River of Blood, page 10
In the middle of the regimental line, Butsko watched the trucks move to the banks of the Matanikau, because there was no longer any need to be quiet; the attack was on and the Japanese knew it. The trucks stopped and the engineers unloaded the wooden boats, stacking them up on the riverbanks. Each boat had a square bow and stern and room for a rifle squad. Butsko would go across with Bannon’s First Squad, the lead boat. Butsko’s throat became dry. Soon he’d go into action again, and all he could think about was that he didn’t want to die because he didn’t want Dolly to get his GI insurance.
Colonel Tsuji was sound asleep in his tent when he felt someone touching his shoulder. He jumped out of bed and grabbed his samurai sword, nearly hacking Sergeant Kaburagi in half.
“Oh, it’s you,” Colonel Tsuji said.
“Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Kaburagi, who had turned pale and was saluting. “We’ve just received word that the Americans are shelling our side of the Matanikau River very intensely. The local commander is expecting an attack.”
Colonel Tsuji blinked, trying to digest this sudden bad news. His own offensive was scheduled to begin in less than twenty-four hours, and this would cause it to be canceled.
“Return to the radio shack and phone me news of any new developments. I’ll be with General Hyakutake.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Tsuji pulled on his pants and stepped into his boots. Picking up his shirt, he left his tent and ran across the clearing, buttoning as he went. He arrived at General Hyakutake’s tent, and the guards stepped aside to let him enter. He expected General Hyakutake to be sound asleep, but instead the general was sitting up in bed, drinking sake and marking marks on a map, his eyeglasses low on his nose. General Hyakutake looked up as Colonel Tsuji entered and could see by the look on Colonel Tsuji’s face that something was wrong.
“What is it?”
“The Americans have launched an intensive artillery barrage against our side of the Matanikau. An attack appears imminent.”
General Hyakutake swore and appeared ready to throw his glass of sake into the air, but restrained himself and adjusted his eyeglasses on his nose. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time, but war has its own schedule. Awaken my staff and have them join me in my conference room.”
“Shall I inform General Ooka, sir?”
“Yes, and also General Saito, because either the Forty-eighth or One Hundred and Fifth Division will be sent to reinforce that sector. Order both of them to prepare their divisions to move out at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Tsuji dashed out of the tent to do what General Hyakutake had ordered. General Hyakutake groaned as he rolled out of bed, placing his feet on the floor. He took off his eyeglasses, rubbed his eyes, put the eyeglasses on again, and looked around for his clothes.
EIGHT . . .
The boats were lined up in the water and an engineer held each one. Butsko and the recon platoon huddled together beside the boats, waiting for the order to go on board and move across. The land across the river was a mass of explosions and fire.
“All right,” Butsko said to his men. “This is it. When we get over there, don’t stop to think, just move inland and take ground. If any Jap gets in your way, put a bullet in his head and go right over him. You’ll stop when I tell you to stop. Most of you have been through this before, so it’s nothing new. The rest of you, just do what I tell you and you’ll be all right. Got it?”
They nodded or grunted assent.
“Lock and load,” Butsko said, “and fix bayonets. And, for Chrissakes, don’t shoot the man next to you.”
Each soldier took a clip of bullets from a bandolier and pushed it down into his M 1, making certain not to let a round into the chamber. They pulled their bayonets and attached them onto the barrels of their rifles, then stood and looked at each other, their faces illuminated by the flashes of shell bursts across the river.
Butsko felt jumpy and shifted from one foot to the other. He took out a cigarette and lit it, letting it dangle from the corner of his mouth. Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach and he wished they could get started. An engineer officer approached him.
“All right, load your men up, Sergeant.”
“Let’s go, you heard him!” Butsko shouted. “Get on the fucking boats!”
The recon platoon loaded onto the boats, which bobbed in the water. The night reverberated with a symphony of artillery whose explosions were reflected on the top of the river. The boats lurched with the sudden weight of the men, and a few of them nearly fell into the water as they made their way to their seats. A jeep drove up to the edge of the river, and long, lean Colonel Stockton got out, wearing his helmet and Colt .45. The men could see that he was there with them as he said he’d be. His runner was speaking into his field radio, and a few seconds later the artillery barrage began to diminish, then stop altogether. The night became silent and the roar of nothingness filled the men’s ears.
