by Len Levinson
The Reverend Billie Jones stared at him. “You can't even see the hand of God when it's right in front of your face!”
“Calm down.”
“I am calmed down. You're just too stubborn for your own good. If Jesus Christ himself jumped into this foxhole right now, you wouldn't believe it was him.”
A boot scraped against the dirt on the edge of the foxhole, and a second later somebody jumped into the foxhole! The Reverend Billie was ready to drop down on his knees and pray to Jesus Christ, and Yabalonka's jaw dropped open, his heart beating wildly.
It was Captain Phil Mason, the commanding officer of Headquarters Company, a husky dark-complected man with black hair showing underneath his helmet.
“What the hell's going on in here?” he asked.
“Nothing sir,” said the Reverend Billie Jones, who'd been on his way down to his knees, but raised himself now.
“That's just the goddamn trouble!” Captain Mason said. “There's nothing but bullshit going on here, instead of two soldiers keeping their eyes open! If I was a Jap I could've killed the both of you!”
The Reverend Billie Jones swallowed hard, because Captain Mason was right. Yabalonka looked like a little boy who'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“You two had better wake the fuck up!” Captain Mason said. “You know that this jungle is crawling with Japs! Keep your eyes open and knock off the horseshit! You're lucky I'm not Sergeant Butsko, because if he was here he'd kick both of your asses all over this jungle, understand?”
“Yes sir!” they said in unison.
Captain Mason climbed out of the foxhole and walked away. In seconds he was out of sight. The Reverend Billie Jones looked at Private Yabalonka. “I guess we'd better do what he said.”
“Guess so,” Yabalonka replied.
In another part of the jungle, Buck Sergeant Bannon headed back to his foxhole. A bird screeched in the tree above his head and made him jump three inches off the ground, but then he realized it was just a bird, and continued to trudge through the greasy muck that was the floor of the jungle.
His uniform was soaked with his sweat and his boots felt as if somebody had poured warm soup into them. Yet this was the coolest part of the day. The heat would really become intense in another hour or two when the sun came up. At noon it'd be over a hundred degrees in the shade.
Bannon felt a moment of dizziness, and came to a stop on the trail. He was in a thick part of the jungle, with bushes and trees on both sides of him, and long skinny vines hanging down like ropes over the trail. Visibility was poor and crickets chirped in the bushes.
He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. Maybe I'm coming down with malaria, he thought. He knew that many men had been felled by malaria already. Even Frankie was laid out by malaria periodically. Frankie had caught it on Guadalcanal and suffered recurring episodes ever since.
Bannon took off his helmet and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his forearm. He'd torn his sleeves off his shirt for cooling, and his shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel. He reached back for his canteen, when he heard something rustle in the leaves behind him.
Before he could turn around he heard something burst through the vegetation, and a second later a hand clamped over his mouth. He raised his hands to defend himself and saw the blade of a knife gleam in the filtered moonlight.
Bannon reached upwards frantically for the wrist that held the knife. His fingers closed around the wrist and he pushed against it, as the Japanese soldier behind him tried to drive the point of the knife into Bannon's throat. The Japanese soldier grunted and Bannon lurched to the side, spinning around and pulling the Japanese soldier's arm downwards, throwing him over his shoulder.
The Japanese soldier flew through the air and landed on his back, but he bounded around and jumped to his feet quickly, the knife still in his right hand, blade up and pointed at Bannon.
Bannon had his own G.I. issue Ka-bar knife out now. He'd drawn it while the Jap was flying through the air, and now was ready to roll.
“I got a Jap over here!” Bannon shouted. “Somebody gimme a hand!”
The Japanese soldier knew Bannon was calling for help, and realized he had to make his move. He didn't dare run away, because he knew Bannon would get him from behind. All he could do was try to kill Bannon quickly and make a fast getaway.
The Japanese soldier shifted his weight from his left foot to his right foot. Bannon watched him like a hawk. He knew the Japanese soldier was under pressure, and Bannon was going to wait to see what he'd do.
