by Len Levinson
Behind them, Japanese soldiers thought they'd won the war. They had the Americans in full rout, but some of the Japanese soldiers dropped back to open the packs of dead American soldiers and eat their food. Other Japanese soldiers ransacked tents and bunkers, taking food and ammunition. Their officers and sergeants tried to stop them, to no avail, and some officers and sergeants participated in the looting too.
But the main body of Japanese soldiers pursued the Americans, hoping to catch up with them and cut them to shit. These Japanese soldiers were aware of the main objective of the attack—the Tadji airfields—and knew they had to capture them before total victory would be theirs.
Bannon dodged around a tree and saw a system of foxholes and dugouts up ahead. His heart jumped for joy and he redoubled his speed, because he could take shelter. Dashing forward, a smile on his face, he saw the GI helmets inside the foxholes. A Japanese bullet whizzed over his left shoulder and he jumped into the air, raising his arms and falling into a trench.
He landed next to Private George Samaltanos from Toledo, Ohio, a husky swarthy man who took aim through the sights of his M 1 rifle.
“What outfit is this?” Bannon asked.
“J Company,” replied Private Samaltanos.
Bannon knew J Company was in the Third Battalion, which was the regiment's reserve. It shocked Bannon to realize that Colonel Hutchins was using his reserves, because after the reserves there was nothing left except cooks, bakers, and truck drivers.
Bannon turned around, rested his rifle on the edge of the trench, took aim, and fired. Blam! A Japanese soldier's legs collapsed underneath him as he fell down. Private Samaltanos squeezed his trigger, and Blam!—a Japanese soldier was hit in the head by the bullet. The Japanese soldier's legs stopped moving and he tumbled asshole over teakettle onto the ground.
Machine guns rattled and their bullets chopped down entire ranks of Japanese soldiers. The soldiers from J Company fired BARs, M 1 rifles, and carbines as quickly as they could, as the soldiers from the recon platoon and Headquarters Company took shelter in the area fortifications.
Lieutenant Breckenridge vaulted into a trench and Private Worthington landed beside him.
“How're you doing?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked Worthington.
Worthington's face was beet red and covered with sweat and grime. “It's horrible,” he said.
“Cheer up,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “Things'll be a lot worse in a little while.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned around and looked at a soldier aiming an M 1 rifle.
“Who's in charge here?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“Captain Stanford.”
“Where's he at?”
The GI squeezed the trigger of his M 1 rifle. Blam! The Japanese soldier he'd been aiming at fell on his face. Then the GI pointed to his right.
“That way,” he said.
“Come with me,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said to Private Worthington.
Lieutenant Breckenridge lowered his head and walked in the direction the GI had indicated, passing other GIs firing at the advancing howling mass of Japanese soldiers. The intense fire from J Company slowed the Japs down. The Japanese attack appeared to be faltering, but their officers and sergeants urged the men on. The Japanese soldiers surged forward again, and Americans bullets ripped into them, but the Japs kept coming. It looked as though they were going to make it all the way to the trench.
Lieutenant Breckenridge decided to see Captain Stanford some other time. He pulled a grenade off his lapel, yanked out the pin, and hurled it at the wave of attacking Japanese soldiers.
Barrroooommmmm! The grenade exploded with a mighty roar, blowing Japanese soldiers into the air. Lieutenant Breckenridge pulled another grenade from his lapel and threw that one too. Barrroooommmmm! More Japanese soldiers were blasted to smithereens. Private Worthington positioned his M 1 rifle on the edge of the trench, took aim, and fired the rifle as fast as he could. The front wave of Japanese soldiers was thirty yards away, twenty-five yards away, and then twenty yards away. The GIs in the foxholes and trenches fired their weapons nonstop. Some threw hand grenades. A few barbecued Japs with flame throwers, but still the Japs kept coming.
"Hold them!” shouted a deep booming voice that everyone recognized as the voice of Colonel Hutchins. "Don't let them pass!”
Colonel Hutchins had just jumped out of his jeep and was running with his submachine gun in his hands toward the trench.
