by Chris Glatte
A commanding voice disturbed the mid-day stupor. “Listen up men. They’ve finished wiring the bridge and we’ve got orders to withdraw.” There was a smattering of cheering and Lieutenant Smoker let it die down before continuing. Beside him, Platoon Sergeant McLunty scowled at them. Smoker continued, “We’ve got smoke coming in ten minutes. We’ll withdraw from the outside in. Second and fourth squads will bound behind the line while first and third squads cover. Next will be the machine gun crews, then first, and finally third squad. It’s a long way across, so don’t dilly-dally. Once across, find cover and be ready to cover the others. There are three Stuart’s over there ready to give us more cover.”
Tarkington smiled and punched Henry’s shoulder. “Best news I’ve had all day.”
Another voice broke through. “Tark, you hear me?” It was the squad leader, Staff Sergeant Flynn.
Tarkington bellowed back, “Yes, Sarge.”
“You’re my new assistant squad leader.” There was a pause as that settled in. “Congratulations, Sergeant.”
Tarkington grit his teeth and shook his head, but responded, “Uh, okay, Sergeant.”
“When the smoke hits get team two moving. Got it?”
“Yes, Sarge.” Another shot rang out and the bullet impacted the backside of his hole, sending up a geyser of dirt. “That guy’s starting to piss me off.” He cupped his hand over his mouth and called to the next hole. “Hey Roscoe.” He heard a half-hearted reply and continued. “Put your steel pot on the end of your bayonet and draw that sniper’s fire.”
Roscoe complained, “I like this helmet. It fits me well.”
“Dammit, Private. Do it.”
“Okay, okay, Sergeant.” A few seconds passed. “Doing it now.” There was another shot followed by a bell-sound as it struck the steel helmet. Tarkington peeked over searching for smoke from the muzzle. He ducked back down, took his helmet off and gripped his Springfield. He licked his lips and addressed Henry. “I think he’s laying down on this track.” He extended his arm to the right slightly. Henry gripped his rifle and nodded. “We go up together right after the shot.”
Henry smiled, “Yes Sergeant.”
Tarkington grinned back. “Hey Roscoe do it again.”
This time he didn’t complain. “Ready?” He asked. “I’ll count to three.”
“Okay.”
They waited until the five count before extending over the hole. They timed it perfectly and saw the Japanese sniper’s muzzle flash. They adjusted slightly and fired simultaneously then dropped back into the hole.
Roscoe called. “You get him?”
Tarkington and Henry exchanged knowing glances. “Yeah, pretty sure he’s no longer a problem.”
Roscoe yelled, “Good, cause he messed up my helmet real good.”
“Cease fire over there, dammit.”
Tarkington yelled back to Sergeant Flynn. “Just taking care of that sniper, Sarge.”
There was no answer because the screeching sound of artillery filled the air. Every GI cringed, dreading the sound, but this time it was friendly fire. The popping explosions of smoke canisters sent out thick, white smoke. Tarkington yelled, “Team two, move out!” He hopped from the hole and crouched as Henry jumped out and took off in a low crouch toward the bridge. GIs ran by and Tarkington counted them as they passed then followed, careful to stay behind the staggered line of foxholes. There was a smattering of fire from the rest of the platoon, but no return fire from the jungle.
Tarkington got to the bridge and met up with Sergeant Flynn who was waving men past urging them across the bridge. 4th squad members mixed with 2nd squad and they moved to either side of the span and sprinted across. Tarkington ran along the long straight stretch, hoping he didn’t get shot in the back.
He glanced at the dirty brown river far below. He didn’t know if there was another crossing point, but getting caught on the wrong side once it was destroyed would be catastrophic. This’ll be where we finally stop them, he thought.
When he was on the other side, Flynn directed the squad to the right and the GIs used the available cover, pointing their rifles back across the span. Tarkington and the rest were breathing hard. The combination of muggy air and exertion had them soaked with sweat. Rivulets streamed off Tarkington’s nose and he wiped it away. He considered himself to be in good shape, but the lack of proper nutrition and constant combat over the past month and a half had affected his stamina. Before the war, he could’ve sprinted full speed with a full pack across that distance and barely been breathing hard. This place is gonna kill me one way or another.
