The Color of War

by James Campbell

  That night, as the air was chilling off, Borta huddled in a foxhole with another stranger. It was a shitty way to go through the war, never knowing if your foxhole buddy would be another joker or someone you could depend on. If only he could find Lemon or Brem. He needed to talk to someone to get the image out of his head—the dead Chamorros, especially the child.

  The cook the night before had been bad enough, but now his foxhole partner was a smoker who could not go an hour without a cigarette. Most guys who smoked refrained from doing it at night; it was too dangerous even if covered by a poncho. Jap observers would catch the flicker of flame from a Zippo lighter or the glow of a deeply inhaled cigarette. They would listen, too, for the coughing. Then a mortar would come whistling in.

  While Borta silently cursed him, the man had a smoke and then fell asleep. Early in the night a Japanese soldier jumped into the foxhole. Borta found his knife and lashed out, catching the intruder in the belly. He felt the blade enter and then he ripped, yanking his arm back as hard as he could. The enemy soldier’s body grew slack, and in one motion Borta tossed it out of the hole. The Marine sleeping next to him never so much as stirred.

  The following night, after a long, hard push toward Tapotchau, Borta again shared a foxhole with a Marine whose name he did not bother or care to learn. He cared about only one thing—staying alive. Does this asshole have the chops to save his own hide, much less mine? he wondered. Can I depend on him and catch an hour or two of sleep? The lack of sleep, the shelling, the dead civilians—all were beginning to take their toll on him and his fellow Marines. Borta saw it during the day—the lifeless eyes, the robotlike movements. The guys were wearing out, and the toughest part of the battle had not even begun.

  Hours later someone slid into the side of Borta’s foxhole. It might have been a Marine who had gone to the bushes for a shit, but neither Borta nor his partner waited to find out. They slashed with their knives. Seconds later a flare went up, and Borta saw from the glistening viscera that he had caught the intruder in the belly and his foxhole buddy had stabbed him through the throat and smashed in his face with his rifle’s buttplate. As the light dimmed, Borta pulled off the Japanese soldier’s watch and pushed him out of the hole. If the goddamned land crabs wanted him, they could have him.

  Three days passed before the 29th made it into Tapotchau’s foothills. Shortly after midnight on June 23, the battalion took a direct artillery hit. Because it came from the rear, they shot up green flares to indicate to the artillery that short rounds were landing on American troops. Less than a minute later they were hammered again. Shells were dropping in on top of them, both ground and treetop bursts. White-hot shrapnel ripped across the field. One of the pieces, after bouncing off a trunk, struck Borta in the stomach. This one, though still hot, had expended most of is energy. Instead of being ripped open, it felt to Borta as if he had been shot with a BB gun. He rolled the fragment between his fingers. Just seconds later another shell fell, and cries for corpsmen came from every corner of the camp. Company C was getting chewed up. Before the next one hit, before the detonation’s wave and tearing blast, Borta had an instant of clarity that made him feel as if he had been kicked by a horse. Earlier in the day, the battalion was making a push. He and a BAR man from Company C came upon a Japanese field howitzer. Borta wanted to stick a grenade in the barrel in hopes of disabling it. He and the other Marine, however, decided to keep moving. A team of engineers would knock it out. They were wrong. The engineering unit passed it by, and the Japanese returned to it that night. For Company C, which lost more than forty men, it was the worst night of the entire battle. For Borta, it was an incident that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Other units had been hit hard, too. Casualties were mounting across the island. A frustrated Holland Smith knew what the enemy was up to. “The Japs are being smart, so far,” he told correspondent Robert Sherrod. “They are fighting a delaying action, and killing as many of us as possible.” That same day, Major General Iketa assured Prime Minister Tojo that he intended to hold the high ground, that the Americans would risk losing their entire army if they tried to take it. “The 43rd Division units,” he reiterated, were “in the midst of disposing so as to hold Tapotchau firmly.” Hours after the “showdown fight” had begun, he drafted another, less optimistic message to his prime minister. “In this sector,” he explained, “the enemy has infiltrated and broken through our positions.… The raging battle is pressing in the area of the CP. The fighting strength of the units have fallen to less than two infantry battalions. Though our forces have called on all kinds of methods to hinder the enemy advance, we are regrettably reduced to the condition where we cannot carry out this plan with our present fighting strength. It is recommended that plan [for reinforcements] be executed with all haste.”

