Suicide River Read online

  “Yes sir!”

  “Get General Hall for me on the phone.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Colonel Jessup talked to the soldier sitting at the telephone switchboard, and General Hawkins looked down at the map. If the Japs broke through the Eighty-first Division, it would be the end of the Eighty-first Division, but that wasn't the main problem. The main problem was the Japs would have nothing between them and the Tadji airfields except some rear-echelon personnel and the 114th RCT coming up on the line. The 114th RCT wouldn't be much without the Eighty-first Division, and the Eighty-first Division couldn't hold off the Japs alone. Together they might be able to do the job.

  Can I retreat back to where the Hundred Fourteenth is? General Hawkins asked himself. Or am I stuck here?

  General Hawkins puffed the cigarette in his ivory holder and looked down at the map, wondering if there was a way out of the mess he was in.

  “Sir,” said Colonel Jessup, “Colonel MacKenzie is on the phone.”

  “I wanted General Hall.”

  “Colonel MacKenzie says he's not available.”

  “Give me that phone,” General Hawkins muttered. He crossed the room in long strides and plucked the receiver out of Colonel Jessup's hand. “This is General Hawkins!” he said in a loud angry voice. “I want to speak with General Hall immediately!”

  “He's not here right now, sir,” said Colonel MacKenzie on the other end.

  “Where's the Hundred Fourteenth RCT?” General Hawkins asked.

  “On the way, sir.”

  “They've been on the way for the past hour! When are they going to get here!”

  “Soon.”

  “How soon!”

  “I can't tell you that exactly, sir.”

  General Hawkins heard a burst of machine gunfire, and then a volley of rifles went off. “The Japs are here,” General Hawkins said calmly into the mouthpiece of the phone. “Can you hear them?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well they're here, and I don't know how long we can hold on. Tell that to General Hall when you see him. Over and out.”

  “Wait a minute!” Colonel MacKenzie said. “Are you still there?”

  “I'm still here,” replied General Hawkins.

  “Do you have any idea of how many Japs are attacking you?”

  “I'd say that the whole Eighteenth Army is attacking me, and we're outnumbered about four to one.”

  “Are you sure the odds are that great?” Colonel MacKenzie asked.

  “That is my professional rough estimate. If you think you can do better, come up here and have a look for yourself. Do you have any other questions?”

  “No sir.”

  “Over and out.”

  Colonel MacKenzie hung up the phone and looked at General Hall at the map table, surrounded by staff officers and aides. Colonel MacKenzie was irritated by General Hawkins's manner, and pinched his lips together in repressed anger. Colonel MacKenzie thought General Hawkins was too ambitious for his own good, although Colonel MacKenzie was just as ambitious himself.

  He walked to the map table and tried to get General Hall's attention while General Hall was conferring with Lieutenant Colonel Beane, one of his operations officers. General Hall glanced over Colonel Beane's shoulder and saw Colonel MacKenzie.

  “You have something for me, Mac?” General Hall asked.

  “I was just speaking with General Hawkins, sir. He said his headquarters is under attack, and inquired about when the Hundred Fourteenth RCT would arrive.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him they'd arrive in about an hour.”

  “Did he say whether he could last that long?”

  “He expressed his doubts about that matter, sir.”

  “Did he give any indication about the number of enemy who were attacking him?”

  “He said he thought he was outnumbered about four to one, and that means approximately two full Japanese divisions.”

  “Except the Japs don't have full divisions anymore,” General Hall said.

  “If I may say so, sir—I think General Hawkins might be exaggerating.”

  General Hall realized he had to make an important decision. If General Hawkins was facing as many Japs as he said, he'd need more help than the 114th RCT could provide. On the other hand, if General Hawkins was exaggerating, and General Hall provided more help, it might siphon troops from a sector where they might be needed more.

  It all boiled down to one consideration: What kind of man was General Hawkins? Would he exaggerate, or was his estimate reasonably accurate? General Hawkins wasn't an easy man to like, because he was so obviously vain. He didn't appear to be particularly intelligent either, but maybe he was, who could say?

