by Len Levinson
Farther back, in his command-post tent, Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe and looked down at his map table as his executive officer and all his staff officers crowded around, mumbling to each other and pointing at the terrain features. In a comer the communications center was ready for action, as two soldiers wearing headphones sat before two radios, and a third soldier sat at the telephone switchboard. The artillery barrage rumbled in the distance, and every man in the tent glanced at his watch periodically and waited for it to end. The officers in the tent weren’t worried about being killed, because their asses weren’t on the line; however, they were concerned about their careers and reputations, because if General Hester could be fired, so could they, and it would mean the end of all the ambitions and dreams on which their lives were based. So in a sense they had as much at stake as the men in the foxholes.
A thousand miles away, on the Eighth floor of the AMP Building in Brisbane, Australia, General Douglas MacArthur sat at his desk, looking at communiqués and plans for upcoming operations. The attack on Munda Point on the island of New Georgia was only one small particle of information among the vast concerns in his mind, because he held the responsibility for the conduct of the entire land war in the Pacific.
Battles were raging throughout his combat zone from Malaya to New Guinea, and on numerous little islands that no one had ever heard of before. He had to orchestrate everything so that they would contribute most effectively to his overall goal, the defeat of Japan; but he had another more personal goal that dogged him every moment of the day, and that was his return to the Philippines. He had said that he would return and he had to keep his word, although the military commanders in Washington thought the Philippines should be bypassed in favor of a bold stroke aimed directly at the Japanese home islands.
MacArthur had to fight the Japs and the Joint Chiefs of Staff in Washington. He had to fight his own weaknesses and tendencies toward grandiosity. And on top of everything else, his name was being bandied about as a possible candidate for president of the United States on the Republican ticket in the 1944 elections.
He had a lot on his mind, but he had a vast staff to help him and he was a brilliant man. Many believed he was the greatest military commander in the United States Army, greater than Patton, Bradley, and even Ike, who had once been one of MacArthur’s assistants, a fact that galled MacArthur, since Ike now was above him in authority.
In his office, which was decorated with photographs of his wife, young son, politicians, and military men, General MacArthur masterminded the ground war in the South Pacific, trying to hold everything together and move it forward in a systematic way. If his troops lost in one sector and won in four others, he would consider it a good day.
But on New Georgia, there was only one battle facing the Twenty-third regiment, and they had to win it. Colonel Stockton looked at his watch; and 0700 hours was approaching, the time his regiment was supposed to jump off. like the men in the field, he wore a steel pot and carried a loaded weapon, his Colt .45 service pistol, which lay cold inside the regulation holster attached to his cartridge belt.
“Take over here, Bates,” he said to Lieutenant Colonel Donald Bates, his executive officer. “Private Levinson and Lieutenant Harper, come with me.”
Everyone watched as Colonel Stockton left the tent, followed by Lieutenant Harper, one of his aides. and Private Levinson, who carried the backpack radio that would keep Stockton in touch with his headquarters and units. The staff officers didn’t approve of what Colonel Stockton was going to do, but they had to accept it. He was going to lead the attack personally to show his men that he was their leader in deed as well as on the books. Colonel Stockton knew that news spread fast on the grapevine, and within an hour or two the entire regiment would know that he was leading them into battle, facing the same dangers as they, while by that time he would be back in his command-post tent, moving pieces of wood around the map table, if he didn’t get shot first.
He trudged toward the front line, the lanyard at the bottom of his holster flapping back and forth and his steel pot low over his eyes. His rear echelon soldiers saw him go and watched with awe until the jungle swallowed him up, and then he came to the front lines, in clear view of the Japs on the other side of. no-man’s land; but he didn’t falter or hold his head low, because Colonel Stockton believed that a commanding officer had to be braver than his men if he wanted them to believe in him, and in fact he was brave, for he had the mystical notion that he led a charmed life and that no Jap could kill him.
