Tark's Ticks

by Chris Glatte

  Twenty minutes later Tarkington came back looking worried. “Listen up, second squad.” They shuffled closer. “Third platoon is getting hit hard. The Japs have gotten around them somehow and are squeezing them. The platoon’s moving up the hill to join the Filipinos before it gets dark. We’re to move to the river and make sure the Japs don’t cross and make a move on our camp here.”

  He pointed toward the sound of combat, “Those are our guys up there. The second platoon’s staying in reserve. We move out in ten minutes. It’d be nice if we got settled before it gets completely dark, so move your asses.”

  The men scattered, grabbing packs and any extra ammo they had stashed. Within minutes they were moving to the edge of the plateau, each squad in single file and parallel to one another.

  When they got to the edge of the plateau, Lieutenant Smoker stopped them and they crouched. It was still light enough to see the gentle slope leading to the flat floodplain, which extended another hundred yards to the riverbank. The slope was sparse jungle, but got thicker near the river.

  Lieutenant Smoker gathered the squad leaders. “Japs might be waiting for us on this side of the river.” He pointed at Tarkington, “Send Henry out on point.”

  They spread out and scrambled down the gentle slope toward the Tuol river. They moved cautiously, but felt exposed on the relatively barren slope. When they got to the flat floodplain, the cover was better.

  Tarkington didn’t like moving toward the river in the fading light. Despite PFC Henry’s skills, if the Japanese had men on this side they wouldn’t know it until they opened fire. The fading light, combined with good cover near the river and the GIs exposure, would make for a lethal ambush. Henry moved cautiously.

  A tense half hour later they got to the river’s edge without incident. Lt. Smoker directed the a few GIs to cover the rest of the platoon as they dug foxholes in the soft ground. Soon there were a series of interwoven foxholes spreading over seventy-five yards up to the river’s edge.

  Tarkington stepped into his hole, alongside PFC Henry. Despite being squad leader, he’d helped dig and sweat dripped off his nose. He took off his helmet and ran his hands through his dirty hair. He was tempted to sneak to the river and scoop water to douse himself. He decided against it. The evening was hot, but his sweat would cool and he might even get chilled.

  Henry took a deep breath and blew it out slow. Tarkington hadn’t had as much time with his longtime friend since being promoted to squad leader. “Got any of your Cajun gut feelings?”

  Henry pursed his lips and imperceptibly nodded. “I don’t like it. Japs had to know we’d come. Why didn’t they ambush us?”

  Tarkington shrugged, playing the devil’s advocate, “Too busy chasing third platoon?”

  Henry tilted his head, “Maybe. Seems like they wasted a golden opportunity.”

  “I’ve gotta tell ya, I was thinking we’d have contact down here too. Maybe they don’t have enough guys. They’ve been duking it out with the Filipinos for days now, not to mention the men they lost trying to get through us.”

  Henry nodded and the silence grew, but Tarkington knew what he was going to say before he finally did. “Maybe it’s our opportunity.”

  Tarkington whispered, “I was thinking the same thing, but there’s no way Smoker will risk it.”

  “It’d be better with a small force anyway. Call it a recon patrol.”

  “You really wanna go out there tonight?”

  He shrugged and spit, “Better than staying up all night waiting to get knifed or sniped.”

  “Can’t hurt asking, I guess.” He pulled himself from the hole, “Be right back.” It wasn’t fully dark yet, but he moved carefully, making sure the GIs saw or heard him coming. More than one soldier had been killed by friendly fire while moving around at night near the front lines.

  He found Lieutenant Smoker’s hole. He was dead center of the platoon and a little back from the line. McLunty saw him first and whispered, “What the hell you doing out of your hole, Sergeant?”

  Tarkington went to his belly and pulled himself to the edge of the foxhole. “Wanted to pass something by you.”

  Smoker asked irritably, “Well what is it, Sergeant?”

  “I find it strange the Japs didn’t have some kind of ambush waiting for us. I mean they must’ve known we’d send a relief force.”

  “Well, consider yourself lucky, I guess.” He looked at McLunty whose face was blank, then back to Tarkington. “What’s there to discuss? It didn’t happen.”

  “It might be a good opportunity for us to probe them. It might be a thin force and we could break them open and be where they don’t expect us to be and attack them at first light. We could rout them.”

