by Chris Glatte
“You too, Stolly.” Despite being covered in grime, PFC Stollman’s red hair stuck from beneath his helmet like he was some English king. Before hostilities erupted, he’d been in a constant battle over the length of his hair. By no fault of his own, his hair grew abnormally fast, and unless he shaved it to the skin, the length would be pushing regulations by the second week after a haircut. Now, with near constant combat over the past month, it was a mop.
Staff Sergeant Flynn and Sergeant Blakesly knelt in the middle of the room and spoke in low tones. Henry, Tarkington and Stollman watched the street for trouble. Tarkington wiped his brow. “Sure am glad to have that big thing back beside me,” he gestured toward Stollman’s Browning Automatic Rifle.
Stollman grinned and caressed the weapon like a long-lost lover, “You keep your grimy thoughts and hands to yourself, Tark. She’s a one-man woman and don’t you forget it.” Henry shook his head and grinned, his dark eyes twinkling, “That hunk of steel’s about the only way you’ll ever get lucky.” He pointed to the end of the barrel, “Looks about the right size for your pecker too,” he drawled.
Stollman shook his head. “Damn, with your silky voice, even an insult sounds good, you crazy Cajun.”
Staff Sergeant Flynn spoke, “Keep an eye on the road but listen up. We’re hooking up with the rest of the platoon back at the bridge. Lieutenant Smoker is dug in on this side of the river and it’s our job to hold out while the rest of the company withdraws.” Roscoe shook his head and muttered, “Why’s it always us that gets the shitty jobs.”
Flynn ignored him and Blakesly gave him a withering look. Flynn smiled, “Roscoe, you and Holiday buddy up and stick with Tarkington and Henry. You’re tail-end Charlie.” He waited to see if there’d be any more guff. “Alright, move out.”
When the others were gone, Holiday elbowed Roscoe in the side. “Dammit, you got me in the shit too, you asshole.” Roscoe scowled but didn’t speak. Holiday continued, “Just can’t keep your fool mouth shut and now look at us; tail-end Charlie with these two…” he noticed Tarkington squaring his broad shoulders waiting for Holiday’s next words. “Fine soldiers,” he finished with a sheepish grin.
Tarkington and Henry had more time in the regiment, so outranked the other two PFCs. Tarkington pointed across the street. “You two bound over there. We’ll cover you, then we’ll withdraw by twos, covering each side of the street.”
Tarkington kneeled beside the door frame and aimed toward the alley he’d come from, and Henry took the window and leaned out to cover the far end of the street. When Holiday and Roscoe didn’t move immediately, Tarkington barked, “Move. You’re clear.”
Holiday blew out a long breath and Roscoe cursed, but they ran across the street and didn’t draw any fire. They took firing positions and Roscoe called out, “Go.”
Tarkington and Henry didn’t hesitate. Despite the GI’s sour grapes, they knew and trusted them to do their jobs. Tarkington sprinted down the hard-packed street to the next alley and slid behind the wall while Henry continued past him and took up position along the opposite wall. Tarkington found the same alley he’d covered before and put his muzzle on it. “Go!” He yelled.
The two GIs across the way ran hunched over, Holiday holding his steel helmet onto his head. Tarkington saw movement at the corner of the alley and squinted over his sights. “Company,” he hissed and squeezed the trigger. His bullet whizzed past the corner and entered the wood wall beyond with a hammer like sound.
Henry fired, quickly chambered another round and fired again. “Coming down the street.” Enemy rifle shots rang out and bullets whacked into the wood making them flinch.
Tarkington quickly fired again, cringing at the near-misses but wanting to keep the Japanese from having an open shot on the other two GIs. He glanced their way and saw them taking cover across from them in the adjacent alley. Tarkington and Henry pulled out of sight as more bullets tried to perforate them. “Wish we had Stolly’s BAR.”
Firing from across the street told them it was their turn to dash. Tarkington looked at Henry and mouthed, ‘One, two, three.’ They both took off like they’d kicked a giant hornet’s nest. Roscoe and Holiday banged away keeping the Japanese soldiers off balance. For Tarkington it seemed like the longest run of his life. He was sure he’d feel the heat of a bullet in his back any second, but it didn’t happen.