Usually he went to war with his recon platoon, but he was angry at them now, so he made his way to B Company and found the foxhole where its commander, Captain Leonard Goldroy from Topeka, Kansas, huddled with his runner and first sergeant.
“Good morning!” said Colonel Stockton in his booming voice, cheerful and confident, a big smile on his face as if he were on a hunting trip. “No, don’t bother getting up—it’s okay—as you were!”
They saluted and murmured greetings, more nervous than ever now that the colonel was hovering over them.
“Well,” said Colonel Stockton, “the barrage will stop in about five minutes. I trust you’re all set to move out.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Captain Goldroy, a beefy man with a round face and Band-Aid on his nose where he’d been clipped by a branch during the night march to the company’s present position.
“Good,” said Colonel Stockton. “Just follow me and everything will be just fine.”
“Yes, sir.”
Crack! A bullet flew over Colonel Stockton’s head, and he looked toward the Japanese lines.
“Sons of bitches couldn’t hit a barn door with a wet towel,” he said, getting salty, because he knew the men at the front liked him that way.
“I think you’d better get down, sir,” Captain Goldroy said.
“What for? The slant-eyed bastards can’t hit anything because they see everything on a slant.”
Crack!
“See what I mean?” Colonel Stockton asked, casually raising his binoculars to his eyes.
Bullets continued to whistle around Colonel Stockton, but he felt no fear. He’d conquered his physical fear long before, when he’d been a young officer in the First World War. The only fear he hadn’t been able to overcome was his fear of failure. That he couldn’t countenance. He couldn’t permit anything like that to happen to him.
All the soldiers nearby stared at him, expecting him to get shot at any moment. They wondered how he could stand up like that in the face of the sporadic enemy fire; he seemed to be almost superhuman in their eyes, impervious to death, above them in rank but also in courage and everything else. He was like a god to them instead of a colonel.
This of course was the effect Colonel Stockton was trying to achieve. Men followed an officer into battle because of the insignia on his collar, but they put out that extra amount of effort that won battles when they were inspired by his guts and brains and by the example he set.
Besides, he knew the Japs couldn’t see him that distinctly in the jungle with bombs falling all around them. He wasn’t that courageous.
At 0700 hours the barrage stopped, and Colonel Stockton stepped out resolutely into no-man’s-land. He pulled his Colt .45, checked the clip, rammed a round into the chamber, and walked toward the tree line in front of him. All the GIs in the vicinity could see him, and they knew the attack was about to begin. Their mouths went dry and they gripped their weapons tightly. Not far away, the recon platoon could see him, and they felt remorseful, because usually when he went into battle he went with them.
Colonel Stockton raised his pistol hand high in the air, aiming the barrel at the sky. “Up and at ‘em!” he hollered. “Follow me!”
He ran toward the jungle all by himself, and the men behind him came up out of their foxholes to follow him, while up and down the Twenty-third Regiment’s line the order was passed along that the attack was under way. The men swept forward and entered the jungle, carrying their rifles
at port arms, searching through the branches and leaves for Japs, ready to kill or be killed.
Meanwhile, in the jungle, the Japs crawled out of their hiding places and raised their rifles to their shoulders. They opened fire sporadically at first, and then the shots increased in number until they became a long continuous fusillade.
Colonel Stockton couldn’t see much except the trembling of leaves in front of him and clouds of Japanese gunsmoke, but he continued to advance, firing his Colt .45, still setting the example. Lieutenant Harper and Pfc. Levinson followed him, expecting him to get shot down at any moment. Bullets whizzed all around them, and then in the distance they heard the thump-thump-thump of mortar rounds being fired.
The only thing to do in a mortar barrage is run through it, because if you stayed in one spot you’d be blown to bits. Colonel Stockton pumped his pistol hand up and down in the air, the signal to double-time.
“Forward!” he yelled. “Double-time! Move it out!”
