by Chris Glatte
“The Japs are in the minefield.” He pulled the handheld radio from the ground and was about to call it in when he heard the roar of more artillery flying overhead. He watched as shells slammed into a horde of Japanese soldiers emerging from the jungle. They flew away as if made of grass. “Artillery’s giving them a good thrashing.”
The air filled with outgoing artillery. The Japanese soldiers continued to stream out of the jungle into the scything shrapnel. He watched in morbid fascination as dozens of men died, but they kept coming. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, they’re still coming.”
Minutes later the forward-most line of bunkers and trenches opened up. The .30 caliber machine guns chattered along with M1s and Thompson submachine guns. He couldn’t see what they were firing at, there was a small depression blocking his view, but at least some Japanese must’ve made it through the artillery storm. “They’re at the base of the hill. Hear that? Our guys are firing on them.”
The second line of defenses started firing. Corporal O’Connor put his cheek to the stock of his M1 and scanned for a target. It would be a long shot, but it was downhill, and he was a skilled marksman. He glimpsed a greenish blob crawling forward. He put the muzzle just below the soldiers head and fired. The rifle shot within the confines of the covered trench made everyone jump.
Carver shifted his binoculars and saw the soldier O’Connor had targeted continuing to move forward. “You missed, try again.” O’Connor adjusted his sights a fraction, blew out a breath and squeezed the trigger. Carver watched the soldier jerk as a spout of blood erupted from his holed helmet. “Bullseye. You’ve got another target further down the hill about ten yards. He’s to the right of the last guy. See him?”
“Got it.”
He fired and Carver watched the bullet slam into the dirt. “Adjust right a fraction and take him out.” O’Connor fired and Carver saw the soldier’s back erupt. The soldier arched and pushed himself down the hill and out of sight. “You got him.”
The other men in the trench were eager to join in and began firing. Carver yelled at them. “Make sure you’re not hitting our guys. You’re firing over their heads, be sure of your shots.”
He watched the Japanese soldiers struggling to get up the hill, but they entangled in the intricate layers of barbed wire he’d helped string. They were sitting ducks and died tangled and bleeding.
The Jap artillery had done a number on the wire. The long rows were mixed in a jumbled mess that made it even more formidable than before. Beyond them, troops continued to die in hails of shrapnel, but now they had more cover, the bomb craters themselves. More and more soldiers were making it to the wire.
He grabbed the private firing through the port to his right. He looked at him annoyed at being interrupted. Carver barked, “Go back to the mortar pits and tell them to hit the base of the hill just beyond the barbed wire barrier, then hurry back.”
The private, the name above his chest said, ‘Bauer,’ took off in a low crouch with his M1 pointing the way.
The firing from his line was sporadic. He doubted anyone besides O’Connor was hitting anything but dirt. He scanned the barbed wire and saw an officer pointing and yelling orders. He tapped O’Connor, “there’s an officer down there. Fifteen yards back from your first kill. See him waving his arms around?”
O’Connor squinted. “I see movement, but there’s a tree or something in the way.”
Carver moved back, “come to this port.” O’Connor moved and settled in. “See him?”
O’Connor said, “yep.” He blew out a breath and was putting pressure on the trigger when there was a sudden geyser of dirt blocking his view. He fired anyway. “Shit, the view’s blocked. Doubt I got him.”
Carver pushed him out of the way, and O’Connor went back to his shooting port. Carver peered through the slit, but he could no longer see the barbed wire section. It was obscured by explosions blowing dirt up in front of the machine gun pits. He watched the machine gun barrels continue to fire, but they’d slowed down, not able to distinguish easy targets. “Japs are getting smart, blocking the gunner’s view.”
O’Connor had stopped shooting. “Can’t see shit down there.”
“Hope Bauer got the word to the mortar pits.” Carver got brief glimpses through the dirt geysers and relayed what he saw happening. “They’ve breached some of the wire. They’re using their dead to bridge over. They’re getting close to the first line, dammit, where’s the mortars?”