The rest of the platoon was halfway across the bridge span now, having caught up to the struggling machine gun crews with their heavy loads. Tarkington thought they were going to get away with a clean break when he heard the dreaded shrill of a whistle.
Sergeant Flynn stood and started motioning, yelling frantically for the men to hurry. Tarkington perched his rifle on the crook of a tree and sighted across the canyon. The smoke was dissipating but he still couldn’t see any targets.
Incoming fire grew in intensity. He could see sparks as ricocheting bullets met the steel of the bridge. There was a boom from this side of the bridge and he saw the plume of white smoke blossoming from the barrel of one of the M3 Stuart tanks. He hadn’t seen them until now. He saw the flash of the 37mm shell among the smoke and hoped it shredded the Japanese.
Despite the low visibility, Sergeant Flynn barked, “Covering fire.”
Tarkington aimed into the smoke directly across from him and fired. The other two Stuarts fired their main guns and he could see more flashes in the smoke. All at once there were targets everywhere. He spotted a Japanese soldier sprinting, waving a sword and firing a pistol. He took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The officer’s leg buckled and he went sprawling, but he pulled himself up and limped forward. Other GIs saw the officer and before Tarkington could finish him off, he was on the ground with multiple gunshot wounds.
The stuttering of the Stuart’s .30 caliber light machine guns entered the fray, sending staggered bursts across the canyon. Charging Japanese faltered and fell as the wall of lead met them, but they kept coming. They were among the abandoned foxholes, some dropping into them and firing. Bullets whizzed by and thumped into the trees, slicing through branches.
Tarkington dropped into a crouch and centered his sights on a soldier in a foxhole. He fired and saw a plume of dirt spout in front of the hole. He adjusted his aim and fired again. He pulled his last clip from his pouch and inserted it. “Last clip,” he said to no one in particular.
He stayed in cover and looked at the men still on the bridge. They were nearly across, running for all they were worth. He could see fallen, unmoving soldiers in the center and he wondered what friends he’d lost.
The Japanese were on the bridge. He aimed carefully, centering his sights on the head of a soldier who was leaning against part of the bridge structure. He fired and the soldier’s head snapped back and he dropped out of sight.
He heard Lieutenant Smoker, who’d just made it across urging the rest of the men. “Come on, come on. Get off the bridge. We have to blow it!” He raised his Thompson sub-machine gun and fired a burst, then crouched, desperately waving for the men to hurry.
Tarkington found another Japanese who was moving down the bank trying to get to the bridge’s underside. He shouted, “Target the Nips trying to disarm the bombs.” He fired and the soldier, who’d been reaching over the canyon to grip a steel pipe dropped into the abyss. Tarkington watched him hit the water and disappear.
The Stuarts kept up a constant barrage of cannon fire and .30 caliber machine gun fire. Finally, the platoon was across.
Despite the heavy volume of fire, the Japanese continued to make progress. Suddenly one of the Stuarts blew up with a rending tear of metal and fire. Tarkington looked across and saw four Japanese Type-95 light tanks going full speed toward the span. There was a plume of smoke from one and a 37mm shell blew up besi
de the first dead Stuart.
Both remaining Stuarts adjusted their turrets and fired. The lead Japanese tank was bracketed; its right track snapped and it drove off the track and spun to the right, coming to an abrupt halt at the edge of the canyon. It slewed its cannon toward the danger, but the second volley was already on the way and it exploded, lifting the small turret from the main body.
The remaining three tanks spread out and fired, but the Stuarts were already moving and their shells hit empty space.
Lieutenant Smoker yelled, “Blow the bridge, now!”
Sergeant Flynn screamed, “Get down, get down!”
Somewhere behind the Stuarts, a group of Army Engineers pushed the plunger down on the fuse box. The signal traveled along the wire, sparking the fuse. Seconds later there was a crack, like timber snapping and a great plume of smoke rose up from the middle of the bridge.
