by Len Levinson
Major Cobb was confused. “Didn’t the bombardment last long enough, sir?”
“No.”
“Are the Japs still attacking, sir?”
“No.”
“Then why do you need more artillery?”
“Because we’re attacking this time. Pass along the word to all the units on this length of the river. We’re going across when I give the word.”
“On whose orders, sir?”
Colonel Hutchins slammed the heel of his fist onto the desk. “On my orders, goddamnit!”
“But, sir—”
“Don’t ‘but’ me! Do as I say!”
“Yes, sir.” Major Cobb reached for the phone.
“Not that phone! Use your own phone! I need to make a call myself!”
“Yes, sir!”
Major Cobb leaped to his feet and ran out of Colonel Hutchins’s office. Colonel Hutchins shouted, “Get me General Hawkins on the phone!”
“Yes, sir!” replied Sergeant Koch from the other section of the tent.
Colonel Hutchins picked up his receiver and listened as Sergeant Koch made the connections. Sergeant Koch talked with numerous clerks and aides, and finally Colonel Jessup’s voice came on the wire. “General Hawkins is busy right now,” he said.
“What happened to the artillery?” Colonel Hutchins thundered into the phone.
“Is that you, Hutchins?” Colonel Jessup asked.
“Well, it ain’t my mother! Put the general on the phone! I’ve got to speak with him!”
“I just told you that he’s busy right now.”
“Doing what?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“I said what’s he doing?”
“That’s an impertinent question!”
“Fuck you, Jessup! Tell General Hawkins that the Japs have broken through my line and I need to talk with him right away!”
“What?"
“You heard me! And tell him that the Japs are headed his way right now as I’m talking to you!”
“They are?"
“Are you gonna let me talk to him or aren’t you, you goddamned twirp!”
“Hang on a moment!”
Colonel Hutchins heard the muffled sounds of hysterical screaming, and he smiled, reaching for his flask. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and enjoyed a few more swallows. Then General Hawkins’s excited voice filled his ears.
“How many Japs are headed this way?"
“None. Relax. Calm down.”
“None?"
“That’s right.”
“But Colonel Jessup just told me that you told him that the Japs had broken through your line!”
“I lied,” Colonel Hutchins said.
“You lied?"
“What happened to my artillery?”
“How dare you lie to my operations officer!"
“If I didn’t lie to your operations officer, you wouldn’t have talked to me.”
There was silence on the other end. Colonel Hutchins opened his desk drawer and took out half a pack of Camel cigarettes. He flipped one into his mouth and lit it with his Ronson.
General Hawkins’s voice spoke softly into his ear; the voice sounded as though it was barely under control. “What did you want to speak with me about, Colonel?”
“I want that artillery back, General.”
“What for?”
“Because I’m going across the Driniumor.”
“Oh, no you’re not.”
“Oh, yes I am.”
“If you go across that river, I’ll court-martial you,” General Hawkins said.
“If you court-martial me, you’ll become the laughingstock of the Eighth Army, because how can you court-martial an officer who wins an important strategic objective for you?”
There was another pause on the other end of the telephone connection. Colonel Hutchins puffed his cigarette. His chest hurt when he inhaled. He wondered if a few of his ribs might be fractured.
“You think you can take the east bank of the Driniumor?” General Hawkins asked.
“No question about it. I got the Japs on the run, and if you give me some artillery support, I’ll be in like Flynn.”
“What if the Japs counterattack?”
“We kicked their asses over here. They ain’t got nothing to counterattack with; otherwise, they would’ve thrown them in by now.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“You gotta take chances in war, General. If you don’t know that by now, you oughtta turn in your stars.”
“I’d better back you up with something.”
“Not a bad idea.”
“How much artillery will you need?”
“All you can give me until"—Colonel Hutchins looked at his watch—"oh-four-thirty hours.”
“Okay, Colonel. Keep me advised of your progress.”
“Will do, General. Over and out.”
Colonel Hutchins hung up the phone and smiled with satisfaction. He puffed his cigarette and touched his ribs. They were tender, but the blood had dried. “Sergeant Koch!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Get in here!”
“Yes, sir!”
Seconds later Sergeant Koch burst into Colonel Hutchins’s office.
“Two things,” Colonel Hutchins said. “First of all, find Major Cobb and tell him I want to speak with him immediately. And second, get me a medic.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Koch spun around and ran out of the office. Colonel Hutchins leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag off his Camel cigarette. Half the time I have to fight the Japs, he mused, and the other half I have to fight the people on my own side, the dumb sons of bitches. He shook his head in despair and reached for his flask of bourbon.
The order was passed along that all units of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment would cross the Driniumor River at 0430 hours, right after the artillery bombardment ended, except for the Third Battalion, which would be held in reserve.
