The 164th Regiment Series Boxset

by Chris Glatte

  164th Regiment Series Boxset

  WWII NOVELS

  Chris Glatte

  Contents

  Introduction

  I. The Long Patrol

  II. Bloody Bougainville

  III. Bleeding The Sun

  Also by Chris Glatte

  Introduction

  Welcome to the 164th Regiment Series boxset.

  Part I

  The Long Patrol

  Prologue

  July 1942, Solomon Island chain, Guadalcanal

  Colonel Araki squatted beside Captain Toryu with his pistol drawn. He looked into the dark jungle, but couldn’t see more than a few feet. The night’s torrential rain had stopped. The rising mist gave the jungle an eerie feel. The foreigner, the gaijin told him the village was there only yards away, but to him it looked like any other miserable part of this miserable jungle.

  Silent as a snake, the gaijin was beside him, his whisper in his ear startling him. The man moves like an apparition. In the mist, the image made him shiver. He suppressed the feeling. “We have the village surrounded, Goro. We are ready for your order to assault.”

  The scowl from Colonel Araki went unnoticed in the darkness, but the tone of his voice gave little doubt to his displeasure. “Do not presume to use the familiar with me, Mr. Welch.” He said the name as if he’d stepped in dog shit.

  He heard the foreigner swallow and caught the slight movement of his head nod. He looked at his watch, straining to see the translucent dials. The watch was a gift from his father upon his commission into the Army. He remembered Thomas Welch being nearby when his father presented the watch to him. Many hundreds of miles and countless hours of hard victorious battles had passed since that summer day in Tokyo. Now he was reunited with this gaijin, whose entire race he’d come to despise. “Tell the men we attack in five minutes.”

  Captain Toryu nodded and passed the word to a waiting Sergeant, who scuttled away in silence.

  The time passed slowly. At the stroke of five minutes the jungle erupted in noise as six Nambu machine guns opened fire. The guns were joined by the sharp cracks of rifles. All along the line Colonel Araki could see the winking of muzzle flashes through the gloom. The tracer rounds had been removed to keep the machine guns’ locations hidden. The flat firing Nambus were stable platforms. The veteran gunners swept their sectors back and forth. The villagers had little chance of survival.

  The thumping of knee mortar rounds arcing through the air and landing in the village accompanied the guns. Colonel Araki wanted to bring the heavier 81mm mortars, but the two-day walk through the thick jungle would slow them down too much. The heavy mortars were left behind and the light 50mm knee mortars brought instead. He could tell they were more than sufficient.

  The attack was over in minutes. The mortars and machine guns stopped as abruptly as they started and his men rose from the jungle like wraiths. Keeping low they advanced into the village, firing at any movement. In minutes, they’d gone through each hut completing their grisly work.

  Colonel Araki stood in the center of the village his pistol ready. He had yet to fire the weapon and was itching for a target. The huts were smoking, some destroyed and on fire. The flames lit up natives sprawled in various death poses. Their flowing blood looked like black tar against their dark skin.

  Welch trotted up to him with a worried look on his face. “Report,” Colonel Araki barked.

  “The attack’s a complete success, Colonel.”

  “Then why do you look troubled?”

  Welch broke eye contact. He had streaks of blood across his face, not his own. “The Captain isn’t among the dead.”

  Colonel Araki gritted his teeth. “You said he would be here, you assured me he would be here.”

  In desperation Welch said, “He must be close, perhaps he slipped out only minutes ago.” He pointed to the dark jungle, “Perhaps a patrol could…”

  Colonel Araki cut him off, “He’s gone, he moves even better than you through this jungle. Finding him will be impossible.” Welch stammered and started to speak. Araki’s hand moved in a blur cuffing his face with a loud smack. Welch yelled out in surprise. “You’ve failed me gaijin.” Welch dropped his eyes to the ground. To continue speaking would bring more pain. Once the man’s mind was made up there was no changing it.