He dove into the next alley and rolled to his feet, breathing hard. He reloaded and chambered another round as Henry crashed around the corner. He tilted his helmet back and wiped the sweaty grime off his forehead. “Could use a cold drink right about now.”
Bullets thumped into the wall, sending up a dust cloud which swept over Tarkington like a mini-fog bank. “We’ve gotta get them across. They’ll tag ‘em if we try that again.”
Henry nodded. “Agreed.” He put his back against the wall, inches from the corner. Tarkington got on his belly near Henry's feet and yelled. “Come straight across to us when we start firing. Got it?”
He could hear Roscoe answer, “Got it.”
Tarkington looked up to Henry who gave him a slight nod. “One, two, three…” Tarkington rolled once bringing his rifle to his shoulder and fired down the street where he thought he’d seen a muzzle flash. Henry leaned out from the corner and fired. Despite being bolt action, it sounded like semi-automatic fire, as first one fired then the next, in perfect sequence. By the time they’d expended their clips, Roscoe and Holiday were beside them panting with their hands on their knees.
Tarkington and Henry pulled back as Japanese bullets showered the corner with lead. “Let’s get the hell outta here.” He pushed the others down the alleyway toward the next street. There was an explosion that was abnormally loud in the confines of the walls. “Jap knee mortar.” He didn’t think it wise to continue down the alley. “Duck into the building.”
Roscoe didn’t hesitate, he kicked a flimsy door and the wood shattered. He pushed inside and the others followed. They ran to the back of the building, but there wasn’t a back door. The others stopped but Tarkington kept running and barreled into the wall. The light-weight construction crumbled against his weight and he found himself in the adjoining building. Holiday muttered, “Damn wrecking ball,” and followed him through.
They heard excited Japanese voices coming from the alley they’d just left and the GIs stopped and held their breath, praying they’d pass by. No such luck. The voices got louder.
Tarkington crept to the edge of the broken wall and knelt, his rifle at his shoulder. A Japanese soldier saw him and his eyes widened as he brought his rifle up, but it was too late. Tarkington fired and at this range, couldn’t miss. The soldier’s chest exploded in gore and he fell to the ground. A red mist mixed with the dust and slowly settled. Tarkington chambered another round smoothly and waited for the next one, but instead saw two round baseball-sized objects sailing toward him. “Grenades!” He yelled and pulled back into cover.
The others covered their ears and dropped but the dual explosions robbed their lungs of air. A cloud of thick dust cascaded through the hole in the wall. Tarkington coughed and got to his feet, pushing the GIs to move to the back of the building. They found a door, kicked it open and were relieved to see it was the last building. Twenty yards away was jungle.
The four GIs ran out the back and pushed into the jungle. It wasn’t thick and they were able to move quickly. There were rifle shots but they couldn’t tell if they were aimed at them or not. They kept pushing until Tarkington stopped them a couple of hundred yards in. Breathing hard, they hunkered down and listened for sounds of pursuit.
After two minutes, Tarkington decided they weren’t being pursued and got them moving again. “I think the bridge is that way,” he said pointing forty-five degrees from their current line. He looked at Henry who had a sixth sense about directions, even in the deepest darkest jungle. He nodded in agreement. “Let’s move out.” He walked, pushing huge green leaves and cutting grasses to the side.
They w
alked in single file for ten minutes through mixed jungle and pine forest. Tarkington suddenly held up his fist and went to a knee. Henry came to his side and nodded. “The bridge,” he said. Tarkington parted the greenery and saw the jungle had been cleared all the way to the edge of the river canyon and right up to the bridge. He could see foxholes manned by GIs he assumed belonged to Hotel Company. He yelled, “Hey there! Don’t shoot, GIs coming out! First platoon, second squad.”
There was silence, then a response. “Come on out of there with your weapons over your heads.” The four GIs complied and stepped from the jungle. They could see muzzles shift their direction. “Halt!” A soldier stood in his foxhole fifty yards away.
