The 164th Regiment Series Boxset

by Chris Glatte

  The original mission to bring the natives together as an effective guerrilla force wasn’t happening. He picked mud out from under his fingernails, hell, Morrisey’s got ‘em better off than we ever could. They’d probably win the war by themselves if they were left to it.

  He remembered hearing Welch’s crazy idea to launch an attack toward the mountains where he said a large number of Japs were. He’d been ignored and as far as he could tell there was no such Japanese force. If there was they’d be in amongst them on this ridge. He wondered about that. He’d have to bring it up to Welch when he saw him again. If I see him again. Morrisey didn’t seem too pleased with him. He wondered if he’d suddenly disappear. He didn’t think Morrisey operated that way. He was usually a pretty good judge of character, but he’d been wrong before.

  He lay down and tried to get some sleep, but the vision of Lieutenant Caprielli’s body in pieces, scattered across the ridge kept popping into his head. He’d never had nightmares or been affected by death, but there was something about the Lieutenant’s torn up body that was keeping him awake. Maybe it was the stupid way he died, jumping around like some high school cheerleader. What the fuck was he thinking?

  He sat up grabbed his carbine and crawled to the nearest hole. O’Connor whispered, “Who goes there? Identify.”

  “It’s me, numbnuts.”

  “Sorry Sarge. What are you doing here? It’s not time to switch.”

  He crawled into the hole with him and looked out over the valley below. The occasional flash from a distant gun in the jungle made the battleground almost beautiful. There was a sliver of a moon and its glow made the distant ocean glimmer. Carver thought he could see the shape of a navy ship’s silhouette, but he was probably imagining things. “I can’t sleep. I’ll take your watch. I was going to be your relief so I’ll take two shifts.” He put his big hand on O’Connor’s shoulder, “Go get some sleep, son.”

  O’Connor nodded and crawled back the way Carver had come. He was glad for the early call; he was barely able to keep his eyes open.

  When morning came the men tore into C-rations and had breakfast. They were stiff and groggy. Sergeant Carver wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. Hooper tore open a hard D-bar and tried to tear off a chunk. The thing looked like a hard hunk of shit. It was supposed to be chocolate, but tasted like bitter cocoa. Its one attribute was its high calorie count. The villagers had been supplementing their rations with rice and dried meats, but now they were back to their C-rats and D-bars. “Never thought I’d miss that smoked iguana or whatever the hell that stuff was.”

  O’Connor nodded as he spooned something resembling food into his mouth. “We’ve got enough food to last us a long time now…” He trailed off remembering the reason for the extra food.

  Carver sat down beside them in the growing light. “Morrisey’s men should be back any second to take their dead. Hooper, I want you to go with him. He’s gonna take you to the other village to get that dumb ass Dunphy.”

  Hooper nodded, “I’m ready when they are, Sarge.”

  As the sun came up the shadows across the lowlands lit up the smoking battlefield. Carver put the binoculars to his eyes and scanned. He could barely make out parked vehicles of the 164th Regiment. He glassed forward until he spotted holes he knew to be foxholes on the front line. He continued glassing towards the Japanese lines. There was no movement, which wasn’t a good thing. The Japanese were happy to sit back in their fortified positions and kill the exposed G.I.s and Marines as they tried to advance.

  He put the radio to his ear and tried checking in, but nothing happened. There wasn’t any static. “We got anymore batteries, Corporal?”

  Hooper shook his head, “We have three more back in the village.”

  Carver cussed, should’ve thought about that yesterday. He hoped the natives would be bringing them this morning, otherwise their mission was over. He thought maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Getting off the mountain and into his old unit would be a relief. With only the four of them he felt like his ass was hanging in the wind. What could four men do?

  He heard the sound of aircraft and looked up to see a flight of fighters circling above the sea. He put his glass to them, carrier based F4 Wildcats. He hadn’t seen any carrier based aircraft for days. With them back in the fight maybe they could punch through the Jap lines and kick them all the way to Cape Esperance.

