by Len Levinson
He walked purposefully to the curtain and pulled it to the side, revealing a map table with a kerosene lamp hanging over it.
“Close that curtain!” somebody shouted.
Lieutenant Oya stepped inside the area and let the curtain close. “I have an important message for General Yokozowa from Colonel Tamakuma!”
A figure loomed out of the smoke and shadows. “What is the message?” asked General Yokozowa.
“The Americans are in full retreat!” the bleeding young officer said happily. “Their lines melted away at the first onslaught of our attack!”
General Yokozowa was so happy he wanted to jump for joy, but if he did he’d hit his head on the ceiling of the cave, because the ceiling was quite low.
“Excellent!” General Yokozowa said. He spun around and said, “Get me General Adachi on the radio!”
“Yes sir!” replied Lieutenant Higashi, his aide-de-camp.
Lieutenant Higashi ran to the radio and ordered the operator to signal General Adachi’s headquarters. General Yokozowa paced back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, his heart beating wildly. The attack had been a success! His men were pushing forward toward the American airfields! The tide of battle had been turned!
“The signal is going through, sir!” said Lieutenant Higashi.
“Give me the headset!” General Yokozowa said, striding toward the radio.
General Yokozowa took the headset from the operator’s hand and put it on. He heard static, blips, and doo-wops, and then the voice of General Adachi came through.
“General Yokozowa?” General Adachi asked.
“Yes sir, I’m here! I’m calling to report that the attack has succeeded! The Americans are in full retreat! We’ve rolled back their flank, sir! Your tactics have been proven correct!”
There was a pause on the other end, and General Yokozowa figured General Adachi was giving thanks to the Shinto gods.
“This is excellent news,” General Adachi said finally, “but we can’t afford to celebrate so soon. This is the time to press our attack. The American flank must be in disarray. This is the most crucial part of the battle. Order your commanders to forge ahead to the airfields. We have not won anything until we win those airfields. Is that understood?”
“Yes sir.”
“Keep up the good work, General Yokozowa. Notify me immediately of all developments. Good luck to you. Anything else?”
“No sir.”
“Over and out.”
General Yokozowa dropped the headset into the radio operator’s hands and turned around, facing his officers. “Transmit this order to all field commands: The American flank has collapsed. Press your attacks. Forge ahead to the airfields. Don’t stop until you capture those airfields. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir!” the officers replied.
“Follow through!” General Yokozowa said.
The officers wrote out the orders and prepared to transmit them to the front via radio and courier. General Yokozowa slipped past the curtain and walked to the front of the cave. He stood at its edge and placed his fists on his hips, looking down to the jungle below. He could hear rifle shots and an occasional grenade blast, but all he could see was a black mass of trees in the moonlight.
American and Japanese soldiers were fighting a crucial battle in that jungle, one that would be written about in history books someday. General Yokozowa knew that if his men lost, the battle for New Guinea would be lost. He wished he could do something to help his men, but he and high-ranking officers like him were superfluous now. The battle would be won by local commanders and individual soldiers, fighting at close range with anything they could lay their hands on, in that turbulent sweltering jungle below.
General Yokozowa raised his fists and looked up at the starry sky. “O Izanagi and Izanami,” he prayed fervently, “O Amaterasu and great Jimmu—please give us this great victory!”
ELEVEN . . .
No moonlight reached the depths of the thick tangled jungle. Gigantic bushes and primordial ferns covered the ground. Vines hung from the thick-trunked trees. There were few trails and visibility was poor. Desultory shots rang out and hand grenades exploded, shattering the stillness of the night.
Sergeant Bannon crouched underneath a bush, trying to catch his breath. Sweat poured from his face and plastered his uniform to his body. He’d lost his M 1 rifle and was carrying a Japanese samurai sword. He had no idea of where he was or what had happened to the other men in the recon platoon. He assumed they were spread out and alone in the Jap-infested jungle, as he was.
