by Chris Glatte
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” he growled.
Winkleman pursed his lips and indicated the retreating back of Captain Glister. “He just said it, of course it’s true.”
Tarkington stood and stared after Captain Glister. “I hope he’s right, I really do, but until I see boats offloading, I’d take it with large scoop of salt.”
Tarkington didn’t know what time it was, only that it was pitch dark. Something woke him from a deep sleep. He was about to drift back into the abyss, when he heard the distinct sound of a distant battle. It was like déjà vu from the night before. He was about to roust himself and find out what was happening when he remembered Third platoon had the duty. If the shit hit the fan, they’d send them.
Relieved, he tried to drift back to sleep, but there was a sudden uptick in the volume of fire coming from the hill. He took a deep breath and poked his head from the poncho hammock. A stream of cold water hit the back of his neck and he cursed. Must’ve rained. He wiped the back of his neck and rubbed the cool water over his face. The smell of muggy wetness was thick in his nostrils. He pulled back into his cocoon and stared at the blackness.
He was warm and comfortable. It reminded him of early mornings on the farm, being rousted long before daylight to work the fields and livestock. He always had to literally pull his younger brother, Robert, from the warm comforter until he was kicking, screaming and cussing at him. Their routine was always the same, yet his brother fought it every morning. Tarkington shook his head, stubborn bastard.
He felt in the dark for his red-lensed flashlight and turned it on. The soft red glow lit up the inside of the hammock and he rifled through his pack until he found the pocket with the letters. There were five of them, all from his brother. His parents never wrote to him. It didn’t bother him, it wasn’t something they were inclined to do, it wasn’t in their nature. He briefly wondered if they ever wrote Robert at college, but pushed the thought from his mind and opened the last letter he’d received.
He’d received it a week before the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. He’d read it so many times he figured he could recite it. It wasn’t necessarily gripping reading, just basic goings-on, but it was from a different, more sane part of the world and he liked visiting that world whenever he could.
He carefully refolded it and slid it back into the pocket with the others. He wondered what his brother was doing at that moment. What time of day was it? He wished he could talk about the war with him. He knew Robert would be chomping at the bit to join up and fight the Japanese, if only to help out his older brother. Robert was like that, he’d do anything for you, no matter how out of the way or inconvenient. If it would help, he’d do it no questions asked.
He shook his head, trying to imagine Robert out here fighting. He remembered driving his knife into the Japanese soldiers. He remembered the blood, the agony on their faces. The fear. He remembered the way it felt as their hot life-blood spilled over his hand. He tried to imagine his brother doing that and couldn’t. He was as tough as nails, but he didn’t have the hardness it took. He’d be a good officer. He closed his eyes tight and sent a prayer, “Dear God, protect Robert. Let him serve as an officer on some General’s staff away from all this ugliness. Amen.” He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the distant sound of battle.
The GIs of 2nd squad were eating a hot breakfast, some kind of oatmeal gruel. It was bland and watered-down, but it was warm and filling and no one complained.
Platoon Sergeant McLunty slurped it into his mouth so fast, he was done before most were halfway through. He leaned back and addressed the NCOs seated with him. “Third platoon went out just before it got light this morning.” He looked around at the surprised faces. He nodded, “Filipinos sent a runner. The Nips hit them hard again last night, managed to get close then mounted a banzai charge. It was bad, but those little bastards held.”
Staff Sergeant Mulvane from 2nd platoon’s 1st squad asked, “We going out too?”
McLunty shrugged, “Depends on how things go today.” He paused, listening. “Fighting’s tapered off, but who knows what that means. We’ve been getting radio updates: so far they haven’t seen any Japs. They’re guarding the Filipinos as they pull out their dead and wounded.”
“How bad?” asked Mulvane.
McLunty scowled, “Bad enough.” McLunty stood abruptly and adjusted his Thompson sub-machine gun slung over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t get too comfy, girls. If the Japs come at third platoon, we’ll be called out.” They all nodded and he turned and stormed out of the mess hall.
Sergeant Thurston shook his head. “He’s in a foul mood.”
