Book Review for

The Ghost Mountain Boys:
 Their Epic March and the Terrifying Battle for New Guinea --
The Forgotten War of the South Pacific
by James Campbell

This superbly written story is about the WWII battle for New Guinea,
a battle where the Allies fought disease as much as they did the Japanese.
As the U.S. troops marched over the impossible terrain of the 10,000-foot
Owen Stanley Mountains to protect the right flank of the Australian army,
they were plagued by malaria, dysentery, ringworm, dehydration, heat
prostration, fatigue, malnutrition, breakbone fever (dengue), typhus,
 jungle rot, leishmaniasis, and beriberi (a thiamine deficiency). Of the
nearly 11,000 troops that fought, there were 9,688 casualties, 7,125
of which were due to illness.

In battle, they lacked tanks and artillery, having to rush headlong into
well-entrenched Japanese bunkers with nothing but small arms. Their
much-loved commander, General Edwin Harding, believed in avoiding high
casualty rates with ingenious battle tactics such as flanking maneuvers, but
he was replaced by the impatient (egotistical?) General Douglas MacArthur,
who believed Harding wasn't pushing his men hard enough. To MacArthur,
dead and wounded soldiers were a sign of "initiative".

Eventually, the tide of battle turned in favor of the Allies with the construction
of two airfields (increasing supplies and bombing runs) and the arrival of 4 light
American M-3 General Stuart tanks. Even though the Japanese held all the high
and dry ground up and down the coast, they too had been depleted by disease,
malnutrition, and fatigue. "For the past month they had eaten leaves, grass, roots,
dirt, even their leather rifle straps. Many of them vomited blood and died." Some
battles were won when the enemy simply withdrew. But most battles left the
bloody carnage of close combat.

The story is built around individual soldiers, the letters they wrote back home,
their extreme suffering and depletion, their personal victories and set-backs,
and, for many, their final moments. The reader truly feels as if he is wading through
the same blackwater creeks and swamps, the same razor-sharp, spiked vegetation,
and trembling from the shakes and diarrhea of malaria. The reader feels profound
sadness when soldiers he has followed the entire story are killed in battle.
A heroic book of men who truly made an impossible sacrifice.

An excerpt of Platoon leader Paul Lutjens in battle:

"After waiting out the mortar bombardment, Lutjens and his men were
back on their feet. They had advanced only twenty yards when Japanese
machine gunners opened up on them. Bullets struck flesh, and six men fell.
Blood clouds floated in the air. Then everyone dove for cover, except Sergeant
Harold Graber. With his machine gun at his hip, Graber stormed the Japanese.
Inspired by Graber's example, one of Lutjens lieutenants attacked, too. Lutjens
heard firing, and then saw the lieutenant fall. Seconds later the man got up,
stumbled ten more yards, and was hit by another burst of fire. Then Graber
went down. Another one of Company E's men raced forward. Lutjens heard the
pop of a grenade fuse then the sputter. When it blew, he knew he had lost
another good man.

Though Graber had taken out a bunker before he was killed, there were still
Japanese everywhere, and Lutjens' platoon was surrounded. Lutjens knew his
only hope was to get a message to Captain Schulz. Perhaps Schulz could send
the rest of the company forward.

Lutjens decided to try to get through himself. Because the chances of success
were slim, he knew it was a job he could not ask any of his men to do. He took
only a few steps when a Japanese soldier spotted him and hurled a grenade.
The concussion rocked him, then another grenade lodged in the mud next to
him. He lunged forward just as it went off, and the grenade tossed him through
the air. Lying in the mud, he noticed that the barrel of his tommy gun was bent.
Now he did not even have a gun to defend himself, but he was not sure it
mattered. He was afraid to reach down, positive the grenade had taken him
apart at the hips. At the thought, the strength seeped from his body. His arms
felt heavy as dumbbells. He shivered and then retched.

Lutjens lay there, then slowly he moved his hands down his legs. He was
terrified they would be gone, severed below the knee. But they were still
there -- wet with blood, yes, but they were still there. Lutjens experienced
a moment of joy until the soldier who had thrown the grenade started
shooting. Lutjens rolled to his side and dragged himself along using his
elbows. Disoriented, he nearly slithered into his enemy's lap.

A bullet ripped through his shirt and another creased his eye. One struck
him in the thigh. The pain was enough to make him vomit again. Another
bullet slapped dirt in his face. I'm a dead man, he thought. For some
reason, though, the Japanese soldier held back. It didn't make any sense.
He could have sauntered over to Lutjens and banged his head in with the
butt of his rifle.

Lutjens struggled back to his elbows. This time, he tried to make some
sense of where he was. Then he crawled again.

It was a miracle. Somehow he snaked his way to a medic who was sitting
in a foxhole with his hands in a man's gut. Scattered around him lay dead
and wounded soldiers. The medic gave Lutjens a handful of sulfanilamide
pills, and went back to work on the soldier. Lutjens was full of shrapnel and
lead, but the belly wounds came first.

Lutjens eventually pulled himself through the muck back to a field hospital.
His pulse was weak, his breathing shallow. He was losing consciousness and
the shock was wearing off. His whole body burned as if It were on fire until
a medic gave him a shot of morphine.

(p. 235-236)


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