“Let's go!” Bannon yelled. “I got a Jap over here!”
The Japanese soldier wore a soft cap on his head, a tattered pale green uniform, and leggings. He lunged forward as the last word came out of Bannon's mouth, and Bannon was waiting. The Japanese soldier thrust his knife toward Bannon's heart, and Bannon dodged to the side, holding out the blade of his Ka-bar knife. The point of the blade went into the Japanese soldier's wrist, and the Japanese soldier's forward motion caused the blade to tear an angry red line up his arm. The Japanese soldier howled and pulled his knife backwards, stunned by the suddenness of the pain, and Bannon plunged the blade of his knife to the hilt in the Japanese soldier's stomach. Pulling back the knife, Bannon raised his arm and slashed the Japanese soldier's throat.
The Japanese soldier collapsed at Bannon's feet, blood gushing out the crack in his neck. Bannon took a step backwards, knelt down, and wiped the blade of his knife on the pant leg of the dead Japanese soldier. He stood when the blade was clean, and heard footsteps thundering on the trail. A few seconds later American soldiers came onto the scene.
“You the guy that called for help?” one of them said.
“Yeah,” Bannon replied.
“Whatsa matter?”
Bannon looked down at the dead Japanese soldier, which the others hadn't seen yet because of the darkness.
“Nothing's the matter now,” Bannon said, stuffing the knife back into its sheath.
TWO . . .
Tall, lean, Major General Shunsake Yokozowa stood at his map table, looking down at prominent terrain features. He was in a tent near the foot of the Torricelli Mountains, approximately eight miles from the bivouac of the recon platoon.
He drank hot instant coffee stolen from an American storehouse during General Adachi's attack of July 9, and it filled General Yokozowa with nervous energy. He had plenty to be nervous about, because his division was scheduled to attack the Americans at dawn that very morning.
It would be a crucial attack, and if it didn't roll back the American left flank, the Japanese Army on New Guinea would be finished.
General Yokozowa's Twentieth Division was part of the Eighteenth Japanese Army, commanded by General Adachi, and it was on its last legs. The Americans and Australians, aided by natives, had been slashing it to ribbons since 1942, and now only approximately seven thousand men were left. Of that number, four thousand were combat effectives.
The supply situation was nonexistent. The Eighteenth Army was cut off by the American Navy and the various American air forces, which controlled ocean approaches and the air. The Eighteenth Army was subsisting on supplies it captured during the attack of July 9, and those supplies had been costly. The Eighteenth Army lost nine thousand men during that one night, but managed to punch a hole in the American line on the east bank of the Driniumor River, a hole that had since been repaired.
Last night at sunset the Twentieth Division had attacked the American left flank near Afua, and shattered it. General Adachi hoped that the flank would collapse, causing the entire American line to destabilize, but the flank hadn't collapsed. It had been reinforced and finally solidified 250 yards north of the village of Afua.
Last night General Yokozowa had persuaded General Adachi to give him reinforcements. He'd argued that one more determined push would break the American south flank, and General Adachi relented, sending General Yokozowa the Third Battalion from the Seventy-eighth Infantry Reg
iment and the Second Battalion from the Eightieth Infantry Regiment.
Those units were taken from the main Japanese defense line on the west bank of the Driniumor River. It was a gamble to thin out the lines, but General Adachi took the chance. He knew that his situation was desperate and a bold stroke was required. General Yokozowa's dawn attack would be that bold stroke.
General Yokozowa smiled as he looked down at the map, but he didn't smile like other people. He raised his upper lip and showed his front teeth when he smiled. The corners of his lips didn't turn up the way normal people's lips did. General Yokozowa had a strange smile, and he was a strange man.
He was five feet eight inches tall and he'd gained several pounds since July 9, thanks to the American supplies his men had captured. His uniform was raggedy and drenched with sweat, and he wore a pair of American combat boots that he'd taken from a dead American soldier, because his own boots had rotted to shreds in the humid jungle.
