by Toland, John
“To the detachment’s good luck in battle forever,” said Kawaguchi. “Kampai!”
As the officers started back to their units and a detail began burning important papers, the general pointed out the enemy’s positions to Nishino on a mimeographed map. “No matter what the War College says, it’s extremely difficult to take an enemy position by night assault.” He lowered his voice. “There were a few cases in the Russo-Japanese War but they were only small-scale actions. If we succeed here on Guadalcanal, it will be a wonder in the military history of the world.”
They turned inland into jungle that seemed impenetrable, hacking their way through stout vines, traversing dark rain forests, clambering up and down precipitous ravines and rugged ridges. They traveled by night, stumbling over roots and falling into holes. Someone discovered phosphorescent moss and this was rubbed on the back of the man ahead. They sloshed through swamps dank with the stench of rotting vegetation and so treacherous that it took hours to go a few hundred yards. Added to this physical hardship was the growing fear that the Americans would suddenly ambush them.
Nishino’s assistants had long since thrown away their cameras and supplies, but he himself refused to give up anything and scrambled at the heels of the long-legged Kawaguchi, conscientiously noting down everything the general said or did.
Dysentery from drinking river water was sweeping the ranks and already more than half the men had malaria. They subsisted on small quantities of dried fish, crackers and hard candy; they still had plenty of rice but dared not keep a fire going for more than a few minutes. On September 10 they reached the Tenaru River and the artillery peeled off, along with most of the Ichiki men, and headed directly toward Henderson while Kawaguchi and the main group kept plodding south to get behind the airfield.
For a week Lieutenant Nakayama and his three men—Corporal Abe, Lance Corporal Inenaga and Private First Class Morita—had been pushing ahead of Kawaguchi trying to make contact with Colonel Oka. They were half starved, exhausted. Their uniforms were ripped, their bodies slashed with deep cuts. They had fought off an attack by a native and his pack of ferocious dogs with saber and bayonets, and waded miles down a mountain stream only to find it so deep near the bottom that they had to turn around and struggle all the way back.
On the day Kawaguchi’s force separated, they heard the distant rumble of engines. They were approaching the airfield. They turned west and at every clearing expected to come upon Oka. But they met no one and by dark were at the end of their endurance. Nakayama opened their last provision, Kawaguchi’s can of sardines. The fish seemed to melt in their mouths. They sucked juice from vines and lay down to sleep. The next morning they were stopped by a wide dark-blue river. (It was the winding Lungga, which, a mile downstream, went past Henderson Field.) They waded toward the sea close to the bank and in the afternoon came to a small barren hill. Nakayama climbed it. On the other side, Americans squatted around a fire. It was the heart of the Marines’ western perimeter. The crackle of frying and the smell of meat was almost unbearable.
The four scouts circled the Americans and came to another clearing blasted out of the jungle by bombs. There were a dozen foxholes—all empty except for discarded ammunition boxes and cans of rations. What kind of soldiers were these Americans? The scouts ate ravenously. It was as though they had “a new life.” One of the men broke wind.
“It seems you’re at last feeling human,” said Nakayama.
“Yankee, smell my fart” was the cocky reply.
They crossed the river and kept moving due west into a patch of jungle, finally emerging from the dense growth into another clearing. The sun was painfully dazzling.
“Oi!”
Startled, they turned. A Japanese sailor, bare from the waist up, rifle in hand, stared at them. They embraced the sailor and began pummeling him. The sailor thanked them for coming. His eyes seemed abnormally large and bright. “You are friends in need,” he said. His unit had been stationed at the airfield, and since the invasion had eaten nothing except berries which tasted delicious but turned putrid in the mouth. Every day at least one man died without complaint, “only licking his palms” for a last taste of salt. The sailor began weeping and dropped on his knees. “Please, soldiers, avenge us.”
For two more days the scouts struggled west through the jungle and finally reached the Mataniko River, seven miles from Henderson. It was the morning of September 13, the date of the general attack. Would they ever find Oka? They turned north and followed the river downstream. At two-fifty Nakayama saw soldiers ahead fording the river. They were small. Japanese. It was the Oka group.
Nakayama found enough strength to relay the battle plan to Oka before collapsing at the colonel’s feet. Almost inaudibly he said he was ready to die in battle.
