by Chris Glatte
When the column finally stopped, he bumped into the man in front of him. He’d been walking so long, he was confused by the stop. He focused and got his head back into combat mode. All thoughts of Lilly vanished as he found Lt. Swan. “We’re at the jump-off point,” Swan whispered. He pointed ahead. “The Filipino kid says the bunkers are a thousand yards that way.” He flashed a quick grin. “We’re behind ‘em.”
Carver peered into the dark jungle and shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it, sir.”
Another figure approached from behind. Captain Flannigan said, “What’s happening Lieutenant?”
“We’ve arrived, sir.”
Flannigan looked around with wide eyes as if the jungle would come alive at any second and consume him. He looked at the glowing hands of his watch. “We’re early.” He nodded in satisfaction. “The men did well, have ‘em take a fifteen-minute break before we move up to the attack point. I’ll radio HQ.”
Lieutenant Swan said, “Yes, sir.”
An hour later both Able and Baker were spread out facing north. The jungle was silent as they waited for dawn. Major Cruz had sent scouts forward to pinpoint exactly where the bunkers were. They returned saying they could easily advance another couple hundred yards without tipping the enemy off.
Captain Flannigan was in contact with HQ. General Arnold wanted them to attack at precisely 0600. There would be no morning artillery to tip the Japanese to an imminent attack. They’d hit the bunkers at precisely the same time and take them by surprise.
After moving up, they hunched down in the darkness. Carver couldn’t see the bunkers, still too dark, but he could smell burnt flesh and cordite wafting through the air. He licked his lips and looked at his watch. All there was to do now was wait.
O’Connor had his back against a palm. According to his watch they had ten minutes until the attack. He’d lost track of the Filipino platoon and Major Cruz, Celine. Even her name was beautiful. He spit and thought, now I’m sounding like Carver. The Filipinos wouldn’t be a part of the initial attack. He was thankful for that. He’d only just met her, but somehow, she’d changed his life. The thought of her dying in a hail of Japanese bullets made him almost physically ill.
He shook his head. I’ve gotta get my head in the game. He closed his eyes and tried to put thoughts of her into a locked corner of his mind to access later. He looked around. The jungle was lightening and he could see dim outlines of his men surrounding him. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could sense their fear and nervous energy. They’d fought in the bunkers most of yesterday then did a forced night march and now they were chomping at the bit to attack again. He blew out a long breath. Where do these men come from? All thoughts of the major faded. These fine men deserved his undivided attention. He’d do everything he could to get them through the next few hours … alive.
He looked at his watch and leaned over to slap the GI lying a few feet away. Corporal Mathews flinched and looked at O’Connor. O’Connor flashed him three fingers … three minutes. The signal went down the line and the GIs went from prone to crouching positions. There was no sound coming from the bunkers they knew to be only fifty yards ahead. The Filipinos assured them there were no sentries guarding the enemy rear. They would take them completely by surprise.
Dawn broke somewhere out over the sea and O’Connor could feel the slight dip in temperature even through the insulation of the jungle. He’d been careful to remind the men to drink plenty of water after the march. The constant struggle to stay hydrated was sometimes more difficult than fighting the Japanese. The constant sound of insects increased as the morning progressed. He felt insects crawling on him, but he ignored them.
Off to the left, there was movement. He glanced at his watch, it was time. He got to his feet but remained in a crouch. The plan was to advance to contact. There’d be no running charge, but a controlled steady advance, using the natural cover.
He took the first step toward the bunkers. It felt good to finally be moving again. He could feel the tightness in his muscles, but it faded with each step. Even though he was surrounded by a hundred other men, he moved quietly. He watched his step, instinctively using the outside of his foot and rolling forward, not making a sound. His eyes beneath the low brim of his steel helmet scanned for threats, but it was bare jungle.
