Do or Die Page 13

  “I know what the problem is, because I'm just like the rest of you old-timers. I've been wounded badly myself, and it scared me a little. I don't want it to happen again, but I know it might happen because a big battle is gonna bust out on this island pretty soon. We're all a little jumpy. The old-timers wonder if they still have what it takes to survive in a shooting war. You new men wonder if you'll be able to stand and fight, or whether you'll run away like dogs with their tails between ; their legs.

  “Let's face it: We're all a little scared; the old-timers because they know what can happen in a war, and the new men because they have been imagining something much worse than it'll really be. So you've been restless, fighting with each other, getting into trouble, stealing things. You're like a bunch of racehorses at the starting gate, chomping at your bits, pawing the ground, anxious to get going.

  “Well, we're going to be ass-deep in Japs pretty soon. We expect an all-out attack any time now, probably tomorrow morning. So I want you to forget your quarrels with each other and turn all your anger on the Japs. They're the ones who bombed Pearl Harbor. They're the ones who started this goddamned war. They're the reason we have to be here instead of back home with our wives and girl friends.

  “The Japs should get the hell off this island and go back to Japan, but they won't unless we make them. So when the little yellow bastards attack, I want you to kick the living shit out of them. Shoot them, stab them, step on their faces, and push them the hell off this island. If they attack, we'll attack back. If they shoot at us, we'll shoot more bullets at them, and our aim will be more accurate. If they throw hand grenades at us, we'll throw more hand grenades at them. If they try to stick us with their bayonets, we'll slice them like baloney with our own bayonets.

  “Let's get one thing straight: They are the enemy; they are the ones we're fighting. Here inside our lines, we're going to help each other from now on, not fight with each other. We're going to obey orders and follow through to the best of our ability. We're going to become a team again, instead of every man for himself. United, we'll win; but divided, we'll get our asses kicked. So we're going to pull together. We're going to fight hard. We're going to kill Japs until there aren't any more Japs to kill. And then we'll go back home, where we belong. Are there any questions?”

  Nobody raised his hand. Nobody said a word.

  “Sergeant Butsko!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Dismiss the men!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Lieutenant Breckenridge turned and walked back to his foxhole. Behind him, Butsko called the recon platoon to attention and then told them to fall out.

  The men dispersed across the recon platoon area, lighting cigarettes, jumping into their foxholes. All of them were thinking about what Lieutenant Breckenridge had said. They'd heard rumors that the Japs were building up for a major offensive, and now they knew it was true. The attack would come soon. Lieutenant Breckenridge was right: They'd better shape up and pull together, otherwise the Japs would slaughter them.

  In the late afternoon Captain Kashiwagi led his company out of its bivouac, heading toward the Americans on Hill 700. To his left marched his executive officer, Lieutenant Sono, and to his right, Sergeant Kato.

  His men carried full field packs with two weeks’ rations and ammunition. Captain Kashiwagi had told his men that the outcome of the war hinged on the success of their attack. He'd said that to show mercy was to extend the war. They were raring to go.

  No one was more anxious to attack the Americans than Captain Kashiwagi himself. His nose was bent out of shape and he had scars on his face and scalp, but he had recovered from his encounter with Frankie La Barbara and was anxious to massacre Americans.

  He knew it was unlikely, but he prayed that somehow he could see Frankie La Barbara again. He knew he'd never rest comfortably again in his life until he killed the American soldier who'd taken advantage of his decency and kindness.

  Captain Kashiwagi was itching for battle, and he felt confident that his company, in concert with the rest of his regiment, would capture the American hill. Then they'd push forward, capture the American airfields, and destroy their beachhead. Victory would be theirs, and it would make the Emperor glad.

  Captain Kashiwagi was so happy, he burst into song. His selection was a marching song quite popular in the Japanese army at that time.

  Behind him, his men joined in the chorus. Their voices resounded across the jungle as they confidently entered the valley before the American hill.

  As Captain Kashiwagi and his company moved through the valley, Colonel Hutchins was out with his staff, inspecting his regiment's fortifications on Hill 700.