“Let us die together,” said Oka. He looked at his watch. In six hours the attack was scheduled to start. For the first time since landing he broke radio silence and informed Kawaguchi that he was moving east.
Kawaguchi had reached his jumping-off point the previous night, a hill three miles south of Henderson. Under deep jungle cover the men were making a final check of their equipment. The general had called in his company and platoon leaders. He told them it was essential to break through the American lines that night and retake the airfield. “You must put the enemy to rout and crush them by daybreak. The time has come for you to give your lives for the Emperor.” In Rabaul he had been informed there were 5,000 Americans guarding Henderson, but if all went well his 2,100 men, Oka’s 1,100 and the artillery-Ichiki group of more than 1,000 would be victorious.
2.
Earlier that morning General Vandegrift had surveyed the wreckage of Henderson Field caused by the naval bombardment the night before, and told his operations officer, “We’re going to defend this airfield until we no longer can. If that happens, we’ll take what’s left to the hills and fight guerrilla warfare.” He now had more than nineteen thousand troops but still felt outnumbered. According to reports, sizable Japanese detachments had landed on both sides of Henderson and were preparing to close in. For two weeks enemy warships had been shelling the Marine positions at night almost at will and his men were becoming increasingly intimidated by these fearsome raids—the Tokyo Express. His little air force was fighting off bomber attacks almost daily, but losses were heavy and he didn’t know when replacement crews and planes would arrive.
Vandegrift was certain of one thing: there would be no help from the Navy for some time. Recently Rear Admiral Turner had flown in with a message from Ghormley: a shortage of ships, planes and supplies prevented the Navy from giving further support to the Guadalcanal operation.
The Marines all along the perimeter were instructed to dig in, wire up tight and get some sleep. An attack could come at any time.
At dusk Kawaguchi’s 2,100 men stealthily started down the hill toward the airfield. They came to a grassy plain and crossed it in the ghostly light of the new moon. They stopped and readied for the attack. Nishino felt someone grasp his hand. It was a private named Hayashi who had become a close friend since their departure from Palau. He had enlisted three months after graduating from college and was engaged to be married, but had left Japan so unexpectedly that he had not even said good-bye to his fiancee. “Perhaps I’ll be killed tonight,” he said. “I often used to think of going back home and marrying my girl but now I don’t have such dreams. This is my address. When I’m dead, will you write to my … mother?”
Nishino squeezed his hand reassuringly, hoping that Hayashi, in turn, would write his wife if he was killed. Quietly the men stacked their knapsacks. Those who had fresh underwear changed; they wanted to be clean when they died. Officers crisscrossed each other’s backs with strips of white cloth so their men would be able to follow them in the dark. Lieutenant Kurakake went them one better. In Borneo he had bought a large bottle of Guerlain for his wife. He doused himself with the perfume and said, “Follow your noses.”
Kawaguchi had just learned
that a winding ridge, running from north to south, lay between him and Henderson. It was a natural barricade, but since there was not enough time to circle it, he gave orders to storm the tip end from the front and sides.
Kawaguchi moved out with Nishino close behind, notebook in hand. He carried an Eastman 8-mm. movie camera and two still cameras, strung across his chest like a Mexican bandit’s bandoleer. Someone slipped. There was a light metallic clink. A rifle shot cracked.
Again silence. A twig snapped, followed by two more reports. How could the enemy have discovered them so soon? An officer stumbled across a wire. He whispered to keep quiet and probed on the ground until he found something—a small black object that resembled a microphone. It had to be some kind of listening device. Young Private Hayashi found three more like it and brought them to Kawaguchi. “Kakka-dono [Your Excellency, sir],” he said, saluted and stood at rigid attention.
Kawaguchi was amused. He explained to Hayashi that in addressing officers up to a colonel’s rank, it was proper to use “-dono.” “You should simply address me as Your Excellency Kawaguchi.”
“But I thought it would be impolite if I didn’t add ‘sir’!”
Cautiously they moved forward through the dense undergrowth until they reached the southern tip of the ridge. Here they were forced to split into two sections. One of Nishino’s shoelaces, rotten from the jungle march, snapped and when he stooped to tie it, someone bumped into him.
“Yama [Mountain],” he whispered.
