by Len Levinson
Nutsy Gafooley was listening to a message on the walkie-talkie. “Sarge,” he said, “Captain Orr says the artillery barrage is gonna stop any minute now, so get ready.”
The men groaned and grumbled as they got to their feet. They didn't know what was waiting for them at the top of the hill and wondered if they'd get through the day alive. DelFranco had returned and Bannon assigned him to the First Squad, retaining Nutsy Gafooley as his runner. DelFranco was in a foul mood and determined to show everyone he could soldier as well as any of them.
They all formed their skirmish line, linking up with George Company's First Platoon on their left and Second Platoon on their right. Company G would assault one of the pillboxes, and Company F the other. E Company would be in reserve, and H Company, the heavy-weapons company, would provide fire support.
The Second Battalion was ready to move out. Colonel Smith was behind them with his staff, close to the radio, looking through his binoculars at the wreath of smoke on Hill Thirty-one.
The barrage ended and an unearthly silence filled the jungle.
"Move it out!” shouted Captain Orr.
The recon platoon and George Company advanced through the jungle in a solid wave, the men holding their rifles at port arms, their helmets low over their eyes. Some wore raggedy shirts; others wore no shirts at all. They were filthy, smelled bad, and their mouths tasted like shit. But up they went, mechanically putting one foot in front of the other, knowing they'd come under fire at any minute, each hoping the first machine-gun burst wouldn't contain the bullet with his name on it.
There was no breeze, and all the birds and monkeys had fled the jungle. Only the insects remained, dive-bombing the GIs and sucking their blood. The GIs slapped the bugs, leaving red smears on their skin. The suspense was terrible. Every step brought them closer to the Japanese machine guns, and they knew the slant-eyed bastards were waiting for them. The bombardment couldn't have killed them all. They didn't know that the bombardment hadn't killed even one Jap.
Two-thirds of the way up the hill they heard rat-tat-tat-tat as the machine guns opened fire. The advance was stopped cold. Men dived to the ground and tried to burrow into it. Hot lead whizzed over their heads and Bannon thought, Here we go again.
"Fire your weapons.!” yelled Captain Orr. "Let's go!”
The GIs fired up the hill but couldn't see a damn thing through the tangled jungle and lingering smoke from the artillery bombardment. However, the Japs could see them, because the GIs weren't dug in. The GIs’ fire did no good whatever, and the GIs knew it.
"Keep Moving!” Captain Orr yelled. "Get your fucking asses in gear!”
The GIs gritted their teeth and crawled into the hornet's nest of bullets. They still were nearly four hundred yards from the machine guns, so they were able to make only slow, excruciating progress. It took an hour to crawl a hundred yards, and George Company suffered ten casualties. Finally they could advance no more. The Japanese machine guns were too much for them. You can't fight what you can't see. Captain Orr got on the radio to Colonel Smith.
“We're pinned down,” he said, discouragement in his voice. “We can't move.”
“Get your mortars set up and advance behind them!” Colonel Smith replied.
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Orr called for his heavy-weapons platoon, and the mortars were set up behind the main line. Captain Orr's machine-gun squads established positions on the company's flanks and raked the jungle ahead with bullets. The mortars fired, blasting holes in the ground and wreaking havoc among the trees. They were firing blindly, hut their purpose was to obscure the vision of the Japanese machine gunners.
"Let's go!” Captain Orr screamed. "Move it out!”
The GIs crawled up the hill behind the supporting fire. The Japanese machine guns continued shooting, but with less intensity and accuracy. The GIs felt that they finally were getting somewhere, but after fifty yards Captain Orr ordered a halt to let his machine-gun crews catch up.
Bannon took the opportunity to light a cigarette. He smoked it with his cheek lying on the moist earth, the scar on his side bothering him. He was getting a headache. This fucking war, he thought, getting mad. I hate this fucking war. I hate those fucking Japs. I hate everybody.
