Once an Eagle (83 page)

He looked up, through dizzying layers on overlapping layers of vegetation, squinting with frantic eagerness. There was nothing to see. His heart was pounding unbearably—his whole body quaked with its beating. Behind him somewhere Archimbeau was saying something, or groaning. It was impossible to
see—!
Still he stared upward, painfully, riding down on his fear with all his might. The nasal slap came again, and he saw—or thought he saw—the most delicately perceptible flicker of movement in the dense canopy of green. He jerked himself to one knee, raised the Tommy gun and fired a burst. The gun's pneumatic yammer almost stunned him—but at the same time it sponged away his fear. He felt angry, exhilarated, in some crazy way a part of the deafening, racketing weapon, its servant rather than its master: bound in its brutal, shocking, liberating force. He jumped to his feet, darted a few yards to the right, crouched behind a tree and fired again. Then there was silence. Nothing. He wanted to look around, to find Damon, but he didn't dare shift his gaze.

… He was conscious of a pacing sound, like the softest of feet advancing through the air—the air!—toward him. The sound went on, no louder, but his fear was gone. He raised the gun calmly, waiting, but the pacing continued, dulcet, oblique, slowing now. A pacing.

A dripping.

A branch ahead of him bobbed. Splotches of bright red on the broad spatulate leaves, which danced under the impact. The blood fell in long, glutinous arcs and globules. He gazed at it numbly. It was so incredibly scarlet and slick, lying on the leaves, sliding down in long skeins. It was so
red.
And now, far up, obscured, a branch rocked with a slow, faltering motion.

He lowered his eyes. The Colonel, looking at him, gave that quick, crisp nod of his. “Nice work, Ray.”

Was it? Maybe it was. He didn't know. He lowered the gun. He had killed a man; unquestionably. Yet he felt none of the things he might have expected to feel—there was neither remorse nor exultancy nor terror; he was conscious only of a weary anger, as though he'd been tried beyond his patience. A savage fusillade came from the left now, and tracers ripped scissoring through the vines. The waste, he thought, the incredible waste of material in this war. Of bullets alone. Then the ludicrous aspect of the thought struck him. He got to his feet. The Colonel was already crouched over Archimbeau, had turned him over.

“In the chest,” he said. “We've got to round up a litter party.”

“Yes,” he said numbly; he watched Archimbeau's eyes opening and closing like a sleepy baby's. His frown, too, was like a baby's: he seemed neither terrified nor in pain. His lips were moving slowly; Feltner bent down.

“…You get him, Captain?”

“Yes—I got him, Archie,” he said tersely. “I got him good. Now take it easy. We'll get you out of here.”

They rounded up a minimum stretcher party for Archimbeau, and then went over to First Battalion. Things were no better there. They waded through an evil place where the swamp was black with rot and stagnation, and several bodies, facedown, rocked gently in the little waves they made as they went by. There was a low rise where they lay on their bellies and watched Tom Hurd and a sergeant work their way up within ten feet of a bunker before they both were hit. They were killed instantly, but the Japanese gunners kept hosing them down, and the two bodies quivered and twitched as the torrent of bullets pounded into them. “Oh, the bastards,” he heard himself saying, raging, on the edge of tears, hating all Japanese forever with a hate blacker than the swamp they'd crossed. “Oh, the dirty, butchering bastards …”

Back at the CP all the news was bad. Colonel Krisler, who had jumped off with Third Battalion, had got down to the Knoll but had been stopped there. The 468th had made it to the edge of the airstrip, and was now under heavy counterattack. Second Battalion was out of communication with How Company. And later, sitting in the foul-smelling dugout eating a K ration tin of pork and egg yolk, Feltner had glanced at his watch in dulled surprise to see that it was nearly two thirty. All those hours. His head ached, and his belly heaved thickly; he felt desolate, fearful, overcome by the malignant power and craft of this enemy who held all the cards, and who knew so well how to play them, one by one.

“It looks grim, Colonel,” he said.

“It's not over.”

“If we don't make it, if we can't break through to the beach with this one—”

“Then we'll try something else.”

“—We're not even
killing
any of them …”

“That's what they want you to think.” Damon ran his tongue around the edge of his cheek. “They're dragging back their dead. Didn't you see the blood on the rifles?”

“Yes, but our losses—if they get any worse—”

“Take it easy.” The Colonel's eyes flickered around the dugout, though they were out of hearing of everyone except Everill, a lineman who was working on the field phone in the corner near them. “Calm,” Damon went on; he smiled his slow, mournful smile, chewing on the K ration. “The higher your rank the calmer you must be. You must instill confidence.” The smile came again. “Even if you don't always feel it yourself. I've seen things in China so bad I didn't think any of us would get through the next hour. But we did; and they're still going strong over there.” He wiped his mouth with a big red handkerchief. “Every man—well, almost every man—is afraid. And fear makes for worry, and worry for pessimism. That's where you come in. You must check it at the source. It's your job to bespeak confidence, calmness, optimism.”

