The Thin Red Line
Authors: James Jones
The Thin Red Line
James Jones
DEDICATION
This book is cheerfully dedicated to those greatest and most heroic of all human endeavors, WAR and WARFARE; may they never cease to give us the pleasure, excitement and adrenal stimulation that we need, or provide us with the heroes, the presidents and leaders, the monuments and museums which we erect to them in the name of PEACE.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that,
An’ Tommy, ’ow’s your soul?
But it’s ‘Thin red line of ’eroes,’
When the drums begin to roll—
—
KIPLING
There’s only a thin red line between the sane and the mad.
—
OLD MIDDLEWESTERN SAYING
SPECIAL NOTE
Anyone who has studied or served in the Guadalcanal campaign will immediately recognize that no such terrain as that described here exists on the island. “The Dancing Elephant,” “The Giant Boiled Shrimp,” the hills around “Boola Boola Village,” as well as the village itself, are figments of fictional imagination, and so are the battles herein described as taking place on this terrain. The characters who take part in the actions of this book are also imaginary. It might have been possible to create a whole, entirely fictional island for the setting of this book. But what Guadalcanal stood for to Americans in 1942–3 was a very special thing. To have used a completely made up island would have been to lose all of these special qualities which the name Guadalcanal evoked for my generation. Therefore I have taken the liberty of distorting the campaign and laying down smack in the middle of it a whole slab of nonexistent territory.
And naturally, any resemblance to
anything
anywhere is certainly not intended.
“Styron’s Acres”
Roxbury, Conn.
Thanksgiving Day 1961
COMPANY ROSTER
(Partial)
“C” CO, UMTH INF
9 Nov 1942
—Stein, James I, Capt, “C” Co Cmdg
—Band, George R, 1st Lt, Exec
—Whyte, William L, 2d Lt, 1st Pl Cmdg
—Blane, Thomas C, 2d Lt, 2d Pl Cmdg
—Gore, Albert O, 2d Lt, 3d Pl Cmdg
—Culp, Robert (NMI), 2d Lt, 4th (Weapons) Pl Cmdg
E M
1st Sgt
—Welsh, Edward (NMI)
S/Sgts
—Culn, Guide 1st Pl
—Grove, Ldr 1st Pl
—Keck, Ldr 2d Pl
—MacTae, Supply
—Spain, Guide 3d Pl
—Stack, Ldr 3d Pl
—Storm, Mess
Sgts
—Beck, Sqd Ldr Rfl
—Dranno, Co Clk
—Field, Sqd Ldr Rfl
—Fox, ” ” ”
—McCron, ” ” ”
—Potts, ” ” ”
—Thorne, ” ” ”
—Wick, ” ” Mtr
Cpls
—Fife, Fwd Clk
—Jenks, Asst Sqd Ldr Rfl
—Queen, ” ” ” ”
Pvts lcl
—Arbre, Rflmn
—Bead, Asst Fwd Clk
—Cash, Rflmn
—Dale, 2d Cook
—Doll, Rflmn
—Earl, ”
—Fronk, ”
—Hoff, ”
—Land, 1st Cook
—Marl, Rflmn
—Park, 1st Cook
Pvts
—Ash, Rflmn
—Bell, ”
—Carni, ”
—Catch, ”
—Catt, ”
—Coombs, ”
—Crown, ”
—Darl, ”
—Drake, ”
—Gluk, ”
—Gooch, ”
—Griggs, ”
—Gwenne, ”
—Jacques, ”
—Kline, ”
—Kral, ”
—Krim, ”
—Mazzi, Mtrmn
—Peale, Rflmn
—Sico, ”
—Stearns, ”
—Suss, ”
—Tassi, ”
—Tella, ”
—Tills, Mtrmn
—Tind, ”
—Train, Rflmn
—Weld, ”
—Wills, ”
—Wynn, ”
REPLACEMENTS
—Spine, Morton W, Lt Col, 1st Bn Cmdg
—Bosche, Charles S, Capt, “C” Co Cmdg
—Creo, John T, 1st Lt, “C” Co
—Payne, Elman W, 2d Lt, “C” Co
—Tomms, Frank J, 2d Lt, “C” Co
OTHERS
—Barr, Gerald E, Rear Adm, US Navy
—Grubbe, Tassman S, Lt Col, Rgtl Exec
—Tall, Gordon M L, Lt Col, 1st Bn Cmdg
—Roth, Norman M, Lt Col, Asst Div Srgn
—Haines, Ira P, Maj, Rgtl Srgn
—Gaff, John B, Capt, 1st Bn Exec
—Task, Fred W, Capt, “B” Co Cmdg
—Carr, Frederick C, Capt, Rgtl S-1
—Achs, Karl F, 2d Lt, “B” Co
—Gray, Elijah P, 2d Lt, “B” Co
—James, Sgt, Bn Hq
—Hoke, Pvt, of Cannon Co
—Witt, Pvt, of Cannon Co
Contents
CHAPTER 1
T
HE TWO TRANSPORTS
had sneaked up from the south in the first graying flush of dawn, their cumbersome mass cutting smoothly through the water whose still greater mass bore them silently, themselves as gray as the dawn which camouflaged them. Now, in the fresh early morning of a lovely tropic day they lay quietly at anchor in the channel, nearer to the one island than to the other which was only a cloud on the horizon. To their crews, this was a routine mission and one they knew well: that of delivering fresh reinforcement troops. But to the men who comprised the cargo of infantry this trip was neither routine nor known and was composed of a mixture of dense anxiety and tense excitement.
