MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  Pete took the point as the platoon set off for the trek up the ridge. By now, they were following what had become a well-worn trail. They climbed out of the shattered coconut plantation onto a hill that was barren of trees, covered instead with tall, sharp-edged grass. Ellis looked winded; MacArthur showed no sign of fatigue.

  “Here’s the forward headquarters, sir,” Pete said, stopping as they neared the crest. He pointed into a nearby ravine. “Colonel Edson of the Raiders and Major Miller of the Parachute Battalion ran the battle from there last night. Should I take you down there?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” MacArthur said. “It appears they are coming to us.”

  A marine officer was climbing up. He saluted as he got close. “Colonel Edson, First Raider Battalion, sir.” Introductions having been made, Edson took over the tour.

  The General wore his sunglasses even in the late afternoon, and now he seemed to turn his gaze southward, toward the far end of the grassy elevation. “That’s where they attacked last night?”

  “Yes, sir. Came out of the jungle like howling animals after we took some pretty heavy shelling. We beat them off okay, but we expect them back again tonight.”

  “Then that’s where I wish to be,” MacArthur said firmly. “Lead on, Colonel.”

  “Begging the General’s pardon, but that’s where the enemy is most likely to attack.”

  “Then, Colonel, that is where MacArthur most wishes to be.”

  There was a look on Edson’s face that made Pete think he was going to start an argument, but he merely said, “As the General wishes,” and led MacArthur where he wanted to go. Ellis followed suit.

  The platoon plus Pete stood there until MacArthur, Ellis, and Colonel Edson were out of earshot, and then the platoon sergeant said, “My instructions were to follow the General and keep him safe. If I’ve got to write a report on how he died in my area, I will write it in your blood. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” they chorused.

  He looked in the direction of the three officers, shook his head, and said, “Son of a bitch.”

  The men of the platoon hunched over and moved quickly, almost jogging, as they traversed the long, exposed crest of the ridge. Colonel Edson had led MacArthur and Ellis to a company headquarters, which consisted of a dugout with a radio set, a map table, and one very surprised company captain.

  The captain was awestruck and stuttering, but MacArthur asked him questions about his work. He removed his sunglasses and smiled, and Pete was startled to realize just how charming the General could be.

  “Ellis—uh, Captain—we’re in the Marine Raider area, and I’m with the 1st Parachute Battalion,” Pete whispered. “Nothing’s going to happen for a few hours, so I’m going to slip over, deliver these maps, let my platoon leader know where I am and why, and come right back.”

  The whisper wasn’t quiet enough for MacArthur, who turned and said, “That’s a fine idea. Halverson, why don’t you go with him, then come back. Looks like sunset in about an hour, and I agree with the corporal. Nothing will happen until full darkness.”

  As the General turned his attention to the company captain’s maps, Pete led his old friend toward his platoon’s positions slightly down from the crest of the hill. Ten minutes later the two were hunkered below the level of the ground in Pete’s own small foxhole, a hundred yards forward of the company command post. The platoon’s lieutenant had trouble crediting Pete’s story—”General MacArthur?”

  The platoon’s sergeant added, “Even if that was so, I wouldn’t believe it.”

  Ellis helped convince them that it was all on the up-and-up, although Pete knew his sergeant would check the story out personally. Afterward, Pete delivered the maps to the battalion commander.

  The commander, Major Charles Miller, upon finding out that Ellis was in the company of MacArthur, insisted on giving him a briefing. “We’re exposed as all hell up here—I hope the Japs don’t know it, but our flanks are hanging out in the air on both sides. Fortunately, that jungle is a real bitch to move through—that itself is our best protection. But they came up onto the ridge in a real shit storm last night and took pretty heavy losses. I wouldn’t be surprised to get another attack tonight. You see that jungle down there to the south?”

  “Well, I see jungle just about everywhere but on this hilltop,” the pilot replied.

  “There.” Miller pointed. “We’ve been taking fire from there for two days. Lots of fire. That’s because this is by far the best and easiest route to the airfield.”

  As Pete and Ellis walked back, Pete asked, “Sorry you came?”

