by Chris Glatte
Tark’s Ticks
A WWII Novel
Chris Glatte
Copyright © 2019 by 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.
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, brands, and events are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. This work is not to be construed as historical fact.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Chris Glatte
1
Private First Class Clay Tarkington could barely see the outline of his friend, PFC Ethan Henry, even though he was only a few feet away. He whispered, “You see anything out there?”
Private First Class Henry didn’t answer right away, but peered over the tipped-over cart and into the street beyond. The darkness was lit with tiny fires from a recent artillery strike. Dust, debris and the smell of sulfur filled the air. He shook his head and ducked back down. In his Southern drawl he said, “Not much...couple bodies.”
Tarkington asked, “Ours or theirs?”
Henry shrugged, “Civilians, I think.” He spat out a long string of black tobacco juice.
Tarkington got his feet beneath him and peered over, bringing his helmet just above the cover. He could see the crumpled forms, but couldn’t tell if they were people, let alone civilians. “Those damned Japs don’t care who they kill.”
Machine gun fire erupted from a few streets away and Tarkington ducked down and gripped his Springfield. Henry ducked too. “Sounds like the Filipinos are catching it now.”
Tarkington heard scuffling and turned to see the assistant squad leader Sergeant Blakesly moving in beside him. “Tark, that you?”
“Yep, me and Henry.”
“What’s all the racket?”
Tarkington shrugged and answered, “Couple streets over. Sounds like the Filipino section.”
“Sun’s gonna be up soon. The Lieutenant wants us ready to repulse another attack.”
Tarkington nodded. “What else is new? You find us any more food, Sarge?” Before December he wouldn’t have dared speak to an NCO that way, but things had changed in the month since the Japanese decided they wanted the Philippines for themselves.
Sergeant Blakesly shook his head. “Nope. Watkins searched through these houses but they’ve already been ransacked.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a half-eaten chocolate bar. He licked his lips and handed it to Tarkington. “Share this with that crazy Cajun.”
Tarkington took it as if it were the most precious and fragile thing he’d ever seen. “Thanks, Sarge.”
Blakesly slapped his shoulder. “Keep your eyes peeled and be ready to move back when I tell you. We’re almost to the bridge, only a few kilometers. Just need to slow the Japs and let our boys get across. If you see anything you’ve got the okay to shoot, but remember our ammo situation.”
Tarkington nodded, “We’ll be ready.” He watched the assistant squad leader disappear into the burned-out building. He opened the chocolate bar and broke it in half, handing half to Henry. Tarkington slid it into his mouth and let it melt on his tongue. He moaned in pleasure. “Mm, that is so good.”
Henry put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed. “Terrible stuff, but I ain’t complaining.” He stopped chewing, swallowed quickly and clutched his rifle. “I saw something.”
Tarkington shoved the rest of the bar into his mouth and checked his rifle, being sure the five-round clip was inserted and the safety behind the rear sights was flipped to the ready position. “Where?” he whispered around a mouthful of chocolate.
Henry lifted his chin, “Down at the end of the street.”
A loud explosion added to the machine gun fire in the next block and the sky was momentarily lit up with fire and flame. Tarkington ignored it, rested his rifle on top of the cart and flipped up the rear sight. He kept both eyes open scanning for targets. He didn’t see anything, but he’d learned to trust Henry. He’d never steered him wrong and seemed to have a sixth sense. Tarkington and the other men in the twelve-man squad teased that it was his voodoo roots coming through.
Tarkington saw movement from the corner of his eye and he sucked in a quick sip of air and swung his barrel to the right. There was a doorway. He kept his rifle on the darkened opening. The blackness changed and he could see the outline of a soldier peering out. He whispered, “In the doorway on the right, eighty yards.” Tarkington felt, rather than saw Henry swing his rifle that direction. At the beginning of this war Tarkington would’ve fired by now, but their ammunition situation was down to critical levels and he wanted to be sure of each shot. The thought of running out of ammunition frankly terrified him. Henry whispered, “More coming up behind him, two doors down.”
Tarkington kept his barrel centered where he thought the Japanese chest would be, and looked beyond. He immediately saw what Henry spotted, but they were further away. He muttered, “I’ll stick with the doorway.” The shape clarified as the soldier peered further out and Tarkington pulled the rifle stock solidly into his shoulder and touched the trigger. “I’m taking him in three seconds.” He felt Henry nod and counted off to himself. When he got to three he stopped breathing and put back pressure on the trigger until the rifle bucked in his hand. Henry fired within a half second, then they both ducked down and worked their bolt actions.
Tarkington blew out a long breath then said, “I’m sure I got the one in the door. You get yours?”
Henry gave him a sideways grin and drawled “Course I did.” Fire erupted from down the street and they felt their cover shudder with bullet strikes, but the cart had a thick metal bottom and could withstand the onslaught.