Tarkington lifted his head and saw the bridge still intact. The Japanese soldiers moving across had thought they were about to die. When the bridge remained intact, they screamed and rose up, charging. A type-95 tank maneuvered to the bridge and started racing across. Tarkington fired his last bullet into the chest of the lead soldier. “I’m out.”
The Stuarts fired at the advancing tank, but it was a deflection shot and the shells exploded on the bridge structure. Another 37mm shell hit where the smoke still lingered in the center of the span. Chunks of bridge started breaking away, dropping one hundred feet and disappearing into the dark water below. The type-95 tank hit the middle span and the bridge twisted then broke away. The tank fell through the hole and plunged into the river with a huge splash.
The soldiers stopped, still taking fire from the GIs, then turned and sprinted back the way they’d come. The bridge came apart behind them. Soldiers screamed as there was suddenly nothing left beneath them and they fell to their deaths.
Tarkington watched in fascination, but got back into cover when he felt a near miss buzz past his ear. He looked to Henry who was shaking his head from side-to-side slowly. “Now that was something to see.”
3
The GIs of Hotel Company were glad to leave the bridge behind. Tarkington was walking beside Staff Sergeant Flynn. “I’ll get you set up with chevrons when we get to the rear. Your rank is sergeant and to be clear, you’re my assistant squad leader. You’re the most senior PFC so you got the job.”
Tarkington looked sideways at him as they marched down the hard-packed dirt road. “Shitty way to get promoted.”
Flynn nodded and scowled. “Blakesly was a good man.” He paused, then continued. “But there’s a war on. This platoon’s special. Hell the entire 31st Division’s special. You’ve been a part of it, you know what I mean.” Tarkington nodded his agreement. “MacArthur’s called for I Corps and II Corps to fade back deeper into the Bataan Peninsula to make it harder on the Japs. It’s above our pay grade, but it’s some old plan called ‘Orange’ or something and involves consolidating on the peninsula with Corregidor’s big guns supporting us from behind. Now that we’re across that damned bridge, we’re beginning this Orange phase until reinforcements arrive.”
“Any word when that’ll be?”
He spit onto the dry road. “Course not. They don’t tell lowly Staff Sergeants that stuff.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. The only thing you need to worry about is following my orders and taking care of your men in team two. Did you get more ammo?”
Tarkington nodded, “Yes, Sergeant. We’re still low but I got the men resupplied with what we could find.”
Flynn slapped him on the back creating a plume of dust, “You’ll do fine, Sergeant. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. You already know the men and they respect you. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
“Like volunteer for duty in the Philippines?”
Flynn shook his head, “Hell, I don’t blame you for that. Up till the Japs invaded, this was the best posting in the Army.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Tarkington thought back to just how right Flynn was. Being posted to the Far East was a cherry assignment. The Philippines as a country was under the protectorate of the U.S. government with the promise of independence only five years away.
The Filipino people loved the U.S. and the economy was thriving. The GIs were treated like royalty wherever they went and their paychecks went a long way. Tarkington remembered many nights of frivolity with the local ladies, eating huge steak dinners and dancing the warm nights away for less than the price of a bottle of Coke back home. But that all came crashing to a halt on December 8th, 1941. The Japanese hit targets in Luzon six hours after the attack on Pearl Harbor, and it had been a whirlwind every day since.
The further they marched, the more congested the road became. There was an even mix of soldiers, both Filipino and American, and civilians displaced by the advancing Japanese troops.
Tarkington broke off from Staff Sergeant Flynn and found Henry. His long easy stride was easy to spot among the other soldiers. Henry looked around at all the people, then to the skies. He spit out a long piece of grass. “Mighty tasty target, all of us walking along like this. Hope we don’t get any Jap planes or things’ll get messy.”
Tarkington nodded, “I was thinking the same thing. Don’t think command thought about all the civilians tagging along. If the Japs do come it’ll be hard to fight back with all these folks.”
“Well, at least the river canyon should slow ‘em down a bit.”
Tarkington shook his head. “Sergeant Flynn told me there’s another bridge only ten kilometers south of the one they blew. We bought ourselves half a day, maybe.”
Henry shook his head and drawled, “I was wondering why we abandoned that position.”