Colonel Stockton ran forward into the jungle as the mortar rounds rained down on the Twenty-third Regiment. His men followed, drawing their heads into their collars like turtles, feeling bits of trees and clods of mud striking their uniforms. Some were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were blown into the air, arms and legs separated from torsos, heads blasted into tiny pieces.
The Twenty-third ran like wild devils through the jungle, trying to get away from the mortar barrage. Colonel Stockton still was in front of them, urging them on, firing his Colt .45. The mortar barrage crept forward but couldn’t keep up with him, and soon they were through it, drawing closer to the first Japanese line of defense.
It consisted of a series of trench fortifications intended to stop or at least slow down any advance, and the Japs inside the trench opened fire on the Americans charging toward them. They had machine guns spaced evenly across their line with overlapping fields of fire, and they sent out a hail of bullets toward the advancing GIs.
It was so intense that the attack faltered. Even Colonel Stockton, with all his courage and determination, dropped down to his stomach and tried to get a picture of what was ahead. He raised his binoculars to his eyes but couldn’t see much. He knew his men would be cut to shreds if they tried any wild cavalry charges. The only thing to do was advance unit by unit, utilizing the principles of fire and maneuver, one bunch of GIs covering another bunch that tried to close with the Japanese line. Bullets whistled over his head and he motioned for Pfc. Levinson to move forward and bring him the radio so that he could issue the appropriate orders.
Meanwhile, a few hundred yards away, the recon platoon was pinned down. Lieutenent Breckenridge peered around the trunk of. a tree and tried to figure out which squad to send forward first. Somehow they’d have to get close enough so they could jump into those trenches and go to work with their bayonets.
“Where’s my machine guns?” he yelled. “Where’s my mortars?”
In the First Squad, Butsko lay underneath a bush and hoped a stray Japanese bullet didn’t hit the fuel tank on his back, otherwise he’d be roasted alive. Next to him Bannon chewed the soggy butt of a cigarette.
“If I was Colonel Stockton,” Butsko said, “I’d pull back the regiment and let the artillery take care of that line.”
“I don’t think he’s gonna pull back after we’ve come this far.”
“Yeah, the old fuck don’t like to give up ground once he’s got it.”
They heard the voice of Lieutenant Breckenridge coming at them through the jungle. “First Squad—forward! Squads Two and Three—cover them!”
“Uh-oh,” said Butsko.
Bannon swallowed hard and looked down at his M 1 rifle. “I’m so sick of this war,” he said, his guts quaking.
Butsko didn’t say anything. He just gritted his teeth and wished he was somewhere else. I’m gonna die today, he thought. I just know it.
“You heard him!” yelled Pfc. Longtree. “Let’s go!”
The First Squad moved forward, just as squads all across the Twenty-third Regiment’s line moved forward, covered by other squads and heavy-weapons platoons. Butsko let the others go first because he was the man with the flamethrower and he was supposed to lag behind and be ready in case his particular talents were needed.
Bannon crawled over the jungle, his M 1 rifle cradled in his arms, hearing bullets being fired all around him. The racket was so fierce that it was difficult to know who was firing what, and bullets zipped over his head or slammed into the ground near him. Gradually the American fire forced the Japanese soldiers to take cover more often and fire less accurately. Inch by inch the First Squad moved closer to the Japanese trenches.
“Second Squad—move out!” yelled Lieutenant Breckenridge. “Squads One and Three—cover them!”
Bannon raised his rifle to his shoulder and fired toward the trench system in front of him. It was well camouflaged but he could see the puffs of smoke that gave the Japs away. He aimed carefully and squeezed his rounds as the Second Squad advanced. The metal clip flew into the air after he fired the last bullet, and he reached into a bandolier, taking out a fresh clip and stuffing it in.
“Squad Three—move forward!”
