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  He heard something pass through the leaves over his head and looked up. An oblong gray metal object the size of an apple was falling toward him. Sergeant Takayuki’s eyes bugged out of his head.

  “Grenade!” he screamed.

  He jumped up to catch the grenade and throw it back, but it exploded before he could grasp it, blowing off his head and arms. He flew through the air like a rag doll, and seconds later more grenades exploded throughout the thicket, blowing up Japanese soldiers. Those who weren’t blown up were horrified by the sudden turn of events. They fled from the thicket, but the GIs opened fire with their automatic and semiautomatic weapons, shooting down most of them. Several managed to get away. They ran out of the thicket and headed toward the truck. Shots continued to ring out, and they dropped to the ground. Finally only one Japanese soldier was left. Bullets flew around him like angry gnats as he jumped up onto the running board of the truck. The truck had no door, and he found himself face to face with the barrel of a Thompson submachine gun held in the hands of an American soldier with a big smile on his face, sitting behind the wheel.

  Frankie La Barbara pulled the trigger, and the submachine gun rumbled in his hands. Bullets flew out the barrel and tore up the head of the Japanese soldier, who fell off the running board and dropped to the ground. Frankie slid across the seat and stood on the running board, waving his submachine gun in the air.

  “Hey guys, it’s me!” he yelled.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge walked out of the bushes, carrying his carbine. “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Out here.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “I was looking for a nice Thompson submachine gun, and see—I’ve got one.” Frankie held the weapon in the air.

  “I didn’t give you permission to go wandering around out here.”

  “It’s a good thing I did, though, because if that Jap got away”— Frankie pointed to the dead Japanese soldier on the ground—“he might have brought back the whole Jap army with him.”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge gazed at the truck. Sergeant Cameron came out of the thicket, followed by Private Yabalonka and Pfc. Craig Delane.

  “I wonder,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, “if that truck works.”

  “Sure it works,” Frankie said.

  “Start it up.”

  Frankie sat behind the wheel and looked at the levers and switches. He’d never driven a Japanese truck before, but the controls looked more or less like the controls of an ordinary American truck. Depressing the gas pedal with his foot, he flicked a few levers, and finally one of them made the engine turn over. Frankie stomped on the gas pedal and the engine roared to life.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge wondered whether they should use the truck to drive back to their own lines. He decided it was worth a chance.

  “Everybody out here!” he said. “Bring your weapons with you!”

  The others pushed through the foliage and carried their rifles and machine guns into the open. The rain had just about stopped, and the dead bodies stank more than ever. Lieutenant Breckenridge stepped away from a wheelbarrow full of dead Japanese soldiers in advanced states of rigor mortis, their arms and legs stiff and outstretched. The GIs gathered around Lieutenant Breckenridge.

  “Everybody find a Japanese uniform and put it on,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Then load onto the truck. Frankie will drive, and I’ll sit in the front seat with him. The rest of you get in back. We’ll try to drive to our lines. Any questions?”

  Pfc. Morris Shilansky raised his forefinger. “What’ll we do with the dead Japs in back of the truck?”

  “Unload them, and hurry up!”

  SIX . . .

  It was late afternoon, and dusk fell over New Guinea. The rain had stopped, but the sky still was cloudy. Frankie La Barbara sat behind the wheel of the truck, wearing a Japanese uniform several sizes too small for him, because Japanese soldiers tended to be smaller than American soldiers. A Japanese army soft cap was perched on top of his head.

  Seated next to him was Lieutenant Breckenridge, similarly attired, carrying Frankie’s submachine in his hands below window level, so that Japs couldn’t see it. In back of the truck were the other men, also wearing Japanese uniforms, sitting in the stink of the dead bodies that had filled the space. Blood stained the wooden floor of the truck and the wooden slats that served as its walls. The GIs were crowded together. On the floor of the truck lay their automatic weapons and ammunition. Hand grenades were in their pockets. There were serious doubts in all their minds that they’d be able to break through the Japanese line without at least one major problem.

