by Chris Glatte
Just after noon, the firing from up the hill erupted as though someone had flipped a switch. “Filipinos are making their move,” Tarkington said to Stollman and Vick.
Stollman nodded and looked over his BAR. He caressed the stock like it was his baby. “Come to papa, my little friends.”
Tarkington shook his head. “Crazy bastard. I’d rather the Filipinos take care of ‘em.”
“And let them have all the fun?” His mouth turned down and his eyes darkened as he sighted down the barrel and moved the muzzle from side-to-side. “Still hafta pay for Staff Sergeant Flynn’s death.”
Tarkington nodded and swallowed. The vision of Flynn’s legs teetering beside those of the Japanese soldier filled his mind. He hadn’t thought of it for a while and the realization made him feel guilty. He’d known the man for three years. Flynn had been gone less than a week and he’d barely thought about him. “You’re right, Stolly, let ‘em come.”
The additional sound of mortar fire made everyone duck. It wasn’t directed at them, but the instinct was too strong to resist. “Those ain’t knee mortars.” Stollman nodded his agreement. “Those crafty buggers hauled those tubes along with ammo all the way from the front lines.” He shook his head, “Unbelievable.” He pointed at the BAR, “Makes your bitching about that little twenty-five pounder sound kinda pathetic.” It was meant as a joke, but Stollman gritted his teeth and didn’t answer.
They listened to the raging battle and watched their front. After twenty minutes the sounds of battle hadn’t diminished. Tarkington shook his head. “If they were making headway it’d be over by now. They must be dug in deeper’n ticks.”
Vick cringed at the visual. “I hate ticks. Nastiest things on God’s green earth. Had one between my butt cheeks once, bloated to the size of a damned acorn before I finally noticed it. Disgusting.”
Stollman was intrigued. He laughed, “What the hell? Bloated? Was it eating your shit or something?”
Vick looked at him like he was stupid and said as much. “You slow or something? They suck your blood, but do it sneaky like. You don’t feel their bite cause they use some kind of anes…anes…”
“Anesthetic,” Tarkington finished for him.
“Yeah, that’s the word. Thanks, professor.”
Stollman couldn’t keep from grinning. Then he started laughing and had to cover his mouth to keep quiet. “Tark’s…,” he wiped the tears that formed at the corners of his eyes.
“What the hell’s the matter with you, Stolly?” demanded Tarkington.
Stollman got control of his laughter, “Tark’s Ticks. That’s what we should call ourselves. Tark’s Ticks.”
“Call ourselves? What are we, some kind of traveling show? No,” he said with finality. “We’re second squad.” Vick nodded and tested it, “Tark’s Ticks. I kinda like it.” He grinned at Tarkington, “Doesn’t mean I want you sucking on my ass though.”
Tarkington shook his head, “This isn’t up for debate, we’re not naming units. Jesus, it’s like we’re in the glee club in high school or something. Pay attention, I’m going to check on the others.”
Without waiting for a response he moved down the line, shaking his head.
Tarkington was laying on the ground beside Sergeant Winkleman’s hole, discussing ammunition and water supply, when he noticed Holiday, in the hole with Winkleman, suddenly stiffen. Tarkington stopped talking to Winkleman mid-sentence and focused where he was looking. He whispered, “See something?”
Holiday nodded, “Think so.”
The battle still raged up the hill making Tarkington wonder how much more ammunition the Japanese had. He saw movement at the furthest point he could see. He tensed too and noticed Winkleman doing the same. There was definitely something out there. He carefully pushed himself backwards until he was over the ridge and out of sight from the opposite side. He waved and finally got the attention of Eduardo, signaling him to move up.
Tarkington pulled the radio from his pack and called into Lt. Smoker. He heard the gruff voice of Platoon Sergeant McLunty. Tarkington filled him in and soon he saw Lt. Smoker pop up from his hole and locate Tarkington. He waved and signaled him to prepare for contact. Tarkington nodded and moved back beside Winkleman and Holiday’s hole, being careful to keep cover between himself and the open slope.
