Meat Grinder Hill Page 18

  Bannon puffed his cigarette. He didn't know what he'd do if Longtree died. They'd been together ever since training in Fort Ord, California. It would be like losing a brother. It's best not to get too close to people, Bannon thought. That way you don't miss them so much when they get hit.

  Medics carried a soldier on a stretcher out of the operating tent, and Bannon recognized the soldier as Longtree. He jumped up and ran toward the medics as they lowered Longtree on the ground.

  “How is he?” Bannon asked the medics.

  “He'll live. He'll be shipped to New Caledonia.”

  Bannon and Gladley felt relieved. They knelt beside Long-tree and looked at his ashen features. Bannon placed his hand on Longtree's shoulder. “Hang on there, Chief,” he said. “You're not ready to go to the Happy Hunting Ground yet.”

  “You guys had better get back to your outfit,” one of the medics said.

  Bannon stood up. “I'd like to thank the doctor.”

  “He's busy. You can't go in there now.”

  The medics returned to the operating tent. Bannon and Gladley slung their rifles and headed back to Hill Twenty-seven.

  The jeep screeched to a halt in front of General Patch's headquarters near Henderson Field. Colonel Stockton jumped out of the passenger seat, gripped his briefcase tightly, and bounded up the steps. He entered the orderly room, full of staff officers and aides in neat, clean uniforms, and was ushered into the office of General Patch.

  General Alexander McCarrell Patch sat behind his desk, looking at maps and communiques, trying to coordinate the drive west to Cape Esperance. He was fifty-four years old, with a strong healthy build and a high forehead. During the First World War he'd commanded a machine-gun battalion, and between wars he'd helped develop the triangular concept of tactical warfare still in use by the Army. He was commander of all troops on Guadalcanal and Tulagi, designated as XIV Corps.

  Colonel Stockton marched to his desk and saluted.

  “Have a seat, Bill,” General Patch said. “What's on your mind?”

  “Sir, I wanted to report to you personally that we've made a major breakthrough in the Jap line in front of us. We've just taken Hill Twenty-seven.”

  General Patch looked down at his map. “Good work. How'd you do it?”

  “One man did it, believe it or not. He crept up there and knocked out one of the key bunkers all by himself.”

  General Patch looked incredulous. “Jesus.”

  “He was hurt pretty badly, but he opened up the whole situation there. The rest of my Second Battalion followed him and took the hill. Nobody saw what he did, because, like I said, he did it alone, but I want to give him a medal.”

  “We can work that out. That's not why you came here, is it?”

  “No.” Colonel Stockton arose and bent over the map on General Patch's desk. “I have a plan to knock out the rest of that line. If we can get some heavy artillery on top of Hill Twenty-seven, we can pound the hills adjacent to it and take them too. Then we can proceed from hill to hill in the same manner, knocking out the Japs piecemeal while maintaining pressure on them everywhere else, but we'll need tanks.”

  “Don't have many tanks, Bill.”

  “Without tanks the cost in men will be too high. The men will be cut down by the machine guns in those bunkers, but they can advance behind tanks, and the tanks can get close enough to blast those bunkers away. We won't need many

  tanks. Just six or seven.” General Patch looked down at his map. XIV Corps had run into several pockets of resistance such as the one in front of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment, but that was the closest to Henderson Field.

  “Okay, Bill,” General Patch said. “I'll give you whatever tanks we can spare. When can you attack?”

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  “You have a pretty good idea of what the Jap line looks like up there?”

  “Yes, sir. I'm patrolling constantly and gathering more information all the time. We'll keep patrolling tomorrow.”

  “How long you think it'll take to knock those Japs out if I give you the tanks and artillery?”

  “A week.”

  General Patch looked down at the map. His troops weren't making much progress against the tough pockets of resistance west of the Manatikau River, and if Colonel Stockton knocked out what was in front of him, that would make more men available for assaults on the other Japanese fortifications.

  “Okay, Bill. I'll give you what you need. Just clear out that mess up there.”

