by Len Levinson
All the officers stared at Colonel Hutchins, making him feel self-conscious. He wished they'd look away but they kept looking at him as if he were a sewer rat who just crawled out from beneath a manhole cover.
Most of this was the product of his overheated alcoholic imagination. In fact, the majority of officers in the room thought what he'd said was relevant. His voice had been gruff and he spoke with a Southern accent—he was from Arkansas originally—but many of their voices were gruff and some of them were Southerners too.
Colonel MacKenzie decided the time had come to defend his position again. “I appreciate what the colonel just told us,” he said, “and I have no doubts as to his sincerity, but I'd like to suggest that he might be mistaken, and our Japanese informer really might be part of an elaborate plot to lead us astray. I realize this might seem unlikely to the colonel, and again I respect his judgment and experience, but let me remind everyone here that the disaster at Pearl Harbor was considered impossible too, but it happened against all the odds, and we must always be prepared for the unexpected in this war.”
Colonel Hutchins couldn't help admiring what Colonel MacKenzie had just said, even though Colonel MacKenzie had just put him down. It sounded so logical and right, even though Colonel Hutchins knew it was wrong. I don't have a chance against these fancy staff officers, Colonel Hutchins thought. They're all like a bunch of Philadelphia lawyers.
Meanwhile the discussion went on, as lightning rent the skies and thunder made the walls of the wooden building tremble. Some officers agreed with Colonel MacKenzie, and others sided with Major Rainey and Colonel Hutchins. Talk was cheap, and only one officer was charged with the responsibility of actually making the final decision. This was General Hall, and he decided to play it safe. He believed the attack probably would come on the night of July 9, but on the other hand it might not. Therefore the Reckless Task Force would remain in a state of readiness for the attack, and continue to patrol aggressively in order to keep track of what the Japs were up to on their side of the Driniumor.
General Hall squared his shoulders and related his decision to the officers assembled in front of him. He spoke specifically of the kinds of patrols he wanted to be sent out, and where they should go. He also shifted some units around, in case the attack did come as Hirokoshi had reported.
Finally the meeting was dismissed and the officers ran to their jeeps through the pouring rain, holding their ponchos over their heads. Their jeep drivers drove them to their respective headquarters through puddles full of water and over roads that had become muck. Each officer still held the opinion he'd formed during the meeting. Some thought the July 9 information was either a hoax or unreliable, since plans often were changed during the final days before an offensive. Others felt certain the Japanese attack was coming on the night of July 9, and were frustrated because so many of their fellow officers didn't take that probability more seriously.
Sitting on the passenger seat of his jeep as it chugged through the jungle, Colonel Hutchins was alarmed that so many officers refused to believe the attack would come on the night of July 9. It was his impression that General Hawkins was one of those who doubted. Colonel Hutchins resolved to visit General Hawkins as soon as possible and try to convince him, because the Eighty-first Division sat directly in the sector between Afua and the mouth of the Driniumor, and the Twenty-third Regiment was in the middle of the Eighty-first Division line.
If the division wasn't ready when the attack came, the Twenty-third would bear the brunt of the attack, and if the attack was major, as all indications predicted, the Twenty-third would take a helluva beating. Colonel Hutchins may have been a drunkard and a buffoon, but he knew disaster had to be avoided at all costs.
“I just changed my mind,” Colonel Hutchins said to Pfc. Bombasino, his driver. ‘Take me straight to General Hawkins's headquarters, instead of my own headquarters.”
“Yes sir!” replied Pfc. Bombasino, his nose nearly touching the front windshield so he'd have a better chance of seeing the road through the torrential downpour.
The rain fell heavily on the Japanese side of the Driniumor also, but that didn't keep General Adachi home. As Colonel Hutchins was being driven to Eighty-first Division Headquarters by Pfc. Nick Bombasino, General Adachi inspected a battalion of field artillery.
The battalion was deployed a mile east of the Driniumor, deep in the jungle, and its Type 94 mountains guns, firing 75-mm shells, were covered with netting and canvas painted in camouflage colors to avoid detection from the air.
General Adachi approached one of these guns, accompanied by his executive officer, General Tatsunari Kimura; his aide, Lieutenant Ono; and various officers from the local artillery battalion.
The crew of the gun stood at attention beside it. The gun was one of the workhorses of the Japanese Army, developed in 1934 and proven in all campaigns since the invasion of Manchuria. The maximum range of its shells was 9,080 yards and it was light enough to be maneuvered around in the field by its gun crew.
Water dripped from the tarpaulin overhead, and a drop fell on General Adachi's helmet, making a ping sound as he leaned closer to the weapon. It was wiped clean and covered with a thin film of oil to protect it from rust. Ammunition was in crates stacked nearby, ready for action.
“Open the breech,” General Adachi said to the sergeant in charge of the gun crew.
“Yes sir,” replied the sergeant.
He pulled the lever backwards and twisted it to the side, revealing the empty breech. It too was spotless, covered with oil, shiny and smooth. This was no accident, because everybody knew General Adachi would inspect the battalion on that day, and the soldiers had been cleaning and polishing the guns for twenty-four hours.