  He followed this message with another one to the commanding officer of a regiment stationed on Tinian: “Prepare to send one company of infantry by landing boats to Saipan.” The order betrayed his desperation. U.S. naval vessels closely guarded the waters around the island. Although Tinian lay just across the Saipan Channel, only five miles to the southwest, the hope that defenseless boats or barges, loaded with troops, could break through the blockade was a chimera.

  To the east, on the Kagman Peninsula, Japanese troops trying to hold back the 23rd and 24th Marines fared no better. General Saito fled his command post above Chacha Village, east of Purple Heart Ridge, assuming that the plunging white cliffs on the northeast side of Tapotchau were safe. What he did not know—Japanese wire communications had been destroyed—was that the once-impregnable mountain was under siege.

  At 7:30 a.m. on June 25, the 29th shoved off with Tapotchau looming above them. The plan that Colonel Tompkins and the 2nd Battalion of the 8th Marines had worked out was basic. The two battalions would approach the crest of the mountain via two routes: Tompkins’s “bastard battalion” would attack frontally by way of a wooded valley; and the 8th Marines would drive along a ridgeline on the right flank.

  When Borta and Pluto Brem reached the end of the woods, they hesitated. Ahead they could see more trees, but to get there, they needed to make it across an opening that offered little protection. Snipers nestled into the rocks above had already taken out a number of men from the company.

  Brem volunteered to go first. He had no sooner exited the woods than a Japanese machine gunner opened up on him. Brem threw himself to the ground just in time. Bullets sprayed dirt over him. Though he could not see the machine gunner, Borta fired blindly into the hills. Those few seconds allowed Brem to slither forward. The gunner let loose again, kicking up dirt and scattering stones. Then Borta heard Brem yelling, “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

  Borta took a deep breath and dashed across the meadow, cutting one way and then the next, expecting to be met by a hail of bullets. The gunner, however, was silent. Reaching Brem, Borta discovered another wounded Marine. He grabbed him by the arm and hoisted him onto his back. Then he told Brem to grab hold. Brem reached out, and Borta guided his hand to his web belt. Nearly buckling under the weight of the wounded Marine, it took Borta what seemed an eternity to make it back to the woods. He dropped to a knee and rolled the Marine off his back and called for a corpsman. Then he took Brem by the elbow and sat him down against a tree. Brem flushed his eyes with water from his canteen.

  By 10:00 a.m., it was obvious to Colonel Tompkins that his battalion was not going anywhere, at least not without losing a lot of men. At just 50 percent of its original strength, the battalion was walking into the teeth of the mountain defense force. The 8th Marines’ 2nd Battalion was having an easier go of it. By nine-thirty, it found itself at the base of a fifty-foot cliff that protected Tapotchau’s highest peak. Moving around the face of the cliff, the men advanced slowly, trying not to hyperventilate, fearing the whip-crack of a .25-caliber Japanese Arisaka rifle or the heavy thud of a juki machine gun. What they discovered, however, stunned them. The top was empty.

  Held up in the
valley at the front of the mountain, Colonel Tompkins called on the help of a platoon from the division reconnaissance company. Using the path pioneered by the 8th Marines, Tompkins and the platoon picked their way to the top of the mountain, where they discovered the platoon from the 8th Marines dug in on Tapotchau’s right shoulder. Since no one had explored Tapotchau’s highest point, Tompkins decided that he and his men would reconnoiter it. What they found was a flat observation area, perhaps thirty feet in diameter, where the Japanese had dug a long trench that stretched across the mountain’s top. The plan now was for Tompkins to fetch his men while the lieutenant and his platoon held the trench. They knew that at some point the Japanese would realize that they had forfeited the most important observation post on the entire island and would attempt to regain it.