  It was evening, and Private DelFranco was strutting around the recon platoon area with his shirt off, showing a bloody bandage on his left shoulder where he'd been nicked by a Japanese bullet. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and the straps hung down from his helmet; he felt like a real soldier at last. He'd killed a few Japs on the hill that day, had shed some blood himself, and now figured he was as good as anybody else in the recon platoon.

  He sat down with Shaw, Shilansky, Homer Gladley, and the Reverend Billie Jones, who were among the most respected men in the platoon because they'd been around since the regiment first landed on Guadalcanal. ,

  “Hiya, guys,” he said. “What's going on?”

  They'd been talking about Longtree, and DelFranco was interrupting them. DelFranco was an outsider, because he'd been with the platoon only a short while, and they clammed up. Shaw muttered something to DelFranco in response to his question.

  “Whadja say?” DelFranco replied.

  “I didn't say nothing,” Shaw told him.

  “I thought you said something.” DelFranco looked around and grinned. “Great day, huh?”

  “What the fuck's so great about it?” Shilansky asked, wearing a dirty, bloody bandage on his leg.

  “Well, we took the hill.”

  “Big deal. This island's fulla hills, and we got a lot more to go.”

  “Yeah,” said Homer Gladley, “and there's a lot more islands.”

  “God made lots of islands,” Billie Jones said solemnly.

  “Too many,” Shaw said.

  “Well,” said DelFranco, “the way I see it, you just have to keep moving along and hope for the best.”

  “Oh, is that the way you see it?” Shilansky asked.

  “Yep.”

  Shilansky shrugged. Nutsy Gafooley walked by quickly, heading toward the Third Squad.

  “Where ya going, Nutsy?” asked Homer.

  “Bannon wants to see Gomez. He's gonna be the new point man.”

  “No shit?”

  “I wouldn't shit you.” Nutsy kept walking along.

  “Fucking suckass,” DelFranco said, because he still hated Nutsy for taking over his job as Bannon's runner.

  Nutsy Gafooley stopped cold in his tracks and turned around, glaring at DelFranco. “You say something, punk?”

  “Yeah, I just called you a suckass, because that's what you are.”

  Nutsy wrinkled his brow and moved toward DelFranco. Shaw, Shilansky, Homer Gladley, and Billie Jones got to their feet and stepped back. DelFranco rose, too, a little scared, snapped back to reality by the enormity of what he'd done. He'd insulted Nutsy Gafooley, who was a vicious man. But it was too late to back off, and he rose to his feet, trying to tell himself that he was as fearsome and deadly as any other man in the platoon.

  Nutsy Gafooley raised his fists and advanced, murder and malevolence in his eyes. DelFranco grinned bravely and got into a fighter's stance, weaving from side to side. Nutsy drew close and feinted with a left jab. DelFranco dodged to the side to get out of the way of the punch that never came. That was just what Nutsy expected, and Nutsy unloaded a right hook, catching DelFranco on the side of his face. DelFranco heard harps and bells and staggered, and then Nutsy blasted him in the stomach. DelFranco doubled over and Nutsy hit him with an uppercut, splitting his lip and sending him flying backward. DelFranco fell onto his back and Nutsy jumped on top of him, raising his fist to pound DelFranco into oblivion.

  Shaw caught Nutsy's arm in midair
. ‘That's enough, Nutsy.”

  “I'll kill the son of a bitch!”

  “Cool your motor now.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said a familiar voice behind them. “I guess things ain't changed much in this platoon.”

  Everyone spun around and saw Frankie La Barbara, healthy, rested, and well fed, a grin on his face, wearing new green fatigues and carrying a rifle that still had the smell of Cosmoline on it. The men couldn't believe their eyes. Nutsy Gafooley climbed off the unconscious DelFranco and gathered around Frankie with the others. Nutsy was new to the platoon, but he'd heard stories about Frankie La Barbara.

  “Hey,” said Shaw, slapping Frankie on the back, “when'd you get back?”

  “I'm just getting back right now.”

  “You're looking great, man.”

  “I feel great.” Frankie was chewing gum a mile a minute and shifting from foot to foot, excited about being back with the gang. “You guys shoulda been with me on New Caledonia. I could get you laid every night.”

  “Yeah?” asked Shilansky, his nose twitching. “No shit?”

