other end. “I understand you've left the positions you have been ordered to hold!”
“I am attacking the enemy in front of me,” Colonel Shibata explained.
“Attacking the enemy in front of you! What enemy in front of you? Have you gone mad!”
“There are American soldiers in front of me, and I am attacking them before they attack me. What is so mad about that?”
“Colonel Shibata,” General Miyazaki said firmly, “your orders are to protect the Seventeenth Army's retreat.”
“That's what I'm doing, sir. I am following orders to the letter.”
“But you're not where you're supposed to be.”
“I am fighting the Americans and keeping them away from you so you can run away.”
“What!”
Colonel Shibata bit his lip. He knew he shouldn't have said that, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I am doing everything I can to make your evacuation possible, sir.”
“Listen to me, Colonel Shibata,” the general said. “We are following orders and so must you. You are not in the position you should be in right now.”
“That is correct, sir. I am in a better position. I saw an opportunity and I took it. And I shall continue to take advantage of opportunities because that is the way to win victories.”
“Win victories?” General Miyazaki asked incredulously. “You think you can win a victory?”
“That is correct.”
“One regiment against the American army?”
“Anything is possible.”
“Colonel Shibata, I believe you've taken leave of your senses.”
“The Imperial Army has fallen to a sorry state if officers who try to win victories are accused of being insane.”
“You're not being realistic,” General Miyazaki said. “You're moving too far away from Cape Esperance. When the time comes for the Sixty-sixth Regiment to evacuate, you may not return in time.”
Colonel Shibata set his feet firmly on the ground and gripped the telephone tightly. “The Sixty-sixth Regiment is not eager to evacuate. The Sixty-sixth Regiment desires only to die on the field of battle for the Emperor.”
There was silence on the other end for a few moments.
“Colonel Shibata, you are disobeying orders. I am instructing you to return to the line you are supposed to hold.”
“It's too late for that, sir.”
Colonel Shibata held the phone in one hand and wrapped the wire around his other hand as General Miyazaki's voice squawked at the rain. Colonel Shibata pulled with all his strength and the wire snapped loose. General Miyazaki's voice was cut off.
The Sixty-sixth Regiment was on its own.
TWELVE . . .
A bullet whapped into the mud three inches in front of Nutsy Gafooley's face. Another whistled past his ear. A third hit a branch over his head, water spilling onto him from the wide leaves. He lay on his stomach behind the tree and fired at figures moving in the rain. The Japs were advancing steadily, utilizing the principles of fire and maneuver. And Captain Orr's men were retreating before their onslaught, leaving casualties behind.
Captain Orr's mortars were blowing up the jungle in front of him, but there were too many Japs and they kept on coming. His mortar rounds were rapidly diminishing and his machine guns were running out of ammunition. He lay in a shell crater, firing his carbine and trying to think at the same time. He knew that he was greatly outnumbered and he'd have to do something fast.
“Platoon sergeants assemble on me!” he shouted. “Lieutenant Holt too!”
He continued firing his carbine, gritting his teeth, trying to make every shot count. The Japs were converging on his platoon from three directions and the only thing to do was make a run for it before they got too close. Next to him, Private Nordell was firing his carbine, cursing, his teeth chattering; then suddenly he went flying backward, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Captain Orr pulled the walkie-talkie from Private Nordell's shoulder as the platoon sergeants leaped into the shell crater. Lieutenant Holt was the last one to arrive.
“We're pulling out,” Captain Orr said in his slow Texas drawl, “and we're gonna split up so it'll be harder for the Japs to get us. Each platoon will be on its own. I'll go with the First Platoon and Lieutenant Holt with the Second. We'll cut through whatever's in back of us, so don't stop for anything. Just r
un like bastards. Any questions?”
“What about the Japs back there?” Lieutenant Holt asked.
“Go right over them. Got it?”
The sergeants nodded grimly.
“Let's go!” Captain Orr said.
The sergeants jumped out of the shell crater and ran to their platoons, shouting orders. Captain Orr followed Sergeant Kacz-marczyk as bullets flew around them like bees.
“Pull back.’” shouted Sergeant Kaczmarczyk.
That was the order Nutsy Gafooley was praying for, and he turned around, stretching out his long, sinewy legs. He dodged around a tree, jumped over a foxhole containing a dead Jap, bulled through a bush, and saw men from the weapon platoon breaking down their mortars. Nutsy ran in a zigzag right through them, jumped over a log, and plunged into the jungle.