  “Well, I have my .45,” Ellis said, trying to sound brave.

  “You might have to use it,” Pete replied. “But, hell—it is good to see you, pal. Kinda crazy for two Dundalk boys to wind up on a hilltop in the South Pacific, isn’t it?”

  “Crazy doesn’t begin to describe it,” the pilot replied.

  “Looks like Tarzan would be right at home down there, doesn’t it?” Pete remarked as they poked their heads up and studied the impressive face of the forest, with stout limbs spreading from some of the larger trees, tangling nests of vines, creepers, and a few vivid blossoms trailing down from the branches. It was eerily silent but alive and vibrant nonetheless, suggesting a whole universe of secrets masked from the prying eyes of any outside observer.

  “Speaking of Tarzan, that reminds me. I got a copy of the August ‘41 Amazing from a navy petty officer in Brisbane, with a new John Carter story. “The Yellow Men of Mars.” I’ve got it aboard the Bataan. You can have it.” Ellis said.

  “No kidding!” said Pete. “A real magazine, with words and pictures?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I read it already, about fifty times.”

  “Man, you don’t know what that means to me.”

  They talked for hours, exchanging notes on marine versus army boot camp, passing along news from home, talking about friends and their amateur magazines, and inevitably about Johnny. “He’s either dead or captured by the Japs. But if this war takes me to the Philippines, I’ll damn sure find out,” pledged the pilot.

  Night fell unnoticed by the two men, and it was fully dark when they heard a solitary plane flying overhead. “Sounds like Louie the Louse,” Pete explained. “The bastard flies around, dropping flares or bombs, and just generally keeps us awake all night.” It was after midnight that the sound of big guns started up, the crump of explosions several miles away carrying clearly through the still night.

  “Artillery?” wondered Ellis.

  “Most likely Jap ships out in the sound. Louie the Louse drops a flare over the airfield, and they sit out there on Iron-bottom Sound, lobbing shells for as long as they want. And there’s not a damned thing our navy can do about it.”

  Pete could feel his heart pounding.

  The very worst moment had been his first amphibious assault with the First Parachute Battalion against Gavutu. For most of the men, it was their first taste of combat, and it had been a shocker. Pete had lost control of his bowels in the middle of the fight and was deeply humiliated, until he found out he wasn’t nearly alone.

  By now, he was beginning to feel like a veteran.

  Any further reflection was interrupted by a sudden, shocking wash of light. Immediately Pete was up, his rifle in his hands, as he peered over the lip of the foxhole. “Bastards are trying to get a look at us, now,” he muttered.

  Ellis cautiously looked over his shoulder, blinking in the unexpected illumination. The night beyond the circle of flare light looked even darker than before. “See anything?” he asked.

  “Shit. Here they come,” said the marine after a long silence. “That’s a flare to light us up nice and bright.”

  By now Pete could see manlike shapes moving in the darkness at the base of the hill, still mostly concealed by shadows. “Look. Down there.”

  Ellis had gotten quiet. He had his .45 out.

  He
heard a fresh, closer eruption of artillery and then blinked as shells began to flash and burst among the enemy troops who were still emerging from the jungle. They erupted with terrific violence, flashes of light searing his corneas. The ground churned and buckled, smoke and fire obscuring their view of the tree line. Thunderous claps of noise assaulting his ears. It was a scene out of hell, and that hell was creeping closer as the next rounds of artillery burst even higher on the long slope.

  “At least our 105s have the range,” Pete observed approvingly, shouting to be heard over the lingering echoes of the latest blasts. “We have a couple of batteries supporting us.” As he spoke, Pete pulled his bayonet off his belt and swiftly, smoothly attached it to the muzzle of his gun.

  “Do you really think the Japanese are going to get that close?” Ellis said.

  “Sorry you came?” Pete asked.

  Ellis looked over at him. “I may be the kid, but I can do it.”

  Pete laughed. “You always used to say that.”

  “I was right, too.”

  Pete cocked a glance at Ellis, then looked down at the pilot’s .45. “You know how to use that thing?”

  “Well, sure,” came the none-too-steady reply.

