The 164th Regiment Series Boxset

by Chris Glatte

  The four soldiers stood outside the still dark doorway of the hut. The smell of blood and cordite was strong. They stared into the darkness, no one wanting to enter until they could see better. Gradually, minute by minute, the sky lightened and brought color and depth to the world. The full devastation of the hut itself was evident. The walls were torn, with large pieces of thatch hanging to the ground. The roof was shredded; it wouldn’t provide cover unless they repaired it.

  When it was light enough, Sergeant Carver took a step to the doorway. He looked at the others, then back to the doorway and stepped through. Everyone except Dunphy followed. It was apparent what Dunphy had slipped on in the night. The floor was covered with congealed blood and unidentifiable body parts. His boot print was clearly visible on a dull white piece of what must have been intestine.

  The hut was a room of gore. The bodies were strewn around, none having all their limbs. Hooper heaved over and added his vomit to the scene. O'Connor quickly followed. Carver stood there looking side to side, taking it all in. He stepped over body parts to the mostly intact man in the corner, the moaner. He noticed the shoulder boards, an officer. He kneeled down, looking into the dead eyes. The man had a large belly wound; Dunphy had saved him from a long painful death. He stood and scowled at the smoking radio still sitting on the table. He wondered how often they were supposed to check in. At least daily, he assumed. How long before they send a squad up here to check out the radio silence?

  “All right, ladies. Let’s get this shit cleaned up. We need to bury them or we’ll be smelling them soon enough.” He looked out the back doorway, “There’s soft ground over there. O'Connor, go through their bags and see if you can find some ponchos to roll them in. I’ll help you.” He looked at Hooper, “See about any weapons and ammo you can salvage. We may need ‘em when they come snooping.” He yelled, “Dunphy, start digging a hole over beyond the hut. We’ll join you soon enough.” He could hear Dunphy walking around the hut. He hadn’t said much since last night’s attack. Every man dealt with his emotions differently.

  24

  As Colonel Araki watched C Company disappear into the jungle towards the suspected American observation post, he wondered about his old friend, Thomas Welch. Could he trust him? Probably, but how far? It was one thing to betray your countrymen, particularly when he considered Japan his home, but would he betray his race?

  With his arms clasped behind him he called for his aide. “Send word to Lieutenant Katayama. Tell him to expect C Company to pass in front of his position sometime this evening.” The aide bowed and quickly left. He nodded in satisfaction. Whatever happens, the whiny rat is out of my hair for a while.

  He went back to the map table and looked over his defenses and the American line. The American Army had proven to be almost as tough as the hated Marines. They had better weapons, but poor leadership. He’d let them crash against his defenses again.

  He put his finger on the map with the eight red x’s. He smiled. The Americans were unable to hit his precious 105mm artillery pieces hidden in the hills. Their elevated positions allowed them to hit the American front lines without worry of counter-battery fire. He thought about the grim sacrifices his men had endured to cut the road through the relentless jungle in order to get the massive guns to the ridge. Men had died, mostly natives, but some of his own as well. The sacrifice was paying off. He had the Americans at a standstill. When they attacked again he’d be ready to push them back with his full force. He’d push them off the beaches and off his airfield. Once he owned the airfield he’d destroy the last remnants of resistance.

  Welch was given a sidearm, but not a rifle. At first, he took offense, but thought better of it when he saw Araki’s glare. The message was clear; I don’t trust you completely. Welch strapped the Nambu pistol to his belt and nodded his pleasure. He didn’t relish the thought of patrolling without a weapon.

  They left at dawn. They made their way through the intricate barbed wire barricades by following a guide. When they were through, they went into a single file line and followed the winding path leading up the canyon. It followed a creek which flowed clear and strong. The farther they walked the smaller and steeper the creek became.

  The soldiers moved well, but he couldn’t help comparing them to their American counterparts. The Americans were better in the jungle; they moved with more skill.