"Nobody retreats until I say so!” Colonel Hutchins hollered. "Kill them fucking Japs!”
Colonel Hutchins leapt into the trench and landed beside the Reverend Billie Jones, who was perched behind his BAR firing 600 rounds per minute in its full automatic mode. Colonel Hutchins raised his submachine gun and opened fire, spraying lead at the front rank of Japanese soldiers who now were only twenty yards away.
"Keep firing!” yelled Colonel Hutchins. "Stop the bastards!”
The GIs’ morale went up when they realized their regimental commander was fighting alongside them. They'd been fighting hard, but now fought harder. They pulled their triggers faster, and threw even more hand grenades. Machine gunners didn't fire in bursts of six—they fired nonstop. GIs with flame throwers burned huge numbers of Japs into crispy black hunks of charred meat.
The Japanese front wave came to within fifteen yards of the GI fortifications, and their assault came to a halt. Heaps of dead Japanese soldiers were piled everywhere, and attacking Japanese soldiers couldn't get over them. The ones who tried got shot. GIs hurled grenades at the Japanese soldiers, blasting arms and heads off their bodies.
The Japanese soldiers couldn't advance and didn't dare stay where they were. They were in deep bad trouble and the only place to go was backwards. Their officers realized they had to retreat a short distance, regroup, and try again.
"Retreat!” they shouted. "Move back!”
Japanese soldiers still alive turned around and ran into the jungle from whence they'd come, dropping down to their bellies, gasping for breath, wondering what had gone wrong. Officers and sergeants ran among them calling them cowards and saying they'd let the Emperor down, but they could redeem themselves if they tried harder next time and took that American trench system.
The Japanese soldiers loaded their rifles with fresh ammunition and checked to make sure their bayonets were affixed properly to their rifles. Some bound their wounds with torn strips of their shirts. The Americans had stopped them once but they wouldn't do it again, especially now that more Japanese soldiers were advancing through the jungle to reinforce them.
“This time you will capture that American position!” an officer screamed, waving his samurai sword over his head. “This time you will not fail!”
Colonel Hutchins leaned against the wall of the trench and looked into the jungle through his binoculars. He couldn't see many details in the smoke and confusion, and burnt Japanese bodies stank disgustingly, but he could perceive Japanese reinforcements moving into the jungle ahead. Colonel Hutchins knew discretion was the better part of valor, and it was time to get the hell out of there.
He removed his binoculars from his eyes and turned around, pointing back toward the Eighty-first Division Headquarters. “All right everybody,” he bellowed, “we're gonna retreat now! Pull out and move fast! Get the lead out! We don't have much time! The recon platoon will bring up the rear!”
That was the order the GIs were waiting to hear, except for the recon platoon.
Frankie La Barbara turned to Bannon. “Why do we get all the shitty jobs?” he asked.
Bannon didn't reply. He was tired, getting hungry, and didn't feel like dealing with Frankie La Barbara. Meanwhile the other GIs jumped out of their foxholes and trenches and ran west as fast as they could, heading toward the last-ditch defense line General Hawkins had set up.
Medics carried the wounded, those from heavy weapons platoons carried mortars and machine guns, and the recon platoon went last, firing behind them at the Japanese
soldiers in the jungle, hoping to discourage them from attacking before everybody got away.
General Kimura walked up to General Adachi and saluted. “The American center has collapsed!” he said, triumph in his voice.
General Adachi was so happy he wanted to jump for joy, but that would have been beneath his dignity. He permitted himself only a faint smile, and looked down at the map. “Show me exactly what you're talking about.”
General Kimura pointed at the map. “Initial reports indicate that the Americans are in a headlong rout from here to here. The flank attack you ordered broke the back of their defense. Our soldiers are pursuing them relentlessly.”
General Adachi closed his eyes for a few moments, savoring the delicious taste of victory. Then he opened his eyes again and looked down at the map.
“How deep has our penetration been?”
General Kimura pointed at the map. “To here, according to last reports.”
“Would you say they've advanced a thousand yards into the American position?”
“More than that, sir. I'd say two thousand yards at least.”