Feltner looked at him for a moment. “Then—it's sort of living a lie, isn't it?”

“Yes. If you want to put it that way. But so is all of life. You don't make the world a present of your innermost thoughts, do you? I'd guess you never told your wife every single thought or emotion or temptation that passed through your mind during a single Sunday afternoon at home. I know I didn't … Of course it's absurd, if that's what you're thinking. But
war
is absurd, Ray: war is dishonest, and cruel, and vicious in all its forms. And here we are, sitting at the ass-end of the world, with decisions to make, and a couple thousand kids looking to us for help—for some plan, some move, some miracle that will get them out of this hideous hell and send them home again … ”

There came a series of deep, dull explosions from over on the left, beyond the Knoll.

“Mortars,” the Colonel said. “A battle's like a forest fire, Ray. A big, bad, raging forest fire, out of control. And you're trying to stop it, you're in charge. So you get people working here, in this place, get them to face the heat and sparks and battle it—then you move around to check somewhere else and fire some other people up; you try to keep in touch everywhere you can, you encourage, instruct, plead—yes, and threaten if necessary. And at the same time you try to be more vigilant than the fire. And above all you never let anyone see you're every bit as full of doubts and fears as the lowliest private in the rear rank. That's your job.” Damon smiled again. “That's all they're asking of you.”

Everill called, “Colonel! WOLVERINE to you …”

The Colonel was on his feet before Feltner had set down the little green ration tin. “Ben? Sam. They are. In force? All right. All right … ” and Feltner, peering over Damon's shoulder, could see his fingernail scoring a short arc at the edge of the Knoll below the copra plantation. “All right. Hang on tight, Ben boy. I'll get you something. Christ knows where or how, but I'll get you something … ”

2

17 Oct 42.
Worst day yet. 2 tanks knocked out, remaining 3 bogged down in that excuse for a road. And that-a is that-a. Dutch's crowd got across west end of the airstrip, then Japs counterattacked in force and he pulled everybody back. Lost nearly everything he'd gained. Why? Was on dry ground (Jesus: DRY GROUND), could have supported them. He is too prudent. There is a time for withdrawing and a time for hanging on to what you can grab: this is time for hanging on. Westy's pessimism has infected him—they are all succumbing to apprehensions.

Air strike awful. Really awful. Flight of A-20s came in at treetop level, blasted and strafed How and King. Two BAR men fired back at planes: could not blame them. Six dead, seventeen wounded. So much for Prince Hal and his dead-eye dicks. Granted this terrain is fierce: but there's Larotai Point and the cove and that sunken maru, not to mention the Grove and the roof of the Mission. There are enough points for reference. Can't they SEE? or don't the bastards give a shit?

One break. One tiny, nervous break. Bowcher got to the sea, on that spit of land between the river and the copra plant or whatever it is. 23 effectives and 1 mg. Got to him at 1530 with LaRocca's platoon and 2 mgs—best I could do, way things are going. Asked him what he thought. “Hell yes, I'm staying. Feel that frigging ocean breeze!” I said: “Suppose they hit you from both flanks at the same time?” “They won't: they can't coordinate their attacks, anyway—their communications are more fouled up than ours.” “I doubt it,” I said. He grinned: his face black as a minstrel show end-man's. He'll hold it, all right. He had them dug in in a long horseshoe, with a connecting trench for switching guns. He is TERRIFIC. Told him he was a captain as of right then—thought of Dad and Brigny Farm. He said: “Let's see how we make out.” He is one cool cookie.

I asked them: “What do you need?” and drew a chorus of great replies: “Well—they use like a bed for it.” “Nothing you can bring me on a platter, Chief!” They are really up. Kid named Frohman did a crazy striptease shimmy right there, with the Japs not a hundred yards away on both flanks, turned toward me a great ragged hole where the seat of his trousers used to be. “How about some riding britches, Colonel? or a cast-iron jock?” All of them looking like scarecrows, half-starved, most of them shaking with fever. Thought of Dev, and Raebyrne.
All aboard for the frigging Alamo.
Put the thought down hard. Told them if they held I'd give them all bronze stars and personally throw them a party they'd never forget. I will, too.

Hated to leave them out there on that lonely strip of sand.

Rocky time coming back. Sniper opened up, then bunker nobody had seen before, hit Smith and Watts. Already burdened with two of Bowcher's wounded. Again Feltner did well: little CPA is going to be all right. Westy never liked him because he wasn't W's kind of man. Of course not, he's his own kind. He just needed a little time to get his feet under him. When bunker opened up I hit the dirt in a panic, thought I was hit. Got up all over mud, couldn't find my rifle, started floundering around for it. Feltner looked at me, perfectly serious, Tommy gun smoking. “Confidence, calmness, optimism.” Had to laugh.