He stopped abruptly when the sound of a machine gun pierced the morning stillness. He fought the urge to dive for cover. The gun was firing away from them, toward the rest of the regiment attacking from the front. More machine guns joined, until it sounded like one massive orchestra of death. There was yelling ahead and O’Connor could see movement, enemy movement. In the low light, less than thirty yards away, he saw a flash and a puff of white smoke. He hunched lower and recognized the unmistakable sound of a firing mortar. He couldn’t help grinning, they were coming up directly behind the deadly mortars that had killed and maimed so many GIs the day before.
He broke into a trot and the men did the same. He felt a surge of adrenaline course through his body. He could see the structure hiding the mortar pits. They were well fortified and well dug in. It would take a direct artillery hit to take them out.
O’Connor ran up to stacked bamboo that formed the back wall of the mortar pit. He nodded at Corporal Mathews and surged around the corner with his Carbine on his shoulder. There were Japanese soldiers scurrying everywhere. Some transported mortar rounds to the waiting tubes, others hung the mortars and dropped on command. It was an efficient killing machine.
O’Connor stood transfixed for an instant, taking in the scene. No one seemed to notice him. A soldier transporting a mortar shell suddenly stopped and stared at the tall, lanky American. It took him an instant to realize he was looking at his own death. The soldier’s mouth opened to yell. O’Connor fired, sending the soldier stumbling back into a steaming mortar tube. The soldier manning the tube yelled out, cursing the dying soldier’s clumsiness. O’Connor pumped rounds into him too.
More GIs poured into the space. Corporal Mathews opened up with his snub-nosed Thompson and swept the entire area with .45 caliber slugs. The Japanese never knew what hit them. Their bodies crumpled and erupted with gaping wounds.
O’Connor pulled the trigger on an empty chamber. He’d burned through his thirty-round magazine. He quickly swapped it out for a fresh one. He let the rest of the GIs mop up any Japanese left alive. He followed the trench out of the mortar pit area. He remembered from the schematic, that the trench led directly to the back entrance of the bunkers. He yelled. “Flame, up!” As he moved cautiously forward he heard the call for the flamethrower sifting through the ranks.
A Japanese soldier came around the corner pushing a cart stacked with boxes. He wore round glasses on his angular face. When he noticed the tall American he stopped and stared, trying to come to terms with what he was seeing. O’Connor shot from the hip. The soldier reeled back and clutched his belly. Thick blood seeped through his fingers and he looked into O’Connor’s eyes with fear and confusion. O’Connor aimed and put a .30 caliber round neatly between his eyes. The soldier’s head snapped back and he fell to the ground, his glasses still firmly attached.
O’Connor moved past the dead soldier with his carbine ready. Mathews touched his arm. “Flame’s here.”
O’Connor looked back at the GI holding the ominous flamethrower. The GI grinned at him like some deranged devil and pulled a pair of dirty goggles over his eyes. O’Connor nodded. “Get ready. I’ll lead but be ready to blast the ‘em.” Private Hampton licked his cracked lips and nodded.
O’Connor got to the end of the trench. The machine gun fire hadn’t let up, but the mortar pits were silenced. He peaked his head around the corner. He could see the back of a bunker. The door was shut. There was no sign of a sentry. Japs aren’t expecting us. He trotted to the door. The trench continued straight for another twenty yards then made a left turn, no doubt leading to another bunker. He kept his eyes on the trench. The men knew what to do.
Corporal
Mathews clutched the steel door handle and pulled. The door opened easily on greased hinges. He heard a Japanese soldier say something, perhaps greeting the returning ammo delivery soldier. Mathews fired his Thompson into the dimness. He heard a scream. He stepped away from the door and nodded to Private Hampton.
Hampton stepped beside him and pulled the front trigger of the flamethrower. Orange sparks spewed out the front of the muzzle. He stepped into the doorway, aimed low and pulled the rear trigger with a hard steady grip. Gasoline spewed out the nozzle and lit as it passed the sparks. The sudden light, lit up the inside of the bunker and Private Hampton could clearly see his victim’s stunned faces. There were dozens of them. He clenched his teeth as he swept the flames side to side. The faces disappeared in fire. Flaming bodies scurried everywhere, trying to outrun their fiery fate. The flame lasted eight seconds before the spark ran its course. The roar of the flames mixed with the screaming of dying men filled the space.
