by Chris Glatte
He rushed to the site, having to step over burning debris, with Henry right behind him. He rounded the back of the jeep and saw bodies. The machine gun was bent, still attached to the tripod. The first body was the gunner - dead from any number of wounds.
He went to the next man: it was Lieutenant Smoker. “Lieutenant.” He shook his shoulder and felt for a pulse. “He’s alive!” He looked for wounds as Henry went to the next man, Sergeant Flynn. Flynn coughed and pushed himself onto his elbows, spit and cursed.
Tarkington slapped the lieutenant’s face a few times before Smoker finally opened his eyes and tried to focus on him. He stuttered, “Tark? Wha - what the hell - what the hell happened?” He shook his head and seemed to remember. His eyes widened and he looked frantically at the sky. “Zero! Zero attack!”
Tarkington put a hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye. “It’s over Lieutenant. The Zero’s gone. You’re okay.” He leaned closer. “You are okay, right?”
Lt. Smoker looked his body over, doing a personal inventory, and nodded, “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay.”
It took hours to clean up the mess left by the Japanese Zero. Destroyed vehicles were pushed to the side and soldier’s bodies were stacked into the back of a single troop truck. The truck stayed in the back of the convoy, its contents already putrefying in the hot Luzon sun. The civilian casualties were pushed to the side of the road to be dealt with by the survivors. The soldiers simply didn’t have enough room or time to evacuate them.
The attack had been costly, but that was nothing new. Since December 8th, each and every soldier, both Filipino and American, had seen countless tragedies unfold nearly every day. They adjusted, tightened their chinstraps and belts and continued marching.
The trucks finally stopped as the sun was about to set in the west. Tarkington leaned out the back of the stifling truck thinking he’d see more jungle, but instead he saw a bustling hive of activity. Soldiers darted this way and that in the moderate-sized town.
Staff Sergeant Flynn came round to the back of truck. “Here’s our new home, at least for the time being. Get the men out and meet me over there.” He pointed in the general direction of a landscaped park. “Lieutenant Smoker will address the men, give us all the scoop.”
Tarkington nodded and hopped out. “All right men, let’s get out of this rust bucket and form up in the park.” They were all tired, some stumbling as they had to learn how to use their numb legs again.
The grass was soft and, without being told, the men dropped, luxuriating in the lush greenery. It was the most comfortable they’d been in days. Soon Lt. Smoker joined them and GIs forced themselves to their feet, but Lt. Smoker quickly signaled them to stay put.
He stayed standing and looked them over. There was just enough light to see their tired faces. “Men, as a reward for keeping that bridge open for as long as possible, saving many lives, the CO, Captain Glister lobbied for Hotel Company to get some much needed and deserved R and R.” Despite their tiredness, the mention of R and R perked them up and there was a low murmur of approval.
Lt. Smoker held up his hands for quiet. “It’s not much, but all we really need is somewhere to rest.” He looked around the park. “This park will be our rally point. You’re welcome to move around the town, but stay out of trouble. We’ll have tents and cots set up and I’ll expect every man to sleep here each night for however long this lasts. Understood?” There was a smattering of ‘yes sirs. “We’re still in a combat zone, just ten miles from the new front line.” He put his fists on his hips and continued. “You know how the Nips are though. They could punch through and be among us faster’n you can say ‘jackrabbit’.” He looked to the sky, “And of course we’re not immune from aerial attacks. The NCOs will assign a work party to get started digging slit trenches.” He paused then paced a few feet and finished, “You’ve all earned this. Carry on.”
A cheer went up and Tarkington couldn’t keep the smile off his face. The thought of staying in one place without someone trying to kill him was intoxicating. He shook his head, not believing his luck.
“Sergeant Tarkington,” bellowed Staff Sergeant Flynn. Tarkington got to his feet already dreading having to ask exhausted soldiers to dig slit trenches. “Follow me.”
