by Len Levinson
“A little roast pork, sir.”
“Set it down over here, boy.”
Bannon placed it on the desk.
“Have a seat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bannon sat on one of the chairs, and Colonel Stockton took his knife and fork out of a drawer, along with his canteen.
“Sure smells good,” the colonel said, slicing into the meat. “How'd you get it?”
“One of my men snuck up on it and killed it with his bayonet.”
“Sounds like quite a feat.”
“He's an Indian, sir. He's real good at that kind of thing.”
“Oh, yes, the Apache Indian. What's his name?”
“Longtree, sir.”
Colonel Stockton placed a chunk of the meat into his mouth and chewed, rolling his eyes. “This is marvelous—simply marvelous.” He continued eating, making sounds of satisfaction. When he finished he drank some water, then stuffed and filled his pipe.
“That's real nice work you did today,” he said, puffing the pipe. “I'm not talking about the roast pork; I'm talking about Hill Twenty-seven. Butsko couldn't have done better.”
“Oh, I think Butsko could've done a lot better, sir.”
“Well, you're doing all right yourself. How's my recon platoon?”
“Okay, sir.”
“What do you think of Colonel Smith?”
“He's a good officer.”
“What about Captain Orr.”
“A tough son of a gun.”
“Good. I'm glad you're getting along well. Day after tomorrow you're gonna lead the attack on Hill Twenty-seven. Well, not you personally, but the whole recon platoon. We'll crack that Jap stronghold up there wide open. You'll go up the hill at night and take them by surprise at daybreak. Shouldn't be too much trouble. What do you think?”
“I don't know, sir. We'll find out when we get there, I guess.”
“Yes, of course.” Colonel Stockton grunted. He scratched his nose, feeling ill at ease with Bannon, because Bannon was so obviously ill at ease with him. Bannon was afraid of officers. Butsko wasn't afraid of officers. Butsko could even help plan operations.
“Well,” Colonel Stockton said, “thanks for the chow. Good luck on the assault. Just do what you've been doing and you'll be all right.”
Bannon knew he was being told to hit the road. He stood and saluted. “Yes, sir.” Then he did an about-face and marched out of the office.
TWELVE . . .
The next day the regiment got organized for the assault on Hill Twenty-seven. Ammunition was brought to the front, and the line of march was established. Colonel Stockton's plans were discussed down through the echelons, and by mid-afternoon everybody knew what he was supposed to do. Then everyone had to wait, because they wouldn't move out until after dark.
The men cleaned their weapns and sharpened their bayonets. Some tried to sleep, but few could doze off; the tension and expectation were too much. There was always another hill to take, and then another valley, and then a river, and then another hill. The war just went on and on. There was no escape except in a pine box, and nobody wanted that kind of escape. They didn't even want to think about it.
Bannon sat against a tree and blew a plume of smoke into the air. The attack in the morning seemed like it wouldn't be too difficult, but anything could go wrong. Maybe there were machine-gun nests on that hill that Longtree hadn't seen. What if the Japs spotted them moving into position during the night?
If I'm lucky, I'll get my million-dollar wound, Bannon thought. Just enough to send me back to the States, but not enough to fuck me up too much. But with my luck I'II probably get shot right in the head, and that'll be the end of me.
Mail was delivered to Betty Crawford's station in the early afternoon, and she thought she'd pass it out right away, because she knew how important mail was to the wounded GIs. She glanced through the stack as she carried it out into the corridor, and on the bottom she was surprised to see a letter for Master Sergeant John Butsko. As far as she knew, this was the first letter Butsko had received since he'd been in the hospital.
The letter was mangled and dirty. According to the scribbling, it had been sent to Guadalcanal and then forwarded to New Caledonia. She figured it had been up on the front lines.
It was mailed from somebody named Dorothy Butsko, who lived in Hawaii. Who is that? Betty wondered. His mother? His sister? His wife? She passed the letters out to the men lying in bed, then went outside and gave letters to the men playing checkers, cards, and other games. Butsko was sitting alone under a tree, smoking a cigarette and reading a military manual.
