by Len Levinson
Lieutenant Breckenridge had been awakened from a light sleep by the first whump, whump. Like Sergeant Cameron, he knew exactly what the sound signified. He slung his bandoliers of ammunition around his neck, grabbed his helmet and carbine, and charged out of his tent, heading toward his trench twenty yards away. He pumped his legs as fast as he could as the sounds and flashes of the first explosions spread across the regimental area. Nearing his hole, he jumped in feet first, flattening out on the bottom, and a few seconds later Pfc. Craig Delane landed on top of him.
“Ouch!” said Lieutenant Breckenridge.
“Sorry,” replied Delane, rolling off him.
Barrrrooooommmmmm! A mortar shell smashed into the ground nearby and caved in the wall of the trench, covering Lieutenant Breckenridge and Craig Delane with dirt.
They coughed and sputtered as they clawed their way to the hot, dank air. Taking deep breaths, their heads sticking out of the ground, they saw shell bursts all around them, trees being blown to bits, and tons of earth exploding into the air.
Both were old veterans. They knew the mortar barrage was preparation for a ground attack. Digging their way out of the ground, they crawled toward the crater the shell had made and slid inside.
“Radio Colonel Hutchins,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Tell him we’re receiving heavy mortar fire.”
“Right,” said Pfc. Craig Delane, raising the walkie-talkie to his dirt-streaked face.
Thirty yards away, Corporal Lupe Gomez and Pfc. Billie Jones lay in the bottom of their trench, waiting for the ground attack to begin. Corporal Gomez sharpened his bayonet on a bar of white washita stone from Arkansas, although it already was as keen as a razor’s edge.
“Fucking Japs,” Gomez muttered, stroking the bayonet blade back and forth on the washita stone. “I keel them all. I cut their throats. I tear out their hearts and stuff them down their throats. I cut off their balls.”
The Reverend Billie Jones lay quietly, his circular wire-rimmed eyeglasses perched on the end of his button nose. The war had returned suddenly and he was trying to adjust to it. He knew the Japs would attack any minute now. The shit was about to hit the fan.
The Reverend Billie Jones had survived numerous attacks before, and he knew how bloody and ferocious they could be. It would be hand to hand and down and dirty until one side or the other won. Waiting for the attack to begin, Billie was plagued by religious and moral considerations. The Sixth Commandment said “Thou shalt not kill.” Christ said to love your enemy and turn the other cheek. Billie believed he shouldn’t have anything to do with the war, but on the other hand, he believed it had to be fought. He believed the Japs were evil wicked agents of the Devil. They had to be stopped. Hirohito was the Antichrist.
His conflicting unresolved beliefs frustrated him and made him angry. He thought of his old pal Homer Gladley, who’d been shot twice in the back on Bougainville and had died several days later. Billie Jones had sworn to avenge Homer’s death, and the time to do that would come soon.
The Reverend Billie Jones gripped his rifle tightly and waited for the attack to begin. Beside him, Corporal Gomez slowly and methodically sharpened his bayonet.
“I cut them from their knees to their nose,” Gomez said through clenched teeth. “I fuck up their faces. I skin them alive. I eat their livers for dinner.”
Not far away, in another trench, Pfc. Jimmy O’Rourke, the former stuntman from Hollywood, lay beside Private Jilliam, who was from the Ozark Mountains of Missouri. Private Jilliam was so frightened, he trembled uncontrollably.
Pfc. Jimmy O’Rourke was aware of the sixteen-year-old’s terror because he could hear his teeth chattering and feel him shaking next to him in the trench. Jimmy O’Rourke was scared, too, but not as much as Private Jilliam. Jimmy O’Rourke had been through this many times before. He knew what to expect, more or less. The most terrible fear is the fear of the unknown, and that was the fear that had Private Jilliam in its grip.
Private Jilliam whimpered. He wanted to turn around and run away, but he was too scared even to do that. He’d already shit his pants, and the hole stank badly. He was ashamed of having shit his pants. He wished he were dead.
