by Chris Glatte
The sound of booming artillery coming from the ridge they’d abandoned rolled down to them. They all looked towards it. The streaking shells slammed into the retreating Japanese Army. Sergeant Carver smiled and pointed, “We appreciate the medals, Sir, but sending their own shells back at them? Now that beats a medal any day.”
Part II
Bloody Bougainville
A WWII NOVEL
Copyright 2017 Chris Glatte
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
This is a work of fiction
Though based on an actual campaign during the second world war, none of the characters or events depicted follow an accurate historic account. Characters are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Thank You
Enjoy
Prologue
December 28th 1943, North of the Crown Prince Mountain Range
General Hyakutake didn’t like venturing far from the command headquarters at Buin, but getting out with the troops was good for morale, and he wanted to see first-hand the work being done to push the Imperialist American’s off the beachhead at Empress Augusta Bay.
The jungle was thick, making the air humid and sticky. It clung to the general like a wet rag. His staff clustered around him, their khaki colored tunics dark with sweat. The journey to the hills surrounding Empress Bay took most of the day. At some points, the road, which seemed more like a dirt track, was so choked they measured progress in meters rather than kilometers. They finally came to the end, and met a group of officers from the 17th Army. They braced and saluted their commander.
They walked General Hyakutake and his entourage of officers and soldiers through the thick jungle for five kilometers.
General Hyakutake had been on Bougainville for months. He’d retreated there after leading his men in defeat at Guadalcanal. He’d been ready to commit suicide for his failure, but his superiors ordered him not to take his life. They had a new assignment for him in the northern Solomon Islands. Bougainville, the largest of the Solomons and strategically important, needed a combat veteran for the coming clash with the allies.
The five-kilometer walk reminded him what his soldiers had to put up with everyday. The bugs were almost as thick as the jungle, and they all seemed to bite or sting. During his short walk he’d seen more snakes than he could count on two hands. His men hacked through the jungle making it easier for his old body, but it was still hard walking.
The officers assured him there were no Americans past the mountain range, but they still traveled as quietly as they could while hacking a path with machetes.
After two hours they stopped, and the sweating Captain Shigeo gestured to the wall of jungle that started to angle up towards the mountain range. “This is the pass our men go through to the foothills surrounding the Americans. It’s impossible to see from the air. Our men, along with many,” he smiled a crooked grin showing straight white teeth, “native volunteers, cut a path that passes through the mountain range. It is not ready for heavy vehicles but will be soon. Once in place, we will no longer need to haul our guns through the jungle.” He indicated the denseness surrounding them. “Just as you’ve stated in your plan, the foothills around Empress Bay are perfect staging zones for artillery. We can hit all three of their airfields.”
General Hyakutake nodded, “Yes, It will allow our forces to mass and push them back into the sea.” The old general didn’t smile. He’d been in almost constant combat for a decade and knew the vagaries of war. He’d seen too many officers exaggerate their successes. It was the reason he’d insisted on coming to see the roads for himself. “I want to see this road through the pass, Captain.”
Captain Shigeo bowed slightly, “Yes, sir. We have motorcycles with side cars. We can travel most of the way through, but there are some tight sections. As we speak, work parties are widening the road. You’ll see them as we pass.”
True to his word, when they’d gotten halfway through the mountain pass they came across a large group of men, women and children hacking and pounding the jungle back by hand. Their black bodies glistened with sweat as they swung hatchets and machetes. General Hyakutake stood in his sidecar and held up his hand. The small motorcade stopped, their engines ticking at idle. He got out of the car and stood watching the work. Captain Shigeo hustled up beside him. General Hyakutake said, “The natives use weapons. Has there been any trouble?”
Captain Shigeo nodded and called to a lieutenant who was overseeing a group of heavily armed soldiers. The Lieutenant ran up and went into an impossibly stiff salute. General Hyakutake returned the salute. Captain Shigeo said, “General, this is Lieutenant Hiromi. Tell the general how you deal with security issues.”
Lieutenant Hiromi bowed and pointed to a machine gun crew aiming their gun at penned natives. They were mostly young children, too young to work. Some held the bamboo bars and watched their families toil. “We have armed guards on constant watch, but if someone tries to escape or attacks, my men have orders to kill the children.”
General Hyakutake nodded. “Have you had trouble?”
The young Lieutenant nodded eagerly. “Yes, sir. The workers tried to overpower us a few weeks ago. My soldiers did their duty and gunned the children then we killed the attackers while the others watched. They did not die slow. There hasn’t been any trouble since.”
General Hyakutake nodded and said, “Keep up the good work, Lieutenant.” The man beamed, saluted and went back to watching the natives hacking at the jungle.
Satisfied, General Hyakutake ordered the motorcade back the way they’d come. Before motoring away he said to Captain Shigeo, “We will attack the Americans in a few months. This road is vital to our plans. Can you keep it hidden from the Americans?”
Captain Shigeo braced and with the confidence born of a man who’d never known defeat said, “Absolutely, sir.”