“Kawa [River],” came the countersign.
There was a shout from a bush just ahead. A grenade exploded and in the flash Nishino saw an American. A smaller figure lurched with a bayonet and the Marine fell. Again there was eerie silence, then another grenade explosion, a shriek of pain. Nishino noticed the scent of Guerlain and moved toward it.
“Japs!” some American shouted. Silence. “Japs! Front five!”
A few minutes before nine o’clock the quiet was shattered by a series of blunt explosions. It was the artillery unit Kawaguchi had left to make the diversionary attack. Almost immediately these guns were joined by a distant rumble and then the jarring crash of heavy shells. Japanese warships were once more bombarding Henderson.
At nine o’clock shouts of “Totsugeki!” (Charge!) echoed along the line. Led by dark figures wearing the unearthly white crosses, Kawaguchi’s 2,100 men closed in on the tip of the ridge.
The Marines dug in on the serpentine ridge were under the command of Colonel Merritt (“Red Mike”) Edson. They were outnumbered about 3 to 2. The Raider Battalion held the center and right flank, while the left flank was manned by the Parachutists under Harry Torgerson, a burly, pugnacious captain who had had most of his trousers blown off in a dynamite attack on a Tulagi cave.
Red signal flares shot up, followed by a barrage of Japanese mortar fire. The sky seemed full of fireworks. Parachute flares burst overhead, momentarily blinding the Marines. The Parachutists on the left heard a rhythmic slapping of gun butts coming from the foot of the ridge and a chant repeated over and over: “U. S. Marines be dead tomorrow!” Figures filtered through the darkness below, swarmed up the ridge.
One forward company, Captain Justin Duryea’s, was almost cut off. He ordered smoke pots. The flash of explosions reflected against the billowing smoke and someone yelled “Gas!” In the confusion the companies on the advanced slopes began to pull out of their exposed positions. The withdrawal endangered one flank of Major William J. McKennon’s company, but he knew the ridge had to be held at all costs or it would be the end of Henderson. He moved his men back slowly, spreading them out to right and left.
Torgerson was all over the left flank rallying his troops with encouragement and insults. He shouted at the men by name and dared them to attack. A few lagged back, were kicked into place, and the entire line started forward.
The Japanese rushed to meet them, supported by desultory light-machine-gun fire. But three of McKennon’s machine guns opened up, bowling over the Japanese “like tenpins.” A second wave surged forward and was hurled back. It was, thought McKennon, like a rainstorm beating down, subsiding and resuming a moment later with equal fury.
On the crest of the ridge Colonel Edson was talking to one of his captains on the phone. A voice broke in: “Our situation here, Colonel Edson, is excellent. Thank you, sir.” It was obviously no Marine. The Enemy had tapped the line somewhere and this meant the Raider company on the right was cut off and had to be pulled back. The line out front was dead, so Torgerson sent a noncom forward; his bull voice could be heard above the din of battle: “Red Mike says it’s okay to pull back!”
The entire end of the ridge seemed engulfed by Japanese, and Edson hugged the ground, telephone in hand, until he saw Marines scrambling to the rear. He grabbed two as they went by and yelled, “The only thing the Japs have that you don’t is guts!” He picked up his phone and called in artillery. “Closer, closer,” he said as he watched fountains of dirt march steadily toward him.
The attack was broken, but within half an hour there was another. It was preceded by smoke bombs and shouts in English of “Gas attack! Marine, you die!” In the smoke and confusion Edson was no longer able to maintain contact with his commanders. He ordered his outnumbered men back to the northern end of the ridge, a half mile from Henderson Field.
The Japanese stumbled over bodies of their own men in a blind rush forward—slowed but not stopped by machine-gun fire and an almost continuous barrage of grenades and mortar shells. In the vanguard on one side of the ridge were the remnants of a battalion led by a captain named Kokusho. Their headlong charge was interrupted by the discovery of a pile of Marine field rations. They wolfed down ham, sausage and beef. Kokusho lit an American cigarette, took a few deep puffs, and ordered his men to move out again against a battery of antiaircraft guns up ahead. “I’m not going to let any of you get in front of me, understand?” He cocked his helmet back, raised his sword and shouted “Totsugeki!”