Tarkington looked at Henry who shrugged and didn’t rise from the grass. He followed Sergeant Flynn. They entered a single-story building in the center of town. It was officer country. Every officer in the company was there, organizing the building to become a sort of HQ. Tarkington braced beside Sergeant Flynn, who saluted and barked, “Staff Sergeant Flynn reporting in with Sergeant Tarkington, sir.”
Captain Glister turned to see the two braced Sergeants. He grinned and strode to them and saluted. “At ease, Sergeant Tarkington. That’s got a nice ring to it.” He lowered his voice. “I wish this was under happier circumstances. Sergeant Blakesly was a damn fine soldier and an even better man. He was a great leader and a constant help to Sergeant Flynn. I’ll expect no less from you. The coming days will be the toughest we’ve seen and we rely on you NCOs as the backbone of this whole operation.”
He paused and Tarkington nodded and said, “Yes sir.”
Glister extended his hand and Tarkington shook it. In his other hand he extended the three-chevron insignia of Sergeant. “Find someone to sew this on for you Sergeant. Sorry we can’t get you a new uniform, but as you know things are a little slim around here.”
He released the captain’s hand and nodded. “I know sir. Believe me.” He looked the CO of Hotel Company in the eye and saluted, “Thank you sir. I’ll do my very best.”
Captain Glister returned the salute then held up his finger as if remembering something. “Almost forgot.” He barked, “Lieutenant Randall.”
A harried-looking lieutenant stopped what he was doing and answered, “Sir?”
“Bring those Thompsons from the back room.”
Seconds later Lt. Randall trotted up holding a Thompson sub-machine gun in each hand. Glister took them and handed them to the sergeants. “Found a crate of these as we were bugging out. Must’ve gotten lost in the shuffle. There’s precious few of them, so consider yourselves lucky.” They looked over the brand-new weapons, getting the feel of them. “They’re crap for long distance, but in this kind of jungle and street fighting they pack a wallop.”
Staff Sergeant Flynn nodded. “Thank you, sir. These’ll be helpful.”
“You can grab ammunition at the depot. We actually have more ammo for those than the Springfields, so don’t be shy about stocking up.”
4
Once the troops were fed and they had found where they’d sleep, the GIs were anxious to explore the town. It had been a long time since they could wander without the imminent fear of bombardment. The town wasn’t far enough back to not be targeted, indeed after the destruction of Clark Airfield in the early hours of the war, the Japanese Air Force could hit any part of Luzon they wanted, but there were far better targets than a quiet town in the middle of nowhere. No one had any illusions about their safety, so every GI had a weapon slung over a shoulder.
Private First Class Stollman walked up to Sergeant Tarkington. He wasn’t wearing a helmet and he’d wetted his unwieldy hair in an attempt to tame it but it still stuck up in various directions. “So, Sergeant.”
Tarkington glared at him. “What is it, Private First Class Stollman?”
Stollman’s shit-eating grin disappeared and he straightened up and stammered, “Uh, n - nothing Sergeant.”
Tarkington grinned, shook his head and laughed. He pointed a finger at Stollman’s long, straight nose. “Gotcha.” He clasped Stollman’s shoulder.
The other nearby GIs relaxed and laughed. Stollman grinned. “Scared me for a minute, Sarge. Some of the boys and I are gonna explore this place.” He leaned in close and whispered, “Maybe find some hooch, or some ladies, or both. You wanna come along?”
Tarkington nodded, “Course I do.” He caught Staff Sergeant Flynn watching the exchange wit
h a scowl. Tarkington pushed Stollman away, “You go on along. I’ll catch up with you.” Henry raised an eyebrow. Tarkington addressed him, “I’ll see you out there. Just gotta take care of something first.” He watched the men stream out of the tent. He hadn’t seen them in such high spirits since before December 8th.
He walked over to Staff Sergeant Flynn, who was sitting on his cot cleaning his new Thompson. He stood in front of him until he looked up. “You don’t approve?”
Flynn’s steely-blue eyes bore into him. “I don’t mind the men going looking for trouble. It’s why we’re here, let ‘em blow off some steam.”
“I mean you don’t approve of me tagging along with them.”
