THE PRECEDING CHAPTER concentrated on night fighting in the jungle. This chapter covers how our soldiers conducted themselves in the unfamiliar jungle and zeroes in on a rather typical daytime foray. The American people had been brainwashed by movie versions of these battles, starring Randolph Scott or Gary Cooper. Yes, we did have plenty of heroes, but their conduct was not exactly as dramatic and fearless as that of Scott and Cooper.
This chapter was sent as a letter to ‘‘ Aunt Madeleine’’ in June 1944. It was one of those she was unable to peddle. ‘‘ The editors found it too grim, ’’ she wrote. ‘‘ They are looking for heroics not ‘prosaics. ’ ’’
So . . . let’s focus on the blood routine of jungle fighting:
The third platoon of Company F files by in a staggered squad column formation. The first squad on the left, the second on the right, and the third, behind, for the time being. The third platoon is ahead of the whole battalion, as an advance guard, moving up the bulldozed trail to find, fix, and finish a strong Japanese machine gun position 800 yards ahead. One second lieutenant and thirty men, now. Three days ago, one second lieutenant and forty men. Last night at 5: 00 o’clock a bulldozer operator, forging a supply trail through the jungles, turned to the left as he reached the crest of a small hill. He had two squads, a security detachment as he made the turn. When the Japanese machine gun, located someplace on that crest, stopped firing, he had about one squad left. He didn’t mind. The first burst had gotten him. The next day, when his body was recovered, his face had powder burns from the muzzle blast. The Japanese had let him come that close before pouring it on.
Two days before, the third platoon had fought a tough skirmish. They had been moving up for a week now, mucking forward during the day, and settling down in the same muck that night. The platoon leader, in between the second scout (who was thirty yards out) and the two lead squads, glanced back at his men. He wants to know whether any of them are getting ready to drop out from fatigue. More than that, he wants to see on their faces that determination and quiet courage which he himself lacks. He inwardly prays that he’ll look around and be reassured that behind him are thirty Gary Coopers who will come through for him when the chips come down within the next hour.
Not a Cooper, nor a Scott, nor a John Garfield. Just frightened American kids stumbling along, unwillingly, but relentlessly. Frightened, did I say? Mostly, scared stiff. Petrified. The leader of the 1st Squad Sgt. Wise, has lost that cocky sneer and repartee. He barely acknowledges the half- hearted expectant smile of his platoon leader. Glares back, his bloodshot eyes expressing: ‘‘ On with this goddam job. ’’
Number two man has a tommy gun at port arms. A 110 pound midget named Price, who used to tire rapidly on practice marches and maneuver. He is bushed now, completely and irrevocably, and his uncertainty doesn’t help his mental attitude. The platoon leader manages a fatherly grin toward Price. But Price wants no paternalism. He wants to lie down. In his choir boy’s voice he squeaks indignantly, ‘‘ Can’t . . . keep . . . this . . . up . . . much . . . longer. ’’ And he can’t. He will pass out during the fire fight that’s coming up.
Belski, the fat rowdy Pole, spits on the ground and keeps his big Browning Automatic Rifle at port arms. He fondles the BAR gently. Back at Camp Shelby, and over on the Fiji Islands, Belski used to bitch about the big gun. It weighs twenty pounds to an M1’s nine. The big husky boys get it, and it’s the old convincer with plenty of valuable fire power. Belski knows that now. Back at garrison he used to complain about other things too: the lousy grub, the ill- fitting uniforms, the stuck- up second looies, and the goddam Army. One time on maneuvers he snuck off to the side of the road and went to sleep while his company was flanking an imaginary enemy platoon. His CO went crazy looking for him that night, called out the MP’s, had all rivers checked. Belski didn’t give a damn. What’s a week’s KP? But now he’s moving up that mucky road. Tense, chilled, a soldier who knows that the little games are over, who senses deeply the whine of bullets shot from .25 calibre guns in the hands of men who want to kill him. He smiles back at the platoon leader, giving his head a little twist as if to say, ‘‘ I won’t let you down, Sir, but I’m weak in the knees.’’