“Move ‘em out!” bawled the engineer officer.
Longtree and Shaw had the oars in the First Squad boat, and they pulled against the water. The engineers on shore pushed the boats away. Colonel Stockton was looking at the opposite shore through his binoculars, and suddenly two figures burst out of the jungle and ran toward Butsko’s boat. Butsko’s cigarette dropped out of his mouth when he realized one of them was Bannon.
“Mother of Christ!” Butsko said.
Bannon had no helmet, no pack, and no rifle. Behind him was a living scarecrow running as fast as his skinny legs would carry him.
“Hey, where are you two going!” somebody yelled.
Bannon and Plotnik jumped into the river and ran against the current toward Butsko’s boat. Everyone stared at Bannon in astonishment. O’Rourke held out his hand and Bannon grabbed it, losing his footing in the swift-moving current and falling in. He reached out for the boat with his other hand and Shilansky caught it in midair, pulling with O’Rourke. They dragged Bannon into the boat, and since Plotnik was hanging onto Bannon’s shirt, he came aboard too.
“What in the fuck are you doing here?” Butsko screamed. “And who is this sorry-looking son of a bitch!”
Before Bannon could say anything, the Japanese soldiers on the other side opened fire, and bullets whizzed over the GIs’ heads, plunking into the water. They turtled their heads into their collars and got down, while Longtree and Shaw heaved and pulled the oars.
“I said what the fuck are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story, Sarge.”
Butsko turned to Plotnik. “And what is this supposed to be!”
“That’s Sad Sack Plotnik.”
Bazzaaannnnnnggggg—a bullet hit the prow of the boat and knocked off a chunk of wood. Bannon looked around and saw a row of boats on either side of the one he was on. They were about a third of the way across the river, and the Japanese machine-gun fire was becoming heavy.
“Hey, Sarge,” said Sweeney, “I thought the artillery was supposed to soften up the Japs!”
“Your fucking head is softened up!” Butsko grimaced as he looked at Bannon. “Are you AWOL?”
“How can I be AWOL if I’m with my platoon sergeant?”
“Because you’re supposed to be in the stockade!”
Whump-whump-whump went the American mortar squads, in an effort to overpower the Japanese fire. The mortar rounds landed on the Japanese side of the river, blowing up more vegetation and Japs, but the Japanese machine guns and rifles continued to fill the air with too many bullets.
“Pull them fucking oars!” Butsko hollered.
Longtree and Shilansky heaved and pulled against the flow of the river. Baaazzaaannnnnggg—another bullet hit the boat, went through the hull, and just missed Plotnik’s foot.
“Yaaahhhh!” he screamed, jumping up in the air.
Butsko grabbed Plotnik’s head like a basketball, pushing him down again. “Where’d you find this?” Butsko asked Bannon.
“In the stockade!”
“Just what I need—two yardbirds!”
The boats passed the halfway mark in the river, and intense American mortar fire succeeded in sending most of the Japs scurrying back into their holes. Only stray bullets whistled by overhead, but Butsko knew that the Japs could come out again as soon as the mortars stopped.
Bannon knew it, too, and he didn’t have a gun. He didn’t even have a helmet. Plotnik had spend most of his Army career in motor pools, and he’d never been this close to fighting before. His teeth chattered with terror and the blood drained out of his face, making the blackheads and subcutaneous filth stand out in bold contrast to the pale color of his few patches of clear skin.
Bannon noticed him and winked bravely. “Well, you said you wanted to come with me.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” Plotnik said.
A Japanese machine gunner raised his head and fired a burst that ripped into the boat next to Butsko’s, splintering wood and the chest of a soldier, who slumped into the water. Butsko’s heart quickened and he got mad. He set his teeth on edge and looked at the far shore directly ahead, studying the jungle, looking for the way to lead his platoon inland.