  “I ain't shitting you. They got horny nurses coming out of the woodwork. I had one with tits out to here.” Frankie held his palms in front of his chest. “I used to call her Torpedo Tits. She gave a fantastic blowjob. I used to come in her mouth and she loved it.”

  “Shit,” said Shilansky, “I'm gonna try to get shot tomorrow.”

  “With your luck,” said Frankie, “you're liable to get your dick shot off.”

  Everybody laughed. It was good to have old Frankie back again. Things wouldn't get dull with Frankie around.

  “Then I had this tall skinny one with great legs and a nice tight pussy. I used to fuck her brains out in a broom closet. And I had this other cute blonde number who loved to sit on it and bounce up and down. And there was a brunette who liked me to fuck her in the ass.”

  Shilansky stuck his tongue out and screamed, “I can't take it anymore! Make him stop it!” He covered his ears with his hands but left an opening so he could continue to hear.

  “And lissen to this one,” Frankie said. “There was this nurse who was a fucking captain, and she used to give me handjobs right on the ward while I was lying in bed and she was supposed to be taking my pulse. And she was a knockout too.”

  Bannon heard the commotion and pushed through the throng around Frankie La Barbara. “Holy shit,” he said, “look who's back.”

  “Well, if it ain't Sergeant Bannon,” Frankie replied. “Well, you might have the stripes, you big hillbilly, but I'm the guy that got all the pussy on New Caledonia.” Frankie held out his hand. “I finger-fucked a real sweetie-pie just before I left, and I never washed my hands since. Have a smell, Sergeant.”

  Bannon took a step backward. “You probably finger-fucked your ear and didn't know the difference.”

  “Oh, yeah? Smell and find out for yourself.”

  “You see Butsko while you were there?”

  “Yeah, I seen him a few times. He's as rotten as ever. He ain't getting no pussy. Who'd fuck that gorilla? He spends all his time reading military manuals.”

  “How is he?”

  “He should be coming back pretty soon. He looked pretty healthy to me when I saw him two days ago. You like redheads, don't you Bannon? There was this redhead who loved to fuck all night long. I mean, it was pathetic. One night I...”

  Frankie regaled the men with true and not-so-true stories about his romantic escapades on New Caledonia, and Private DelFranco slunk away, holding a bloody handkerchief against his cut lip. He felt humiliated and estranged from the other men, who still didn't accept him and now would be more contemptuous of him than ever.

  Wait till we go against the Japs again, he thought. I‘ll show them that I'm as good a soldier as any one of them. Then they'll have to respect me, the bastards.

  FIFTEEN . . .

  The next day engineers cut roads through the jungle so that trucks could haul heavy artillery to the top of Hill Twenty-seven. Tanks rumbled through the jungle to the sector in front of Hill Twenty-five, which Colonel Stockton hoped to attack the next day. Patrols were sent out throughout the day to reconnoiter Hill Twenty-five and probe for other machine-gun nests in the Gifu Line. As the afternoon progressed, Colonel Stockton realized everything wouldn't be ready for the attack the next day, so he postponed it for twenty-four hours.

  The next day the artillery was dragged to the top of Hill Twenty-five, where the mammoth 105- and 155-millimeter howitzers were set up and fired for registration. Again the patrols went out, and this time the recon platoon was sent to work around the other side of Hill Twenty-five, to determine whether a supporting attack could be launched from that direction.

  Corporal Gomez was on the point, feeling a new sense of power and importance. Short and stocky, with a wispy mustache above his lip and eyes that were almost Oriental, he led the recon platoon around Hill Twenty-five and up its western approach. Although he'd been raised in Los Angelos, he knew how to be silent in the woods, because it wasn't very different from rolling drunks or being a burglar, which is what he'd done for a living before he joined the Army. You had to watch where you put your feet, and you had to be careful of what you touched. The principles of silence and stealthy movement were the same.

  By noon they were halfway up the hill.Frankie La Barbara was exhausted, because he was in terrible physical condition. For the past six weeks all he'd done was sleep and screw nurses. He huffed and puffed, drinking from his canteen, and felt the old fear coming back, making him anxious and apprehensive. He realized that he'd forgotten a lot about being a combat soldier, and worried that he might make a mistake that could get him killed.