Flynn dropped his gaze and inserted the piece he’d just cleaned into its proper place, picked up the next piece and wiped it with an oily rag. “You’re an NCO now. I understand that you were a PFC just a day ago and they’re your friends. Of course you wanna play grab-ass with ‘em, but what happens tomorrow, or the next day, when you have to order one of them to do something that might get them killed?” He raised his eyes and squinted, making the creases deepen along the edges. “You’ll hesitate. Maybe send someone who you’re not as close to. Skip over PFC Henry for instance, pick Winkleman. The first time that happens, you’ve lost their respect and you’ll have to be shuffled out of the squad and possibly the platoon.”
Tarkington broke eye contact and nodded. “I see your point, Sergeant.” He looked longingly out the tent flap where the men had disappeared.
Flynn finished putting his Thompson together and shook his head. “Don’t look so damn glum, Tark. It doesn’t mean you have to be a Puritan or anything. I’m meeting up with the other NCOs at a little bar we know about. You’re welcome to join us. In fact, I insist.”
Sergeant Tarkington was on his second bottle of what they called ‘beer’ but tasted like fermented piss. He took a long swig, crinkled his nose, pursed his lips and swallowed. Flynn clapped him on the back. “It’s crummy, but it’s alcohol.”
Tarkington nodded. He could feel the dizzy giddiness coming over him quickly. He’d never been a lush, but he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since the attack and his tolerance was extremely low. He held the bottle out looking for a label, but it was a blank brown bottle. “It’s actually not that bad. I think my taste buds are getting numb to it or something.”
The leader of the 3rd squad, Staff Sergeant Gideon slammed an empty bottle down and held up three fingers for more beers. The smiling Filipino behind the bar lifted his chin and smiled broadly. He didn’t look more than eleven years old. Gideon addressed Tarkington. “You’ll be completely numb after a few more of those. They sneak up on you.”
The three beers were delivered and the tops popped off too easily. Flynn stood and called for the NCOs' attention. “I’d like to raise a toast to Sergeant Ronald Blakesly.” The place went quiet as the NCOs raised their bottles higher. “He was a damn good soldier and, more than that, a good friend. I knew him a long time. We went through boot camp together and came to this island paradise together.” He looked around the room and the men met his eyes. He raised his bottle higher and bellowed, “To Sergeant Blakesly, may your tinder always be dry and your aim true.” A chorus of “hear, hear” broke out and the men slugged back their beers, draining them to the last drop.
“Another round,” Sergeant Gideon proclaimed and the boy shuffled more bottles out to the men faster than Tarkington thought possible.
Once everyone was reloaded, Flynn again called for attention. “I’d like to introduce you to my new assistant squad leader, Buck Sergeant Clay Tarkington.” The room erupted and the NCOs clambered around him and started chanting, ‘Drink, drink, drink.’
Tarkington grinned and slammed his beer back draining it. He slapped the empty bottle down and another was thrust in front of him and they continued chanting until that was gone too.
They didn’t stop until he’d finished his fourth. When he drained it the chanting stopped and they congratulated him, each man introducing himself and shaking his hand. He tried to focus on remembering each person’s name - he knew most of them already - but his mind was reeling with the alcohol and he was losing focus.
Someone put on a record and the scratchy sound of someone singing an indecipherable song flowed through the room. The men began dancing and soon Sergeant Tarkington found himself on his feet, arms intertwined with a line of dancing, singing NCOs. They were kicking their legs out as if performing like The Rockettes. Tarkington couldn’t keep from giggling. He was thankful for the men on either side, convinced he wouldn’t be able to stand otherwise.
Sergeant Clay Tarkington woke to the sounds of whistles, bugles and someone shaking him. He moaned and cracked his eyes, seeing Henry’s face only inches away. “Wake up, dammit. Air raid I think.”