  The body of the truck rocked from side to side on its suspension system as Frankie steered along the jungle trails. He passed groups of dead Japanese soldiers lying on the ground, and when he couldn’t drive around them, he drove over them. Finally he came to a dirt road and stepped on the accelerator so that the truck could mount the shoulder of the road. Pistons clattered inside their cylinder walls as the nose of the truck rose in the air. Frankie looked to the left and right and could see no traffic. The road wound through the jungle, and he couldn’t see very far in either direction.

  The truck climbed the steep shoulder and then leveled off on the road. Frankie spun the wheel in the direction of the American lines and pressed the accelerator to the floor.

  “Easy, now,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge. “We don’t want to get any speeding tickets out here.”

  Frankie eased off on the pedal. The truck slowed down. Frankie glanced at the gas gauge; the needle indicated that the gas tank was half full. The road curved sharply to the right and Frankie steered around the corner. Thick, tangled jungle lined both sides of the road, which then turned to the left. Frankie cut the wheel in that direction, and when he was halfway around the corner he saw a column of Japanese soldiers straight ahead, marching in a column of twos to the front.

  “Uh-oh,” said Frankie.

  “Be calm,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said, “and just keep driving.”

  The truck approached the column of Japanese soldiers. Not one of the Japanese soldiers turned around to look at what was coming. Frankie eased the steering wheel to the left so that he could pass the Japanese column. Lieutenant Breckenridge held the submachine gun tightly. In the back of the truck the other GIs inclined their heads downward so the visors of their Japanese caps would hide their Caucasian features.

  The truck passed the column of Japanese soldiers, and some of the Japanese soldiers looked at the GIs in back of the truck. Several Japanese soldiers shouted greetings, and a few of them waved. Pfc. Morris Shilansky waved back. The truck moved on without incident, leaving the Japanese soldiers behind, slogging over the muddy road.

  Frankie held the wheel tightly, because the truck was sliding all over the place. The mud on the road was slippery and had numerous deep puddles. Frankie wanted to drive faster, but he knew he was liable to go off the road if he did. He turned a corner and saw a group of soldiers sitting in the jungle beside the road, eating rice out of canisters. The Japanese soldiers waved and said hello, and a few of the GIs waved back.

  Frankie steered around another corner and saw up ahead a truck like the one he was driving, towing a Japanese field howitzer. In the back of the truck was the gun crew, six Japanese soldiers, with boxes of ammunition.

  “Don’t get too close,” Lieutenant Breckenridge cautioned.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge examined the weapon, a Type 94 mountain gun that fired a 75mm shell. It was one of the principal infantry support artillery weapons in the Japanese army, and had a camouflage paint job. The big barrel of the gun was pointed directly at the truck in which Lieutenant Breckenridge was seated.

  The truck towing the howitzer turned a corner, and Frankie followed at a safe distance. He steered around the corner, too, and his heart missed two beats when he saw Japanese soldiers all over the place. They were cooking around fires, digging fortifications, carrying crates around, and running back and for
th with pieces of paper in their hands. It was a major Japanese staging area, and ahead was a US Army Corps of Engineers pontoon bridge spanning the Driniumor River.

  “Just stay calm,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Keep on driving.”

  Frankie nodded. His heart had resumed beating, and it sounded like the drummer in the Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra. His face blanched and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. He was a tough guy, but even a tough guy can get scared shitless. The difference between a tough guy and a coward is that the tough guys keep going, despite their fear, and that’s what Frankie did. He held his foot steady on the gas pedal and looked straight ahead. If the Japs realized that American GIs were in their midst, a quick, bloody fight would ensue, with a predictable end. All Frankie wanted to do was take as many Japs with him as he could before he got blown away.

