by Len Levinson
The officer of the day, Lieutenant Tomoyoki Arazaki, poked his head past the tent flap. “Yes sir?”
“Find out what's going on out there!”
“Yes sir.”
Lieutenant Arazaki's head disappeared. General Adachi returned his attention to the documents and maps on his desk. His big offensive against the Americans was scheduled to begin on the night of July 9, only seven days away, and he still had much to do. He wanted to make sure of all the plans himself, down to the smallest detail, because he could leave nothing to chance. He'd become commander of the Eighteenth Army in November 1942 and had been pushed all over eastern New Guinea by the Americans ever since, but now the time had come to stop. He and the Eighteenth Army were going to make their last stand, fighting to the finish, and winner take all.
General Adachi's Army deployed as he sat at his desk. Supplies were hand-carried to the front because he lacked transport, and if he had transport he wouldn't have gasoline, because the American Navy controlled the seas. American airplanes controlled the air. General Adachi's situation was desperate. His great offensive was doomed on paper, but still he thought he could bring it off because he believed Japan had God on her side. Like most Japanese officers, General Adachi was unable to admit defeat. He believed fighting to the death was the only honorable way out.
The Japanese Eighteenth Army on New Guinea was like a cornered wild animal, and there was nothing more dangerous than a cornered wild animal except maybe a cornered Japanese general with his reputation on the line.
General Adachi was fifty-four years old, of average height and build, and his thin mustache gave him the appearance of a Hispanic. He desperately wanted a victory, just as a gambler who's lost his shirt desperately wants his horse to come in. General Adachi knew his reputation had lost its luster on New Guinea. He also knew the imperial Army was being pushed back steadily all across the South Pacific by American and Australian soldiers. If he could win a victory it would be wonderful for his career, and a terrific morale builder for the Imperial Army. Imperial General Headquarters in Tokyo would have to take notice. Even the Emperor himself would hear about it. General Adachi would become a hero, although that wasn't the main reason he wanted to defeat the Americans.
The main reason he wanted to defeat the Americans was he wanted to defeat the Americans. He was a Japanese Army officer and his function in life was to win battles for the Emperor. The Americans had humiliated the Emperor with their various trade and naval treaties of the thirties, and finally pushed Japan to war. The Americans had to be punished for what they did, and General Adachi viewed himself as an instrument of the Emperor's justice.
He had to defeat the Americans, or at least inflict upon them a seriously crippling blow. His basic strategy consisted of a feint, another feint, and then his main blow, delivered with unswerving ferocity. The first feint would be against the middle of the American line. The second feint would strike the Americans on their left flank, which abutted the Pacific Ocean. Then the main blow would follow the first feint, against the center of the American line. General Adachi hoped to split the American forces in two, and then capitalize on their confusion by pushing forward quickly to the Tadji airfields, destroying all enemy aircraft in sight.
If General Adachi could capture the Tadji airfields, he'd feel he'd won the battle. But General Adachi was more ambitious than that. He wanted all the fruits of victory. After taking the Tadji airfields, he intended to press on to Aitape itself, attack the American headquarters there, capture the American high command in the vicinity, and make them prisoners of war.
He was certain all American resistance in the area would collapse if he could do that. Then a truly great victory would be his. The American advance in the South Pacific would be stopped. He and his men would become heroes to the Japanese people, and he wanted his men to have that recognition, because they'd sacrificed and suffered so much.
The maps blurred in front of General Adachi's eyes. He'd been working all night, and now he had to get some rest. He knew he'd be no good to his men if he was too fatigued to think clearly. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then stood behind his desk, stretching and yawning. The sound of rushing footsteps came to his ears from the outer tent, and Lieutenant Arazaki entered his office, halting his forward movement and standing at attention in front of the tent flap.
General Adachi ended his stretch and sat back in his chair, reaching for a cigarette. “Well?” he said.
