by Len Levinson
The Japanese Eighteenth Army spread out and swarmed across the roaring swirling river. American bullets cut many of them down, and Japanese heads sank beneath the surface, but hordes of Japanese soldiers kept coming in jagged skirmish lines, howling at the tops of their lungs.
They got halfway across, and then the American artillery opened fire. The first unit to send the shells flying was the Sixty-third Field Artillery Battalion, commanded by old Lieutenant Colonel Rufus Bollinger, who laid down a carpet of shells on the Driniumor River and jungle behind it.
The artillery fire was devastating. Japanese soldiers moving toward the river were blown into the air along with trees and tons of earth. Then the other artillery units in the Eighty-first Division opened fire on previously prepared concentrations along the bed and east side of the Driniumor. Despite their zeal, a few Japanese soldiers faltered. In the terrible explosive horror, some turned tail and ran, but most kept charging, thinking of the food and supplies on the other side of the river, and willing to die for their Emperor, the most noble death of all.
Not all the regiments along the Driniumor were as ready for the attack as the units of the Eighty-first Division. Some of those officers hadn't believed the attack would come on July 9, and it took them a while to get their artillery firing. Meanwhile, multitudes of Japanese soldiers rampaged ever closer to their positions.
The Japanese units in front of the Eighty-first Division took a terrible beating from the artillery bombardment, but continued to push forward anyway. They were two-thirds of the way across the Driniumor and only had a little way to go. Leaping through the water, dreaming of exalted death or the glory of victory, they lunged toward the American side of the river.
Meanwhile, back in his bunker, General Adachi received word that the center of his attack, its most crucial element, was receiving a severe artillery bombardment. Standing at his map table, General Adachi knew exactly what to do. He'd run all the possibilities through his mind long before this day, and had alternatives ready for everything.
Without any hesitation he ordered two regiments from his reserve to follow the units hitting the center of the American line. They were to push through the American artillery barrage no matter what.
“Once they're on the other side,” he told General Kimura, “they won't have to worry about the artillery barrage anymore! Just tell them to keep moving forward for the Emperor!”
Private Worthington rested his M 1 rifle on the edge of his foxhole and took aim at a Japanese soldier near the riverbank below. Centering the Japanese soldier in his sights, he squeezed the trigger.
Blam! The rifle fired and Private Worthington watched with morbid fascination as the Japanese soldier collapsed onto his face in the shallow water. Worthington moved his rifle an inch to the right and lined up his sights on another Japanese soldier, this one an officer or a sergeant with a samurai sword in his hand. Blam! That one dropped to his knees, letting the sword fall from his hands, and then he toppled forward into the water. Worthington moved the rifle two inches to the left and aimed at a short skinny Japanese soldier, reminding Worthington of an insect. Blam! The impact of the bullet knocked the Japanese soldier onto his ass, and he didn't get up again.
Worthington moved his rifle and aimed, firing again and again. He was a crack shot and never missed. He'd shot big game in Africa, but it'd never been anything like this. Shooting animals had been sport, but he didn't see much sport to this. He realized that shooting for sport and shooting in a war were entirely different things.
He fired the last bullet in the clip and the clip clanged into the air, landing on the ground beside him. Reaching into a bandolier, he pulled out another clip and stuffed it into the chamber of the M 1, closed the bolt, and took aim again at a Japanese soldier charging up the riverbank in front of him. Blam! The Japanese soldier tripped over his feet and fell to the ground, landing head first and not moving; he was dead before he landed.
All alone in his foxhole, Pfc. Bisbee fired his M 1 rifle at the wave of Japs assaulting the barbed-wire barricades. He heard rifle- and machine-gunfire all around him, while on the other side of the river the American artillery bombardment continued to blow up Japanese soldiers and destroy the jungle.
But the bombardment didn't fire at the Japanese soldiers on the American side of the Driniumor. Those Japanese soldiers were too close, and their shattered skirmish lines rushed forward to the barbed-wire barricades, most of which had been decimated by the Japanese artillery bombardment. Japanese soldiers shrieked for joy as they jumped over the torn barbed wire. A few land mines exploded, blowing Japanese soldiers to bits, but the Japanese artillery bombardment had destroyed most of the mines also.
