by Len Levinson
“Radio the information to General Adachi,” Colonel Katsumata said. “We’ll let him decide what to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Hozumi turned and departed, the white sheet of paper in his hand. He marched underneath the camouflage netting to the radio shack, and directed a radio operator to transmit the message to Madang. This was accomplished, and Lieutenant Hozumi returned to his office to do his paperwork. Two hours later, as the sun was sinking behind the horizon, he was notified that a reply had been received from General Adachi. Lieutenant Hozumi rushed to the radio shack to get the message. He read it eagerly.
It consisted of only one word: Attack!
The recon platoon was digging in for the night. Although it was nominally part of Headquarters Company, from which it received its rations and supplies, its orders usually came from Colonel Hutchins or his operations officer, Major Cobb.
This meant the recon platoon was more or less on its own, and Lieutenant Breckenridge wanted to make sure they’d be safe throughout the night. He ordered his men to dig deep holes six feet apart and set booby traps in front of the position. Farther forward, near the bank of the Driniumor, combat engineers laid mines and strung out concertina wire, operating under orders from General Hawkins.
General Hawkins had deployed his regiment in a semicircle around the captured airfields at Aitape. His Fifty-eighth Regiment was south of Aitape, his Thirty-sixth Regiment was southeast of Aitape, and the Twenty-third Regiment was on the west bank of the Driniumor River. He figured this would provide all-around protection for the air bases, because he couldn’t be sure exactly of which sector the Japanese would attack.
After other units stopped digging, the recon platoon continued to shovel deeper. The men complained, cursed, and swore, but Lieutenant Breckenridge showed them no mercy. The deeper the holes, the safer his men would be. He didn’t want any casualties that could be avoided.
Finally, shortly after 2030 hours, Lieutenant Breckenridge inspected the holes and fortifications and pronounced them suitable. He ordered Sergeant Cameron to post guards and then took a leak at the newly dug latrine. He washed his hands and face in his helmet, brushed his teeth with water from his canteen, and made his way through the darkness to his tent, which Craig Delane, his runner, had pitched for him.
He crawled into the tent and lay on his poncho, but it was damp and clammy, due to the high humidity. Lieutenant Breckenridge’s uniform was soaked with sweat, and his armpits were stinking already. Here I am, back in the fucking jungle, he thought glumly.
Mosquitoes flew into his tent and ate him alive. So did other insects of species the bug scientists hadn’t even identified yet. Birds and monkeys shrieked in the trees, their habitat disrupted by the arrival of the American soldiers. Wild dogs barked and wild cats shrieked. The jungle was full of sounds, and Lieutenant Breckenridge couldn’t relax. Those sounds might be Japs sneaking through the thick, tangled vegetation to slit the throats of Americans while they slept.
Lieutenant Breckenridge felt the old fear and tense caution return; it was like somebody you despised coming to visit. His feelings were foreign and strange, because he’d been away from the war for so long. He realized he’d have to get adjusted all over again and hoped he’d be able to remain alive until he was one hundred percent efficient.
He knew that his men were having the same adjustment problems. The new replacements were probably scared to death. Lieutenant Breckenridge wished he had Butsko there with him to help out, but he’d have to go it alone. All the men were looking to him for leadership, and he’d have to provide it. They could show fear or confusion if they wanted to, but he couldn’t. He had to be a superman. They had to respect him and obey instantly, without question, because of who he was and the fact that he was their platoon leader, an officer in the United States Army.
The heat and humidity were almost unbearable. He felt as though he were in a steambath. There was no breeze, and it was impossible for him to get comfortable. A mosquito bit him on the back of the neck, and he squashed it with the palm of his hand, then wiped away the goo. He lay back and closed his eyes, but little wheels kept turning inside his head, and he could feel the pressure of his blood in his arteries, pumping away. He rolled over onto his side, his immense weight on his hip and shoulder, they ached, because he had no mattress underneath him.
He recalled that he used to sleep well on the ground of Bougainville and New Georgia, but it had taken him awhile to get used to it. He’d probably have a few sleepless nights before he got used to it again. This fucking war, he thought. Those goddamned Japs.