  The din of the distant airplane engines increased and he looked towards Henderson field. He could see B-17s lifting off and scratching for altitude out over the sea. Seven of them circled and formed up under the watchful eye of the Wildcats. He wondered if Division was trying to call him for bombing targets. He clenched his fist. He could see a plume of dust in the Japanese rear area. It was probably a large contingent of vehicles, but he was powerless to tell the bombers about them. He wondered if they would see it on their own.

  Ten minutes later his question was answered; the bombers veered towards land lining up on the Japanese front line. They were almost flying directly at the ridge. When they were nearing the line, he could see their bomb-bay doors open and tiny black shapes tumbled towards earth. The five hundred-pound bombs plowed into the jungle sending great geysers of dirt and trees high into the air. If they were on target the Japs were catching hell. He’d endured the same thing the first weeks stationed around Henderson. There was no feeling more terrifying or helpless than waiting for a string of bombs to hit. Under his breath he said, “Fuck you Tojo.”

  He heard Hooper say, “looks like Morrisey’s guys are back.”

  He let the binoculars dangle from his neck and turned. There were ten men with somber faces, some carrying handmade stretchers. The others had their hands full of the rest of their gear. He grunted, “O’Connor, see if you can find the radio batteries.”

  O’Connor threw the C-rat box into the bottom of his hole and went to the men. He started rifling through bags. He found the batteries and brought a fresh one to Carver. He tried to contact the regiment again and this time he got a weak response. The bombers were circling back to the airfield lining up for landing and rearming.

  Lieutenant Smote’s voice crackled over the radio, “Where you been, Falcon 6? Over.”

  “We’re running out of batteries up here. Over.”

  “Good to have you back, we’re making a push soon, you have any targets for us? Over.”

  He put the glasses to his eyes again and scanned. “I can’t see anything except dust from the bombers. I can’t see the line. Over.”

  “Understand, target obscured. How about movement behind the line? Over.”

  He glassed that way and shook his head, “Nothing moving. Saw a dust cloud a half hour ago, probably vehicles moving, but it’s gone now. No targets to report. Over.”

  “How far behind the line can you see? Over.”

  “About a mile behind their front line. The land makes a southerly turn, can’t see anything after that. Over.”

  “Wait one. Over.”

  He waited, continuing to glass the area for targets. He was limited, the battle lines had slowly moved west. If this push was successful he’d be unable to call out more targets.

  The radio came to life in his hands. “Falcon 6, are you able to move? Over.”

  He looked at his two men, they were tired, but physically fine. “Affirmative. We’re able to move. Where do you want us to go? Over.”

  The radio crackled out coordinates. “It’s the next hill to the west. It’s not far as the crow flies, about four miles, but it looks like you’ll have to traverse a valley between the ridge you’re on and the hill. Do you see it? Over.”

  There was a copse of tall trees blocking his view of the hill, but he knew which one he was talking about. He confirmed it with a quick look at his topographical map. It was an ancient map, the year on the bottom, 1921, but big land masses were easily identified and the ridge and the hill were there. “I know the hill. Over.”

  “We think you’ll have a good view
of the Jap’s rear from there. Over.”

  Carver traced the distance from the hill to the Japanese held area to the west. He gave a low whistle. “That hill’s damned close to the Jap lines. Do we know if it’s occupied? Over.”

  “There’s been nothing suggesting it’s being used by the Japs. Can you get there? Over.”

  He nodded, “Can do, Sir. We’ll leave at the earliest and report in when we get there. Over.”

  “Roger,” was the only response.

  He handed the radio to O’Connor and walked to Captain Morrisey who was supervising the loading of his fallen men. The corpses had lost their lustrous black skin, replaced with graying bloated and cracked skin.

  Sergeant Carver told him of his new orders. Morrisey held his hand to his forehead, shielding the sun and looked towards the distant hill. He scowled, “That hill’s cursed, Sergeant.”

  Carver squinted, “Cursed, sir? How do you mean?”

  “My men won’t go near it. I went up there a couple years ago to see what all the fuss was about. Couldn’t get anyone to come with me. It’s superstition, but I must say the place did have an eerie feel to it. Probably influenced by all the dire warnings I got.”

  “So your men won’t know if the Japs are sitting up there?”

  He shook his head, “Fraid not, but I’d be surprised if they aren’t. It’s high ground and close to their troop concentrations I should think. Why wouldn’t they be there?”

