IT WAS NIGHT on Guadalcanal. Captain Hargreaves of Fox Company lay sleeping on a cot in a walled tent at the rear of his company area. His face was bandaged and his jaw was set in a cast. Under normal circumstances a man with a broken jaw would be hospitalized, but on Guadalcanal a broken jaw wasn’t much, and he’d been returned to duty immediately with a bottle of painkiller pills and the advice that he shouldn’t try to chew any food that was hard.
Hargreaves was from Minnesota, and hadn’t always been an officer. When the war broke out he’d been a sergeant and had been made an officer because the Army had needed officers desperately. Many sergeants with long terms of service had been upgraded to officers, and some, like Hargreaves, had become even more obnoxious than they had been before.
Hargreaves slept soundly, the painkillers having knocked him out. It was a typically hot and humid night on Guadalcanal, and he had no covers on. His body was covered with perspiration, and he wore only his shorts. Birds called to each other in the trees above him, and in the distance a wild dog howled at the moon. Occasionally the sound of footsteps could be heard as GIs passed by on their way to or from guard duty.
Shortly after midnight the long gleaming blade of a straight razor sliced soundlessly through the fabric of the tent. It paused for a second, then cut down swiftly, making a zip sound, and withdrew as suddenly as it had appeared. Two hands appeared in the rip, spreading it wide, and then a big burly figure came through, his face covered by a mask made from a torn fatigue shirt. The figure crept toward Captain Hargreaves and crouched beside him. He folded the razor, pushing it into his back pocket, and then drew an Army-issue Colt .45, placing the cold barrel against Captain Hargreaves’s forehead.
Captain Hargreaves may have been drugged and dopey, but he was enough of a soldier to know when something was amiss. He opened his eyes and they widened into saucers at the sight of the big man holding a Colt .45 against his head.
“Don’t move,” the man said.
Hargreaves went as stiff as a board on the bed.
“This is the scoop,” the man said. “Today you charged a certain GI with assaulting you. Tomorrow you’re gonna withdraw those charges. You’re gonna say it was all a mistake, that you got sunstroke and fell down. You only thought the GI hit you, got it?”
Captain Hargreaves realized immediately that this man must be a friend of Sergeant Bannon’s and was from that damned recon platoon. The audacity of the man made Hargreaves turn red with anger.
“Now wait just a minute …!” Captain Hargreaves said.
The man pressed the barrel of the Colt .45 more firmly against Hargreaves’s head. “No, you wait a minute. I just told you what you’re gonna do. If you don’t do it, you’re gonna die. That’s all there is to it. See you around.”
The man duckwalked backward to the slit in the tent, holding the Colt .45 leveled at Captain Hargreaves. The man paused before leaving the tent. “Don’t think you can hide from us, because you can’t. We’ll get you sooner or later, so if you’re as smart as you think you are, you’ll make it easy for yourself and do the right thing.”
The man slipped through the gash in the tent and disappeared into the night.
“Guard!” screamed Captain Hargreaves, but his voice didn’t carry far due to his wired teeth and plaster-cast jaws. “Guard!” He pulled his own Colt .45 from underneath the pillow and fired a shot right through the roof of the tent. “Guard!”
He heard running feet, and a few seconds later a GI with an M1 rifle appeared in his tent. “Yes, sir?”
Hargreaves pointed to the slit in his tent. “Somebody just broke in here and tried to kill me! After him!”
“Was it a Jap, sir?”
“No, it was somebody from the recon platoon!”
“The recon platoon, sir? Are you sure?”
“What do you mean, am I sure! Get after him!”
“Yes, sir!”
The soldier ran out of the tent. With trembling hands Captain Hargreaves picked up his pack of Camels from the folding chair beside his cot and placed one gingerly between his teeth. He lit it with his Zippo and inhaled, raging inwardly. He’d never liked the recon platoon, always considering them a bunch of wise guys and criminals who were a threat to the whole concept of Army discipline, and Hargreaves was an old soldier who had found a home in the Army. He believed in going by the book at all times. He was not the type who backed down to threats. Now he was more determined than ever to put Sergeant Bannon before a firing squad.
Corporal Longtree was waiting for Butsko in the bushes behind Captain Hargreaves’s tent, and together they made then-way through the jungle back to the recon platoon area. They hadn’t gone twenty yards before they heard Hargreaves hollering for the guard.