The new machine-gun positions were set up and they commenced firing. The mortars resumed their walking barrage.
"Forward!” shouted Captain Orr.
Company G resumed their slow crawl up the hill. The sounds of battle were deafening, and Japanese bullets whistled over their heads. Somebody down the line screamed as a bullet bore through his shoulder. Another man went slack as a bullet smashed through his helmet and entered his brain.
"Medic!” somebody yelled.
"Keep moving!” called Captain Orr.
Company G and the rest of the Second Battalion slithered up the hill. They were within three hundred yards of the Japanese machine guns now, but they still couldn't see anything. The GIs continued their crawl, taking an occasional casualty, and then, when they were about 250 yards from the Japanese machine-gun bunkers, they suddenly came under fire from other bunkers that they hadn't even known about.
All the Japanese bunkers were mutually supporting, and the bunkers now opening fire were able to rake the Second Battalion from the sides. The GIs were caught in a murderous crossfire, in addition to the fire from ahead, and twenty men were hit in the first few seconds.
All hell broke loose, and the GIs didn't have to wait for an order; they turned tail and crawled down the hill as fast as they could.
"Pull back!” Captain Orr ordered. "Keep your heads down!”
Some of the GIs panicked and jumped to their feet, trying to run away. They were cut down before they could cover five yards, and they went spinning to the ground, blood spurting from holes in their bodies.
"Stay the fuck down!”
The mortars and machine-gun squads were pulling back, too, so the company didn't even have fire support anymore. The retreat was turning into a rout as Japanese machine gun bullets buzzed in all directions. Private Citrino in Bannon's Third Squad was shot clear through the pelvis and fell to the ground, screaming, but nobody stopped to pick him up; there was no time for that.
Captain Orr lay close to the ground and called Colonel Smith. “The shit has hit the fan up here! Put some artillery up on that goddamn hill!”
“Will do.”
Colonel Smith called artillery and in seconds the howitzers were firing. The big guns were still zeroed in on the top of the hill, and once again it was smashed by artillery shells. The Japanese machine gunners couldn't see, and the resounding explosions all around them made it hard for them to think, but they kept firing anyway. Their shots went wild and the GIs jumped up, running down the hill to safety. Their packs bounced up and down on their backs as they sucked wind and ran as fast as they could. Soon they had enough jungle behind them to feel secure and slowed down.
Captain Orr was the last one to pull back, and he hadn't taken more than ten steps when a big Japanese machine-gun bullet hit him in the leg and sent him flying to the ground. He writhed and squirmed, trying to stanch the flow of blood with the palm of his hand, while his runner and executive officer dragged him down the hill.
When he'd caught up with the others, his medics rushed to him and worked on his leg while he gasped and called Colonel Smith again.
“My company's safe,” he reported.
Colonel Smith heard the weird urgency in his voice. “What the hell's the matter with you?”
“I got a bullet in my leg.”
“You'd better get down to the aid station.”
“I'm okay. I can stay here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I'm sure.”
Colonel Smith received messages from his other companies, and it was all the same: Each battalion had had the shit kicked out of it on Hill Thirty-one. He realized the Japanese fortifications were even tougher than he'd thought.
He walked down the hill to his ten
t, chomping his cigar and wondering what to do next. His staff officers and aides followed him, feeling defeated. When they came to his tent, he told them to order all units to stay where they were, and then he went into his tent to be alone with his thoughts and his flask of jungle juice.
He sat at his desk and took the flask out of his footlocker, taking a swig, letting it burn all the way down. He thought the only solution to the problem of Hill Thirty-one was massive firepower and more troops. They'd pound the Jap positions on Hill Thirty-one and the hills nearby until they were softened up and then try again.
His tent was divided in two parts; the other part was the office of his sergeant major, radio operator, and executive officer. He tucked his flask into his footlocker and waddled out to the other office to call Colonel Stockton at Regiment.
