Too Mean to Die

by Len Levinson

  THIRTEEN . . .

  The invasion of New Georgia, code-named OperationTOENAILS,was launched during the latter part of June, with a preliminary landing on the nearby island of Rendova, to cut off Japanese communications with Rabaul. Then the main landings took place at Segi Point, Wickham Anchorage, Viru Harbor, Rice Anchorage, and the town of Zanana, the latter near the principal military objective on New Georgia, the Japanese airfield on Munda Point.

  Ground forces were under the command of Major General John H. Hester and consisted initially of the heavily reinforced Forty-third Infantry Division, the Ninth Marine Defense Battalion, the First Marine Raider Regiment minus two battalions, and elements of the First Commando of Fiji Guerillas.

  Among the units held in reserve was the Eighty-first Division on Guadalcanal, which trained day and night in amphibious landings, jungle fighting, speed marches, and maneuvers of all types, large scale and small scale, waiting for orders to move to New Georgia and bail out whoever was in trouble.

  The trouble began soon after the landings, when the in-experienced Forty-third Infantry Division became bogged down. The Japanese forces on New Georgia, commanded by the brilliant and resourceful Major General Noboru Sasaki, fought back ferociously, holding the GIs to a standstill during the day and attacking them relentlessly at night.

  The constant round-the-clock combat and the inexperience of the Forty-third Division’s officers and men resulted in a stalled offensive. American casualties mounted to horrifying levels, and for the first time in the history of the US Army a large number of casualties were diagnosed as suffering from war neuroses. About 1,500 such cases were reported between the thirtieth of June and the thirty-first of July.

  The Army responded by sending in Colonel Franklin T. Hallam, surgeon of the XIV Corps, when the mental breakdowns were at their height. After an investigation he concluded thatwar neuroseswas a “misnomer in most instances,” because men who were physically exhausted “were erroneously directed or gravitated through medical channels along with the true psychoneurotics and those suffering with the temporary medical disturbance called war neuroses.” He further noted that war neuroses occurred most frequently in units with poor leadership.

  The military situation on New Georgia deteriorated steadily for the Americans, and on the sixteenth of July, General Hester was relieved of command. He was replaced by Major General Oscar W. Griswold, commanding officer of the XIV Corps and the Guadalcanal Island Base.

  It was General Griswold’s first experience in commanding a corps in combat, and upon arrival on New Georgia he concluded that the airfield at Munda Point couldn’t be taken without massive reinforcements. He also saw the necessity of reorganizing his occupation force for a more effective response to the Japanese counterattacks.

  Griswold decided that pressure had to be kept on the Japanese through a series of local attacks with limited objectives, chiefly to secure more advantageous ground for a major offensive.

  Then he sent for his backup forces on Guadalcanal.

  On July 18, General Clyde Hawkins, the commanding officer of the Eighty-first Division on Guadalcanal, received his orders. The division was to board ships on July 20 and depart for New Georgia. He passed along the order to all his commands, telling them where they’d fight and what their missions would be.

  Colonel Stockton received his orders shortly before noon. The Twenty-third would be landed near Zanana to relieve the 169th Infantry Regiment, which had been on New Georgia since the first landings and had been chewed to shreds by General Sasaki’s fanatical soldiers. The Twenty-third’s mission would be to press forward and capture Munda Point, in concert with other units.

  Colonel Stockton called for a meeting of his battalion commanders, but the word was already going out on the grapevine, transmitted by Sergeant Major Ramsay to his friends, and Pfc. Levinson to his friends, and friends told friends, and the only people who didn’t find out early were the battalion commanders and other top-ranking brass, who would get the word at Colonel Stockton’s meeting.

  FOURTEEN . . .

  The Twenty-third Infantry Regiment landed near the town of Zanana on the night of July 20 and waded ashore from their landing ships and barges with no Japanese opposition. Colonel Stockton went ashore with the first wave and set up his headquarters and communications on the beach so that he could ride herd on his regiment and make sure they moved swiftly. He wore combat fatigues and his steel helmet, and strapped to his waist was his Army-issue Colt .45, loaded and ready for action.