  Colonel Araki raised his pistol. For a moment Welch thought he’d shoot him and he felt his bowels loosen, but instead Colonel Araki found another target for his rage. He strode to the edge of a burning hut. His men surrounded a native woman and her squalling infant. As he approached, the men sprang to attention.

  Colonel Araki addressed a sergeant, “what do we have here, sergeant?”

  The sergeant, a stocky man with bowed legs and hard eyes gave a quick bow. “A survivor, sir. A captive.”

  The woman clutched her crying baby to her bare chest. He noticed the child had much lighter skin than his presumed mother. Colonel Araki scowled, “These heathens are disgusting. This child’s wail is grating on my nerves, sergeant.” The sergeant nodded waiting for an order. “Take the baby from her breast.”

  The sergeant didn’t hesitate as he slung his rifle and ripped the baby from the woman’s arms. She screamed, tears streaming down her bloodied face, pleading. The sergeant held the baby away from his body like holding something foul. Colonel Araki put the barrel of the pistol against the infant’s screaming face. The woman leaped at him, but the soldiers were ready and grabbed her. He pulled the trigger spraying blood and gore onto the sergeant who dropped the lifeless body to the jungle floor.

  The woman dropped to her knees clutching for her baby. Colonel Araki safed his weapon, pulled out a white cloth and wiped blood from his hand and the gun barrel. He holstered the weapon and started to walk away. The sergeant spoke up, “What should we do with her?” he leered.

  The colonel turned, “That’s the men’s reward for a well-coordinated attack, sergeant. Have your fun then dispose of her. Be quick about it.”

  The sergeant smiled showing mangled teeth in the firelight. He gave a quick bow and said, “Hai.”

  The woman looked up from her lifeless son as the soldiers pulled her towards a partially destroyed hut. She saw Thomas Welch approaching the officer who’d just killed her baby boy. She pointed and screamed his name. Welch froze, the color drained from his face as he met the eyes of his accuser. Her hatred was palpable. He strode to the knot of men and in Japanese addressed the sergeant dragging her, “Sergeant.” The soldier scowled at Welch. “Be sure she doesn’t survive.” She struggled to break away, to get at him, scratch out his eyes, but the men pulled her into the dark hut. It was the last time he saw Captain Morrisey’s wife.

  1

  Three months later, October 1942 off the coast of Guadalcanal

  Elements of the 164th Regiment of the Americal Division worked their way down the cargo net ladders to the undulating landing craft. The air was muggy and Private O'Connor thought his Irish ass would melt.

  He wondered how a boy born and raised in the woods of Oregon ended up in this hot corner of the world. The men around him were from the mid-western part of the country, North Dakota mostly. He had no idea how he’d ended up with these cornhuskers, but here he was.

  He looked down at his next step waiting for the man beneath him, Private Dunphy to move his hand. “Come on Dunphy, hurry your ass up.”

  Dunphy scowled at him and kept his methodical pace, not daring to release his hand to give him the finger. One false move and you’d either fall twenty feet to the bottom of the landing craft assuring broken bones or you’d miss and sink to the bottom of the blue Pacific, pulled down by the sixty pounds of gear on your back.

  O'Connor
had seen it happen, the young kid from South Dakota’s capital. He couldn’t remember his name. He’d sunk like a rock, struggling to release his pack as he shot to the bottom. Even if he’d managed, he went down so fast the pressure probably killed him before he drowned. The vision was still firmly imprinted in his mind. The look in the young man’s eyes as he disappeared into the blue abyss was haunting. He glanced at the green island a mile off and wondered what other experiences he’d soon be unable to forget.

  The official name was Guadalcanal, but everyone called it ‘the Canal.’ The fighting had been going on since early August. The 1st Marine Division had landed unopposed and pushed inland to seize the newly constructed Henderson airfield. Of course, the Japanese had their own name for it, but to the Marines, it was Henderson.

  Henderson was the key to the whole operation. If the Japanese owned the island they’d use the airfield to launch attacks directly against the shipping lanes around Australia and use the island as a rally point for a full-on invasion. The allies were determined to stem the steady advance of the Imperial Japanese Army and Navy. They sent nineteen thousand Marines to secure the airfield and the island.

