The Thin Red Line (46 page)

So the fight for the strongpoint was over. And without exception something new had happened to all of them. It was apparent in the smiling faces of the Baker Company platoon as they climbed up over the emplacement leaving five of their guys behind them in the kunai grass. It was apparent in the grinning face of Colonel Tall as he came striding along behind them, bamboo baton in hand. It showed in the savage happiness with which Gaff’s group bombed out the empty bunkers using Witt’s safety technique: one man firing while another tossed the grenades. Nobody really cared whether there was anyone in them or not. But they hoped there were hundreds. There was a joyous feeling in the safety of killing. They slapped each other on the back and grinned at each other murderously. They had finally, as Colonel Tall was later to tell newsmen and correspondents when they interviewed him, been blooded. They had, as Colonel Tall was later to say, tasted victory. They had become fighting men. They had learned that the enemy, like themselves, was killable; was defeatable.

This feeling had an enormous effect on everyone. It was evident in the other two Baker Company platoons in the way they were now pushing their attack uphill, as Colonel Tall pointed out.when he came striding and grinning up to congratulate Captain Gaff.

“Look at them move!” he said from the top of the embankment after they had shaken hands. “And we owe it all to you, John. When they saw you make that attack of yours, and win! It was like you had put their hearts back into them. Well, let’s have a look around here, now.”

There were, it was discovered after a full count, twenty-three Japanese down on the ground of the little hollow. They lay scattered around in various positions and postures. Of these five had been knocked out by the grenade shower and two had been shot trying to run. Of the twenty-three most were dead, several were still in process of dying, and a few though badly hurt looked as if they might live. To Gaff and his group, following the Colonel around, it seemed that the number should be considerably higher. They seemed to remember hundreds. But in discussing it it was found that at least four Japanese had been ‘killed’ twice by different men. Even so it was a goodly number. Especially when one remembered they were only six in the attacking force, and once again the miracle that none of them were killed seemed incredible. Partly this was because the Japanese had come out in uncoordinated small groups. But mostly, once again, it was attributed to Big Un and his shotgun, not only for having killed five men so quickly but also for the obvious shock value it had had upon the rest of the Japanese. Big Un himself did not take—as yet—any pleasure in this new fame, although the men from the B Company platoon watched him with heroworshiping eyes. He prowled back and forth and around the single remaining prisoner like a loose wolf trying to get at a caged victim. His shotgun was broken, but now he had his rifle unslung. He appeared to be waiting hopefully for the Japanese to make any move for which he could kill him legitimately.

The prisoner himself looked as though he were not capable of escaping anywhere, even if there had been no one around to watch him. Filthy and emaciated, he had a bad case of dysentery and was continually indicating to his Baker Company guards that he had to relieve himself. This he did through a system of signs and pantomime. Then he would squat beside his two dead companions and strain his miserable bowels, all the time eyeing Big Un. He had already messed his pants a couple of times apparently, during the fighting when he could not go outside, and he stank so badly he could be smelled a couple of yards away. All in all he was a pretty sorry spectacle.

However, if anything about this sorry specimen moved Big Un, Big Un did not show it in his tough, mean face. Neither did anybody else, including Colonel Tall—although Tall immediately marked the peculiarity of the two dead prisoners.

It was easy enough to see. They lay side by side forming, with the third, still-living one, a little line quite apart from the rest. Their two helmets lay just beside them, and except for the blood running from their noses they showed no signs of injury or wounds.

“What happened here?” Tall murmured to Gaff. He had already turned away in disgust from the smelly, still-living one.

Gaff only raised his eyebrows, as if he didn’t know either. He did not want actually to lie to the old boss, but neither did he want to rat on his gang. He had acquired an intense loyalty for them which almost brought tears to his eyes when he thought of it.

