EXPERIENCE OF COMBAT #5

BANZAI!

You stand in your foxhole, staring into the darkness. Warm and foreboding, the humid tropical night surrounds you. Overhead, the moon floats high and wispy, tattered clouds trail across the sky. You're tired, so tired. It feels like forever since you had a good night's sleep.

Down the line, over in Able company's area, they're catching hell. The Japanese have been shooting mortar and artillery barrages all evening. Long tracer bursts arc wildly into the sky over there. Every so often, a flare pops, casting a harsh light across the lines. You look out over the perimeter as one floats down. Each foxhole is an inky shadow that disappears as the flare burns out.

You hear a voice from behind you. "Hey fellas." It's the skipper. "Ya'll be ready. Stay tight in your holes and keep your eyes peeled for Japs."

"Aye aye, sir," you and your foxhole buddy reply softly. Then, like a shadow, the skipper's gone.

"Boy, the captain must be crazy, wanderin' around in the dark," your buddy whispers. "He's liable to get shot."

"Nah," you reply, "he'll be okay. The skipper's way too smart for that."

" What time is it anyway?"

"It ain't past midnight. That's for sure."

"Brother, I hope we don't get hit. It sounds like the Japs must be gettin' ready for a banzai, like Tarawa."

"Don't say stuff like that..."

A mortar round, a big one, lands right behind your hole. It's so close, you don't hear it, just feel the terrific whump when it explodes.   Right behind it comes another off to the left. "INCOMING!" You scrunch down deep, wishing you could curl up into your helmet. You and your buddy wedge together.

For what seems forever, the mortar barrage brackets your platoon. Not sure why, you start counting the explosions. "1...2...3...4...5...6...7... Jesus, ain't this ever gonna end...8...9...10..." Dirt cascades down onto you. The explosions come faster now, sometimes two or three at once. Through slitted eyes, you glance over at your buddy. The explosions light his face in a dim orange glow, but for only a second. A crazy thought pops into your head—this must be what it looks like in hell.

Suddenly, the barrage lifts. Cordite hangs heavy in the air and you're covered with fine dust. Coughing, you spit and pop your head up to look around. It's pitch black.

From a foxhole down the line, your platoon sergeant bellows, "Fix bayonets. They're comin'!"

"Where did that guy learn to yell like that? Don't he know we're tryin' to sleep?" says your buddy. You smile and the tension fades for a moment.

Reaching behind you, your buddy pulls the bayonet from its scabbard on your haversack. He hands it to you. It locks with a metallic click on your muzzle and you swallow hard. He stacks his BAR magazines neatly on the ground close by. You lay your hand grenades out and straighten the pins.

Scanning the dark jungle to your front, your eyes feel like they might pop out of your head. The brush rustles...a blue light flickers on for a few seconds, and then goes out. A voice cries from out of the dark tree line: "Maline you die!"  

Sweat pours down your face under your helmet. You grip the stock of your rifle hard and try to control your breathing. "I hate this shit," your buddy whispers.

"Me too. I just wish it would end."

"Maline you die!" More movement—brush breaking. Off in the distance behind the enemy's lines, mechanical sounds—engines, treads clattering. The noise grows.

"You hear that?"

"Yeah, it sounds like tanks." Your heart feels like it's going to beat right out of your chest. Crouching in your hole, you wonder for a second how the night will end. What happens isn't yours to decide: you know that.

A metallic cough from the rear—the company mortars are firing. The sound gives you confidence. A few seconds later, rounds impact in the enemy tree line. You and your buddies cheer each explosion as the barrage pounds whatever lies beyond.

Through the noise, you hear it— tank motors louder and louder, breaking through the brush. From across the field you hear something else; rising chorus of voices chanting...

"BANZAI... BANZAI... BANZAI!"

"That must be a whole goddamn battalion over there."

Japanese machine guns open up with their woodpecker TAT TAT TAT. Pink colored tracers streak past. The tree line erupts as the enemy strikes. Through the mortar barrage, tanks crash through the trees and into the field right ahead of your lines. A bugle blows and an enemy officer appears in the moonlight. He is struck by a hail of Marine rifle fire. Falling, he swings his sword high in the air and collapses.

A compact group of Japanese soldiers charges out of the tree line; the first eddies in the flood. Screaming like banshees, they surge forward. From somewhere off to the right, one of their machine guns pounds your squad's positions. Bullets thwack into the ground all around you. Little dirt fountains erupt from their impact.