Sowers, following Belski, has an ’03, Springfield rifle, a lighter gun since he’s an assistant BAR man and must take over if and when the Japanese start looking for our fast spitting BAR and get Belski. He’s tall, emaciated looking. Wiry underneath. Hard as his stubborn head which caused him to be busted four months ago for insubordination. Told the new platoon leader that he knew more about troop leading in one minute than the looie did in a year. And added, ‘‘ You ain’t goin’ to catch me doing what you say in combat. I’m on my own. ’’ Surly, then, he was a troublemaker all along. But now sheer terror is written in his eyes, and the mouth that used to curl up derisively at each command is quivering. He looks hard and long at the platoon leader as if to say, ‘‘ I don’t know anything except I’m scared. You’ve got to tell me what to do. I’ll do it but I can’t figure things out well here. ’’
On the other side of the trail, moving parallel to the first squad, is the second. The squad leader had walked along the column telling the men to button their lips, watch their side of the road, and scan trees for snipers. He is vicious in his stinging orders, but the men welcome this belligerence for God knows they need it. The squad leader doesn’t feel belligerent though, just sounding off to make sure his voice doesn’t croak and his tongue isn’t paralyzed. Gets away with it, too. The platoon leader thinks, ‘‘ Good man, Thompson. Alert. Aggressive. ’’ He marks him down for the frontal attack, if and when it comes.
An eighteen year old tommy gunner is second in the right file. He joined the platoon fresh from the States two months ago. Had been plucked out of his senior year in high school and shipped overseas after ten months of what he called ‘‘ Just markin’ time. ’’ He now is trying to keep his tommy gun at port arms, but the diagonal is so distorted by his twitching arms that he reminds the platoon leader, for a minute, of that drum major from Northwestern. Only the strut isn’t there. Nor the smug conceit. Nor the flashy clothes. Why think about that now? A helluva thing to be reminded of by a nervous kid. The boy is self- conscious as the platoon leader stares hard at him. He knows he is shaking and he tries to answer back that it’s all a lie. ‘‘ Sir, I ain’t really scared. ’’ But he chokes up on the ‘‘ scared, ’’ baby tears well up in his eyes. He looks down at the Solomon Islands muck, and the platoon leader shakes his head savagely and says, ‘‘ My God, is this what I’ve got along with me? ’’
The third man with an M1 has it strung over his back. He doesn’t look to the right or left because he is sick from the meat and beans he crammed down in thirty seconds before moving out this morning. He gags every two or three minutes although the food is out of him by now. He is grey, grimy, in semi- shock, but he keeps on moving, putting one foot ahead of the other, like the tightrope walker at Barnum and Bailey’s. This boy isn’t in this world. He staggers, and stumbles. The platoon leader must snap him out of it. He’s no good to himself or the men. ‘‘ Come on, Chuck, tonight we go into Regimental reserve. Hot food. New shelter half. Maybe some water to shave with. No more Nips sneaking around. ’’ An unadulterated lie since there is no real reserve in this game. The Japanese are there in front and there in back, and they’re in the middle of your perimeter, attacking you from the inside. There’s no warm food or sleep for many, many nights. Maybe the platoon leader can fool Chuck, but he won’t fool Belski, or Wise . . . or himself.
Suddenly the platoon leader sees his lead scout, ahead about 100 yards, flop to the ground and raise his rifle horizontally over his head and bring it up and down twice. Enemy in sight. The platoon leader waves the platoon off to the side of the road and crouching, moves forward hurriedly to investigate. ‘‘ Christ, ’’ he thinks, ‘‘ Will I ever get them started again? Wonder what this is? Awfully early for the Nips to hit us. ’’ He gets to the first scout and tries to locate the bogey man who the lead scout swears is in those bushes 25 yards to the right. ‘‘ Rot. ’’ The platoon leader sprays those bushes with his tommy gun. The lead scout won’t believe anything. The platoon leader stands up straight, a pretty target for that bogey man, and the scout is satisfied. ‘‘ The Nip must have run, ’’ he mutters. The platoon leader grins in relief. ‘‘ Even you can miss them once in a while, Jim. ’’ Once in a while? Hell, any mother’s son who can spot the little guys in their holes once in twenty tries is a wizard. The platoon leader hasn’t seen a live one yet in three weeks and God knows how many have taken pot shots at him. Standing upright in full view of what is up ahead, he signals the men to get up and move. Like a slow motion movie, they get back on the road and begin shuffling forward. Wet with perspiration, hands clammy, and spines cold. The men, as they lay there off to the side, had thought of Mary, and home, and a Pabst Blue Ribbon. Every soldier had said to himself along the trail in that jungle, ‘‘ I don’t want to die and why in hell was I picked for this dirty business? ’’ These were their thoughts as they waited for the zing and the hammer blow in the stomach, or the head. They thought this, they heard the platoon leader’s voice, they crawled to their feet, and they kept on moving forward.