There were honking vehicles approaching from behind. Tarkington turned as a jeep with a heavy water-cooled Browning machine gun mounted in back, pulled up next to Lieutenant Smoker and Sergeant Flynn on the other side of the road. Tarkington kept walking but slowed, watching the meeting. He slapped Henry’s arm, “Maybe we’ll be getting a lift.”
Henry looked across. “Maybe you will, Sergeant.”
More vehicles followed the jeep, mostly troop trucks. Tarkington heard Sergeant Flynn yell, “Hey, Tark. Get the men crammed into the trucks.”
Tarkington grinned. “Hell yeah. Let’s go.” He raised his voice to the other men near him. “You heard the man, get into those vehicles.” He followed the men, who went to the back of the slowly moving trucks. There were already dirty GIs on the benches but they made room for the new comers. Some of them had to sit on the floor and each pothole bounced them, making them grimace, but it was still better than walking.
An hour later Tarkington wasn’t so sure riding in the trucks was such a great idea. Every GI would rather ride than walk, but they were barely making more than walking speed and the trucks bounced and lurched along the unpaved, pothole-filled roads. There was constant jostling and bouncing, forcing them to grip whatever they could find and Tarkington was feeling what little energy he had fading away.
He looked at the men from his platoon; they looked as miserable as he felt. He looked out the back of the canvas-covered truck. There was another truck only a few feet from the rear bumper, the bored looking Filipino driver staring ahead in a trance. I’m an NCO now. I should get the men out of here. Do them all a favor. He bit the inside of his lip and shook his head. That’s not what Sergeant Flynn ordered me to do. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the aches and pains that seemed to emanate from every part of his body.
He knew he had no chance of falling asleep but closing his eyes kept the dust out and allowed his mind to slip away for a moment or two. His eyes snapped open when he heard yelling, followed immediately by machine gun fire.
The truck lurched to the right and tilted as the driver stuffed it into the shallow ditch beneath the thin cover of the jungle. Despite the slow speed, the truck stopped abruptly sending the men sprawling forward. Tarkington yelled, “Out of the truck and spread out!�
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He was closest to the back. He leaped out and stepped to the side, directing the GIs toward the jungle. His rifle was slung over his shoulder. A glimmer caught his eye and he looked up. Tall trees bordered the road but he could see the strip of sky directly above and the sight of a shimmering airplane with a blood-red circle on the wing chilled his blood.
The heavy mounted machine gun on the jeep fired short bursts, but the plane kept arcing upward then turned gracefully and picked up speed as it dove back toward them. Tarkington unslung his rifle but didn’t bother wasting ammo shooting. He yelled, “Cover, Cover!” and ran into the jungle.
The machine gun kept firing, longer bursts now, and he could hear the streaking sound of the plane slicing through the air, then the jackhammer of the Zero’s twin 20mm cannons opening fire. Tarkington threw himself behind a thick palm tree and pulled his helmet tight onto his head. He could feel the impact of the heavy bullets thumping into the ground, metal and flesh. There was a whoosh as something caught fire and exploded, sending shockwaves through the jungle. He felt a slap on his side and thought he might be on fire. He touched his side but felt nothing. He tried to wiggle deeper into the ground.
As quickly as it started, it stopped. The machine gun was silent, replaced with shouts of pain, anger and confusion. Tarkington lifted his head and got slowly to his knees. He looked around the jungle, seeing GI’s wide eyes staring back at him. “Anyone hit? Sound off.” When no one immediately complied he cursed, “Sound off, dammit.” He listened and got confirmation on the men who were in the truck with him. He saw Henry dusting himself off and blowing grit off his rifle.
Henry walked up to him and shook his head, indicating the road. “Looks bad over there.”
Tarkington nodded. “Let’s get out there and help,” he yelled to the shaken men. He walked the few yards back to the road. It looked nothing like the scene before. There was dark smoke spewing from burning vehicles. He noticed the Filipino driver’s blank, dead stare from the truck behind his. He didn’t look much more than a child. The gaping hole in his head left little doubt how he’d died. He spotted the jeep with the mounted machine gun on its side, facing away. He could see the axle moving as the wheel spun slowly. “Shit, Lieutenant Smoker was in there.”