“Excellent,” said General Adachi, peering inside the breech. “A very fine job of maintenance has been performed here.”
The sergeant was so terrified he didn't know what to say. His company commander shot him a dirty look, and the sergeant managed to stutter, “Thank you, sir!”
General Adachi straightened up and looked the sergeant in the eye. “The success of my attack will depend on men like you,” he said, “because the attack cannot succeed unless your artillery bombardment prepares the way for the infantry. When the order comes down, fire as quickly as you can, and make your aim accurate, because I and the Emperor will be relying on you. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good.”
General Adachi turned and walked away, heading toward the next gun emplacement. He passed another pile of crates full of 75-mm artillery shells, and ground his teeth in frustration, because he had so little artillery ammunition left. His entire artillery bombardment would last only five minutes, due to the shortage of shells. He would've preferred at least fifteen minutes, or better yet a half hour, but American military forces had cut all his supply lines and he had to make do with what he had.
General Adachi had 20,000 combat effectives in his command, but only 13,142 rifles, 726 machine guns, 561 grenade launchers, 22 light mortars, 36 mountain guns (75-mm) of the type he'd just inspected, and 42 70-mm guns. His communications equipment was nearly all ruined by the humidity, and a shortage of mosquito netting for the troops had resulted in a high incidence of malaria. His final supplies had arrived via submarine in May, and there'd been nothing since. Food was running out, and some of his forward units were eating only sago palm starch.
But General Adachi thought he could win the battle. The five-minute artillery barrage would be ferocious, and would soften up the Americans for the infantry attacks. If the men fought hard and kept advancing, they could win. It was all a matter of which side wanted the victory the most. General Adachi visited his troops regularly to raise their morale and give them the will to win.
He approached the next artillery emplacement, and all the soldiers snapped to attention. The sergeant in charge of the gun saluted the famous General Adachi, and General Adachi returned the salute smartly, smiling confidently as he s
tepped forward to inspect the weapon more closely.
Pfc. Nick Bombasino drove the jeep through the swamp that'd formed in front of Eighty-first Division Headquarters, and stopped in front of the command post tent. Colonel Hutchins was pleased to see General Hawkins's jeep already there.
“Get a cup of coffee for yourself if you can find one around here,” Colonel Hutchins said to Pfc. Bombasino, “but don't stray too far, understand?”
“Yes sir.”
Colonel Hutchins jumped out of the jeep and ran through the shin-deep muck into the tent, where Master Sergeant Abner Somerall sat behind his desk, and the division clerk, Pfc. Gottfried, pounded away on his typewriter.
“I gotta talk to the general,” Colonel Hutchins said.
Sergeant Somerall raised his hand. “Wait a minute!”
Colonel Hutchins already was gone, dashing through the next office, diving past the tent flap and entering the office of General Hawkins, who sat on his cot, changing from wet socks into dry socks, the nasty odor of dirty feet filling the dank humid area.
“What are you doing here!” demanded General Hawkins, who felt naked without his socks on.
“I have to talk with you!” Colonel Hutchins said.
“I'm tired of you barging in here like this!”
“It's important, and I'm not kidding.”
General Hawkins sighed. Colonel Hutchins was impossible and nothing could be done about it, otherwise General Hawkins would've done it long ago.
“Have a seat,” General Hawkins said. “I'll be with you in a few moments.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Just don't set the tent on fire.”
Colonel Hutchins sat on a chair in front of the desk and lit a Camel cigarette. He blew smoke into the air and picked up the framed photograph of Mrs. Hawkins that sat on the desk, turning it around and looking at it. The photograph depicted an attractive middle-aged woman with short brown hair curled inward at the bottom. She looked as though she came from one of those old-line Yankee families with pots of money and centuries of traditions. Mrs. Hawkins probably had a proper finishing-school education and was an expert at entertaining senior officers. She surely helped General Hawkins with his career advancement and Colonel Hutchins couldn't help wishing he had a wife like that, but most of the women in his life had been barflies just like him.
“Nice-looking wife you've got here,” Colonel Hutchins said.
“Thank you,” General Hawkins muttered. He laced on a dry pair of combat boots and wondered what problem Colonel Hutchins was about to make for him. Rain pelted the roof of the tent and dripped through in several places. The floor was the ground and it was damp, having absorbed moisture from the rainfall outside.
General Hawkins arose form his cot and walked behind his desk. He was six feet one inch tall, with a rangy build and lively intelligent eyes. He stroked his blond mustache as he sat down, and inserted a Chesterfield cigarette into his ivory cigarette holder, lighting it and leaning back in his chair.
“What's the problem?” he asked.
Colonel Hutchins leaned forward in his chair. “Do you think the Japs are gonna attack on July ninth or don't you?”
“I don't know when they're going to attack,” General Hawkins replied. “I'm not a mind reader or a crystal ball gazer.”