Mathews followed him in. The scene nauseated him. The screaming agony, the smell of burnt flesh mixed with gasoline, it was too much. He lurched back but ran into another soldier directly behind him. O’Connor rasped, “Cover the stairway to the right.” Mathews was glad for an assignment, something to get him away from the devastation being spewed from the nozzle of Hampton’s cooker.
Mathews remembered the layout of the bunkers from the day before. The flames lit up the area and he could see the stairway leading down to the lower level. He crouched on the lip of the stairs with his Thompson ready. More men joined him. The sounds of screaming, dying men stopped, but the roar of the flames continued. Thick smoke moved on the ceiling and Mathews imagined he must be breathing their souls.
Private Dawson gasped. “Mother Mary, I think that crazy sumbitch is enjoying himself.”
Mathews shook his head. “Just doing his job,” but he didn’t believe it. It took a certain kind of man to carry a flamethrower. The constant risk of burning alive from your own tank of gasoline on your back, matched with the firsthand view of your victims, was bound to change a man, and not for the better.
The roar of the flamethrower finally stopped, replaced with the banging of M1s killing any survivors. With the relative silence, Mathews heard voices filtering up from below. He tightened his grip on his Thompson and steadied his aim. He heard the clang of boots on the metal stairway. “Here they come!”
He could feel the presence of more GIs spreading out along the top of the stairs aiming into the darkness. When he saw the outline of a soldier, he squeezed the trigger. The Thompson bucked in his hand and he forced his grip downward, countering the upward kick. The others joined in and the hallway lit up with muzzle flashes. The faces of Japanese soldiers flashed as they grimaced in pain and fell. Soon the stairway was choked with bodies.
Mathews heard O’Connor yell, “Grenades!” Mathews kept his barrel sighted and heard GIs plucking grenades off their battle harnesses and pulling the pins. He saw the grenades disappear into the darkness. He lowered his muzzle and hunkered down. The grenades bounced over bodies and rolled down stairs. Within seconds there were explosions and the sound in the confined space was deafening. There were screams, barely discernible through the ringing in his ears.
O’Connor was saying something and soon he felt soldiers moving past him. He opened his eyes and saw GIs with flashlights moving over a mangled mass of bodies. A sudden burst of automatic weapons fire sent the men into crouches and they hunkered and returned fire down the stairs. Someone yelled. “Still a bunch of ‘em holed up down here.”
Mathews stood and was about to take the first step down, when Private Hampton stepped past him. His face was darkened with soot and his eyes behind the goggles were hard as steel. He caught Mathews staring and grinned. “Barbecue time.”
The crouched GIs made room and Hampton and his mass of gasoline tanks moved past them. He’d fired half his thirty seconds of fuel. The sudden light from the new spark and then the flames made Mathews squint. He could see Hampton’s stark outline. He looked like something out of a sci-fi comic book he remembered. He couldn’t decide if he’d be considered a good or a bad guy.
There were screams of agony. Mathews put his hands over his ears, trying to drown them out, but it was no use. He’d hear those screams in his dreams for the rest of his life.
Eight seconds later the flames stopped and O’Connor went down the stairs with his carbine ready. He glanced back at Corporal Mathews. “Keep the rest of the men up here til I call you. Watch our backs.” Mathews was relieved not to have to see the cooked carnage below.
O’Connor moved down the stairs and put his hand on Hampton’s shoulder. He startled and started to swing the glowing nozzle toward him, but O’Connor spoke. “You okay?”
Hampton looked at his sergeant with wide eyes and gave a quick nod. He lifted the goggles off his eyes and they snapped into place on his helmet. His voice was raspy. “Think - think I’m outta juice.”