  He’d learned through eavesdropping that the original C Company had been decimated by the American Marines. Most of the old veterans were casualties. C Company was now made up of replacements. They’d come in on what the Americans called the Tokyo express; an almost nightly reinforcement by Japanese navy cruisers. He swelled with pride thinking how the Japanese navy was having its way with the Americans. There was no way the Japanese could lose this war; the Americans were too weak. He felt certain that if they beat them here at Guadalcanal, there’d be no bouncing back. They’d sue for peace or containment and concentrate on the war in Europe. By the time they got back around to the Japanese, the world would be sick of war and the Japanese would be a formidable world power. The thought crossed his mind, what if I’m wrong? But he dispelled it out of hand.

  As the trail steepened, the trail of men slowed. Welch was much taller than the Japanese soldiers and more used to traveling in the jungle. He was frustrated with the slow progress, but kept his thoughts to himself, a smile on his face instead.

  He knew he belonged with the Japanese, but that didn’t mean they knew it. To them he was a gaijin, a foreigner, no matter how well he spoke their language. He’d dealt with the same thing back in Japan. He’d ignored the looks and slights until, eventually he was looked at, not as an equal, but perhaps tolerated. It would be harder for these men; they’d been taught that all other races were inferior. To Welch this was a ridiculous twist of history, one he assumed was procreated to keep the soldiers fighting. Once the war was over and he returned to Japan, the animosity would disappear like snow in the sun.

  They marched for two hours before Lieutenant Kogi called for a ten-minute rest. Instead of sitting, Welch walked past the reclining men and stood in front of Lieutenant Kogi, who was sipping from his canteen while studying a map. When he saw Welch, he nodded. Welch said, “Lieutenant Kogi, Sir,” He bowed and stayed that way until the lieutenant bowed back. “Sir, I have been on this trail before. It gets steeper, then flattens out for the final mile to the ridge.”

  Lieutenant Kogi interrupted, “Yes, I can read a map, Mr. Welch.” He shook it in his hand.

  “Sir, no disrespect, but I don’t think we’ll make it to the top before nightfall unless we quicken our pace.” He kept his eyes averted from the young lieutenant’s gaze.

  Lieutenant Kogi stared at him, not sure if he should be offended or thankful for this foreigner’s input. The thought of not completing his mission the way Colonel Araki had laid it out made him almost physically ill. That was not a report he wanted to make. “What is your suggestion, Mr. Welch?”

  He bowed again, “Sir, I could lead the patrol. No disrespect to your men, but I know this area and can get us there quicker.”

  Lieutenant Kogi looked at him with raised eyebrows. “You know of a faster way than the trail?”

  “There are parts of the trail that take aimless, meandering turns. I can avoid these spots and take a more direct route to the ridge, Sir.”

  Lieutenant Kogi considered it, nodded and spoke to his sergeant, “Tell Private Asha to accompany Mr. Welch on point.” The sergeant, a thick man with hands that looked like they could crush coconuts, nodded and took Welch by the arm, dragging him up the line with an iron grip.

  The patrol was back on its feet and following Welch. He was moving much faster than Private Asha had been. He looked back at the panting soldier and grinned. The man had been waffling and now he was working. He’d make an enemy of the private, but a friend of the lieutenant…a worthwhile trade.

  Another hour and they were past the steeps and onto the more open, flatter section. The thick jungle had
given way to a forest-like setting with tall trees intermingling to block any sunlight from getting to the jungle floor. The walking was like strolling through a cushioned field of moss. Their progress increased and it was obvious they’d make the ridge with hours to spare.

  When they broke out of the jungle canopy they could see the top of the ridge. Welch stopped, took a knee and waited for the sergeant and lieutenant. Lieutenant Katayama spread the men out and they slowly advanced up the hill. Welch had his sidearm out. He licked his lips, hoping they found Morrisey and his men napping, or better yet, obliterated. He let the soldiers advance past him. If they weren’t napping and weren’t already dead, they’d engage them at any second. Or will they realize they’re outnumbered and simply melt back into the jungle? He hoped not.

