by Chris Glatte
Tarkington felt the familiar surge of adrenaline making his breath suddenly labored. He walked with his Thompson ready, being sure to keep proper spacing. He glanced behind and saw PFC Holiday ten yards back. His rifle with the grenade-launcher attachment, held at port arms.
They had moved a quarter mile before the shooting started. Tarkington passed along the halt signal, holding up his fist. He crouched and tried to decipher what was happening. The shooting was close, but he didn’t think it was his 2nd squad firing. They were leading the platoon with Lieutenant Smoker in front. Who else is out here? Tarkington wondered.
The sporadic fire changed. Tarkington recognized the hammering of a Japanese Nambu machine gun and he ducked lower. Someone had found the Japanese before them.
The signal to move came down the line and, staying low, he moved forward with his Thompson ready. He swept the muzzle side to side. He wanted to move left and look down on the beach, but it would take him out of view of Holiday. He glanced back looking for Henry, but he was too far back. Tarkington didn’t like moving towards combat without him at his side. He’d come to rely on his senses.
The ground sloped downward toward a small creek, which had carved a gash into the cliffs, leading to the beach. The firing slackened, with just an occasional burst from the enemy machine gun but no return fire. Finally they reached the creek and were met with smiling Filipinos holding rifles.
Lieutenant Smoker smiled back and crouched beside them. The rest of the GIs spread out, forming a defensive ring around them. Tarkington moved within earshot and heard Smoker ask. “Where are they?”
An older Filipino, whose face was creased with deep wrinkles, smiled showing cracked and missing teeth. He pointed west and spoke in broken English. “Japs there. We stop.”
“How many?”
The Filipino shrugged his shoulders and held up three fingers, one of which had been broken years before and fused into a forty-five-degree angle pointing left. “Kill three,” his smile broadened, deepening the creases in his face.
Lieutenant Smoker smiled back and slapped the elder’s shoulder. “Good job.” He held up a thumb. “How many men do you have?” The Filipino answered by holding up both hands, closing then raising two more fingers. “Twelve men.” Smoker nodded and looked to his NCOs. “Spread the men out on either side of this gully. Send a runner to Captain Glister. Tell him we found the Japs.”
6
“How many men does one of those barges carry?” Tarkington asked Staff Sergeant Flynn.
Flynn shrugged, “Fifty? Sixty? I don’t know.” They were dug in halfway up the slope from the creek, giving them a decent view of the glistening beach and the destroyed barge. They had yet to see an enemy soldier, and the machine gun hadn’t fired again since they arrived. “Smoker says there could be a lot more than just one barge-load. Figures they only left that one cause it wasn’t seaworthy. For all we know there could’ve been fifty barges.”
Tarkington nodded. “Well, as long as they’re down there and not up here.”
“We have to hold ‘em here. There’s some Stuart tanks and anti-tank cannons on the way, but they don’t expect them until tomorrow morning. We’ve got a few mortars in support, and about a hundred and fifty guys from rear echelon units in reserve. More Filipinos are coming all the time - not regular Army guys, just civilians - but as you know, they fight like tigers.”
Tarkington nodded. “Be nice to know how many Japs are down there.”
Flynn shifted in the hole and scratched the back of his scalp. “Whatever they’ve got, they’re in a terrible situation. The cliffs keep ‘em penned in. This is the only avenue of attack. We could hold against hundreds.”
Tarkington agreed, “It’s not like them to plan so poorly. I mean this is about the worst beach they could’ve picked.”
Flynn nodded. “Yeah, maybe they’re not where they’re supposed to be.”
“I hope the brass is keeping tabs on other beaches.”
Flynn looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Leave the war planning to the generals, Tark. We concentrate on doing what’s right for our squad. Don’t worry about that other shit. Clear?”
Tarkington flushed but nodded, “Yeah. I know, just thinking out loud.”
Flynn shook his head. “Go check on your team. Make sure they’ve got ammo and keep ‘em hydrated.”