  Sergeant Carver sighed. “Well that’s where we’re going.”

  He pulled the binoculars from around his neck and held them out to Morrisey who shook his head. “Keep them, Sergeant. I’ll get them back when you’re off that hill.”

  “Thanks.” He put them back around his neck. “I’m not leaving until Hooper gets back with Dunphy. I’ll need all the men I can get for this one.”

  The dead were loaded, a native at each end of a stretcher staring straight ahead. “If your chap’s ready to go, we’ll be heading back,” said Morrisey.

  Hooper spoke up, “Ready when you are, Sir.” He had his carbine in his hand. “Lead on, Macduff.”

  Morrisey laughed, “Didn’t peg you as a Shakespeare fan, son.”

  Corporal Hooper looked at him, “Shakespeare? Nah that’s from a comic book. Think it was Batman.”

  Morrisey shook his head, “Of course.” He took a long stride and the whole procession moved down the ridge towards the village.

  Carver called to Hooper, “Don’t dilly dally, we need to move off this position ASAP.” Hooper waved his acknowledgment.

  The distant sound of another artillery strike filled the morning. Carver put the binoculars to his eyes and watched the 105mm rounds walking back and forth along the Japanese line. He thought the Japs must be dug in deep, he couldn’t see any movement at all, only the great dirt and fire geysers tearing up the earth. When the artillery stopped, he watched in morbid fascination as the American line moved cautiously forward. He passed the glasses to O’Connor who was watching for any unwanted guests coming up the ridge behind them. “The big push is starting.”

  O’Connor took the glasses and lay down to better support his arms. He scanned back and forth then whistled. “Looks like an army of ants from up here.” He continued watching for five minutes. “Looks like a cakewalk. Far as I can tell they’re not meeting any resistance.”

  He handed them back to Carver. He held them for another five minutes. “I think you’re right. Maybe they bugged out?”

  On the ground Captain Blade was leading his Baker Company against the Japanese front line. His company was wedged against the sea on his right and Able Company on his left. He was dreading this morning, he knew he’d lose men today, but he’d be damned if he’d sit in the rear like some traffic cop. He took the term “combat leader” literally. He was in the mix, leading them to battle.

  They’d advanced twenty yards over the chewed up jungle and hadn’t taken any fire. He expected the chatter of the deadly Nambu machines guns, but they were silent. He kept moving forward; maybe they’d caught them sleeping. He increased his pace, the men followed. Thirty yards and still nothing; no resistance. He held his Thompson sub machine gun at the ready as he started passing foxholes he assumed were Japanese forward observation posts, they were empty. My God, the Japs have bugged out.

  His heart raced and he waved his men forward. They were gaining more ground than they’d gained in three days of hard fighting. He could see the looming shapes of bunkers still in the distance. He expected the dark gun ports to start winking deadly fire at him any second. His radio man tapped him on the shoulder, “Sir, the colonel wants an update.”

  He kneeled down letting his men continue forward around him. “Keep advancing, Lieutenant,” he said to one of his platoon leaders. “Don’t out-pace Able Company, no gaps.”

  He was almost giddy when he spoke with Colonel Sinclair. “Sir, we’re not finding any resistance. It looks like they pulled back last night. Over.” He listened to the Colonel, Yes sir, I can see the bunker line ahead, but we’re taking no, repeat, no fire from them.” He listened, “Yes, Sir, we’ll take the bunkers and report. Over.”

  He handed the radio back to his radioman. He stood up and yelled to his slowing men. “Move forward, move to the bunkers!” He took a step then heard the unmistakable sound of incoming artillery. Shit. His men were in the open running towards the bunkers still three hundred yards away. He screamed, “Take cover! Incoming! Take cover!”

  He pushed his radioman into the crook of a fallen palm tree and tucked in behind. All around him men were scrambling for cover. This section of the advance was on the edge of a pre-war coconut plantation. The ground was churned up by multiple artillery and bomb strikes. Coconut trees lay everywhere uprooted and torn apart by direct hits.