Sergeant Mulvane’s face darkened, “He lost his best friend yesterday. Tillotson and him joined together back in ’35. They were like brothers.”
The NCOs finished the rest of their breakfast in silence.
By midday the Filipinos, along with the help of 3rd platoon, had removed their dead and wounded from the hillside. The 2nd squad was tasked with helping get them from the riverside up to the plateau and into the makeshift infirmary. Medics, along with an aging civilian surgeon, were kept busy patching up the Filipinos, who were eternally grateful. Despite their obvious pain, they continually thanked them for their efforts.
While Tarkington was dropping off a Filipino soldier with a bullet in his arm, he overheard a conversation between a young Filipino, whose leg was mutilated beyond repair and the surgeon. The doctor explained that he had to take the leg off or he’d die of infection. Instead of bitterness - or even fear - the soldier nodded, forced a smile and apologized for the inconvenience. Tarkington shook his head in wonder. Where do they find their courage?
He left as the assisting medic slipped a piece of thick leather between the Filipinos teeth, then tightened the tourniquet as tight as he could get it. The Filipino bit down hard and put his head back, but didn’t utter a sound. Tarkington hoped he’d be half as brave, if it were him. The thought was sobering. Would I even want to live?
He left the tent and moved aside as another litter bearer brought in a soldier with a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and half his face. “How many more?” he asked.
PFC Holiday’s face was a mask of sweat and strain. “This is the last one.”
Tarkington wiped the sweat off his forehead and nodded. His stomach rumbled, and he realized it had been six hours since the squad had last eaten. He took a slug of water from his canteen to squelch the hunger and wiped the excess water with the back of his hand. Now that all the wounded were moved, it would be a good time to give the men a break under the trees and have lunch. The mess hall only had enough food for breakfast and dinner, they were on their own for lunch. The K-rations were in short supply too. To extend the rations, they skipped lunch every other day. Today was a lunch day and, despite the grim fare, he was looking forward to it.
The sudden crash of an incoming artillery shell squashed his appetite. He, and every GI in the area, flung themselves flat. The shells erupted on the outskirts of the field and walked through the thin jungle, sending great geysers of dirt and flame into the sky. It lasted less than a minute but in that time ten shells tore up the ground in the Filipino section.
Tarkington got to his feet and brushed the dirt off his front. He looked to the Filipino area and saw one of the AA guns on its side, the barrels twisted. It looked like it took a direct hit. He saw Filipino soldiers running to the spot and pulling prone soldiers from the burning wreckage. Three of the company’s four medics ran from the infirmary tent toward the carnage. Tarkington assumed the fourth was still inside assisting the surgeon.
With his hunger forgotten he waved to the men. “Come on, lets lend a hand.” He ran across the field with the rest of 2nd squad on his heels. As he got close the unmistakable and now familiar smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose. No matter how many times he smelled it, he never got totally used to it.
The AA gun was blackened with fire and he pulled up short wondering if there was any u
nexploded ordnance getting ready to cook off. He saw movement at the base of the ruined gun and realized it was a scorched hand reaching out. He didn’t hesitate. He ran forward with two others at his side. The Filipino was barely recognizable as a man. He was blackened with bits of pink showing through. The GIs pulled up short, not sure how to proceed. The soldier’s blackened hand shook as he continued to reach. Tarkington knew he was doomed; extensive burns were usually fatal.
He reached out and touched the hand, which closed around his. The skin bent and cracked and Tarkington could feel the heat and wetness, but held on. He looked into the man’s wide eyes and realized his eyelids were missing. The hand went slack and dropped from his grasp. He let go, seeing the life leave his eyes. He pulled his hand back and stared at his palm. Burnt flakes of skin were stuck to it. He wiped them vigorously on his pants and backed away.
He bumped into someone and turned to see Eduardo and Nunez looking past him at the charred soldier. Eduardo shook his head and pointed, “Cesar. He wanted to try the big gun.” His mouth turned down in sadness, “Bad time.”