  There wouldn’t be much action until the Twenty-third relieved the 169th in the jungle near Munda Point, but Colonel Stockton wanted to set the tone for the days ahead. He wanted his men to see him on the beach, armed to the teeth and ready to fight, a real combat commander, who was leading them instead of following at a safe distance.

  He knew that most battles were won by the army with the highest morale, all other factors being equal, and he knew that an officer had to inspire his men by setting the proper example. Whip them into a frenzy and send them into battle: That was his motto. Scare them, prod them, scream at them, praise them and exalt them if you had to, but get them moving at all costs. The soldiers who stayed where they were and dug in were the surest candidates for the graveyard. The soldiers who attacked hard and kicked ass were the ones who survived and won glory for themselves and their regiments.

  After getting set up, Colonel Stockton placed his executive officer in charge of his headquarters and then went down to the beach to supervise the unloading of the landing craft and to show himself to his men, so that they’d know he was there just like they were, breaking his hump too.

  The recon platoon arrived in the first wave and took positions in the jungle, awaiting further orders. They didn’t dig in because they didn’t intend to stay long, but they set up a defense perimeter so they’d be prepared for Japanese infiltrators.

  It was weird to be back in a combat zone, and all the veterans felt the old fear returning, sharpening their senses and enlivening their minds. They knew the Japs weren’t far away and that a big push was being planned. The Japs were dug in and well camouflaged around the airfield at Munda Point; it wouldn’t be easy to wipe them out. According to all reports, they were fighting to the last man, the way they did on Guadalcanal.

  Butsko rested on one knee behind a bush, carrying a flamethrower on his back. It weighed seventy pounds and didn’t feel heavy yet, but he knew it would drag down his shoulders and cause him great pain after a few hours of walking through the jungle. Also, flamethrower operators had a short life span, because they had to expose the upper part of their torso to enemy fire in order to operate the equipment effectively.

  Butsko wanted to smoke a cigarette, but there was no smoking at night in combat zones. All his old war-dog instincts were coming back, and he remembered what Lieutenant Breckenridge had told him about being a born leader. Now that the recon platoon was on New Georgia, Butsko felt an urge to take over and lead the men. He knew he could lead them better than Sergeant Cameron and even better than Lieutenant Breckenridge himself, because although Breckenridge was a good officer, he simply didn’t have the experience Butsko had. The good thing about Lieutenant Breckenridge was that he knew it and made no bones about it. Many times during maneuvers on Guadalcanal Lieutenant Breckenridge had called Butsko aside and asked him his advice on how to proceed. Everybody was aware of this, and even Sergeant Cameron accepted it. Butsko had become the real but unofficial platoon sergeant of the recon platoon, with everything being done in a roundabout way so that visitors from other units and snoopy officers from Headquarters wouldn’t suspect anything unusual. Officially Butsko was a private with a flamethrower on his back, the guy who’d been busted because he’d gotten on the wrong side of Colonel Stockton.

  Meanwhile, in the First Squad, Bannon had become the real but unofficial squad leader, with Longtree as his assistant, more or less, the way things were before the disastrous furlough in Honolulu.

  In pra
ctice, the recon platoon was just the way it had always been, only now they had Lieutenant Breckenridge to run interference between them and Colonel Stockton’s headquarters.

  It wasn’t a bad deal at all.

  At one o’clock in the morning, most of the First Battalion was ashore and organized company by company and platoon by platoon, ready to move out. Colonel Stockton ordered the First Battalion forward to secure the left flank of the 169th Regiment’s line, while the recon platoon would locate the 169th headquarters and conduct a quick reconnaissance of the area so that Colonel Stockton could move his own headquarters up as soon as possible. The rest of the regiment would follow in battalion echelons as soon as they were landed.

  The recon platoon followed the First Battalion into the jungle, heading toward the 169th’s line. Lieutenant Breckenridge marched at the head of the recon platoon. At his side was Nutsy Gafooley, his runner, carrying a walkie-talkie and the platoon bazooka. The rest of the men followed in a column of twos on a road plowed through the jungle by the Corps of Engineers.

