Tark's Ticks

by Chris Glatte

  Roscoe’s eyes lit up like he’d forgotten about the grenade launcher attachment connected to his barrel. He pushed himself back into cover, reached into his ammo pouch and pulled out a rifle grenade.

  Once in place, he risked a glance at the Nambu. He pulled back quickly and looked above him at the tree canopy. He braced the stock of his rifle into the dirt and angled it forward until he thought it was correct and fired. He lifted his head to watch the trajectory, his head suddenly snapped back and Tarkington was sprayed with brains and blood. Roscoe fell backwards, the back of his ruined head landing at Tarkington’s feet. There was a neat, puckered hole in the center of his forehead. A thin stream of blood ran up his hairline and disappeared in his thick hair.

  Tarkington heard Winkleman’s excited yell. “Hell of a shot, Roscoe! That was one in a million.” Winkleman pushed his way into the gully. His smile disappeared when he saw Roscoe on the ground. “Shit. Roscoe.” He ran the few yards and slid in beside him, but saw the hole and the vacant stare and knew there was nothing he could do. He looked at Tarkington with watery eyes. “Dammit.” He shook his head and looked at his shaking hands. “Dammit.”

  All Tarkington wanted to do was sit down and cry. He felt an exhaustion creep over his body. Before it consumed him, he bit his lip, drawing blood. The sharp pain brought him back to the task at hand.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed the pain. His voice was low, “Get back to the men, Sergeant.” Winkleman looked up at his squad leader and narrowed his eyes. Tarkington could feel the hatred. “Now,” he barked, making Winkleman jump. Winkleman got to his feet, took one last look at Roscoe and moved back to his position.

  The intensity of fire continued. Tarkington went twenty yards, pulled himself up and saw more soldier’s helmets. He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Where’s Lieutenant Govang?”

  Off to his right he heard, “Here, who’s that?”

  Tarkington moved sideways until he was directly behind the lieutenant’s foxhole. “There room in there for me?” He yelled.

  Govang answered, “Yes. I’ll cover you.” He popped up and fired his Thompson.

  Tarkington lunged forward and jumped feet first into the hole, landing on something soft. He immediately knew it was a body. His ankle folded over painfully but he caught it before it sprained. He sucked in air, “Damn. Who’s that, sir?”

  Govang fired again and dropped back beneath the lip of the foxhole. He looked down at the body. “It’s Sergeant Tillotson.” He scowled, “He’s dead.”

  Tarkington couldn’t believe his ears. Platoon Sergeant Tillotson was a fixture in the company. He shook his head and muttered, “Thought he was bullet-proof.”

  Govang shook his head. “I can’t move him out of here on my own, so I left him there.”

  Tarkington could see the hurt in Lt. Govang’s eyes. “He’ll understand, sir.” Bullets snapped overhead and the impacts were loud in the surrounding trees. “Lieutenant Smoker sent second squad to help. He would’ve sent more, but we got hit too and he expects another thrust. Can you hold?”

  Lieutenant Govang shrugged. “Now that the Nambu’s gone, we’ll have a better chance. Was that your doing?”

  “PFC Roscoe, sir.”

  “Well, let him know it’s appreciated.” Tarkington nodded, not wanting to add to the lieutenant’s obvious pain. He popped up again with his Thompson leading and Tarkington did the same, careful to keep from standing on Sgt. Tillotson’s back. Without the Nambu the amount of fire coming from the woods was much less, but still dangerous. Tarkington looked over his barrel searching for targets on the slope in front, but didn’t see any.

  Lieutenant Govang came off his sights too and searched the area. “I don’t like it.” He chewed the inside of his cheek. “We knocked a lot of them down, but there’s a lot more.” He ducked down and pulled Tarkington with him. “Take your squad down the gully and lengthen our line. I think they’re trying to flank us from below.”

  Tarkington nodded, “Yes, sir.”

  He was about to roll out the back when Govang gripped his shoulder. “Stay low, you won’t have any time for foxholes.”

  Tarkington gave him a curt nod and pushed himself backwards. He rolled as he did last time until he was sure he was concealed in the safety of the gully. He got to his feet and moved down the line until he came to Roscoe’s body. In the few minutes since he’d been there, his face had turned gray and the hole in his forehead was filled with dark, congealed blood. He tore his eyes away and yelled, “Second squad, on me.”