  Captain Blade held his helmet tight over his head as the first 105mm shell landed amongst his men. The ground shook and he felt himself lifted off the ground then slammed back down. The first was followed immediately by another and another. He couldn’t hear himself, but he screamed. They’d been lured into the open to be cut apart like rag-dolls by pre-plotted artillery fire.

  The artillery kept falling all along the line. He lifted his head to try to assess what was happening. He saw one of his men, was it Reynolds? He was thrown into the air, his torso a mass of blood. He grit his teeth and saw another man staring at him with wide eyes fifteen feet away. He looked like a scared child. He thought the man’s name was Travis, but he couldn’t be sure. There were so many young men out here. He tried to give him a reassuring look. He tried to smile, but it came off like a grimace. Suddenly the boy disappeared in a red hot flash. Blade was covered with dirt, debris and human parts. He yelled a long desperate, “Nooo!”

  When the dirt cleared he looked to the spot; there was nothing, only a smoking hole. He felt tears fill the corners of his eyes. He was helpless, the dirt piled on him, trying to suffocate him. He put his head down and screamed into the rotting jungle floor.

  The barrage lasted 7 minutes. It was the heaviest artillery barrage any of the men had seen. When it ended it seemed the entire world took a deep breath. Captain Blade lifted his head, dirt cascaded off his helmet. He looked forward trying to shake the cobwebs out of his head. His ears were screaming, like a tidal wave siren was going off inside his skull. He couldn’t catch his breath. He was hyperventilating, the weight on his back making it hard to breathe. He put his arms beneath himself in push-up position and pushed his torso up. Dirt, leaves and jungle slid off him. He extracted himself, found his Thompson which was still clean beneath his body. He tried to yell an order, give a command, but it only came out as a moan.

  Something snapped past his head, was that a bee? Another went by. He saw the downed tree in front of him erupt like some invisible hammer was smashing it. He was confused, then his head cleared and he realized what he was seeing. On his knees he looked through the settling dust and saw the darkened gun ports of the bunkers winking with light. All along his shredded
line men were dazedly standing, getting their bearings, then being cut down by ruthless machine gun fire.

  Pouring through the gaps in the bunkers were Japanese soldiers with fixed bayonets on their rifles. Captain Blade shook his head and finally found his voice, “Fall back, fall back!” He reached for his radioman who’d been lying beside him. He found him under the dirt and gave his arm a pull. It came out of the dirt easily, too easily. He held his severed arm. He needed that radio, had to get more men up here to stop the attacking Japanese. He dug out the rest of his radioman and using his K-bar knife cut the straps of the backpack. He pulled the radio, it was slick with blood. He put the headpiece to his ear, but he couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in his ears. He lifted the radio and turned it towards him. He dropped it and cursed, there were three large smoking holes in it. “Fall back, fall back!” he screamed again.

  Men started hearing him and started reacting. At first, they wobbled and trotted, but as their heads cleared and the adrenalin kicked in they started running. “Back to your holes, back to your holes!”

  The eyes of the men running past him weren’t human; they were scared animals. If he didn’t reign them in they’d run all the way back to Australia. He grabbed a man running past and threw him to the ground, yelling in his face. “Covering fire!” Blade popped up and laid a long burst towards the charging Japanese. He didn’t know if he hit anything, but he slowed them down.

  The man he’d pulled down was still wide-eyed, but the crazy was being replaced by the eyes of a soldier. He put his M1 to his shoulder and emptied his clip into the Japs. Soon other men were joining in, dropping behind cover to shoot the screaming Japanese, then falling back to another position. Most of the men were still panicked, but the Japs weren’t advancing as fast now that they were taking casualties.

  Blade stayed with the soldier covering each other and moving back, shooting, moving. The line of enemy soldiers was close. Blade aimed from behind a big palm and was surprised to see a Japanese soldier only yards away coming straight for him, bayonet leading. He pulled the trigger and five forty-five caliber bullets slammed the soldier backwards into another charging soldier. This one scrambled over his fallen comrade and lunged. Blade leaned back behind the tree and watched the bayonet and rifle glance off it harmlessly. As the soldiers’ momentum moved him past the tree, Blade backstroked him with the butt of his Thompson. The soldier’s head crumpled like an overripe melon, sending his eyes squirting from his skull.