Later found holes through medical pouch, left sleeve. Lucky as hell. Japs do not fire unless directly attacked, consequently we are bypassing strong points, never know they are there. And manned. Is this intentional or part of old Nip rigidity? They have no capacity for improvisation, apparently; what they decide on they stick to. Thank God for that—if Westy's opposite number had brains-one he'd have launched a combined flanking movement from the Bowari Trail and the Watubu Creek, gone out around the swamp and cut us to pieces. I'd give ten thousand dollars (which I haven't got) for old man Shiraga's tactical possibilities. Just
one
of them.

Zipped over to Brig Hq with my morsel of good news. Westy just back from Timobele. Rowing with the Aussies over the 484th. Almost came to blows with Lawlor, from what I can gather. He's sick, won't admit it: has lost over thirty pounds, eyes flickering around. Barely hanging on. MacArthur's directives stinging him, press riding him now too, snapping at his heels. Bunch of them outside the tent. “Would you say then, General, the attack
was
adequately prepared and executed?” Curtin, little bantam rooster in blue Navy fatigues (where'd he get those?). Westy turning on him: “I don't know what the hell you mean by
adequately
—I have complete confidence in my staff. We're doing all we can with what we've got. What do you want? If we had one tenth the stuff they're sending SouPac every day in the week …” Moross cutting in deftly, “May we quote you on that, General?” “No, you may not—! For Christ sake, man—what do you take me for? If you had any idea at all what conditions are like up there, in the line …” Last man he should have said that to. A lot of them have been hanging around Brig Hq and the hospital, picking up yarns 9th hand, but Moross was up there for both attacks. Could see him getting mad. “I've been up there far enough to see three perfectly good M3 light tanks up over their bogies in mud and water—do you plan to use them as floating batteries?”

Went from bad to worse. Dickinson trying to pour oil on the raging waters. “Harry, you know perfectly well losses must be expected in operations of this kind—our intelligence and supply problems out here are almost insurmountable.” Half-hauling Westy away before he blew up completely and ordered them all in irons and brought World Opinion down on his weary, sweating head.

Thought he'd be elated by Bowcher's big bust-through: seemed only to make him more gloomy. “I don't like it, Sam. They'll hit him on both flanks, won't they? They'll be wiped out. I don't like it at all.” Seeing disaster in every situation: perils, losses, drawbacks, negative side of things. Told him I was virtually certain the Japs didn't have communications to coordinate assault on both flanks, that morale in Bowcher's crowd was excellent. Tried to tell him it was thin edge of the wedge, could enable us to roll up Atainu Point area in 2 days. “It's a gamble, Sam.” “Yes it is, General. But I'm confident we can make it pay off.” “Maybe so.” Sitting hunched over, dejected, eyes puffy with lack of sleep, face bruised and slack, only his lips moving; sweat standing out on his forehead in great gobs. “Maybe so. I don't know. That's a diversionary business, anyway: it's the airstrip we've got to nail down. That God damn airstrip.” I refrained from pointing out that possession of the strip will mean nothing if the Nips can douse it in mortar fire from the Knoll and the Mission. He doesn't see the possibilities here: too weary, too worn down.

He said, “I'm sending in Koch's people with Frenchy day after tomorrow.” The last reserves. Could not keep the surprise out of my face. “Well, what do you want me to do? I've
got
to take Moapora—I've got to! In
five days …
” Gazing out at the boondocks, blinking, hands hanging between his legs. “It's no fun being a general, Sam. I can tell you that. Nobody comes around anymore. There you are, all by your lonesome, grappling with the whole sad damn mess, trying to get out from under. It's like a God damn tent collapsing on you in the dark …”

Talked with Dick afterward, then Specs. They are beginning to come apart, too. Afraid we'll be left to death and capture and all the attendant horrors. Like Bataan. Another sacrifice to the national optimism and indifference, while the Congress dances and Nelson and Knudsen squabble over which plants get the contracts. Well, it isn't very reassuring. No Navy, no supplies getting in except dribbles from Prince Hal's celestial charioteers. (Air drop of clothing scattered over half of Papua yesterday afternoon early: would take a three-division sweep to find a tenth of it. Whose bright idea was that?) Could feel fear in the tent, like odor of sweat. Or worse. Everyone very near the edge, one eye on where to light out for. If the situation turns fluid, as that whacky redheaded driver from Kokogela airport said.

Monterey seems very far away tonight.

