by Len Levinson
Butsko looked around and saw two Japanese soldiers crowding Corporal Gomez against a wall of the trench. Butsko charged, raising the samurai sword in the air. He brought it down, hitting one Japanese soldier on top of his head and splitting it apart like a honey dew melon. Gomez parried the bayonet thrust of the other soldier, and Butsko swung the samurai sword from the side, slicing the Jap's liver in half, then severing his spine. The Jap cracked in half and sank to the ground.
Butsko turned around and clang, the samurai sword was knocked out of his hands. His jaw fell open as he saw a Japanese officer in front of him, carrying a samurai sword. The officer raised the sword to split Butsko's head open, when the bloody red tip of a bayonet appeared in the middle of the Japanese officer's chest. The Japanese officer bellowed like a stuck pig, and the bayonet disappeared. The Japanese officer collapsed, revealing Corporal Bannon standing behind him, his bayonet dripping blood, his face and arms flecked with gore.
They heard the snarl of an airplane engine above them, and the chatter of machine guns. Looking up, they saw a lone Zero diving toward the trench, the machine guns in its wings blazing. Behind the Zero was a Grumman Hellcat, its machine guns firing too. The Zero poured lead into the trench, and the GIs and Japanese soldiers dropped down. Butsko covered his helmet with his hands and the ground trembled as machine gun bullets stitched past him. He heard a huge explosion overhead and glanced up. The Zero was gone, and in its place was a twisted wreckage careening toward the ground. It crashed and burst into flame, and the Grumman Hellcat soared past victoriously.
Butsko got to his feet. He couldn't understand why the Japanese Zero had strafed a trench containing Japanese soldiers, but then he noticed that Japanese resistance in the trench had nearly been overcome. No live Japs were near him and only a few struggles still were going on. The Japanese pilot must have thought that the Americans had taken the trench.
Lieutenant Breckenridge climbed the far side of the trench. “Let's go! Keep moving!”
The GIs followed him and continued toward their objective, the old mission station on Kokengolo Hill. As soon as they were in the open the Japanese guns inside the mission fortress opened fire on them. GIs were stopped dead in their tracks, collapsing onto the ground, and the rest tried to get behind the tank commanded by Sergeant Schuman. The tank had stopped and was shelling the fortress while waiting for the GIs to catch up.
The men from the recon platoon clustered behind the tank like a flock of ducklings behind their mother. They held their heads down, their mouths open, gulping air, and their eyes glazed by the horror of the hand-to-hand fighting in the trench. The tank moved forward and Butsko looked around to see American soldiers lying dead all over the ground.
He heard a powerful explosion to his right and saw a tank engulfed by smoke and flames. A ton of earth nearby was blown into the air by another explosion. The Japs inside the fortress were turning loose their artillery, and the battlefield was rocked by the violence of the explosions. Butsko looked around the tank in front of him and saw just ahead the outer runways of the airfield. In the center of the complex of runways was Kokengolo Hill and the old fortified mission on top of it.
The Japanese fire became more intense, and Japanese shells exploded all across the airstrip. Butsko thought the attack couldn't possibly succeed. Japanese resistance was too great. His courage turned to cold, stark fear, and he wished one of those officers in the rear areas would decide to break off the attack. Japanese bullets ricocheted off the Tarmac runway and kicked up clouds of dirt on the open ground around it. The air thundered with explosions. Butsko looked at the faces of his men, and they were all as scared as he was.
Sergeant Schuman's tank was blasted to hell in one incredible thunderclap. It happened so suddenly that Butsko was stunned. The tank had been his platoon's moving wall of protection, but now it was a smoking pile of charred metal. Half the men in the platoon dropped to the ground and flattened out, while the rest looked around at him and Lieutenant Brecken-ridge to find out what they should do.
Butsko looked at Lieutenant Breckenridge, too, because the young officer was boss in the platoon. Lieutenant Breckenridge was as scared as any of them, but he knew he had to take charge. His last orders were to attack, and that's what he had to do.
