First Diary Entry (No.12)

Diary Entry No. 12                                               28th April 1944

The first day of our assault was terrible. Sergeants Robson and Stephens were killed before we made it into the landing crafts for god’s sake. Two headshots a-piece. I knew this was wrong from the get-go. And it’s rare I get such a bad feeling.

They’re calling this the Stalingrad of the East, and I’m starting to think they are right. An out-and-out massacre.

Weather conditions were terrible: sea choppy. Lads vexed and angered. We fired up and gunned our way across the warn waters: heading straight through the line of fire. A strong wind came up and there was a heavy swell and the smaller vessels (ours) were being slung from wave top to wave top. “Too rough for Assault craft” the sailors murmured under their breaths.

One of the lads radioed in air support. Three RAF bombers soared over our heads and blew the snipers, taking pot shots at us, to kingdom come. I was in the crowd, swigging off my flask, watching the prodigious performance and dancing of the planes and the bombs in the humid skies above.

Before I knew it, the tension had died down and the landing craft had beached. The lads bailed out, I kept my weapon trained in the direction of the treeline. I fired a few shots in that direction: no retort came.

We amounted the heath of scorched soil and burning bamboo, dropped to crouched positions and watched quietly.  Approximately ten wounded Japs, each with their arms raised, tip-toed closer to us, our weapons trained on them.

“No shoot.” A fellow in spectacles cried.

There was a whistle from behind. The sickening crack of rifles. The gruesome sight of popping heads. The painful guilt in my heart. We had broken the Geneva convention and murdered wounded, harmless, unarmed soldiers.

Flanking from the right came Lieutenant Kenworthy and his small contingency of men. They draped weapons over their shoulders, like some kind of medal, boasting what they had done. Kenworthy paused at the boy in his specs, nudged his face away, locked in a stare with him, then stepped over him. A cigar was clenched between his yellow teeth, burning, like our souls.

“This isn’t war!” I spat. “This is murder!”

His eyes rolled. “Tell someone who gives a shit Love-day. These slanty-eyed fucks killed two of your men as well as a few of mine. If we didn’t kill them, they’d have killed us.”

I think I swore at him before saying that “They weren’t armed, we could’ve taken them prisoner.”

“Funny that, your magazine is empty too. You do come out with some absolute shit Loveday. Captain-fucking-clean hands over here!”

I hit him. He wasn’t as tough as the lads seemed. I took a shot at his nose, broke it, and served him an uppercut. He landed on his posterior in a puddle. He went from a contender to amateur in about three seconds.

He got back up. Stared at me with those crimson eyes, rubbing his chin, and head-butted me.

Then, we went for it like children, rolling about in the mud.