They were caught in a cross fire, but Kokusho reached one of the guns followed by a handful of his own troops and a group of artillery men armed with bamboo spears. Kokusho was wounded in the face, and his uniform was splattered with blood. He gave a cry of “Banzai!” and started for the next gun position. He was staggered by a bullet but he leaped onto a gun platform. As he triumphantly raised his sword, a grenade exploded in his face. From the ground he mumbled “Totsugeki! Totsugeki!” and died, sword still in hand.
All along the ridge devastating fire from the Americans was stopping the most fanatical charges. Round after round from 105-mm. howitzers, some fired as close as 1,600 yards, tore into the attackers. At two-thirty in the morning Edson picked up his phone. “We can hold,” he told Vandegrift.
Dawn revealed the ridge as a slaughterhouse. From now on it would be known as Bloody Ridge. Six hundred Japanese were sprawled in the grotesque positions of death. There were forty dead Marines. The dazed defenders congratulated one another on being alive and exchanged stories of the enemy: the wounded who called for help—and exploded hidden grenades when an American approached; prisoners who kept pleading “Knife!” and pointing to their bellies.
Survivors were still making suicidal forays. Vandegrift was in front of his command post reading a message. He looked up at the cry of “Banzai!” to see three Japanese charging headlong at him; one of them, an officer, was flourishing a sword. Shots cut down all three at Vandegrift’s feet.
The Japanese slowly withdrew toward Mount Austen, to reorganize, dragging hundreds of wounded with them. A rough count was taken—only eight hundred effectives remained. Nothing had worked according to plan. They had run into a rugged natural barricade, and the Marine defense had been unexpectedly strong. Moreover, a vital element had been missing; Colonel Oka never joined in the battle.
The colonel’s position remained a mystery until that afternoon, when firing was heard from the northwest. Oka was at last attacking! But the crackle of fire died down almost immediately. Obviously h
e had met more than he could handle and would be of no help. A second assault was doomed before it started. Nevertheless, Kawaguchi was resolved to make a suicidal effort to redeem his failure—at least he would die in battle. At dusk he again led his men toward Henderson Field. After a two-hour march the ridge loomed once more before them. This time they started circling around it.
Kawaguchi gave the order to charge, and eight hundred men loped forward in the dark. Marine artillery had zeroed in on the area, and the Japanese were engulfed in a hell of explosions. It was far worse than the night before. Machine-gun bullets ripped through the brush. The ground shook incessantly like a never-ending earthquake. Trees toppled over; red-hot pieces of shrapnel whistled through the air. Kawaguchi could not turn back. He pressed on toward the airfield, but there was no escape anywhere. Fire followed their advance and eventually pinned them down. All night they hugged the ground. At dawn there were a few pitiful bursts from the last Japanese machine guns, the crump of mortar explosions in return, then silence.
“Okasan!” pleaded a soldier, calling for his mother. Another youngster wanted water and clutched at Nishino’s leg with one arm; the other was a gushing stump. Nishino shook his canteen. Empty. He put the damp spout to the soldier’s dry lips. He gulped, smiled wanly and died.
The sun was blinding and Nishino found it difficult to keep his eyes open. They burned and everything looked milky. What had been jungle was a barren wasteland. A few tree trunks stood like ruined Grecian columns. Nishino saw Yoshino, his liaison man, stagger to his feet and called to him in a croaking voice, “Hit the dirt, you fool!” Yoshino dropped beside him as a mortar round exploded yards away. Nishino covered his eyes and ears. He shivered from a malaria chill. Shells continued to plow into the ground probing for them. He felt his body slowly rise in the air and fall—again and again—as in a slow-motion movie. Overcome by an irresistible drowsiness, he let his head come to rest on the leaves. His body seemed to be sinking into something unknown and he wondered if he was going to sleep or if he was dying. Faces came to his mind: first his city editor, Honda; then his wife, looking very sad. There followed a procession of friends and, strangely, Verlaine and François Villon. He heard distant thunder like the crash of a tidal wave, and his body was again slowly lifted from the ground. He felt his breast pocket; a seashell rosary was still there, and the amulet Honda have given him for luck at the time when he told him not to get killed. He could see a little better. Less than a half a mile away was the end of a runway; they had almost made it to the airfield. As if in a dream, he started to creep back.