Tarkington hadn’t seen them since returning from the jungle. He looked back at Cesar’s remains and was suddenly overcome with rage. “Dammit,” he cursed and stormed back across the field.
Sergeant Winkleman found him leaning against a palm tree, idly eating lunch. “You okay, Tark?”
Tarkington looked at him and nodded. “Yeah, just hate sitting here getting whittled down. Those damn Japs are completely surrounded but keep killing us one by one. I wanna get rid of them once and for all.”
The hillside suddenly erupted with fire again. They both looked that way, despite having no chance of seeing anything useful. Winkleman stood and adjusted his weapon. He tilted his helmet back and sighed heavily. “May get that chance after all.”
15
The sounds of battle on the hill ebbed and flowed like the tides, sometimes loud and continuous, other times muted and sporadic, but never stopped completely.
After 3rd platoon helped extract the Filipino dead and wounded that morning, they were sent back across the river to cover their flanks. It wasn’t long before they were probed, but they beat the small force back easily enough without casualties. Unlike the malfunctioning radio 2nd squad had been given the day before, 3rd platoon’s worked perfectly and they were able to keep the rest of the company up-to-date with regular reports. Most of the fighting they were hearing was the Filipinos pushing against the dug-in Japanese. It didn’t make it any less ominous. The enemy was far too close.
The 2nd squad had just finished their dinner of rice in various forms mixed with chunks of dried meat. Tarkington and the other NCOs of 1st platoon had a meeting with their platoon leader, Lt. Smoker, scheduled for 1700 hours.
He and Winkleman left the men in the mess hall and started towards the command tent. They’d been on the plateau for a few days and little paths were forming in the grass. He glanced down at one that split off and led to the slit trench latrine. Most of the men suffered from diarrhea and Tarkington was no exception. The urge could come on without warning so it was important to know where the nearest latrine was located. Many a meeting had been interrupted by a GI suddenly sprinting away holding his ass. It was so routine, it hardly bore mentioning.
Lieutenant Smoker was already in the command tent, his ever-present Platoon Sergeant McLunty by his side. Smoker read a tattered magazine. Tarkington wondered where he got it and if he could somehow steal it away from him. He hadn’t read anything except old letters from his brother, for months and he found that he profoundly missed it. All the paperbacks that normally circulated through the company had been left behind. The few that found their way into soldier’s packs had been read so many times they literally came apart in their hands. The pages were eventually used for toilet paper.
McLunty pointed at Tarkington’s side and Tarkington immediately realized his mistake. “Where’d you get that, Tarkington?”
He looked at the scabbard holding the Samurai sword swinging from the sash tied around his waist. He’d grown used to the weight of it and had completely forgotten to take it off. He gripped the worn leather handle, “Off a Jap officer that tried to decapitate me with it, Sarge.”
Lieutenant Smoker looked up from his magazine and eyeballed the sword. “Can I see it?”
Tarkington nodded, untied the sash and handed the whole thing to Lt. Smoker, who never took his eyes from it. He put out both hands palm up and Tarkington laid it on his hands. He felt foolish, like they were playing at knights of the round table or something.
Smoker hefted the weight and remarked, “It’s so light.” He clutched the handle and looked at Tarkington for permission. Tarkington reluctantly nodded and Smoker drew the sword from the scabbard slowly, his eyes sparkling at the fine workmanship. Once out, he placed the scabbard on the table alongside the magazine and held the blade straight up and down, studying the fine etchings. “Magnificent,” he muttered. “The markings are remarkable; delicate yet profound. This was made by a master.” He shook his head. “And a long time ago, I should think.”
Other NCOs filtered in until everyone was there and still Lt. Smoker marveled. Tarkington cleared his throat and put out his hand. “Could I get it back, sir?”
Lt. Smoker shook himself from his reverie and looked around the room as if seeing them for the first time. He shook his head and put the sword carefully back into the scabbard. He held it out and Tarkington clutched it and had to yank it from Smoker’s hand’s as if Smoker couldn’t let it go. “I’d like to buy that off you Staff Sergeant.”
Tarkington shook his head, “It’s not for sale, sir. Reckon I’ll keep it, maybe hang it over my fireplace back home someday.”