He perked up his ears and moved his head from side to side. It was black and eerie in every direction. He raised his head and could see tiny patches of sky through openings at the tops of the trees. The jungle smelled like rotten eggs. Somewhere in the distance a wild dog barked.
Bannon heard something move behind him and spun around, raising the samurai sword in the air. He waited and blinked his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, but there was nothing except a sea of ink. He couldn’t see a damn thing. If a Jap was six feet away he’d be invisible.
Bannon was spooked. It was one thing to face a Japanese soldier hand to hand in broad daylight, but quite another thing to be cut off from his men and unable to see anything. He wiped the snot off his nose with the back of his hand and wondered what to do next.
He’d been crawling, running, and hiding ever since the retreat began. He didn’t know how he’d made it this far. He couldn’t see a damned thing and his only consolation was that the Japs couldn’t either. He knew that the jungle was full of Japs and GIs groping around in the darkness. Occasionally he heard a scream or a curse. Sometimes rifles were fired. It was the most terrifying mess he’d been in since he hit that Guadalcanal Beach nearly two years ago.
He decided the time had come to take stock and find out where in the fuck he was. He unbuttoned his shirt pocket and took out his GI compass. He opened it up and shielded the luminous dial with his hands. He was facing east and wanted to go toward the northwest. Closing the compass, he was about to drop it into his shirt pocket when he heard something rustle in the bushes nearby.
“Yaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!”
It was a Japanese soldier leaping toward him and screaming at the top of his lungs. Bannon dropped the compass and spun around, seeing the bayonet at the end of the Japanese soldier’s rifle streaking toward the point between Bannon’s eyes. Bannon ducked underneath the bayonet and pushed his legs hard. He flew through the air and collided with the Japanese soldier, wrapping his arms around the Japanese soldier’s face and knocking him off his feet. The Japanese soldier fell on his back, but he held on to his rifle and bayonet. He banged Bannon with the butt, but didn’t have much swinging room. Bannon crawled up the Japanese soldier’s body and punched him in the mouth. The Japanese soldier hollared and let go his rifle and bayonet, clawing the air wildly, wrapping his long skinny fingers around Bannon’s neck and squeezing as hard as he could.
Bannon coughed and snorted as he brought his hands together and shot them up into the air, breaking the Japanese soldier’s hold on his throat. Still holding his hands together he balled them into one massive fist and brought it down on top of the Japanese soldier’s head.
The Japanese soldier grunted, seeing stars. Bannon slugged him again, then jumped up and kicked the Japanese soldier in the face. The Japanese soldier fell onto his back and lay still. Bannon picked up the Japanese soldier’s rifle and bayonet, poised the weapon in the air, and rammed it through the Japanese soldier’s heart. Blood gushed out and Bannon placed his foot on the Japanese soldier’s chest, pulling the rifle and bayonet out.
Bannon looked around. Everything was so dark he couldn’t get his bearings. Where’s my compass? he thought. He got down on his hands and knees and searched through the grass, dead leaves, and muck on the ground. He brought his nose close to the ground, but couldn’t find his compass. Panic rose in his chest because without his compass he’d be lost in the jungle. He’d
have to stay where he was and that was the last place in the world where he wanted to stay.
Blam!
A bullet kicked up muck near his face, and he jerked his head back. Somebody fired at him, and he charged through the bush to get away.
Blam!
The second bullet whistled past his left ear, and Bannon rampaged through the jungle, ducking and dodging, trying to get away.
Blam!
The Japanese soldier, wherever he was, continued to fire at Bannon, and Bannon could hear the Japanese soldier chasing him. Bannon shouted as if he’d been hit, then ducked behind the wide trunk of a tree.
He stood still and breathed heavily through his open mouth, trying not to make any noise. Sweat pouring down his cheeks, he heard the Japanese soldier coming after him. Bannon had left his samurai sword and the Japanese rifle and bayonet behind. All he had was his own bayonet in its scabbard. He slowly and silently drew it out and held it blade up in his fist.