Answering fire from the building to their right rained down on the remaining exposed Japanese soldiers. Tarkington carefully put his head up and saw more mounded bodies. A dark helmet rolled back and forth, slowing with each rocking motion until it finally stopped. He swept his rifle side to side, ready to fire again, but there was no movement.
From the building, Sergeant Blakesly appeared. “You two okay?”
“Fine,” answered Tarkington.
“Probably a probe. They know where we are now.” The machine gun fire from the next block stopped. There were a few rifle shots exchanged but they soon stopped too. The early morning darkness suddenly seemed unnaturally quiet. Blakesly scanned the street. “I don’t like this one bit. I think we’re in for a big push.” They were joined by PFC Holiday and Roscoe, the grenadiers of the squad. “How many more grenades you got?” asked Sgt. Blakesly.
Roscoe answered without looking, never taking his eyes off the dark road. “Two each.” His deep voice always reminded Tarkington of a Hollywood actor.
Blakesly nodded and tapped on Private First Class Holiday’s shoulder. “Get your ass over to Sergean
t Flynn on the other side of the street. No use both of you being over here.”
Holiday nodded and took a look at his buddy then ran across the open road to the one-story building and slithered his way along the wall until he found the flimsy door and disappeared inside.
Blakesly shook his head. “I don’t like being split like this any more than you guys do, but our platoon has too much real-estate to cover. Just be ready to move back. You don’t wanna be left behind out here.”
The unmistakable sound of whistling, incoming mortars broke the silence. Blakesly cursed, “Shit, get inside, get inside.”
They scooted into the building and Tarkington shoved himself in a corner and looked at the roof overhead. Half of it was gone, giving them virtually no cover. Henry huddled in next to him, and Tarkington pointed skyward. “If they drop one through there, we’re hamburger.”
The first shells landed, sending mini-shock waves through the air, along with splinters of shrapnel and wood. The first round was short, but the next was closer. They were walking the shells down the street toward them.
Henry stood and grabbed Tarkington by his filthy shirt and pulled, “Let’s get out of this deathtrap.” Tarkington got to his feet and cringed as another shell exploded on the street. He followed Henry who led him to a dark stairway leading down to a basement. Henry stopped halfway down and crouched. “This’ll do,” he drawled.
The Japanese found the range and proceeded to pummel the area with shells. The air was thick with dust and both GIs pulled their shirts over their mouths to keep from sucking it into their lungs. Chunks of plaster and wood fell off the stairway walls, and for a second, Tarkington thought they’d have to move or risk being buried. The entire building seemed to shake and flex.
Finally, the mortar barrage ended. Tarkington pulled the brim of his helmet up and looked up the stairway. There was light filtering through the thick dust and he thought the sun must’ve come up.
There was yelling, then the unmistakable sound of a Japanese Type-95 machine gun opening up. Without a word they both sprinted up the stairs. The room they’d left was shattered even more than it was before. At least one mortar round had dropped through the open roof and exploded in the center of the room. They didn’t see any casualties. The room was full of smoke and smelled of sulfur.
“Sergeant Blakesly!” Tarkington yelled.
A voice from deeper inside the building called back. “We’re down here. Stay put, we’re coming to you.”
Tarkington moved to the doorway and peered into the street. The cart they’d used for cover was gone, blasted to smithereens by a direct hit. He pulled back quickly. “Shit. Japs coming down the street. They’ve got a tank.” Henry spit, “That’s just what we need.” Bullets ripped into the building and they dropped flat. Bullets lanced through the thin outer walls and smacked into the far wall; making ugly holes, adding to the dust. There was a loud boom followed quickly with an ear shattering explosion. The front of the building crumbled as if built from sand and through the dust cloud Tarkington saw the Japanese light tank rotating it’s 37mm gun for another shot.
Japanese infantrymen dashed through the smoke and dust. He brought his rifle up, praying it was still operational. From his prone position he aimed and squeezed the trigger. He worked the bolt quickly and fired at another form, then another, until he’d expended the five-round clip.
Beside him Henry was firing and smoothly working the bolt. Tarkington yelled, “Reloading.” He rolled to the side, flipped up the flap on his ammo pouch and pulled another clip. He pushed it into place, worked the bolt and put the stock against his shoulder, aiming.
The tank stopped and pivoted its turret to fire into the building where the rest of the squad cowered. Beside the tank he saw a Japanese soldier holding a sword with one hand and a pistol with the other. An officer. He aimed, following his movements and fired. The officer dropped.
He chambered another round and saw another Japanese soldier running through the broken wall with his bayoneted Arisaka rifle leading the way. The soldier saw Sergeant Blakesly and the rest of the squad coming from the next room and shifted his charge toward them. Tarkington fired nearly point blank and the soldier’s chest bloomed red as he tripped onto his face. Sergeant Blakesly leveled his rifle and fired into his back, making sure.