“That son of a bitch!” Butsko said.
“Looks like he’s not gonna cooperate.”
“I should’ve slit his throat while I had the chance.”
“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
They held their heads low and stayed in the shadows as they ran back to the recon platoon. Behind them they could hear soldiers running about and MPs screaming orders.
As dawn came to Guadalcanal, Colonel Stockton sat at his desk, smoking his pipe and working on the details of the attack he was going to launch across the Matanikau the next morning. He’d been at his desk all night, except for an hour or two of sleep on the cot a few feet away. This attack was the biggest opportunity presented to him since he had come to Guadalcanal, and he knew that his future was riding on its success. He had to make certain that nothing would go wrong.
This was a flaw of Colonel Stockton’s, and he knew it. So did many of his superior officers, who often criticized him in efficiency reports for his inability to delegate authority. Colonel Stockton’s problem was that he knew he was smarter than most of the officers who served under him, and he couldn’t trust them with important matters, so he had to take care of them himself. Let the brass downgrade him for not being able to delegate authority; that wasn’t so important. A big victory would turn his whole career around, and no one would give a damn about how he delegated authority.
Sergeant Ramsay brought him a pot of coffee and some scrambled powdered eggs with toast at 0630 hours, and Colonel Stockton ate while continuing to work, dropping some coffee and egg on the maps and flicking them away with a fingernail. He’d incorporated part of Butsko’s suggestions into his plan and sold it to General Vandegrift. The Twenty-third Infantry Regiment and the Seventh Marines would cross the Matanikau side by side on narrow fronts, instead of one after the other in waves. The Twenty-third would be on the right, with their right flank on Ironbottom Sound and their left flank abutting the Marines. Stockton was glad old Chesty Puller would be his partner in the operation, because Chester Puller was one of the best fighting officers the Marines had on Guadalcanal.
The only hitch was the pontoon bridges. Stockton and Chesty Puller would get only one bridge apiece. General Vandegrift was saving the other bridge for another purpose, and Colonel Stockton couldn’t pry it loose.
This forced Colonel Stockton to plan three boat crossings, one for each of his infantry battalions. The middle crossing would be made initially by the recon platoon, and they’d have to hold on over there until the pontoon bridge was up. Then the tanks, artillery, and other heavy equipment could be put across, along with Colonel Stockton’s combat headquarters. All units would fan out in a prearranged pattern throughout the jungle and push hard toward the mountains straight ahead.
Colonel Stockton puffed his pipe and smiled as he looked down at the map. The plan was perfect. He’d racked his brain and looked at it from all the angles, but had been unable to find anything wrong. It was the kind of plan you could put in a textbook for the cadets at West Point to study. One of Colonel Stockton’s dreams was to become commandant of West Point someday. He’d spent the best years of his life as a cadet there, or so he liked to think anyway.
There was a knock on his door. “Come in.”
Sergeant Ramsay stuck his head in. “Captain Hargreaves wants to see you, sir, and he says it’s very important.”
Colonel Stockton frowned. The last thing he wanted to deal with just then was that mess in the recon platoon. “Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colonel Stockton looked up from his maps as Captain Hargreaves, his face bandaged, marched into the office and saluted in front of the desk. “Sir,” he said, “I hate to bother you, but I’m afraid it’s necessary. Last night, when I was asleep, somebody from the recon platoon snuck into my tent and threatened my life. He pointed a gun at me and told me if I didn’t withdraw my charges against Sergeant Bannon, I would be killed.”
Colonel Stockton couldn’t believe his ears. It sounded utterly preposterous, yet he knew that somebody in the recon platoon could well have done it. They’d been out on so many dangerous and unusual missions that something like this would be nothing to them. But, despite all that, Colonel Stockton didn’t want to deal with it just then. He wanted the men in the recon platoon to go away.
“Did you see who it was?” he asked.
“No, sir. He wore a mask.”
“A mask?”
“Yes, sir. A mask.”
“Were you under medication last night by any chance?”
“Yes, sir, and I imagine you think I dreamt all this, but I didn’t, and I’ve got a four-foot slash in my tent to prove it.”
Colonel Stockton expelled air from his pursed lips. “I’m afraid I don’t have time for this right now. We’ll hold the court-martial and see this through after our attack is over and we’re consolidated on the other side of the Matanikau.”
“But that might not be for weeks, sir.”