The Japanese soldier came closer. Bannon could hear him muttering to himself. He hoped the Japanese soldier would come close enough for a quick stab. He held the bayonet tightly and waited. What if a Jap comes from the other direction and sees me? Bannon felt a rise of desperation. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to get out of that jungle alive, but he told himself to calm down and take it one step at a time.
The Japanese soldier paused on the other side of the tree. Bannon could hear him wheezing and hoped the Japanese soldier couldn’t hear him. Bannon bit his lower lip. Snakes writhed inside his stomach. The Japanese soldier stepped closer. He was suspicious and leaned forward to peer around the tree, his finger on the trigger of his Nambu pistol.
Bannon and the Japanese soldier saw each other at the same moment. The Japanese soldier pulled the trigger and bark exploded on the tree next to Bannon’s cheek.
Bannon sprang at the Japanese soldier, grabbed the hot barrel of the pistol with his left hand, and plunged the bayonet into the Japanese soldier’s stomach with his right hand. The bayonet went in to the hilt and warm blood poured over Bannon’s hand. The Japanese soldier went slack and dropped to the ground.
Bannon pulled his bayonet out and crouched over the Japanese soldier. He pushed his bayonet back into its scabbard and plucked the Nambu pistol out of the Japanese soldier’s hand. Bannon was familiar with Nambu pistols, and he ejected the clip. He counted the bullets and there were three left.
Jamming the pistol into his cartridge belt, he rolled the Japanese soldier over and searched for more ammunition clips. He found some in the Japanese soldier’s cartridge belt and more in his pack. Bannon stuffed the ammunition into his pockets. The Japanese soldier gasped as he lay on the ground, blood burbling out of his mouth. Bannon whacked him on the skull with the pistol and that quieted him down.
Bannon filled the clip with bullets and looked around. He didn’t feel like going back to look for his compass. Somehow he’d have to get along without it. He’d have to follow the stars.
He looked up at the sky and found the Big Dipper. The two stars on the end pointed to the North Star, and he located it on the end of the handle of the Little Dipper. That was true north, not magnetic north, according to what he’d been taught in advanced infantry training.
Bannon held the pistol in his right hand and crept forward, heading in the direction of the North Star. He wondered how far he’d have to go before he was safe behind his own lines.
Private Victor Yabalonka opened his eyes and saw blackness. He had no idea of where he was and felt as though he’d been kicked in the chest by a mule. He lay on his back and raised his head, looking around him. Bodies were everywhere, stretched out in the moonlight. Then it all came back to him. The Japs had attacked while he and the others were digging in, and one of the Japs shot him.
I was shot, he asked himself. Am I dead? He didn’t feel dead. He touched the palms of his hands to his chest and found no blood, only a dull ache in his left pectoral muscle underneath his shirt pocket.
It’s impossible, he said to himself. It can’t be. He sat up and looked at his shirt pocket. There was a big blotch on it and he probed with his fingers, discovering two holes side by side. Oh-oh, he thought. There was no blood and he could feel his handy pocket Bible, the one given him by the Reverend Billie Jones, inside.
Private Victor Yabalonka’s hands trembled as he unbuttoned the shirt pocket. He pulled out the handy pocket Bible and thought: It couldn’t happen twice in a row!
He held the Bible up to the light and looked at the cover. The night spun around him as he realized there was a second smashed bullet directly on top of the first one. He touched the lead with his fingers, and his heart beat like a tom-tom. “It’s impossible,” he muttered.
He flipped open the Bible and brought his eyes close to it so he could see the lead. One bullet clearly had been stopped by the previous bullet. Both bullets had landed in the identical place, and underneath them were the words:
Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh: is there any thing too hard for me?
Yabalonka didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. He thought he was losing his mind. Things like this don’t happen, he said to himself. It’s impossible.
But he knew it had happened, and therefore it was possible. But how had it happened? What in the hell was going on?
His mind was staggered. He looked around at all the dead Japanese and American soldiers. I’m the only one alive. How come I’m the only one alive?