Eduardo and his two compatriots slithered in beside him and were aiming down their well-used Springfield rifles’ sights. Tarkington leaned out from the tree trunk and his breath caught when he saw the enemy soldiers coming out of the jungle and trotting toward the ridge-line. He tried to aim his Thompson, but the long magazine wouldn’t allow him to, so he put it on the ground sideways. He’d have to join in the shooting once he was able to move forward and drop into the hole with Winkleman and Holiday.
Everyone along the line was now well-aware of the advancing enemy. Unless they were asleep, they couldn’t miss them.
Tarkington looked up the hill and saw the long barrel and bi-pod of Stollman’s BAR, leveled. He wondered who would shoot first. Should I? When? He was about to yell ‘Open fire,’ when Stollman’s BAR barked out vicious five-round bursts. There was a rippling of fire from the others and the exposed Japanese dropped out of sight as puffs of red mist exploded out their fronts and backs.
The Filipinos fired quickly, smoothly worked their bolt actions, and fired again and again. Tarkington pulled himself to his knees and, using the tree for cover, aimed and fired at a soldier limping up the hill with a bloody, dragging leg. The heavy slugs plowed into the soldier’s chest and he fell backward, rolled a few feet and came to a stop face-down.
He searched for more targets. There was no one directly in front, so he pivoted further down the hill and fired on three sprinting soldiers. His bullets surrounded them with geysers of dirt and debris and they dove to the ground. Tarkington didn’t know if he’d hit them.
He kept his muzzle aimed and was about to pull the trigger when he felt the tree he was leaning against shudder. He was momentarily confused, but soon realized he was leaning out, exposed to the front. He dropped to the ground as more bullet passed close. He cursed to himself, ‘Pay attention, dammit.’
He pushed himself backwards and rolled onto his back. He pulled out the half-spent magazine and inserted a fresh one. The firing intensified downslope. He got to his feet and, staying beneath the lip of the ridge, ran down hill. He slid to a stop and crawled to the last foxhole. The GIs were firing as fast as they could work their bolt actions. He tried to picture who was in the hole and finally remembered, Malaky and Skinner.
He called out, “Make room, coming into your hole.”
One of them, he thought it was Malaky yelled back, “Okay.”
Tarkington sprinted forward the few steps and jumped feet first between the two riflemen. He slammed into the front wall and slid down. Skinner looked down at him and smiled. “Welcome, Sarge.”
Tarkington got his feet beneath him and steadied himself. “What you got?”
“Japs,” responded Skinner before aiming and firing again.
Tarkington popped up with his Thompson leading the way. He saw movement only yards ahead and squeezed the trigger as the shape of a Japanese pith helmet materialized. The face beneath the helmet turned to mush. There was an explosion which sent debris and shrapnel in every direction. Tarkington dropped down and covered his head while bits and pieces of the soldier he’d just shot rained upon them. “Cripes, the guy must’ve had a grenade!”
“No shit,” answered Malaky, who popped up and fired again, then dropped down and worked the bolt as Skinner popped up and fired.
Instead of dropping back down, he stayed up and worked the bolt but didn’t fire. He was breathing hard, but managed to say, “Think that might be all of ‘em.”
Tarkington stood along with Malaky and they searched for targets. Tarkington’s Thompson was hard against his shoulder as he searched up the hillside but saw nothing but bodies. He brought the muzzle down and hopped out of the hole from a stand
still without even realizing he’d done it. “Stay ready. There may be more. Gonna check on the others.” He felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he ran back up the hill, stopping at each foxhole, checking the men. The firing stopped and, when he reached the final foxhole, he was relieved to find no one hit.
Lieutenant Smoker was lying on his belly assessing the situation when Tarkington found him. He lay down beside him and saw Platoon Sergeant McLunty on the other side, still chewing on the unlit stogie. Out of breath, Tarkington reported, “Second squad’s intact, sir. No casualties.”
He nodded, “Good. Think we surprised ‘em. They may send a bigger force now they know we’re here.” The firing from the Filipinos up the hill had tapered off to a trickle.