“Stay together!” yelled Sergeant Kaczmarczyk.
Stay together my ass, thought Nutsy Gafooley. He elbowed a branch out of the way, ducked underneath another one, and kept going. He saw a muzzle blast in front of him and simultaneously a bullet banged into a tree three feet away. Pulling his last hand grenade from his pocket, he yanked the pin on the run, threw it toward the spot where he'd seen the muzzle blast, and dived to the ground. The grenade exploded and the ground rumbled beneath Nutsy's body. Nutsy leaped to his feet and charged the spot where he'd seen the muzzle blast, firing his M 1 from the hip as fast as he could pull the trigger. He saw movement in the hole—the Jap was struggling to raise his rifle—and one of Nutsy's bullets richocheted off the top of the hole, making the Jap flinch.
Nutsy bounded forward and jumped into the air, landing on the Jap with both feet. The Jap was weak and frail, and he crumpled under the weight of Nutsy,who lost his balance and fell to the side. The Jap moved slowly, trying to pull his bayonet out of his sheath, but Nutsy was like greased lightning. He lunged at the Jap and grabbed him by the throat, squeezing with all his might.
The Jap coughed and clawed at Nutsy's wrists, but Nutsy hung on and kept squeezing. Drool appeared on the Jap's lips and his eyes bulged out of his head. Nutsy was amazed at the weakness of the Jap; he was as spindly as a newborn kitten. The Jap made a horrible gagging sound and then something cracked in his throat. He went limp and Nutsy let him fall into the mud.
Nutsy grabbed his rifle and climbed out of the foxhole, running east toward Henderson Field. Bullets were fired in the jungle all around him, and he heard men shouting in English and Japanese. Nutsy came to a stream and waded across it, holding his rifle high. When he was halfway across he heard a rifle shot and saw a splash as a bullet zipped into the water next to his knee.
“Son of a bitch!” said Nutsy, plowing through the water and diving onto the mud on the other side. Another bullet was fired at him, ricocheting off a rock in the mud a few feet away. Nutsy looked around but couldn't see the Jap and didn't feel like searching for him. Veering to the left, Nutsy crawled along the riverbank to get away. A bullet whizzed over his back and he cursed again, trying to reach a cluster of boulders just ahead. He was so low to the ground that his chin dragged in the mud and he could smell fermenting vegetation. Grenades and mortar shells exploded not far away, and machine guns chattered throughout the jungle. Nutsy made it behind the pile of boulders and looked through the cracks. He couldn't see anything except jungle, the leaves and vines and gray mist rising from the ground. Catching his breath, he leaned his back against the boulders, glad to be alive. He thought that maybe he should try to get away silently, instead of running through the jungle like a maniac. If he had to travel all the way to Henderson Field on his belly, that was okay with him, just as long as he was alive when he got there.
Nutsy got low to the ground and crawled into the densest part of the jungle, cradling his rifle in his arms, determined to get away alive, even if it took two weeks to get back to Henderson Field.
The heavens blanketed Guadalcanal with rain, and the recon platoon was making slow progress through the jungle. Shaw could no longer walk on his left foot and had to be helped by Frankie La Barbara, whose nose was covered by a huge bandage. Bannon's leg had become numb, but he could still walk unassisted. Butsko had difficulty moving his left arm, due to the bullet in his shoulder. Homer Gladley and the Reverend Billie Jones were getting tired of carrying Private Hilliard. Jimmy O'Rourke had periodic attacks of dysentery and was suffering from double vision. On the point, Corporal Gomez had a cramp in his stomach. Craig Delane was sure he had a broken rib. The cut on Morris Shilansky's scalp was stinging as if someone had poured salt into it.
It was nearly high noon and they were passing a section of thick jungle. Whenever they took a step, they sank ankle-deep into the muck. Insects buzzed around them and bit their exposed skin. They all thought they couldn't go on, but they kept putting one foot in front of the other anyway.
The heavy rain made a constant roaring sound in their ears, and it was difficult to hear danger. Visibility was terrible in the mist and rain. They didn't have the energy to talk, and Bustko thought if he let the men take a break, they'd never get up again.
