Battle Cry - Leon Uris [134]
“Ta ta.”
“Hello Sam, this is Topeka White. We have Henderson Field on the phone.”
“Operations speaking.”
“This is Huxley, Topeka White…hold off the air cover. We’ve got some men trapped right in the target area.”
“Roger.”
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! Shells careened into the woods and burst, blasting apart trees and earth. The roar became more deafening with each salvo. We raced to the ridge top near the observation post and stood by. The jungle was ablaze with smoke and splitting crashes. H-hour drew near. The riflemen lay poised along the length of the knoll awaiting the word to attack.
As suddenly as the noise had started, a quick silence left the woods panting and fuming. I whispered a Hail Mary. We leaned forward as the time pointed to 0558.
Seabags Brown stepped from a small clump of trees, far below us. A rifle in his right fist and over his left shoulder the body of Red Cassidy. He trotted in jerky, shaky steps to the stream, where he stumbled and fell. He raised to a crouch and darted down the middle of the stream, running directly under us. Crack! Crack! Rat-a-tat….
“Goddammit, they still got them in there!”
“Give her the gas, Seabags. Take off!”
He buckled under his load and staggered down the stream, zigging away from the rain of fire from the smoldering woods. We screamed to him from our position.
“He’s around the ridge…he made it!” A cheer arose.
Huxley grabbed the field phone. “Give me How Company.”
“This is How.”
“This is Huxley. Give ’em hell!”
With a dim swish the mortars from How arced over us and fell on the stream. Our ridge became alive with machine gun fire. Red tracers crissed and crossed as they sprayed the treetops below. Huxley gave the phone to the How observer who directed the fire in its gradual creep to the edge of the woods.
0600!
The jungle was torn under the impact of the blasting. The machine guns stopped. Only the mortars still roared in. The skipper of George Company arose, his .45 in his right hand. He raised his left hand to his mouth and pointed down to the gulley. “Come on, you Whores—you’ll never get a Purple Heart up here. Follow me!”
Along the ridge Huxley’s Whores arose with their rifles at high port. The Japs answered with vicious fire.
We poured from the ridge into the gully, our rifles blazing and with bloodcurdling shrieks and rebel yells on our lips. The assault was on! The screams became deafening as we swept over the stream and into the jungle.
January 26, 1943
“I guess there ain’t no use of hoping no more.”
“Topeka Blue didn’t see hide nor hair of them.”
“Don’t give up hope. They may be lost in the jungle. It’s easy.”
“Pore damn farmer.”
“Oh, well, another day another dollar.”
We were on the beach now. There was no trace of Seabags or Cassidy. There was but one chance in a million that they were alive. We had forded the Kokumbona River, about half the drive was over. The Army in the interior held a steel ring around the mountain base, cutting off escape for the Japs. Ten more miles to Tassafaronga Point and we would have the enemy in a vise.
“Jesus,” said Lighttower, “I got to crap again.”
“Good old dysentery.”
“Us Injuns are regular fellows,” he said racing for the one-two-three trench.
“I want two volunteers, Andy and Danny, to dig a hole for the officers.”
“But we just dug one yesterday,” Andy protested.
“It’s full, they need a new one.”
“I always said it was true about them officers,” he moaned as he grabbed his trenching tool.
L.Q. took the message coming over the TBX. He doffed his earphones and shouted, “Condition Red!”
“Condition Red, air raid!” the word passed along the line.
We propped ourselves comfortably against trees along the beach to watch the show. A far-off sound of motors, and black dots began to appear on the horizon across the channel, over Tulagi. As they became larger, we counted.
“One…two…three…four….”
“Twenty-nine…thirty…Holy Christ…forty of them!”
Huxley held his field glasses up. “You men better