“Sir,” he said, after the call went through, “we've just been thrown back on our heels. There's more up there than we thought. I think it'll take the whole regiment to break through, and only then after we've softened up those hills.”
“Do you have any better idea of where those nests are?”
“Yes, sir, but we still can't spot them exactly. The situation is all fucked up as usual. At least we've learned two things. The first is the Japs don't have any artillery up there, otherwise they would have shelled the shit out of us. The second is that they're pretty well dug in, because my own artillery barrage didn't make a dent in them.”
“We'll bring up the heavy stuff, then. And we'll hit them from the air. They might be tough but they're not that tough. Anything else?”
“Not at present, sir.”
“Call me when you get more information. Over and out.”
As dusk fell on Guadalcanal, Colonel Stockton had a fairly clear picture of what was in front of him, although many pieces to the puzzle were still missing. He agreed with Colonel Smith that it would take more than the Second Battalion to bust through the Jap fortifications. It was time to call General Patch, who'd relieved General Vandegrift as top commander on Guadalcanal. Colonel Stockton stood next to his radio operator in his command-post tent as the call went through.
“This is General Patch,” said the voice on the other end.
Colonel Stockton told him the bad news and didn't try to hide anything about the Second Battalions's defeat. “I think it'll take my whole regiment to wipe out the enemy in front of me, but first we'll need heavy artillery and air strikes.”
“I'll give you whatever you need,” General Patch said.
After the conversation Colonel Stockton felt optimistic about taking the Jap stronghold. If the Japs could be hammered by artillery and air power sufficiently, the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment could do the job. He retired to his office, sat behind his desk, lit up his pipe, and started working his with maps, laying out the tactics that would destroy the Gifu Line.
Chow trucks couldn't get through to the front, so the Second Battalion had to eat C rations for supper. The men were exhausted and chewed their food lazily. It was the end of Christmas day and they'd had no presents, no letters from home. Homer Gladley was still hungry after he finished eating—he was always hungry—and to distract himself he took his harmonica out of his shirt pocket and played “Silent Night.”
The men listened, thinking of home. Bannon remembered his previous Christmas, which he'd celebrated with his girl friend, Ginger Gregg, and some of the people from the saloon where she worked as a waitress. They'd danced, gotten drunk, and had a grand old time, but now Bannon hadn't received a letter from her for nearly a month, and he wondered who she was dancing with this Christmas. She's probably forgotten all about me, Bannon thought.
Bannon tossed his empty C ration can over his shoulder and lit a cigarette. Gladley ended “Silent Night” and began “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.” Bannon wondered where Gladley got his energy from. Bannon was so exhausted, he wasn't sure if he wanted to finish his cigarette.
“Can I talk with you, Sarge?”
Bannon looked up and saw Private DelFranco. “Whataya want?”
“I want a transfer.”
“To where.”
“Anywhere but the recon platoon.”
“How come?”
“I don't like it here.”
“Why not?”
DelFranco kneeled in front of Bannon and looked him in the eye. “Because you don't like me.”
Bannon spat at the ground. “Listen, DelFranco. I don't have time for this horseshit. I don't like you and I don't dislike you. I don't give a shit about you at all. Just do what you're told and you'll be all right.”
DelFranco didn't budge. “You don't think I'm good enough for the recon platoon, do you?”
“I just told you to get the fuck away from me.”
“Do you think I'm good enough for the recon platoon?”
“I ain't never thought about it. I told you I don't give a shit. When things settle down, you can put in for a transfer through normal channels. Now get the fuck out of here.”
DelFranco stood and walked away. He's acting like an asshole, Bannon thought, and wondered how Butsko would have handled DelFranco. He decided that Butsko would have told him to fuck off too.
It was night in the hospital and the lights were out. Nurse Grimsby, tall, gawky, freckled, and not very pretty, was making her rounds. She was a nervous young woman, always worrying about something, and she was knock-kneed on top of everything else. Never married, she was revolted by all the screwing around done by most of the other nurses on the base, and she was trying to keep herself pure for the man of her dreams, whenever he came along.