As if in answer he heard the distinctive whistle of mortar shells arcing over their heads. He watched through the dust and debris as the big shells impacted beyond the wire. He could see men dying, hurtling through the air, missing pieces of their bodies. “That’s put a crimp in their giddy-up, but they have a path through the wire. Hope our guys can hold.” He put the binoculars on the dirt notch beside his knee and picked up his Thompson.
O’Connor took his eye from his sights and said, “Where you going?”
“I can’t hit shit from here. I’m moving up to the second line, lend ‘em a hand.” The men in the trench looked at him with wide eyes. They were replacements from the Headquarters company. They’d seen combat, but nothing like this. They looked like scared first graders. “You men stay here and hold this line. Do whatever Corporal O’Connor tells you to do.”
O’Connor shook his head. “I’m going with you, Sarge.”
Sergeant Carver wanted Corporal O’Connor beside him. He was the most competent fighter he’d ever known, but he was needed here. “No, stay here and keep them alive.” When O’Connor showed no signs of backing down, Carver said, “That’s an order.” He slapped his shoulder as he went past. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Sergeant Carver made his way along the trench works but was stopped by a section that had taken a direct artillery hit. Beyond it, he could see a group of soldiers firing out the tops of their hole. The near miss had torn the sandbagged roof off.
Carver looked down the hill. The mortars were wreaking havoc, and the artillery was still flashing in the jungle. He saw a flash to his right and noticed gull-winged corsairs circling the area looking for targets of opportunity. He watched as two of them pitched over and sliced towards the distant jungle. Rockets erupted from their wings and lanced into the jungle with explosive force. He thought they must be targeting Japanese artillery. They turned away at the last second, low against the jungle canopy. If they’d turned towards the battle, they’d risk flying into friendly artillery. They were cutting it close as it was.
He tore his eyes from the scene and leaped over the churned up ground. The two seconds of exposure were terrifying, but he didn’t draw any enemy fire. He dove into the bottom of the fighting hole, and one of the soldiers jumped and started to bring his rifle around, but stopped when he recognized Carver. “Jesus, Sarge you almost got your head blown off.”
Carver pushed himself to a crouch and adjusted his helmet while resting his Thompson on his knee. “Not gonna die by your hand, Gomez.”
Private Gomez grinned and crouched beside him. The soldier next to him looked over his shoulder at the new arrival. Gomez punched him in the ass. “Keep firing, hermano.”
The soldier sneered, “Speak English, Gomez.” He sighted down his M1 and fired.
Gomez ignored him. “What brings you to these parts, Sarge?”
“I’m making my way to the front trenches, looks like the Japs are getting close to our lines.”
Gomez nodded. “They are. Got through the barbed wire, but we’ve stopped ‘em there. Crazy bastards are using their own dead for cover. The mortars are doing a good job on ‘em though.”
The soldier beside him pitched backward and slumped in the back of the pit. Carver put his Thompson against the bank and moved to his side. The man’s helmet was pushed over his face. Carver pushed it back, “You Okay…?” his voice caught in his throat as he saw the soldiers pulped face.
Gomez gritted his teeth. “Sons-of-bitches.” He sprang into his firing position and p
ulled the trigger until the clip pinged.
Carver found a slot and brought his Thompson to his shoulder and took in the scene. The next line of trenches and bunkers were twenty yards in front. He could see the barrels of the .30 caliber machine guns spitting fire down the hill in short controlled bursts. He could make out Japanese soldiers still coming out of the jungle and working their way forward using the bomb craters for cover. He saw movement beyond the bunkers and fired a three round burst of .45 caliber. He had no idea if he hit anything, but he felt better finally entering the fight.
A group of ten Japanese soldiers stood and fired at the machine gun bunker on the right. The gunner moved his barrel to cut them down and as he did soldiers jumped up from the other direction and rushed forward screaming with their bayonets leading. The other machine gun was dealing with his own targets and didn’t notice the attack. Carver slapped Gomez on the shoulder and pointed. He lined up his sights and squeezed off a short burst, fighting to keep the barrel from rising. His bullets sliced into two attackers and they went down with blossoming chest wounds.
More were cut down, but there were too many, and they got close enough to the machine gunners to keep Carver and Gomez from firing. “Shit, they’re overrunning the bunker.”