Shilansky and Shaw pulled their oars and the boat cut through the water. The soldiers kept their heads low, holding their rifles tightly, their bayonets gleaming in the moonlight. Each was scared; each thought of death. Billie Jones closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer. Dolly flashed into Butsko’s mind and he wished she could see him just then, leading his men into battle; maybe she’d be proud of him. But the vision stayed only a few moments, and then there was the river again, the bullets in the air, and the Japs on the shore.
The boat approached the bank and the mortars stopped so they wouldn’t kill their own men. Longtree raised himself in the bow, ready to jump overboard and head for cover. The Japs came out of their holes again, set up their weapons, and opened fire. Their mortars lobbed shells onto the riverbank, and hell erupted around the First Squad, blowing water and mud into the air.
The boat struck bottom and Longtree was over the side, running forward on his long, agile legs, bullets whistling past his ears. Then came Sweeney, O’Rourke, and the rest.
“Let’s go!” Butsko screamed. “Move your fucking asses!”
Butsko jumped into the water and galloped toward the riverbank. Bannon and Plotnik were behind him, with Billie Jones a few feet away, having visions of Armageddon, the radio and bazooka swinging from his neck.
“Get into the treeline!” Butsko bellowed.
The bushes in front of them flashed with a withering fusillade that made the men falter. Sweeney was shot through the throat and fell to the ground, gurgling blood. The others dropped down onto their stomachs, stopped cold almost before they had started.
“Hand grenades!” Butsko yelled.
The men ripped grenades from their lapels with shaking hands, pulled the pins, and heaved. The black pineapples flew through the night, landing in the bushes, and the ground shuddered at the impact of their explosions.
“Forward!”
The men jumped up and charged into the smoking jungle. Bannon ran toward Sweeney, scooped up his M 1 rifle and bandoliers of ammunitions, stuffed his hand grenades into his pockets and put Sweeney’s helmet on his head. Meanwhile the others rushed into the bushes, uprooted and mangled by the grenades.
Butsko saw a Jap move in a dark hole and shot from the hip, putting a hole in the Jap’s stomach. He jumped into the hole, stabbed the Jap in the chest with his bayonet, then turned and saw another Jap running toward him with samurai sword held high. Butsko fired rapidly from the waist, but his bullet was wide of its mark and the Jap kept coming. The Jap swung downward with his sword, and Butsko raised his M 1 over his head with both hands, receiving the blow on the metal of the rifle barrel. The Jap drew back to hack him again, at which time Butsko turned his M 1 around, firing a fast shot that hit the Jap in the balls. The Jap screamed and dropped his sword, cupping his groin in his hands and dropping to his knees, and Butsko shot him again, this time through the top of his head.
Plotnik was so frozen with fear he barely could move his legs, while up ahead Bannon ran with his head low, his rifle and bayonet straight before him like a lance. Two Japanese soldiers arose from the smoke and stench of the jungle and fired point-blank at Bannon, but miraculously they both missed and Bannon kept charging, slamming one Jap alongside his head with his rifle butt, dodging a bayonet thrust from the other, and lunging forward, burying his bayonet in the second Jap’s chest. The Jap fell down and Bannon pulled back to disengage his bayonet, but it was stuck in the Jap’s ribs. He had to pull his trigger, blasting his bayonet loose, leaving a cavity of blood and bones behind him. Bending down, he picked up a Japanese rifle and tossed it back to Plotnik.
Plotnik was afraid the bayonet would stick him in midair, and the rifle and bayonet sailed past him, plopping into the mud at the riverbank. Plotnik picked it up, looked at it, and swallowed hard, forgetting his bayonet training, shitting his pants. The stench rose up to his nostrils and his knees hammered each other. He looked back and there was the river, wide open, full of boats. There was no place to hide. He looked ahead and saw GIs grappling with Japs, clanging and banging, struggling wildly, and Bannon was in the thick of it. Bannon’s long, sinewy arms pushed his bayonet and pulled it back. He swung his rifle butt around, smashing a Jap in the head; then another Jap came at him from the side, and Plotnik saw Bannon go down.