  Pete looked around, wondering where MacArthur had taken shelter, and was stunned to see the General standing in the field next to the command post. His pipe was in his mouth, and his hands were in his back pants pockets as he stared into the flare-lit night.

  “Damn, he’s going to get himself killed!” Ellis snapped.

  “Well, that’s not my problem—or yours,” Pete declared, as if he expected his old friend to go racing to the General’s rescue.

  “You got that right—I’m staying right here,” the pilot replied, hunkering low as another series of artillery shells pummeled the hillside. He jacked a shell into the chamber of his .45 and popped his head up again, ready to fire.

  Pete couldn’t resist another glance backward. Amazingly, MacArthur was striding toward the front line of foxholes, making no move toward cover—and showing absolutely no sign of fear.

  Shaking his head in disbelief, Pete turned to look down the ridge. The enemy soldiers that had swarmed out of the jungle now advanced at a run, apparently unfazed by the explosions ripping through their ranks. One shell burst between two men and in the flash of light they simply disappeared. Others dropped to the ground as if they had been swatted by a huge, invisible fist. More than one Jap body could be seen tumbling lazily through the air, tossed like a child’s toy.

  But every time a man fell, it seemed like a whole platoon rushed forward into the gap. Machine guns opened up from the Marine position, tracers whipping through the night, blazing streaks of red just like ray guns. There was a lot of fire, and Pete knew just how thinly this hilltop was held. The marines battled from their little foxholes and strong points, isolated islands in the sea of grass, while the enemy infantry came on like a surging tidal wave.

  More explosions rocked the night, this time erupting right on the hilltop, and the pilot ducked his head instinctively as a rain of dirt came down on them. His ears were ringing, and more crumping explosions rocked the night to all sides.

  “Bastards are using mortars,” Pete yelled, wincing as another violent blast shook the ground less than thirty feet away. “Get down!”

  Ellis dropped low in the foxhole and clapped his hands over his ears—though he still clutched the .45 tightly.

  The marine machine guns continued to stutter and roar.

  Pete had no idea how many Japs had been killed, but the lethal fire so far had done nothing to slow down the attack. Instead, the enemy soldiers came on with shrill cries, a yodeling keen that was the eeriest noise the pilot had ever heard. He was reminded of supernatural banshees, otherworldly demons, even wild animals—all seemed more likely than human beings as sources of the hellish sound.

  Pete stole a frantic glance back at MacArthur, certain that the mortar bombardment must have killed him, or driven him to shelter, but the General was standing only a dozen steps away. His face was locked into some kind of leer, almost like a grin, and his head turned this way and that as his eyes scanned the battlefield. He caught a glimpse of Pete—their eyes met for just a moment—and MacArthur nodded coolly, a gesture of approval.

  Then the marines in a nearby foxhole opened up, and Pete did the same. The sharp cracks of the rifles seemed like a pathetic underscore to the booming of the artillery, the explosive mortar rounds, the ripping bursts of the heavy machine guns. But Pete could see more Jap soldiers falling, including a few he was sure he’d gotten personally.

  Raising himself up, Ellis extended the pistol over the rim of the foxhole and fired wildly, the recoil jarring his arm. Pete glanced at him sharply. “Save that for the close-in work,” he said. “I’d be obliged if you make sure none of them tries to hop into our hole from the side.”

  Many Japanese were actually passing between the marine positions, shooting at the defenders from both flanks, trying to infiltrate behind. They were shouting. “Banzai!” was the most common. They ran with fierce purposefulness. The enemy infantry carried rifles that seemed ridiculously long, with wicked-looking bayonets reflecting eerily the light of the flares, the burst of explosions and tracers. He could see individual faces now, and like the voices they were strange and alien, contorted by hatred or perhaps some kind of battle ecstasy.

  Ellis took a shot at one with his pistol at the same time as a mortar round detonated; the Jap went down. There was MacArthur again, standing off to one side, observing as calmly as if this was a maneuver put on for his own benefit.

  “Look out!” Pete swiveled to see a Japanese soldier abruptly looming beside the foxhole, his rifle held high, bayonet angled down toward Pete. Ellis frantically lifted his pistol and fired two shots—the second hit the attacker with enough force to slam him onto his back. Pete fired another shot into the man as he struggled to rise.