His mind flashed back to Lieutenant Diane Latham. He remembered how sweet her lips had been when he kissed her on the night before he shipped out. He also remembered how wonderful her body had felt, those firm breasts and her slim waist. I should've fucked her, he thought, even if I had to go AWOL for a few hours. For all I know, I’m going to get killed out here, and it would've been nice to have one last great piece of ass before I died.
Then he became angry with himself, because he didn’t like to think about getting killed. He ordinarily wasn’t superstitious, but he was superstitious about death. He’d seen so much of it already. He’d come close to getting killed himself. He wasn’t terrified of getting killed, but he didn’t like the idea very much. He believed that if he imagined himself getting killed, he’d get killed, even though he knew the belief was irrational.
He heard a rifle shot, then another, then a burst of machine-gun fire, all close by. Grabbing his carbine, he bounded out of the tent and looked around, licking his lips nervously. The machine gun chattered again, and he saw the flashes of its muzzle blasts.
“Japs!” yelled Private Jilliam.
Adrenaline poured into Lieutenant Breckenridge’s arteries like rocket fuel, and his heart pumped wildly. All around him men burst out of their tents, carrying their M 1 rifles, fixing their bayonets, and looking for Japs.
The machine gun fired again. Lieutenant Breckenridge ran toward it and saw Sergeant Cameron leaping through the bushes, heading in the same direction. Three more rifle shots punctuated the stillness of the night, but it seemed to Lieutenant Breckenridge that all the shots were coming from his platoon’s position. His men jumped into their holes and peered into the night, holding their M 1 rifles ready, expecting a mass attack from the Japs, trying to swallow down their fear.
Lieutenant Breckenridge ran around the holes and saw the machine-gun bunker up ahead. Sergeant Cameron jumped into it, and a few moments later Lieutenant Breckenridge landed inside.
“What the hell’s going on over here?” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“Japs, sir!” replied Private Jilliam.
“Wherer?”
“Over there.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked in the direction in which Private Jilliam had pointed and saw moonlight glinting on the ripples and eddies of the Driniumor River. On the other side were trees and bushes jammed together, a thick wall of vegetation. Lieutenant Breckenridge blinked and examined the opposite shore, but couldn’t see anything that resembled a Jap.
“I don’t see any Japs,” he said.
"Me neither,” said Sergeant Cameron, who turned to Private Jilliam. “You sure you saw Japs over there?”
Private Jilliam's freckled right cheek twitched. He was sixteen years old but had said he was eighteen in order to enlist, and the recruiting sergeant didn't check information like that very assiduously. “I saw something over there, Sarge.”
“Something?” asked Sergeant Cameron. “I see something over there too. I see trees and other green shit, but I don't see no Japs.”
“Something moved,” Private Jilliam said, but his voice quavered as if he knew that maybe he'd fucked up. “Looked like a Jap to me.”
Sergeant Cameron turned to Lieutenant Breckenridge, and Lieutenant Breckenridge knew that Private Jilliam was a green soldier, a kid scared shitless, and he might have fired at a wild pig or a monkey. It would be best n
ot to rattle him further.
Private Jilliam sat behind the .30-caliber machine gun, his long legs splayed in a big V. Lieutenant Breckenridge knelt beside him and placed his hand on Private Jilliam's shoulder. “Don't fire unless you're sure of your target,” he said gently. “Calm down. The Japs'll have to cross that river to get over here, and it won't be easy for them. You'll have plenty of time to see them and get ready. Okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge glanced at Sergeant Cameron. “Let's go.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge climbed out of the hole and walked back toward his tent, and Sergeant Cameron hunched along at his side.
“Why did you put a green kid behind that machine gun on our first night here?” asked Lieutenant Breckenridge.
“He's gotta learn somehow,” Sergeant Cameron replied. “The only way to learn to do it is to do it.”