The artillery bombardment began at approximately 0410 hours, blasting the shit out of the jungle on the other side. The GIs huddled in their foxholes as fresh ammunition was delivered to them and medics tied bandages around wounds. The seriously injured were evacuated, and the dead were carried off by Graves Registry squads.
Lieutenant Breckenridge went from foxhole to foxhole, checked his platoon, finding out who was alive and who was dead. His left leg had been bandaged by a medic and didn’t hurt too badly, and his happiness at still being alive was matched by his chagrin over the orders that they had to assault the other side of the river.
He came to the foxhole where Frankie La Barbara and Morris Shilansky were situated with their machine gun, and slid inside.
“You two ready to go?” he asked.
“Yeah, we’re ready to go,” Frankie said, without much enthusiasm.
“Don’t forget to take that machine gun with you. We might need it on the other side.”
“What?” shouted Frankie. “Are you kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding,” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied. “What makes you think I’m kidding?”
“It’s so fucking heavy!”
“When we get on the other side, you’ll be glad you’ve got it.”
Frankie La Barbara looked at Shilansky. “You can carry the gun. I’ll take the boxes of ammo.”
“Fuck you,” Shilansky said. “You carry the gun.”
“Not me,” Frankie replied. “I carried it yesterday.”
“I carried it this morning.”
“I carried it longer yesterday than you did this morning.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge groaned and reached into his pocket. “You two get on my nerves, arguing all the time. I’ll flip a coin.”
“I’ll take heads!” Frankie declared.
“No, I want heads!” Shilansky said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge flipped the coin into the air with his thumbnail. “Frankie called it first,” he said. The coin toppled into the air and the
n dropped, landing on the back of Lieutenant Breckenridge’s left hand, and he covered it with the palm of his right hand. Then he lifted the palm away. “Tails,” he said. “Shilansky wins.”
Shilansky smiled as he turned to Frankie. “You carry the machine gun,” he said. “I’ll carry the ammo.”
“Your mother’s pussy,” Frankie replied.
Lieutenant Breckenridge walked toward his foxhole, dragging his ass. He was exhausted, hungry, and in pain from the wound on his leg. But he couldn’t relax and have something to eat. There was no time. The regiment was going to attack, and he knew why. In war you had to exploit your enemy’s weakness, and the Japs on the other side of the Driniumor were weak just then. The ground over there could be taken more cheaply now than later, when the Japs had reorganized and regrouped.
He slid into his foxhole; Craig Delane was sitting there, looking at his face in a small tin mirror, frowning at a two-inch cut on his left cheek. “I’m scarred for life,” he said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge ignored his remark. “Any calls?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m gonna close my eyes for a few minutes. Wake me up if anything happens.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge sat on the moist earth at the bottom of the hole, leaned his back against a wall, and closed his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the images of men sticking each other with bayonets and bashing each other with rifle butts. He went slack against the wall of the foxhole, falling asleep and dreaming about war.
Lieutenant Breckenridge’s jaw fell open, and Craig Delane thought that his platoon leader looked even worse than he did. Lieutenant Breckenridge was covered with blood. He had cuts on his arms, face, and various parts of his body. His fatigue shirt was torn to shreds. The bandage on his leg was soaked with blood.
Craig Delane took another look at his own face. At least he wasn’t disfigured. At least he still was alive. He put the mirror into his shirt pocket and thought of the battle he’d just been in. It had been so bloody and gruesome, he was amazed that he’d survived. At certain points he’d thought for sure that he’d be killed, but somehow he’d done the killing himself, perhaps out of the powerful insanity that comes from being pushed to extremes.
But would he get through the next one? Craig Delane put on his steel pot and raised his head above the edge of the trench. He gazed across the Driniumor River and saw explosions, smoke, and flames. How could anything survive that shelling? he wondered, but he recalled that on Guadalcanal he and the rest of the Twenty-third had been subjected to an incredible shelling that had gone on for hours, and the majority of the men had survived; they hadn’t even been dug in mat well.
Craig Delane was exhausted, but not so exhausted that he couldn’t feel anxiety. His stomach felt as though it were filled with acid, and the back of his throat burned. Electrical currents shot back and forth inside his skull. He couldn’t sit still but kept fidgeting with pebbles and the buttons of his uniform; he lit up a cigarette and puffed nervously.
He thought of his father and mother back in New York City, and got mad. They’d never done a goddamn thing for him, even though they had lots of money. All they cared about was appearances. All they wanted was for other people to look up to them and admire them. If he were to be killed in battle, it would be the best thing that had ever happened to them. They could puff out their chests and brag that they’d given a son for their country. That would make it all right for them to be dirty, rotten, filthy, stinking rich.