33
On February 9th, 1943, hostilities ceased on Guadalcanal. American blood from every branch of the military had been shed to secure its beaches. The men of the 164th Infantry Regiment had fought a bloody battle lasting from October 1942 through to the day the Japanese forces were defeated. They won the battle, but the war was just beginning.
The men of the 1st Marine Division went back to the states, but the grunts of the Americal Division were sent to the Fiji Islands to defend against Japanese aggression and to rest, recuperate and train.
The second platoon of Able Company had just finished a grueling ten-mile hike with full gear. The humid heat of the island drained their energy, pulling their bodily fluids from every pore like a carnivorous sponge. The men had been on the lush island for the past eight months.
Sergeant Carver made sure all the soldiers drank their canteens and refilled and drank again before he let them sit. They sprawled, turning their loose rank into an unorganized mass of sweating soldiers. Sergeant Carver kneeled.
Corporal O’Connor shucked his heavy pack, wiped his brow and spit. He wiped his mouth and looked sideways at Sergeant Carver. “Hell of a way to celebrate our anniversary.”
Sergeant Carver spit out the weed he was chewing. “Anniversary of what?”
“It’s October 13th. One year ago today we landed on the canal.”
Carver looked at the men surrounding him. There was only a handful from the original Guadalcanal force. Many had died, but most had been rotated home with debilitating wounds. He pulled a cigar from his pack. It was short and coming apart, but he pushed it into his mouth and shuffled it to the corner. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”
Corporal O’Connor nodded, thinking the same thing. “We were green as grass back then.”
Carver thought back to the men he’d served wit
h, the soldiers who’d died. The image of Private Dunphy skewered on the end of a Japanese bayonet always popped into his head. Will the memory ever fade? It still woke him from a dead sleep at least three times a week. The face would change, but it always ended with Dunphy’s vacant death stare.
The men lay around like vagabonds, but Sergeant Carver was proud of them. They’d been training almost constantly since arriving in late March. As replacements came in and filled the ranks, the old hands at first tolerated, then actively helped them assimilate into the unit. The constant training had pulled the men together. They’d gripe and complain, but the work became an enemy they could all hate together. The men were in the best shape of their lives and ready for action. Even the old hands, like Corporal O’Connor, who’d seen enough combat for six lifetimes was antsy to get back in the war.
Sergeant Carver stood and put his fists on his hips. He pulled his helmet low and moved his wet cigar to the other side of his mouth. O’Connor stood beside him; his red hair was black with sweat, his cheeks rosy red. He still looked like a kid until you looked at his eyes; they belonged to a man three times his age.
O’Connor asked, “You know where they’re sending us next?”
“What makes you think they’re sending us somewhere? You ain't comfortable on this island paradise?”
He shook his head and shuffled his feet, “We've been training like madmen. Don’t think they’re getting us ready for a parade.”
Sergeant Carver said, “Thought they’d send us to the New Georgia Campaign, but that hell hole’s all but finished. I overheard the brass going over a map of New Guinea. The Japs have a stronghold on the northern tip. Place called Rabaul; be a tough nut to crack by the sounds of it.”
Corporal O’Connor nodded and reached for his pack. “That sounds about right. Get us toughened up for a tough fight.” He put his backpack on and adjusted the straps. The men noticed and started rising from their prone positions. O’Connor was proud to see none of their rifles in the dirt. The GIs were filthy, but their weapons were clean. “The men are ready, Sarge. Ready for anything.”
December 25th, 1943 0100 hours
Sergeant Carver gripped the side of the troop ship as it swayed on the gentle sea. He felt in his pocket for a cigar but came up empty. He cussed, remembering he’d chewed his last one the night before. How am I supposed to go into combat without a cigar? He’d taken a liking to a particular kind of stogie the Fijian Islanders rolled. He used to smoke cigarettes but gave them up for the better tasting and longer lasting cigars.
He thought of the village elder he’d bartered with for the cigar. The old man had more wrinkles than any man he’d ever met. His nose was flat and wide taking up most of his face. He couldn’t remember his name, something unpronounceable to his mid-western mind. He’d offered the old man the last Japanese flag he had from Guadalcanal, a hard earned souvenir, but the man shook his head and handed him a box of the cigars and shooed him away with a toothless smile. His way of thanking us, I guess.
The night was warm, not sweltering like the days. Sweat still beaded on his skin, but it didn’t run off in rivulets like during the day. A sentry walked by with his M1 rifle slung over his shoulder. His steps were slow and deliberate. Carver eyed him as he got closer trying to figure out if he knew him. He decided he didn’t and spat into the black sea.
He looked to the beach a mile off the bow. It was mostly dark, but he thought he could see a dim light past the beach in the palms. He squinted, great way to get strafed. The thought took his gaze to the sky. It was moonless, and the stars were brilliant. He wondered what would happen if a Japanese Zero appeared. He instinctively felt for the stock of his Thompson sub-machine gun.
