The Thin Red Line

by James Jones

  “Come on! Come on!” he yelled at the men around him. “We got to get up there!” And he started off through the grass running.

  At just that moment something which sounded like a Japanese grenade, but which must have been one of the smaller knee mortars, exploded among the dispersed Hq group. Except for Stein almost everyone hit the dirt, but Stein ran on. He stopped long enough to turn around and bellow at them insanely, waving his arms, then went on running. No more of the objects fell, and slowly the others got up. Only one of them had been hurt by it, and this was Storm the mess sergeant. A tiny fragment not much bigger than a pinhead had entered the back of his left hand between the fingerbones but had not come out on the other side. Storm stared at the little blue-rimmed hole which was not bleeding, flexed his hand and heard something grate, then ran numbly on after the others beyond whom Stein was already thirty yards in the lead. Storm could not associate the puncture with the explosion. They didn’t seem to have anything to do with each other. Grimly he ran to catch up. Everything everywhere seemed to be ungovernable chaos with the firing, the shouts and the breathless running.

  Stein had moved the Hq and rearguard up to within forty yards of 2d Platoon before the action started so abruptly. Even so, he would never know how an essentially puny, windless man like himself made it to them, but he did. A few yards beyond 1st Platoon’s old position he caught them, ran right on through them and out in front. Bracing himself he turned, his arms spread wide and his carbine clutched at the balance in one hand.

  “Hold it! Hold it!” he sobbed. When they had stopped, he shouted back down to the Hq and rearguard being led on by George Band and Sergeant Welsh. “Keep your distance! Keep your distance! Twenty yards! Form a line there!”

  When they were all stopped and into position, he assumed command himself and led them forward to within twenty yards of the crest. He did not want his reserve rushing pellmell and disorganized over that crest until he knew what was going on, until he knew whether he would have to hold them back to cover a retreat. The sound of the firing had become somewhat muffled, as if the shooters had moved on some distance, and its volume had diminished. There seemed very little of the sharper crackle of the Japanese weapons. Stein advanced alone by himself until he could see over the crest. What he saw was a scene which would stay with him the rest of his life.

  His two bloodthirsty platoons had burst into what was clearly a bivouac area. The tall jungle trees, by whatever logic of their own, had climbed up out of the gulches and established themselves here on this crest. These were the trees which had been visible from the low area before the ridge all day yesterday. The Japanese had cleared out all the small trees and undergrowth so that what was taking place here now was taking place in the cool-looking sundappled shade of the big trees as though in some park. The only thing that was not like a park was the gluey mud which was everywhere on the ground. In this pretty, natural setting Stein’s two platoons in small disorganized groups were shooting and killing Japanese in what appeared to be carload lots. Stein saw one group pass a sicklooking Japanese man standing unarmed with his hands in the air, whereupon, as soon as they had passed, the Japanese lowered his arms and reached inside his shirt for something. A man in another group ten yards away shot him immediately. As he fell, the unignited grenade rolled from his hand. Stein saw another man (it looked like Big Queen but he couldn’t be sure) advance upon a Japanese man who was grinning desperately with his hands high in the air, push his rifle which carried no bayonet to within an inch of the grinning face and shoot him in the nose. Stein could not help laughing. Especially at the thought of those widened eyes slowly crossing themselves in despair as they focused on the advancing muzzle. Harold Lloyd. There were no tents visible, but there were surface shelters of branches and sticks which the Japanese had made themselves, and there were underground dugouts. The first were being shot to pieces or knocked apart with riflebutts. The underground shelters were being bombed out with grenades. Stein saw at a glance there would be no way of getting these men organized for quite some time. On the other hand they were not in any major danger requiring his reserve. They had the upper hand, and they were exercising it. A crazy sort of blood lust, like some sort of declared school holiday from all moral ethics, had descended on them. They could kill with impunity and they were doing it. The sweating terrors and suffering of yesterday, the enthusiasm over their undetected advance from the rear, the massacre of the fifteen unprepared Japanese at the crest, all had contributed to their ebullient mood and there was no stopping them till they wore it out—even if it would be safe to do so, which Stein didn’t think it was because of the possibility of counterattack. This was not to say that there were not some of them being killed and wounded by the Japanese. There were, and not just a few. But the others, those who were not killed or wounded, didn’t give a good goddamn about that.