A Jap poised his bayonet over Bannon, ready to plunge it in, and Plotnik saw himself running toward the Jap, shouting “No!” He leaped over Bannon, holding the Japanese rifle in front of him, and collided with the Jap as the Jap went into his downswing. The Jap lost his balance and fell to the ground, Plotnik on top of him. Too close to use their rifles, they went at each other with their hands. But Plotnik was from a tough neighborhood in Chicago were a few people carried guns but everybody carried knives.
The Jap was on his back and shot up his thumbs, trying to gouge out Plotnik’s eyes, but Plotnik whacked the Jap’s arms out of the way and punched him in the mouth with everything he had. The Jap was stunned, then raised his hands to protect himself, and Plotnik slugged him again. Nearly out cold, the Jap struggled feebly and Plotnik grabbed him by the neck, pressing his thumbs against the Jap’s Adam’s apple, squeezing with all his strength. The Jap’s Adam’s apple went up into his throat and he went limp. Aghast, Plotnik loosened his grip and looked down at him, the first man he’d ever killed. Bannon stirred nearby and Plotnik turned around. Bannon was bleeding from a gash on his cheek and was trying to shake the cobwebs out of his head.
Plotnik hopped to him. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
Bannon got up, hearing bells and birds. He picked up his rifle and looked around. The GIs had overpowered the Japs on the riverbank, and Butsko raised his arm in the air.
“Let’s go! Marching fire!”
The platoon formed a skirmish line on either side of Butsko, stepping on the bodies of Japanese soldiers mangled by the artillery barrage and bleeding from bayonets. On Butsko’s signal they marched forward, and on every third step they fired their rifles from their waists or shoulders, sending a hail of bullets before them as they moved forward. They shot at anything that moved, at vague outlines of Japs or at Japs who sprung out of the bushes before them. If they saw no targets, they shot anyway, to maintain the steady fire. Plotnik saw a dead American soldier on the ground and picked up his helmet, rifle, and ammunition, because he had no idea how to fire the Japanese Arisaka. He fell in step with the others and did what they did, firing at every third step, amazed that his terrible fear had left him and feeling powerful, part of an inexorable force on the move.
Dawn came to the woods as the soldiers moved forward, taking ground. Now the soldiers could see more clearly the devastation of the bombardment—the twisted, broken trees with roots sticking like fingers into the air, and Japanese soldiers sprawled everywhere, guts glistening in the pale light. Behind them, on the riverbank, the engineers floated their pontoons across the river, and behind the engineers the tanks and pack howitzers lined up, waiting to go across.
Butsko estimated they’d moved about a hundred yards inland, and all had been easy so far, but it wouldn’t be for long. The Japs had probably moved the bulk of their forces back when the bombardment had started, and soon they’d come forward again. Resistance would stiffen and the real fighting would start. The worst time to get hit was after you’d taken some ground, because then you were tired, had used up a lot of ammunition, and had no fixed positions to fight from.
A machine gun opened fire in front of them, and Butsko thought, Here it is.
“Hit it!”
He didn’t have to give the order; the recon platoon was on its way down at the first burst of fire. They crawled into craters and Japanese foxholes, and Butsko found himself with Billie Jones and a dead Jap lying on his back, his eyes open and staring and flies eating his face.
Butsko raised his head and scanned the jungle ahead, picking out the location of the machine gun’s muzzle blast. “Gimme that bazooka!” he said to Jones.
Jones unslung it and passed it to Butsko, who got on one knee and lifted the bazooka to his shoulder. He pulled out the sight and took aim at the machine-gun nest, but the machine gunners must have seen him, because the ground in front of him was suddenly peppered with bullets and he had to duck down quickly.
“Pin that son of a bitch down!” Butsko shouted.
“Where is he?” somebody asked.
“Over to the left.”
They saw smoke and a flutter of leaves, and then the flashes of light, obscured and faint. Braving the bullets, they raised their rifles and shot at the target. O’Rourke, who carried a Browning automatic rifle, poured hot lead into the machine-gun nest. The Japanese machine gunners swung their weapon from side to side, trying to stop the fire.
Butsko saw his opportunity and took it. Rising up again, he took aim while Billie Jones loaded the rocket and tied the wire to the terminal posts. Jones tapped Butsko’s helmet and Butsko pulled the trigger. The rocket shot out so slowly that it could be seen arcing through the air. It landed in the jungle and there was a powerful explosion, blowing away bushes and knocking down trees.