Blakesly stepped over him and yelled, “Fall back, fall back.” Tarkington and Henry jumped to their feet and followed their assistant squad leader. Blakesly went to the door and was nearly shredded as machine gun fire splintered the wood. He almost fell backwards trying to stop his forward momentum. He turned and ran back the way he’d come. “This way. There’s a back door this way.”
The room darkened as the tank drove past the doorway. Tarkington could clearly see the blazing red sun painted on the side as it clanked past.
A bullet whizzed by his head and smacked into the wall beside him. He went lower and kept running, weaving his way past piles of debris. More bullets holed the walls.
He saw Blakesly crouched outside the doorway waving him forward. Tarkington sprinted through and yelled, “They’re right behind me, Go!” The sergeant waited until Tarkington was safely past then leaned into the doorway and fired.
Tarkington looked back, sure he’d see Blakesly’s dead body but instead a mortally wounded Japanese soldier slid through the doorway and ground to a halt at his feet. Blakesly pushed Tarkington, “Move it.”
Tarkington ran after the rest of the sprinting squad. They weaved through the little town’s broken streets, finally stopping after two blocks. Tarkington slid in beside Henry and Sergeant Blakesly was right behind him. “Spread out. We need to hook up with team one.” Tarkington checked his rifle and aimed down the street, using a burnt mound of wood for cover. Blakesly gave them more instructions. “Stay in twos. Stick with your buddy no matter what. This shit will happen quick.”
Tarkington was number eleven in his squad, a rifleman and Henry was number twelve, also a rifleman. He looked at Henry, who was on his belly beside him, aiming down the street. Tarkington was glad they were buddied up. They’d been together so long that they knew what the other person was going to do or say before they did. Tarkington whispered, “I’ll cover left, you take right.”
Henry nodded, “Mmhm,” never taking his eye from his trusted Springfield’s sights. More firing erupted from their right and the distinct roar from the Japanese tank’s 37mm cannon added to the noise. Henry called, “Here they come”, and fired.
Tarkington saw Japanese soldiers emerging from around the building corners at the same instant. He adjusted his aim and fired at the nearest man. His shot was off and he hit his shoulder, spinning him around. The wounded man dropped his rifle and scuttled back into cover. Tarkington chambered another round and fired, but only succeeded in splintering the wood of the building.
The rest of the half-squad was firing and three enemy soldiers lay bleeding in the street. The surviving Japanese dove back to cover and Tarkington could hear them calling out to each other. Sergeant Blakesly yelled, “Eleven and Twelve covering fire.”
Tarkington and Henry fired as fast as they could, working the bolt action rifles smoothly and sending fire where they’d last seen the enemy soldiers, keeping them under cover while the rest of the GIs moved back.
“Reloading,” yelled Henry.
Tarkington fired one more round then leaned over to grab another clip, “Reloading.”
“Tark, Henry, move back.”
They both pushed themselves to their feet, staying crouched, and sprinted as bullets from their squad-mates whipped past them on either side. They ran straight through, then turned and found cover in an alleyway.
Blakesly yelled, “Find the other half of this squad, Winkleman.”
Private First Class Winkleman was one of the two scouts in the squad. He looked at Blakesly, gulped against a dry throat and nodded. He looked to his buddy, PFC Roscoe. “I’m with you Wink, lead the way.” Tarkington and Henry stayed in the rear, covering the
move. Tarkington kept his rifle trained on the alleyway the Japanese had disappeared behind, but he realized they could pop out anywhere, so he kept both eyes open and swiveled side to side. He jumped when PFC Henry tapped his shoulder, the signal to move out.
They hadn’t gone far when the alley they’d just vacated erupted with mortar shell explosions. Tarkington and Henry moved steadily, but kept watching their rear. Once the mortars stopped enemy soldiers would surely follow.
Tarkington was walking backwards with his rifle on his hip. He looked over his shoulder and saw Henry looking back at him, five yards away. Tarkington shook his head, “We need to get out of this damned alley before the Japs turn the corner.” Henry nodded.
Finally the half-squad turned south down the next street and left the alleyway behind. Tarkington stopped at the corner, kneeling and aiming his rifle back the way he’d come. Any second now. He heard Henry call for him and he was about to comply when he saw movement at the end of the alley. He took a breath and let it out slow. The enemy soldier cautiously came around the corner, his rifle at his shoulder. Tarkington guessed it was seventy yards. He squeezed the trigger and his Springfield bucked against his shoulder. He saw the soldier drop but he had no idea if he’d hit him or just caused him to take cover. He didn’t wait around to find out. As he pulled away from the corner the sound of bullets thumping into solid wood made him flinch and hunch his shoulders as he took off after Henry.
The squad crossed the street and entered a two-story building, filling the bottom floor. The inside was stripped - it looked like it might have been some sort of store - but the shelves were bare. Tarkington was relieved to see the rest of the team and breathed a sigh of relief when he counted all six men. He kept his weapon aimed across the street but smiled when PFC Stollman thumped his shoulder and whispered, “Good to see you, Tark.”
