The Thin Red Line

by James Jones

  “Where the fuck have you guys been? I been lookin all over hell’s half acre for this outfit! What the hell have you been doin’? You’re supposed to be on the other side the river, not here! What the fuck happened?” He continued to come on, shouting other plaintive statements.

  “All right,” Bugger Stein called disgustedly to his company. “Fall in, men, fall in.”

  The new guide did not cease his nervous exhortation even when he came up to them and, once they had fallen in, began to lead them onward.

  “Honestly, sir, I been lookin all over. You’re suppose to be clear over on the other side the river. That’s where they tole me you’d be.”

  “We were just exactly where the other guide left us, and told us to stay,” Stein said. All his many pieces of equipment, dangling from their various straps, suddenly did not seem to be able to be kept in time and kept knocking against each other and against himself as he walked, ruining his balance.

  “Then he must of made some kind of a mistake,” the new guide said.

  “He was very positive about what he told us,” Stein said; “and quite definite.”

  “Then somebody up there gave him the wrong orders. Or else they told me wrong.” The guide thought. “But I know I’m right. Because the rest of the battalion’s all over there.”

  Not a very auspicious beginning. But Stein was even more concerned with some other things. He waited a full fifteen seconds before he spoke.

  “What’s it like up there?” He could not fully disguise in his voice the guilt he felt for asking.

  But the guide didn’t notice. “It’s a—” he searched for a word— “a crazyhouse.”

  Stein had to be content with that. The guide didn’t elaborate. George Band was marching just alongside Stein, and they exchanged a glance. Then, suddenly, Band grinned at him a wolfish grin. Wondering what the hell that meant, Stein put his mind on the job at hand, because they had reached the bend.

  From the bend the road ran almost straight down to the unnamed river, and the slope was steep. The road itself, churned by traffic, was a mudslide, a gloomy descending tunnel between impenetrable jungle walls. The only way to take it was to turn sideways like a man running down steep steps, and then dig in with the sides of the feet. At least half of the company took wet pratfalls going down, but there was very little laughter. What laughter there was was highpitched and nervous, and did not sound truly sincere.

  The pontoon bridge, wide enough and with wood tracks for the jeeps to cross, was directly at the bottom. Groups of traffic control men and bridge tenders watched them from both ends of it with curious but sympathetic eyes. After their scrambling, sliding, falling trek down, jerky, too fast and out of time like an early Chaplin movie, their momentum carried them right on across.

  In crossing, they saw for the first time the cause of the splashing and faint shouting they had heard earlier. Groups of naked or nearnaked men were wading in the river pushing boats ahead of them, one line coming upstream another going down, an improvised supply line replacing the stalled trucks. The boats coming upstream carried supplies. And in the ones going down C-for-Charlie got its first look at infantry wounded by infantry: dull-eyed men most of them, lolling against the thwarts and wrapped here and there with the startlingly clean white of bandages, through which on many the even more startling red of fresh blood had soaked. From the bridge every eye in C-for-Charlie turned toward them whitely, as the company crossed. Not all of the returning boats carried wounded men, only about half.

  As soon as they reached the other side they began to climb as steeply as they had come down, but the climb was longer. Many more men could be seen now everywhere, running back and forth and up and down and talking. To C-for-Charlie after an hour and a half alone the sight was comforting. They saw D-for-Dog, their battalion’s heavy weapons company, sitting all together in the jungle on the slope with their big mortars and .50 cal machineguns. There were some waves and greetings. Able and Baker had already gone up, they were told. Then they came out of the jungle onto the grassy slopes. As if there were a manmade demarkation line, the mud ceased suddenly and became hard, packed dirt which dusted their faces. They climbed on.