  Most of the men in the regiment were seeing their new commanding officer for the first time, and they didn't know what to think. Colonel Stockton had looked like a regimental commander: tall and lean, with superb military bearing—just what Hollywood would imagine a front-line commander to look like.

  Colonel Hutchins was the exact opposite. The men peered out of their foxholes and bunkers and saw a squat man with a beer belly. Colonel Hutchins's face looked as if somebody had squashed his forehead and chin closer together. He had wide, thick lips, narrow eyes, and the red nose of a drunkard. His skull was so big, his helmet rode high on top of his head, and his arms were too short for his body.

  At first glance he didn't look like much, but upon closer inspection the men could see that he was a bulldog, sturdy, and aggressive, ready and anxious for a fight. When he opened his mouth, his voice was like thunder and could be heard for hundreds of yards.

  Colonel Hutchins had been sipping his jungle juice, but no one knew unless they came close enough to smell his breath. He was steady, serious, and angry at the Japs. Clasping his hands behind his back, he strolled along and inspected his front, swiveling his head around, checking the depths of foxholes, kicking the walls of pillboxes, which were constructed of rocks, earth, logs, and sandbags. In front of the line, concertina and double-apron wire had been strung, and before that were minefields.

  Searchlights, flares, and cans full of sand and gasoline were dotted across the line to provide illumination in case the Japs attacked at night. Booby traps were deployed along obvious approach routes. Bangalore torpedoes, encased with scraps of metal inside oil drums, were wired for electrical detonation at long range. The jungle had been cleared—cut to the ground for fifty yards in front of the positions—to provide wide-open fields of fire for machine gunners.

  The Twenty-third had been issued extra machine guns, and every rifle squad carried two Browning automatic rifles instead of the usual one. Fall-back positions had been constructed in case the Japs overran the front line. Colonel Hutchins's engineers, administrative personnel, truck drivers, and cooks were organized into provisional infantry companies, held in reserve in case of emergency. Also behind the main lines were tanks and artillery on twenty-four hour alert, ready to move into action at a moment's notice.

  Colonel Hutchins trudged along his line, pleased by all he saw. He occupied the high ground and felt certain he could hold it against the Jap attack. Let the bastards come, he thought. They'll never get past this line as long as there's life in my body.

  “I've seen enough,” he said to Major Cobb. “Let's get back to Headquarters.”

  The deuce-and-a-half truck bounced over the pitted dirt road as it made its way toward the beachhead. Private Shilansky was behind the wheel, peering ahead at columns of soldiers moving toward the front. Beside him was Butsko, smoking a cigarette and looking at the map to make sure they wound up on the beach and not in the middle of a Jap regiment.

  Behind them, sitting on benches on either side of the bed of the truck, were Bannon, Shaw, Homer Gladley, Billie Jones, and Frankie La Barbara. A canvas canopy covered them. There was little light, so all they could do was hold their rifles between their legs and close their eyes, trying to get some rest before they reached the beach and had to load equipment onto the truck.

  Butsko had
selected them because they were the biggest, strongest men in a platoon full of big strong men. He wanted to load the truck quickly and get back to Hill 700, because everyone expected the big battle to break out soon. Butsko had difficulty reading the map, and the trip to the beach was taking longer than he'd expected. Forty-three miles of two-way roads and thirty-six miles of one-way roads had been constructed within the American perimeter since the initial landings on November first, and many weren't on the map. Shilansky constantly had to stop and ask directions, and often the directions were wrong. The sun sank toward the horizon as the truck from the Twenty-third regiment made its way toward Empress Augusta Bay.

  In the distance, smoke and steam rose into the sky from the summit of Mount Bagana, an active volcano and the highest point on the island. The detachment from the recon platoon passed ration dumps, gasoline dumps, hospital areas, the cen-tral cemetery, sawmills, drainage ditches, and an eight-acre garden that provided fresh food for the troops. They saw air-fields with fighter planes and bombers lined up on the runways. The Twenty-third Regiment and all other troops on Bougain-ville were there to protect the airfields.