But that wasn't what made him strange. He was strange because he had American blood in his veins, and he didn't want it there. He considered his American blood a disgrace. His only consolation was that nobody knew about it except some members of his family, and they weren't about to tell anybody.
But General Yokozowa knew, and the knowledge made him hate Americans even more than the average Japanese hated Americans. General Yokozowa's great-grandfather had been an American naval officer who'd seduced his great-grandmother, made her pregnant, and then sailed away without marrying her. General Yokozowa's grandfather had been born a bastard, although a husband was soon obtained for General Yokozowa's great-grandmother. The Yokozowas were a wealthy mercantile family and thank goodness they could buy whatever they needed.
General Yokozowa despised his American blood. He considered it the source of all his bad habits and weaknesses. He was especially aggressive in attacking Americans because he thought, on a subconscious level, that by defeating Americans he could defeat his own cowardly American blood.
He took out an American cigarette and lit it, while continuing to gaze at the map. In only an hour and fifteen minutes the attack would begin. The future of the great Japanese Eighteenth Army would be decided during the next few hours. General Yokozowa puffed his cigarette nervously.
His plan was simple. He'd attack at dawn, and he was sure he'd take the Americans by surprise. He doubted whether they'd expect another attack so soon after the last one. If all went well he'd break through their flank and it would fall apart. Meanwhile, General Adachi's remaining units on the Driniumor River would hit the center of the American line. General Yokozowa and General Adachi were gambling that the American lines would melt away at that point. Then all Japanese units would charge toward the main military objectives in the area: the Tadji airstrips and the port of Aitape. The Japanese Eighteenth Army would capture those objectives, wipe out all Americans in the vicinity, replenish their stores with American supplies, and then move west through the jungle to the American installation at Hollandia, where the American supreme headquarters on New Guinea was located.
It was an ambitious plan. General Yokozowa figured the odds were about fifty-fifty for its success. General Yokozowa looked at his watch. The attack would begin soon. All the plans were made and there was nothing more he could do at his headquarters. Now it was time for him to leave for the front, because he wanted to lead the attack personally. A general leading his men could give those men that extra bit of inspiration that could spell the difference between victory and defeat.
“Lieutenant Higashi!” he shouted.
The tent flap was swept to the side and young Lieutenant Higashi entered the tent. He was five feet two inches tall and his head was shaved smooth. “Yes sir!”
“We're leaving for the front. Notify the others.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Higashi saluted, performed a snappy about-face, and marched out of the office. General Yokozowa walked to his desk and lifted his potlike helmet off it, placing it on his head. He tied the strap underneath his chin so that the helmet wouldn't wobble and make him appear foolish if he had to run.
Fastened to the left side of his waist was his samurai sword, and on the right side of his belt was his Nambu pistol. A pouch affixed to his belt carried ammunition for the pistol.
He stopped in front of his small four-inch mirror and looked at himself. He thought he looked stalwart and brave, the very model of a modern Japanese major general, a leader of men, a warrior of the Emperor. As he walked toward the tent flap, he was aware that he was crossing the stage of history. He believed that the upcoming battle would be crucial for Japan, and he was playing the leading role. If he won he'd be draped in glory, and if he lost there would be his hara-kiri knife.
He passed through the opening and saw his staff officers waiting in the outer office, their faces flashing in the light of the kerosene lamp. Their mouths were set in grim lines and their eyes were narrowed with determination. Everybody knew that the stakes were high and the odds were against them. Everybody knew it would be do or die from that moment on.
“We're all ready?” General Yokozowa asked.
“Yes sir!” they replied in unison.
“Let us bow our heads and ask the gods to bless our great enterprise.”