  It was here that S/Sgt Stack, platoon sergeant of the third lead platoon for an even longer time than Keck had been sergeant of the second, a lean hardfaced tough old drillmaster and disciplinarian, was found sitting by the trail with his legs pressed tightly together and his rifle in his lap, crying in agony at them as they passed: “Don’t go up there! you’ll be killed! don’t go up there! you’ll be killed!” The entire company had to pass him, one at a time and man by man in single file as if passing in some macabre review, as he sat pressing his legs and shouting at them. Most of them hardly saw or heard him in the intensity of their own excitement, and they left him there. It was as close to the front as Stack ever got, and they did not see him again. They were about two-thirds up.

  Nothing they heard or saw on the way up prepared them for the pandemonium they entered when they came over the crest. Climbing with the wind behind them they had heard no battle noises; then, rounding the last bend and coming out onto the open hilltop suddenly, they found themselves immersed in infernal noise and tumult. Like a river running into a swamp and dissipating its current, the line of files trudged over the crest and disappeared in a mob of running or standing, shouting and talking men who struggled to make themselves heard above the din.

  Invisible but not far off, 81mm mortars fired off rounds with their peculiar gonglike sound. From further off came the monumental crashes of artillery firing sporadic salvos. Further off still .50 cal machineguns, chattering in bass voices, punctuated the intervals. And much fainter, but coming clearly across the rolling unjungled terrain in front, there were the sounds of small-arms fire and grenades, and the explosions of the mortar shells and artillery rounds landing. All of this, compounded by the excitement, shouting and rushing about, created a demented riotous uproar whose total effect could only be mad confusion. C-for-Charlie had arrived on the field, at just a few minutes after eleven.

  They were on a high knoll overlooking a series of grassy hills and draws rising out of the surrounding sea of jungle. To their front the slope fell to a smaller knoll upon which the jungle encroached more closely, forming in effect a narrow deck of untreed land leading to the wider areas beyond. On this knoll, too, stood or ran groups of Americans in their green combat fatigues, a lesser number than up here, thirty perhaps. Beyond the second knoll the slope dropped again, not so steeply but much further, to a broken ravine covered with sparse grass; and beyond this low point the land rose again, steeply this time, to a high ridge which dominated the area and made invisible anything beyond it. On this slope, perhaps a thousand yards away and higher even than the original vantage point, infantrymen were fighting.

  To a few men like Bell who were informed about The Dancing Elephant’s terrain, it was clear that the knoll they occupied was The Elephant’s hind foot. The lower knoll in front, which was obviously 2d Battalion’s command post, thus became The Elephant’s knee leading to the wider areas ahead which formed the torso. And the high ridge where the infantrymen now fought was the Elephant’s Shoulder, the strong point labeled Hill 209.

  A fire fight was obviously in progress. Several groups of squad or platoon size, tiny at this distance but plainly visible, were trying to get close to the crest and take it. The Americans, too far down the slope to lob grenades up to the crest, had to content themselves with riflefire. The Japanese, also clearly visible from time to time among the trees which rose above the crest from the jungled reverse slope, were under no such handicap; they could simply drop them down, and the black explosions from the Japanese grenades kept bursting out here and there, from the hillside. One American, receiving such a grenade near him, was seen to turn and simply jump out from the side of the hill like a man jumping off a ladder. He hit and rolled, the grenade exploded black behind him, and after a moment he rose and began to work his way back up to
his group.

  C-for-Charlie had arrived just at the climax. As they stood in the milling mob on the knoll trying to see and taking all of this in for the first time, the several groups on the slope rose into a concerted line and rushed the crest, lobbing grenades ahead of them and firing. They got to within perhaps fifteen yards of the top before they were repulsed. The machinegun fire, clearly heard on the knoll, was too much for them. They broke and began leaping and scrambling back down the hill where they went to ground as before, having left a number of their men, perhaps ten percent, behind them on the uphill slope. There were exclamations of dismay and a number of angry groans on the hilltop around C-for-Charlie.