“Bad news I'm afraid, sir,” Lieutenant Arazaki said. He was a tall, slender young man with a clean-shaven face and large ears. “An American patrol has somehow infiltrated this area. They've killed five of our soldiers, wounded three, but worst of all they've killed Lieutenant Kaneko and stolen the orders he was carrying to Colonel Katsumata's headquarters.”
General Adachi was disturbed by what he'd just heard, but Japanese officers weren't supposed to show their emotions. The orders Lieutenant Kaneko had been carrying to Colonel Katsumata comprised the fundamental battle plan for Colonel Katsumata's regiment in the upcoming offensive. If the Americans were able to translate the orders and figure them out, they'd know the attack would come on the night of July 9. The element of surprise would be lost, but the Americans still wouldn't know the full attack plans. All they'd know was what the Katsumata Regiment's orders were on that night, and those orders could be altered.
“The Americans are still on the loose back here?” General Adachi asked.
“I'm afraid they are, sir.”
“I assume they're being pursued?”
“Yes sir.”
“Good. In the morning I want a full report on the final disposition of this matter. I want those Americans stopped first of all, and secondly, wake up Major Honda and tell him I expect to have his suggestions for improved security on my desk no later than 0800 hours. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Lieutenant Arazaki turned and marched out of the office. General Adachi relaxed in his chair, puffing his cigarette, wondering how an American patrol could have penetrated so deeply into the Japanese lines. Our security must be lax, General Adachi thought. Measures will be taken tomorrow to make certain there are no more repetitions of this disgraceful situation.
General Adachi stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. Wearily he rose from his chair and shuffled across the room, heading for his tatami mat and a few hours of much-needed sleep.
Corporal Charles Bannon from Pecos, Texas, lay on his back and stared at stars twinkling in the sky. He heard random bursts of gunfire in the distance and occasional explosions, typical sounds of a night on the front lines. Under ordinary circumstances Bannon would've slept through the night without a murmur or tremor, but the front lines no longer were ordinary circumstances for Bannon. He'd been away from the front for four months, languishing in Army hospitals, taking a thirty-day furlough back in the States, and he'd lost his front-line instincts. He was jittery and tense, still feeling pain from his old wounds, and not at all sure he'd be alive a week from then.
Bannon had a steel plate in his head and wore a long, jagged, thin scar on his face. His insides were stitched together because he'd been bayoneted during hand-to-hand fighting on Bougainville. He'd been a cowboy in Texas before the war, but that had been long ago and far away. Now he was an old soldier back at the front. He'd returned last night, too late to say hello to his old pals because they were all out on a patrol.
He knew some of his old pals were dead and many had been wounded. Last night he'd been told that his old platoon sergeant, John Butsko, had been wounded only a week ago and was at the division medical headquarters, recuperating. Bannon intended to visit him in the morning, if he could get away.
He heard the rattle of an automatic weapon firing in the distance, and a few seconds later another automatic weapon started up. Then he heard an explosion, random shots fired from rifles, and more automatic weapons. Bannon sat up and turned toward the direction of the fig
hting, which was far behind enemy lines. He wondered what was going on, and was glad he wasn't there. He wasn't sure of how well he could handle a firefight now. His wounds had been painful and he'd suffered much. He still got headaches from the steel plate in his skull, and his guts still hurt dully deep inside him. He wasn't a hundred percent healed yet, but there he was back at the front, at his own request.
He was back because he'd felt guilty about taking it easy while his buddies were fighting, but that was only one of the reasons he'd requested the return to his old unit. The other reason was the nagging fear that he'd become a coward. Bannon was a Texan, and Texans deplore cowards. Bannon hated himself, because he suspected he'd lost his courage sometime during the fighting on Bougainville. That last fight, when he and the others had been surrounded, outnumbered, and fighting for their lives, had been a nightmare. Blood from the cut on his face had got into his eyes and he'd barely been able to see. He'd fought like a wild man, and then he'd been bayoneted. He'd fallen to the ground, but hadn't passed out for a long time. The pain had been incredible and there'd been no escape from it. It had been a gruesome experience which he never wanted to go through again.