He raised his rifle high in his right hand to attract attention to himself. “Let's go.’” he shouted. “Follow me!”
Lieutenant Breckenridge gritted his teeth and ran around the burning tank. Up ahead he saw the runways and the fortress on Kokengolo Hill through the smoke and confusion of the battlefield. His shoulders hunched and his head turtled into his collar. He felt naked before the incredible firepower of the Japanese defenders as bullets whizzed past his ears and kicked up dirt at his feet. He realized that if he continued to lead his men forward, they'd be wiped out.
“Get back!” he yelled, turning around and heading for the shelter of the ruined tank.
He was amazed to see that no one had followed him. All the others huddled behind the tank, watching him through eyes glowing with fear and excitement. Miraculously he made it back through the hail of bullets and dropped to one knee behind the tank.
Butsko was a few feet away, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Looks like you got carried away there, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge's face was flushed with exertion and embarrassment. “Where's Delane?”
“Here, sir!” said Delane, lying on the ground with his walkie-talkie.
“Get over here!”
“Yes, sir.”
Delane crawled toward Lieutenant Breckenridge and held out the walkie-talkie. Lieutenant Breckenridge took it and called Captain Decki. It took several agonizing minutes for him to get through, and meanwhile the Japanese fire remained hotter than hell. Lieutenant Breckenridge looked around, fearful that the Japs would counterattack, and saw another American tank blown to bits two hundred yards away. Finally Captain Ilecki's voice came through the earpiece.
“Sir,” said Lieutenant Breckenridge, “the tank in front of us has been knocked out and we can't go on. We tried, but it's just too hot out there.”
“Stay where you are. It's pretty bad where I am too. I'm waiting for new orders, and as soon as they come down I'll pass them on. Over and out.”
“What did he say?” Butsko asked.
“He's waiting for orders.”
“Why don't we go back to that trench?”
“Nobody told us to.”
“Well, sir, maybe you should take it on yourself to move us back there.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge nibbled his lower lip. He thought Butsko was right and wasn't embarrassed about it. If the Japs counterattacked, his men would be out in the open where they were.
“Back to the trench!” he yelled. “Keep your heads down!”
Bending low to the ground, he waddled back toward the trench, trying to keep the smoking tank between him and Kokengolo Hill. Several times he looked back to make sure and saw his men following him, their faces twisted by tension and fear. The trench wasn't too far away, and Lieutenant Breckenridge jumped in, landing next to a dead Japanese soldier lying on his back, a cloud of flies buzzing around the gaping hole in his chest.
The men from the recon platoon landed in the trench all around Lieutenant Breckenridge. They turned around and rested their rifles on the parapet, in case the Japs attacked.
Butsko walked through the trench like a duck, his head below the parapet. He moved next to Lieutenant Breckenridge and spit out the butt of his cigarette.
“Sir,” he said, “sometimes you take this war shit a little too seriously.”
FIVE . . .
Colonel Stockton looked down at the map table, his forehead creased with thought. His staff officers looked at him, waiting for his decision. Reports from the front indicated that the attack had been stopped cold, and the Twenty-third had been ripped up badly. Colonel Stockton didn't know if the front-line commanders were exaggerating the ferocity of the Japanese resi
stance, making excuses for their own inability to take the fortress on Kokengolo Hill. Perhaps a good dose of strong determined leadership could send the men forward to victory. War was a psychological game, after all. The side that thought they were winners usually won.
But on the other hand history furnished many examples of officers ordering foolhardy attacks, like Gallipoli and the famous Charge of the Light Brigade, and Colonel Stockton didn't want to take any chances. His front-line commanders were good men, and they couldn't all be wrong.
He pointed to the map. “Tell the men to retreat to the-line of Japanese foxholes and trenches at the edge of the airfield here. Tell them to prepare for a Japanese counterattack.”
The officers nodded. They were relieved that Colonel Stockton had finally made his decision, because more soldiers died every minute they were out in the open. Major Cobb picked up the radio headset to transmit the orders to the front.