Before they had arrived, during the long sea voyage, the cargo of men had been cynical—honestly cynical, not a pose, because they were part of an old regular division and knew that they were cargo. All their lives they had been cargo; never supercargo. And they were not only inured to that; they anticipated it. But now that they were here, were actually confronted with the physical fact of this island that they had all read so much about in the papers, their aplomb deserted them momentarily. Because though they were from a pre-war regular division, this was nevertheless to be their baptism of fire.
As they prepared themselves to go ashore no one doubted in theory that at least a certain percentage of them would remain on this island dead, once they set foot on it. But no one expected to be one of these. Still it was an awesome thought and as the first contingents came struggling up on deck in full gear to form up, all eyes instinctively sought out immediately this island where they were to be put, and left, and which might possibly turn out to be a friend’s grave.
The view which presented itself to them from the deck was a beautiful one. In the bright, early morning tropic sunshine which sparkled off the quiet water of the channel, a fresh sea breeze stirred the fronds of minute coconut palms ashore behind the dun beach of the nearer island. It was too early yet to be oppressively hot. There was a feeling of long, open distances and limitless sea vistas. The same sea-flavored breeze sifted gently among the superstructures of the transports to touch the ears and faces of the men. After the olfactory numbness caused by the saturation of breath, feet, armpits and crotches below in the hold, the breeze seemed doubly fresh in their noses. Behind the tiny cocopalms on the island masses of green jungle rose to yellow foothills, which in turn gave place in the bright air to hulking, blue-hazed mountains.
“So this is Guadalcanal,” a man at the rail said, and spat tobacco juice over the side.
“What the fuck you think it was? Fucking Tahiti?” another said.
The first man sighed and spat again. “Well, it’s a nice peaceful morning for it.”
“Jeez, my ass is draggin,” a third man complained nervously. “All this gear.” He hitched up his full pack.
“Mor’n your ass’ll be draggin soon,” the first man said.
Already little bugs which they recognized as LCIs had put out from shore, some circling scurryingly about, others heading straight out for the ships.
The men lit cigarettes. Slowly they assembled, shuffling about. The sharp cries of junior officers and noncoms cut through their nervous conversation, herded them. Once assembled, as usual they waited.
The first LCI to reach them circled around the leading transport about thirty yards off, bouncing heavily on the wavelets under its own power, manned by two men in fatigue hats and shirts with no sleeves. The one not steering hung on to the gunnel to keep his balance and looked up at the ship.
“Well, look at what we got here. More cannonfodder for the Nips,” he shouted up cheerfully.
The tobacco-chewing man at the rail worked his jaws a moment, ruminating, and then without moving spat a thin brown stream down over the side. On the deck they continued to wait.
Down below in the second forward hold the third company of the first regiment, known as C-for-Charlie company, milled about in the companionway and in the aisles between its allotted bunks. C-for-Charlie had chanced to be assigned as the fourth company in line to go over on the third forward cargo net on the port side. Its members knew they had a long time to wait. They did not as a result feel as stoical about it all as the first wave already up on deck, who were getting off first.
In addition to that it was very hot in the second forward hold. And C-for-Charlie was three decks down. Also there was no place to sit. Tiered in fives, and sometimes even sixes where the ceiling was higher, the bunks were all strewn with items of infantrymen’s equipment ready to be put on. There was no place else to put it. So there was no room on them to sit; but even had there been, the bunks were unsittable anyway: hung on pipes bolted to deck and ceiling they barely left room for one man to lie below another, and a man attempting to sit on one suddenly would find his rump sinking into the canvas laced over the pipe frame, with the result that the base of his skull would come up sharply against the frame of the bunk above. The only place left was the deck strewn with nervous cigarette butts and sprawled legs. It was either that or be left to wander in and out through the jungle of pipes that occupied every available inch, picking a way over the legs and torsos. The stench from the farts, breath and sweaty bodies of so many men suffering from the poor elimination of a long sea voyage would have been brain-numbing had not the nostrils mercifully deadened themselves to it.