“Sergeant Butsko!” she said as she approached. “I have a letter for you.”
She handed him the letter. He looked at the return address in the upper left hand corner and groaned.
“Bad news?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“How do you know if you haven't even opened it up yet?”
“Because it's from my wife, and she's always bad news.”
Butsko grunted and tore open the letter. Betty walked away, wondering what Butsko's problem was with his wife. Somehow she couldn't imagine him as a married man living in a house with a wife and kids. She could only see him living in a barrack or a tent, cursing and giving orders, smoking his unhealthy cigarettes.
When she was close to the building she paused and casually looked around as if she were enjoying the view. Actually she wanted to get another look at Butsko. She saw him reading the letter, and he didn't appear happy.
After nightfall the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment moved out toward Hill Twenty-seven. There were sixteen companies in the regiment, with over a hundred men and officers in each company, so that added up to a lot of men traveling through the darkness with equipment and ammunition.
Some companies got lost, and other companies fell out of radio contact. A few companies dropped behind and other companies moved too quickly. It was a big mess, but no different from any other major troop movement at night in difficult terrain.
Finally around midnight all the units were in position at the base of the hill. It was too early to advance, so everybody had to stop. The men sat around the jungle and weren't permitted to smoke. Some slept but most were too keyed up. The hours passed slowly and everybody had too much time to think. Then, at two o'clock in the morning, the order came to ascend the hill. The men got up, formed columns, and moved out. Their officers and noncoms urged them to be quiet, so they wouldn't alert the Japs, but it was difficult to be quiet in the thick, dark jungle, and there were stretches of steep, rocky slopes where men lost their footing and dropped equipment.
The recon platoon climbed the side of the hill that Longtree had been on the day before yesterday. Longtree led the way, trying to pick out familiar terrain details in the darkness, and behind the recon platoon came Company G, with Captain Orr limping forward with his men. At any moment they expected the Japs to open fire on them, but gradually they neared the crest of the hill and no Japs spotted them.
Now it was time to wait again. Exhausted, the men collapsed onto the ground, and this time nearly every one fell asleep. They and George Company were among the first units to reach the attack line, and the other units had to get into position. The attack was set for 0630 hours, shortly after dawn. The soldiers looked up at the sky and saw clouds obscuring the moon and stars. They hoped it wouldn't rain. It was hell to fight in the rain.
The wind picked up, and by 0600 hours the clouds had been blown from the sky. They could see the moon and the heavens glittering with stars. A faint glow appeared on the horizon; the sun was coming up. Officers and NCOs woke their men up and told them to get ready. Skirmish lines were established and the men checked their weapons and equipment. The officers glanced at their watches, waiting for the hands to reach 0630 hours.
The recon platoon stood around glumly as the top of the sun appeared over the trees, casting a golden glow onto their faces. They were grim, filthy, unshaven. They hadn't had brea
kfast and some had to take a shit, but there was no time. Their mouths tasted terrible. Some had trenchfoot. A few had a touch of malaria. But you had to forget about all those things when you attacked.
All the synchronized watches finally reached 0630 hours. In low voices the officers told the men to advance. The GIs moved quickly through the jungle, because they wanted to hit the Japs before the Japs knew what was happening. Bannon held his rifle in front of him, to keep branches and leaves from striking out his eyes, while glancing at the ground to make sure he wouldn't trip over anything or fall into a hole. The time for silence was over. The regiment sounded like a stampeding herd of cattle as it drew the noose around the top of the hill.
"Move it out!” yelled Captain Orr. "Dress right and cover down! Let's hit ‘em!”
The sun was a red copper ball above the trees as Bannon and the recon platoon exploded out of the jungle and into the clearing. The Japanese soldiers were sleeping in the open around their bunker, and they jumped up in alarm, still groggy from sleep, reaching for their rifles and trying to retreat quickly.
They didn't have a chance. The GIs overwhelmed them before the Japs knew what was happening. The GIs fired their rifles from the waist, cutting down the fleeing Japs, and their screams of pain and alarm filled the air. Then the GIs got in close and went to work with their bayonets.