  In the back of the truck the mood was basically that of Frankie’s. The men were scared, but they didn’t let their fear destroy them. They glanced about at the huge Japanese encampment and held their weapons ready to fire. They expected the shit to hit the fan at any moment.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge took out a cigarette and lit it with a hand that was shaking slightly. He puffed the cigarette and looked ahead. The truck pulling the howitzer rolled down the sloping incline toward the pontoon bridge. Another truck full of crates was already on the bridge. A third truck drove off the bridge on the far side; it also was full of crates. More Japanese soldiers were on the far side of the river. The whole area was infested with Japs.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge noticed groups of Japanese soldiers at both ends of the bridge. They carried rifles slung over their shoulders and appeared to be guards. Four of them were on each end, and they were very lackadaisical about their work, or so it seemed. They didn’t expect a truckload of American soldiers to pass their way.

  “Listen to me,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said to Frankie La Barbara. “If there’s any trouble, just keep driving. Don’t stop for anything. Your job is to drive and that’s all. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Frankie replied.

  In the back of the truck, Sergeant Cameron muttered orders to the men. “Don’t fire unless I tell you to,” he said. “Don’t nobody try to be cute, okay?”

  They all nodded as they looked down at the floor of the truck, trying to keep their American faces from being seen by the Japs. They could smell cooking odors and hear Japanese soldiers shouting back and forth to each other. Some Japanese soldiers shouted at them in a friendly manner, but the GIs behaved as if they were dozing off, fatigued after being on the road all day.

  The truck pulling the howitzer rumbled onto the bridge, which was approximately forty feet long. Beneath the bridge the Driniumor surged and foamed as it rushed toward the sea. Frankie followed the truck pulling the howitzer, drawing closer to the Japanese guards on both sides of the bridge. The guards chatted with each other, laughed, and smoked cigarettes. Their morale appeared high, because they were safe behind their lines and had just won a victory against the Americans.

  The two Japanese soldiers on Frankie’s side looked at him as his front fender came abreast of them. One smiled and said something to Frankie, and Frankie smiled back, looking straight ahead. The Japanese soldier said something again. It sounded like a question to Frankie, but he just smiled again and waved.

  The Japanese soldier stopped smiling. An expression of suspicion came over his face as Frankie rolled alongside him. The Japanese soldier asked the question again, and Frankie waved once more. The Japanese soldier said something to his comrade, and both of them unslung their Arisaka rifles.

  In the back of the truck, Sergeant Cameron was watching them. “Get ready to shoot those sons of bitches,” he said to Private Yabalonka, who carried a BAR.

  Yabalonka raised the BAR. The Japanese soldiers held their rifles in both hands and touched their forefingers to the triggers. One of the Japanese soldiers shouted at Frankie, but Frankie was past him now. The Japanese soldier looked at the men in back of the truck, and saw the blond hair underneath the cap of Pfc. Craig Delane.

  The Japanese soldier screamed out an alarm and raised his rifle higher in the air. Yabalonka stood up in the back of the truck and opened fire with the BAR, spraying the two Japanese soldiers with hot lead. The two Japanese soldiers were spun around by the hail of the bullets. Blood spurted from holes in their flesh, and they fell to the ground.

  There was a moment of silence, and then all hell broke loose. Japanese soldiers screamed and hollered, running back and forth. Other Japanese soldiers dived into holes, fearing that they were under attack. The truck pulling the howitzer sped up, to get away from all the trouble, leaving the bridge wide open.

  “Move it out!” lieutenant Breckenridge yelled, raising his submachine gun and pointing it out the window. Japanese soldiers ran along the riverbank straight ahead, and he mowed them down.

  In the back of the truck the GIs fired their rifles and BARs at Japanese soldiers. Sergeant Cameron threw hand grenades as fast as he could pull the pins. A Japanese officer ran out of a tent to see what was going on and received a bullet in his stomach, doubling him over, flinging him back into the tent. A Japanese sergeant drew his Nambu pistol and fired a wild shot, but before he could fire another one, an American bullet hit him in the hip, shattering the bone and hurling him to the ground.

  Meanwhile, Japanese bullets whizzed all around the truck and slammed into its sides. One bullet punctured the left rear tire. Japanese machine-gun bullets raked the door next to Frankie La Barbara, and he slammed the accelerator down to the floor.

