by Len Levinson
Blood ran over Frankie's upper lip and into his mouth. He spit a gob of it out. Bannon glared at him.
“I gotta see a medic,” Frankie said.
“There's no time.”
“I'll make time.”
Bannon's body seemed to explode, and his right fist smashed Frankie on the nose. Frankie didn't see the punch coming because it was a sucker punch, and Frankie went down for the count.
“Get him out of here,” Bannon said. “Then come back and listen to that damned walkie-talkie.”
Worthington dragged Frankie out of the foxhole and crawled away, his hand grasping the back of Frankie's collar. Bannon sat down in the foxhole. He raised the walkie-talkie to his ear and listened to it, in case any important messages were being broadcast. He glanced at his watch. The attack was scheduled to begin in only fifteen minutes.
THREE . . .
Colonel Hutchins glanced at the watch on his wrist. It was 0450 hours. He turned to Lieutenant Harper. “Pass the word along. Tell everybody to get ready.”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Harper lifted the receiver from the backpack radio carried by Pfc. Nick Bombasino from South Philly. He spoke into it, repeating Colonel Hutchins's order to all the battalion commanders, and Colonel Hutchins unslung his .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun.
It was his favorite jungle weapon, because those big fat .45 caliber bullets could stop anything under the size of elephant. They made a small hole when they went in, and a big hole when they came out. Colonel Hutchins thought a Thompson submachine gun was the best weapon to use in close quarters. He was too old to fuck around with bayonets. All he wanted to do was blow the Japs away and keep moving on.
He opened the bolt of the submachine gun to make sure a round was in the chamber. All the GIs in the vicinity locked their eyes on him and watched his every move. He was the most important person in their lives just then, and he was well liked in his regiment. The men considered him tough but fair, and they knew he cared about them. They'd follow him anywhere, even if he was a drunk and a loudmouth.
The sky had gone from black to gray. The horizon was pink and the stars were bleaching out. It was dawn on the island of New Guinea and the temperature was eighty-eight degrees. The time had come to go to war.
Colonel Hutchins reached for his canteen and took one last drink of white lightning. He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist and dropped the canteen back into its case. Turning around, he said to Major Cobb: “You're in command as of right now, and you'll remain in command until you see me again.”
“I don't think you should go out there, sir.”
“I don't care what you think.”
Colonel Hutchins faced south again, where the Japanese soldiers were. He carried his Thompson submachine gun in his right hand and walked toward his front line of foxholes. The men in the foxholes saw him coming and knew the attack would begin momentarily. They checked the clips in their M 1 rifles and made sure their bayonets were affixed properly.
Colonel Hutchins licked his lips as he advanced toward no-man's-land. He couldn't help thinking of the day he charged up Mont Blanc Ridge with the good old Second Division. He felt the same tension, the same sense of great purpose. He knew that the Japanese Army on New Guinea was at the end of its resources. A good kick in the ass might send it reeling backwards for good.
Colonel Hutchins reached the front row of foxholes at the edge of no-man's-land. The men in the foxholes looked up, wondering how he could just stand there in full view of the enemy. The white lightning crackled in Colonel Hutchins's veins. He looked toward the Japanese lines, narrowed his eyes, and bared his teeth.
“You slant-eyed cocksuckers,” he said, “I'm coming to get you now.”
Three hundred yards away, General Yokozowa drew his samurai sword out of its sheath. It was a taichi-type sword, 750 millimeters long, and was over a hundred years old. His father had bought it for him when General Yokozowa graduated from the military academy. It had belonged to an impoverished old officer who had inherited it from his father, another old officer.
The blade and handle formed a long continuous shallow curve, the handle comprising one-third the length of the entire sword. It lacked a handguard, like most Japanese swords, but had a brass disc guard, a tsuba, at the juncture of blade and handle.
General Yokozowa held the sword in his right hand and admired the balance. He considered the sword an excellent weapon, and he'd killed many Chinese, Korean, and American soldiers with it. Today he'd kill more, bathing the blade in American blood. This is what he thought as he raised the sword high over his head.