Pfc. Jimmy O’Rourke had been in Hollywood so long, he tended to think that life was one big movie and that the war he was in was just another war movie, except that he, and not Clark Gable, was the star. In point of fact, although Jimmy O’Rourke appeared to be a fairly normal person, he really was as nutty as a fruitcake, and occasionally, when under pressure, he had psychotic episodes in which he couldn’t separate fantasy from reality.
He was under pressure just then, and somehow, in his fucked-up mind, the jungle of New Guinea became a sound stage at Twentieth Century-Fox. He turned toward Private Jilliam and placed his hand on the lad’s shoulder.
“Be strong,” he said, the way he thought Clark Gable would say it. “We can lick ‘em.”
When his hand touched Private Jilliam, the young man nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at Jimmy O’Rourke, and Jimmy O’Rourke had a confident, big-brotherly smile on his face.
“Stick with me,” Jimmy O’Rourke said, “and you’ll be okay.”
Private Jilliam nodded his head in a staccato rhythm. “Okay, I’ll stick with you, Pfc. O’Rourke,” he stuttered.
“Good boy. And I’ll stick with you.”
“Thank you, Pfc. O’Rourke.”
Pfc. Jimmy O’Rourke smiled broadly and squeezed the young man’s shoulder. “Just remember, my boy, that the Japs out there are just as scared as you are. They don’t wanna come over here, but they have to, and when they come, we’ll be waiting for them. We’ll kick them in their behinds and send them to hell, won’t we, boy?”
“We will?” asked Private Jilliam.
“Sure we will,” Jimmy O’Rourke replied, imagining the cameras zooming in on his profile. “There isn’t anything to be afraid of. All we can do is our best, and when that bullet comes with your name on it, there isn’t anything you can do about it anyway, so what the hell, right?” He grinned the way Clark Gable grinned, and he tugged his left ear the way Clark Gable tugged his left ear, while mortar rounds fell all around them, transforming the jungle into a holocaust of explosions and flames.
“This is all your fault!” Morris Shilansky screamed. “If I’d’ve gone AWOL alone, I would’ve made it. I’d be on the beach at Waikiki right now, cooling my head and heels.”
“Shaddup!” said Frankie, gnashing his teeth. “I’m trying to think.”
“You stupid son of a bitch!” Shilansky yelled. “You crazy fucking asshole! Why did I ever get mixed up with you in the first place!”
Sergeant Cameron lay to the left of both of them. “That’ll be enough of that!” he said. “Calm the fuck down!”
Shilansky wanted to calm down, but he couldn’t. His fear had become anger, and he’d focused his anger on Frankie La Barbara. He thought that Frankie was to blame for their lying underneath a mortar barrage.
“I hate your fucking guts!” Shilansky screamed.
“Up your ass with a ten-inch meathook!” Frankie snarled in reply.
Shilansky blew his cork and dived onto Frankie La Barbara, who was lying on his stomach on the ground. He tore off Frankie’s helmet and punched him on the back of his head. Frankie saw stars, but he had a thick skull and didn’t go unconscious. He jerked back his elbow with all his strength and it sank three inches into Shilansky’s stomach.
Shilansky expelled air and doubled over, clutching his stomach. Frankie La Barbara rolled to the side and got out from underneath Frankie. Sergeant Cameron jumped in between them.
“Cut it out, you two!"
Frankie’s right-fist haymaker was already en route, and he punched Sergeant Cameron on the jaw. It was a mistake—Frankie had intended to punch Shilansky—but Sergeant Cameron got in the way, and Sergeant Cameron fell back, his eyes rolling up into his head. Frankie pushed him out of the way and jumped on Shilansky, who still was clutching his stomach. Shilansky
fell sideways to the muck at the bottom of the hole, and Frankie landed on top of him, swinging with both fists. A left cross made blood spurt out of Shilansky’s nose. A right uppercut connected with Shilansky’s jaw and made his head snap back. Shilansky collapsed and Frankie jumped on top of him, ready to beat him to death, when suddenly the mortar barrage ended.
The onslaught of silence was eerie, and Frankie’s ears still rang from the violence of the mortar barrage. He knew what was going to happen next and looked down at Shilansky, slapping him lightly on his cheeks.
“C’mon, wake up!” Frankie said. “The Japs’re coming!”
Shilansky lay on his back, blood streaming from his nostrils, out cold.