  The chorus of groans was not the only action on the knoll as a result of the repulse. Runners and junior staff officers began to push their way out through the crowd and go various places. The center of all this activity was a small group of seven men standing together in grand isolation on the knoll’s peak. They were almost the only men present wearing any insignia, and all of them wore stars or eagles on the collars of their green fatigues. They were further distinguished from the others by their cleanliness. All of them were older men. From time to time they looked through binoculars or pointed at the terrain, talked to each other or into one of three telephones which they held. Occasionally one would also talk into a wireless radio packed on a much younger man’s back. C-for-Charlie was able to recognize among them their battalion commander, their regimental commander and, from their photographs, their division and corps commanders.

  One of these men now yelled irately into one of the sound power phones. Below on the second knoll the 2d Battalion’s Colonel shouted back at him into its mate. The one above, tall and spare, listened intently, nodding his helmeted head. Then he turned to the wireless radio, looking angry and unsatisfied. Completing his call, he began to speak apologetically to three of the others who wore stars. He wore eagles. Below, the 2d Battalion’s Colonel was now speaking into still another phone in his other hand.

  Across the valley eight hundred yards in front of him the company CP of the repulsed platoons was located behind the crest of a subsidiary ridge growing out of the side of the main ridge. Off to one side of this small group two smaller clusters of men went through motions which could only mean that they were the company’s mortar section plying the tubes of their 60mm mortars, invisible from here. As the Colonel talked, a figure detached itself from the CP group and dropped over the crest and went forward in rushes toward the groups which had been repulsed and which now were sporadically firing uphill at the Japanese. Before he reached them, he tumbled, shot. Immediately another dropped over the crest in his place. The moment this one reached them the groups began to withdraw along the ridge, again in rushes, firing in groups to cover each other, all the way back to the command post, where they lost no time in diving back over the crest of the subsidiary ridge. In the high-ranking group of older men on the hill, one was now waving his arms angrily and pounding himself furiously on the leg. Below, the 2d Battalion’s Colonel was doing the same thing. Seconds later artillery shells began to fall in great mushrooming clusters on the Japanese-held ridge.

  Whatever other manifestations occurred on the hilltop in connection with this operation, C-for-Charlie did not see them. They now were too involved in themselves and their own forthcoming part in the drama to care about watching the internationally famous command group. During the action Bugger Stein had gone over to report to his battalion commander, who was more a student observer there than an integral part of the group. Stein now returned to them. 1st Battalion less D-for-Dog was ordered as regimental reserve to occupy and hold the main ridge behind and to the left of the F-for-Fox CP which they had just been watching. The main ridge here, lower than Hill 209 on the right, had been labeled Hill 208 and formed, so to speak. The Elephant’s middle and lower spine. The Japanese had never occupied it, but there was fear of a flanking counterattack. A-for-Able and C-for-Charlie were to man the line with B-for-Baker in reserve in the ravine, Colonel Tall’s orders. Since Able and Baker were already moving down right now, this meant that C-for-Charlie would have to pass through Baker—always a difficult maneuver, and they should watch it. There was a crinkly look of painful preoccupation around Bugger’s eyes behind his glasses as he spoke. His own dispositions were: 1st and 2d platoons on the line, 3d in reserve; Culp would set up his two MGs at optional points of choice along the line, the mortars to be set up near the company CP. Order of march would be 1st Platoon, 2d Platoon, Company HQ, Weapons Platoon, 3d Platoon. They were to move out right away.

  In the fact, as they formed up by platoons, it was discovered that they could not move right away. Their front was being crossed by E-for-Easy, the 2d Battalion reserve. Easy was being committed to the right wing of 2d Battalion’s attack where G-for-George, invisible from here around the corner of jungle, had also bogged down. C-for-Charlie knew many Easy Company people, and some of them called greetings. But Easy Company, going to certain attack instead of to a safe defensive position, preferred to ignore them and stared at them with a mixture of nervousness and hateful envy. Slowly they plodded across and disappeared down the righthand slope of the hill into the woods. It took them fifteen minutes to cross. Then C-for-Charlie began to move down the slope, 1st Platoon in the lead.