  The Marines held off relentless Japanese attacks over the next few months and inflicted heavy casualties, but they took casualties of their own. The jungle was as dangerous as the enemy soldiers, causing mounting casualties from malaria and dengue fever, foot-rot and some diseases the Navy docs had yet to name.

  The entire world had heard of the Marines holding off three times their numbers on the miserable little island. Guadalcanal, a name ninety-nine percent of Americans had never heard before the summer of ‘42, was now a household name.

  The men of the 164th Regiment were no exception. They’d heard all about the hell they were being sent to. They’d been acclimated to the stifling tropical environment on the island of New Caledonia. They’d spent months training in the jungles, learning the sights, smells and sounds of the harsh environment where they’d meet the enemy.

  Now it was October 13th, 1942 and the 164th was offloading troop ships and heading to the beaches at Lunga Point, the same place the Marines had landed three months earlier. No opposition was expected, the Marines had secured the area, but there was the ever-present danger of artillery and marauding Japanese aircraft.

  As O'Connor finally jumped from the ladder to the boat he hoped they’d get a move on. Sitting in these damned boats made him feel like a sitting duck. One well-placed artillery shell and they’d all die instantly, shredded shark meat.

  He lined up behind Dunphy and watched the last man from the rope ladder enter the boat, Sergeant Carver. Carver was his platoon Sergeant. He was a big man, everything about him was big, his hands, his eyes, his jutting jaw. Even his eyebrows were big and bushy.

  Sergeant Carver noticed O'Connor eyeballing him and in his flat Midwestern accent said, “Whaddya lookin’ at Private? Eyes front, pay attention.”

  O'Connor looked away staring at the back of Dunphy’s helmeted head. He clutched his rifle checking the plastic cover. His M1 was his most prized possession. Of course, it wasn’t his, he was only borrowing it from the Army, but he thought it was the finest weapon he’d ever held, even more than his trusted Winchester he shot deer with back home.

  Carver pushed him in the back knocking him into Dunphy who scowled. Carver yelled to the squad, “Keep your fucking heads down, when the gate comes down haul ass and get to cover. I know the Marines have made things all safe and sound for us, but they’re Marines so who knows.”

  O'Connor grinned. Carver’s disdain for his Marine brethren was well known. He detested the way they strutted around like they were something special. He’d been in the Army since his 18th birthday. To him it was the only military branch that made any sense. He did what was asked of him, never complained, always delivered and never asked for special treatment. The Marines were always striving for the limelight, trying to be the golden boys of the armed forces. When there was real work to be done they called in the Army. And now, here it was again, the Army coming to the rescue to finish kicking Tojo off this shithole island.

  The boats’ throaty motor went from idle to full throttle and the brick shaped boat plowed forward. The sea was calm this early in the morning, barely any chop. It was a smooth ride all the way to shore. O'Connor waited for the thumping of artillery, but it never came. When the boat ran up on the beach, he lurched into Dunphy. “Get off me, hick.”

  The front gate slammed open and thumped onto the beach. Sergeant Carver was yelling, “Go, go, go.”

  O'Connor was glad to be moving. He jumped off the gate and felt his feet sink into the sand of the canal. There was no opposition, but they still sprinted to the tree line and took cover. O'Connor laid against the roots of a huge palm tree. He unwrapped his rifle and checked the breech. He looked around at the others doing the same.

  Dunphy was beside him, he stood up and held his rifle against his hip, the barrel pointed to the sky, like he was posing for a Remington commercial. He looked around, “Shit, what are we hiding from? there’s nothing but palm trees and beach.”

  The landing craft backed away and headed back to the transports to bring more of the 164th. O'Connor heard clapping and laughing. He peeked around the palm tree into the shadowed jungle. There were soldiers in raggedy uniforms, no, not soldiers, Marines. They were laughing, clapping and pointing. O'Connor felt his face redden wondering what the hell was so funny.