The recon platoon moved forward squad by squad, covering each other, diminishing the distance between them and the Japanese trenches. Private Dunlop in the Third Squad was shot between the eyes, and Corporal Stark in the Second Squad stopped a bullet with his rib cage. The recon platoon had a new medic named Gundy, a conscientious objector who would not shoot at anybody but who consented to help the wounded. He was a pale young man with a sensitive face, blond hair, and wire rimmed spectacles taped to his face so they wouldn’t fall off. He crawled through the hellfire and pulled Corporal Stark behind a tree, where he could examine his wound without getting shot himself.
The recon platoon was only twenty yards from the Japanese trenches now, and the Japanese soldiers inside weren’t firing as much as they had before because the GIs were devastating them with firepower. Lieutenant Breckenridge thought he was close enough to rush the Japanese line and bust through, but if he stayed where he was, he’d slowly lose more men in a battle of attrition.
“Nutsy!” he yelled. “Gimme my walkie-talkie!”
Nutsy Gafooley was right beside him, and he handed the walkie-talkie over. Lieutenant Breckenridge called Captain Ilecki, the commanding officer of Able Company, to whom the recon platoon was temporarily attached.
“Sir,” he said, “request permission to assault!”
“Where are you?” asked Ilecki, taken by surprise.
“Close enough to assault.”
“Hmmm,” said Captain Ilecki, trying to make a quick decision in the tumult of battle. “I think you’d better wait for the rest of us to catch up.”
“We’re too close to wait. We either have to attack or pull back, because it’s hot here.”
“Then maybe you’d better pull back.”
“I think it’d be less costly to advance, and if you follow us in, we can crack the line.”
“Follow you in?” asked Captain Ilecki, horrified.
“Yes, follow us in. We’ll jump off in about two minutes. Over and out.”
“Wait a minute!” shouted Captain Ilecki.
But the connection was already broken. Lieutenant Breckenridge handed the walkie-talkie back to Nutsy Galfooley. “Sergeant Cameron!”
“Yo!”
“Get over here!”
Sergeant Cameron was twenty feet away. He crawled underneath the fire and madness toward Lieutenant Breckenridge, keeping his head so low that his chin dragged over the leaves and grass.
“Sir?” he said upon arriving.
“We’re going to assault the trench. Put out a BAR man on our left flank to protect us there, and put another one on our right flank. We jump off in”—he looked at his watch—“exactly three minutes, so move out!”
“Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Breckenridge pulled out his canteen and took a sip of water because h
e had cotton mouth. He tapped a fresh clip of ammo into his carbine and placed the half-filled clip into the pocket of a bandolier. He looked at his watch and had a minute and a half to go. Somebody screamed to his left; another of his men was hit. Somebody called for the medic and Gundy crawled in the direction of the wounded man. The GIs in the recon platoon shot at the Japs, who shot back at them. The battle was at a stalemate, but it wouldn’t stay that way for very long.
“Sir!” shouted Nutsy Gafooley. “Captain Ilecki wants to talk with you!”
“Tell him I’m not around! Tell him my attack is under way and I’m expecting him to support me!”
“Yes, sir!”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked at his watch; the little second hand ticked around the face. His skin tingled and his teeth buzzed with excitement. He intended to lead the men forward just as Colonel Stockton led the regiment, and he knew that he might not make it, but he’d made it all the other times and he hoped he would this time too. Anyway, it wasn’t a good idea to worry about things like that. Let the Japs worry.
The second hand on his watch touched the twelve, and he jumped up.
“Take that trench!” he hollered. “Follow me!”
He ran toward the trench. The air around him was filled with bullets. He remembered that he’d forgotten to click his carbine into its automatic mode, so he did that as he ran.
“Get ‘em!” he yelled. “Blood and guts!”
“Blood and guts!” replied his men as they leaped to their feet and followed him through the jungle.
They dodged around trees and jumped over fallen logs as they closed in on the Japanese trench network in front of them, firing their rifles from the waist, trying to make the Japs keep their heads down.
“Go!” screamed Lieutenant Breckenridge.