  McLunty scowled, “That’s a lot of ‘mights’, Tarkington.”

  Smoker paused to consider, then shook his head. “It’s too risky. Our orders are to hold this line, not attack.”

  Tarkington nodded, “Yes, sir. No problem, just wanted to run it by you.”

  McLunty growled, “Get back to your hole, and keep your bullshit ideas to yourself, Sergeant.”

  Tarkington wanted to reach out and strangle him, but he simply turned and slunk away muttering under his breath.

  Private Hisoko cowered in his spiderhole as the enemy force passed over his head, praying no one stepped directly on his cover. He kept still, all his senses tuned to the passing soldiers. He clutched his one grenade, ready to arm and throw it at the first hint of discovery. On his hip, was his only other weapon, his long bayonet knife. He released his breath when he realized he didn’t hear any more soldiers and he immediately started counting.

  So far, Lieutenant Miro’s plan was working perfectly. He’d sent Hisoko and five other soldiers across the river, giving them time before he pressed his own attack up the hill. He gave them two hours to cross the shallow Tuol river and dig their spiderholes, then he attacked.

  As Miro predicted, they sent a force from the plateau. That force had just passed over his head and once his count reached five thousand, he and his five comrades would crawl from their holes and attack with knives and grenades. Hisoko knew this would be his last mission. Their intent wasn’t to destroy the enemy force, but to drive fear into their hearts, and none of them expected to survive.

  Approximately an hour and fifteen minutes later, with his count complete, he slowly pushed the cover back, and slithered from the hole. It was dark, but lighter than the inside of the hole, and he could see surprisingly well with the additional light from the stars. He didn’t move as he took in the surroundings. He could hear the gentle flow of the river as it licked the banks. He strained to hear or see any sign of the enemy. He wondered if he’d be killing Americans or Filipinos.

  A sound of metal caught his attention and he adjusted his gaze turning toward the sound, but not looking directly at it, relying on his peripheral vision. He was thirty yards from the river. Judging by the sound, the enemy was dug-in right beside the riverbank. He centered himself, taking a deep breath and letting it filter out slowly, exhaling the fear and soreness from his body.

  He touched the grenade to make sure it was still there, then slowly pulled the knife and gripped it tightly. He looked to either side, searching for his comrades but knew he wouldn’t see them.

  He made his first move forward, barely making a sound. He felt his heart rate increase and he struggled to keep his breathing in check. His plan was to move forward until he saw a target, then use the knife and kill silently if possible, without raising the alarm. If he was seen before that, he’d hurl the grenade and follow it with a slashing knife charge. Lt. Miro had been explicit in his instructions, they must use grenades so he’d know if there were, in fact, enemies on the river bank.

  Agonizingly slowly, he pulled himself twenty yards then saw what he was looking for: enemy movement. He stilled his body, his breathing and his mind and put his entire focus on the spot. He saw movement again. It looked like a rounded rock at ground level, but knew it was the
shape of an enemy helmet. He’d found his victim. He gripped the knife, feeling the handle, willing it to become a part of his body. He moved toward the unsuspecting soldier, only feet away.

  Hisoko had his knife in his right hand and used his arms and legs to slowly push forward. He was close enough to smell the soldier’s body odor and knew right away it was an American. The edge of the hole was a foot in front of him when the soldier whispered something and it was answered by someone else in the hole. Hisoko froze, his heart wanting to leap from his chest. He felt sure the GI would hear its thumping, but he was focused toward the river, where he thought the danger was.

  Hisoko was within striking distance. He pulled his knife-hand to his shoulder, his arm coiled like a snake. The base of the soldier’s neck was within easy reach. He took a silent breath, invoked a silent prayer and with all his coiled strength lunged forward in a flash of violence.

  He felt the knife pierce the neck and grate against the GI’s back bone, before the tip punched out the front and spilled the man’s lifeblood. The GI gurgled on his own blood, and fell forward. The knife was stuck, but Hisoko held on and was pulled into the hole with the collapsing GI. The other soldier yelled something he didn’t understand.