Tall turned back to the dead ones. They were about as sorry-looking, and as smelly, as the live one. He could read well enough what had happened, but he could not understand the method. They should have had their heads bashed in, or been bayoneted, or shot. He didn’t like this sort of thing, but on the other hand one had to make allowances for men in the heat of combat. But how had it been done? “Some sort of explosive concussion?” he said to Gaff; “but there aren’t any fragment wounds.” He had not expected Gaff to answer, and Gaff didn’t; he shrugged. “Well,” Tall said smiling and loud enough to be heard all around, “a dead brown brother is one brown brother less, isn’t it?” Eventually the real story of how it happened would get back to him anyway, he was sure of that.

“Take good care of that one, men!” he called to the Baker Company guards. “G-2 will want him. There should be someone around before long.”

“Aye, aye, Sir, yeah,” one of them grinned; “we’ll take care of him.” With his rifle muzzle he reached out and poked the prisoner, who was squatting and crapping again, and tipped him over backward into his own mess. The men around all laughed, and the prisoner scrambled back to his feet and began to try patiently to clean himself with handfuls of grass. He appeared to expect this kind of treatment and looked as if he were only putting in time, waiting for them to shoot him. Tall turned away again. He had not meant to cause that reaction, but the Baker Company man (really hardly more than a boy really) had, because of his remark about dead brown brothers, misinterpreted him. He walked away followed by Gaff. Across the hollow a Baker Company man had just finished kicking one of the wounded Japanese resoundingly in the ribs. It sounded as though someone had just punted a football out of the hollow down the hill. The wounded Japanese man simply stared back at him with acquiescent, pain-dulled, animal eyes.

“Don’t do that, Soldier!” Tall called at him sharply.

“Okay, Colonel, Sir, if you say so, Sir,” the man answered cheerfully. “But he would of killed me in a minute if he’d had the chance.”

Tall knew that was true enough and he did not answer. Anyway, he did not want to jeopardize the new toughness of spirit which had come over the men after achieving success here. That spirit was more important than whether or not a few Jap prisoners got kicked around, or killed.

“I think we’ve wasted about enough time here,” he said loudly, with a grin for the men.

“Sir,” Gaff said tentatively from behind him, and Tall turned around. “Sir, I’ve got a few recommendations for decorations I’d like to turn in to you.”

“Yes, yes,” Tall grinned. “Of course. We’ll get everything for all of them that we can. But later. In the meantime I want you to know I’m personally recommending you for something, John. Perhaps,” he said and leaning forward, took Gaff lightly by his lapel to whisper: “Perhaps even—the Big One.”

“Well, thank you, Sir. But I don’t feel I really deserve that.”

“Oh yes you do. However,
getting
it for you will be another problem. But it would be a big thing for the Battalion, and for Regiment too, if you did get it.” He let go the lapel and straightened. “But in the meantime, I think we better get moving out of here. I think the best way to proceed is to move right back up the saddle you came down, rather than trying to circle the knob on the left. From the top we can debouch out and extend our line left to hook up with the other platoons. Would you like to take command?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get Lieutenant Achs, then. He’s around here somewhere.”

“Sir,” Gaff said hesitantly; “I don’t like to sound depressing or be a wet blanket or anything like that, but what about water? If we don’t—”

“Don’t worry about water!” Tall said sharply, but then he smiled. “John, I don’t want anything to break up this attack of ours, now that we’ve got it started. As for water, I’ve already taken care of that. We’ll have
some
water by—” he looked at his watch, and then at the sky— “in a couple of hours. I’ve arranged for that. But we can’t stop now to wait for it.”

“No, Sir.”

“If some of the men pass out, they’ll just have to pass out,” Tall said.

“Yes, Sir.”

“If any of them ask you about water, tell them what I said. But don’t bring it up yourself. Don’t mention it unless they ask you.”

“No, Sir. But they could die from it, you know. From heat prostration.”

“They could die from enemy fire, too,” Tall said. He looked around himself, at them. “They’re all tough boys.” He looked back at Gaff. “Okay? Now, come on.”