“The time has come to attack,” he said to the officers assembled around him. “The sun is rising on the horizon, look at it now. That rising sun is the symbol of our great nation, in its ascendancy over the world. Soon you will feel the rays on your faces. Know that those rays are the rays of the gods in heaven, and they will give you the strength to do what you must on this great day. When I give the order to attack, I want you to rip into the Americans and annihilate them totally. You must never stop and you certainly never must step backwards. Your orders are to move forward constantly and destroy every American who stands in your way. Today we will cover ourselves with glory, and tonight we will drink sake together in the port of Aitape and reminisce about the great deeds we have performed. Are we all ready?”
The officers nodded and grunted that they were ready.
“Excellent,” General Yokozowa said. “Follow me and let us take our attack positions.”
General Yokozowa stepped forward, his samurai sword in his right hand, and his retinue of officers followed him. Soldiers in foxholes gazed in awe at their general and his famous antique sword. They knew that the big attack was about to begin, and they knew how crucial it was. If they won they'd have American food and medical supplies, but if they lost they faced starvation in the New Guinea jungles, being tracked down like animals by the Americans.
The Japanese soldiers knew that they had to win. They held Arisaka rifles or captured M 1s in their hands tightly and waited for the order to attack.
•••
Colonel Hutchins looked at his watch. It was ten minutes before jump-off. He looked to his left and right, and saw all faces on him. The men were waiting for him to give the order to go.
A bullet cracked over his head. Another snapped by his ear. The Japs had seen him. It was light enough now. He should get down, but Colonel Hutchins knew it'd look bad if he flopped onto his big fat belly just then in front of his men.
Besides, he didn't much give a damn about what happened to him anyway. He had a snootful of white lightning and nothing special to live for. He had no wife and no kids that he knew about. He was married to the Army and his soldiers were his kids. He had to inspire them, and he wouldn't be very inspiring if they saw him fall down on his big fat belly.
Moreover, if the Japs killed him, it'd be good for morale within the regiment. It would make the men aware that their commanders faced the same dangers they faced, and spilled their blood on battlefields too. Then the men would know that their officers were their comrades-in-arms, and not just their bosses.
A Japanese bullet hit the dirt near his foot, and he flinched slightly. Calmly he raised his wrist and looked at the face of his watch. The men's eyes were fixed on him as he read the time. The sweep second hand ticked toward the number 12. It was only twenty seconds away. A Japanese machine gun opened fire and the bullets whistled all around Colonel Hutchins. He grit his teeth and raised his Thompson submachine over his head.
“This is it!” he hollered. “Follow me!”
Colonel Hutchins brought his Thompson submachine gun down to his chest level and held it at high port arms. He threw his left foot forward and began his headlong charge.
On the other side of no-man's-land, General Yokozowa led his staff to the front row of his division's fortifications. He looked at his watch and saw that the time had come for the big attack. Gripping his samurai s
word in his right hand, he held it high over his head, the blade pointing straight up at the heavens.
All the Japanese soldiers in the vicinity saw the point of that blade. They crouched in their foxholes and held their rifles and bayonets tightly, ready to jump out. General Yokozowa glowered at the American lines and uttered a quick final prayer. He couldn't wait to get into the American lines and start slashing the Americans to shit. Somewhere deep in his pysche he thought it would be the same as cutting and ripping the American part of him out, expunging himself from its contamination.
General Yokozowa lowered his samurai sword and pointed it directly at the American lines. He narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. A shot rang out and a bullet flew over his head, but he didn't falter. Another bullet hit Captain Kenji, standing to his right, but no one moved to help Captain Kenji as he toppled to the ground.
All the officers stared with great intensity at the American lines, as if the energy in their brains could pass through their eyes like death rays and destroy the Americans. The Japanese officers and soldiers heard shouting coming from the American lines, but it didn't faze them. Nothing could alter their course now. They were committed to the destruction of the Americans or to their own deaths. There could be no compromises.
General Yokozowa leapt forward suddenly.
“Banzai!” he screamed. “Tenno heika banzai!”
“Banzai!” replied his staff officers. “Banzai!”