  The dead American crumpled on top of the other GI and his weight, along with Hisoko’s, pinned the thrashing, yelling soldier. Hisoko gave one last desperate pull on the knife, but it would not budge. He gave up and reached for the grenade hooked to his back belt. In a practiced, smooth motion he pulled the safety and slammed the primer against his skull, hearing it hiss. He dropped onto the surviving GI, seeing his wild, terrified eyes. There was a flash, then eternal darkness.

  16

  The screams coming from 3rd squad got everyone’s attention. There was real terror in the screams. This wasn’t a GI having a nightmare, but something far more serious.

  Tarkington and Henry both stared into the darkness. The muffled sound of an explosion made them duck. “Shit, what the fuck’s happening over there?” Henry just shrugged. A rifle shot rang out and the muzzle flash looked like a beacon.

  More screaming and this time he heard someone yelling, “Japs!”

  There was no answering fire, but two more grenade blasts in quick succession. Tarkington wanted to get out of his hole in the worst way and help, but knew it would only make him a target for jumpy GIs.

  Henry was on his right. He suddenly looked left, and Tarkington could tell by his reaction that there was someone coming up beside him. Instincts took over. Tarkington simply dropped to the bottom of the hole. The Japanese soldier’s knife sliced over his head, missing. Henry lunged forward and grabbed the soldier’s extended arm and pulled it straight down, hyper-extending his elbow. The elbow made a ‘pop’ sound and the soldier screamed in agony.

  Tarkington was directly beneath his chest. His Thompson was pointing straight up. He lunged with every ounce of power he could muster and jammed the barrel into his chest. The Japanese soldier was pushed straight up and backwards. He landed on his feet but couldn’t recover from the backwards momentum and fell onto his back.

  Tarkington didn’t hesitate. He put his Thompson to his shoulder, flicked off the safety and fired into the struggling soldier. His muzzle blast lit up the area and Tarkington knew he had solid hits. He stopped firing after expending half his twenty-round magazine.

  He kept his smoking muzzle on the unmoving soldier and glanced back at Henry. Through gasping breath, he asked, “Are - are you okay?” Henry put a hand on Tarkington’s shoulder and nodded, continuing to scan the area, rifle ready. There was a sudden flurry of firing from the center of the platoon, mixed with more yelling. Tarkington glanced that way but knew better than to put his full concentration in any one direction. “You saved my bacon. I was a second from being skewered.”

  Henry still didn’t respond but kept scanning. Finally, after ten minutes they heard someone yell. “Sound off.”

  Men started counting off. Tarkington heard Winkleman yell for a 2nd squad head-count. He was relieved to hear his voice. Tarkington realized he was first man, “One,” he shouted. Everyone in 2nd squad responded. The 3rd squad had taken the brunt of the attack. They were down three men, KIA. 1st squad had one WIA. PFC Paulson had blocked a Japanese knife with his hand. The blade had gone through his palm. His foxhole mate had killed the Japanese with a bullet to the face.

  Tarkington heard Lt. Smoker yell. “Stay vigilant, there might be more.”

  The rest of the night passed slowly. There were no more attacks. There was still the occasional sound of gunfire up the hill, but nothing too intense. No one slept and everyone was jumpy.

  When the night finally relinquished its hold on the hours, the light of day exposed the gruesome scene. One foxhole in 3rd squad held three bodies: two mutilated GIs and a diminutive Japanese. Their blood and guts were mixed, making it difficult to tell where one man stopped and another started. The foxhole looked like a smorgasbord of carnage. When the bodies were finally sorted out, the GIs stood around their fallen comrades. The Japanese body had been thrown into the river. The third KIA was PFC Wilkins. He’d had his head nearly sawed off.

  Lieutenant Smoker walked into the circle of men and looked at the casualties. He shook his head. “Dammit. Alright, get them on ponchos and get ‘em outta here. PFC Paulson will go with the stretcher detail.” Tarkington saw Paulson with a dirty, bloody bandage wrapped over his hand. He had a pained look. He saw Tarkington watching and stared back with bloodshot eyes. He was in pain, but he was alive. Tarkington gave him a slight nod and he nodded back.

  As the men pulled out ponchos and fashioned stretchers with their rifles, Lt. Smoker walked past Tarkington and waved for him to follow. He had a cigarette dangling from his lips, unlit. Tarkington followed, taking a quick look across the river. Lt. Smoker went ten feet and crouched behind a tree. Tarkington joined him. “Didn’t know you smoked, sir.”