Tarkington struggled to open his eyes. He sat up and shook his head slightly and felt the worst headache of his life throbbing with every heartbeat. His head spun and he tried to lay back down but Henry was relentless and dragged him to his feet. Tarkington leaned on him and looked around. He stammered, “How? How’d I get here?” Henry took a step, dragging him along. The pain in his head exploded and he saw stars. He tried to get loose, “Just leave me here to die. Oh my God, my head.” Henry grit his teeth and pulled him more upright. “You’re not gonna die, for Chrissakes you’re just hungover. Now move your slow butt before this place comes down around us.”
Tarkington nodded. “Lead me. I don’t think my head can take the sunlight.” The dull thump of an exploding bomb in the distance broke through his stupor. He opened his eyes and stood on his own, willing the pain and bleariness away. He nodded, “I’m okay, but I don’t know where the slit trenches are.”
Henry made sure he was steady and wasn’t going to try to lay down again then waved him to follow. “They’re over here, follow me.” He trotted out, keeping tabs on his hungover sergeant.
The bombs continued to fall, the thumps getting closer every second. Henry got to the edge of the slit trenches, dug the night before by an unlucky squad from 2nd platoon. There were already bleary-eyed GIs crouching and sitting in the bottom of the trench. Most of them were shirtless and in their underwear, holding rifles.
They slid in and Tarkington was glad for the darkness. He sat on his butt and closed his eyes. Henry nudged him and handed him his Thompson sub-machine gun. Tarkington shook his head and took it from him, embarrassed that he’d left it behind. “Thanks,” he muttered.
The bombs fell for two minutes and missed the town, but left carnage and craters on the main road to the east. When the whistles and bugles finally stopped, the GIs got to their feet and brushed themselves off. They all looked tired and the sour alcohol smell seeping from their pores told Tarkington that they’d found their own party.
He pushed himself to his feet and immediately felt queasy. He struggled to keep from vomiting. He swallowed the bitterness, but the man behind him wasn’t able to and spewed vomit onto Tarkington’s back. The smell was like a trigger being pulled and Tarkington hunched over and released a vile stream of sour beer and whatever else he’d consumed the night before onto the bottom of the trench. The sound and smell triggered more men to lurch forward and soon nearly every GI was spewing. Henry scrambled out of the trench and stood looking down on the wretched scene. He shook his head and drawled, “Damned Yankees can’t hold your liquor.”
Tarkington finished emptying his stomach and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He swayed and looked up at Henry through bloodshot eyes. He handed Henry his Thompson then held his hand out. Henry took it and helped him out of the hole. He’d just got his feet under him when someone barked behind him. “Sergeant Tarkington! What’s the meaning of this?”
He recognized the voice of the CO. He turned, braced on wobbly legs and saluted. He swayed slightly like a thin palm in a gentle breeze. “No excuse, Captain…” He struggled to come up with his name and was unsuccessful so simply ended with, “sir.”
&
nbsp; “Christ, Tarkington, the name’s Glister, Captain Glister.” He gestured to the men still getting sick in the bottom of the trench. “I’m the CO of this bunch of drunks.”
Tarkington’s felt his head would explode at any moment. The pain was making him grimace and he could hardly keep his eyes open. “Captain Glister. Yes, sir I know your name.”
Glister looked over his shoulder and addressed Lieutenant Smoker who looked like he wanted to gun them all down. “Get these men squared away with coffee and a greasy breakfast. We’re moving to the coast in four hours.”
Lieutenant Smoker’s jaw rippled as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He uttered, “Yes, sir. Understood.”
Captain Glister wrinkled his nose and added, “Have these men fill the trench back in before we leave. Can’t leave this kind of mess for the locals to clean up.” He turned and walked away, shaking his head. The men couldn’t see his face but he was smiling.
Smoker nodded and barked at his new sergeant. “You heard him, get these men out of the hole, fed and ready to pack up and leave.” He stepped close and leaned forward until he was only an inch from Sergeant Tarkington’s face. Tarkington tried to keep his eyes open, but the pain was debilitating. He was partially successful. Smoker’s brown eyes looked like they could shoot a Howitzer shell. He bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Am I clear, Sergeant?”
Tarkington’s eyes snapped wide, and he did his best to match Smoker’s voice but came up woefully short, “Crystal clear, sir.”