They flashed their samurai swords over their heads as they followed him into the thick dark jungle. Behind them, the Japanese soldiers jumped out of their holes and joined the charge. They bellowed Banzai and shook their rifles and bayonets, anxious to close with the Americans and cut them up. Like a huge wave they swept through the thick tangled foliage, as the first sliver of the morning sun dawned on the horizon.
Colonel Hutchins jogged through the jungle, holding his submachine gun tightly in his hands. Behind him he heard his men sounding off with rebel yells, Bronx cheers, Arizona cattle calls, and you name it. Their combat boots thundered on the jungle floor as they followed him into battle. The index finger of Colonel Hutchins's right hand was poised against the trigger of his submachine gun, and the safety was off, ready to open fire. Ahead of him he saw dark figures moving through the jungle in the dawn light. Then he heard the cries of Banzai, and he realized that the Japs were counterattacking right off the bat. Both forces would collide against each other in the jungle. It was going to be a big fucking mess.
“They're coming at us!” Colonel Hutchins hollered. “Hit the bastards on the run!”
Colonel Hutchins leapt over a fallen log and dodged around a tree. He barged through a bush and on the other side saw a Japanese soldier running toward him with a rifle and bayonet in his hands. Colonel Hutchins aimed the Thompson submachine gun at him and pulled the trigger. The submachine gun kicked in his hands and hot lead spit out the barrel, striking the Japanese soldier in the head and blowing it apart.
The Japanese soldier collapsed onto what was left of his face and Colonel Hutchins jumped over his fallen body. As soon as he hit the ground he pulled the trigger of his submachine gun and mowed down three Japanese soldiers running toward him. A fourth Japanese soldier vaulted over his fallen comrades and thrust his rifle and bayonet at Colonel Hutchins's heart. Colonel Hutchins parried the rifle and bayonet to the side with his submachine gun and batted the Japanese soldier in the chops with its butt. The eyes of the Japanese soldier rolled up into his head and he dropped to his knees. Colonel Hutchins kicked him in the face and stepped to the side, holding his Thompson submachine gun parallel to the ground and pulling the trigger. The submachine gun roared and mowed down three more Japanese soldiers who'd been headed toward Colonel Hutchins.
The air was filled with gunsmoke, and Colonel Hutchins couldn't see a damn thing. He took a step backwards and coughed. Then, through the smoke, he saw a Japanese officer rush toward him, holding his samurai sword over his head. Colonel Hutchins aimed his submachine gun at him and pulled the trigger.
Click!
The submachine gun was empty. The Japanese officer swung his samurai sword down. Colonel Hutchins raised his submachine gun to block the blow. The samurai sword struck the submachine gun and sparks flew into the air. Colonel Hutchins lashed out with his foot and kicked the Japanese officer in the balls. The Japanese officer screeched horribly and let go his sword. He cupped his hands around his mangled family jewels, and Colonel Hutchins smashed him in the face with the butt of his submachine gun. The Japanese officer was thrown onto his back by the force of the blow, and Colonel Hutchins dropped to one knee, reloading the submachine gun.
His hands trembled because he wasn't a kid anymore and on top of that he drank too much. Opening his ammo pouch, he removed a long clip of .45 caliber bullets. Soldiers struggled and battled all around him, cursing and burping, trying to stab each other, trip each other up, and gouge out each other's eyes. Colonel Hutchins pushed the clip into the slot on the bottom of the submachine gun, but it wouldn't go. Something was blocking it. He tried again, his hands shaking more than ever, and then something told him to look up.
His eyes bulged out of his head at the sight of a Japanese sergeant aiming a Nambu pistol at him. Colonel Hutchins couldn't run and he couldn't hide. He couldn't shoot back because his submachine gun wasn't loaded. The Japanese sergeant pulled the trigger, and the Nambu pistol fired. The bullet grazed Colonel Hutchins's left bicep muscle so closely he could feel its heat. For a moment Colonel Hutchins thought he'd been shot, but then he realized it wasn't so. He was still alive, but it didn't appear that he'd be alive for long.