Gomez yelled and sprang from the trench and took off down the hill with a war whoop. The men beside him looked after him then at Carver. Carver jumped out yelling, “Let’s go!” he had his Thompson at waist level as he ran to catch up with the crazed Private Gomez.
Gomez ran the twenty yards in record time, leaping over bomb craters and twisted logs. A Japanese soldier was thrusting his rifle into the open firing port of the machine gun nest. He looked up in time to see Gomez bearing down on him with death in his eyes. The Japanese tried to extract his bayonet from the GI’s chest but was too late. Gomez shot him twice sending him backward into another soldier. He stood on the sandbagged roof and shot his M1 until his clip pinged.
A pile of enemy soldiers was at his feet, but there were too many. He reached to reload knowing he’d die in seconds, but Sergeant Carver came in a crouch and hosed the attackers down with a sustained burst. The four men with him crouched and joined the slaughter.
When there were no more targets, Sergeant Carver grabbed Private Gomez by the shoulder. “Don’t ever do that shit again, soldier.” Gomez looked at him blankly. Carver pushed him down as bullets started smacking around them. The soldier to Carver’s right grunted and grabbed his throat. Blood squirted out from between his fingers as he tried to stop the flow. Carver pulled the wounded man down and shoved him into the trench beside the machine gun nest. He pulled Gomez next and the rest of the men dove for cover.
Gomez came crawling over with blood streaming down his face. “Is he alright? Is he okay?”
Carver put his hands over the wounded man’s neck and felt the hot pulsing of arterial blood. Soon the flow slowed and finally stopped, and the man’s eyes went blank. Carver pushed Gomez towards the unmanned machine gun nest. “He’s gone. Get on the thirty caliber or they’ll overrun this position.” Gomez hesitated, wanting to help the soldier. Carver spit, “Now!”
Gomez pushed his way into the machine gun nest. He shoved the two dead soldiers out the other way and called, “Gus, be my loader.”
Gus stopped firing his M1 and scooted into the covered machine gun nest. He checked the belted ammunition and tapped Gomez on the helmet. “It’s good, fire.”
Gomez sighted down the smoking barrel but couldn’t see anything. There were too many Jap bodies blocking his view. He yelled, “Clear the port. I can’t see anything.”
Carver peaked over the edge and saw the problem. “Cover me.” He jumped out of the hole with his Thompson at hip level and fired down the hill. He dove the ten feet to the base of the firing port and pulled a Jap body down the hill. The soldier rolled, spilling entrails from his belly. Bullets whipped and snapped as he fast crawled back to the trench. He yelled, “Fire.”
Gomez didn’t waste any time. He saw looming shapes sprinting towards him. He depressed the trigger and felt the .30 caliber bounce and rock on the tripod. He swept the barrel back and forth across a wide swath. He couldn’t see anything but his own piece of ground. He hoped the rest of the platoon was holding their end of the line.
The Japanese attack faltered, and soon there were no more targets. He stopped firing and looked past the red hot barrel. The bodies were stacked three deep. The sight made him sick, but he swallowed the bile rising in his throat.
Gus Hansen, his loader leaned over and looked out the gunport. “Holy shit. You knocked the crap out of ‘em.” He pointed at the glowing barrel. “I think you fried the barrel though. Is there another?”
Gomez looked around the smoke filled space. He saw a gunny sack on the floor. It was splattered with blood from the previous gunners. Dust and dirt clung, making the blood look like jelly. He lifted the bag. It was heavy and awkward. “Here it is. Let’s swap it out before they come again.” He pulled the barrel into the bunker. “The damned thing’s still too hot.”
The sound of their artillery and mortars had ceased and the battlefield took on an eery silence. It didn’t last. The sound of arcing incoming mortar shells made them duck. Sergeant Carver yelled, “Incoming! Take cover!”
The mortars concentrated on the lower section of the line, sweeping back and forth. Carver pushed his way into the cover of the machine gun nest. The trenches to either side weren’t covered, and the mortars were threatening direct hits.