Colonel Tsuji was sound asleep in his tent when he felt someone touching his shoulder. He jumped out of bed and grabbed his samurai sword, nearly hacking Sergeant Kaburagi in half.
“Oh, it’s you,” Colonel Tsuji said.
“Yes, sir,” replied Sergeant Kaburagi, who had turned pale and was saluting. “We’ve just received word that the Americans are shelling our side of the Matanikau River very intensely. The local commander is expecting an attack.”
Colonel Tsuji blinked, trying to digest this sudden bad news. His own offensive was scheduled to begin in less than twenty-four hours, and this would cause it to be canceled.
“Return to the radio shack and phone me news of any new developments. I’ll be with General Hyakutake.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Tsuji pulled on his pants and stepped into his boots. Picking up his shirt, he left his tent and ran across the clearing, buttoning as he went. He arrived at General Hyakutake’s tent, and the guards stepped aside to let him enter. He expected General Hyakutake to be sound asleep, but instead the general was sitting up in bed, drinking sake and marking marks on a map, his eyeglasses low on his nose. General Hyakutake looked up as Colonel Tsuji entered and could see by the look on Colonel Tsuji’s face that something was wrong.
“What is it?”
“The Americans have launched an intensive artillery barrage against our side of the Matanikau. An attack appears imminent.”
General Hyakutake swore and appeared ready to throw his glass of sake into the air, but restrained himself and adjusted his eyeglasses on his nose. “This couldn’t have happened at a worse time, but war has its own schedule. Awaken my staff and have them join me in my conference room.”
“Shall I inform General Ooka, sir?”
“Yes, and also General Saito, because either the Forty-eighth or One Hundred and Fifth Division will be sent to reinforce that sector. Order both of them to prepare their divisions to move out at a moment’s notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Tsuji dashed out of the tent to do what General Hyakutake had ordered. General Hyakutake groaned as he rolled out of bed, placing his feet on the floor. He took off his eyeglasses, rubbed his eyes, put the eyeglasses on again, and looked around for his clothes.
EIGHT . . .
The boats were lined up in the water and an engineer held each one. Butsko and the recon platoon huddled together beside the boats, waiting for the order to go on board and move across. The land across the river was a mass of explosions and fire.
“All right,” Butsko said to his men. “This is it. When we get over there, don’t stop to think, just move inland and take ground. If any Jap gets in your way, put a bullet in his head and go right over him. You’ll stop when I tell you to stop. Most of you have been through this before, so it’s nothing new. The rest of you, just do what I tell you and you’ll be all right. Got it?”
They nodded or grunted assent.
“Lock and load,” Butsko said, “and fix bayonets. And, for Chrissakes, don’t shoot the man next to you.”
Each soldier took a clip of bullets from a bandolier and pushed it down into his M 1, making certain not to let a round into the chamber. They pulled their bayonets and attached them onto the barrels of their rifles, then stood and looked at each other, their faces illuminated by the flashes of shell bursts across the river.
Butsko felt jumpy and shifted from one foot to the other. He took out a cigarette and lit it, letting it dangle from the corner of his mouth. Butterflies fluttered around in his stomach and he wished they could get started. An engineer officer approached him.
“All right, load your men up, Sergeant.”
“Let’s go, you heard him!” Butsko shouted. “Get on the fucking boats!”
The recon platoon loaded onto the boats, which bobbed in the water. The night reverberated with a symphony of artillery whose explosions were reflected on the top of the river. The boats lurched with the sudden weight of the men, and a few of them nearly fell into the water as they made their way to their seats. A jeep drove up to the edge of the river, and long, lean Colonel Stockton got out, wearing his helmet and Colt .45. The men could see that he was there with them as he said he’d be. His runner was speaking into his field radio, and a few seconds later the artillery barrage began to diminish, then stop altogether. The night became silent and the roar of nothingness filled the men’s ears.
“Move ‘em out!” bawled the engineer officer.