They stopped with their rifles over their heads. Tarkington glanced behind then shouted. “There’s Japs behind us and you’ve got us sitting out here like damned ducks on a pond for Chrissakes.”
“I know that whiny asshole voice anywhere. Get your asses over here, Tark.”
2
Private First Class Tarkington and Henry were glad to be back with 1st platoon. It had been a week since they’d seen some of the other men. PFC Blaine and Crenshaw from 4th squad had been killed in action. Sergeant Fedderin from 3rd squad had taken a bullet in the leg, but was expected to recover.
Tarkington shook his head when he heard the news. The platoon had been together a long time and he felt each loss deeply. The fact that their company had taken the least amount of casualties in the entire division didn’t help to assuage the bitterness.
Now, he sat in the bottom of a foxhole dug into the dirt beside the potholed road leading to the Orani Bridge. Since he’d come out of the jungle, there had been a smattering of GIs from various other companies moving across, as well as a steady stream of civilian refugees.
Henry spit a stream of dark tobacco juice and asked, “Wonder how long we have to stay here?”
Tarkington shrugged, “Till the stream of GIs stops, I guess.”
“I haven’t seen any GIs in over ten minutes. How we supposed to know if there’s more out there? And what about all these civilians?”
“I’m more worried why the Japs haven’t attacked. They were right behind us, but it’s like they disappeared.” Henry spit another long stream. “You know, that’s a nasty habit.” Henry was about to respond when they both heard what they’d been dreading - aircraft. Tarkington slugged Henry’s leg, “Better get down. Doubt those are ours.”
Henry looked up and shook his head, “We even have any?” He pointed to the sky. “Shit, I see ‘em. Looks like Jap dive bombers.” A couple of seconds later, “Crap, they’re coming for us.” He dropped into the hole and got as low as possible.
Mobile anti-air guns opened up, sending streams of 20mm tracer fire to meet the threat. Over the sound of the firing, Tarkington could hear the Japanese Ki-30s diving. A long whistle followed as they dropped their bomb loads. The concussive blasts rolled over them.
With each bomb strike the ground shook and their foxholes threatened to collapse. Debris floated in the air and settled onto their uniforms and rifles. Tarkington counted ten bombers, but the bombs were mercifully off-target, mostly hitting the empty open ground to their front.
He brushed the dirt off and looked up from the bottom of the hole to the clear, blue sky. When he didn’t see or hear any more dive bombers he got to his feet and peaked over the side. There were smoldering craters, but it didn’t appear the attack had resulted in any direct hits on the bridge.
Henry asked from the bottom of the hole, “The bridge still there?”
Tarkington nodded, “Yep. Don’t think they were aiming for it though. Think they want it intact.”
“Well thank God for small miracles.” He brushed dirt off himself and his Springfield and stood. He looked back at the stout bridge. “Hate to think what would happen if they dropped the bridge even by accident.”
“Wish they’d let us move to the other side. Haven’t seen any GIs for a while now.”
There was a whistle and they both spun toward the sound. Suddenly the jungle seemed to come alive with twinkling muzzle flashes. They dropped into cover as bullets whizzed and snapped over their heads. They could hear men yelling, but couldn’t tell what was being said. The hammering of the water-cooled Browning filled the air and Tarkington knew it was coming from the bunker on the other side of the road. Over the sound of gunfire, he heard the whistling sound of mortar shells. “Mortars,” he murmured matter-of-factly.
Henry was calmly checking over his rifle. He responded, “Yep, smoke rounds.”
Tarkington grimaced and peeked over the lip, watching shells landing and spewing smoke. “You’re right.” He brought his Springfield up and pulled it against his shoulder. “Should be coming soon.” The Browning stopped firing as the smoke blanketed the area. Henry sighed and got to his feet, bringing his rifle to his shoulder as though he were working a boring office job.
Staff Sergeant Flynn yelled, “Hold your fire till I give the word.”
There was another whistle from the jungle. Tarkington looked at the foxholes to either side and could see his squad member’s helmeted heads with rifles at the ready. He took a breath and put his eyes down the sights. He could see shifting shapes coming through the layer of smoke. He tracked a soldier coming straight at him only thirty yards away. He caressed the trigger, waiting for the order. Finally he heard Flynn yell, “Open fire!”