 

The rain fell
in smashing waves, incessant, torrential, as if it wanted to wash the world away, obliterate all blood and detritus and mire, return it to the omnipotent and cleansing ocean. Gradually the mud floor of the tent began to glisten with the passage of water—slender trickles and rivulets that joined, swelled into a larger stream; and objects like helmet liners and discarded ration containers began to float, drifting sluggishly toward a far corner. Sitting at his field desk with his feet up on a box, Damon released the plunger on the Coleman lantern and pumped it smartly for several seconds, adjusted the mantles; then again picked up the Japanese diary, its cover stiff with dried blood, and began making his way laboriously down the delicate rice-grain characters.

 

The enemy act like children who have lost their parents. They make jerky movements in the jungle, they look around them fearfully, exposing their bodies. They even call to each other now and then. They do not run away anymore; but they are afraid. They fire wildly at nothing. At night they are even worse. At the slightest sound they work the cocking handles of their guns, reveal their positions and fire with reckless abandon into the jungle. Are they paid for the amount of ammunition they use up each night? It is possible. They are lacking in patience, in discipline. Their grenades are good but they release them too early: they fear their own grenades.

 

Damon nodded grimly.
Some truth in that: though possibly Lieutenant Niizuma would want to revise that part about the grenades—if he were still among the living. Rasmussen, the brigade intelligence officer, now down with malaria, had told him there was nothing of any tactical value in the diary; but that depended entirely on what one was looking for.

 

Where are the reinforcements we were promised from Wokai? If we could only attack! Now, while the Yanks are afraid … But Colonel Eguchi says that we are to hold our fortress. And we will. We are the warriors of Yamamoto. Great Japan has never lost a fortress to the enemy.

 

Quite true. He
got up and splashed through the water to the map board, which was hanging on a frame braced against the tent pole, unhooked it, and propping it up against his desk studied it for the hundredth time, moving with slow tenacity over the patches of jungle, the trails and enemy strongpoints—and especially the Watubu Creek, which wound its way circuitously to the sea just beyond Larotai Point, secured now by the reduction of the Japanese force on the east bank of Bowcher's Bastion. They were at the river and there they sat helplessly, while Westy frantically mounted still another attack on the terrific defenses guarding the airstrip. Tomorrow at 0700 Koch and Frenchy were going to try it again. Another frontal assault.

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. The air in the blackout tent was close and foul in spite of the lashing rain outside; mosquitoes made a treble moan around him, bumping against his forehead and neck. It was no good. The key was the Mission—there on the high ground, dominating the airfield and the beach. And the key to the Mission was the Watubu. Deep, tidal, sliding toward the sea in a slick brown plate, only forty to fifty feet wide. If they could force that, they could wheel on down the left bank to the sea and drive across behind the Mission; and the strip, pinched on two flanks, would fall in a day. But there were only two landing craft, captured Japanese boats from the Kokogela battle. For lack of a nail the kingdom was lost. For a while he toyed with the idea of building rafts out of coconut logs, dismissed the idea. Too cumbersome, too unwieldy and slow, too defenseless—their occupants would be swept overboard by a hail of fire from the far side. It would have to be quick, deadly, done in a rush: or not at all. But it was the only way he could see.

The Coleman lantern flared and dimmed like a faulty circuit, making him blink. The water in the mud floor of the tent was several inches deep; the legs of his and Ben's field cots were nearly obscured. He had to think! Tomorrow's assault would fail—there was no reason on God's earth to see why it should succeed—and two days after that Westy, in desperation, would pull the 477th out of the river line and send it in against the strip; and after that the Brigade would be finished as an effective fighting force. They would disintegrate. Dickinson had already made a veiled reference to the possibilities of withdrawal to Kokogela. But it would not be a withdrawal—it would be a panic-stricken, disorderly rout, marked by insubordination and collapse, harried by Japanese air and patrols …

He'd better get some sleep: he wasn't doing himself or anyone else any good sitting here like this staring goggle-eyed at the yellowed, dying mantles of the Coleman. But instead he picked up another diary whose final entry was stroked in with a nervous, erratic hand:

 

Ah, this is a cruel, wretched land, this black, airless jungle. Are we to be left here, sick and hungry and forgotten? Can it be here that I will meet my fate? I will fight to the last drop of my blood, as a loyal son of Hyogo. But it is a bitter thing. I hold the symbol of the clan deity close to my beating heart. Oh, to see once more the high, green terraces of home!

 

A hand pressed against his shoulder, a voice said: “Sam … ”

He opened his eyes. Ben, in fatigues and patrol cap, soaked to the skin, his eyes red with exhaustion; the three days' growth of beard made his face look even more bony and lopsided. “What you doing, feeding the mosquitoes?”

“I guess so. What's up?”

“Sam, we've got something, I think. Goethals' patrol found four native boats hidden along the bank. On our side, about a mile upstream.”

Damon sat up; his feet went into the water with a dull splash. “Are they in good shape? Will they float?”