Tarkington nodded and hefted himself out of the foxhole. His four grenades clipped to his battle harness swung side-to-side slightly. He looked at the jungle leading down to the beach before moving back to his own foxhole among team two. He nodded at Henry, who spit a stream of tobacco juice onto the dirt and nodded back. The 2nd squad was two foxholes deep and dispersed, so each hole had a distinct area to cover. Flynn had put the BAR man, Stollman, up the slope from Tarkington. Stollman’s hole was bigger to accommodate his loader. His ammo carrier, PFC Vick, was five yards back - close enough to toss extra ammunition if he needed to.
Tarkington settled into his hole. He placed two extra magazines on a dirt shelf he’d fashioned with his entrenching tool. The soil was soft and loamy and full of life. Multi-colored worms would poke from the sides of the hole, then pull back upon being exposed to the light. He was thankful for the easy-to-dig ground, but he could’ve done without all the worms and bugs.
He was abruptly pulled from his thoughts when he heard Henry give a high-pitched whistle. Tarkington froze, knowing his friend would only give a warning if there was something there. Tarkington lowered his head slightly and focused on the jungle in front. He could see halfway to the beach but he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. He gripped his Thompson and kept scanning.
He caught movement in his peripheral vision to the right, towards the creek. He moved his head slowly, while bringing his Thompson above the lip of the foxhole. There it was again, this time more distinct. He brought his Thompson to his shoulder and aimed at the spot. He slowed his breathing, waiting. A flash of movement directly in front caught his attention, but by the time he looked there was nobody there. He saw something small and round arcing through the air and yelled, “Grenade!” while ducking.
There was a series of thumping explosions among the foxholes. There was no way the enemy soldiers were close enough to hurl grenades. “Knee mortars,” he yelled. Seven explosions rocked the area and dirt and debris rained down on the cowering GIs.
Tarkington heard yelling from downslope. He lifted his head and saw green-clad enemy soldiers charging up the hill, yelling. He heard Sergeant Flynn, off to his left and higher up the hill, call out, “Here they come!” It was followed immediately with the heavy thumping of Stolly’s BAR.
Tarkington rose up and put his Thompson firmly against his shoulder. The enemy soldiers were seventy yards away. He aimed at a green-clad soldier running straight toward him, gripping a long Arisaka rifle with a glinting bayonet. He blew out his breath and fired a burst. It was his first time firing the Thompson.
The soldier kept coming; he realized he’d missed and longed for his trusty Springfield. He fired again and this time saw the soldier stumble and fall onto his face. He shifted aim to the soldier directly behind and sent a burst his way. The soldier lunged to the side and started zigzagging, making a harder target. He tracked him and was about to fire when the soldier suddenly crumpled and Tarkington saw blood spurt out of his back, as though he’d sprung a leak.
The volume of fire increased, pouring into the Japanese soldiers. He heard a Japanese Nambu machine gun open fire somewhere to his right. He saw a muzzle flash just as the ground between him and Henry erupted in fountains of dirt. He ducked and yelled, “Nambu at 2 o’clock.”
He waited a fraction, then went up and fired where he’d seen the muzzle flash. More Japanese soldiers were coming up the hill, darting from cover to cover. Tarkington shifted his fire and swept an arc of .45 caliber lead down the hill. His firing pin slammed against an empty chamber and he dropped and called out, “Reloading.”
He stuffed the spent magazine into his a
mmo pouch and smoothly clicked in a new stick magazine full of snub-nosed .45 ACP. He rose up and saw an enemy soldier near a boulder fire his Arisaka then pull back, chamber another round, lean out and fire again.
Tarkington focused his muzzle on the spot and when the Japanese leaned out again, fired. The boulder chipped and a mass of rock dust hovered around the spot. He didn’t wait to see if he’d hit him, but swung to another soldier sprinting up the hill. Tarkington held the trigger for a couple seconds then released, cognizant of the Thompson’s high rate of fire. His target’s headlong sprint stopped when six of the .45 caliber ACP rounds slammed into his belly and chest.
The high rate of fire, along with the cloud of gasses surrounding Tarkington, drew fire. He ducked as the Nambu machine gun fired rounds his way. He curled into the bottom of his hole, while the world a few feet over his head buzzed with death. He took the opportunity to check his magazine. He still had half.