Frankie La Barbara stood in the shadows and watched her approach down the corridor. He wore only his pajama bottoms and had a mad gleam in his eyes, because for some strange reason Nurse Grimsby turned him on. There was something about icy, tense, hysterical women that he liked, and moreover he knew he'd be sent back to the front soon, and he wanted to screw as many nurses as he could. He'd already made it with five of them and wanted to raise his total to an even half-dozen.
“Hi, Nurse Grimsby,” he said as she came abreast of him.
She nearly jumped out of her shoes. “Who's there?”
“Frankie La Barbara.”
“What are you doing hiding in the corner there?” She smoothed her hair with her hands and then adjusted the wire-rimmed glasses on her long, thin nose. “You'd better get to bed this instant!”
“I got a pain, Nurse Grimsby.”
“Where?”
Frankie pointed to his stomach. “Down here.”
“You probably drank too much.”
“I ain't had a drink all day. I think it's my appendix.”
Nurse Grimsby wrinkled her nose, because she knew all about Frankie La Barbara. He was a wise guy and a goldbrick, and once she'd heard some nurses talking about what a good lover he was. She thought him a perfectly disgusting human being, but maybe he did have appendicitis. She'd better have a look.
“Come with me, please.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
He followed her down the corridor, looking at her skinny ass underneath her white dress. But he knew it wasn't that skinny. He'd seen her bend over once, and it had a nice shape. It wasn't a magnificent ass, like Nurse Gleason's or even Nurse Kilbane's, but it was a nice ass just the same and he wanted to reach under her dress and give it a pinch.
“In here,” she said, opening the door to an examining room.
She turned on the light and entered the office. He followed her in, his straight black hair neatly combed. He'd shaved only an hour ago. He'd also taken a shower. Frankie La Barbara was ready to roll.
“Lie down here,” she said.
“Yes, ma'am.”
Frankie lay on the examining table, spread his legs, and looked up into her eyes.
He's flirting, she thought. I'll bet there's nothing wrong with him. “Where does it hurt.”
He pointed to the pit of his stomach. “Right here.”
She pressed down on the spot with the
fingers of his right hand. “How does that feel?”
“That feels real nice, Nurse Grimsby.”
She gave him a dirty look and pressed to the left. “How about this?”
“That feels even better, Nurse Grimsby.”
She pressed to the right. “What about here.”
“Oh, that felt wonderful, Nurse Grimsby. You have the nicest hands.”
She looked sternly at him. “I don't think there's a damn thing wrong with you, La Barbara. What are you trying to pull?”
“This,” he said, pushing down his pajamas and revealing a big nasty hard-on.
She made a little cry of surprise and took a step back, staring at the long, thick, throbbing monster in front of her.
“This is an outrage!” she said. “I'm calling the MPs right now!”
Frankie leaped up from the table and grabbed her wrist. “What are you gonna tell them, that I took my dick out?”
She tried to shake her hand loose. “Let me go!”
“Ssshhhhhh.”
“I said let me go!”
He pulled her hand down and rubbed it against his joint. His pajamas were down around his ankles and he was stark naked.
“Isn't it nice?” he cooed into her ear. “Why don't you make it feel good.”
Frankie was a good-looking Italian stallion with a golden tan, and Nurse Grimsby was a very sexually frustrated young woman. She'd only been laid a few times in her life and she hadn't liked it much, thinking there was something wrong with her, and she was tormented by torrid erotic dreams nearly every night. Frankie's pecker was hot and smooth, muscular, and thrilling against the back of her hand. Nurse Grimsby was starting to feel strange.
“Please let me go,” she whispered, trembling all over as Frankie rubbed her hand over the head of his cock.
“I love you, Nurse Grimsby,” he said, pulling up her dress. Frankie knew what her problem was, even if she didn't.