  “Hey, Bannon, can't we stop for a break?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “What a hump you turned out to be.”

  The recon platoon slogged up the south side of Hill Twenty-five, expecting to make contact with Japs at any moment, when suddenly it happened: A shot from a rifle cracked over their heads.

  They all dropped to their stomachs and looked at Bannon, who knew from experience at the Gifu Line that at least one machine-gun bunker was behind the Jap rifleman.

  “Keep moving,” he said. “Let's find out where their machine gun is.”

  The GIs crawled up the hill as more Japanese riflemen fired at them. The GIs stopped and fired a few volleys, then kept moving, steadily pushing the thin screen of Japanese riflemen back. After fifty yards they came within range of the machine guns, which began to chatter. Bannon raised his binoculars and tried to spot it, but couldn't see anything except a thick wall of jungle. He figured the Japs couldn't see them too well, either, so he decided to keep going.

  The recon platoon advanced slowly up the hill beneath the hail of machine-gun fire. The closer they came to the summit, the closer the machine-gun fire came and the better Bannon could perceive the location of the machine-gun bunkers. He determined there were two of them on the crest of the hill and thought the recon platoon could get a little closer.

  “Keep going!” he said. “Don't anybody fall back!”

  “Hey, Bannon,” Frankie La Barbara yelled from down the line, “you trying to be a hero or something!”

  “Shaddup, Frankie!”

  The recon platoon continued to crawl up the hill as the machine-gun fire became more intense. After another thirty yards, the Japanese bullets were getting too close for comfort, but Bannon now had a clearer idea of where the bunkers were. He took out his map, made little X's on the spots where he thought they were, and put the map back into his pocket.

  “Okay,” Bannon said, “pull it back!”

  Still facing the Jap bunkers, the recon platoon crawled backward down the hill, except for one man. Private DelFranco, who wanted to prove that he was a real soldier like the rest of them, didn't want to retreat. He was angry and frustrated and wanted to fight those Japs up there.

  Bannon noticed him. “Hey, DelFranco, you all right?”

  “Y
eah, I'm all right!”

  “Pull back!”

  DelFranco couldn't make himself pull back. He craved action and the opportunity to prove himself. It would be unbearable to spend the rest of the day hanging around with his split lip, the laughingstock of the platoon because Nutsy Gafooley had beat him up easily the day before. He remembered Longtree's feat of heroism, assaulting a bunker all by himself. Why can't I do that? DelFranco asked himself. He'd heard that Longtree would get a medal, and DelFranco thought he might get one too. Then everybody would respect him. They'd call him the Fighting Chaplain someday.

  “Hey, Bannon!” he shouted.

  “I thought I told you to pull, back, you little fuck!”

  “I'm gonna try to take that bunker! Cover me!”

  "I said get the fuck down here!”

  “Cover me, Sarge! I think I can do it!”

  “I said get back here!”

  DelFranco set his jaw and crawled forward, dreaming of heroism and glory. The pressures of front-line combat had warped his already neurotic personality, and he actually thought he could do what Longtree had done. He headed for the thickest part of the jungle.

  Bannon couldn't believe his eyes and turned purple with rage. "I'll fucking court-martial you!”

  DelFranco didn't reply; he just kept going.

  Nutsy Gafooley nudged Bannon. “Want me to shoot him, Sarge?”

  “Shut up.”

  Bannon tried to think. He was tempted to continue his withdrawal and let DelFranco get killed, but you never knew, maybe he'd get through, doubtful though that was. Maybe the best thing to do would be to withdraw about fifty yards and make the Japs think they'd left. Maybe DelFranco would wake up and realize he was making a mistake. Bannon somehow couldn't bring himself to leave one of his men stranded, even if it was a twerp like DelFranco.

  “Pull back!” Bannon shouted, hoping his order would be heard by DelFranco and bring him back to his senses.

  But it didn't. DelFranco disappeared into the jungle, and the recon platoon continued its retreat down the hill. When the machine-gun fire died down, Bannon told his men to stop.