And kept on moving forward. There’s your American boy going to war. He’s a farmer, a clerk, or a shoe salesman, with a BAR in his hand. He hates the dirty job he has to do more than he hates the enemy. He doesn’t hate Nips at all now because his hate has been overwhelmed by the one emotion of selfpreservation. It’s kill or be killed. But he keeps on moving toward the enemy. He fights the Nips, yes, and sometimes he fights them with only a tiny bit of reluctance. He has a bigger fight against his instinct, and his training, and his desires and his background. He doesn’t go into battle with chin high and mouth set in a fierce come- what- may- we’ll- do- it grin. His shoulders are invariably bowed with fatigue and the weight of his rations, his rifle, his shelter half, and his small arms munitions, and hand grenades– and with fear. He doesn’t hear that Marine Hymn or Onward Christian Soldiers. It’s just the twitter of jungle birds and squelch of GI boots. He goes to meet the enemy, terrified. But he goes.
Your boys have the real courage, the ultimate courage. The superior courage. Not the damn fool variety of a guy who doesn’t know what he’s up against, nor the swastika courage of a man who dies for some mustached God, nor the fanatical courage of an ignorant and illiterate peasant who knows that to die in battle is to reserve a place next to honorable ancestors in the more beautiful life hereafter. What keeps him going? I guess it’s the plain, unadulterated courage which doesn’t need any pep talk or false motivations. It’s the courage that conquers everything before it . . . the enemy . . . the terrain . . . and the gut fear within himself.
A machine gun chatters and the second scout falls. Dead. Dead, forever. Something to think about. No time now to think. The lead scout, up ahead of his dead buddy, is pinned down. He indicates the general area of the gun with as little motion as is necessary. No use getting a hand knocked off by a machine gun burst. The platoon leader tells the right squad leader (remember his stinging commands) to circle to the right, and the platoon leader and the first squad move up slowly . . . slowly…. The platoon leader gets to the dead man. No firing now. Maybe he’s in the sight of a Nip Nambu gun and he shakes off the gripping feeling of eternity and crawls forward some more. A burst of machine gun fire skims over his shoulder and he finds a four inch groove in the ground to get down lower. Then moves up again. The tommygunner puts his finger down on the trigger and lets the Nips have a long burst. Must have figured out the right place because a few animal squeals sound in those bushes twenty yards away and there is some scuffling. The Nips run, huh? Live to fight another day? We’ll see. Belski moves up now with his BAR in front of him pouring an enormous amount of lead into the area. He’s standing up, not bothering to take cover, and he moves faster and faster toward the damned bush. Two M1 riflemen are with him, and the platoon leader’s next to them as they smash into the enemy rathole. The machine gun is there and a little blood, and our boys still keep moving ahead. The Nips run smack into the flanking squad. They take cover, but our boys come up shooting much faster than they. Two of the Japanese drop as they try to pull the pin on a grenade, and the other two run around this way and that, screaming and shrieking until the kid who has been vomiting all day coldly leans his M1 against a tree, pulls the trigger twice, and gets two of these rabbits in the backs of their shaved heads. He leans over and vomits again.
‘‘ Four to one, ’’ exults the platoon leader, but he knows that a million Nips won’t compensate for the life of this one kid. He’s the kid who writes sweet letters to his mother and hot letters to his girl. ‘‘ Be home soon, Mom’’, he writes. ‘‘ And, Baby, when I get there what fun we’ll have in the Barn’’, to his girl. Sort of funny, huh? Sort of sad, too. ‘‘ Let’s get going’’, says the platoon leader. ‘‘ Let the Battalion boys check the bodies. ’’ Price has collapsed. ‘‘ Put him on the road and a couple of litter bearers will pick him up shortly. ’’ Can’t waste time. This isn’t the end of the war. The objective is up ahead. We got real business two- hundred yards further. ‘‘ Goddam it’’, snarls Belski. The boys are panting and burning with thirst and nervous cramps. ‘‘ Keep driving, men. On the ball. ’’ A few groans from the winded soldiers, but they reform, sort of stoically, and the third squad comes up front now with the second squad dropping back a bit. ‘‘ Smash and drive. Keep moving. ’’
Not a Randolph Scott or a Gary Cooper in the whole damn platoon. Just plain Tommy Smith from around the block. The winner and New Champion.