  “Nice job Army. You saved us all from the big bad Japs.” There were one hundred Marines milling around tents. O'Connor felt like an idiot, he stood and studied the Marines. They didn’t look like the proud men he’d seen a couple of months ago. Most of their uniforms were ragged and torn. Their boots were worn, some with gaping holes. They were thin, like wraiths from a Halloween nightmare. Most were unshaven, some with full beards, the less developed only sporting wisps of uneven growth. They were all dirty, the kind of dirty that would never completely disappear. O'Connor wondered if he’d look like that in a couple of months. He shivered despite the oppressive heat.

  Sergeant Carver stood up, “All right, let’s get to our rally point.” O'Connor trotted with his squad. “Set up over there,” he pointed to a thinned out area one hundred yards west of the Marine camp. He yelled, “Clear out a spot for our gear, it’s coming with the next wave.”

  O'Connor got to work pulling undergrowth from the area. The dirt smelled rotten, like dead decaying animals. He wondered what could possibly make such a foul smell. Dirt was supposed to smell like dirt. He heard Private Crandall yell, “Goddamn, this is shit!”

  O'Connor looked over his shoulder at the Marines who were laughing and pointing and falling over themselves. “Goddammit, were grousing in the Marine’s shit trench.”

  O'Connor and the rest hurried to the waters’ edge, stripped off their soiled tops and tried to wash. Sergeant Carver saw his platoon in the ocean, “What in sam hell you doing? I told you to clear an area for our supplies.” He pointed to where they’d been.

  Dunphy spoke up, not wanting to miss a chance to mess with Sgt. Carver. “You sent us to a shithole…literally. That’s the Marines’ latrine we were digging in, genius.”

  Carver took the ten steps to Dunphy in five strides and pulled up close. They were nose to nose. Dunphy didn’t back down even though Sgt. Carver outweighed him by thirty pounds of muscle. Instead he sneered at him. Carver growled, “You got something else smart to say?”

  Dunphy didn’t, just stared back, not intimidated. Sergeant Carver growled, “Your attitude’s gonna get you hurt, slick.” He looked around to the other men who were watching the confrontation with interest.

  Dunphy came from a rich family, joined to piss off his parents, but never thought he’d actually be put into a normal unit. He didn’t think his parents would allow that to happen, but it did. His parents made sure he went into a regular unit to teach their spoiled son a lesson.

  He may have been a private, but he thought of himself as a genera
l and let everyone know his disdain for their lower class. He also let it be known that he was a champion boxer and could best any man that cared to try. A few had and he’d been true to his boast. He was light on his feet and his jabs were lightning fast and powerful.

  The platoon knew that eventually Carver and Dunphy would come to blows. They were split 50/50 in the betting pool. Carver had the brawn and the street fighting experience, Dunphy had the benefit of professional training.

  Sergeant Carver wanted to take Private Dunphy down a notch, but now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to get squared away. He pointed, “Move further west until you find a less shitty spot and clear it out.” He turned back to Dunphy and yelled, “Now!” Dunphy leaned back, the force of Carver’s voice startling him. He turned and with the others put his wet top on and moved away from the latrine area.

  Sergeant Carver looked to the Marines who were still laughing. He walked to them and was confronted by another Sergeant, his counterpart. Sergeant Carver pointed, “Why’re you shitting in the boonies, why don’t you have proper latrines?”

  The Marine gunnery sergeant smiled showing brown, tobacco stained teeth, “The Japs blew ‘em up couple nights ago. They come by almost every night, drop their bombs and skedaddle.”

  Carver put his hands on his waist, “Well shit.” The gunny nodded, agreeing with his sentiment.

  There was yelling from the beach, “Sergeant Carver.” He turned and saw his commanding officer tromping up the beach from a just beached landing craft. Carver looked at the Marine, “Don’t ask me why he wasn’t in the first wave with his troopers.” The gunny spit out a long stream of black tobacco juice and made himself scarce.