Longtree and Shaw had the oars in the First Squad boat, and they pulled against the water. The engineers on shore pushed the boats away. Colonel Stockton was looking at the opposite shore through his binoculars, and suddenly two figures burst out of the jungle and ran toward Butsko’s boat. Butsko’s cigarette dropped out of his mouth when he realized one of them was Bannon.
“Mother of Christ!” Butsko said.
Bannon had no helmet, no pack, and no rifle. Behind him was a living scarecrow running as fast as his skinny legs would carry him.
“Hey, where are you two going!” somebody yelled.
Bannon and Plotnik jumped into the river and ran against the current toward Butsko’s boat. Everyone stared at Bannon in astonishment. O’Rourke held out his hand and Bannon grabbed it, losing his footing in the swift-moving current and falling in. He reached out for the boat with his other hand and Shilansky caught it in midair, pulling with O’Rourke. They dragged Bannon into the boat, and since Plotnik was hanging onto Bannon’s shirt, he came aboard too.
“What in the fuck are you doing here?” Butsko screamed. “And who is this sorry-looking son of a bitch!”
Before Bannon could say anything, the Japanese soldiers on the other side opened fire, and bullets whizzed over the GIs’ heads, plunking into the water. They turtled their heads into their collars and got down, while Longtree and Shaw heaved and pulled the oars.
“I said what the fuck are you doing here?”
“It’s a long story, Sarge.”
Butsko turned to Plotnik. “And what is this supposed to be!”
“That’s Sad Sack Plotnik.”
Bazzaaannnnnnggggg—a bullet hit the prow of the boat and knocked off a chunk of wood. Bannon looked around and saw a row of boats on either side of the one he was on. They were about a third of the way across the river, and the Japanese machine-gun fire was becoming heavy.
“Hey, Sarge,” said Sweeney, “I thought the artillery was supposed to soften up the Japs!”
“Your fucking head is softened up!” Butsko grimaced as he looked at Bannon. “Are you AWOL?”
“How can I be AWOL if I’m with my platoon sergeant?”
“Because you’re supposed to be in the stockade!”
Whump-whump-whump went the American mortar squads, in an effort to overpower the Japanese fire. The mortar rounds landed on the Japanese side of the river, blowing up more vegetation and Japs, but the Japanese machine guns and rifles continued to fill the air with too many bullets.
“Pull them fucking oars!” Butsko hollered.
Longtree and Shilansky heaved and pulled against the flow of the river. Baaazzaaannnnnggg—another bullet hit the boat, went through the hull, and just missed Plotnik’s foot.
“Yaaahhhh!” he screamed, jumping up in the air.
Butsko grabbed Plotnik’s head like a basketball, pushing him down again. “Where’d you find this?” Butsko asked Bannon.
“In the stockade!”
“Just what I need—two yardbirds!”
The boats passed the halfway mark in the river, and intense American mortar fire succeeded in sending most of the Japs scurrying back into their holes. Only stray bullets whistled by overhead, but Butsko knew that the Japs could come out again as soon as the mortars stopped.
Bannon knew it, too, and he didn’t have a gun. He didn’t even have a helmet. Plotnik had spend most of his Army career in motor pools, and he’d never been this close to fighting before. His teeth chattered with terror and the blood drained out of his face, making the blackheads and subcutaneous filth stand out in bold contrast to the pale color of his few patches of clear skin.
Bannon noticed him and winked bravely. “Well, you said you wanted to come with me.”
“Everybody makes mistakes,” Plotnik said.
A Japanese machine gunner raised his head and fired a burst that ripped into the boat next to Butsko’s, splintering wood and the chest of a soldier, who slumped into the water. Butsko’s heart quickened and he got mad. He set his teeth on edge and looked at the far shore directly ahead, studying the jungle, looking for the way to lead his platoon inland.
Shilansky and Shaw pulled their oars and the boat cut through the water. The soldiers kept their heads low, holding their rifles tightly, their bayonets gleaming in the moonlight. Each was scared; each thought of death. Billie Jones closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer. Dolly flashed into Butsko’s mind and he wished she could see him just then, leading his men into battle; maybe she’d be proud of him. But the vision stayed only a few moments, and then there was the river again, the bullets in the air, and the Japs on the shore.