“Captain Ilecki calling you, sir.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge took the walkie-talkie from the hands of Craig Delane and identified himself.
“Pull your men back to the trench we just took,” Captain Ilecki said.
“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“Call me as soon as you get there and give me a casualty report.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Over and out.”
Butsko was puffing a new cigarette. “What did he say?”
“He said to retreat to back here and give him a casualty report.”
Butsko looked at his watch. “I guess it should take us about ten minutes to get back here, wouldn't you say so, sir?”
Lieutenant Breckenridge frowned and glanced at his own watch. “About that.” He looked out at the battlefield and saw devastated tanks and American soldiers dead and wounded, lying on the ground. In the distance, on both his flanks, GIs retreated toward the safety of the trench. The attack had failed. The Japs still owned their airfield, although they couldn't use it.
“Look!” said Craig Delane, pointing straight ahead.
Lieutenant Breckenridge turned his head and saw two figures crawling toward him. They wore American khaki, but that didn't mean they weren't Japs. He raised his binoculars to take a look.
“My God,” he said, “it's Gundy, and he's dragging somebody back here.”
“I'll go help him,” said Butsko.
Lieutenant Breckenridge placed his hand on Butsko's shirt. “Stay here. I don't want you taking any chances.”
The Japanese fire was directed toward the retreating GI units; evidently the Japs didn't notice the young medic and his patient. The men from the recon platoon watched with fascination as Gundy drew closer, and then they saw who was with him: Corporal Gomez, unconscious.
Butsko grunted. “Another squad leader down the hatch.”
Gundy reached the edge of the trench, and hands reached out to drag him and Gomez in. They landed in the bottom of the trench and Gomez lay still, while Gundy leaned over him, feeling his pulse. Lieutenant Breckenridge crept toward Gundy and Gomez to determine how much damage had been done.
“He's still alive,” Gundy said. “It's a chest wound, though. Real bad.”
Gomez was bandaged and sedated. Lieutenant Breckenridge was amazed that Gundy had done all that work during the retreat. “Good work, Gundy.”
Gundy grimaced as he examined the bandage. “This damned war,” he said.
Lieutenant Breckenridge and Butsko moved back to where they were before. “I'm afraid that medic of ours isn't going to be around much longer,” Lieutenant Breckenridge said.
“I'm afraid I won't be around much longer,” Butsko replied.
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch. It was almost time to call Captain Ilecki.
“Japs!” somebody screamed.
His hair nearly standing on end, Lieutenant Breckenridge looked over the battlefield. In the distance he could see Japs streaming like ants down the side of Kokengolo Hill.
“They're coming!” Lieutenant Breckenridge said. “Get ready!” He turned to Craig Delane. “Tell Captain Ilecki that the Japs are counterattacking!”
Delane pressed the button of his walkie-talkie as shells swooshed over their heads. The shells were heading toward the Japs, and Lieutenant Breckenridge realized that the counterattack had already been spotted and reported. He raised his binoculars and watched as the ground became covered with a carpet of smoke and flames, but then, through the tumult, Japanese soldiers appeared, shaking their rifles and bayonets and shrieking “Banzai!”
Butsko moved down the trench, positioning the men, making sure machine guns and BARs were ready to fire. Many machine-gun crewmen had been killed since morning, and he had to recruit riflemen to help out with the machine guns. He kicked, pushed, and swore his way along, because there was no time to spare.
Lieutenant Breckenridge cupped his hands around his mouth. “Don't fire until I give the order! Make every shot count!”
The American artillery adjusted their sights and inflicted a creeping barrage on the Japs, but the attack had begun too suddenly, and not all the artillery was zeroed in. The Japanese soldiers sped across the runway, urged onward by their sergeants and officers waving swords in the air. They swarmed past the disabled tanks, and some paused to jab bayonets into wounded American soldiers.
“Get ready!” Lieutenant Breckenridge ordered. “Fire!”
The machine guns chattered viciously, and Japs fell to the ground. Their comrades jumped over their fallen bodies and continued the charge into the hail of American bullets. Lieutenant Breckenridge watched through his binoculars, nearly deafened by the rifle and machine-gun fire on either side of him. He saw Japs falling, but the attack continued, the first wave of the Japs closing with the trenches.