Flares pop overhead. In a few seconds, the sky is lit like the Fourth of July. Under the harsh white light, the field teems with Japanese troops. There must be hundreds of them. More tanks are pouring out of the trees firing their cannons and machine guns wildly.

A 37mm antitank gun fires—crack ! A Japanese tank is hit and begins to burn. A crewman falls from the turret hatch, wreathed in flames. He crumples screaming to the ground as the tank fireballs, sending a column of fire and oily smoke into the night.

"Jesus Christ!" you pray silently.

Your rifle recoils against your shoulder. Again and again, you pull the trigger. Line 'em up and squeeze 'em off. Just like they taught you at Camp Mathews.

The enemy troops are closing the distance, clawing forward through a wall of Marine fire. Orange tracers tear through them, but still they advance. More tanks burn, but others break through the lines and grind to the rear.  

"BANZAI... BANZAI... BANZAI!"

Your foxhole buddy fires his BAR steadily. He crouches next to you, not saying a word. You glance over at him. The back of his dungaree shirt is soaked with sweat and you can read his name stenciled there plain as day. You turn back to the front, back to the hell before you.

Now, heavy explosions roar into the tree line. KA-WHOOMP KA-WHOOMP KA-WHOOMP.  Salvo after salvo thunders down. It must be naval gunfire support. Blast waves brush against you like a stiff breeze. God it's loud, but keep it coming, please.

From his hole, your platoon sergeant yells over the wall of noise, "Steady, Marines. Not one step back." His voice reassures you in a way you can't figure out.

Your buddy looks over at you. "I'm almost outta ammo." He hustles up fast out of the hole. Crouching low, he says, "I'll be right back. I'll bring a bandoleer for you, too." Then, he turns and disappears into the night.

You feel so alone, you can barely stand it. "I'll never make it through this. I'll never make it through this." You try not to think the words, but it's so powerful, they almost form on your lips.

A grenade explodes a few feet away, knocking you down. It feels like you've been punched in the head. You fight your way back up to your feet. "Jesus, please help me." You aim your rifle again, and begin firing into the advancing enemy. It looks like the entire Japanese army is heading right for you. Pausing for a second, you toss a grenade. It explodes, and you get right back on your rifle sights.

"BANZAI... BANZAI... BANZAI!"

You sense a rustling from behind. Dirt falls into your hole, and a steady presence appears next to you; your platoon sergeant. "I thought you could use some help," he says, not looking at you. A wave of relief washes over you. Everything will be all right now, you hope. Together, you stand.

Machine gun fire rakes across your position. Time has no meaning. The night is a blur of noise and light. You glimpse a Japanese tank as it crashes past. Right behind your hole, it erupts in a ball of flame. The heat is intense; your skin crackles. You and your platoon sergeant look back, but the fire is so bright, it hurts your eyes. A few seconds later, the ammo in the tank cooks off, shooting the turret in the air like a toy. It lands with a thud. Damn, that was close!

"We've got to hold."

"Yeah, I know."

"We lost a lot of Marines."

"Yeah, I know." Just like Tarawa...

A group of Japanese soldiers breaks out of the tree line. Somehow, they make it through the awful shellfire. One of them carries a battle flag. Starkly white and red, it glares beneath the flares swinging crazily in the sky. Some of the attackers carry light machine guns. Firing from the hip, they come. Others throw hand grenades. The riflemen have their bayonets fixed. They're moving straight for you!

Bullets from your platoon sergeant's Thompson stitch across the enemy ranks. Your rifle fires like it has a will of its own. Eight rounds...reload. Eight rounds...reload. Again and again...no thinking. Just do it.

WHAM!  Red spray. You're knocked down. You've fallen in a well. You pull yourself back up, head throbbing. Eight rounds...reload. Eight rounds...reload. Your rifle is slippery. Oh God, it's blood.

From close behind, a machine gun hammers. Tracers scream past, slapping the air. They tear into the Japanese soldiers. Back and forth, the bullets chew into flesh and bone. They keep advancing; past reason, past bravery. Back and forth, the bullets chew... The attack stalls, then dies there in the field. The red and white battle flag falls to the ground.

"They must've moved up a .30 in support."

"Yeah."

"Hey, you're bleedin'."

"Yeah."