  As the forward elements got within ten yards of the top, Welch noticed the smell of cordite and smoke. There were bomb craters all around, some still smoldering. He puffed his chest, impressed with the Japanese artillery’s accuracy. He crested the top, looking from side to side for any bodies. Would they have been removed? If there were any survivors, probably. The natives had already buried men only days before. If they lost more in the bombing, it may be enough to take them out of the war for good. He wondered if Ahio would take advantage of the power vacuum.

  There was shouting from the side of the ridge. A soldier had found something. Welch went to the call. A corporal was waving the lieutenant over. Welch arrived at the same time. The soldier was pointing to a destroyed structure. It looked to be the remnants of a hut built into the ridge. The wood and thatch was shredded and parts were burned. If anyone had been inside the hut, they wouldn’t have survived. Another soldier further down the slope yelled.

  Welch followed Lt. Kogi. Kogi’s nose crinkled as he approached the private. The air smelled fetid, like dead flesh. The private was excited. He pointed and said, “There’s body parts spread all around here, Sir.” The burly sergeant went down the hill fast. He inspected something, then leaned over and lifted a thick stick. It had something on the end, something shiny. Welch gulped when he realized it wasn’t a stick, but a severed arm. The shiny piece was a watch. The sergeant smiled, undid the clasp and held the bloody watch to his ear. He threw the arm away like a piece of trash. He shook the watch and scowled, “Broken,” he muttered. He held it up for the officer to see, “Looks American, Sir.” He shoved it in his pocket; a good souvenir.

  The men walked amongst the body parts looking for more treasures, but only found torn flesh, ragged boots and clothing. Lieutenant Kogi approached Welch and said, “Looks like your friends were killed to the man.” Welch raised an eyebrow, and Kogi continued, “Otherwise they would have buried them or taken them away.”

  Welch decided not to respond, but nodded. He wondered to himself, doesn’t seem like enough men and why’d we only find white men? The natives wouldn’t leave them to rot in the sun. To Lieutenant Kogi he said, “Looks that way.”

  Lieutenant Kogi had his men pile the body parts in a bomb crater and cover them as best they could. It wasn’t out of respect for the dead, but rather to cover up the putrid smell of their decaying bodies.

  Lieutenant Kogi spread his men out along the ridge. He had them dig foxholes in case of attack and he called into headquarters. He relayed what they’d found. His chest puffed out and his chin raised as he waited to accept the praise from a job well done. But instead the words seemed to deflate him and his brow furrowed in concern. Welch was standing nearby and noticed the change in Lt. Kogi. He stayed close, hoping to hear.

  When Kogi signed off, Welch said, “Were they happy to hear of the successful mission?”

  Lieutenant Kogi was staring at the ground, but Welch’s words brought him from his reverie. He looked past Welch and called, “Sergeant, get the squad leaders and come to me.” The sergeant went to gather the men. Lieutenant Kogi spoke to Welch, “We have a new mission.” He looked past Welch towards the hill in the distance across the valley. Welch spun around trying to see where he was looking. “The Colonel has lost contact with our observation post. He’s worried they’ve been attacked. At first light we’ll find out.”

  Welch couldn’t have been more disappointed; he’d hoped to convince Kogi to attack Captain Morrisey’s village. He had half a company and surprise, more than enough to completely destroy his former leader’s lair. He walked away sat on a rock outcropping and took a long pull from his canteen. He gazed across the darkening valley. The hill was only half visible from the ridge. They were probably having radio trouble. They’d waste a whole day, maybe more, chasing ghosts. He threw the empty canteen to the ground.

  25

  After the dead were cleared from the hut, they got busy pooling their resources and digging in. Sergeant Carver was pleased with the number of weapons the Japanese had left them: two nambu mounted machine guns with three bricks of ammo each, twelve grenades, twenty 50mm high explosive mortar rounds and one undamaged type 89 mortar tube. It was a small caliber tube known to G.I.’s as a ‘knee mortar.’ It only required one man to operate and was more like a grenade launcher than a mortar. They only recovered one workable Arisaka rifle; most had been in the hut and been destroyed. Carver tested the bolt action, familiarizing himself with the rifle. He slung it over his shoulder wondering if it was sighted in properly.