  He continued to move downhill and his squad filtered in one-by-one and two-by-two. “Get me a headcount, Wink.”

  He immediately barked, “Eleven of us.” He’d already counted.

  All eyes were on Tarkington and he could tell they knew about Roscoe. “Lieutenant Govang thinks the Japs are moving to his right flank. We’re moving down to extend and reinforce.”

  PFC Holiday, the other grenadier asked, “What about Roscoe? We gonna leave him there to rot?”

  Tarkington’s face turned crimson and a thick vein popped out on his forehead. “We’ll come back for him. Forget about him for now. We gotta win this fight or we’ll all be left rotting out here.” He looked at each man. “Now move.”

  They had little trouble finding the end of 2nd platoon’s line. They were a hundred yards downhill and jumpy, nearly firing on them. Tarkington crawled up to the last foxhole. It was occupied by a PFC Gasteau and Rojas. They were riflemen and informed him they’d hardly fired a shot. Most of the action had been further up the hill.

  Tarkington crawled forward to get a better look. There was a slight ridge up the hill, making it difficult to see where the main battle had taken place. The field to his front was covered in tall, thick razor grass. He pushed back and addressed the men. “There’s nothing going on at the moment. Spread out and dig holes fifteen yards apart, as quickly as you can. If they come it’ll be right out in front and they’ll be able to get close before we see ‘em.” He pointed at Holiday. “How many rifle grenades you got?” He held up four fingers. “I want you to use them wisely, but use ‘em. No reason to take ammo home. Now get to it.”

  Tarkington took out his entrenching tool and started scraping away the loamy top layer of soil and heaping it in front. He dug as quickly as he could. The two riflemen from the 2nd platoon were watching him work and sweat. He wiped his brow then pointed at the nearest man. “Keep an eye out. I want to know the instant you see, or even think you see anything.” Both soldiers looked away and focused on the overgrown field of razor grass.

  Tarkington was halfway done when he heard one of the riflemen speak in a loud whisper. “I think I…”

  He was interrupted by the sharp crack of rifles firing. Tarkington dove into the shallow hole. It was twelve inches deep, and not quite the length of his body. He knew it wasn’t enough to keep him alive for long, but it would have to do.

  There was yelling coming from the grass. He looked to his right and saw the smoking barrels of his two scouts. PFC Henry saw him looking and signaled ‘enemy sighted.’

  Both riflemen to his left fired, refocusing Tarkington to the front. He aimed the Thompson into the tall grass, not seeing anything but knowing something was there. Movement, a dark shape. He braced and fired a burst. Suddenly there was a piercing yell, the grasses parted and there were Japanese soldiers charging with fixed bayonets on their Arisaka rifles.

  Tarkington centered the nearest soldier and fired on full automatic as he swept right, cutting down the first four soldiers before his magazine emptied. “Reloading,” he yelled, and rolled onto his side. He found a new magazine and slammed it home. He pulled the bolt until it locked and fired carefully-aimed three-round bursts, moving from target to target until he was empty again.

  As he reloaded he heard the hammering of Stollman’s BAR. The heavy .30-06 rounds nearly cut soldiers in half, but still they kept coming. There’s too many of them. He yanked a grenade off his harness, pulled the pin and let it fly.
He picked up the Thompson and saw the grenade explode between the feet of a screaming Japanese soldier. The soldier’s body simply came apart, sending bits of bone and metal shrapnel into the man beside him, who was pushed sideways by what looked like an invisible hurricane-force wind.

  The Japanese were falling, but there were still too many. They’d make it across the twenty yards and be in among the GIs with their slashing bayonets in moments. Tarkington yelled something he’d hoped he’d never have to, “Fix bayonets, fix bayonets.”

  He got to his knees and fired on full automatic, spraying .45 caliber death into the line of soldiers only feet from the GIs, giving the men time to attach their bayonets. His firing-pin hit an empty chamber and he knew he didn’t have time to reload. He lunged to his feet and gripped the barrel of the Thompson. He could feel the distant pain of the red-hot barrel burning his hand, but he ignored it and the scream that erupted from deep within him was primeval.

