And Fire Falls (27 page)

In this simple statement James truly understood the bond that existed within the corps he had joined.

Callum returned just before sunset to review the defensive layout. He stopped by the machine gun. ‘You guys okay?’ he asked.

‘Got our shit together, lootenant,’ the Tennessee Kid answered in a casual drawl of confidence.

Callum glanced at James, who nodded. The young
marine officer moved on and the night came. James settled back in the trench and wondered what the reaction would be to a missing USMC pilot back at Henderson airfield. At least up here he would see the devil face to face. He just hoped it would not be the three Japanese soldiers he had watched that night on the beach. They had looked and acted too much like himself to be the devil.

Rations were consumed in silence, and then the night noises took over. James could sense the unspoken fear of his two comrades, but for some strange reason he no longer felt afraid. Maybe it was because if he died he would not be alone – as he would be if he were killed in his aircraft. At least he would have others around him if the devil came for his soul in the next few hours.

At around 10 pm the devil came.

He came with the sound of bugles and shouting out of the jungle below, and the .30 calibre machine gun spat a deadly stream of tracer into the night, lit with floating illumination flares. The shells from the supporting American artillery flew overhead and exploded in the jungle below, as well as a couple of hundred yards in front of the defending marines.

‘Gettin’ low,’ the Tennessee Kid yelled, and James barely heard him above the crack of small arms and the ear-splitting explosions of bursting grenades and artillery rounds. Acrid smoke poured off the barrel of the machine gun and it stopped firing. James was just about to leave the trench when a shape loomed up in front of their position. Behind the shape was more, and James realised that they were the enemy, who had closed the gap despite the tremendous battering of artillery and small arms. One of the figures was waving a sword and screaming encouragement to the men following him. Already the two gunners were reaching for their rifles and James exited the trench with his .45 in his hand. He swung around and fired a volley into the shape of the leading Japanese, who fell backwards.

Then a grenade exploded near the edge of the trench and James felt the heat and blast knock him to the ground. He could hear screaming and as he recovered he saw Pedro grappling desperately with an enemy soldier. He was hacking with an entrenching tool at the Japanese soldier, who was armed with a long bayonet. Both men grunted and swore. James was about to go to his rescue when he suddenly became aware of a figure in the dark to his left. He swung around and saw the glint on the edge of the bayonet aimed at him. In desperation he went backwards, firing his pistol until the figure fell. James fell into the trench onto the Tennessee Kid.

He instinctively knew he was dead. He looked around for Pedro. He could not see him and another star shell lit up the area in front. James groped around and found a rifle. He hefted it up and prayed it was ready to fire. The butt bit into his shoulder as he fired, and when it was empty he dragged ammunition from the body of the young marine in the trench with him. Loading the rifle with a fresh clip of rounds he continued to fire into the night. Sometimes he did not see a target but figured anything to his front had to be the enemy. He was hardly aware that he had been hit when the enemy rifle round found him. The devil had come to James Barrington and had touched him with his steely fingers.

26

W
aves of agony enveloped James. He rolled over and, through pain-filled eyes, saw Pedro behind the machine gun, with fresh belts of ammunition. The Mexican was firing bursts into the shadowy figures struggling up the hill, and cursing in Spanish at the top of his voice.

James was not sure where he was hit, but he dragged himself to the edge of the trench to give any aid he could to the machine gunner. Pedro was unaware of his presence, and when James tried to survey the situation he thought, due to the lack of firing either side, that they were cut off. The marine-manned .30 and .50 calibres around them were silent, and the enemy seemed to be streaming through the gaps in the lines – except Pedro was raking either flank, bringing their advance to a halt. The Japanese realised that all that stood between them and full encirclement on this section of the ridge was a lone machine gunner cursing them to hell in a language that was not English.

James drew out his .45 Colt Browning pistol, and groped for a fresh magazine in a pouch on his fatigues. When he felt for the canvas holder he discovered his wound. A bullet had ripped through the side of his stomach. His fingers were sticky with blood as he released the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. He had hardly completed the recharging of his weapon before a Japanese soldier loomed up on the left. Pedro had not seen him and James could see that the soldier was about to hurl a hand grenade.

James rolled on his side and fired half-a-dozen shots, felling the soldier before he could throw his grenade. The man fell with the grenade, which exploded and showered James with bits of dirt debris.

Then there were no more enemy to their front or flanks, and Pedro replaced the belt of ammunition for the gun.

‘Hey, Pedro!’ James called. ‘I’m with you.’

Pedro turned around and flashed James a grin. ‘Got a few of those yellow sons of bitches,’ he said as smoke poured off the barrel of the overheated machine gun. ‘Are you okay?’

James wanted to say no but he knew that if he did he might distract the courageous gunner from his focus of covering their sector of the ridge. He tried to smile a response but grimaced instead. The pain was terrible and he knew that he could not use the morphine he carried as it was forbidden for gut-shot soldiers to do so for medical reasons. Instead, he pushed a field dressing into the gaping wound in his side.