He cringed in the bottom of his hole. Suddenly, a new sound added to the battle, the whistling of mortar rounds. For an instant he thought they were enemy rounds, but was relieved when he heard them exploding downslope, among the enemy. The ground shook slightly and he watched the dirt sides of the foxhole shudder. He wondered where all the worms went.
The Nambu stopped firing and he poked his head over the top and glanced down the hill. He didn’t see any more charging soldiers. He brought his Thompson to his shoulder and aimed toward the Nambu and fired the rest of his magazine.
He reloaded and saw an enemy soldier crawling up the hill. He couldn’t decide if he was wounded or just trying to stay under cover. He centered his sights on the soldier’s helmet and pulled the trigger. The ground erupted in front of the soldier and bullets walked down the length of his body, sending a fine red mist into the air.
Mortar shells exploded near where he’d seen the Nambu. Tarkington looked for more targets but only saw bodies. The rate of fire from his squad tapered and finally ceased. The mortars stopped and suddenly the only noises were the hissing of hot barrels and the crackling of tiny fires. He heard Flynn unnecessarily call for a cease fire.
Tarkington looked behind him and caught Henry’s eye. He nodded his way and Henry put his hand to his helmet like he was tipping a cap to a lady on the street. Smoke rose from his rifle barrel.
Flynn called out. “Gimme a count.” The GIs of 2nd squad called out their numbers and Tarkington breathed a sigh of relief when they’d all checked in. He could hear other squads checking in too but couldn’t tell if anyone had been hit in other sections of 1st platoon. He didn’t remember anyone calling out for a medic, which was a good sign.
Tarkington called out, “Ammo check.” In order, the GIs called out what they had left. Tarkington was surprised. Despite the seemingly high volume of fire, the men still had well over half. His chest swelled with pride. These men are pros.
The rest of the day was quiet. The platoon stayed in their foxholes keeping a close eye downslope, but there’d been no movement since the noon attack. Shadows elongated and the bright midday light faded to softer shades of yellows and oranges. To the north, storm clouds were thrusting into the tropical sky and everyone knew they’d be getting soaked soon. It hadn’t rained in days, but that streak was about to end.
He heard someone coming from behind and he turned in time to see the first scout, PFC Winkleman, drop onto his belly and smile at him. “What’s the scoop, Wink?”
In a voice that always reminded Tarkington of Mickey Mouse, he said, “Lieutenant Smoker wants the NCOs back there for a briefing.”
Tarkington nodded, “Okay. Know what about?”
He shook his head and squeaked, “I just work here, Sarge.” He moved off to inform the next NCO. Tarkington watched him go. He moved well through the jungle, having grown up hunting deer in the deep woods of the Pacific Northwest. He was a good choice for the squad’s first scout.
Tarkington hefted himself out of the foxhole and staying low, moved past Henry, who gave him a nod. “What’s up?”
Tarkington slowed, “You’ll know when I know.”
He moved up the hill, checking on the men as he passed. Despite the lack of action over the past couple of hours, the GIs were still vigilant and wide awake.
The hill flattened and he stood to his full height when he knew he was over the crest and out of sight of the Japanese. He approached the growing group of NCOs and officers. He looked back the way he’d come. There was no sign there’d ever been a battle.
The NCOs formed one group and the officers the other. When everyone was there, Captain Glister called them together. They formed a circle and listened in the fading light. “I wanna get this done fast and get you back to your men before it’s dark, so listen up.” All side conversations stopped and he continued. He motioned to three Filipinos crouched beside him, holding rifles that looked too long for them. “These fellas know an alternate way down to the beach. They say it isn’t obvious and they doubt the Japs will find it. To be safe, I want them to lead a team down the trail and set up an ambush in case they do find it. It also might be a good vantage point to assess their strength once it’s light.” He looked around the group. “Who’s the best scout?”