“Wake up!000000
Shilansky didn’t move. Frankie crawled to Sergeant Cameron, grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and shook him.
“Wake up, Sarge!"
Sergeant Cameron was out cold too. Frankie then heard a blood-curdling sound coming from the other side of the river.
“Banzai! Tenno heika banzai!"
Frankie looked up and saw hordes of Japanese soldiers rush out of the jungle on the other side of the Driniumor River, and wade into the water, holding their rifles with bayonets affixed high in the air. Japanese machine guns and small-arms fire opened up from the treetops in an effort to keep the Americans pinned down.
Frankie knew that he and the others couldn’t let themselves get pinned down. They had to fight back if they wanted to survive.
“Help me, you bastards!” he hollered at Shilansky and Sergeant Cameron, who were still knocked out.
They couldn’t help him, so he had to help himself. He jumped behind the .30-caliber machine gun and dropped to his knees, working the bolt once, ramming a round in the chamber. He pushed the gun from side to side on its transverse mechanism, to make sure it was working properly, and then aimed at the center of the Japs advancing across the river, pulling the trigger.
The machine gun barked angrily and danced on its tripod legs. Hot lead spat out of its mouth and flew into the midst of the Japanese soldiers. The bullets cut into them, tearing apart their guts, and the Japanese soldiers fell into the water. Other bullets zipped into the ripples and eddies as Frankie swung the machine gun from side to side, aiming at more Japs, baring his teeth and trying to discipline himself to fire in bursts of six, otherwise the barrel would melt down and he’d have nothing left to fight with.
He aimed a burst into a thick gaggle of Japs one-third of the way into the river, and the lead Jap’s head shattered like an overripe watermelon, blood and brains spewing over the Jap’s comrades; but still they moved forward, anxious to get on the dry land of the American side and really put their attack into gear.
Frankie chewed his lower lip as he fired his machine gun, and all across the Twenty-third Regiment’s line, other GIs shot bullets at the advancing Japanese soldiers. Some of the Japanese soldiers fell back into the water, but the rest continued their charge, bouncing up and down as their feet touched the river bottom, screaming battle cries and shaking their rifles and bayonets, anxious to engage the Americans in hand-to-hand combat.
Shilansky opened his eyes; it sounded as if he were in the middle of a thunder storm. “What’s going on?” he asked dazedly.
“Help me out, you fucking cocksucker!”
Shilansky turned toward the river, and his eyes goggled at the sight of the swarms of Japanese soldiers on the attack. Japanese machine-gun bullets raked across the front of the trench, and Shilansky ducked his head, but Frankie clicked his teeth nervously and continued to fire.
“I said help me out!"
Shilansky knew that the GIs had to fight back if they wanted to live through the day. Every GI had to take the chance, because it was the only chance they had. He raised himself and sat beside the machine gun, feeding the belt of ammunition into the slot, glancing nervously at the Japs, who now were halfway across the river and still advancing behind the cover of their machine-gun and small-arms fire. There were a great many of them, and Shilansky figured they’d concentrated their forces on that particular part of the line so they could achieve a breakthrough.
“Why us?” he muttered, guiding the belt of ammunition into the machine gun and looking at Frankie La Barbara, whose face was covered with dirt and sweat and whose teeth were bared, sparks flying out of his eyes, as he swung the machine gun from side to side and shot Japs.
The end of the belt flew through Shilansky’s hands, and the machine gun gobbled up the last bullets.
“Load me up!” screamed Frankie, unlatching the chamber plate.
Shilansky opened the next box of ammo and fed the belt into the chamber. Frankie slammed the plate down, took aim, and pulled the trigger. Nearby, Sergeant Cameron opened his eyes. He saw Frankie and Shilansky firing the machine gun and wondered what was going on. It was almost like a dream. He raised himself up and looked toward the river, seeing the Japs swarming across it.
“Holy shit!” he said.
Frankie and Shilansky ignored him. Sergeant Cameron picked up his rifle and rested it on the edge of the trench. He slammed a round into the chamber, clicked off the safety, and aimed at the lead Jap. He squeezed the trigger, and the butt of the M 1 rifle kicked into his shoulder.