  Finally the truck came to the service command area near the beach. It was nearly dark, and Butsko didn't think he could find his way back to Hill 700 until morning. He decided to load up the truck and spend the night on the beach. The first thing in the morning they'd return to Hill 700.

  Butsko pointed to one of the ammunitions dumps. “Park it over there,” he said to Shilansky.

  Shilansky steered toward the crates of weapons and ammunition, while all across the beach, soldiers loaded supplies onto trucks. Every unit was stocking up for the big battle. Everybody knew their vacation on Bougainville was coming to an end.

  Shilansky braked the deuce and a half next to the ammunition dump. Butsko opened his door and jumped down to the ground. “All right, everybody out!” he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Start loading that shit over there onto the truck!”

  TEN . . .

  The detachment from the recon platoon spent the night in and around their truck. In the distance the sound of waves crashing against the shore could be heard, and sea gulls chirped as they flew overhead. It was a clear moonlit night, and stars blazed in the sky.

  The beach was silent and quiet. No trucks roamed about and no lights were lit to give Japanese bombers something to aim at. But no Japanese bombers would attack the beach that night. They were lined up on their airstrips at Rabaul, ready to support the assault in the morning.

  The Japanese army on Rabaul was on the move, heading toward its objectives. The American army was waiting for them, armed to the teeth, resolved to defend its airfields and give up no ground.

  Most of the Americans were asleep, but guards and listening posts were tripled in case of a night attack. Commanders in their tents studied maps and fretted. Men would live or die according to their decisions, and the officers didn't want to make mistakes. No officer wanted the disgrace of being relieved from command. Careers could be destroyed forever by such an act.

  At two o'clock in the morning Colonel Hutchins was still awake, sipping his homemade whisky, studying his maps, thinking about the deployment of his regiment. He had more to worry about than most officers, because the Twenty-third was the first regiment he'd ever commanded. A new commander didn't have much leeway. A few wrong decisions and he'd be replaced. An old commander with a successful record could get away with a few mistakes.

  Colonel Hutchins didn't want to go back to staff work. He didn't want to be sent to a desk job in Washington where he'd push a pencil around all day. That's what happened to officers who were relieved of their commands, unless they were cashiered out of the Army altogether.

  Colonel Hutchins lit a thick black cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling. I will hold on here no matter what, he said to himself. If the Japs want this hill, they'll have to kill me to get it.

  Not far away, Lieutenant Horsfall was sound asleep in his tent, snoring the night away. He'd been transferred to the regiment's personnel section, where he was serving under Major Reading.

  Lieutenant Horsfall had no troops to command, no decisions to make, and no worries at all. If the Japs got too close, he'd be evacuated along with the rest of the staff officers. He didn't think he'd even have to fire a shot in anger during the attack. That's why he was enjoying his best night of rest in months.

  No longer did he have to concern himself with earning the respect of the men in the recon platoon. No longer did he have to worry about their food, ammunition, and morale. No longer did he have to worry about them getting into trouble with the MPs.

  He slept with a smile on his face. As far as he was concerned, the war was over.

  On the beach the recon platoon slept soundly also. Exhausted from loading the truck, and accustomed to taking advantage of every opportunity for rest, they sprawled out on the sand while their chests rose and fell with their deep breathing. It was four o'clock in the morning, and daybreak was only an hour away. Butsko slept on the crates in the back of the truck, his head resting on a box of Thompson submachine guns. His feet lay on a pile of flamethrowers. His middle was supported by crates of M 1 rifles and ammunition.

  Meanwhile, high in the sky to the northwest of Bougainville, Japanese bombers and fighter planes were only fifty miles from their targets. Their commander radioed General Hyakutake's headquarters on Erventa Island and told them their position.

  General Hyakutake was wide awake, in full dress uniform, sitting at his desk. He knew that the day would be crucial to him, because his career could not afford another defeat at the hands of the Americans. His troops had to win. That was all there was to it.