The scene on the floor of the bunker was enough to make a hard man gag. There were multiple small fires and O’Connor realized each pyre used to be a man. The smell of charred meat was unmistakable. O’Connor swept his carbine around the room, but there was no one left alive. Flames licked up the walls, burning a tattered and soot covered Japanese flag. He looked back at Hampton who was rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Go on up and find more juice. We may need it again before the day’s through.” Hampton didn’t respond, just kept rubbing his eyes. O’Connor raised his voice. “You hear me Hampton?” The private stared back at O’Connor and nodded. He turned to walk up the stairs, the other GIs stepping out of his way. O’Connor barked. “Hampton.”
He turned, “Yes Sergeant?”
“You did good today. Saved a lot of GIs.” Private Hampton didn’t say anything, simply turned and slowly walked up the stairs, like his empty tanks weighed a ton.
O’Connor moved down the rest of the stairs and could hear GIs following. He stepped over a charred and still sputtering body. He averted his eyes, looking for the connecting hallway. He saw the door off to the right. He signaled for his men to advance and they stacked up to either side. There was dim light filtering through the cracks in the wooden door. It was blackened with fire and was warm to the touch. O’Connor pulled the handle and the door swung open on squeaking hinges. He crouched and aimed down the corridor, but it was empty. He could hear the dim sounds of fighting.
There was a clanging of boots on metal steps and he turned to see Private Perkins trotting toward him. He was breathing hard. When he caught the stench of burnt bodies he reeled back and put his hand over his mouth. O’Connor barked, “What’s the message, Perkins?”
He caught his breath and relayed the message. “Platoon Sergeant Carver sent me. The Japs are routed. They’re in full retreat.”
85
General Manjome was furious. His men were dying, his intricate bunker system was falling. He gritted his teeth and seethed, how did the Yankees get behind us so quickly? It’s solid jungle. The answer didn’t matter. All that mattered now was saving the last remaining soldiers in his command. He bore holes into the Lieutenant standing before him, sweating. “Where is Captain Ito?”
The Lieutenant shook his head slightly. “He was burned by a Yankee flamethrower, sir. I saw him go down myself.” The image of the fearsome officer as a flaming torch came rushing back and he fought off the fear.
General Manjome paused for an instant. “Leave the highest remaining noncom here with twenty men. They must hold off the Americans long enough to allow our escape. We’ll head into the jungle and continue the fight.”
Lieutenant Sato nodded and turned to carry out his general’s orders. He’d wondered briefly if the general would choose surrender. They had little chance of survival and even if they managed to escape into the jungle, they didn’t have enough food, water or ammo to last more than a few days. Surrender would be dishonorable and he knew the general to be an honorable officer. He also knew he’d never surrender himself, even if
given the order. He’d take his own life long before that happened.
He noticed the cringing Makipili in the corner. There were six of the traitorous Filipinos huddled together. They were unarmed, completely at the mercy of their betters. “What of them, sir?”
General Manjome looked with disgust at the Filipinos. “We’ll need a guide.” He pointed at the nearest man. “That one got us here from the city. He knows the jungle. The rest put in front of our rear guard. Give them machetes. They’ll slow the Yankee devils. If they don’t fight, or try to run, kill them.” The sounds of fighting from nearby bunkers hastened them. “Hurry. We leave now. They haven’t sealed off this section yet, but they’ll do so any minute.”
General Manjome led his ragtag group of one hundred and fifty soldiers down the dimly lit underground corridor. It was well built. The dirt walls were held up with cut palms and bits of lumber. It was built as a way to enter the bunker system from the jungle without being noticed. The special Filipino work crew that built it was treated to better food, and housing. When they were finished, they were rewarded with a quick bullet to the back of the head.
Now he was using it as an escape route, a way to get beyond the yankee forces. They’d surely find the tunnel and pursue them, but by then they’d be far away and able to mount another defense.
Each step took him deeper into the darkness. He looked at the low ceiling and wondered how many Americans were above him only feet away. If he’d had more time he could’ve used the tunnel to get a sizable force behind the Americans, but they’d attacked with lightning speed and surprise. He debated attacking them now with his remaining soldiers. They’d certainly inflict heavy casualties, but he shunned the idea. I can deal more damage luring them into the jungle. We’ll whittle them away.
