Australians at Gona, New Guinea
At Gona on New Guinea the Australians have cut their way through to the beach and are now trying to silence the immensely strong pillboxes and gun pits that the Japanese have established near Gona Mission. At Buna the Americans have driven a wedge to within 800 yards of the government buildings, where the Japanese apparently have their focal positions. But it's a tough job. Deep swamps of black mud in which a man could drown limit the terrain over which we can attack. A network of fortifications on which the Japanese have been working for months covers every logical and practical line of approach.
Every weapon pit is a fortress in miniature. Some are strengthened by great sheets of armor and by concrete, but the majority are merely huge dugouts—several are 150 feet long—protected from our fire and bombs by sawed logs and felled trees which form a barrier 6, 10 and sometimes 15 feet thick. The logs are held in place by great metal stakes and filled in with earth in which the natural growth of the jungle has continued, providing perfect camouflage. Subterranean tunnels or well-protected communication trenches connect many of the pits. The pits are heavily manned and each is filled with sufficient food, water and ammunition to enable the enemy to withstand a long siege. From every trench or pit or pillbox, wide fields of sweeping fire along fixed lines cover all approaches.
At the moment the most desperate fighting is taking place on the Gona beach sector, where the A.I.F is gradually whittling away the enemy's grip in a series of ferocious but costly bayonet charges. One Private described a typical attack to me today: "We'd been advancing for hours through stinking swamps up to our knees when we reached better country in the coconut groves, but when we pushed through the plantation to the beach we met heavy machine-gun fire from a strong Jap post on the beach. We attacked in a broad sweeping line, charging across the sand with fixed bayonets and grenades, and stormed our way right into the position.
"It was the wildest, maddest, bloodiest fighting I have ever seen. Grenades were bursting among the Japs as we stabbed down at them with our bayonets from the parapets above. Some of our fellows were actually rolling on the sand with Japs locked against them in wrestling grips. It was all over within a few minutes. A few of the Japs had escaped, but the bodies of thirty were tangled among their captured guns.
"A bayonet charge like that is a pretty terrible business when you see your cobbers falling, when you can only see a tree ahead of you. You can't see the Japs hidden among the roots until you're right on top of them, and they are still firing and yelling as you plunge the bayonet down. But it's the only way to clean them out. Those bastards fight to the last. They keep fighting until your bayonet sinks into them." I was just behind the front line at Gona, crouched down in the kunai grass with a party of twenty-one A.I.F infantrymen from South Australia. They had been in action almost constantly for two months. They were thin, haggard, undernourished, insect-bitten, and grimy and physically near the end of their tether. They were fighting on fighting spirit alone. And because that spirit was good they were still superlative troops.
They were talking among themselves about a Japanese weapon pit that was concealed in the butt of a huge jungle tree at the end of a clearing, which lay beyond the kunai patch. The pit had held them up for two hours. Two of their number had been killed and five wounded when they first pushed through the kunai and ran into a scythe like sweep of fire from the Japanese positions. A twenty-three-year-old Subaltern from Glen Osmond was talking quietly to the men. "No use sitting round, I guess. We might as well get stuck into it!" " The men grinned. The Lieutenant—who wore no badges of rank and was clad in the same green jungle uniform as the troops—turned to a lanky Sergeant. "How much of that grass do you reckon they've cleared away between the post and the edge of the kunai?" "Seventy or eighty yards, I'd say," replied the Sergeant. A couple of Privates nodded and a Lance Corporal estimated it as nearer 100.
"Well, there are twenty-one of us now," said a stocky little Private from Renmark. "Once we get up to the bloody pit it would only take about six of us to dig the little blighters out." He tossed a hand grenade a few inches into the air and caught it nonchalantly. "You ought to be one of the six, sport," interjected another Private, lolling on his back with his net-covered steel helmet over his eyes and a piece of yellow grass moving up and down rhythmically with the champing of his jaws. "You're so bloody short, Tojo'll never be able to get a sight on yer!" A soft ripple of laughter ran around the little group.
But even that little burst of laughter was heard. From the Japanese post came the pap-pap-pap of a short machine-gun burst. The bullets zipped harmlessly high overhead. The man who was chewing grass tipped his helmet back and looked in the direction of the enemy post, invisible behind the screen of kunai. "Use 'em up, Tojo," he muttered. "You ain't got much longer to go." The Lieutenant buckled his belt and looked around at his men. They grinned and reached for their rifles and Brens and tommy guns. "According to Shorty here, this job's going to mean fifteen of us won't get through," he said, as if it were a grand joke. "Wouldn't count on that," said the lanky man, spitting out the well-chewed piece of grass. "He always was an optimist!" Another ripple of laughter. "Well, some come back, they say," grinned the Lieutenant. He motioned to the men. They took a final look at their weapons, saw the grenades were ready and began to squirm slowly toward the edge of the long grass. As he moved past, the lanky man winked at me. "Give us a good write-up," he said.
The advance of the twenty-one men made little movement in the grass, and the occasional shaking of the thick blades might have been only the wind blowing in from the beach. They reached the edge of the kunai. A few yards out in the cleared area were the twisted bodies of their comrades killed a couple of hours before. There was a sudden flash of steel as the Australians sprang to their feet and started running. They were yelling like madmen. For a split second there was no sound from the enemy position. Then it started. The wild brrrppp-brrop of machine guns firing with fingers tight on the triggers, the crack of grenades, once the scream of a man.
The Australians were running in a straight line. It's no use swerving or dodging when you're charging into machine-gun fire. Their bayonets were at high port. Men were falling. One threw up his hands, stopped dead and stumbled to one side. Another fell as he was running; rolling over and over like a rabbit hit on the run. Another was spun around like a top before he crumpled up and slid to the ground. The little man who had predicted that six would get through had almost reached the Japanese pit when he fell. He went over backward as if somebody had delivered a terrific uppercut.
He didn't live to find out, but his estimate was wrong. Nine of the Australians got through. They wiped out the post, killing every one of the nineteen Japanese inside.
Reader’s Digest
Illustrated Story of World War II