Japanese soldiers poured through openings in the barbed wire, and Private Bisbee fired his M 1 rifle as quickly as he could. He shot down Japanese soldier after Japanese soldier, but there were too many Japanese soldiers and the American fire in the area couldn't stop them. Private Bisbee knew the Japanese soldiers would swarm over the recon platoon area in a matter of minutes, and then it would be hand-to-hand and gruesome as hell until one side or the other gave way.
For once Private Bisbee wasn't thinking about stealing things. He was afraid he might become a casualty very soon. But he gave no thought to running away. He wasn't a coward. He'd stand and fight until he couldn't fight anymore, but what he really hoped for was an order to retreat.
Meanwhile, Japanese soldiers rushed closer, leaping over their dead comrades, seeing the American foxholes straight ahead. "Banzai!” they shouted. "Tenno heika banzai!”
General Adachi looked down at his map table, as reports from the front were delivered to him by his staff officers. Lieutenant Ono, his aide-de-camp, moved colored pieces of wood around on the map, so General Adachi could have a clear picture of how his big offensive was proceeding.
General Adachi's hands were clasped behind his back and he stood erectly except for the forward tilt of his head. His stomach twisted and wrenched with terrible pain, but he exerted his will and managed to ignore the distraction, as he drew conclusions from what he saw on his map.
His main assault wasn't going well. The center of the American line held fast because it was protected by a fierce artillery bombardment. Others of his units, on the flanks of the American center, were making excellent progress. The only thing to do was wheel around those units on either side of the American center and have them hit it from both sides. “General Kimura!” he said.
General Kimura stood next to him at the map table. “Yes sir!”
General Adachi pointed to the center of resistance on the map. “Americans in that sector are holding. I want our units on both sides of them to attack their flanks now. Is that clear?”
General Kimura looked at the map. “Yes sir!”
“Have it done immediately,” General Adachi said.
“Yes sir!” General Kimura rushed to the telephones, to transmit the order as far forward as possible. Then couriers would be used to carry the orders the rest of the way to the front. Still at the map table looking down, General Adachi took out a cigarette and lit it up, his hand trembling slightly. The attack was in its most crucial phase, and General Adachi was nervous as hell. Acids spilled into his stomach, causing incredible pain and nearly doubling him over. They must break through now, he said to himself. Everything depends on it.
A stampede of Japanese soldiers made their way through the barbed wire and mine fields, headed straight for the recon platoon. Pfc. Morris Shilansky ground his teeth together as he swung his machinegun from side to side on its transverse mechanism, cutting them down. In his eyes, every Jap was a Nazi who killed Jews. The corners of his mouth turned down and his eyes glittered with hatred as he fired the machine gun in bursts of six, so the barrel wouldn't melt down.
In front of him, Japanese soldiers fell like wheat before a scythe, but more Japanese soldiers kept coming. They were twenty yards away, fifteen yards away, and then ten yards away. Shilansky realized the time had come t
o grab his rifle and bayonet, but didn't want to let the machine gun go. He could kill more Japs with the machine gun than with his rifle and bayonet.
He heard Lieutenant Breckenridge's voice: "Pull back! Get the hell out of here!”
McGurk let go the belt of ammunition and it danced around wildly in the air. He picked up his rifle and bayonet and prepared to follow Lieutenant Breckenridge's orders, when he noticed Shilansky still firing the machine gun, as if he hadn't beard the orders. McGurk glanced at the Japanese soldiers, who now were so close he could see the whites of their eyes. Then he looked at Shilansky. “Let's go!” McGurk said.
Shilansky continued to fire the machine gun in measured bursts of six, the corners of his mouth still turned down, his eyes gleaming with hatred.
“Come on!” McGurk called out, glancing nervously at the approaching Japs.