The boat approached the bank and the mortars stopped so they wouldn’t kill their own men. Longtree raised himself in the bow, ready to jump overboard and head for cover. The Japs came out of their holes again, set up their weapons, and opened fire. Their mortars lobbed shells onto the riverbank, and hell erupted around the First Squad, blowing water and mud into the air.
The boat struck bottom and Longtree was over the side, running forward on his long, agile legs, bullets whistling past his ears. Then came Sweeney, O’Rourke, and the rest.
“Let’s go!” Butsko screamed. “Move your fucking asses!”
Butsko jumped into the water and galloped toward the riverbank. Bannon and Plotnik were behind him, with Billie Jones a few feet away, having visions of Armageddon, the radio and bazooka swinging from his neck.
“Get into the treeline!” Butsko bellowed.
The bushes in front of them flashed with a withering fusillade that made the men falter. Sweeney was shot through the throat and fell to the ground, gurgling blood. The others dropped down onto their stomachs, stopped cold almost before they had started.
“Hand grenades!” Butsko yelled.
The men ripped grenades from their lapels with shaking hands, pulled the pins, and heaved. The black pineapples flew through the night, landing in the bushes, and the ground shuddered at the impact of their explosions.
“Forward!”
The men jumped up and charged into the smoking jungle. Bannon ran toward Sweeney, scooped up his M 1 rifle and bandoliers of ammunitions, stuffed his hand grenades into his pockets and put Sweeney’s helmet on his head. Meanwhile the others rushed into the bushes, uprooted and mangled by the grenades.
Butsko saw a Jap move in a dark hole and shot from the hip, putting a hole in the Jap’s stomach. He jumped into the hole, stabbed the Jap in the chest with his bayonet, then turned and saw another Jap running toward him with samurai sword held high. Butsko fired rapidly from the waist, but his bullet was wide of its mark and the Jap kept coming. The Jap swung downward with his sword, and Butsko raised his M 1 over his head with both hands, receiving the blow on the metal of the rifle barrel. The Jap drew back to hack him again, at which time Butsko turned his M 1 around, firing a fast shot that hit the Jap in the balls. The Jap screamed and dropped his sword, cupping his groin in his hands and dropping to his knees, and Butsko shot him again, this time through the top of his head.
Plotnik was so frozen with fear he barely could move his legs, while up ahead Bannon ran with his head low, his rifle and bayonet straight before him like a lance. Two Japanese soldiers arose from the smoke and stench of the jungle and fired point-blank at Bannon, but miraculously they both missed and Bannon kept charging, slamming one Jap alongside his head with his rifle butt, dodging a bayonet thrust from the other, and lunging forward, burying his bayonet in the second Jap’s chest. The Jap fell down and Bannon pulled back to disengage his bayonet, but it was stuck in the Jap’s ribs. He had to pull his trigger, blasting his bayonet loose, leaving a cavity of blood and bones behind him. Bending down, he picked up a Japanese rifle and tossed it back to Plotnik.
Plotnik was afraid the bayonet would stick him in midair, and the rifle and bayonet sailed past him, plopping into the mud at the riverbank. Plotnik picked it up, looked at it, and swallowed hard, forgetting his bayonet training, shitting his pants. The stench rose up to his nostrils and his knees hammered each other. He looked back and there was the river, wide open, full of boats. There was no place to hide. He looked ahead and saw GIs grappling with Japs, clanging and banging, struggling wildly, and Bannon was in the thick of it. Bannon’s long, sinewy arms pushed his bayonet and pulled it back. He swung his rifle butt around, smashing a Jap in the head; then another Jap came at him from the side, and Plotnik saw Bannon go down.
A Jap poised his bayonet over Bannon, ready to plunge it in, and Plotnik saw himself running toward the Jap, shouting “No!” He leaped over Bannon, holding the Japanese rifle in front of him, and collided with the Jap as the Jap went into his downswing. The Jap lost his balance and fell to the ground, Plotnik on top of him. Too close to use their rifles, they went at each other with their hands. But Plotnik was from a tough neighborhood in Chicago were a few people carried guns but everybody carried knives.