  “Thanks,” he said before turning back to the front.

  It seemed that Japanese infantrymen charged everywhere, before them and to either side. Pete shot at more of them, unsure if he scored any hits. Ellis, he noticed with approval, was still firing. When his magazine was empty, he fumbled with a spare clip; it seemed to take forever, but he got the gun reloaded.

  A marine runner came by, shouting. “Fall back—to the top of the hill! Get moving!”

  He scrambled along behind Pete as the marines from the front line, those who survived, climbed out of their foxholes and started across the grassy incline, running toward the top of the hill. MacArthur was striding along before them, turning occasionally to look back at the pursuing enemy. He didn’t seem to be in any big hurry. Pete cursed, spun around, and took a few shots with the bolt-action Springfield at enemy soldiers illuminated in the stark flashes of light.

  A trio of Japanese charged toward them. Ellis took a shooter’s stance, bracing his right wrist with his left hand. He shot carefully, the heavy slug knocking one of the enemy soldiers flat on his back. The other rushed close, his rifle held high—that hideous bayonet slicing closer—but Pete lunged and drove his own bayonet into the man’s side.

  The third man lunged past, ignoring Pete and Ellis. He was an officer, apparently—he carried a long, slightly curved sword. The hilt was clutched in both of his hands, and his face was distorted by a look of pure frenzy as he raised the weapon over his head and started to sweep it downward—

  Straight toward General Douglas MacArthur.

  • TUESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 1942 •

  “BLOODY RIDGE,” GUADALCANAL, 0120 HOURS

  The approach into attack position had been a nightmare—it took Captain Ogawa Taiki more than six hours to get his company into place and to coordinate with the other captains so that they could make a battalion strength attack. Though the men covered only five hundred yards of front, it was impossible to see more than a small fraction of the position at any one time. Still, as they had filed into place, the exhausted, hungry men began to dis
play some of their old fire. As the prospect of battle loomed, the wearying lethargy of the weeks-long march evaporated. The soldiers had joked and wrestled and challenged each other boisterously as night fell.

  With darkness, they had fallen silent, preparing their weapons, and themselves, for battle. When the flare popped over the ridge to signal the start of the attack, Ogawa took only a moment to drink a solemn dram of sake from the tiny flask he had carried with him all the way from Taivu, just in readiness for this moment. The fire in his throat was pleasing; the fire in his heart was a compelling joy.

  His father had given him the family sword, for their line had once been samurai. His baby sister Michiyo had calligraphed Chinese characters for bravery and good luck on the scabbard. The ink had mostly rubbed off, but he could still see hints of them.

  Raising the sword of his father, the sword of all his ancestors, he had shouted the single word:

  “Banzai!”

  Ogawa charged from the jungle, shaking free of the tendrils and branches. He held his katana aloft and heard the echoing cries of many hundreds of men. Together they rushed toward the top of the grass-covered ridge. Impelled by the frenzied shouts, the colonel felt as if he were floating over the ground. The incline was unnoticeable, as were the blasts caused by the American heavy artillery. The night was magnificently beautiful, reminding him of the aurora borealis he had seen in the sky during a childhood visit to Hokkaido, northernmost of the Home Islands.

  A wave of force slammed him from behind and he was smashed onto his face, but even as he fell he extended the sword to the side, preventing the blade from cutting him or—far more important—snapping in two under an awkward tumble. His face hit the ground hard enough to break his nose, but the katana was intact! It took him agonizing seconds to push himself up to his hands and knees, nearly a full minute to standing. He swayed unsteadily, blood streamed from his nostrils, but the pain of the injury slipped away to nothingness.

  “Banzai!” he cried again, spitting blood, raising the sword in one hand, lurching unsteadily for a few steps, then breaking into a sprinter’s run. Leaping over the torn body of a Japanese soldier, he dodged the smoking craters left by the American shells, moving steadily toward the top of the hill. Ogawa saw the red tails of tracers spouting from the enemy machine guns and he knew beyond any doubt that those bullets were not meant for him.