Shilansky still wouldn't get up. He continued to fire the machine gun, and Japs spun around in front of him, blood spouting from holes in their bodies.
McGurk did the first thing that came to his mind. He didn't want to leave Shilansky behind to get killed, so he grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked him off his ass.
"Hey!” shouted Shilansky.
McGurk jumped out of the hole, dragging Shilansky behind him. Shilansky lost his grip on the machine gun, and found himself dangling in the air behind McGurk, who retreated at top speed through the jungle, holding his rifle and bayonet with one hand, pulling Shilansky along with his left hand.
“Lemme go!” screamed Shilansky.
But McGurk wouldn't let go. He'd received orders to retreat and couldn't leave Shilansky behind to certain death.
“I said lemme go!”
Shilansky was facing backwards, looking at Japanese soldiers running through the jungle, jumping over empty American foxholes, dodging around trees and bushes. They reminded Shilansky of an army of ants, overwhelming everything in their paths. Then Shilansky noticed one of them raise his rifle and bayonet to his shoulder. This Japanese soldier stopped and appeared to be taking aim at Shilansky and McGurk!
“Watch out!” hollered Shilansky.
McGurk didn't pay any attention. McGurk believed the only thing to do was move out as quickly as possible, and not worry about anything else. Shilansky's eyes bulged in horror as he saw the Japanese soldier aiming directly at him. He held out his hands, hoping somehow they'd miraculously stop the bullet.
The Japanese soldier squeezed his trigger, when another Japanese soldier, not noticing him, ran in front of him. The first Japanese soldier eased off his trigger a split second before he would've drilled his comrade. When his vision was clear again, the two American soldiers were gone.
Pfc. Nick Bombasino sat behind the wheel of the jeep, and his accelerator was jammed to the floor. The jeep took a corner on two wheels, sped down a dirt road straightaway, and took the next corner on a wheel and a half.
Seated next to Pfc. Bombasino was Colonel Hutchins, and in the back seat was Major Cobb and Lieutenant Harper. They were on their way to the front lines, because Colonel Hutchins wanted to direct the retreat personally.
Colonel Hutchins had received the bad news over his radio, and wasn't surprised by anything that'd happened. He held on to his helmet with his right hand as the jeep hit a bump and flew into the air. The jeep landed with a sickening crunch, bounced again, and kept going. Colonel Hutchins's submachine gun was cradled in his lap, and his lapels were festooned with hand grenades. Hand grenades were stuffed into his pockets and bandoliers of .45-caliber ammunition hung from his neck. In the distance, above the roar of the jeep's engine, Colonel Hutchins heard shells exploding, automatic weapons firing, and individual gunshots.
Colonel Hutchins was angry, and chewed the butt of the cigarette in his mouth. Everything was happening just the way he'd said it would, and if General Hall had listened to him the Japs would've been stopped cold at the Driniumor. Instead the Japs were advancing steadily into the American side of the river, and Colonel Hutchins couldn't predict where the lines finally would settle down.
Pfc. Bombasino had to lift his foot off the accelerator, because a truck with a white cross painted on the side was coming from the direction of the front, carrying wounded soldiers. Colonel Hutchins looked at the truck and narrowed his eyes. Fucking bastards, he thought. Nobody ever listens to me.
General Hawkins's command post tent was being dismantled. Soldiers carried typewriters and file cabinets to jeeps and trucks, and General Hawkins took one final look at his map table, to fix in his mind the last known positions of all his units.
“Can I take this now, sir?” asked one of the division clerks.
“Go ahead,” said General Hawkins.
The clerk gathered up the maps on the table. Another clerk tipped the table over and folded in the legs. General Hawkins walked out of his tent and made his way toward his emergency bunker. The Japs were getting too close for him to remain in his tent.
General Hawkins walked through the jungle, looking down at the ground, tasting the bitter gall of defeat. General Hawkins didn't like to lose battles, but the battle wasn't completely lost yet. His division was pulling back everywhere and he intended to make a last stand right where he was. He hoped the 114th RCT showed up in time to save him and his men.