  He braced and swung the butt of the Thompson like a baseball bat. The wooden stock smashed into the nearest Japanese soldier, crushing the side of his face, sending blood spewing from his ears, nose and mouth.

  There was another soldier right behind the first, and the bandy-legged soldier lunged his long bayonet at his gut. Tarkington brought the Thompson back across and parried the rifle to the right. The Japanese continued forward and slammed into Tarkington’s chest sending them both to the ground.

  He struggled to keep his breath. The enemy’s face was inches from his and he could see his flared nostrils and the rage and fury in his eyes. The soldier pushed off, trying to bring his rifle to bear, but it was too long and the bayonet caught in the ground. It was all Tarkington needed. With all his strength he punched the Japanese in the cheek. It was a solid hit and he felt the cheekbone crumple beneath his fist. The Japanese released the rifle and reeled back, momentarily dazed. Tarkington thrust his hips as hard as he could, a move he used to do to get his little brother off him when they were wrestling.

  The Japanese was lifted and flung forward onto his bleeding face. Tarkington rolled onto his stomach and shot to his feet. He jumped onto the soldier’s back and stomped his head with the heel of his boot, wanting to turn it to pulp. He felt, rather than saw, another soldier bearing down on him. He sprang to the right, into a somersault then onto his feet as another Japanese soldier lunged his bayonet into the space he’d just occupied.

  Tarkington threw himself into the soldier’s back and tackled him like he was back on the football field in Kansas and the soldier was the opponent’s quarterback. Tarkington was much bigger and he heard the soldier grunt as his full weight landed on him. He reached for the knife on his belt and found the hilt. He pulled it and, while the Japanese was still struggling to catch his breath, plunged it into his back over and over, until his hand was dripping with blood.

  When there was no more movement, he rolled off and tried to get to his feet. The world spun and he thought he might black out. The blood pounding in his head turned his world red and throbbing. He noticed the soldier he’d been stomping on trying to get up. With dripping knife in hand, he fell onto his victim and jammed the knife into the back of the soldier’s neck, stilling his movement and adding to his already bloody hand.

  “Sarge, lookout!” He spun and saw his death coming. An officer was standing over him with his curved, flashing sword above his head ready to slash down and separate his head from his shoulders. He couldn’t move as he saw the sword coming down. He could hear it slicing the air. Suddenly the sword sparked and deflected off a Springfield rifle. The bayonet slashed into the officer’s thigh slicing his leg deeply and he screamed in agony. The officer’s eyes came off Tarkington and focused on PFC Henry, who’d thrown the bayoneted rifle like a javelin and was now running toward him, screaming like a banshee.

  The officer’s eyes blazed as he turned to meet the new threat. Tarkington looked at his bloodied hand and arm making sure he still gripped the knife. As the officer lunged forward to meet Henry, Tarkington plunged the knife into his crotch up to the hilt. The battle cry changed to a guttural whimper and the officer fell to the side trying to pull the slippery blade out.

  Henry pulled his own knife and jumped onto the officer’s chest, sinking his blade into the space where his neck met his chest. A fountain of blood sprayed up, covering Henry’s chest and face with dripping arterial blood.

  Both men sat staring at one another as they dripped with blood and gore. Tarkington broke his stare and looked around, as if suddenly remembering where he was. He felt as though he were out of his body and now he was returning. The fighting was over and he could see bodies everywhere, mostly Japanese, but not all.

  14

  Tarkington had his back against a tree, holding the officer’s curved sword. He’d wiped the blade and now it shimmered as it caught the sunlight. Despite the blade striking Henry’s Springfield rifle, there wasn’t a scratch or even a slight ding. It was light in his hand, well-balanced. He wondered about the Japanese officer he’d taken it from. Was it a family heirloom? Had it been passed down generation after generation, finally ending up in the hands of an American? He ran his thumbnail across the edge and watched thin strands of his nail peel back like butter and float to the ground. It was incredibly sharp. Too sharp to carry.