The Jap was on his back and shot up his thumbs, trying to gouge out Plotnik’s eyes, but Plotnik whacked the Jap’s arms out of the way and punched him in the mouth with everything he had. The Jap was stunned, then raised his hands to protect himself, and Plotnik slugged him again. Nearly out cold, the Jap struggled feebly and Plotnik grabbed him by the neck, pressing his thumbs against the Jap’s Adam’s apple, squeezing with all his strength. The Jap’s Adam’s apple went up into his throat and he went limp. Aghast, Plotnik loosened his grip and looked down at him, the first man he’d ever killed. Bannon stirred nearby and Plotnik turned around. Bannon was bleeding from a gash on his cheek and was trying to shake the cobwebs out of his head.
Plotnik hopped to him. “You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m all right.”
Bannon got up, hearing bells and birds. He picked up his rifle and looked around. The GIs had overpowered the Japs on the riverbank, and Butsko raised his arm in the air.
“Let’s go! Marching fire!”
The platoon formed a skirmish line on either side of Butsko, stepping on the bodies of Japanese soldiers mangled by the artillery barrage and bleeding from bayonets. On Butsko’s signal they marched forward, and on every third step they fired their rifles from their waists or shoulders, sending a hail of bullets before them as they moved forward. They shot at anything that moved, at vague outlines of Japs or at Japs who sprung out of the bushes before them. If they saw no targets, they shot anyway, to maintain the steady fire. Plotnik saw a dead American soldier on the ground and picked up his helmet, rifle, and ammunition, because he had no idea how to fire the Japanese Arisaka. He fell in step with the others and did what they did, firing at every third step, amazed that his terrible fear had left him and feeling powerful, part of an inexorable force on the move.
Dawn came to the woods as the soldiers moved forward, taking ground. Now the soldiers could see more clearly the devastation of the bombardment—the twisted, broken trees with roots sticking like fingers into the air, and Japanese soldiers sprawled everywhere, guts glistening in the pale light. Behind them, on the riverbank, the engineers floated their pontoons across the river, and behind the engineers the tanks and pack howitzers lined up, waiting to go across.
Butsko estimated they’d moved about a hundred yards inland, and all had been easy so far, but it wouldn’t be for long. The Japs had probably moved the bulk of their forces back when the bombardment had started, and soon they’d come forward again. Resistance would stiffen and the real fighting would start. The worst time to get hit was after you’d taken some ground, because then you were tired, had used up a lot of ammunition, and had no fixed positions to fight from.
A machine gun opened fire in front of them, and Butsko thought, Here it is.
“Hit it!”
He didn’t have to give the order; the recon platoon was on its way down at the first burst of fire. They crawled into craters and Japanese foxholes, and Butsko found himself with Billie Jones and a dead Jap lying on his back, his eyes open and staring and flies eating his face.
Butsko raised his head and scanned the jungle ahead, picking out the location of the machine gun’s muzzle blast. “Gimme that bazooka!” he said to Jones.
Jones unslung it and passed it to Butsko, who got on one knee and lifted the bazooka to his shoulder. He pulled out the sight and took aim at the machine-gun nest, but the machine gunners must have seen him, because the ground in front of him was suddenly peppered with bullets and he had to duck down quickly.
“Pin that son of a bitch down!” Butsko shouted.
“Where is he?” somebody asked.
“Over to the left.”
They saw smoke and a flutter of leaves, and then the flashes of light, obscured and faint. Braving the bullets, they raised their rifles and shot at the target. O’Rourke, who carried a Browning automatic rifle, poured hot lead into the machine-gun nest. The Japanese machine gunners swung their weapon from side to side, trying to stop the fire.
Butsko saw his opportunity and took it. Rising up again, he took aim while Billie Jones loaded the rocket and tied the wire to the terminal posts. Jones tapped Butsko’s helmet and Butsko pulled the trigger. The rocket shot out so slowly that it could be seen arcing through the air. It landed in the jungle and there was a powerful explosion, blowing away bushes and knocking down trees.