General Adachi looked at the map. It was true: The American front line had been shattered, but the Tadji airfields still were a long way off, and the Americans had plenty of reserves to bring up. The battle wasn't won yet by any means, but the initial results were promising.
General Adachi turned to General Kimura. “Transmit this order to as many of the assault units as you can. Tell them I am pleased with their performance, and I expect them to pursue their attack with redoubled effort, because now victory is within our grasp. That is all.”
“Yes sir.” General Kimura dashed off to relay the message to one of his subordinates, who actually would transmit it.
General Adachi looked down at the map table again. Can the momentum of this attack carry through all the way to airfields, he wondered, or will the American reserves stop it?
He balled up his fists, resting them on the map table, and closed his eyes, praying to the Shinto gods for the victory he believed was in his grasp.
The Eighty-first Division bore the brunt of the attack, and its front line was torn apart. Troops throughout the division retreated from position to position, falling back toward the final defensive position set down by General Hawkins.
General Hawkins's headquarters was slightly in back of that position, as was the Eighty-first Division Medical Headquarters, the terminus for convoys of trucks delivering soldiers wounded at the front.
Doctors, nurses, and orderlies worked non-stop, removing bullets, sewing up holes, sawing off ruined limbs. Some wounded men were beyond hope and set aside, shot up with morphine so they wouldn't feel pain, left to die in peace.
Meanwhile Butsko built sandbag fortifications with a handful of orderlies and the walking wounded. The sandbags were laid down in a semicircle on the east side of the medical headquarters, and stood two to three feet high.
Butsko was stripped to the waist as he threw sandbag on top of sandbag, building up the fortifications. His helmet and Thompson submachine gun rested against a tree nearby in case he needed them in a hurry.
Butsko had no communications with the front, but knew the battle wasn't going well. He could hear the sounds of fighting coming closer, and believed Japs should be in the area in about an hour, maybe less. He wished his old recon platoon was with him, but he was stuck with a bunch of orderlies who had skinny arms and wore glasses, and the walking wounded, some of whom were so dazed on drugs they walked into each other.
“Hurry up!” he shouted. “Move your fucking asses! The Japs're gonna be here in no time at all!”
The recon platoon continued to retreat, bringing up the rear behind J Company. Lieutenant Breckenridge and his men stopped every ten yards or so, turned around, and fired a wild shot at the Japs behind them, to slow them.
Their bullets made the Japs advance more cautiously, but not too cautiously. They smelled victory and knew they were moving closer to the main American supply depots where all the good stuff was stored. They weren't as close as they thought, but charged like maniacs anyway, pursuing the Americans in front of them, stopping occasionally to take potshots at the Americans whenever they could get a clear view of them through the moonlit jungle.
Japanese bullets whistled around the heads of the men from the recon platoon, and whacked into the ground near their feet. They kept their heads low and sped through the jungle, stopping occasionally to fire a few quick shots at the Japs.
Victor Yabalonka thought for sure he was going to die at any moment, and couldn't understand why he wasn't dead already. He was scared, but not so scared he couldn't think straight. He knew sooner or later he and the others would have to stop and fight it out with the Japs. They couldn't keep running forever.
Yabalonka was between the Reverend Billie Jones and Private Joshua McGurk. Lieutenant Breckenridge was to his left, with Private Worthington. No one was seriously wounded yet, although they all had nicks and cuts. A bullet had grazed Shilansky's cheek and left a red burn mark.
Bullets flew around the men's heads like angry gnats. Ahead they could see the tail end of Company J, with medics carrying the wounded, and other soldiers hauling mortars and machine guns. Yabalonka heard Colonel Hutchins's voice.
"Keep moving!” Colonel Hutchins hollered. “We're almost there!”
Private Yabalonka stopped and turned around to fire a quick shot at the Japs. He raised his rifle to his shoulder, and Pow!—he felt as if a truck crashed into his chest.
The Japanese bullet pierced his shirt and spun him around. He fell to the ground stomach down and lay still.