The remaining Japs realized now that they couldn't get away, and all they could do was stand and fight for their Emperor. They turned around and raised their rifles and bayonets with bony, wizened arms.
"Banzai!” one of the shouted. "Tenno heika banzai!”
"Banzai!” the others replied.
Bannon butted one of them in the face, stabbed another in the stomach, and slashed at a third, but that Jap blocked the blow with the barrel of his rifle and tried to kick Bannon in the balls. Bannon twisted to the side, receiving the kick on his outer thigh, and then he shot his rifle butt at the Jap's face, but the Jap ducked. Bannon's forward motion sent him crashing and they both fell to the ground, clawing at each other's face, trying to grab each other's throat, punching and kicking and kneeing.
They rolled over on the ground, their faces only inches apart, and Bannon could see the Jap's sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Bannon punched the Jap in the stomach and was rocked by a punch in the mouth from the Jap, then each of them grabbed the other's throat and squeezed.
Bannon felt himself being suffocated, but he pressed his thumbs on the Jap's throat with all his strength. Hatred blazed out of the Jap's eyes as he coughed and gagged, trying to strangle Bannon, who thought he would black out at any moment. Bannon saw the specter of death in front of him and made one last supreme effort, tightening his fingers around the Jap's throat. Suddenly the Jap's fingers loosed around Bannon's throat. Bannon squeezed harder and the Jap's eyes rolled up into his head. The Jap went limp, and Bannon continued to squeeze, to make sure the Jap wasn't playing possum. Then Bannon jumped up, picked up his rifle and bayonet, and ran the Jap through.
Private DelFranco ran into the clearing like a madman, eager to kill Japs and prove himself a man. He found himself facing a Japanese soldier about the same size as he. DelFranco had been anxious to fight and kill, but now that he was face-to-face with a Jap, his mind went blank. He didn't know what to do first, and when he was aware that he didn't know what to do, he became terrified.
The Jap knew what to do and he did it, thrusting his rifle and bayonet at DelFranco's heart. Instinctively, DelFranco ducked out of the way. The Jap looked down at him, readjusted his aim, and the Jap charged him, holding his rifle and bayonet parallel to the ground.
DelFranco was so scared he nearly fainted, then realized he'd left his rifle and bayonet lying on the ground. He saw the Jap's rifle and bayonet streaking toward his heart, and all he could do was dive on it, clutching the barrel and stock of the Jap's rifle in his hands, deflecting the blow.
The Jap tried to pull his rifle away from DelFranco's grasp, but DelFranco didn't dare let it go. He held on in a mad frenzy as the Jap tugged and yanked, and then the frustrated Jap tried to kick DelFranco in the balls, so DelFranco let go of the Jap's rifle and jumped backward to avoid the blow.
Now DelFranco was unarmed and vulnerable again as the Jap stalked him. All around them men stabbed each other with bayonets and bashed each other in the face. DelFranco wanted to run away, but the Jap would stab him in the back. He didn't know whether to shit or go blind. My God, I'm gonna die, he thought.
The Jap lunged, and DelFranco dodged out of the way. The Jap lunged again, and this time when DelFranco dodged he saw a Japanese Arisaka rifle lying on the ground. He picked it up and got ready, and when the Jap lunged again, he managed to parry the blow just the way they'd taught him in basic training at Fort Cambell, Kentucky. The Jap feinted with his rifle and bayonet, suckering DelFranco into a parry that left DelFranco wide open. The Jap lunged again and DelFranco hopped out of the way, then slashed down at the Jap with his own rifle and bayonet.
The blade of his bayonet caught the Jap on the neck and sliced down to his collarbone. Blood gushed out, and DelFranco looked at it, astonished. The flow of blood to the Jap's brain was diminished, and the Jap blacked out, falling at DelFranco's feet. DelFranco looked down and couldn't believe his eyes. How did I do that?