Colonel Stockton stared at him angrily. “Captain Hargreaves, there are more important things taking place on Guadalcanal than this court-martial!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Return to your unit and prepare for the attack. When I’m ready for the court-martial, I’ll get in touch with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all.”
Captain Hargreaves saluted, turned, and marched out of the office. Descending the steps of the hut, he put on his helmet and placed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it up and cursing to himself because he knew Colonel Stockton had just brushed him off. Everybody knew the recon platoon was Colonel Stockton’s pet project within the regiment, and evidently the colonel didn’t like the way Captain Hargreaves was pressing his case. But Captain Hargreaves didn’t give a damn; he’d been in the Army a long time and he knew how to get things done. He had friends in high places too. A colonel wasn’t shit in the Army when you looked down from the top. Colonels had been relieved of command before, and it could happen again. If Colonel Stockton didn’t prosecute Bannon to the fullest extent of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Captain Hargreaves would go over his head.
Captain Hargreaves puffed his cigarette as he walked toward Fox Company. He paid no attention to the short, dumpy GI sitting beneath a tree nearby, cleaning an M1 rifle. When Hargreaves was out of sight, the GI reassembled the M1 quickly and ran off into the jungle in the direction of the recon platoon.
Butsko was sitting in a foxhole with Longtree and Tommy Shaw, smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit, when Sweeney burst through the bushes and ran toward them. Butsko looked up and grimaced, because he knew bad news was on the way.
Sweeney jumped into the foxhole with the rest of them and tried to catch his breath.
“Well?” said Butsko.
Sweeney’s chest heaved and his mouth was wide open, his tongue hanging out. “Captain Hargreaves … just went to see … Colonel Stockton,” he said. “He was … in with him … for about five minutes.”
“That son of a bitch,” Butsko said.
“You should have killed him while you had the chance,” Longtree said.
“You’re right, I should’ve.”
“It still ain’t too late,” Shaw said, caressing his submachine gun lovingly.
The field telephone buzzed in a foxhole six feet away. The Reverend Billie Jones, who’d replaced Craig Delane as the platoon runner, answered it, then signed off and called out, “Sergeant Butsko!”
“What is it?”
“You’re wanted at regiment right away!”
“Aw, fuck,” Butsko said.
“They know it’s you,” Longtree said. “I told you you shoulda killed him while you had the chance.”
“I know, I know.” Butsko stood and slung his submachine gun barrel-down over his shoulder. “Well, I’ll-be back in a little while,” he said, climbing out of the foxhole and heading toward regimental headquarters.
“Sergeant Butsko here to see you, sir,” said Sergeant Ramsay.
“Send him right in.”
The door opened wide and Butsko tromped into the office, throwing a salute.
“Have a seat, Butsko.”
“Yes, sir.” Butsko sat and crossed his legs, smiling pleasantly, trying to look innocent.
Colonel Stockton leaned forward, folding his hands on his maps, and looked into Butsko’s eyes. “Captain Hargreaves was just here, Butsko. He said somebody broke into his tent last night and threatened to kill him if he didn’t withdraw his charges against Sergeant Bannon. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Who me? No, sir, I don’t know anything about it.”
“C’mon Butsko. Level with me.”
“What do you mean, sir? Why, you don’t think I had something to do with that, do you?”
“To be blunt, I do. Who else would have done such a thing except somebody in the recon platoon, and you know everything that happens in the recon platoon.”
Butsko smiled. “Were there any witnesses?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it happened, sir? How do you know Hargreaves didn’t dream that it happened.”
“Because dreams don’t cut holes in tents.”
“Maybe it was a Jap.”
“If it was a Jap, he wouldn’t have left him alive.”
“Gee,” Butsko said, “I don’t know what to tell you, sir.”
“Then let me tell you something, Butsko,” Colonel Stockton said, raising his voice. “If anything happens to Captain Hargreaves, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. Do you understand?”
“Me? But, sir, I didn’t do nothing!”
“You’re lying to me, Butsko!”
“No, I’m not, sir.”
“Yes, you are. I never dreamed that you’d lie to me, after all that’s passed between us, but I guess I was wrong. I guess you don’t trust me, right?”
Butsko felt bad, because Colonel Stockton had been good to him. Colonel Stockton gave the recon platoon special treatment and had even promoted him back to a master sergeant the month before, after he’d been busted down to buck sergeant for that brawl in a bar in Australia.