  He looked at his watch. Zero hour was approaching. His air support would be over the island soon. His troops were deployed for attack. All was in readiness.

  His face like stone, he turned to Lieutenant Oyagi. “Transmit the order to begin the artillery bombardment!”

  Lieutenant Oyagi saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Barooooommmmmmmmm!

  Butsko jumped two feet into the air. The shell sounded as if it had exploded less than a hundred yards away, and bits of shrapnel zipped through the canvas that covered the rear of the deuce and a half. Butsko crawled around and leaped out the rear of the truck as shells exploded sporadically across the beachhead.

  He landed on the sand, looked around, and heard the whistle of incoming shells. In the distance he saw a gasoline dump on fire, sending huge tongues of flame licking at the sky. Soldiers ran for shelter as more artillery shells slammed down on the beachhead. The Japs had the range and poured in the explosives.

  “Let's get out of here!” Butsko screamed.

  The men from the recon platoon were scattered around on the sand underneath and around the truck, hanging on to their helmets, their teeth chattering with fear. They jumped up and dived into the rear of the truck. Shilansky crawled into the cab and started up the engine, his hands trembling. Butsko yanked open the side door and scrambled onto the seat.

  “Let's go!”

  Shilansky shifted into gear and stomped on the gas pedal. The big truck rumbled forward, rocking from side to side on its springs, while in the back, Bannon and Homer Gladley pulled up the tailgate and pushed in the bolts that would keep it up.

  On the beach, GIs ran for cover as Japanese shells rained down. The ground shook with the violence of the explosions. One of the shells landed on an ammunition dump, blowing it to smithereens. The men in the truck could feel the heat from the blast, and the ground heaved underneath them as if an earthquake had hit.

  “Get off this fucking beach!” Butsko shouted at Shilansky. “Let's fucking move it out!”

  Shilansky was hunched over the wheel, moving it from side to side in sudden, jerky movements, steering around piles of crates, trying to avoid the shell craters that were suddenly appearing all around him. Shrapnel whizzed through the air and fires blazed on the beach and in the jungle ahead.

  Ka-POW�
�a shell slammed to earth in front of the truck, blinding Shilansky and Butsko for a few seconds, and a piece of shrapnel as big as a fist smashed through the windshield between them, burying itself in the metal at the rear of the cab. Shilansky couldn't avoid the shell crater; all he could do was ram the gas pedal to the floor.

  The truck accelerated, crashed into the far side of the crater, climbed up its wall, and kept going. In the rear of the truck the GIs fell all over each other, clawing each other's clothes, the benches, and the crates to right themselves.

  “Holy fuck!” said Frankie La Barbara, climbing out from underneath Homer Gladley. “What am I doing here?”

  “Settle down!” hollered Bannon. “Everybody grab on to something!”

  Butsko heard the ominous sound of airplane engines. “Uh-oh,” he mumbled. He looked up and saw a formation of Japanese planes skim the top of the jungle, machine guns blazing in their wings.

  Shilansky lowered his head and stomped on the gas. He couldn't see where he was headed, but he was going there anyway. The Japanese planes swooped down, strafing and dropping bombs. Machine-gun bullets stitched across the sand and over the left front fender of the deuce and a half. Shilansky and Butsko heard the bullets mangling the metal and thought they were finished. Shilansky swung the wheel to the right and careened across the sand, the rear wheels skidding, and crashed into a huge pile of C rations.

  The deuce and a half came to a sudden stop, and Butsko's head whammed into the dashboard. If he hadn't been wearing his helmet, he would have split his head wide open, but he was only dazed silly. Shilansky felt as if all his ribs had been broken against the steering wheel. In the rear of the truck the men were sprawled over the crates and benches.

  A bomb exploded nearby, and shrapnel zipped through the canvas covering the rear of the truck. One piece of shrapnel the size of a thumb flew through a rear tire and it went flat in five seconds. A Zero plane zoomed overhead, all machine guns firing; its bullets missed the gas tank of the deuce and a half by inches.