Carver watched Private Gomez and Hansen struggling with the .30 caliber barrel. Gomez held the main gun while Hansen gripped the barrel, using the gunny sack as a hot pad. They grunted and twisted trying to remove the melted barrel. It didn’t budge. Through labored breathing, Gomez gasped, “it’s fused. It’s not working.”
The final mortar rounds landed spewing white smoke instead of shrapnel. Carver said, “smoke, they’re shooting smoke. Get that gun going.” He moved back to the open trench and sighted down his Thompson. The soldiers to his right dusted off and peered over the edge. The smoke was thick, wafting along the ground like fog. “Can’t see shit.” He looked into the darkness of the machine gun nest. Gomez and Hansen were still struggling. “Forget the thirty-cal, grab your weapons, they’re coming.”
Up and down the line there was sporadic firing, but Carver couldn’t see what they were targeting. He strained to see through the smoke. All at once shapes appeared like dim silhouettes. A roar went up from the charging Japanese that made his skin crawl.
There were suddenly too many targets to count. He fired short bursts, and they dropped but were replaced by three more. He heard the .30 caliber further down the line chattering. Without both firing, he doubted they could hold.
The Japanese were bursting through the smoke fifteen yards from the line. 61mm mortar shells burst amongst them leaving gaps which quickly filled in with more troops.
He shot through the rest of his magazine and pulled another from his ammo pouch, and slammed it into place. The Japanese were close. They had to disengage or die in place. He made the decision, “Fall back, fall back!” Two soldiers to his right stood and leaped over the trench. They took two steps and were cut down. Carver yelled, “Use the trenches for cover. Go, go!” he stood and swept his Thompson across the line of charging soldiers. The heavy slugs threw them back, but it wasn’t enough. A screaming Japanese soldier leaped into the trench, his bayonet leading. Carver spun and depressed the trigger sending bullets into his chest. Another soldier dove at him. He didn’t have time to shoot, so he used his Thompson to parry the rifle and bayonet. The diving soldier sprawled on the bottom of the trench and Carver slammed the butt of his weapon into his face with a sickening crunch.
Up and down the line he saw soldiers struggling to get out of the trench. He grabbed Gomez by the shoulder and pushed him towards the exit. Hansen followed, and Carver followed him. They ran, staying low. Japanese soldiers screamed and fired all around them, cutting men down. A bulle
t slammed into the wall beside him. He spun and saw a screaming Japanese soldier running towards him. He fired his Thompson from the hip and stitched him from his kneecap to forehead. The soldier snapped backward, dead before he hit the ground.
Another soldier was behind him. He leaped over his fallen comrade and Carver depressed the trigger, but nothing happened. He didn’t have time to reload. He sprang to the side avoiding the lunging bayonet and, holding onto the hot barrel, swung his Thompson like a baseball bat. The wooden stock slammed into the back of the soldier’s head and he fell. Carver stomped on his head, and ran to catch up.
He fumbled in his ammo pouch for another magazine but brushed across a grenade he had hanging from his belt. He pulled it free while running. He could feel more enemy soldiers coming up the trench. He was approaching a turn. He went around the corner and tossed the grenade back the way he’d come.
He took off, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Five seconds later the grenade exploded, and he heard screams above the shooting and yelling. He turned and aimed down the trench, but no one rounded the corner.
Bullets smacked beside his head, and he ducked down and continued running. The trench made another turn, and as he came to it, he yelled out, “Friendly coming.” His feet went out from beneath him as he rounded the corner and looked into the maw of an M1 barrel. The soldier’s grin disappeared as his eyes focused on something behind Carver. He watched the barrel rise and the soldier fired three times in quick succession, but then was thrown back as a bullet explode his chest. Private Hansen looked down at the wound in surprise. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he went down.
Carver rolled onto his back and held his Thompson, ready to shoot, but there was no one there. He remembered he hadn’t reloaded. He cussed under his breath and swapped the empty magazine for the full. He pulled back the charging mechanism, checked the safety, and went into a crouch. He put the Thompson to his shoulder and was about to stand when he felt, rather than heard .30 caliber bullets flying close over his head.