But he knew he might very well go through it again, possibly even tomorrow, and the prospect of it scared him. He didn't think he could handle that degree of pain again. He was afraid he'd turn tail and run if the Japs ever came at him, and he despised the fear inside him, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was there and that was that. Somehow he'd have to overcome it. Somehow he'd have to become a man again. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life thinking he was a coward.
He sighed and fell back onto his back again, looking up at the starry heavens. Maybe tomorrow he'd find out what he was made of. He hoped he'd be able to handle whatever came up. He prayed he'd be able to overcome bis fears and doubts.
From the distance, as background music for his thoughts, he heard explosions and the sounds of automatic weapons. I wonder what's going on out there? he asked himself.
Lieutenant Breckenridge held back the trigger on his Thompson submachine gun, and the deadly weapon bucked and stuttered in his hands. He aimed it high in the air and leveled a stream of hot lead at a Japanese soldier standing on a hill at the edge of the glen where the recon platoon had got itself trapped. The Japanese soldier was silhouetted against the moon, and Lieutenant Breckenridge saw him lose his footing and drop out of sight. Another Japanese soldier appeared on the hill where the first one had been, and Lieutenant Breckenridge squeezed the trigger of his submachine gun again, shooting that Japanese soldier off the hill.
All around Lieutenant Breckenridge his men fired their submachine guns at the swarms of Japs who'd managed to surround them in the jungle. Every time the Japs attempted to charge, the GIs held them off with barrages of withering submachine gunfire. The GIs threw hand grenades and stayed in motion, so the Japs wouldn't be able to zero in on them. It was dark in the jungle and the GIs had cover and concealment on their side.
Frankie La Barbara lay behind a bush, pointing his submachine gun around its side. He'd seen something move out there a few seconds ago, and was waiting for it to move again. Something jiggled, and he waited for a clearer look at what it was. It moved again and he thought, Fuck it, pulling the trigger of his submachine gun.
The gun barked viciously and Frankie saw the Japanese soldier pitch forward onto his face. Frankie turned around so he could retreat several yards, and saw Private Bisbee behind him, pointing his submachine gun at him. Frankie dropped onto his stomach and aimed his submachine gun at Private Bisbee. Both men stared at each other for a few awkward seconds.
“Go ahead!” Frankie shouted. “I dare you!”
“You go ahead!” Private Bisbee replied.
The Reverend Billie Jones happened to be standing near Bisbee, firing his submachine gun at a Jap trying to climb a tree, and he kicked Bisbee in the ass.
“Cut it out you two!” he hollered.
A Japanese bullet exploded into the ground to the right of the Reverend Billie Jones's foot. Two Japanese soldiers charged out of the bushes near Frankie La Barbara, screaming at the tops of their lungs, but Private Victor Yabalonka happened to be standing there with his Thompson submachine gun, and he mowed them down. Three Japs lunged out of the jungle on the other side of the clearing and Private McGurk pulled the trigger of his submachine gun, killing one of them, wounding another, and men his submachine gun said click!
It was empty, and the third Jap kept charging. He was a gaunt, scraggly son of a bitch, and McGurk dug in his heels and waited for him. The Japanese soldier drew closer and lunged with his rifle and bayonet. McGurk parried the blow easily and slammed the Japanese soldier in the face with the butt of his submachine gun.
The side of the Japanese soldier's head crumpled under the power of the blow, and he was thrown to the ground. Pow— a Japanese bullet passed so close to McGurk's face he could feel its heat. McGurk loaded a fresh clip into his submachine gun and sprayed the jungle in front of him.
A Japanese hand grenade sailed through the air and landed on the ground near Frankie La Barbara. He scooped it up and hurled it back at the Japs, then dropped to his stomach on the ground. "Grenade!” he hollered.
The other GIs dived to the jungle floor. The grenade exploded in midair, ripping apart the Japs who were in that vicinity. A Japanese bullet tore up the ground in front of Lieutenant Breckenridge. He flinched and fired his submachine gun in the direction from which he thought the bullet had come, while trying to figure out what to do next. He knew he and his patrol were surrounded. There was no clear path to freedom, so he and the others would have to make their own path.