The Jap stirred. DelFranco figured he'd better finish him off. He raised his rifle and bayonet and harpooned him through the chest; then, when he tried to pull out, the bayonet wouldn't budge, because it was firmly lodged in the Jap's ribs. DelFranco remembered that you were supposed to shoot your way loose when that happened, so he pulled the trigger and the Jap's chest exploded, sending blood, bone, and gristle flying through the air, much of it landing on DelFranco's uniform. DelFranco took a step backward, surveying the mutilated body of the Japanese soldier lying in front of him, the first man he'd ever killed in his life.
The dazed DelFranco would have been a sitting duck for a Jap just then, but the Japs had been overwhelmed in the first onslaught by the GIs. A few of them ran to their bunker, and Longtree ran after them, accompanied by Shilansky, Shaw, and Homer Gladley from the First Squad. They shot the Japs in the back, jumped into the trench, and charged into the bunker.
A few Japs were inside, and a volley of shots were fired from both sides. The GIs were moving quickly as they entered the bunker, making difficult targets, while the Japs were lying or kneeling on the floor. When the smoke cleared the three Japs were dead. One was a young lieutenant. Shaw and Homer Gladley were unscathed, but Shilansky had been shot in his upper left thigh and rolled around on the ground, howling in pain.
"Medic!”
Pfc. Blum entered the bunker with his bag of medicines and knelt beside Shilansky, cutting his pants away from the wound. Bannon and the rest of the platoon squeezed into the bunker to see what was going on as George and Easy Company swarmed over that part of the hill.
Suddenly the chatter of machine guns were heard. The bunker was being fired upon. GIs dived into the trench or hit the dirt where they were. It took a while for them to figure out that the bullets were coming from Hill Twenty-nine, but they didn't know exactly where the machine gun was.
Captain Orr crawled through the trench and into the bunker. "Take cover and get ready for a counterattack!”
The GIs loaded their weapons and got ready. The most likely time to get hit with a counterattack was right after you took something, when you were tired and low on ammunition. Japanese machine guns raked the bunker the GIs had just taken, and the GIs held their heads low, expecting the worst.
Captain Yatsu's face drained of color as the message came in on the radio. He swallowed hard and walked toward Major Uchikoshi, who sat cross-legged on the floor in front of his low desk, sipping a cup of weak tea.
“Sir,” said Captain Yatsu, “bunkers Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine have been taken by the Americans!”
"What!”
“Bunkers Thirty-eight and...”
“I heard what you said!” Major Uchikoshi rep
lied, jumping to his feet. He looked around frantically, because this was most unwelcome news. "How did this happen? What went wrong?”
“I don't know, sir.”
Major Uchikoshi stomped to the radio, pushed the radio operator off his chair, and sat down.
“This is Major Uchikoshi calling Bunker Thirty-eight. Come in Bunker Thirty-eight. Do you read me? Over?”
“Up your ass with a ten inch meathook,” came the reply in English.
Major Uchikoshi didn't speak English, but the voice told him Americans had captured the bunker. It was early in the morning; the Americans must have launched a sneak attack and taken the defenders by surprise. How had they taken them by surprise? He knew the answer. Bunkers Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine had never been attacked before and he didn't think the Americans knew where they were.
“Captain Yatsu!”
“Yes, sir!”
Major Uchikoshi stood up and walked toward Captain Yatsu, who expected to get the firing squad, although he was in no way responsible for what had happened.
“Captain Yatsu, I am hereby making you personally responsible for the security of our bunkers. We must be prepared for the Americans at all times. Evidently discipline became lax in Bunkers Thirty-eight and Thirty-nine. They saw no point in posting guards at night, because they didn't think the Americans knew where they were. That was stupid. There can be no more losses like these. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go to work on it.”
Captain Yatsu sat at his desk to draft the order, and Major Uchikoshi paced back and forth in the bunker, his hands clasped behind his back. Now he'd lost four bunkers, and American patrols were constantly reconnoitering the Gifu Line, gathering new information about it every hour. Soon they'd have the bunkers pinpointed and their big attack would begin. Major Uchikoshi wished they'd attack and get it over with. The waiting and constant attrition, coupled with inadequate diet and little sleep, was driving him nuts. They'll pay heavily for the Gifu when they come, he thought. The hills and valleys around here will be awash with American blood.