“I don't think that's the best way. The replacements like Jilliam have their hands full just trying to adjust to the combat zone. They don't need any extra responsibilities right off the bat. I want you to place the veterans on guard duty for the first few nights, then we'll work the replacements in, understand?”
“Yes, sir, but if you don't mind my saying so, Sergeant Butsko would've kicked that kid's ass all over the jungle for firing at nothing.”
“What makes you think he fired at nothing?”
“I didn't see nothing.”
“Just because you didn't see anything doesn't mean there wasn't anything there. At least the kid wasn't asleep. If he was asleep, I would've cut his fucking throat, but he was trying to do a good job, and I can't fault him for that.”
“Do you want me to relieve him now?”
“Let him finish his shift, then don't assign him again for a few nights. If you relieve him now, it'll demoralize him and take away his self-confidence. He won't be very effective in that frame of mind.”
Sergeant Cameron sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “He ain't very effective right now, either, if you don't mind me saying so, sir. I think a good kick in the ass will straighten him right out.”
“I don't. Change the guard roster.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Cameron stopped and took his note pad out of his shirt pocket, holding it up to the moonlight so he could read the names. Lieutenant Breckenridge returned to his tent, crawled inside, closed the flap, and lit up a cigarette. He took off his helmet, placed his carbine beside him, and lay down.
He puffed the cigarette, looking at the peaked top of the tent and wondering if Cameron was right about Breckenridge's having been too soft on Jilliam. It was difficult to know for sure about those things. Butsko always said that he was too soft, but Lieutenant Breckenridge couldn't believe that kicking the men around would produce good results. That system might work for Butsko, but Butsko was Butsko. Lieutenant Breckenridge didn't want to be somebody he wasn't. In the past it had been easy to let Butsko run the recon platoon the way he wanted to, because he had confidence in Butsko, but Sergeant Cameron was a different type. Sergeant Cameron wasn't as smart as Butsko, and actually was much harsher than Butsko. Butsko at least had a few soft spots and a human side to his nature, whereas Sergeant Cameron was so hard, he was brittle. Sergeant Cameron wasn't as flexible as Butsko, and that meant Lieutenant Breckenridge would have to pay more attention to the day-to-day operation of the platoon.
“Aw, shit,” Lieutenant Breckenridge muttered as he puffed his cigarette.
Private Jilliam’s eyes had not been playing tricks on him. Neither had he been firing at shadows or a wild pig. Japanese reconnaissance patrols were out in force that night, sizing up the new American positions and probing for weak spots. The information was gathered and relayed back to Colonel Yukio Katsumata’s headquarters.
Colonel Yukio Katsumata was sound asleep on his tatami mat, snoring peacefully underneath the protection of his mosquito netting; but his intelligence officer, Major Tadashi Honda, was wide awake, collating data long into the night, making evaluations, interviewing leaders of patrols, and chain-smoking like a maniac.
Finally, at three o’clock in the morning, Major Honda decided that he had a clear picture of where the Americans were and how many were gathered opposite the Fifteenth Regiment. He wrote a brief report, which he would deliver to Colonel Katsumata first thing in the morning, and then he prepared for bed, pausing several minutes to pray before his photograph of the Emperor, because Major Honda was a very religious man.
NINE . . .
Frankie La Barbara was sleeping lightly when he felt fingers on his knee. He awoke suddenly and lashed out with his left hand, slamming Morris Shilansky who was in the pup tent beside him.
“Get your fucking hands off me, you bastard!”
Morris Shilansky jumped up from a sound sleep. “Huh! What?”
“Keep your tucking hands off me, you bastard!”
“What hands?” Shilansky asked. “What’re you talking about?”
“You were feeling me up, you bastard!”
“I was not!”
“You was too!”
“I was sound asleep—what’re you talking about!”
“You was feeling me up, you bastard!”
“You’re crazy! I was dead to the world!”
Frankie felt fingers on his thigh this time. He smacked Morris Shilansky in the chops. “I said cut it out!”
Morris Shilansky raised his hand to the spot Frankie had smacked. “What’re you, fucking crazy?”
“You trying to say you just didn’t do it again?”