  The engine of the truck coughed and then stalled. A wave of horror came over Frankie. Japanese bullets whacked into the truck, and all the soldiers in the back dropped to the floor. But there wasn’t much room in the bed of the truck, and they crashed into each other, bumping heads and elbows.

  “Get this truck going!” Lieutenant Breckenridge screamed, firing the Thompson submachine gun wildly, trying to stop the entire Japanese army in the area.

  Frankie turned the lever and tapped the gas pedal. The engine rattled but wouldn’t kick to life. The unmistakable odor of gasoline came to Frankie’s nostrils.

  “You’ve flooded the engine!” Lieutenant Breckenridge yelled.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge emptied his clip of .45-caliber bullets, ejected the empty clip, and slapped in a new one, resuming his fire. In the back of the truck the GIs shot back at the Japanese soldiers swarming toward the truck. Frankie worked the ignition lever and kept his foot off the gas pedal, so the engine would clear. The engine grumbled and growled as it turned over; it sounded as though the battery were running down.

  Frankie bit his lower lip so hard, it bled. He prayed to God that the engine would start, but it wouldn’t. A big bullet hole shattered the windshield in front of him, and the flattened nose of the bullet struck the seat an inch from Frankie’s shoulder.

  The engine coughed and sputtered. Frankie gave it some gas, and it turned over! He let up the clutch and the truck lurched forward. Another bullet made a hole in the windshield, and Frankie ducked. Japanese machine-gun bullets raked the radiator, and water spouted out through the holes. But the truck gathered speed and crossed the bridge. Sergeant Cameron held a grenade in his right hand and pulled the pin. As soon as the truck was on the other side of the river, he was going to throw the hand grenade onto the bridge and blow it to smithereens.

  Then he realized that one hand grenade would not destroy the entire bridge. There would have to be more hand grenades. “Everybody, grenade that bridge when I say the word!” he screamed.

  The GIs pulled out hand grenades and yanked the pins. The truck sped across the bridge. The Japanese soldiers in the vicinity didn’t dare throw their own grenades at the truck, because they were afraid of blowing up the bridge themselves. All they could do was shoot at the truck, denting the fenders and shooting out all the tires in an effort to pin the GIs down.

  The truck rumbled off the bridge, and Sergeant Camero
n could feel solid ground underneath the wheels. “Now!” he hollered.

  Sergeant Cameron raised himself up and drew back his arm. He threw the hand grenade, but before he could get down, a Japanese 6.5mm bullet from an Arisaka rifle pierced his throat and blew out the back of his neck. The gallant old sergeant fell backward as the other GIs tossed their grenades out the back of the truck, not exposing themselves as much to Japanese gunfire. Sergeant Snider, the mess sergeant from Headquarters Company, caught a bullet in his wrist, and he screamed in pain, blood spurting out of the hole.

  Sergeant Snider fell on top of Sergeant Cameron. The other GIs plastered themselves against the bed of the truck, sticking their fingers in their ears, waiting for the big explosion.

  Barrrrrooooommmmmmm! The grenades detonated one after the other in one long, pulsing, earth-shaking roar. The wooden planks on top of the pontoon bridge, and two of the pontoons, were blown apart. The bridge became wreathed with smoke; nobody could see the extent of the damage.

  The Japanese soldiers in the area jabbered and screamed. Some rose up and continued to fire at the truck. Frankie wished he could speed up and get around the truck in front of him, but that truck was going so slow it appeared to be stopping. Frankie’s mind filled with horror when he realized it was drawing to a halt, blocking the road in response to an order shouted from an officer in the vicinity.

  Now Frankie was really scared. “What’ll I do now?” he bellowed.

  “Drive into the river!” Lieutenant Breckenridge replied.

  “Drive into the river?”

  “You heard me!”

  Frankie didn’t have time to think it over. He cut the wheel to the left, and the truck skidded sideways on the muddy road. Stomping on the accelerator made the truck skid more. Now it pointed backward toward the demolished end of the bridge.