  He pushed himself to his feet and wobbled. The short and violent battle had ended ten minutes ago, but he wasn’t back to his normal self. He felt like he was still floating, still reeling. He’d wiped the blood on his pants leg, but there was too much of it. It was caked beneath his fingernails and he doubted he’d ever be free of it.

  He looked at his men, who were on their feet going through the Japanese soldier’s belongings, pocketing anything good, scattering the rest into the wind. PFC Crown and Malaky were dead. Their bodies were pulled back and lined up side-by-side with PFC Roscoe and PFC Roddy in the gully.

  He tore his eyes from them and walked the few feet to the dead Japanese officer. He straddled him, looking down at the blood congealing on his chest. His mouth was open and he had the same pained look he died with. Tarkington saw what he was looking for. He untied the colored band holding the sword’s scabbard and wrapped it around his waist. The sword fit snugly into the sheath, like it belonged there. He turned and walked back to his hole.

  Sergeant Winkleman stepped close and pointed, “Here comes Lieutenant Govang.”

  Tarkington faced him and when he was close, nodded. Govang nodded back and looked at the carnage. He shook his head. “That was some good work, Sergeant. If they’d gotten through, they would’ve rolled up our whole line.” Tarkington didn’t respond but looked at the four KIAs. Govang noticed and took his helmet off when he saw them. “Dammit. Who is it?”

  Tarkington’s voice was scratchy and his throat hurt from yelling. “Roscoe, Crown, Malaky and the runner, Roddy.”

  Govang pursed his lips. “This fucking war. We’ll fashion stretchers from ponchos and get them out of here. You have my word, Tark.”

  “We leaving, sir?”

  Govang nodded. “We got a runner from the Filipinos. They took a beating but were able to push the Japs from their first line of bunkers. They’re staying out here, but we’re being called back.” He pointed, “Another full company of Filipinos are coming to reinforce them.”

  Tarkington looked where he was pointing and saw Filipino soldiers filtering through the jungle. Some passed nearby and saw the dead Japanese and the bloodied platoon. They gave somber nods as they passed. “Fine with me, sir. I wouldn’t want to spend the night out here.”

  Lieutenant Govang nodded. “Third platoon will take over the quick response responsibilities for the next twenty-four hours. Get your men back to your platoon.” He put his hand on Tarkington’s shoulder. “You guys saved our bacon, Sergeant.” Tarkington looked at the dead GIs. Govang nodded, “We’ll get them back, move out.”

  Tarkington and the rest of 1st and 2nd platoon made it back across the river to the relative safety of the plateau without
incident. They were met with concerned stares from the men of Hotel Company that stayed behind and the grateful smiles of the Filipinos still faithfully manning their AA guns.

  Captain Glister waited until they were settled then called the officers and NCOs to the command tent. All Tarkington and Winkleman wanted to do was curl up and sleep, but that was not to be.

  As Glister entered, the men made a half-assed attempt to get to their feet before Glister demanded they stay seated. “I’ll keep this brief, I know you’re all exhausted. I wanted you to know how the overall situation is unfolding. The Japs pushed hard and had some success pushing through the Orion-Bagac Line as you already know. We weren’t sure how many men they got through, but now it’s clear there are two groups, each at least company-sized. This group we just tangled with is well dug-in. The Filipinos wanted to let them wither on the vine and starve to death, but MacArthur wants them out of his rear areas as quickly as possible. He’s concerned they’ll mount a coordinated attack from two sides. So that’s falling on the Filipinos and they’re confident they won’t be a threat after another few days of fighting.”

  He nodded and extended his hand to them. “First and second platoons’ actions have made that possible and General MacArthur has already heard about your contributions.”

  The men stared with hollow, tired eyes, barely absorbing any of it. Undeterred, Glister continued. “The threat from the landings south, have also been squashed, thanks in no small part to this company.” He smiled, “And there’s more good news. A convoy of reinforcements is on its way, spanning a mile long. We just have to hold the line a while longer. Once we’re reinforced, I’ve no doubt the Japs will wish they’d never heard of us.”

  That brought the men out of their stupor and there were back-slaps, hand-shaking and smiling faces. Winkleman punched Tarkington’s arm and Tarkington glared at him. “That’s great news, Tark. We haven’t been left out here to die.”