by Chris Glatte
They were at the base of the ridge they would be patrolling. It looked like a spine poking up from the islands’ middle and spanning almost to the western tip. It wasn’t the highest point of the island, but it was higher than anything surrounding it by five hundred feet. The jungle thinned out as the ridge rose. At the top of the spine the foliage was almost nonexistent. They’d have to be careful of enemy aircraft, or any aircraft for that matter. Their own forces would assume them to be Japanese, they were on the wrong side of the line.
The patrol went up the ridge much slower. Not only was it steeper, but it was more exposed. This was the type of patrolling the American’s were accustomed to.
With the loss of the shady jungle canopy the sun beat down on the men like an incessant furnace. The natives didn’t seem to notice, but the squad was quickly dripping sweat and breathing hard. When they were halfway to the top, Sgt. Carver pulled on Lt. Caprielli’s sleeve and pointed at the men. They were falling behind and clearly struggling. Caprielli trotted to Captain Morrisey’s side and spoke and pointed. Morrisey nodded and called for a short break. The natives looked at him in confusion. Morrisey spoke some Pidgin and the natives grinned and nodded, making their hair flop. Caprielli grit his teeth, the pompous ass was making fun of them.
After their ten-minute break they continued towards the ridge. Once on top they patrolled to the westernmost edge. The occasional views to the sea were breathtaking. The sea was calm with varying shades of blues and greens. They could see the scarred beach where troops and supplies were still being ferried and thrown into the grinder. To the east, the edge of Henderson field was just visible. As they watched, two Marine Corsairs lifted off and banked towards the sea gaining altitude. Even from this distance they could make out the heavily laden undercarriages, bombs and rockets.
The ridge was easy walking and the natives increased their pace to a steady trot. The squad tried to keep up, but were soon left behind. Carver grumbled to Caprielli, “What’s Morrisey trying to prove?”
Caprielli shook his head, “Don’t know Sarge, but if we keep to the ridge we can’t miss it.” Carver nodded and rolled his eyes, no shit, Sir.
He was about to speak it out loud, but stopped himself. Lieutenant Caprielli wasn’t his favorite officer. He thought some of his decisions were downright dangerous, but he seemed to be coming around the longer they had their asses hung out here in the bush. He thought a couple more weeks with the natives and he might shape up to be a decent officer.
They made the far point of the ridge an hour later. Morrisey and his men were crouched around a tiny thatch hut built into the hillside facing the invasion beaches. They were watching the uninhibited view of American naval vessels slowly cruising along the coast. It was the afternoon; the sun was beating down and the squad was haggard.
Caprielli said, “Sarge, get the men off the ridge into cover and set up a perimeter.”
Carver glared at him, “Already on it, sir.” He paused, can’t he see that? “The men are short of water, sir. Most are down to half a canteen.”
Morrisey took a break from scanning the sea with his binoculars and turned to the sergeant “Your men can top off over there.” He pointed to a large barrel half dug into the ground beside the hut. The barrel had a lid, but the natives had placed huge jungle leaves around it, their points aiming towards the top of the barrel. The evening rainwater would be funneled into the barrel assuring constant fresh water.
Carver smiled, “All right, looks like you can drink down your canteens and refill over there.” The sound of lids being unscrewed and loud gulps ensued.
Caprielli went to Morrisey’s side, “Quite a view.”
Morrisey took the binoculars from his eyes and handed them to the Lieutenant. He put the strap over his head and pulled them to his eyes. He scanned the sea, watching the ships unloading their cargos of men and war material onto barges which ferried back and forth. Morrisey touched his arm and pointed, “Look over there, Jap zeros.”
Caprielli swung the glasses and found the silver Zeros slashing through the air heading towards the offloading ships. “They’re making a run on the transports; our guys must see them.”
As if in answer, tracer rounds and anti-aircraft guns opened up on the streaking planes. From this distance they couldn’t hear the distinct firing, only the dull throbbing of far-away gunfire. The two Zeros dove toward the sea. It looked like they’d continue straight into a watery grave, but at the last second the nimble fighters pulled up only feet above the waves. The sea around them erupted with geysers from the cruisers and battleships trying to protect their defenseless transports.