“You don't believe the Jap prisoner's story?”
“I don't believe it and I don't disbelieve it. I simply don't know what to believe, because I can't verify his story.”
“So in other words,” said Colonel Hutchins, “you're not gonna prepare for an attack on July ninth.”
General Hawkins turned down the corners of his mouth and looked Colonel Hutchins in the eye. “This division stays ready for an attack,” he said in his firmest command tone of voice.
“Horseshit,” replied Colonel Hutchins. “Save that baloney for the people who kiss your ass. We've been whipped by the Japs before and we'll get whipped again on July ninth if we don't get ready. I'm right in the middle of the line and I'm gonna have a massacre on my hands if the division doesn't back me up. I can't hold off the entire Jap Eighteenth Army on my own.”
General Hawkins was getting annoyed, but continued to present an unruffled appearance. “What makes you so sure the attack will take place on the night of July ninth.”
“Because I don't think that Jap was lying.”
“Maybe he wasn't lying, but that doesn't mean General Adachi hasn't changed his plans.”
“If General Adachi changed his plans, so what? I'd rather be wrong than dead!”
“I can understand your concern,” General Hawkins said, “but I don't agree with you. I want this division to be prepared for an attack at all times, and you might think that's horseshit, but I don't. I don't know when that attack will come, and I resent the implication that you're more concerned about the men out there than I am. We'll be ready when the attack comes, and we'll be especially watchful on the night of July ninth, but beyond that I'm not going to make a fool of myself by getting the men all worked up about an attack that might never come.”
Colonel Hutchins's eyes widened. “So that's it!” he shouted triumphantly, pounding his fist on General Hawkins's desk so hard the desk shook. “I knew it all along! You don't wanna do anything because you don't want people to think you're a fool!” Colonel Hutchins pointed his finger at General Hawkins. “You're too worried about what people think of you! You're a fucking tin soldier—that's what you are!”
It took all of General Hawkins's self-control to stay seated behind his desk, and not leap into the air at Colonel Hutchins's throat. His blond mustache bristled and sparks shot out of his eyes. “I think you'd better calm down, Colonel,” he said in a quavering voice, and he knew the advice applied equally well to himself.
“Why should I be calm?” asked Colonel Hutchins. “What in the hell is the use of being calm? I don't wanna be calm! I don't wanna be a tin soldier like you!”
“The value of being calm,” General Hawkins said calmly, “is that calm people are in a better position to make clear, rational decisions.”
“Is that so?” Colonel Hutchins asked. “Well you're calm right now, and I'm not, and you're making the wrong decision right now, and I'm making the right one. So what's the good of being calm?”
General Hawkins puffed casually on his ivory cigarette holder. “How do you know you're making the right decision?”
“Any decision that protects men's lives is the right decision.”
“You think we're not ready for an attack right now?”
“Not as ready as we could be or should be, since we have pretty solid information that a real definite attack is coming in only five goddamned nights.”
“Well,” said General Hawkins, with a wave of his cigarette holder, “no one can ever be one hundred percent ready, but I think we're as ready as we need to be.”
Colonel Hutchins groaned, because he was getting tired of arguing. “That's crap and you know it. We'd be much better off on July ninth if the men were in their foxholes armed to the teeth, alert and ready to counterattack as soon as the Japs jump off. Just stop and think of what this division could do to the Japs if we were ready like that, and while you're at it, think about how good you'd look if you led the division that threw back General Adachi's spearhead, which is supposed to come right through this sector. You'd probably get a fucking medal, and if the Japs don't attack on those nights, what've you lost? Nothing! If anybody from General Hall's headquarters criticizes you for getting ready for an attack that never came, you just say you'd rather be wrong than dead.”
General Hawkins changed position in his chair and inhaled smoke from his cigarette, while cogitating upon what Colonel Hutchins had said, because Colonel Hutchins made sense to him for the first time. It was true: If he erred by being more ready than he needed to be, what was wrong with that? And if he did stop General Adachi's attack, he'd become the hero of the Driniumor. General MacArthur might even hear about it. Major General Hawkins c
ould become Lieutenant General Hawkins, and perhaps even get a job on General MacArthur's staff. He could get the Silver Star, the DSC, possibly the Congressional Medal of Honor! It was a glowing thought, but there was just one problem.
‘Tell me something, Hutchins,” General Hawkins said. “Assuming you're right about everything, how in hell can this division stop General Adachi's entire army even if we are one hundred percent ready? We couldn't do it alone even under the best of circumstances.”
“You'll have to convince General Hall,” Colonel Hutchins ‘ replied.
“I can't go up there and harass him the way you harass me. He'll relieve me of command.”
“I'll talk to him.”
“Oh no you won't. You stay the hell away from him, and that's a direct unequivocal order, do you understand?”
“Yes sir, but it sure would be nice if you had the guts to talk to him.”
Now General Hawkins got mad. “It's not a matter of guts. It's a matter of good sense.”
“It's a matter of being afraid to make waves,” Colonel Hutchins said.