Corporal Gomez clicked his teeth and slapped his face to keep himself awake. He hallucinated Japs in the jungle ahead of him and thought he was hearing tanks and Japanese soldiers talking. He shook his head and tried to clear out his mind. I think maybe I got some malaria, he thought. I should tell Butsko I can't handle the point no more.
He realized everybody else was in bad shape, too, so he kept going, holding his carbine in both hands, his eyes sweeping from left to right, his helmet straps dangling back and forth.
Suddenly he heard a loud clanking sound to his front and then heard shouting in Japanese. This time he knew he wasn't dreaming and dropped to the ground. Looking behind him, the others had sought cover too. Gomez crawled underneath a thick bush and peered through its branches. He couldn't see anything or hear anything unusual. But something was there; he knew that now.
Butsko had heard it, too, and crawled forward to see what was going on. He'd noticed where Gomez had gone and joined him in the bush.
“See anything?” Butsko asked, his voice weary.
“Not yet.”
They waited side by side, smelling each other's stinking bodies, searching the jungle for Japs. Butsko had a hole in his shirt, and a swarm of flies dived inside to eat up his skin. He reached back and slapped them, crushing a few, but the moment he removed his hand they returned.
“Look!” whispered Gomez.
A column of Japs appeared in the jungle ahead of them. Their pale-green uniforms were drenched, but they looked healthy and full of energy, unlike most of the Japs Butsko had seen recently. Some carried machine guns or mortars on their shoulders, and Butsko guessed the noise he'd heard had been one of them dropping a piece of heavy equipment, and then getting chewed out by his sergeant. The Japs were traveling in a column of twos and moving rapidly through the jungle, as if they were on their way to an objective and had to reach it by a certain time. Sergeants and officers exhorted the men to move faster. Butsko saw one sergeant kick a man in the ass, and Butsko couldn't help smiling because that's what he often did.
The smile vanished from his face when he heard a new sound to his right. He sucked wind when he saw another column of twos emerge from the jungle and head straight for the bush he and Gomez were hiding in.
“Santa Maria!” whispered Gomez.
“Ssshhhh.”
Butsko silently dipped his hand into the mud and covered his face with it. Gomez did the same. The Japs were drawing closer, carrying their rifles, mortars, and machine guns. Butsko could see their faces and insignia—even which ones were wearing mustaches. He thought for sure the Japs would see him and Gomez.
The Japs approached and walked in front of the bush. Butsko looked at the leggings of the enlisted men and the soiled boots of the officers. If he held out his rifle, he could trip one of them up. They were so close, he was afraid they'd hear his heart beating. Butsko looked at Gomez, who was lying on the ground, still as a dead salamander, h
is mouth hanging open, his eyeballs wiggling as the Japs passed by.
The procession seemed to go on forever, and Butsko realized it was a sizable troop movement. The Japs were up to something big, and Butsko wished he could warn Colonel Stockton, but all he could do was lie still on the ground and hope no Jap saw him or Gomez.
Suddenly a pair of officer's boots stopped in front of the bush, and Butsko thought his luck had run out. His grip tightened around the carbine, because he wanted to take as many with him as he could. Then the Japanese officer bent over to tighten his bootlaces. Butsko looked straight ahead at the side of the officer's face and could see that he was a young man, probably around Bannon's age. Butsko's heart beat like a tomtom: If the officer glanced to the side he'd see him and Gomez. Butsko swallowed hard. He thought of a hundred Japs swarming over him, stabbing him with their bayonets.
The officer fixed his bootlaces, then straightened up and walked off. Butsko took a deep breath. He looked at Gomez, who was as white as a sheet. The Jap columns continued to pass by. Butsko relaxed and breathed normally again, watching Japanese boots trudge through the mud. He thought there couldn't be many more of them, but they kept on coming. After a while he realized it was a major troop movement and that a big battle was shaping up somewhere.
Nutsy Gafooley had crawled away from the main fighting and now was on his feet, moving quickly across a field of kunai grass as tall as he was. Far behind him he could hear sporadic firing and figured some of the men in George Company still were in trouble. He had no compass and couldn't orient himself with the sun, but thought he was moving in an easterly direction toward Henderson Field.
He came to the edge of the field and entered the jungle. After a few steps he heard the sound of a machete striking wood and dived behind a tree. He looked around for someplace better to hide and then saw movement in the jungle again. An American GI pushed through the foliage, and behind him came another GI.