Craig Delane smiled grimly, because his thoughts had caused him somehow to make a simple obvious connection in his mind. Maybe I fight so hard to stay alive because I don’t want to give my mother and father the satisfaction they’d derive from my death! He reached into the pocket of his tattered fatigue shirt and took out a package of Chesterfields. Lighting one up, he inhaled and swore that he’d remain alive by any means available so that he wouldn’t give his mother and father the honor of having lost a son in the war.
The sun rose in the sky but still could not be seen through the explosions and trees on the other side of the river. The illumination made the smoke silvery and cast an eerie glow on the tortured, heaving jungle under bombardment. GIs peered at the opposite side of the river and hoped the artillery shells would kill all the Japs. They didn’t want to go through two hand-to-hand fights in the same day.
The shelling diminished and a minute later stopped entirely. Lieutenant Breckenridge opened his eyes and turned around, blinking, trying to wake up totally. He saw whirlpools of smoke and crackling flames on the other side of the river. The time had come for the attack, and already he could hear battle cries up and down the Twenty-third Regiment’s lines.
With one mighty leap he landed on the ground above the foxhole. He raised his carbine above his head and screamed, “Follow me!"
Stretching out his left foot, he began his run toward the river, the straps of his helmet dancing in the air like crazy snakes. The air was filled with the odor of gunpowder and burning vegetation. The Driniumor River twinkled in the light of the sun, and the men from the recon platoon came up out of their foxholes, brandishing their rifles and shouting at the top of their lungs.
Sergeant Cameron let out a Rebel yell. Frankie La Barbara made a Bronx cheer. Craig Delane roared like a lion. Corporal Lupe Gomez called the Japs faggots in Spanish. The men from the recon platoon swept down to the river and jumped in, kicking through the water, raising their rifles and bayonets high over their heads, hoping the Japs were too stunned by the artillery bombardment to open fire.
Craig Delane was a few feet behind Lieutenant Breckenridge, carrying the platoon’s walkie-talkie and bazooka, in addition to his own M 1 carbine. The water rose up to Craig Delane’s chest, and his arms were tired already from holding all the weight in the air. Somebody was talking on the walkie-talkie, but he couldn’t hold it to his ear and find out what was being said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge leaped through the water like a wild horse, far in front of the recon platoon, his finger on the trigger of his carbine, ready to fire. He knew that the sooner he and his men reached the other side and found shelter, the better off they’d be. “Let’s fucking go!” he yelled. “Charge!"
The water was up to his chest, and the current was strong. He bounded forward and noticed that the water was moving down toward his waist. This made him realize that he’d passed the midway point in the river.
“Faster!” he screamed. “Hit that fucking beach!"
Still there was no Japanese fire. The jungle ahead looked like nightmare alley. The water was down to Lieutenant Breckenridge’s thighs, and he could make greater speed. Stretching out his long legs, he kicked water in all directions. Dead Japanese soldiers and mangled, blown-up portions of Japanese soldiers were sprawled all over the bank straight ahead. Lieutenant Breckenridge dashed forward; the water was down to his ankles now. He charged up the muddy bank and plunged into the jungle full of shattered trees and deep shell craters.
“Lets go!” he hollered. “Hit it!"
The men from the recon platoon, soaking wet, followed him out of the river and into the jungle. They ran around splintered tree trunks and hopped over holes in the ground, holding their rifles and bayonets ready to kill Japs.
Lieutenant Breckenridge slowed down, because he didn’t want to lead his men into a trap. He stepped forward, peering into the devastated vegetation for signs of Japs. His orders were to move into the jungle about fifty yards, dig in, and await further instructions. He figured he was nearly fifty yards in then, but he advanced another ten yards to be sure, then turned around and ordered, “Take cover!"
The men from the recon platoon dived into shell craters or huddled behind logs and the stumps of trees. Lieutenant Breckenridge jumped into a hole and got down low. Craig Delane joined him a few seconds later, landing on his knees, still carrying all his equipment.
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned to Crai
g Delane. “Call Major Cobb and tell him we’ve reached our objective.”
“Yes, sir.”
Craig Delane raised the walkie-talkie to his face, pressed the button, and spoke the code words assigned to Major Cobb. Lieutenant Breckenridge listened to Craig Delane’s report as he gazed at the jungle ahead. He realized now that the Japs had retreated beyond that area and were off in the jungle someplace, regrouping and preparing for the next round.
But the GIs from the Twenty-third had won the first round. Lieutenant Breckenridge turned toward his men and cupped his hands around his mouth. “All right, you guys!” he yelled. “Dig in where you are, and dig in deep!"