  In the distance directly in front of them, the men from the recon platoon heard sporadic gunfire and shelling, the old familiar sounds of night in a combat zone. They knew that Japs loved to fight at night, slipping through the jungle, slitting the throats of sleeping GIs, blowing up ammo dumps and food supplies, but you could stop them if you stayed alert and followed certain basic procedures like laying concertina wire in front of your position and festooning it with tin cans that would rattle whenever a Jap tried to sneak through. You had to post guards and make sure they stood awake. And no one could fire wildly into the night. You had to get used to killing Japs with your Kabar knife, hand to hand.

  All the old emotions and reflexes came back as the soldiers scoured the bushes and trees, looking for snipers, because there was always the possibility that Japs were close by. The GIs were ready to drop onto their bellies in an instant and start fighting. Their weapons were locked and loaded. They were ready to roll. And they wondered what would happen when the big push came, who would live and who would die, and who would be shipped back to the States minus arms or legs, basket cases for the rest of their lives.

  Bannon carried his full field pack and M 1 rifle, not feeling any fatigue yet, because he was in good condition due to the endless training on Guadalcanal prior to the landing. After the first mile it became clear to him that there was no danger in that part of the jungle, and his mind wandered back to Honolulu, to little Nettie, and he wondered if she was still a whore in the Curtis Hotel or if she’d kept her word and quit.

  She seemed so far away, almost like a dream. How strange it was that an ordinary woman could become a dream of paradise to a man because of the war. When there was no war it was no problem having girl friends or getting married. Even jerks were able to have girl friends and get married. Women were all over the damn place. But in wartime there were no women around, and a soldier’s most pressing reality was misery and probable death. His only relief came from women in the flesh or via fantasies.

  Bannon missed Nettie, especially since he figured that she needed him. She was fragile and strange, and anything could happen to a woman like her. She needed somebody to look out for her, and he needed her passionate, devoted love. They were perfect for each other, except for one thing: He might be dead by this time tomorrow.

  He looked ahead into the darkness toward the direction of Munda Point. Somewhere out there was a Jap who might kill him. The Jap was probably sleeping, or maybe jabbing his knife into the jugular vein of a sleeping GI, but Bannon knew he was there. Bannon wanted to kill the Jap before the Jap killed him.

  “I’m gonna get you, you fucking Jap,” Bannon mumbled, “so you’d better watch your ass.”

  “What was that?” Frankie La Barbara asked.

  “Nothing,” replied Bannon.

  “I thought you said something.”

  “Not me.”

  “Oh.”

  Frankie let his thoughts return to Janie, the little nurse at Pearl Harbor with whom he’d had a continuous orgy when he. wasn’t at court with Butsko and Bannon. She was a meek, pale girl who you wouldn’t think would be a sex degenerate, but all she wanted to do was fuck, and she had a smile that would melt an iceberg. She wouldn’t even let you get out of bed so you could take a piss.

  Frankie couldn’t understand why politicians started wars when there were better things to do, like screwing women. The Japs must not like to fuck, he figured. If they liked to fuck, they wouldn’t have started the goddamned war.

  His hatred of Japs rose in his throat and made him cough. They were the ones who were keeping him from pretty girls like Janie, and he was going to make them pay for it. The more of them he killed, the quicker he’d be back in her bed and the beds of others, because Frankie wanted to fuck them all before he died. He knew it was a lofty ambition, but what else was there to do?

  He just hoped he didn’t die before he had the chance to screw the next one, and the next one, and the next one.

  The First Battalion moved up on the line at five o’clock in the morning, relieving the men from the 169th Regiment on the left flank. The recon platoon veered in a northwesterly direction, heading for the 169th headquarters, as the new day dawned on the horizon.

  They moved across the 169th’s line, being challenged as they encountered each new unit, and in the foxholes they saw men with beards, their eyes sunken deep into their heads, their chests bony, their hands trembling. They looked at the men from the recon platoon with hatred, because the men in the recon platoon were clean and well fed, while the 169th had been fighting the Japs day and night for nearly four weeks.