For a few minutes the only sounds were birds and insects. The relative peace was suddenly shattered with the sound of gunfire coming from behind them. Everyone turned but the fighting was too far away. McLunty spoke around his wet stogie, “That’s second platoon, sir.”
Lieutenant Smoker nodded, “Sounds like they’re getting hit too.” The added sounds of mortar strikes alarmed them all. Smoker got on the radio. “This is six of first, do you read me? Over.” There was only static. He tried again with the same result. He shook the radio, “Dammit.” Tarkington took his out and handed it to Smoker.
This time there was a response although it was broken up. “Large force…Smoker we need…” the sound of guns and bombs came over the radio, then it cut out abruptly. They exchanged worried looks.
Smoker reached out and grabbed a handful of Tarkington’s shirt. “Take second squad, find out what’s happening.” His eyes darted to PFC Roddy crouched nearby. “Roddy, you go with him and report back to me. Can’t rely on these damned radios.” Roddy’s milky-blue eyes were wide and he gulped, his huge Adam’s apple rising and falling along his long neck. He stammered, “Yes - yes sir.” He gripped his rifle and licked his lips.
Tarkington yelled, “Second squad on me.”
GIs' heads popped up and looked around. He was about to yell again when Sergeant Winkleman beat him to it. “You heard him, let’s go, let’s go.” He sprang from his hole and rallied the men from their foxholes.
When they were gathered, Tarkington looked Smoker in the eyes, “Gonna leave you pretty thin if they come at you again.”
Platoon Sergeant McLunty stepped forward with fire in his eyes and pushed on Tarkington’s chest with his stiff index finger and leaned close. “You worry about your own sorry ass, Staff Sergeant. We can take care of ourselves. Now get gone.”
Tarkington grit his teeth but turned away from the surly platoon sergeant and waved his men forward. He pushed PFC Roddy, “Come on, move out,” he grumbled. “Scouts out front.”
13
The sound of battle got louder the closer they got to 2nd platoon’s position. The firing from up the hill intensified too. Hearing gunfire and fighting all around was unnerving and the men’s eyes darted in every direction, ready to dive for cover. The mortar fire had stopped, but the steady hammering of a Japanese Nambu machine gun filled the air.
Tarkington thought they should’ve met up with 2nd platoon by now, but the sounds of fighting were still ahead. As they moved across the hillside they had to work their way through thickets of jungle and re-form on the other side. It was time-consuming and tiring.
Finally, Raker and Henry crouched and held up their fists. The squad crouched and Tarkington moved up to his scouts, staying as low as possible. As he closed, the sound of gunfire was just over a slight rise. The rush to reinforce the platoon didn’t mean he wanted to run into the middle of a firefight blindly. That was a good way to get shot by your own men.
He poked his head over the rise and saw muzzle flashes and smoke. There were smoking craters mixed with well-concealed foxholes. He could see helmeted heads rising and falling as they fired then sought cover. He looked beyond them but could only see flashes of movement. He heard the Nambu firing and guessed it was up the hill slightly. Bullets whizzed through the jungle, smacking the ground around and in front of the foxholes.
When the Nambu stopped Tarkington yelled, “Second squad of first platoon coming in! Don’t fire on us!”
There wasn’t an immediate response but he saw one of the helmeted GIs turn his way and even from this distance he could see fear etched on his face. The GI called out, “Yes, yes, come on! We need help!”
Tarkington evaluated the position. The platoon was on top of a rise, much the same way they’d set up. There was a gully behind the foxholes which would cover them from Japanese bullets, but it would require exposing themselves as they ran down the slight hillside directly in front.
He took a deep breath and addressed the men. “Move fast and get to the gully and spread out. Wait for my orders from there.” Roddy looked like he was about to throw up. Tarkington grabbed his shirt and pulled him beside him. “Stay on my butt.” He didn’t wait for a response, but moved forward with his Thompson ready.
As he crested the lip and moved down the hill he sped up to a run, doing his best to keep cover between him and the Nambu. He leaped over a downed tree and was nearly to the gully when the enemy machine gun opened up. He didn’t know if they’d been spotted or the bullets were simply passing through the main line. The effect was the same, bullets buzzed past and smacked into the ground. Behind him, he heard the heavy sound of a bullet hitting meat followed by a grunt.