He looked at the Bible spread out in his hand.
Behold, I am the Lord, the God of all flesh: is there any thing too hard for me?
What’s going on here? Yabalonka wondered. This isn’t right! The first time he was able to tell himself it was a mere coincidence that the Bible happened to stop a Japanese bullet, but he couldn’t convince himself of this a second time. Things like this can’t possibly happen, he thought, although he knew that in fact it had happened!
Yabalonka thought his mind would explode. He felt dizzy, as if he were falling through outer space. What’s going on here? Am I dreaming?
He pinched himself and it hurt, but he still wasn’t sure he was awake. He’d been a Communist in civilian life and believed in dialectical materialism, which left no room in the world for gods, ghosts, and strange inexplicable occurrences. Was there more to existence than dialectical materialism allowed, and if there was, what the hell was it?
The wind fluttered the pages of the Bible, and a new page appeared. He looked down at it and read:
For I tell you, that many prophets and kings have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them; and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.
“I need a fucking drink,” Yabalonka said, and then he put his hand over his mouth, because he realized he shouldn’t be making any noise. There might be Japs around. Where were all his buddies? Had they all been massacred?
He decided he had more important things to think about than the reality of God and the possibility of miracles. Dropping the tiny Bible into his shirt pocket, he buttoned it in so it wouldn’t fall out. Maybe he’d talk to somebody about this when he was safe, but first he had to get safe.
He saw a Japanese Arisaka rifle lying on the ground beside him, and leaned over to pick it up.
Then he heard voices. He wrinkled his forehead and realized the voices were speaking the Japanese language. Figures moved in the jungle and he ducked his head, lying flat on the ground. A column of Japanese soldiers marched into the area and passed by him, only ten yards away. He lay still and pretended to be dead, aware that he really would be dead if that Bible hadn’t been in his shirt pocket.
Maybe I’d better not say anything about this, Yabalonka thought. Everybody’ll think I’m crazy if I tell them what happened.
Pfc. Frankie La Barbara from New York City looked down at Lieutenant Breckenridge’s sweat-streaked face. “I don’t know why I brung you here,” Frankie said. “I shoulda left you behind for the Japs.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge was dizzy and feverish. His shoulder throbbed because a Japanese bullet was lodged in the muscle. He looked up at Frankie and saw the face of a harlequin.
“Where are we?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked.
“You’re so smart—you tell me,” Frankie replied.
Frankie’s jaws worked like a machine as they chewed Wrigley’s peppermint gum. He looked to the left, then to the right, twitched his nose, and scratched his balls. He was huddled beside Lieutenant Breckenridge near the moss-covered trunk of a tree. Pitch blackness was all around them. Somebody screamed less than fifty yards away.
“What was that?” Frankie muttered.
“Gimme a drink, Frankie.”
“Fuck you. Get one yourself.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge reached around with his good arm to get his canteen, but didn’t have the strength. He wheezed and went slack on the ground.
Frankie looked at him and sneered. “You ain’t such a hotshot now, are you, you big lump of shit. You got a mouth but that’s about all. Those lieutenants’ bars don’t mean a fucking thing anymore. It’s just you and me out here, shithead, and this time I’m the boss.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge looked up at Frankie gloating above him. “You’re a psycho case, you know that, don’t you Frankie?”
“Hey,” Frankie said, “you can’t talk to me like that anymore.” Frankie whipped out his bayonet and touched the blade to Lieutenant Breckenridge’s throat. “Go ahead, say it again.”
Lieutenant Breckenridge felt the cold steel against his skin but it’d take more than cold steel to make him hold his feelings back. “I said you’re a psycho case, and that’s all you’ll ever be. You can kill me but that’ll mean you’re even more of a psycho case than you are already.”
“You son of a bitch,” Frankie said. “You’re calling my bluff, huh? Well nobody calls Frankie La Barbara’s bluff and gets away with it.”