  Tompkins asked the lieutenant before he parted, “Think you can hold it?”

  “We’ll do our best, sir,” the lieutenant responded.

  An hour later the Japanese rushed the trench. Holding their fire, the men of the recon company waited until the enemy soldiers were on top of them before they cut them down. Wounded Japanese soldiers detonated grenades. It was the first time the lieutenant had ever seen anything like it. They had pulled the pins knowing they would die.

  In the valley below, Colonel Tompkins was trying to move his men up the mountain. Leaving Company B on the line as a deception, he led Companies A and C up Tapotchau while the battalion’s 81-mm mortar crews blasted the slopes and the 8th Marines’ 2nd Battalion pounded the enemy positions on the ridges. On top of the mountain the lieutenant and his men watched the sun melt into the ocean. It was a strange feeling to admire a sunset in the midst of war. Minutes later the lieutenant heard the sound of men scaling the backside of the mountain. Then he heard the colonel’s voice and saw a long string of Marines walking single file.

  At his command post among the cliffs on the northeast side of Tapotchau, General Saito received the news that the mountain was now in American hands. In the face of unyielding setbacks—his frontline strength was less than 20 percent, his artillery and communications had been virtually destroyed, and most of his top commanders were dead—Saito had been able to keep his composure. But the news that the Marines had Tapotchau drained him of whatever hope he had left.

  That night the general sent a message to Tokyo: “Please apologize deeply to the Emperor that we cannot do better then we are doing.… The Governor General of the South Seas [Saito was speaking of himself] … will retreat to the north end of Saipan Island and the army will defend its positions to the very end, though that be death, to guard the Treasure.… Praying for the good health of the Emperor, we all cry, ‘Banzai!’ ”

  Back in Tokyo, Hirohito’s chief aide, General Hasunuma, had just delivered a sobering report to the Emperor. Saipan, he said, was already lost. An angry Hirohito insisted he put those words in writing and abruptly left the room.

  On the western edge of the mountain, Chick Borta scraped out the best foxhole he could, given the conditions. Everybody knew that the Japanese were going to strike at some point during the night.

  Just before midnight, A Company sent up a flare. The mountain glowed. In that glow, the Marines caught the Japanese, bare from the waist up, their torsos painted black, creeping in on their positions. Many carried nothing more than long poles with bayonets or knives tied to the end. The ensuing battle was a blur. Men lunged for each other, bayonets flashed, bullets fired at point-blank range ripped through flesh, and men screamed. From his foxhole, Borta saw a Marine get stuck in the back and topple over the side of the cliff.

  Minutes later, another flare went up. Bodies, mostly Japanese, were scattered across the rocky ground. Borta checked his bayonet, clutched his rifle, slunk down, and waited for them to come again. Then he heard the Japanese below, calling out, “Maline, you die; tonight you die.”

  Hours later, someone called his name: “Borta, Borta, the captain wants to see you.” At night the Japanese were full of tricks, moaning “Corpsman,” or “Help me, Sarge,” in order to get a Marine to respond and give away his position. But this was an American voice; Borta was sure of it. Besides, he thought, how could a Jap know my name?

  Borta had always disliked the captain. Now he mumbled to himself, “Shit, what does he want now?” When Borta reported to the foxhole, the captain explained that he wanted him to make contact with C Company and bring back a crate or two of grenades. “It’s a damn death mission,” Borta almost blurted out. He bit his tongue, but he knew he would be lucky to get across the mountaintop alive. A bunch of tense Marines, expecting a banzai, would shoot first and ask questions later.

  “Yes sir, Captain sir,” Borta said. Another officer might have given Borta a tongue-lashing or worse for addressing him as “captain” or “sir” while in battle. An alert sniper might be listening. But if this captain wanted to hear it—which he did—Borta was happy to oblige. If a Japanese rifleman overheard—well, then, so be it.

  Borta went off into the dark, moving from one foxhole to the next, repeating, “Borta, it’s me, Borta,” every few seconds, fearing that at any moment a bullet from a fellow Marine would tear open his chest. By the time he made it to C Company, his voice was so choked with fear he could barely say his name.