The zero to the right slowed and fell behind his leader, they were in echelon attack. Caprielli couldn’t tell if they were carrying bombs or only on a strafing run. With all the fire erupting around them he couldn’t believe they were still flying. It looked like suicide. Even if they were successful, there was little chance of escape.
As he watched, tiny flashes from the lead Zero’s wingtips winked, “They’re strafing the transport.” He watched in morbid fascination as the Zeros’ deadly 20mm cannon ripped into the side of the transport. He could see chunks of the ship falling into the sea. The pilot only got a three second burst off before the plane suddenly and violently shifted and dipped to the left. Guns from the transport itself ripped into the left wing and sheared it in half. In an instant the Zero was lost in a great geyser of sea water.
Caprielli lifted his right hand in a fist and cheered like he was watching his West Point Army football team scoring a touchdown against Navy, “Yeah, got him.”
The second Zero opened up. He was higher than his dead comrade, his cannon fire sliced into the bridge of the ship which erupted in glass, metal, fire and smoke. It was a devastating attack lasting only seconds. The Zero flashed over the crippled bridge then went even lower and flashed away across the sea followed by tracers. “Shit, the second one’s getting away,” Caprielli lamented.
Carver shook his head, “Don’t think so, look to the zero’s two o’clock.” Caprielli pulled the binoculars from his eyes and found what Carver was pointing at. “Those two Corsairs we saw earlier will make quick work of him if they have any more ammo.”
Caprielli put the binoculars to his eyes and found the two Corsairs angling down towards the fleeing enemy fighter. They were in a perfect position behind and higher than the Jap and they’d be coming directly out of the sun. The Japanese would never see what hit him. The lead Corsair was gaining fast. When he was close enough he opened up with his six, fifty caliber machine guns. It took less than a second, the Zero exploded in mid-air, the wings folded backwards, the engine and propeller skipped along the sea like a child’s skipping stone. The Zero’s fuselage came to rest on the beach. Caprielli whooped, “Hot damn, got him. Those Marines sure can shoot.” The Corsair pulled up and made a lazy victory roll over the beach before turning towards the ridge they were standing on.
Lieutenant Caprielli dropped the binoculars and ran to the top of the ridge and started jumping up and down, waving to the Corsair pilot as he came closer and closer. Carver couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The Lieutenant was acting like an ass. He yelled, “Get down, get down, he’ll think you’re a Jap.” But it was too late, the pilot had seen him and instead of continuing his turn towards Henderson, he lined up on the ridge.
Marine Lieutenant Griff McPhearson was piloting the Corsair. He’d just had the easiest kill of his career and that, following the successful bombing of the Jap stronghold off Cape Esperance, was making his day bright. Now another opportunity to kill the enemy was presenting itself. As he was leading his wingman, 2nd Lieutenant Terrance back to Henderson he caught a flash of something out of the corner of his eye. A Jap was on the ridge jumping around like a lunatic. He called Terrance, “Got a target on the ridge at my two o’clock. You got any more ammo?”
The response was quick, “Roger. Got a half load of fifty, I’ll follow you in.”
The Corsairs lined u
p on the ridge. Caprielli saw the gull shaped wings in silhouette as they streaked straight at him. He heard Carver yelling, but he was frozen in place, transfixed by the approaching fighters. The last thing he saw was the winking on the leading edge of the wings. The fifty caliber bullets walked up the ridgeline tearing rock, plants and flesh. The blue Corsair flashed over the cowering squad then rode the ridgeline until disappearing over the edge and out of sight.
The second Corsair unleashed his six fifty caliber machine guns into the dust cloud of the shredded ridge, but 2nd Lieutenant Terrance had more ammo to expend. Using his rudder pedals, he yawed the aircraft side to side spreading his deadly ordnance across a wide swath.
He put the plane into a shallow climb and looked over his shoulder. The ridge was covered in a thick layer of dust and debris, he wondered if he’d hit anything.