  Off to the left of this disorganized scene was the only bit of sensible organization Stein could see. His one machinegun which he had seen get run up over the crest was set up to cover the horseshoe-shaped forward slope which composed the left flank and rear of his two platoons as they worked their way right around the curving crest. Several thoughtful riflemen had foregone the shooting jamboree to place themselves as cover guards for the MG. All of them were now firing forward downhill whenever any of the Japanese in the forward positions attempted to come back to help their friends, and while there were not many of these Stein nevertheless saw immediately where an organized platoon could be of great service. Because it was down this way that Colonel Tall and B Company were still fighting their way up from the ridge. Immediately Stein turned to go back over the crest and get them moving. As he did so, he was nearly knocked down by a bull-roaring figure which slammed past him from the killing fest on the right, bent to seize the rifle and bandoliers of a dead compatriot—(Pfc Polack Fronk the dead one was, of his 3d Platoon, Stein realized vaguely)—and then went huge-chested and still roaring back into the melee. Big Queen, of course. There was blood dripping from the biceps of his huge left arm in the torn shirt. A khaki GI handkerchief had been knotted around it. Stein went on.

  It was indeed Big Queen whom Stein had seen shoot the grinning Japanese in the nose. That had been his seventh. A few seconds after that his rifle had jammed itself irretrievably. Quite apart from the fact that it was exceedingly dangerous to go on fighting in this kind of a fight with a rifle that wouldn’t shoot, it infuriated Queen beyond speech to think of being left out of the fun at this late date, and he had run rearward hunting the first loose rifle he could find. He was, Queen realized happily, quite a sight: a blood-dripping mad roaring bull, and he knew he made quite a picture. All this was because a delicious thing had happened to Queen today. He had discovered that, after all, he was not a coward. All day yesterday he had lain in that fucking US-made shellhole under the mortars, completely unnerved and terrorstricken into helplessnes. He had lain there like that until Captain Gaff had come down to order 1st Platoon over to the ridge. He had even, he thought with shame, ordered Doll to stay put and not carry his message back to Stein. What if Doll ever told anybody about that? But, big, strong and tough or not, that was what Queen had done. Because being big, strong and tough could not help you with enemy mortars. For that something else was required. And Queen had found that he did not have it. He had been reduced again to essentially the same puniness he had suffered from all during his early childhood when every kid in the neighborhood could beat him up if they could only catch him. He was sure, after he got his growth, that nothing like that could ever happen to him again, and so all day yesterday had become a horrible, unspeakable nightmare. He had hardly spoken a word to anybody since, except when necessary, to hide what he really felt.

  But today all that had gone away. The compounded excitement of the secret march to the Japanese rear, the successful reduction of the MG on the trail, plus the undiscovered move up to the top of The Trunk, and then the joyous wholesale destruction of the startled Japanese mortar c
arriers, had created an elation in him which allowed him to move his body as easy as anything. And with the others, running the last few yards to the top of the crest, he hadn’t been scared at all. He had led his squad with abandon. And when he burst over into the disorganized bivouac area and saw what was going on there, he knew with a savage joy that somebody was going to pay for what the fuckers had done to him. The reason there was no bayonet on his rifle was because he had forgotten it in the excitement. But after watching two men get shot while trying to extricate their bayonets from the filthy squirming bastards stuck on them, he decided it was better not to have one anyway. He had been hit within almost the first fifteen seconds after cresting the ridge. It hadn’t hurt him at all. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his upper arm, leaving a clean hole. He knotted a handkerchief around it using his teeth and ran laughing and bellowing on. Before his piece jammed he had killed seven, four of them with their hands up. And now, bowling his way along roaring through the various groups to the front like some flesh and blood tank, he arrived back in time to shoot a Japanese officer who rising from a hole had run at them screaming to die for his Emperor whirling his sword on high. Queen tore the scabbard from him, jammed the sword in it, stuck it all in his belt and rushed on.

  “Queen’s back!” he heard someone holler. “Big Queen’s here again! Old Queen’s back!” He would never tell. If Doll told, he would lie.

  “Show me them Japs!” Queen bellowed.

  Stein found his ‘old veteran’ 2d Platoon sturdily waiting exactly where he had left it, kneeling and leaning on their rifles. Letting them continue to wait, he held a short ‘Officers Call’. There were only himself and Band actually; but he had Beck commanding the Platoon, and Sergeants Welsh and Storm from the Hq. Storm kept flexing his hand.

  “I been wounded!” he said grinning sillily. “I been wounded!”

  “Okay,” Welsh sneered. “So you’ll get a Purple Heart.”

  “You fucking A,” Storm said. “And don’t you forget to put me in.”

  When he had them quiet, Stein explained his tactic to them. They would go over the crest in a sort of echelon of squads, bear left and then move straight on down. The MG would move further left to cover them. They were to search out any emplacements which had not been abandoned. They were under no circumstances to pause at, or have anything to do with the bivouac area. “This position’s busted wide open,” he said. “There’s nothing left to do but clean it up. But Colonel Tall and Baker Company are obviously being held up down there. We’re going to break it open for him from behind.” He paused. “Any questions?”

  Nobody had any questions. They all nodded their heads that they understood. Then Storm suddenly said:

  “Captain, when can I go to the rear?”

  The other four all turned to look at him.

  “I mean, you know, I been wounded,” Storm grinned. He raised his hand and flexed it for them. Nobody said anything.