The Reverend Billie Jones didn't see him fall, but thought something was wrong. Still running, he looked back over his shoulder and saw Private Yabalonka lying on the ground motionless. The Reverend Billie Jones stopped, turned around, and galloped back to the place where Yabalonka lay. Jones looked down at Yabalonka and didn't see any blood, but Yabalonka seemed dead as a doornail. Jones couldn't be sure of that, but didn't have time to take Yabalonka's pulse. Jones slung his rifle crossways over his back and bent over, lifting Yabalonka and throwing him over his shoulder. Yabalonka weighed 208 pounds, but the Reverend Billie Jones was a powerhouse. He turned around and ran behind the others, trying to catch up, but they were too far ahead of him. A bullet grazed the top of Billie Jones's helmet as he stretched out his legs and ran like a son of a bitch. “Oh Lord,” he muttered, “if you can't help me now, just don't help them Japs!”
SIXTEEN . . .
General Hawkins's bunker was on the crest of a squat hill overlooking the jungle. It was in an area of hills, valleys, and flat ground, pockmarked and scarred with foxholes, trenches, and bunkers set up in a long winding series of lines across the territory the Eighty-first Division was supposed to defend.
The moon drifted across the sky and shone down on the jungle. No birds squawked and no wild dogs howled, because the artillery bombardments had scared them away. The Japanese artillery bombardment had ended nearly two hours ago, but American artillery units still blasted the attacking Japanese, raising their sights steadily to keep up with the advancing Japanese Army, but careful not to rain shells on retreating American soldiers.
Stars twinkled in the sky as General Hawkins stood at the narrow slitted window of his command post bunker, holding his binoculars to his eyes, gazing down at the jungle below. He saw GIs fleeing toward the defensive line he'd established. Random shots were fired as swarms of GIs streamed around trees and boulders, jumping over bushes or barreling through them, carrying their weapons, their wounded, crates of machine gun ammunition, some limping and some bleeding.
General Hawkins was angry at himself and angry at General Hall. He lowered his binoculars and stepped away from the window, looking at his staff officers standing around in the dim light inside the bunker.
“Cover the window and turn on the light,” he said.
A black curtain was dropped over the window and a kerosene lamp lit o
ver the map table. Lieutenant Utsler adjusted the wick and General Hawkins looked down at the map of the area. He took out a cigarette, poked it into his ivory cigarette holder, and lit it with his Zippo, inhaling, blowing smoke out his thin lips.
General Hawkins was angry at himself for not paying more attention to Colonel Hutchins, who'd been right about the attack all along. General Hawkins realized he hadn't listened to Colonel Hutchins because Colonel Hutchins was a drunkard and a buffoon, but Colonel Hutchins also was a seasoned old combat veteran, both as an enlisted man and a front-line commander, and in the future General Hawkins would give Colonel Hutchins's opinions more weight.
General Hawkins was angry at General Hall because General Hall hadn't taken seriously the intelligence information that the Japanese Eighteenth Army was going to attack on the morning of July 9. General Hall also hadn't taken General Hawkins seriously during that horrendous jeep ride when General Hawkins asked to be reinforced before July 9.
General Hawkins now was glad he'd taken precautions himself, because those precautions saved most of his division. He knew he'd taken those precautions only because Colonel Hutchins had driven him to it. I've been such a fool, General Hawkins thought. I should've listened to that old drunken son of a bitch.
General Hawkins's problems weren't over yet by any means. He'd saved most of his division, but the battle wasn't finished. It had barely started. Immense numbers of Japanese soldiers, perhaps two divisions, were pursuing what was left of his division, which had been at half strength when the battle began.
His division fell back toward its final defensive position. It would stand fast and fight it out with the Japanese Eighteenth Army there, and General Hawkins hoped the 114th RCT would arrive in time to save his men. If the 114th RCT didn't arrive soon, his men would be in serious trouble, and General Hawkins might not be able to save them by ordering another retreat. Troops were most vulnerable when retreating, especially now that the Japanese Eighteenth Army was hot on their heels. Those Japs were desperate and they'd show no mercy. General Hawkins was worried about his men. He may have been an ambitious career officer, but his men still came first. “Colonel Jessup!” he shouted.