The roar of the strafing run and the heavy throb of the passing Corsairs was gone in an instant, replaced by the sound of falling rock and moans of pain. Sergeant Carver lifted his head from behind the boulder he’d dove under, but he couldn’t see more than two feet. The dust was as thick as smoke. He could hear moans coming from the hut area, but when he tried to move, the choking dust sent him into a coughing fit. He lay back down and pulled his bandanna from around his neck and pulled it over his face. He took a deep breath, testing. He could hear the departing Corsairs, they’d had their fun and were returning home. He got onto shaky legs and went to the ridge to search for the Lieutenant.
With each passing second the dust became less as it settled back to earth. The white powder settled on him making him look like an ashen ghost. He went to where he thought Lieutenant Caprielli would be, but there was nothing there. He backtracked searching the torn up ground for any clue. The dust had settled thick, erasing any signs of blood. He took a step and his boot sank into what felt like soft sand. He looked down and lifted his boot, it came up sticky and wet with blood. Entrails caught on his boot tread lifted from the ground as if he’d stepped on chewed gum.
He backed away a step and leaned down. He’d found what was left of Lieutenant Caprielli. He shook his head looking further down the slope for the rest of his body, but the dust was still too thick. He looked to where the hut and the rest of his men should be. There was no doubt the Lieutenant was dead. He needed to focus on the living.
He stumbled his way to the hut. The dust wasn’t as thick here. He heard the soft gurgle of water as the shredded barrel drained its last drops of lifesaving water. He’d have to deal with that later, his priority was finding and treating survivors.
The first man he came to was a native, the hole in his chest looked like he’d been hit point blank with an exploding grenade. His lifeless eyes were covered in white dust, giving him the look of a crazed zombie. He went to the next man who was face down. He wore a uniform; one of his men. He touched his shoulder and shook him gently, hoping he was only stunned. When he got no response, he turned the man over. His face was gone, replaced with seeping gray matter and white bone. He was unrecognizable. He reached for the man’s neck and found the chain with the dog tags. He pulled them over the soldier’s head and wiped the congealed blood, trying to read the red outlined letters. It was Crandall. He gripped the dog tags and shook his head. He went to the next inert form, another native whose head was gone, only the jagged spine sticking out of the neck. Besides that, the body was perfectly intact. Jesus, am I the only survivor?
A moan off to his left was coming from the hut. The dust was almost settled now and with it came the heat of the day. He poked his head into the surprisingly intact hut. The western wall was gone, but other than that it was undamaged. Inside, however looked like a butchers’ shop. The grass walls ran thick with blood and the ceiling dripped. A native stared up at the ceiling one leg was gone and he had a deep gash in his neck which exposed the round pipes of his arteries and esophagus. Carver thought that must be where the majority of the blood came from. The dead native’s normally black skin was dull and gray; devoid of blood.
Another moan from underneath the dead man had Carver pulling the body over and to the side. The skin was dry and cold. Underneath he found the source of the moaning. Captain Morrisey’s eyes were closed; he looked as though he were having an afternoon nap. There wasn’t a drop of blood on him. Carver felt his pulse and checked for chest rise. “Morrisey, wake up, wake up. Are you hit?” When he got no response, he slapped him across the face, “Wake up!”
He moaned in protest then shot up like he’d been electrified. His eyes were wide as he took in his surroundings. “Wh-what happened?”
He tried to stand, but Carver pushed him back, “Whoa there, take it easy. You were knocked out, give yourself a minute.” He held him in place until he could focus. “You’re okay, we were attacked by those Corsairs.”
Morrisey shook his head looking around the hut. His eyes rested on the native’s lifeless body. “Makala,” he said. His mouth downturned and a tear formed in the corner of his eye. “Makala, my friend.”
Carver didn’t recognize the name or the man. He surmised it must have been the native who’d reported the naval movements. He’d been stationed here to observe and report. “I’m sorry about your man. You’re the only survivor I’ve found so far.” He squeezed Morrisey’s shoulder and exited the hut. With his voice cracking he called out, “Anyone alive?”
When he got no response, he sat down and put his hands over his eyes rubbing them. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?
He heard a voice, “Sarge? Is that you?”