  General Hall looked down at his map. He decided he'd better not take any chances second-guessing a general in the field. He'd send more help to the Eighty-first Division. Better too much than not enough, and if the help wasn't needed, he'd send it somewhere else where it was needed, and relieve General Hawkins of command.

  “General Sully,” he said, “where is the Eight Hundred Forty-fifth RCT?”

  General Sully pointed to the map. “Here sir.”

  “They're the closest reserve regiment to the Eighty-first Division, aren't they?”

  “No sir—the Hundred Fourteenth is.”

  “I mean except for the Hundred Fourteenth.”

  “Then the Eight Hundred Forty-fifth would be the closest, sir.”

  “Notify their commander to move out immediately and reinforce the Eighty-first Division.”

  General Sully moved toward the telephones. General Hall looked down at his map. The center of his line had to hold at all costs, otherwise the airfields would be in danger. He'd have to gamble to save the Tadji airfields, but if General Hawkins had exaggerated the strength of the enemy, he'd be in a whole world of trouble. General Hall wouldn't rest until General Hawkins was sitting in an office in the cellar of the Pentagon, pushing pencils around for the rest of his life.

  Private Joshua McGurk's chest heaved as he sucked air through his flared nostrils and ran in huge leaping strides toward the trench ahead. He was so gigantic his rifle looked like a toy in his hands, and he vaulted into the air, kicking his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs, finally landing with a crash in the trench.

  McGurk turned around and faced the enemy. He was all wound up and strung out. A bullet was lodged in his left shoulder blade, and blood drenched the back of his shirt, but he was so big and strong it barely affected him.

  He saw the other members of the recon platoon coming fast, heading toward the trenches and foxholes where they'd make their last stand with the rest of the Eighty-first Division. Lieutenant Breckenridge held his helmet on his head with one hand, and carried his carbine in his other hand. Private Worthington jogged behind him, lugging his M 1 rifle and the platoon's walkie-talkie. Bannon jumped into a foxhole to McGurk's right. Bisbee dived into a shell crater on McGurk's left.

  McGurk thought everybody was safe, and then saw the Reverend Billie Jones emerge from the jungle, carrying Private Victor Yabalonka over his left shoulder. Japanese soldiers were in hot pursuit only twenty or thirty yards behind Jones and Yabalonka.

  Every GI in the area saw what was happening and trained their guns on the Japanese soldiers, sending out a withering hail of bullets, and the Japanese soldiers staggered and fell, but more kept coming; they always kept coming.

  The Reverend Billie Jones had just about had the green weenie. He'd run a half mile with Victor Yabalonka on his back, and Victor Yabalonka was no lightweight. Billie Jones's knees were creaking and his tongue hung out of his mouth but he kept going, while the Japs kept coming. They were gaining on him but then another volley of fire erupted from the American trenches and Billie Jones was free and clear.

  He half-ran and half-staggered toward the American lines. A Japanese soldier behind him dropped to one knee, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and lined up his sights.

 
; Blam! The Japanese soldier was knocked over onto his ass as if a mule had kicked him in the face. He'd been struck on the nose by a bullet from the M 1 rifle fired by Private Worthington, the sharpshooter. Billie Jones ran the final yards and leapt into the air. He landed in the bottom of a machine gun nest, and Victor Yabalonka landed on top of him, knocking the wind out of his body.

  The men in the machine gun nest were from the Twelfth Regiment of the Eighty-first Division, and they'd never seen Jones or Yabalonka before. Neither Jones nor Yabalonka moved. Their eyes were closed. They didn't appear to be breathing.

  “Are they alive?” asked Staff Sergeant Petros, who was in charge of the machine gun section.

  “I don't know,” said one of his men.

  "Here they come!” somebody shouted.

  The men in the hole looked up and saw waves of Japanese soldiers charging toward them through the jungle. Sergeant Petros sat behind the machine gun and pressed the thumb triggers. The machine gun barked and sparks shot out of its barrel along with bullets and smoke that billowed up into the night air.

  The Japanese soldiers looked like specters of the night as they ripped through the jungle, hollering and screaming, moonlight glinting on their sharpened bayonets. They were forty yards away, thirty-five yards away, and then thirty yards away.