  “ ‘Bout time you got here,” one said angrily.

  “You guys don’t know what you’re in for,” another called out.

  It took an hour for the recon platoon to find the headquarters of the 169th, and Lieutenant Breckenridge reported to the commanding officer, telling him they were in the area and would remain until Colonel Stockton arrived.

  The headquarters of the 169th was all packed up and ready to move out except for a few tents that had to be struck. They pulled back and the recon platoon scouted around while Lieutenant Breckenridge determined how the new camp would be set up. When he had all the information he needed, he radioed back to Colonel Stockton and told him all was ready for him to move his headquarters up.

  Throughout the morning and afternoon, units of the 169th Regiment pulled back, to be replaced by the Twenty-third Regiment. The men from the 169th looked as if nearly every bit of life had been squeezed out of them, while the Twenty-third was clean and sharp, full of piss and vinegar, ready to attack the Japs and take Munda Point away from them.

  By nightfall the 169th had gone and the Twenty-third was in place, dug in, wired, and ready for action. In his command post tent Colonel Stockton went over the plans for his attack on Munda Point. It was going to be a full frontal attack with no fancy stuff, and he expected the Japs to be knocked for a loop because they were tired and he was fresh.

  With a little dash and a lot of plain old American fighting spirit, he hoped to capture Munda Point in a few days. He wanted to beat every other outfit to the prize so General MacArthur would take notice. Then, when stars were passed around next time, he might get his finally.

  FIFTEEN . . .

  The sea and aerial bombardment of the Japanese defensive network began at 0614 hours on July 25. Over five hundred thousand pounds of fragmentation and high-explosive bombs were dropped by the Army Air Corps, and 3,332 howitzer shells were fired by artillery batteries on the ground.

  The GIs waited in their foxholes for the barrage to end, hearing the awful din and watching the clouds of black smoke rise into the air in the distance. They gripped their rifles and their guts tied into knots, because they knew they’d be going over the top when the barrage ended.

  Ahead of them was the Jap army. They didn’t know how many Japs were there, but they knew they were formidable, for the Japs had fought the Fo
rty-third Division to a standstill and kicked their asses on numerous occasions. The ground shuddered underneath the GIs, and they were glad the bombs and shells weren’t falling on them.

  The tension built with every passing moment. Every GI knew that the regiment always suffered casualties whenever they attacked. In the past the casualties had sometimes reached fifty percent. That was one out of every two men, and each wondered if he’d be the one who’d stop the bullet or get blown into hamburger by a Jap mortar round. Visions of death in all its horrific forms passed through the soldiers’ minds, and they thought of their loved ones back home and how they’d react when they found out that their GI Joe had been cut down by the Japs.

  The recon platoon was strung out in the series of foxholes, waiting with the rest for the attack to begin. Butsko and Bannon were together, not talking, smoking cigarettes and looking over the rim of their foxhole at the jungle ahead. Butsko had the flamethrower strapped to his back and Bannon carried an M 1 rifle. They both wore steel pots, cartridge belts, bayonets, and medical pouches. The minutes ticked away, bringing them closer to the moment when they’d attack.

  Twenty yards away Lieutenant Breckenridge knelt in his foxhole, peering ahead at the bombardment through his binoculars. Beside him, Nutsy Gafooley sat with his back against the wall of the foxhole, sucking a cigarette, his walkie talkie hanging from one shoulder and the platoon bazooka hanging from the other. Nutsy blinked his eyes rapidly and chewed his lips, anxious to get going. He was a high-strung person and couldn’t bear waiting for anything.

  Lieutenant Breckenridge wasn’t high strung and in fact was rather low strung, but he felt the awful weight of responsibility on his shoulders, because deep down he was a sensitive man and knew he held the lives of his men in the palm of his hand. They would live or die according to his mistakes and shortcomings, or survive according to his strength and clarity of mind. All the pressure was on him, and he had a million things to worry about, including the possibility that he might stop a bullet himself.