“Listen to me!” he yelled. “When I say the word, follow me out of here! Don't stop until I say stop, and shoot anybody who gets in your way! Check your weapons and get ready!”
The men made sure their sub-machines had plenty of ammunition for the breakout. They had to get moving before more Japs arrived, because they couldn't fight off the entire Japanese Army.
“Anybody not ready?” Lieutenant Breckenridge asked, as bullets whistled over his head.
Nobody said anything, and that was good enough for Lieu-tenant Breckenridge. “Keep those guns firing,” he said, “and follow me!”
The men from the recon platoon pulled the triggers of their submachine guns and sent hot lead flying into the jungle all around them. They swung their submachine guns from side to side so they could pepper as much of the jungle as they could, and then Lieutenant Breckenridge jumped to his feet and charged into the jungle, his big boots pounding on the ground.
"Follow me!” he bellowed.
The men rose up and ran after him, firing their submachine guns straight ahead. Lieutenant Breckenridge was the first one to hit the bushes, and he hurled himself through them the way he used to hurl himself through the line of the opposing team when he had the football and they told him to run for it.
But the opposing teams didn't have guns, and the Japs did. A bullet whizzed past Lieutenant Breckenridge's shoulder, and another nicked the fabric of his shirt. He ran forward as quickly as he could, swinging his submachine gun from side to side while keeping the trigger depressed, and his men followed, tearing the shit out of the jungle. The Japanese soldiers on that side of the clearing couldn't withstand the firepower, but they didn't retreat either. Bullets flew at them like angry gnats, and it was difficult for them to take careful aim. The GIs rolled right over them, shooting them in their heads, kicking them in their faces, stepping on their bodies, and rushing toward safety.
The GIs broke through the Japs on that side of the clearing and kept going, speeding through the jungle as quickly as they could, while behind them the Japanese soldiers still alive tried to figure out what the hell was going on. A few fired wildly at the retreating GIs, but the GIs disappeared rapidly into the jungle, and in a matter of minutes they were long gone.
TWO . . .
The sound of a typewriter clacking awoke Colonel
“Hollerin'” Bob Hutchins, the commanding officer of the Twenty-third Infantry Regiment. He opened his eyes, wrinkled his nose, and raised his arm so he could look at his watch. It was 0700 hours, and his regiment had reveille at 0600 hours. His men already had eaten their breakfasts and were at work, while he still was all sprawled out in his sack.
He ran his tongue over his teeth and his mouth tasted as if a Japanese soldier had shit inside it. Groaning, he reached underneath his cot and groped around until he found his combat boots. Reaching inside one of the boots, he pulled out his flask full of white lightning, the booze concocted in his mess hall by one of his cooks. It was based on a recipe by the legendary Sergeant Snider, a former moonshiner who'd been wounded and shipped back to the States.
Colonel Hutchins unscrewed the cap and raised the mouth of the flask to his lips. He took a long draft, his Adam's apple bouncing up and down, and exhaled loudly as he screwed the top back on the flask. The white lightning burned its way down his throat and into his stomach, stimulating his mind, waking him up somewhat. Then he reached down into his other boot and pulled out a package of Luckies. He placed one between his lips, lit it with his trusty old Zippo, and inhaled the rich strong smoke into his lungs. That woke him up more. He was able to sit and swing his legs around to the floor. He looked at his office, the portable desk against the far wall, the chair behind the desk, and the two chairs in front of it, and he groaned, because it was another day at the front.
He puffed his cigarette and stood up, wearing only his baggy skivvie shorts and a few bandages here and there. His big fat stomach hung over the waistband of his skivvie shorts, and he had skinny legs underneath a flaccid flat ass. His graying brown hair was cut at crew length and was sparse on the top of his head. Staggering, his cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, he made his way to the tent flap and pushed it to the side.