He squeezed the trigger and the charging Japanese lurched but kept coming. Tarkington chambered another round and fired into him again, and this time he dropped and skidded to a halt. The motion of firing, working the bolt and firing again was quick and effortless.
The second water-cooled machine gun opened up and combined with the first, cutting a withering swath of death. Multiple times Tarkington would focus on a soldier, only to have him cut down by the machine guns. He started aiming for soldiers along the edges, away from the main force. He kept firing, being sure of each shot. Finally there were no more targets. He’d shot through three clips as fast as he could pull the trigger. The air smelled of smoke, sulfur and burnt gunpowder.
The firing died away almost as quickly as it had started. He heard Sergeant Flynn calling for a cease fire, but he didn’t need to. In front there was a mass of bodies, some still moving but all down.
Tarkington assessed his ammo. “I’ve only got one more clip after the one I’ve got loaded. If they do that again, I’ll have to throw spitballs at ‘em.” Henry kept his eyes over his sights, his Springfield barrel still glowing red and the muzzle smoking. “My God, I’m glad I’m not a Jap. What would you do if our guys sent us to the slaughter like that? I mean look at those poor bastards.” Tarkington looked over the grisly scene but didn’t have an answer.
“Sound off.” They heard Sergeant Blakesly holler. Tarkington listened, hoping everyone checked in. He called his own number and sighed in relief that everyone was accounted for. “Call out your ammo situation in order.”
Tarkington was shocked to hear how low the entire squad was. Most had one or two clips left, the machine guns each had one more belt. An uneasy silence came over the GIs as each understood what it meant. If the Japanese came at them again they’d run out of ammo and have to fight hand-to-hand.
Staff Sergeant Flynn ordered, “Fix bayonets.”
“Oh for Chrissakes. You’ve gotta be kidding me,” complained Roscoe loudly enough for the entire squad to hear.
Tarkington attached the knife to the end of his Springfield. “He’s got a point. We should get out while the getting’s good.”
The smoke slowly drifted away revealing more dead Japanese soldiers. No one dared move from their holes, knowing the jungle still held many more enemies. A shot rang out followed immediately by screaming. From their right, a panicked voice yelled, “Blakesly’s hit! Medic!”
Tarkington almost came out of the hole, but Henry held him in place. “Stay down. There’s a sniper out there.”
A few shots from 2nd platoon answered, but were
quickly squelched by the blaring voice of Sergeant Flynn. “Cease fire.” After a moment he continued, “Sniper. Stay down. Don’t give him a target.” Another shot rang out from the jungle, directed at the voice. Flynn hollered back, “Fuck you and your whore mother, Nip!” There was a smattering of laughter from the GIs, but most were too worried about Sergeant Blakesly.
A tense hour passed, the only action being the occasional sniper shot from the jungle. Word passed that Sergeant Blakesly was dead. Every GI felt the loss: he’d been a part of the platoon for over a year, starting as a Private First Class and moving up to a buck Sergeant and assistant squad leader. He was well-liked and his loss felt heavy and deep.
Tarkington heard Roscoe calling from the next foxhole. “This is stupid. No one else is coming. Hell, they’d have to fight their way through the whole Jap Army to get to the bridge now. What the hell we hanging around for?”
Tarkington felt the same way, indeed the entire platoon did, but there was no use griping about it. “Shut your trap, Roscoe,” he called back. “Doesn’t do anyone any good.”
“This is bullshit,” he responded.
“You know what’s bullshit, Roscoe? Having to listen to your bellyaching all day.”
“Fuck you, Tark.”
Tarkington shook his head and spoke low, “Course I agree with him a hundred percent.” Henry grinned and nodded his agreement.
With the sniper, the GIs weren’t able to move around from hole to hole and the isolation was getting to them. Tarkington wondered if they’d even been able to get Blakesly’s body out. He wondered who was in the hole with him. It would normally be Holiday, but he was buddied up with Roscoe. Must be someone from team one... probably Wink.