He stood up, “Yeah it’s me, where are you?” He saw a hand waving from down the slope. He took three steps and peered over the side of a short eight foot cliff. Private O'Connor and Corporal Hooper were huddled against the wall covered in a fine mist of white dust. Carver’s relief at finding some of his squad alive made his voice crack. He wiped dust out of his eye, “You, you guys okay?”
They nodded. Corporal Hooper said, “We were told this was the latrine. We were taking shits. What the fuck happened?”
“Never mind that, let’s get you up here.” He reached down to give them a hand. The rock cliff was an easy climb and soon they were standing beside Sgt. Carver, surveying the scene. O'Connor said, “Oh my God.”
16
The rest of the day was spent sorting out the dead and assessing what supplies remained. The water barrel had been drained except for a half a gallon at the bottom. The barrel wasn’t repairable; they’d have to fill up their canteens as best they could with whatever rain fell.
Of the eight natives, five were killed. They were laid next to one another awaiting their final journey back to the village. One of the unharmed natives had already left to get help. The American’s had been hit the hardest. Most didn’t have time to take cover. The heavy caliber bullets simply ripped them apart. The original patrol of twelve was cut down to four, not including Welch. Carver, O'Connor, Hooper and the absent Dunphy were all that remained. They buried Crandall, Doc, Troutman, and what they could find of Lt. Caprielli, on the coast side of the ridge and marked the location on the map. They’d pass along the coordinates to graves registration when they were in contact with Division again.
The somber day was made a little better by the clear view they had of both the American and the Japanese positions. They were specks from this distance, but with Captain Morrisey’s powerful binoculars they were able to see enemy fortifications despite the thick jungle and heavy camouflage. It took careful scanning, but Carver identified three low slung bunkers. He marked them on the map.
In a stroke of luck Crandall hadn’t been carrying the radio when he was riddled with fifty caliber fire. It had survived the onslaught. O'Connor cleaned the dust from its delicate parts, turned it on and was greeted with the happy sound of static. The frequency hadn’t been moved so when O'Connor spoke into it he got an immediate response from Lieutenant Smote back at Division.
He handed the piece to Sgt. Carver. “Mother, this is Falcon 6. Over.”
The response was clear, they were within the radio’s six-mile range and had a clear line of sight to the beach. “Falcon 6 this is mother. That you Lieutenant Caprielli? Over.”
“Mother, Falcon 6. Negative. Lieutenant Caprielli is KIA. This is Sergeant Carver, I’m in command. Over.”
“Falcon 6, Mother. Understand Lieutenant Caprielli is KIA. What is your position and situation? Over.”
Sergeant Carver told him about the past thirty-six hours. When he got him up to speed Lieutenant Smote asked, “Falcon 6, Mother. Your coordinates put you on the ridge overlooking our area of operations, yes? Over.”
“Affirmative, Mother. I can see everything from up here. Over.”
“Outstanding. Can you see enemy installations, bunkers, artillery, that sort of thing? Over.”
“Affirmative. I have visual on three probable bunkers and can direct artillery fire. Over.”
“Shoot an azimuth on all and we’ll relay the coordinates to the Navy. Over.”
“Roger. On it. Over” Carver yelled for Hooper to take himself east along the ridge. Once there he shot an azimuth to the targets and brought the numbers back to Carver who shot his own azimuths. With the two separate points the rest was simple geometry. The targets would be at the points where the azimuths met. He called in those coordinates.
Smote relayed the first set of coordinates to the waiting big guns of the Navy. Carver used Captain Morrisey’s binoculars to look for the billowing smoke of the guns. The distance was far, but he could see the plume of smoke, “Shot out,” he called. He found the first bunker nestled against a hillside in the jungle. He’d almost missed it when he’d first scanned the area, it was well camouflaged, but he’d caught the movement of a soldier relieving himself and marked it as a target. He watched now, waiting to correct the naval fire. There was a black plume of an exploding 203mm shell in the jungle a hundred feet to the west of the target. He looked at his map and was in the process of a correction when Morrisey was next to him. Carver said, “Add fifty and right one hundred.” He waited for the read-back. When he got it he continued, “Fire for effect.” Carver kept his eyes on the bunker this time as Morrisey called it out, “Shot out.”