  GIs shoulder to shoulder in the trenches fired rifles and machine guns as quickly as they could pull the triggers. Machine gunners tried to maintain fire discipline and shoot bursts of six, but the Japs were too close and they couldn't do it. They'd worry about machine gun barrels melting down later. They had to stop the Japs first, so they held the triggers down and sprayed the Japanese soldiers with hot lead.

  The sound of a machine gun firing next to him woke the Reverend Billie Jones up. He raised his head, looked over the sandbags, and saw Japanese soldiers only twenty yards away. Sergeant Petros held the thumb triggers of the machine gun down, gritting his teeth, and then a Japanese bullet hit him on the forehead, splitting his head apart, spraying everyone in the trench with blood and brains.

  The force of the bullet sent Sergeant Petros flying back against the rear wall of the machine gun nest. The other soldiers in the nest were stunned for a moment, then Billie Jones lurched toward the machine gun, sat behind it, worked the bolt, and pressed the trigger down.

  Japanese soldiers were only ten yards away, and Billie Jones shot them to bits with the machine gun, swinging it from side to side, and Japs fell on Japs, blood spurting from holes in their bodies. One of the GIs in the nest threw a hand grenade over the pile of bodies, and it exploded with a deafening blast, blowing up Japanese soldiers on the other side of the pile, and Billie saw them flying into the air minus arms, legs, and heads, silhouetted by the orange blast.

  GIs sweat and cursed all along the Eighty-first Division line, firing their weapons as quickly as possible at the charging Japanese army. They threw hand grenades and squirted fire from their flame throwers, but still the Japanese Eighteenth Army maintained its forward momentum. Japanese soldiers jumped over their dead and wounded comrades and charged onward, their officers and sergeants screaming at them against a chorus of American rifle- and machine-gunfire, and the endless percussion of hand grenades. American artillery shells exploded behind the Japanese main advance, so the Japanese soldiers couldn't go back. They had to move forward and take the trenches and foxholes directly in front of them.

  One of the Japanese soldiers fired a wild shot from the hip, and it whacked the soldier standing beside Private Joshua McGurk from Skunk Hollow, Maine. The bullet hit the soldier in the mouth and blew out the back of his head, and he slumped down into the bottom of the trench, balled up like an infant sleeping.

  McGurk looked down at him. He'd barely noticed the soldier before, but he'd been a young man, probably still in his teens, a boy really, and now that McGurk thought of it, the soldier reminded him somewhat of the younger brother of a friend of his.

  McGurk wasn't a sophisticated thinker. He didn't know much about what the Second World War was about. All he knew was that a young American had been killed, and it pissed him off.

  McGurk looked over the edge of the trench at the charging Japs. They were fifteen yards away, ten yards away, and then five yards away. In another second or two they'd be inside the trench, and McGurk didn't think he'd have enough fighting room in there. He glanced at the young soldier lying in the bottom of the hole, blood pouring out the cavern in the back of his neck, and then raised himself up, leaping out of the trench in one mighty stride.

  He stood on the edge of the trench, and now had the fighting room he needed. He snorted through both nostrils like a wild bull and glowered at the Japanese soldiers rushing toward him, murder and destruction in their eyes. He heard rifle fire and grenade explosions all around him, and was aware other GIs were climbing out of their holes too. He raised both his hands high in the air, his rifle and bayonet in his right fist, and screamed, "Come on! Here I am!”

  Lowering his rifle, he aimed the tip of his bayonet at the Japanese soldiers and charged. The wall of Japanese soldiers rushed toward him and he smashed into it, swinging his rifle and bayonet wildly, stabbing Japanese soldiers, bashing them in their heads, kicking them in the balls. Japanese bayonets nicked his arms, legs, chest, and back, and spit dribbled out of his lips as he lunged and plunged into the Japanese Eighteenth Army. A Japanese rifle butt came out of nowhere and hit him on the head, dazing him momentarily and knocking his helmet off, but it didn't stop him. He was a giant of a man in the full vigor of his youth, and nothing could stop him except a bullet through his heart.