Together with the lieutenant, Achs, from Baker Company, they began to round up the men who were still staring curiously at the various dead Japanese. “You’ll see plenty more of those,” Tall told them. “At least I hope you will. Come on.” Most of the dead men’s equipment, he noted, had already been appropriated for souvenirs, along with their wallets and the contents of their pockets, and two of Gaff’s volunteers—Doll and Cash—now carried the sheathed ‘Samurai sabers’ of the two officers. Tall would have liked one of those himself, but he had no time to think about that now. There was too much else to occupy him at the moment. Tall was more worried about the lack of water than he had let Gaff know. It was all very well to say some of the men might have to pass out, or even die, from heat prostration. But if enough of them passed out, he was going to be left without an attack. No matter how much spirit and heart they had recently acquired, or what he himself might do. They were going to have to have some water, and he had done the only thing about it that he knew to do. An hour before—back when Gaff and his group were making their crawl—Tall had sent out another patrol. Only, the irony of this patrol was that it had gone rearward. Looking for water. Because both sound powers were cut, he had intended to send back a runner to tell them the water situation was reaching critical. But because he had sent back at least two runners yesterday, and had telephoned again and again, all of it the same message, the idea had come to him to send a ‘patrol’ instead. And once the patrol idea was in his mind, he decided to go ahead with it and carry it through all the way. He sent his own personal Battalion Hq sergeant and all three of his runners he had left, all of whom carried pistols, of course. Their orders were to proceed rearward as far as they had to go to find water and bring it back with them. They were not even to report in to the Regimental Commander. They were to cross the ridge of Hill 209 away from the command post and travel rearward along the basin until they found people with water and when they found it they were to take it, at gunpoint if necessary. Each man could carry two full jerrycans, Tall decided; that would be hard on them, but under the circumstances they would have to do it. They were to proceed back as fast as their strength would let them, resting only when they had to. If anyone tried to take any water from them, they were to fight for it. These were harsh orders. And the cruel irony which had forced him to send an armed patrol to the rear into his own lines all ready to fight, was not lost upon Tall’s sense of propriety. But he had to do it. Anyway, he did not think it would ever come to the actual shooting point; nobody back there was going to argue with his boys once they drew their pistols; but even if it did go to the shooting point he did not intend to lose everything now. He was convinced the Japanese position was now broken. All they had to do was keep going and they would have Hill 210 by noon. And the remarkable spirit which had ballooned in everybody when the strongpoint fell had to be taken advantage of before some other event occurred to sap its strength. To have his battalion relieved in defeat now, or even to have them reenforced by troops from the reserve regiment if they stalled before reaching the top, was more than Tall could support unless he was absolutely forced to. This was a chance Tall had waited for all his professional life. He had studied, and worked, and slaved, and eaten untold buckets of shit, to have this opportunity. He did not intend to lose it now, not if he could help it. He only hoped that C-for-Charlie was proceeding according to schedule also, and that Stein would not chicken out on him now, and the thinking of this thought, and worrying suddenly about them now, gave him a sudden new idea. An inspiration almost, even.

“I want a runner!” he called out suddenly to the assembling men. It would be, he thought immediately, better to send them one of their own, and he turned in mid-stride and addressed himself to the Charlie Company volunteers who, having no assigned stations with the Baker Company platoon, were all hanging around their new paternal hero, Captain John Gaff.

“I want one of you men to make your way back to C Company. It—”

“I’ll go, Sir!” Witt said immediately. “I want to go! Let me go, Sir!”

“It will be a tough job. You’ll have to go back over the third fold and make your way to the jungle and then follow them from there,” Tall said. “But I think it’s very important. I want them to know what we’ve accomplished here. Tell them everything we’ve done. The strongpoint is taken. And we’re moving uphill and nothing’s stopping us. We’re going all the way. And we want them to meet us there.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!” Witt said. “I can do it. Don’t worry about me, Colonel.”

“I think you can, son,” Colonel Tall said and patted him on the back. “I know they haven’t got any water. But, by God! tell them when they meet us we’ll have all the goddamned water they can drink for them!”

“Aye, Sir!” Witt cried.

Tall saw John Gaff looking at him with astonished, disbelieving eyes. Tall stared back at him with a flat gaze until Gaff remembered himself and disguised his face. But Tall daren’t have winked. “All they can drink,” he repeated solemnly, and now stared Witt in the eyes. “Okay. That’s all, son,” he said. “Go.”