  “Hey, you guys got any extra grenades?” he said to no one in particular. “We’re gettin’ low over in A Company.”

  “What, are you kidding?” came a response from the dark. “We’re fighting for our lives here.”

  Borta tried as best he could to retrace his steps. “It’s me again, Borta,” he said, as he moved along, hoping that his fellow Marines would let him pass. When he found the captain, he reported that C Company had no hand grenades to spare.

  When he got back to his foxhole, he discovered another Marine in it. The man was groaning. “Who is that?” Borta asked.

  Whoever it was answered in a raspy voice, “It’s me.”

  Borta recognized it. “Chief, is that you?”

  “Yeah, I got bayoneted,” answered Wallace “Chief” Quarta.

  Borta felt around for the wound. When he pulled his hand back, it was sticky and full of blood. He knew that it would be dangerous to try to move Quarta, so he gave him some water from his canteen and left him there while he went to tell the captain.

  Five minutes later he was out on the flank, sharing a foxhole with a greenhorn BAR man who had been sent to the front that morning as the battalion was driving toward Tapotchau. The captain had told Borta that he would send a corpsman to treat Quarta. Now, confined to his foxhole, Borta wondered if there even was a corpsman among the Marine units on top of the mountain. He had his doubts whether Quarta would make it out alive.

  During the early-morning hours Borta was drifting in and out of wakefulness when he heard the bark of a Browning Automatic Rifle. In an instant he was on his belly, looking out over the rim of the foxhole.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I heard something,” whispered his partner.

  “You heard something?” Borta mocked him. “I’ll take over.” His Chicago street smarts told him that he might not live to see another day if he left his life in some panicky pup’s hands. Then he wondered about the kid’s “sound shots.” The kid said he had heard something. What would they discover the next day—a Marine with his pants down around his ankles and a bullet in his belly?

  The following morning, Borta was flabbergasted to find four dead Japanese outside his foxhole. One burst from the BAR had taken all of them out. Now, instead of cursing the greenhorn, he wanted to kiss him. Borta thanked him and then left to find another foxhole buddy. A novice BAR man might get lucky once, but the likelihood of it happening again was next to nothing.

  Shortly after sunrise the Japanese mortared the mountaintop. Companies A and C held tight, but took enough casualties to worry the captain, who was also concerned about the worsening water situation. Most of his men were already down to half a canteen. Another day, and they would be sucking on st
ones to keep their saliva circulating.

  Before the shelling began, Borta found another foxhole partner, a guy he knew vaguely from his Hilo days who seemed eager to have a seasoned Marine in his hole with him. Borta was happy, too. It was good to be dug in with someone who had been in the battalion for more than a few days. Later that morning, during a lull in the bombing, Borta left the foxhole to check in with the captain. It was the last thing he wanted to do. The captain might send him off on another fool’s errand. Borta had taken a few steps when he heard a mortar whistle in. By the time it hit, he was on the ground with his head buried in his arms. He waited for a minute without moving, and then rose to a knee. When the dust disappeared, he saw that the mortar had hit directly in his foxhole, dismembering his partner. Borta grimaced, but he did not grieve. It seemed to him that he no longer had the capacity to mourn. He had seen men torn apart by mortars so many times. Now he was simply concerned with saving his own hide. He needed to find someplace safe.

  Borta scouted the mountaintop and found a small opening in a jumble of rocks. A mortar would have to fall straight from heaven to hit him here. Bone-tired, he lay on the ground, curled up, and fell asleep. Then he heard the captain’s voice: “Borta, Borta, where the hell are you?” He had no idea how long he had been there; it could have been minutes or hours.

  When he crawled out, so exhausted he could barely focus his eyes, he saw the hazy figure of the captain standing in front of him. “Goddammit,” the captain said, “the lieutenant was looking for you for a patrol. He couldn’t find you. Now, I want you to go out and locate the patrol and tell the lieutenant that if he makes it as far as the next mountain, he should hold it.” Borta walked away, still half asleep, thinking the captain had completely lost it. How are we going to hold two mountains when we can barely hold one?