Platoon Sergeant McLunty barked, “You can’t keep that, Tarkington. It’s against regulations. Looting’s a punishable offense.” His face was hard and turning deeper shades of red every few seconds.
“Looting? It’s a war prize from a vanquished enemy.”
McLunty was a simple man from the underside of some backwoods town in Oklahoma. “Vanquished enemy?” He mocked. “Well ain’t you the fancy one.” He thrust his jaw toward Lt. Smoker. “Now give Lieutenant Smoker the pig sticker, before I tear it out of your hands and put you up on charges.”
The vein on Tarkington’s head throbbed. He considered refusing, after all, what could they possibly do to him? They needed every swinging dick they could get their hands on, particularly NCOs. He looked from McLunty to Smoker who didn’t quite return his stare. The only sound was the far-off firefight which had increased in tempo. The other NCOs were in rapt attention, wondering how the mini power struggle would play out. Everyone respected Lt. Smoker, but the surly platoon sergeant was a different story.
Tarkington made up his mind. He extended the sword but when McLunty went to grab it, he pulled it out of reach and shook his head. Before McLunty’s head exploded, Tarkington quickly said, “I’ll give it to Lieutenant Smoker.” He waited until McLunty stepped back before again extending it and adding. “For safe-keeping. Until this shit’s over.” Lt. Smoker looked him in the eye and put his hand on the sword, but Tarkington held fast. “I’ll need your word on that, Glen.”
McLunty was about to burst at the seams and tear Tarkington’s head from his shoulders. Lieutenant Smoker gave him a sharp look. “It’s okay, Sergeant. It’s a gentleman’s agreement.” He looked Tarkington in the eye and nodded. He held out his right hand, “You have my word, Clay.”
Tarkington lifted his chin and looked down his nose. He had no choice but to relinquish the sword. He shook Smoker’s hand and released his grip on the sword. The exchange was made and the tension in the room evaporated, except from McLunty, who was still shooting daggers from his eyes.
Smoker placed the scabbard and sword onto the table carefully. Tarkington remembered the rough use it had been through on the battlefield. It would take a lot more than dropping it a few inches onto a table to cause it harm.
Lieutenant Smok
er turned from the table and addressed the group. “Now, back to business.”
Tarkington didn’t pay much attention as Smoker talked about shifts and guard rotations and the general day-to-day bullshit it took to run a platoon. He never took his eyes off the sword.
He liked the way it felt at his side, he wanted to wield it in combat, and he was quite sure, despite Lt. Smoker’s word, that he’d never get the sword back. He had little faith there were any reinforcements coming from the mainland, which meant his fate was either as a prisoner of war or a dead man. He decided he’d get the sword back if it was the last thing he did.
It was just getting dark when a runner burst into 2nd squad’s area. He saw Tarkington whittling a piece of wood and rushed to him. “You’re to get second squad ready immediately and prepare to move out, Sergeant.”
Tarkington stopped whittling and got to his feet slowly. He towered over the PFC. “What’s your name, son?”
He braced, “Private First Class Rabowski. I’m - I’m Lieutenant Smoker’s new runner.”
Tarkington pointed at his sergeant’s stripes. “See these?”
“Yes, they’re sergeant’s stripes. You’re a sergeant.”
“I’m actually a staff sergeant. You’re a PFC, I outrank you.” He stepped forward and thrust his finger into the pigeon-chested Rabowski. “I don’t take orders from you, son.”
“Sorry, Staff Sergeant Tarkington, I was merely relaying the lieutenant’s orders. I should’ve rephrased it.”
Tarkington waved his hand like he was shooing a fly, and strode past him toward the command tent. He turned as the men watched him go. “Wink, get the men ready.” He spun back around and slunk off to find Lt. Smoker.
PFC Rabowski looked flustered. PFC Stollman hefted his BAR over his shoulder and addressed him. “Don’t let it get to you kid. He’s had a bad day, and it’s about to get worse.” Rabowski nodded and suddenly remembered his orders and sprinted off to find more NCOs.