  It was during this fifteen minute wait that First Sergeant Welsh suddenly came to the fore. Up to now Welsh had been very carefully taking a back seat. He had no intention of becoming conspicuous or committing himself until he knew where he stood. He had tried to prepare himself, and two of the three canteens on his belt were filled with gin. In addition, he had his Listerine bottle. He could not say exactly what the experiences of today made him feel. All Welsh knew was that he was scared shitless, and at the same time was afflicted with a choking gorge of anger that any social coercion existed in the world which could force him to be here. In addition the tremendously intense excitement on the hilltop affected him powerfully. It was not unlike the feeling in a stadium generated by a crowd rooting at an important college football game. It was this outrageous comparison which gave him the idea to do what he did.

  Standing with Stein and the Company HQ while E-for-Easy jogged past their front, Welsh spied a whole stack of unopened hand-grenade cases on the edge of the hill, and simultaneously realized somebody had fucked up somewhere along the line in not issuing grenades to C-for-Charlie. Grinning his sly, mad grin, he decided to issue them himself. But in such a way that the cheering-section emotional tenor of the day should be properly honored. Without so much as a word to anyone, he suddenly crouched with his palms on his knees and at the top of his command voice bellowed: “Hup! Twenty-six, thirty-two, forty-three; hike!”, whirled like a halfback, and ran over to the stack of cases drawing his bayonet and began splitting the soft pine cases open through the middle. The grenades inside were in black cardboard cylinders, their halves held together with yellow tape. Welsh began to draw them out and to bellow.

  “Eggs! Fresh eggs! Nice fresh yard eggs! Who wants eggs!”

  The enormous, booming command voice was easily heard despite the racket and tumult. The men of his company began to turn and look. Then hands began to shoot up out of the crowd. And Welsh, still bellowing, and still grinning crazily, began to forwardpass the canned grenades into the crowd.

  “Eggs! Eggs! Footballs! Footballs! Sammy Baugh! Sid Luckman! Rah rah rah! Who wants footballs! Bronco Nagurski!”

  His bellow rang magnificently over the entire hilltop. While men everywhere turned and stared as if he were insane, Welsh bellowed on and continued to forwardpass grenades to his company, a perfect caricature of the classic football passer’s stance: left arm out, right arm cocked, right leg bent, left leg forward.

  In the grandly isolated command group one of the seven older men heard him. He turned to look, then slowly grinned his approval. With his elbow he punched a companion to look, too. Soon the entire group were watching Welsh and grinning. This was the type of American soldier t
hese generals liked to see. And across fifteen yards of hilltop crammed with American soldiers and matériel Welsh grinned back at them murderously, his insolent eyes crinkled slyly, and continued to bellow and to throw.

  Perhaps only one man really understood it, if anyone did, and this was Storm. An ironic grin began to spread across Storm’s cynical, broken-nosed face and drawing his own bayonet he ran over and began hacking open the cases and feeding Welsh the cylinders.

  “Sammy Baugh! Sid Luckman! Jack Manders! Sammy Baugh!” they bellowed in unison. “Rah rah rah!”

  They went through the entire stack of cases in very little time. By this time E-for-Easy had passed. Taking the last two each for themselves, and laughing idiotically in a moment of rare understanding, they rejoined the Company HQ. With the men stripping off the yellow tapes and opening the cylinders, spreading the cotter pins and buttoning the pull rings down under their pocket flaps as they’d seen the Marines do, C-for-Charlie moved off down the slope.

  If Bugger Stein had hoped for an orderly advance by elements, he was out of luck. 1st Platoon led off, and did it properly: scouts out, double line of skirmishers. But before they had gone ten yards, all order vanished. It was impossible to keep any sort of formation on this slope which was so crowded with men. Some were simply watchers, standing and looking. Others in straggly lines sweated and panted horribly in the heat, carrying supplies forward. A number of walking wounded were given a wide berth by everyone; and there were three groups sweating impossibly in the tropic sun to carry back seriously wounded who groaned or whimpered every time their stretchers were jerked or raised or lowered. By the time they reached the 2d Battalion CP on the knoll they had become a resolute gang. What little semblance of order remained was lost passing through the CP personnel.