‘Can you get back and get some more ammo?’ Pedro asked. ‘I’m gonna need it.’

James shook his head and Pedro realised then that his assistant was badly wounded. He left the gun to scramble to James’s side. ‘Where you hit?’ he asked, rolling James on his back.

‘Gut shot,’ James said between gritted teeth. ‘Just leave me and get back to the gun.’

‘No use now,’ Pedro said. ‘She’s finished and the spare barrel is broke. I’ll get you outta here.’

James tried to resist his efforts to get him to his feet but the Mexican marine was strong and hefted him up easily, keeping his arm around him for support. They stumbled in the dark as the firefight continued to rage with the ever-present ear-splitting explosions of the artillery support. Tracer bullets laced the night like deadly fireflies. Pedro was able to half-drag, half-walk James back to an area on the reverse slope relatively safe from the fighting. He dropped him in the long kunai grass.

‘Son of a bitch!’ Pedro whooped, spotting a .30 calibre machine gun that must have been left by marines falling back. He grabbed it and saw that the previous gunner lay on his back, dead, some feet away. A tin box of rounds lay alongside him and Pedro scooped it up and disappeared into the dark to return to his position. James rolled on his back, and that was the last thing he remembered before the merciful darkness came for him.

*

There were voices and the sun was on his face. A corps man hovered over him, and James was aware that he was being treated for his wounds. He was desperately thirsty and begged for water but the medic said that with a gut shot wound he would have to wait. James had needles in his arm and could see a medic standing with a bag of clear liquid. What struck him was the relative silence of the day, broken only by the groans of the wounded being brought in to join him.

Besides the wounded, bodies were being collected and laid out in rows. James turned his head and saw a stretcher being carried past him. The body had yet to be covered, and with a shock he recognised the face of the brave Mexican gunner. Pedro had obviously died at his post holding off the enemy. But he had also saved James’s life, bringing him back out of the direct line of fire.

The two marines carrying the litter rolled Pedro onto the earth without much ceremony.

‘Hey, give that man respect,’ James tried to shout. ‘He’s a Goddamned hero.’

One of the battle-weary marines who had obviously fought through the night replied, ‘All the dead here are heroes, pal,’ and walked away to return to the search for the dead and wounded.

‘I heard the leatherheads say the Mexican stood his ground and maybe saved the ridge from being overrun,’ said one of the medics treating James. ‘They found him with five dead Japs around him at the edge of his foxhole. He went down fighting. Too bad some officer was not around to witness what he did, or he would probably have got the Medal of Honour.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ James said with a grim smile. Fate had brought him to this battle for a reason, and now he knew why. The Mexican gunner might be dead, but at least James could make sure he would not be forgotten for his courageous last stand for a country that barely tolerated his people.

James was taken down the ridge on a litter, and eventually to the airfield medical tent where he was laid out for examination by a doctor. The bullet had entered his side without piercing his stomach. James had not realised it but a bullet had also grazed his head above his ear. It had probably been the reason he had blacked out.

As he lay on a bed James became aware that his commanding officer was standing over him with a dark expression.

‘Captain Duffy, if the Japs don’t kill you I will,’ the marine major growled. ‘You realise that you could be court-martialled for deserting your post at the airstrip.’

‘Sir, I felt compelled to go up the hill, I didn’t know why, but now I do,’ James said and even to his own ears he sounded strange – like one of those tent preachers he had heard ranting about the Lord. ‘I was witness to an act of heroism that I wish to report as an officer.’ James knew that his commanding officer was as much a friend to his men as their respected leader, and would probably be sympathetic; however, technically he had deserted his post and that was a serious breach of military regulations.

The major pulled up a camp chair and sat down beside James. ‘Son, if I report that you did not attend our briefing yesterday and could not be found, I can write it off as you being down with a fever in your tent,’ he said quietly. ‘But you’ve gone and got yourself seriously wounded up on the ridge with Edison’s boys, and I would have trouble explaining that. Fortunately you are the recipient of the Navy Cross, and I believe your family has considerable influence with FDR’s boys, so I’m going to have you sent to New Zealand to be treated for your wounds. That will get you out of the way of any awkward questions.’

‘There was a marine up on the ridge, he’s dead, shot keeping the Japs at bay. I wish to recommend him for a bravery medal. I’m not sure of his full name, but he was a Mexican in Lieutenant Guy Callum’s platoon. It’s important that what he did last night is not forgotten. If I can dictate the report and sign it, I would consider it a big favour if you could see that the report gets into the right hands.’

‘Goddamn, Duffy, that’s admitting you were up on the ridge,’ the major exploded. ‘If I send up the paperwork there will be questions. For a start, how did a flyer witness a land battle so close at hand?’

‘Sir, I would rather face a court martial than the marine not be recognised for his outstanding courage. I am here because he saved my life, so you can understand why it’s so important to me.’

‘He was a Mexican,’ the major said. ‘Is your career worth the recommendation of a Goddamned Mex for a medal? Think about it. You are the best fighter pilot I’ve got.’