  “You mean you want to go right now?” Stein said.

  “Sure!”

  “Well, which way do you prefer to go? Do you want to go back down through the jungle by yourself? Or would you rather go straight on down the front of the hill?”

  Storm didn’t answer this for a moment and appeared to be thinking. “I see what you mean,” he said finally. He raised his hand again and flexed it and looked at it. “I guess I better wait till we knock out those emplacements between us and Baker Company, hunh?”

  Stein didn’t say anything, but grinned at him. Storm grinned back. “Ah jest hope Ah don’ git shot durin’ ’is lil ol’ operation,” he said putting on his best Texas accent. He looked at his hand again and flexed it. It still wasn’t bleeding and it didn’t hurt him but they could all hear it grate. “I sure hope it’s a big serious delicate medical operation to get that thing out of there,” he said.

  “Okay. Everybody know what he’s supposed to do, now?” Stein said.

  They all went back to their groups. Beck, imitating his predecessor Keck, had asked permission to take the first squad down himself. He led off while the machinegun changed its position, and slowly they spread out over the descending grassy hillside which yesterday from the valley had looked so high and so far away and so terrifyingly unattainable. Far below them they could see the ridge where they had spent last night.

  All in all it was a much easier job than any of them had expected. The hillside was honeycombed with riflepits and MG emplacements, and it was obviously the Japanese commander’s intention to sell it very dearly. But now, having heard such great enemy firing in their rear, the Japanese began to come up out of their holes and surrender, sick, haggard, beaten-looking men, obviously terrified at the treatment they expected to receive at the hands of their enemy. Those who made the mistake of coming up with weapons in their hands were taken care of immediately by the machinegun or by the rifles of the platoon. The others, who came out empty-handed and hands up, were socked, punched, beaten, prodded, and hammered with riflebutts, but rarely—only in a few instances, say, six or seven—were they actually killed. But nobody liked them very well, that was the truth. Many of the holes were already silent and empty, abandoned by men who had rushed back to fight at the bivouac. If their silence seemed suspicious at all, these were bombed out with grenades without further ado. But only much further down the hill was there anything like a real fight. Led by Beck and Witt, a group attacked two large emplacements which were still firing at Colonel Tall’s men, who were trying to creep close enough to get at them. The MGs were silenced from behind. A few riflemen in pits nearby elected to shoot it out with rifles and died. B-for-Baker poured in through the gap, and the main fight was over and the mopping up began. Several Japanese committed suicide by holding grenades to their bellies, but not very many. 2d Platoon C-for-Charlie had suffered four casualties, of which one was dead.

  The mopping up proved to be a pretty big operation in itself. There were still many unreduced emplacements scattered across the hillside, and many Japanese preferred to die rather than be captured. Some were too sick even to surrender, and simply sat by their guns firing them until they were killed. But first before all this could be taken care of, there had to be the reunion.

  Stein was standing with Band, Beck and Welsh when Colonel Tall came striding along behind the Baker Company platoons, bamboo baton in hand, and smiling happily like a politician who has just received the confirmation of his election. Acting Sergeant Witt, who had been standing not far off, backed away and then disappeared.

  A 2d Platoon man standing not far from Stein on the scorching hot sunburnt hillside a few minutes before had suddenly gargled like some sort of deathrattle and fallen flat on his face in a dead faint. He was not the first, nor was he the last. Someone had rolled him over and loosened his shirt and belt, and placed his sweat-and-snot-stained GI handkerchief over his face for protection. He still lay there and at the moment when Colonel Tall came up Stein was thinking about water. His own mouth was so parched he could hardly swallow, and he had already seen that there could be no water for them amongst the men with Tall, because nobody was carrying any cans. Water was what he wanted to know about most, but when Tall shook hands with him and made his congratulations, he waited politely until the amenities were over. Afterwards, he would often wonder why he had? Perhaps it was simply because he just was not that type of man?—not very forceful, really? He did notice that when Tall shook his hand, the Colonel’s smiling face underwent a peculiar subtle change which could no longer be called truly pleasant. John Gaff, who was coming along right behind the Colonel, looked at him strangely too, when he grinned and shook hands.

  “Well, Stein, we did it, son! We did it!” Tall said, and slapped him on the back—rather sadly, Stein thought. He did not remember the Colonel ever having called him ‘son’ before.

  There was further handshaking with Band and the sergeants. When the chortling was over he asked about the water.

  “I’m sorry about that, Stein!” the Colonel s
miled. “But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do. I had four cans for you—half of the eight cans my boys brought me. But the men were so excited, so wrought up, so thirsty, so…” He spread his hands. “They spilled about half of it, I guess. To get half a cup apiece.” Tall did not look guilty, simply resigned to life.

  There was heavy firing still going on all around them. But they were all of them used to that by now.