  He shrugged, “Haven’t lit it, but after last night figure why the fuck not.” He pointed back toward the plateau. “We found the holes they hid in. Sneaky little fucks.” He seethed, then shook his head. “We walked right past ‘em.” He looked sideways at him, “Where was that Cajun’s sixth sense?” Tarkington shrugged, knowing he wasn’t upset with his best scout. Smoker sighed, pulled the cigarette from between his lips and smelled the length of it. “They do smell good, but the taste. Can’t get used to the taste.” He looked at his muddy boots. “Wilkins was a smoker. Never without one. Christ, he’s barely eighteen…was barely eighteen.”

  Tarkington didn’t know why he’d pulled him over here. “Listen, sir. There was nothing you coulda done. I mean this kind of shit…”

  Lieutenant Smoker looked up quickly and cut him off. “You still wanna go after those yellow bastards? Give ‘em some of their own medicine?”

  Tarkington’s eyes hardened. “I’d like nothing better, sir,” he growled in a low, dangerous voice.

  Smoker nodded grimly and looked him in the eye. “Captain Glister would never allow it, but he’s not down here with us. Our orders are to stay another night before we’re relieved. I’d like you to take second squad and dole out some pain.”

  “What about McLunty? He’ll surely be against it and get you in hot water with the captain.”

  “McLunty’s leading the stretcher bearers. I told him to stay at base and fill in the other platoons about the situation down here.” He shrugged, “That kind of bullshit. He won’t know anything about it.”

  Tarkington nodded. “I’ll inform the men, sir.”

  Smoker added, “It’s not an order, strictly volunteer. Make that clear to your men, Sergeant.”

  He nodded. “Yes sir, I will.”

  The remainder of the day, the 2nd squad rested, while the rest of the platoon watched the riverbank.

  When Tarkington broached the mission to them that morning, the remaining eight GIs in 2nd squad immediately volunteered. The night before had been terrifying and no one wanted to spend another night out here worrying
about another sneak attack.

  Now it was evening, the men were awake, eating K-rations. Tarkington was sitting in the bottom of his foxhole licking his spoon clean. PFC Henry was eating slowly, seemingly a thousand miles away. Tarkington stuffed his spoon into his pack. “Won’t be needing these tonight.” Henry’s stare stayed focused. “Hey Henry?” No response. “Hear your mom’s a great lay.” Still nothing. Tarkington waved his hand in front of his face.

  Henry finally, snapped out of it and focused on his squad leader. “What? Huh? What’d you say, Sarge?”

  “I said, your mom’s a good lay.” Confusion and anger crossed Henry’s face. “Easy does it. I was trying to get your attention is all. What were you thinking about?”

  Henry scowled and shook his head. “Nothing really. Just thinking.”

  “Come on. Tell old Tark.”

  “Alright, if you must know.” He put his spoon into the tin of red beans. “I was thinking about home. It’s February, mid-winter. A nice time of year down there. Temperature’s usually in the mid 60s. Rains a bit, but not as much as January. Just wondering what they’re doing right now, at this exact moment.”

  “Probably sleeping, I imagine. It’s the middle of the night, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head, “No they’re ahead thirteen hours. They’ve already lived through the night we’re just about to go into. They’re hearing the roosters starting to crow.”

  Tarkington shook his head. “Hate those damned things. Say, you noticed we don’t hear too many over here anymore?”

  Henry shrugged, “Probably got eaten. In hard times, keep the layers, eat the roosters.”

  Tarkington looked at him, “You ever have a time you ate the roosters?”

  Henry took another spoonful of beans and slowly chewed. Tarkington knew he wasn’t ignoring him, but thinking about his answer. He never spoke before first considering his words. He swallowed and put his spoon back in the can, looked at Tarkington and nodded. “Yeah. Right before I joined up and came over here. Pa lost his job at the cannery cause of the depression. We lived off the land a bit, but without the money to buy staples, well, it got pretty tight. I couldn’t find a job around town, but the Army was hiring.” He looked into his can of beans. “Sure hope our money’s still getting to them. I hate not being in contact with ‘em. They must be worried sick about us.”