  The Japanese soldiers weren't firing bullets. They were too close-packed for that and might hit their own people. Most of them didn't even see Private McGurk, and those who saw him didn't see him for long because he killed every Japanese soldier in his path.

  McGurk lunged forward and thrust the bayonet on the end of his M 1 rifle into the chest of a Japanese soldier who tried to kill him first, but McGurk was faster, stronger, and his arms longer. He pulled down on his rifle and bayonet, disengaging from the chest of the Japanese soldier, then swung his rifle butt around and mashed another Japanese soldier in the face. The Japanese soldier went down for the count, and McGurk parried the thrust from a Japanese rifle and bayonet to the side, kicking that Japanese soldier in the balls, the force of the blow raising the Japanese soldier a foot into the air. The Japanese soldier cried out in pain and his eyes rolled up into his head as he grasped his ruptured testicles and dropped to his knees on the ground.

  McGurk kicked him to the side and pushed forward, but a swarm of hungry Japanese soldiers was in front of him, row after row of them, and they pushed him back. He retreated, slamming Japs in the head with his rifle butt, stabbing them with his bayonet, kicking their stomachs, and still they continued to cut him up with their bayonets until he was a bloody torn mess.

  Some boxers fight harder when they're hurt, and big Private McGurk was that way. Roaring like a lion, he pushed his left foot behind him for leverage and launched himself forward again, punching his rifle and bayonet into the stomach of a Japanese soldier, pulling it out and shoving it forward again, this time into the chest of another Japanese soldier, dislodging it with a mighty pull and ramming it into the chest of the third Japanese soldier.

  Japanese soldiers and GIs were locked in close combat on both sides of McGurk. They pushed and heaved, swore and grunted, trying to kill each other by any means possible.

  One short Japanese soldier snuck up behind McGurk to stab him in the back, when Wham!—the butt of an American rifle struck the Japanese soldier on the back of his head, splitting it wide open, and the Japanese soldier tumbled to the ground.

  Pfc. Morris Shilansky was holding the rifle, and he stepped to the side of Private McGurk, a hurricane of mayhem swirling all around them. Shilansky was covered with blood, most of it Japanese. "You Bastards!” he screamed at them. "You fucking pigs!”

  A Japanese officer ran toward Shilansky, aimi
ng his Nambu pistol at him, pulling the trigger. Shilansky saw him coming through the smoke and moonlight, and reflexively raised his rifle to protect himself.

  Blam! The pistol fired and the bullet hit the stock of Shilansky's rifle, splintering it. The officer's momentum carried him forward and Shilansky dived for the Nambu pistol. Both men crashed against each other, lost their footing, and fell to the ground. Japanese soldiers and American soldiers stepped on them and didn't even bother looking down to see who was there, so intent were they on murdering each other.

  Shilansky and the Japanese officer rolled around on the ground, trying to get leverage against each other, each hoping to gain possession of the Nambu pistol. The Japanese officer elbowed Shilansky in the eye and Shilansky punched the Japanese officer in the mouth, splitting his lip open, blood gushing out. The Japanese officer tried to knee Shilansky in the balls, but Shilansky twisted to the side and avoided the blow.

  Shilansky saw something land on the ground nearby. It was McGurk's helmet, kicked in his direction unwittingly by a Japanese soldier, and the helmet rolled within Shilansky's reach. Holding the Japanese officer's wrist with one hand, Shilansky picked up the helmet with his free hand and bopped the Japanese officer on the head with it.

  The Japanese officer stopped struggling. He was out cold. Looking down at him, Shilansky wanted to bop him again, to pay him back for the slaughter of the Jews in Europe, but didn't have time to settle that score just then. He yanked the pistol out of the Japanese officer's hands and jumped to his feet.

  Japanese and American soldiers stabbed and elbowed each other everywhere he looked. They rammed bayonets into each other's chests and banged each other on the heads with their rifle butts. Japanese officers with swords decapitated American soldiers, and American officers with pistols and carbines shot down Japanese soldiers.

  It was a snarled bloody melee. General Hawkins looked down at it from the window of his bunker, and it appeared as though the line was holding, but just barely. Where's the Hundred Fourteenth RCT? he wondered. If they don't get here soon—I don't know what will happen.