Bannon sat behind a machine gun, swinging it from side to side on its transverse mechanism, mowing the Japs down. He was supposed to let go of the trigger after every burst of six rounds, to let the barrel cool, but there was no time for that now. Private Shaw, the flamethrower on his back, fed the cartridge belt into the machine gun, which ate it up and spat out hot lead. Bannon tried to remain calm, to sit where he was and not flee as he wanted to, because the Japs kept coming, hordes of them with slaughter and mayhem in their eyes.
Butsko leaned against the parapet, firing his rifle as fast as he could pull the trigger. He barely aimed because the Japs were so thick. All he had to do was keep the M 1 level and the Japs fell down.
But not enough of them fell, and at different points in the Twenty-third's line they caught up with GIs who hadn't made it back to shelter. The GIs were shot and bayoneted in the back as the Japanese soldiers swarmed forward.
Lieutenant Breckenridge fired his carbine on automatic as he saw his life flash before his eyes. A boy fishing in the streams of Virginia, a student at the university, the lover of debutantes and townie girls, he was going to die in a ditch on a filthy bug-infested island—for what? He saw the Japanese soldiers pass Sergeant Schuman's ruined tank. They were so close now that he could see the whites of their eyes.
“Hold fast!” he screamed. “Don't let them pass!”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt stupid. He was playing army officer at a moment when the rules of war were irrelevant. From now on it would be blood and guts until everybody was dead.
“I need some help on this gun!”
It was Bannon's voice.- Butsko swung his head around and saw Shaw lying on his side, covered with blood. Bannon was trying to unjam the belt of cartridges from the chamber of the machine gun. Butsko ran across the trench, keeping his head down. He dropped to his knees beside the machine gun and pushed Shaw out of the way.
“Pull back the lever!” Butsko said.
Bannon pulled it back and Butsko yanked hard. The cartridge belt pulled free and Butsko laid it in the chamber. Bannon pulled the trigger and the gun barked angrily. Butsko fed the cartridge belt in and looked over the top of the ditch. The Japs were only fifty yards away, hug
e gaps in their line, but they still were charging, screaming for American blood.
Private Gundy dropped to one knee beside Shaw, unfastened the flamethrower from his back, and saw the big bloody wound on the side of Shaw's face. It looked as though a big chunk of his cheek and jaw were gone, and all Gundy could do was pour on the sulfa powder and apply the biggest bandage he had.
The machine gun danced as Bannon swung the barrel from side to side. Butsko held the cartridge belt in his sausage fingers, watching the Japanese soldiers close the distance between them and the recon platoon.
“Just keep firing,” Butsko said grimly. “The only thing we can do is take as many of them as we can before they get us.”
At regimental headquarters the harrowing news was coming in. The Japs had counterattacked and the line was cracking. Lieutenant Stockton puffed his pipe calmly and looked down at the map, figuring out how to handle the situation. He'd had the roof cave in on him many times in his military career, and the only thing to do was treat it like a chess game and move his strongest forces to the spots of greatest trouble.
“All right,” he said to Major Cobb. “We'll take the Third Battalion out of reserve. Move Company I in here, Company J over here, and hold King Company right here.” He pointed to the spots on the map. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton turned to Private Levinson. “Get me General Hawkins!” “Yes, sir!”
Farther back in the jungle, in a tent underneath camouflage netting, General Hawkins was assaying the situation. Removed from the battle, its sounds only a faint rumble in the distance, he could be even more dispassionate than Colonel Stockton.
He looked at his map and repeatedly pinched his chin with his fingers. The events at the front were crystal clear to him, for he could see the big picture.
The attack by the Fifteenth, from the northeast, was bogged down at the edge of the airstrip. It had not even taken the first line of Japanese trenches and bunkers, but it was minus one whole battalion, a third of its striking force, which had set up a roadblock between the airfield and Bairoko Harbor.