The officers inclined their heads downward and closed their eyes. Some prayed to Izanagi who, according to legend, stuck his spear into the water and made the islands of Japan out of the drops that fell from his spear. Others prayed to Isanagi's daughter, Amaterasu, who became the Sun Goddess and the mother of Japan. A few prayed to Jimmu, Japan's first emperor, believed to be the great-great-great-grandson of Amaterasu. General Hokozowa prayed to Hirohito, the current Emperor, a man and a god at the same time, the leader of the Japanese people. General Yokozowa asked for strength, courage, clearness of thought, and the victory that would save the great Japanese race from her vicious ruthless enemies.
“Are we finished?” General Yokozowa asked.
His staff officers raised their faces and opened their eyes. Not one dared to say he wasn't finished.
“Excellent,” General Yokozowa said. “Let us go now and defeat the enemies of our land.”
He strode toward the front exit of the tent and stepped outside into the night. Stars twinkled overhead and the moon floated in the sky. His officers followed him as he strode purposefully toward the front lines.
Not far away, Colonel Hutchins also walked through the hot bug-infested jungle. Mosquitoes and gnats stung his skin but he barely felt them because a substantial quantity of white lightning was surging through his veins.
He passed foxholes where men crouched with their M 1 rifles, waiting for the order to attack. Soldiers in machine-gun nests broke down their .30 and .50 caliber machine guns, so they could carry the pieces on their backs and set them up quickly when they got to where they were going. Other soldiers packed and repacked their knapsacks, trying to keep busy, trying not to think about what it'd be like to be impaled on the ends of Japanese bayonets.
Colonel Hutchins knew what was going through their minds. He'd been a private in the infantry himself. It'd been during the First World War, and he'd served in the famous Second Division under General LeJeune. He'd fought in Belleau Wood and the Argonne Forest. On the second of October, 1918, he'd charged up the side of Mont Blanc Ridge and saw his friends get shot to shit all around him. He remembered the famous words of General Lejeune:
To be able to say, when this war is finished, “I belonged to the Second Division, and I fought with it at the Battle of Mont Blanc Ridge,” will be the highest honor that can come to any man.
Colonel Hutchins would never forget those words, and he still believed every one of them was true. He still believed that he'd won the highest honor that could come to any man, and that's why he was arrogant at times, and why he often wasn't respectful of higher-ranking officers who'd never belonged to the Second Division and never fought with it at the Battle of Mont Blanc Ridge.
Walkin
g through the jungle, his submachine gun in his right hand, he remembered what it was like to be an ordinary soldier in the trenches before a big attack. He knew the fear and desolation every man felt, and how every man would think of death and the hereafter, because those subjects couldn't be avoided in the hour before the attack. Reflection on those subjects often made soldiers mystical and drove them into the arms of the Almighty.
Colonel Hutchins knew what it meant to those soldiers to see their regimental commander out there with them, sharing the same hardships they shared, and facing the same dangers.
Colonel Hutchins stopped beside a foxhole and knelt down. The two young GIs in it stared at him with a mixture of fear and awe.
“How're you doing, gennelmen?” Colonel Hutchins asked.
“Fine sir,” said one of them nervously.
“Okay sir,” added the other.
“Good,” said Colonel Hutchins, “glad to hear it. You know what you got to do this morning, don'tcha?”
“Yes sir.”
“You know which way the Japs are, don't you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Which way is that?”
The soldiers pointed to the south.
“That's right,” Colonel Hutchins replied. “When you get the order to move out, that's the way you go. And you'll utilize your marching fire. When you see Japs, shoot the dirty yellow bastards down, and if you get close to them, stick them with your bayonets. Get my drift?”
“Yes sir.”
“I'm not gonna wish you good luck,” Colonel Hutchins said, “because you're Americans, and that's the best luck a man can have. Just remember your training and follow your orders, and you'll be fine. Carry on.”
“Yes sir!”
Colonel Hutchins stood at the edge of the foxhole, and the two young infantry soldiers inside saluted him. He saluted back, turned around, and walked away, transferring his submachine gun to his right hand.