In the river, a Japanese soldier clutched his chest, trying to stanch the flow of blood; but he couldn’t, and a second later he collapsed into the river, letting his rifle go and floating away toward the sea.
“Where’s the fucking artillery!” Colonel Hutchins screamed into his telephone.
“It’s on the fucking way!” replied Colonel Jessup at division headquarters.
“What’s the fucking holdup!”
“I said it’s on the fucking way!”
“When?"
“When it gets there!"
Click!
The phone went dead in Colonel Hutchins’s ear, and he turned to Major Cobb. “The cocksucker hung up on me!”
“Did he say it’s coming?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t say when.”
Colonel Hutchins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d received the reports from all his unit commanders and knew that his entire regiment was under attack. The Twenty-third would have to hold, because if it didn’t, General Hawkins would blame him. Whenever something went wrong, General Hawkins always looked for somebody to blame, as if that did any good.
Colonel Hutchins strode across the office and took down his .45-caliber Thompson submachine gun from a peg.
“Where you going with that?” Major Cobb asked.
“Where the fuck you think I’m going?” Colonel Hutchins dropped four bandoliers of ammo clips around his neck.
“Sir, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out there personally,” Major Cobb said sternly.
“Well, I’m going anyway. You hold down the fort. If anything happens to me, take over the regiment.”
“But, sir, you can lead the regiment better here!”
“That’s your opinion.”
Colonel Hutchins opened his desk drawer and took out a White Owl panatela. He lit it with his Ronson, dropped the Ronson into his pocket, and headed for the tent flap that led outside.
“Good luck, Cobb,” he muttered over his shoulder.
The attacking Japanese soldiers were ten yards from the east bank of the Driniumor River, and Lieutenant Breckenridge fired his carbine as quickly as he could. He didn’t waste time aiming carefully, because the Japs were bunched up and not far away and he couldn’t miss. Again and again he squeezed his trigger, and then the first Jap reached shallow water, running through it toward the bank, screaming happily, shaking his rifle and bayonet.
Lieutenant Breckenridge shot at him and missed, but his bullet struck a Japanese soldier farther back, piercing his windpipe, and that Japanese soldier collapsed into the water, blood burbling out of his mouth. The first Jap jumped onto the beach, shouted victoriously, and then caught a burst from Frankie La Barbara’s machine gun right in hi
s breadbasket, mangling his guts; the Jap was thrown backward by the force of the bullets. He fell in the path of other charging Japanese soldiers, who pushed him out of the way, maintaining the momentum of their advance.
They ran up the riverbank and plunged into the jungle, where the American soldiers were deployed in foxholes. Lieutenant Breckenridge could see them jumping into the lead foxholes, their bayonets flashing in the moonlight. He knew from experience that it wasn’t a good idea to wait for the Japs to come to you. It was better to counterattack and smash right into them, pushing them back or at least stopping them cold.
He stood in his foxhole and got ready to climb out, when he heard the whistle of artillery shells going over his head. The shells were headed from west to east, which meant they were friendly shells; sure enough, moments later the shells exploded in the river and on the far shore, blowing Japanese soldiers to bits, destroying their staging areas in the jungle, demolishing their mortar squads.
But still the main body of Japanese soldiers advanced, and Lieutenant Breckenridge knew they had to be stopped hand to hand and man to man. He climbed out of his foxhole; Pfc. Craig Delane watched his every move, wondering what he would do. Lieutenant Breckenridge held his carbine in his right hand and raised it high in the air.
“Forward!” he bellowed. “Follow me!"
He knew that many of his men couldn’t hear his voice above the din of the artillery, but they could see him and realize what he was up to. That was the value of all the training they’d done on Oahu. They’d played this identical scenario through many times already, but this time it was for real.
“Up and at ‘em!” Lieutenant Breckenridge yelled. “Follow me!"
Pfc. Craig Delane threw down his bazooka and walkie-talkie, because they’d only slow him down. It would be hand to hand and grim as hell from now on, and he didn’t want to be encumbered. He climbed out of the foxhole and stood erect, fixing the bayonet on the end of his carbine and then lurching forward, following Lieutenant Breckenridge forward into the thick of the battle.