The Japanese sergeant took aim again, and pulled the trigger.
Click!
He was out of ammunition too! Colonel Hutchins sprang forward with whatever strength he had left in his fifty-year-old legs. The Japanese sergeant saw him coming and swung the Nambu pistol wildly at Colonel Hutchins's head. Colonel Hutchins still wore his helmet and the pistol smacked against it, knocking the helmet off his head. Colonel Hutchins saw stars for a moment but that didn't stop him from wrapping his arms around the Japanese sergeant's torso. His forward momentum knocked the Japanese sergeant on his ass, and Colonel Hutchins landed on top of him. They rolled over and around on the ground, trying to gain leverage on each other. The Japanese sergeant was twenty-three years younger than Colonel Hutchins, which meant he had more stamina, but Colonel Hutchins was stronger. Colonel Hutchins dug his elbow into the ground to prevent himself from rolling over again, and held the Japanese sergeant against the ground underneath him. He raised his left hand and punched the Japanese sergeant in the mouth, splitting his lip, but that only opened the Japanese sergeant's energy reverve. He bucked like a wild horse, and Colonel Hutchins fell off him. The Japanese sergeant scrambled to his feet and looked around for a weapon, it could be anything, and he saw a rock. He bent over to pick it up but Colonel Hutchins sprang to his feet and kicked him in the nose.
The Japanese soldier bent backwards and fell onto the ground. Colonel Hutchins jumped onto his face with both combat boots, and that closed down the Japanese sergeant's energy reserves. The Japanese sergeant shut his eyes and went limp on the ground. Colonel Hutchins stomped him a few more times to make sure he'd never get up again, and then looked around for his submachine gun.
His hair bristled on his neck when he saw two Japanese soldiers running toward him, aiming their rifles and bayonets at his heart. Colonel Hutchins had nothing to fight with. He even had trouble catching his breath. I'm getting too old for this shit, he thought. I'm not the man I used to be.
The Japanese soldiers rushed closer. Colonel Hutchins wasn't the kind of man who'd run away. He flashed on that day he'd charged up Mont Blanc Ridge with the good old Second Division. Lunging toward the Japanese soldiers, he hollered at the top of his lungs.
All he had to fight with were his bare hands. The Japanese soldiers pushed their rifles and bayonets toward Colonel Hutchins's heart. He dodged to the left at the last
moment and kicked the Japanese soldier nearest him in the ass. The force of the kick caused the Japanese soldier to collide with the one beside him. They tripped over each other's feet and fell to the ground. Colonel Hutchins picked up a rock and threw it at both of them. Then his eyes fell on an M 1 rifle and bayonet in the hands of a dead American soldier lying in a puddle.
Colonel Hutchins picked up the rifle and bayonet, just as the two Japanese soldiers raised themselves up off the ground. Colonel Hutchins waited for them to charge, so he could counter off their moves, when suddenly three American soldiers got in the way. The Japanese soldiers were surprised to see them there. They'd thought they were going to make mincemeat out of an old American colonel, but the deck had been shuffled and new cards had been thrown at them. They stood their ground and raised their rifles and bayonets as the American GIs slammed into them.
Colonel Hutchins looked around and saw no Japanese soldiers nearby. He spotted his Thompson submachine gun lying on the ground and staggered toward it, kneeling and picking it up. Reaching into his ammo pouch, he pulled out one of those long clips full of fat .45 caliber bullets. He jammed the clip into the bottom of the submachine gun, worked the bolt, aimed the barrel into the air, and hit the trigger.
The submachine gun barked viciously, and Colonel Hutchins was pleased to find it working properly. Holding the submachine gun tightly, he looked around, still trying to catch his breath. He gasped and felt a pain in his chest. It was a terrible pain, as if his chest were being split open with a wooden stake.
What's this? he thought. Am I getting a fucking heart attack?
He took a step and his chest hurt more. He grit his teeth and wished he'd stayed back in his bunker. He realized he wasn't anything like the kid who'd charged up Mont Blanc Ridge twenty-six years ago. That kid was long gone, and he was a fifty-year-old man who smoked and drank too much.