  He had his men dig in along the line where he thought the Japanese would come; along the communication wire. Their holes were spaced out twenty yards from each other. The first line of holes was down the hill about thirty yards, the next twenty yards and the final on the ridge itself. If they were pushed back to the ridge the only escape would be off the backside and into the jungle.

  Carver had no illusions though. If the Japanese came with anything larger than a patrol his four-man unit would have little chance of stopping them, no matter how well they were dug in. And come they would. Once the hilltop outpost failed to check in, he had no doubt they’d investigate. He only hoped they’d hold off until the American attack started. Once it began, the Japanese would have their hands full and might forget about them.

  While the men were busting their asses setting up defenses, Carver contacted headquarters. He’d been surprised when Lt. Smote had passed him off to Colonel Sinclair. He snapped to attention, even though he was on the radio. The colonel laid it out for him. The attack would happen soon and the only way it could succeed was silencing the 105mm pieces the Japanese had hidden somewhere in the hills. It was imperative they hold the ridge until the attack. Carver understood their position and the radio was handed back to Lt. Smote, who started taking down map coordinates of likely targets. Carver was like a kid in a candy store, relaying all the ripe targets he was seeing through Captain Morrisey’s field glasses.

  Lieutenant Smote assured him his fire missions were priority and he’d have naval guns and Marine air units at his disposal. Carver told him the situation with the Japanese radio check-in problem. Lieutenant Smote said he’d have fighters in the air all day flying cover for him. If he needed assistance, they were at his disposal. At night he’d be on his own, but hopefully nothing would happen and they’d be calling shots in the morning. Carver didn’t put much stock in wishful thinking. In combat, nothing ever went as planned. He’d put up the best defense he could, but he wasn’t going to sacrifice the rest of his squad for nothing. If it looked like they’d be overrun, he’d give the order to retreat. If it came to that, they’d be four separate men on their own, fighting for their lives in a hostile environment.

  The rest of the day was spent working. The men dug their holes deep and reinforced them with whatever they could find. Each of the twelve holes were sturdy and easily entered and abandoned. Carver put the machine guns in the outermost holes. None of the men knew how to use the Nambus, but were able to figure them out in short order. Each man knew how to shoot and load the sticks of ammo, but no one knew for sure how to clear a jam.

  The Nambus had deadly reputations for their high rate of fire and their reliability, so
they might not need to know how to clear a jam. They’d all been introduced to the light weight knee mortars back on New Caledonia. A soldier simply braced the shaped base plate, angled the tube at forty-five degrees, indicated with a small leveler bubble window, dialed in the distance to target in meters, pulled the pin on the projectile, dropped it in and pulled the lanyard attached to the trigger. The shell would launch and explode on impact. The mortar tube was set up in Corporal Hooper’s hole. The right Nambu was Pvt. Dunphy’s responsibility and the left, O'Connor’s. Sergeant Carver would be helping load O'Connor, but would move wherever he was needed.

  By late afternoon, Carver’s eyes burned from staring through the field glasses, looking for more Japanese targets. The constant drone of circling Marine fighters took on a different tone and he looked to the cloudless blue sky. There was a new sound, more engines. They were higher pitched, as if they were diving. He caught a metallic flash out of the corner of his eye. He put the glasses to his eyes, but couldn’t find it again. O'Connor pointed to the sky, “Look, Jap fighters.”

  The Marines were rising to meet at least four Zeros diving on them. They were only dots to the men on the ground, but they knew the pilots were in a deadly battle of survival. Two to four weren’t good odds. The dots closed on each other, then the darker dots, the Marines, flashed through. One of the Zeros flashed and a black plume of smoke appeared. It looked like a careless child marking a perfectly blue sheet of paper with a ragged black marker.