Butsko hung his head in shame. “I trust you, sir,” he said. “I’m the one who did it.”
“You admit it!”
“Yup.”
“You son of a bitch, Butsko!” Colonel Stockton burst into laughter. The whole situation suddenly seemed hilarious to him. Captain Hargreaves was a pompous ass and Colonel Stockton could imagine the expression of his face when he woke up to see Butsko holding a gun on him. Colonel Stockton perceived the problem as a prank like the ones he used to pull when he’d been a cadet at the Point. Captain Hargreaves had never been to West Point and didn’t have the refinement an officer should have. No wonder somebody punched him in the mouth.
“You all right, sir?” Butsko asked, alarmed by the change in Colonel Stockton’s mood.
Colonel Stockton wiped his reddening face with his handkerchief. “Yes, I’m all right.” He took a few deep breaths and tried to calm himself. “Just because I was laughing, it doesn’t mean I condone what you did,” he said, trying not to smile.
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t threaten officers with guns.”
“No, sir.”
“And you don’t hit them.”
“No, sir.”
Colonel Stockton leaned back in his chair. “This court-martial will have to take place. There’s no way out of it. I imagine we’ll bust Bannon back to private and fine him for a few months. There are mitigating circumstances, after all. He just came back from an arduous patrol, and he’s suffering from malaria, I believe.”
“He is?”
“Well, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I guess he is.”
Colonel Stockton sighed. “The court-martial shouldn’t be so bad. There’s no way around it. If I didn’t go through with it, they might bust me down to private.”
“I sure wish I could have Bannon on this attack tonight. He’s one of my best men. He’s not just an ordinary soldier; he’s a squad leader.”
“It can’t be helped. I can’t hold off the attack to get this court-martial over and done with. By the way, the plans for the attack have been finalized. Come behind the desk here and I’ll show you what we’re going to do.”
General Ooka entered General Hyakutake’s office and marched to his desk, saluting. It was nearly noon.
“Sir,” he said, “I would like to have an idea of approximately when my division will attack the Americans.”
General Hyakutake turned to Colonel Tsuji, who was sitting to the side of the desk. “How soon will we be able to put our offensive into action?”
“Perhaps another week, sir.”
“Very good.” General Hyakutake looked at General Ooka. “There is your answer. Oh, yes, there’s been a change in plans that will affect you, I’m afraid.”
“What change?”
“I’m afraid we’ll have to hold back your tank corps.”
“What!”
“Calm yourself.”
“But …”
“I said calm yourself.”
General Ooka took a deep breath. “But, sir, my tanks are necessary for the success of my attack. I thought we agreed upon this already.”
“Have a seat please, General Ooka.”
General Ooka sat stiffly, feeling himself get warm under the collar. He glanced at Colonel Tsuji, who had a faint smile on his lips. Now General Ooka knew where the change came from: Colonel Tsuji, the “God of Operations,” had pushed it through.
“Listen to me,” General Hyakutake said coolly. “It is not good to be inflexible in war. Your ideas are all very well and good, and I know they’ve worked wonders in the German army, but our situation is a little different here, and I need to hold those tanks in reserve in case of an emergency.”
“But, sir, everything depends on my division achieving a breakthrough, and for that I need my tanks!”
“It has been decided, General Ooka, that the tanks will be held in reserve.”
General Ooka was turning purple with rage. “But, sir, I thought we decided …”
General Hyakutake interrupted him. “I’ve told you that the plans have been changed, and there will be no more discussion about it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You may go.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Ooka stood, saluted, shot Colonel Tsuji a dirty look, and marched out of the headquarters tent, entering the hot, sticky jungle. His driver saw him coming and opened the rear door of the car. General Ooka got in and took his helmet off, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. His heart was pumping loudly and he thought he’d have a heart attack. All his intricate planning had been ruined in one stroke by that perfidious Colonel Tsuji. Victory and glory had been snatched away from him. It was almost too much to bear.
His driver got in the front seat. “Back to your headquarters, sir?”
“Yes.”
The driver shifted into gear and drove off down the narrow jungle road. General Ooka gnashed his teeth and racked his brain for a way to change General Hyakutake’s mind. There must be something I can do, he thought. Adolf Hitler would not allow himself to be stopped by something like this, and neither shall I.