“Do what again?”
“Feel me up!"
“What in the fuck would anybody want to feel you up for?”
“It wasn’t you?”
“No, it wasn’t me.”
“Then who in the fuck was it?”
“I think you’re dreaming.”
“I ain’t dreaming.”
Frankie felt the fingers again, this time higher.
“Uh-oh,” he said.
“Now what?” asked Shilansky.
“You just didn’t do that?”
“I didn’t just do what?”
“Uh-oh.” Frankie pinched his lower lip with his teeth. “Something’s on me,” he said softly.
“Well, it ain’t me!”
“Flick your lighter and see what’s on me, but take it slow. Don’t scare him.”
“Don’t scare who?”
“I don’t know. Just don’t scare whoever it is.”
Shilansky slowly and easily took his lighter out of his fatigue pant pocket and flicked the wheel. Sparks flew and the wick burst into flame, revealing two tiny slanted eyes gleaming in the light above Frankie’s lap. The eyes were set in a triangularly shaped head, and the head was connected to the twisting, coiled body of a red snake five feet long.
Frankie La Barbara’s eyes rolled up into his head and he nearly fainted from terror. Shilansky wanted to run away, but if he wanted to get out of the tent, he’d have to pass the snake, which was bending its long neck from side to side, looking at the two GIs.
Frankie’s teeth chattered in his head and his heart pounded like a tom-tom. “I think he’s gonna bite me!”
“Stay calm. Don’t scare him.”
“Kill the son of a bitch!”
“How can I kill the son of a bitch?”
“I don’t know.”
Shilansky was scared to death, but he tried to think straight anyway. He realized that he couldn’t kill the snake with his bayonet, because the snake was probably faster than he was. The only thing to do was try to shoot it. He reached for his M 1 rifle.
“What’re you gonna do?” Frankie asked, on the point of hysteria.
“I’m gonna shoot the snake. You hold the cigarette lighter.”
“Well, don’t shoot me by mistake.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“What if you miss?”
“What if I do? You got any better
ideas?”
Frankie searched his chaotic mind for an idea, but couldn’t find one. “No.”
Shilansky raised the M 1 slowly, then stopped. “This is no good,” he said. “I might shoot somebody walking by.”
“So what?” Frankie asked.
“I don’t wanna shoot somebody by mistake.”
“What about me?”
Just then the flame on Frankie’s lighter went out, plunging the tent into darkness. The snake moved in Frankie’s lap, and Frankie shivered like a dog shitting razor blades.
“Do something,” Frankie said.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, but do something anyway.”
“I can’t even fucking see, so how can I do something?”
“That snake’s gonna bite me any minute now.”
“I know what I’ll do,” Shilansky replied. “I’ll go for help. I’ll cut a hole through the side of the tent here and ask Lieutenant Breckenridge what to do.”
“Hurry up!”
Shilansky whipped out his bayonet, which he’d sharpened to a razor’s edge on the transport ship, and slit open the side of the tent.
“I’ll be right back,” he said.
“You’d fucking better.”
Shilansky inched toward the big slit in the side of the tent. He stuck out his arm, then his head, then his upper body. He hoped he wasn’t scaring the snake and that the snake wouldn’t bite his leg or his ass. Pushing forward, he ripped the hole in the tent wider; his fear made him push harder. He pulled his knees and legs outside and he was free!
It was the first light of dawn, and the rising sun made a faint glow underneath the horizon. Shilansky jumped to his feet and ran toward Lieutenant Breckenridge’s tent. “Halp!” he screamed. “Halp!"
Meanwhile, inside the tent, Frankie La Barbara looked at the snake, who was looking at him, eyeball to eyeball. Sweat dripped down Frankie’s forehead and cheeks, because now he could see the snake clearly in the light passing through the hole that Shilansky had cut. The snake angled his head from side to side. Frankie didn’t know it, but the snake was scared too. He’d just been crawling around, saw the tent, slithered inside, and found himself with two gigantic creatures who made strange sounds, moved in threatening ways, and could emit sparks and flames.