Tarkington looked at the officers as they looked at their feet. He knew Winkleman was the best scout in the platoon, but it wasn’t his place to speak and he didn’t want to volunteer. He focused on Lieutenant Smoker. Tarkington was sure his no-nonsense officer would volunteer them.
Smoker glanced at Flynn and raised his hand, “Private First Class Wink’s a good man in the woods, sir. Not sure he’s the best, but he’s damned good.”
“Wink?” Questioned Glister.
“Winkleman. Yes sir.”
Captain Glister addressed Lt. Smoker “These men,” he gestured to the Filipinos. “This is Eduardo, Nunez and Cesar. They’ll guide your team into place.” The three Filipinos smiled, showing off crooked teeth. “They’re not in the Army, but they’re locals and they’ve been fighting the Japs alongside the regular troops so they know their business.”
Smoker looked them up and down. They wore ragged clothing that probably used to be white but was now a dirty yellowish-brown. Each man wore a bandolier across his small chest. Most of the ammo slots were empty. Smoker grinned back at them and nodded. He gestured toward Staff Sergeant Flynn who looked none too happy. “Sergeant Flynn leads that squad. He’ll organize the team.”
Flynn nodded toward the smiling Filipinos, then back to Smoker. “Yes sir.”
Captain Glister continued. “Better get a move on sergeant.” Flynn and Tarkington moved away, but heard Glister continue. “The rest of you be vigilant tonight. You did well staving off that attack, but I think they’ll make a push again tonight. Their situation’s terrible and they may use the darkness to try to get past us. I want two hour watches every other man.” There were nods of understanding around the group. “Be aware of the squad out front and to your left. They’ll be mostly out of range, but be aware. I don’t want any friendly-fire incidents.”
Flynn and Tarkington got to the downslope and went into crouches. Flynn cursed. “Dammit. Can’t wait to spend the night on the side of a cliff in the fucking rain.”
7
The rain held off until the fifteen-man squad - twelve GIs and three Filipino scouts - were settled in for the night. Getting to the ambush sight was a harrowing adventure. They’d followed the sure-footed Filipinos along a knife-edge cliff leading down the left side of the gully.
The Filipinos moved like silent ghosts, making the GIs seem like bumbling buffoons. It was a short distance, but the difficult terrain and the deadly consequences of a fall slowed them down considerably. They finally stopped at a wide section and crammed themselves into whatever cover they could find. An hour later the sky opened up and, despite their over-used ponchos, they were soaked within seconds.
Tarkington was tucked beneath a leaf that was nearly half his size. The rain made the leaf droop until it rested on his back. It did far
more to keep him dry than his holed poncho and he was careful not to disturb it too much. Beside him, Henry hunkered as close to a scraggly tree trunk as he could get. In the darkness, Tarkington could see the stark outline of his prominent nose and his mouth moving as he chewed on a blade of grass.
Small rivulets of water ran past his boots, cutting through the dirt, following the path of least resistance. He wondered how high the little creek in the valley, which was no more than a trickle hours before, would get. Perhaps it would become a raging torrent and whisk the remaining Japanese into the sea.
After twenty minutes the rain slackened. Soon it stopped completely, leaving the ground sopping wet and the surrounding jungle dripping. Tarkington felt an uncontrollable shiver course through his body. He gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. Henry had leaned his rifle against the tree and had his arms wrapped around his knees beneath his poncho. His chin was tucked into the top of the poncho and, in the dark, Tarkington imagined he’d turned into a rock.
After the rain stopped, the jungle night sounds resumed. Tarkington didn’t know if he was imagining it or not, but the insects sounded louder than normal, as if the rains had reinvigorated them. The normally pervasive smell of rot was replaced with the smell of soil, rain and grass.
It turned his thoughts to home and for an instant he was back on the farm, bucking hay onto the old flat-bed truck before the unexpected rain storm destroyed their entire hay stock. Beside his little brother, he threw bale after bale to his father, who kicked it into place as quickly as humanly possible. Clay’s little brother, Robert, wiped his dirty, sweaty brow and looked over the wide expanse of acreage dotted with countless bales of hay. “Ain’t no way we’re gonna get all this hay up in time.”