He heard steps coming behind him. He turned and saw his commanding officer, Lieutenant Jeffery Swan approaching. He pushed off the gunwale and came to attention, snapping off a salute. Lieutenant Swan returned the salute. It was quick and half-assed like he was embarrassed to be in charge. Carver frowned remembering the Lieutenant was just a kid straight out of his second year of college. Having Sergeant Carver salute him was like having his father salute him. “How are things, sir?” Lieutenant Swan reached for the gunwales, tripped and would have fallen at Carver’s feet if he hadn’t caught him. “Whoa, you okay, sir?” Even in the darkness, Sergeant Carver could see the man’s face was a crimson red.
He shook off Carver’s hand and looked for the culprit that tripped him. “Fine, fine. Tripped a little.” He leaned over the rail looking down at the black water. Carver tensed, ready to save him if he started to fall overboard. “Sure is dark out here.” Carver relaxed as Swan stood upright. He nodded. “How are the men?”
“They’re fine, sir. Ready to get off this rust bucket.”
Lieutenant Swan laughed too hard. “Yes, it is rusty, a rust bucket as you say.” Silence followed. Swan started to speak but stopped himself.
“Something on your mind, Lieutenant?”
Swan started picking his fingernails. The clicking sound grated on Carver, but he didn’t speak, waiting for Swan to get whatever was bothering him out. Swan finally spoke. “These past months have been tough. I’m proud of the men. All of them.”
Carver nodded, and when there was no more said, “Yessir, they gutted it out.” He spit over the side.
Lieutenant Swan tried to mimic it, but his spit barely cleared his chin and splatted on the deck between them. He brought his sleeved arm across his mouth. Christ, this kid is an infant.
The Lieutenant finally got around to what he wanted to say. “You’ve been in combat. You and a bunch of the other men.” Carver looked out over the sea, here it comes.
There was a long pause, and Carver was about to fill the gap telling him, ‘he’ll be okay if he remembers his training, it’s okay to be scared as long as you do your job…’ the standard response he’d given countless times to green, scared soldiers. But instead, Lieutenant Swan said, “What do you do if you have to take a shit?” he looked at the stunned Sergeant. “I mean I’ve got an irritable bowel, sometimes I just have to go, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. What if I’m leading an attack? Or giving an after action report in front of the brass?” he continued to pick his fingernails. He tore off a long thin piece causing his finger to bleed.
Sergeant Carver stared at his officer, a smile creeping across his face. Finally, he gave a hearty laugh and slapped Lieutenant Swan on the back. Between laughing and breathing, he said, “Well, shit Lieutenant, if that’s the least of your worries you’ll do fine out there.” He shook his head letting the laughter roll over him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. It felt good, the worry seemed to roll off his shoulders.
The Lieutenant smiled but didn’t laugh. Carver got control of himself. “If you gotta shit, then shit. I’m sure the brass’ll understand.” He broke out laughing again picturing the skinny lieutenant squatting in front of the brass. He couldn’t contain himself. The image sent him into a fit.
Lieutenant Swan moved to leave, but Carver wiped his eyes and put his hand on his shoulder. He got control. He turned serious. “Look, I’ll cover for you whenever I can, okay? I’m sure the brass would rather you didn’t shit your pants in front of them and if you’re leading an attack? Well, you won’t be the only one. Hell, you’ll probably get dysentery anyway. Probably cure your irritable bowel.”
Lieutenant Swan smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Sarge.” He turned to leave then spun back around, “Oh, one more thing.” Carver lifted his eyebrow wondering what it would be this time. Lieutenant Swan looked at the luminous dials on his watch. “Merry Christmas.”
34
Before the sun rose, the men of the 164th Infantry Regiment were on the landing craft shuttling to the beach of another Japanese-held island. The similarity to their landing on Guadalcanal over a year before was hard to ignore. Like Guadalcanal, they were landing after the Marine’s had already established a beachhead the month before, and like Guadalcanal, they were landing unopposed.
/>
The Marine’s Third Division had landed on November 1st and lost nearly 100 men before finally securing a beachhead and clearing Empress Augusta Bay of Japanese soldiers. They immediately pushed out into the jungle to secure a wider defensive zone. The going was tough; there was swamp just beyond the beach that bogged them down. Unlike Guadalcanal, the U.S. Navy was up to the task of defending the beachhead from marauding Japanese warships.
The allied generals wanted Bougainville in order to build airstrips that were close enough to bomb the heavily defended city of Rabaul. It was the last Japanese stronghold in the Solomon Islands.
The Japanese tried to dislodge the Marines with multiple counterattacks staged from landing craft on beaches north of the beachhead. The Marines repelled them each time, but casualties mounted.
When the airfield at Torokina Point was complete, the Marines considered the job done. They would be pulled off the island to be replaced by the well-rested Americal Division.
Sergeant Carver and his men didn’t know the bigger strategy; they only knew they were going into combat on Christmas morning. The gentle bay waves slapped against the landing craft as they sped toward the beach’s white sand. Sergeant Carver looked over his men in the dim light. They hunched under their steel pots, rifles pointing to the sky, prophylactics covering the barrels to protect from sea water. Most of the second platoon were replacements but there were still a few old hands. Of course, Corporal O’Connor, the crazy woodsman from Oregon was there, staring at the back of the man in front of him.