He dove, curled up and rolled into the base of a thick tree. He winced as he hit it much harder than expected. He grit his teeth and wondered if he’d broken a rib. He looked behind him and saw PFC Roddy’s wild eyes staring back at him from only feet away. His skin was even whiter than normal making the stream of blood from his nose seem to glow red. His eyes slowed and lost focus - one went the wrong way, looking to the side - while the other stared directly into Tarkington’s soul, then glazed and turned unnaturally milky.
“Roddy!” He yelled, but he knew he was gone. He heard yelling from the others and pulled his eyes from Roddy’s, pushing his back against the tree. His side ached, but he grit his teeth and took the pain. He tried to take a deep breath, thought better of it and ran to the gully.
He slid in next to Raker who searched behind him, “Roddy?”
Tarkington shook his head, “Didn’t make it.” He looked at the assembled squad and counted heads. They were all there, except Roddy. They were all breathing hard. Winkleman shuffled to his side and huffed, “Everyone’s here except the runner kid.”
Tarkington simply shook his head. “Get them spread out. If the mortars come, we’re hamburger.” He raised his voice, “Stay in pairs.”
“Spread out, spread out Goddammit!” The GIs kept in crouches and moved up and down the gully in pairs.
When Tarkington was satisfied, he moved up the gully to the fighting holes. As he crested, the firing seemed to intensify. He saw a foxhole five yards in front and yelled, “Make a hole,” then dove forward, rolled onto his back and slid into the foxhole feet first, landing between two startled GIs.
The GI to his right recovered quickly and smiled, “Glad to see you sergeant. How many men you bring?”
“Second squad. What’s the situation?”
“A squad? Where’s the rest of ya? We’re getting our asses kicked.”
Tarkington looked at the soldier’s nameplate, “Where’s Lieutenant Govang, Private Hyster?”
The PFC shrugged and pointed up the hill. “Last I saw, up there somewhere.” Tarkington made a move to leave, but Hyster grabbed his shoulder and held on, “It’s murder out there, stay here if you wanna live.”
Tarkington looked into his eyes and saw abject fear. He shook his shoulder free and growled, “Pull yourself together soldier.” The GI on the other side of the hole was cowering too, making Tarkington’s blood boil. “You wanna live? Fire your damned weapons.” Neither moved a muscle and Tarkington screamed at the top of his lungs. “Fire now, Goddamn you!” Both soldiers snapped from the fog, lifted their ri
fles and without aiming, fired. “There you go, now you’re helping yourselves.” They looked back, more afraid of him than the Japanese.
He stood in the foxhole and put his Thompson to his shoulder. There were darting Japanese everywhere, moving from cover-to-cover under the protection of the Nambu. He fired a short burst and saw his bullets spray dirt into the face of a soldier who quickly dove for cover. He followed the soldier’s progress with his muzzle and fired when he saw his legs sticking out. His bullets impacted and he heard a scream over the din of the battle.
His attention was drawn to the winking flashes of the Nambu in the trees. It was too far away, but he aimed and fired a burst anyway. His .45 caliber bullets impacted around the Nambu but it kept firing incessantly. He heard a yell to his right and saw a soldier from 2nd platoon lurch back, then slump to the bottom of his hole. The GI next to him stared then dropped out of sight too. Machine gun’s killing us. “Cover me!” He yelled and pushed himself out of the back of the hole. He rolled straight back, feeling bullets smacking the ground around him, but he was soon in the safety of the gully and moving up the hill to find Lt. Govang, or someone in charge. He pumped his legs, feeling them burn with exertion.
Winkleman saw him exit the hole. He was laying down beside a boulder. “Where you going, Tark?”
“To find the lieutenant.” He saw his grenadier, PFC Roscoe, as he moved uphill. He was on his belly firing his rifle and working the bolt. “Roscoe,” he yelled. The private spun around, his eyes wide. “Put a grenade onto that machine gun.