If the 114th RCT didn't show up, the Eighty-first would have to retreat again, if that was possible. If it wasn't possible, General Hawkins knew he might die with his men in the very jungle he was walking through then, on that very day.
Butsko stood in a clearing amid the tents of the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters, a walkie-talkie pressed against his face, the aerial high in the air.
He was trying to make contact with the front, to find out what was going on. So far he'd been unable to raise the recon platoon, the Twenty-third Regiment's Headquarters Company, or Colonel Hutchins. Now, however, he'd just got through to Captain Philip Mason, commander of George Company.
“What the hell's going on up there!” Butsko shouted into the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie.
“The shit has hit the fan!” Captain Mason replied. “The Japs keep coming and we can't stop them!”
“Where are you now!”
“About a thousand yards west of the river. We're dug in and we're gonna try to stop ‘em here.”
“Have you seen the recon platoon?”
“No.”
“Have you seen Colonel Hutchins?”
“I can't talk any longer. Over and out.”
The connection went dead in Butsko's ear. Butsko looked up and saw orderlies unloading wounded soldiers from a truck. Some of the soldiers were missing arms and legs. Others were covered with blood. Some looked like they were dead already.
Butsko hopped over wounded men lying on the ground and entered the surgical tent. He stepped over more wounded men and pushed aside the tent flap.
Doctors and nurses were operating in earnest. Wounded men lay on the tables, being cut open or sewed up. Butsko spotted Captain Epstein sawing off the shattered leg of a wounded soldier. Captain Epstein wore a bloody white gown, hat, and surgical mask. Assisting him were Lieutenants Frannie Divers, Betty Crawford, and Agnes Shankar.
“Sir,” said Butsko, “I've just talked to a friend of mine at the front, and he says it might collapse at any moment. I think I'd better start organizing a defense around here, because we can't evacuate all these wounded, can we?”
Captain Epstein continued to saw off the wounded man's leg. Captain Epstein's forehead was covered with sweat and flecks of blood. The operating area smelled of fresh blood, like a butcher shop.
“No, we can't evacuate,” Captain Epstein said. “We're staying right where we are.”
“Then I'll have to organize a defense.”
“Do whatever you want. Just don't bother me.”
“I just want to be sure I've got your authorization to do whatever has to be done.”
“You got it,” Captain Epstein said. “I thought I put you in charge of the d
efense force yesterday. Leave me the fuck alone.”
“Yes sir.”
Butsko turned around and limped out of the tent. He stepped into the clearing outside, stopped, placed his fists on his hips, and looked around at the orderlies and wounded soldiers. Butsko could hear the sounds of a mighty battle in the distance. Some of the wounded were unconscious, others seriously crippled, but some could fight, and so could the orderlies and nurses.
Butsko opened his mouth and hollered, "The Japs are headed this way! If anybody wants a rifle, follow me! Let's get a move on, because we don't have much time!”
Butsko turned and headed toward Captain Epstein's tent, where the rifles were stacked in crates. Following him were orderlies, nurses, and the walking wounded like himself.
FIFTEEN . . .
Bannon ran through the jungle in a zigzag line, keeping his head low. He heard Japs hollaring behind him, and Frankie La Barbara was at his side, cursing and snarling.
“Sons of bitches!” Frankie said. “Dirty bastards! Cuntlappers! Shitheads!”
They crashed through bushes and jumped over fallen trees. Bullets whistled over their heads and slammed into the trunks of trees still standing. Frankie tripped on a rock and fell into a shell crater, managing to throw out his arms a split second before his neck would've been broken. Cursing more viciously than ever, Frankie bounded out of the crater and resumed his headlong dash to safety.
He and Bannon were tired. They gulped air down their parched throats and their uniforms were plastered to their bodies with sweat. Other members of the recon platoon were to their right and left, also hurtling through the jungle, trying to save their skins. Never had they been thrown for a loss like this, not even on Bougainville or Guadalcanal, and they wondered where it would end.