‘He was an American, and died as a marine,’ James said. ‘It’s the least I can do for a fellow marine.’

The major stood up with a frown. ‘I will think about it. I could say that I gave you permission to go up the hill, but I won’t make any promises. It could all get very messy. I’m organising to have a transport plane take you out with the other seriously wounded. You should be leaving in the next few hours, and I expect you to get better and be back with us as soon as you can.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ James answered in the traditional marine response. ‘Thanks.’

Within the hour a marine clerk turned up and James dictated the events of the night before, signing the statement when the clerk had finished. James noted that the marine’s name was Pedro Hernandez, and guessed that his commanding officer had tracked down Lieutenant Callum for identification.

James laid back against the pillows and stared at the canvas ceiling of the tent. It was another hot day and his pain was acute, but he felt relief that he would soon be out of this place called hell. He had seen the devil – and lived. But he also realised that the devil had been in him all the time and it had a name – fear.

*

Charles Huntley was drunk. He had started drinking around midnight, so that he could face his wife and tell her what he had done. He sat in the living room, glancing occasionally at the clock as the sun crept above the horizon to herald a new day in Sydney. It was 6 am and finally he heard the sound of a taxi outside, the opening of the front door and Sarah’s footsteps in the hallway.

She entered the living room and stopped with a start when she saw her husband sitting in a lounge chair, an empty bottle beside him.

‘So you made it home,’ Charles slurred. ‘Just in time for us to have a talk.’

Sarah looked into her husband’s eyes. There was something in his expression she had never seen before. ‘You’re drunk and I’m rather tired. We both need to go to bed,’ she said.

Charles struggled to his feet and, alarmed, Sarah took a step back. He stood swaying and staring at her as if to bring her into focus. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said. ‘Not like you have hurt me. I just wanted you to know that yesterday I did something I will probably regret but that will no doubt make you happy for the first time.’

‘You’re drunk,’ Sarah said again. ‘Why don’t you go and sleep it off in the spare room?’

‘Don’t you want to know what I did?’ Charles asked.

‘Not particularly,’ Sarah replied.

‘I went and signed up,’ Charles said. ‘Got myself accepted for aircrew training. A damned stupid thing to do because I could get myself killed. But that would solve your problem of having a baby in wedlock, and you would play the grieving widow well, I am sure.’

Sarah was stunned by her husband’s news. He was the
last person she had expected to put his life on the line.
‘I don’t know whether to congratulate you for being patriotic, or condemn you for being so foolish.’

‘You and your bloody father are peas in a pod,’ Charles hissed. ‘Neither of you has any real human feelings. Donald might be ambitious, but at least he has genuine feelings for others. Now, I think I will go and have a lie-down. Need to have a clear head tomorrow when I report for service.’

Charles pushed past his wife and staggered for the stairs. Sarah stood for a moment in the living room and thought about the ramifications of Charles’s decision. There was a possibility that he might be killed, leaving her a respected widow of a man who had died for his country. That would be a good thing, as it would retain her respectability and at the same time rid her of a husband she had grown tired of. For a fleeting moment she thought about David and felt her desire for him stir. But his life was also on the line in faraway New Guinea.

*

Jessica stepped off the train from Brisbane at Sydney’s Central Station. Tony was right behind her, and they did not have to wait to collect their luggage as they both travelled light with their kitbags. Tony was dressed in civilian clothing and Jessica wore her uniform.

Tony flagged down a taxi outside the station and it conveyed them to a hotel in the city, where they were checked into separate rooms. Jessica knew this was an unexpected luxury as the city accommodation was at a premium with the number of high-ranking military officers in town.

Tony met Jessica in the foyer and was surprised to see that she had changed into a civilian dress. It was not an expensive or fashionable dress, although Jessica had the funds to buy anything she wanted.

‘You look . . . different, and beautiful,’ Tony said.

‘I think we can call this our first date, don’t you,’ Jessica said. ‘But don’t go getting any ideas, buster.’

‘The only idea I have is to find a place that serves the best steak and eggs,’ Tony said with a grin. ‘And I just happen to know the place. It’s a hotel restaurant not far from here, and as it is such a beautiful evening we can walk there.’

He held out his arm and the two of them stepped onto
the street filled with servicemen of many nations. The
evening was certainly balmy, and the smell of soot assailed them as they walked along the pavement.

Within minutes they found the hotel and stepped inside. The head waiter greeted them and Tony spoke in Italian to him, then they were led to a small table in the corner of the restaurant with its starched linen tablecloths and quality silverware.

‘How did you know the head waiter is Italian?’ Jessica asked when the man had retreated to meet others entering the dining room.

‘I have to confess that I have been here before and I know Giuseppe,’ Tony said. ‘His family comes from a village not far from my own family’s back in the old country. I phoned from our hotel to inform him that we were coming, so he made sure we had a table.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Jessica said. ‘Are you sure you’re not one of those gangsters we see in your Hollywood movies?’