Tark's Ticks

by Chris Glatte

  Tarkington ground his teeth, making his jaw flex. “You heard about that?” Smoker gave a slight nod. “It’s something the men started when we were on the hill the other day. I’ll tell ‘em to knock it off.”

  Smoker shook his head, “No need. Gives the second squad an identity; something to be proud of.”

  “Ticks, sir? You ever seen a tick? Disgusting.”

  Smoker smiled and nodded, “Course they are, but they’re also strong, stealthy and hard to get rid of. One tiny bite from a diseased tick can take a man down.” Tarkington continued to gaze up the hill. “I’m going to talk with Captain Glister about your mission last night. Taking the fight to the enemy like that could really put them on edge. Keep ‘em wondering, keep ‘em scared.” He let that sink in and Tarkington turned from the hill and looked at his commanding officer. “You think your men would be up for that?”

  Tarkington’s ‘do not volunteer for anything’ alarm was going off loud in his head but he nodded and said, “Yes, sir. Whatever you need.”

  Smoker shook his head and pursed his lips. “I need more than that. Sure I could make it an order, but something like this will have to be like last night’s mission - volunteer only.”

  “Mind if I run it by the men first?”

  “Of course. I’m not even sure the captain will go for it. Go talk to ‘em and get back to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tarkington joined 2nd squad at the foxholes facing the river. He slid in beside Sergeant Winkleman, who made room and asked, “What’s the scoop, Tark?”

  “Gather the men, the lieutenant wants me to ask ‘em something.”

  Winkleman noticed the worry and nodded, “Sure thing, Sarge.”

  Minutes later the men were back from the line a few yards sitting in a circle with their weapons resting on their shoulders. Tarkington looked around the circle. He’d known these men a long time, been through a lot with them and he realized he felt a deep connection to each of them. He didn’t see Eduardo and Nunes. “Wink, Eduardo and Nunes too.” He nodded and sent a man to retrieve the Filipinos, who were snoozing their lunch away.

  When they arrived they sat and Tarkington began. “Lieutenant Smoker wanted me to tell you how impressed he is with last night’s mission.” He paused and looked around the circle. These were combat veterans, men who’d gone to hell and back. “Look, I’m not gonna sugar-coat it. Smoker wants us to do more of it. He wants us to go out and harass the enemy in their own backyards, keep ‘em off-balance and scared of the dark.” No one spoke, their expressions giving him nothing. “He wants us to do commando type stuff. It’s not an order. It’s volunteer only, but before you say anything you need to know the score. There’s no support out there. If we get into trouble we have to fight our way out. We can’t call in the cavalry. We’ll be out there with our asses hanging in the wind.”

  The silence stretched as each man considered. Tarkington half-hoped they’d refuse. He’d lead the squad and be proud of them, no matter what. They’d already lost men and would no doubt lose more as this nightmare continued.

  PFC Stollman was the first to break the silence. He looked around the circle, “Well, I for one am in. Sounds like a good way to kill more Japs. I still owe them for Roscoe, Blakesly, Crown,” he paused, his voice catching on emotion, “Flynn.” He shook his head and wiped the moisture filling his eyes. “I’m in, that’s all.”

  Beside him PFC Vick squeezed his shoulder and nodded. “Yeah, I’m definitely in. Sons-of-bitches have a lot to answer for.”

  The next man in the circle, Holiday, nodded, “In,” as did each man after him.

  PFC Henry was beside Tarkington. When it was his turn, he was silent. Tarkington and all the rest watched him intently. For a moment Tarkington thought his friend would decline, he wasn’t one to hop on the bandwagon. He had a mind of his own and wouldn’t do something out of peer-pressure. The thought of going into the jungle without his steady, trusted first scout didn’t sit well with him. Henry pulled out a deck of tattered playing cards. “We’ll leave these on the Japs we kill.”

  He handed the deck to Tarkington who turned the first card over. He shook his head and passed it along to the next man. Scrawled on the white space was the phrase ‘Tark’s Ticks’ and a drawn death’s head. Henry grinned, “Been working on that all morning.”

  Tarkington laughed, “You crafty son-of-a-bitch.”

  An hour later, 3rd platoon was roused and they readied themselves to march back to the plateau. Lieutenant Grunwald found Tarkington. Tarkington saw him coming and stepped out of his foxhole. Grunwald stuck his hand out and they shook. “I hear you led second squad last night.” Tarkington nodded. “I think your action had a lot to do with the Japs leaving our flank. I just want to tell you good job, and thank you.” He looked around at the other GIs. “Be sure to tell your men.”

  They released hands and Tarkington nodded, “Yes, sir. I’ll do that. See you back at HQ.”

  Grunwald nodded and walked back to his platoon. Tarkington thought he looked sickly. He remembered him as a strapping athlete. Before the war, he’d insisted on leading his platoon in calisthenics and there were damned few soldiers that could keep up with him. He’d been a college athlete, track and field, and Tarkington had heard he held records in the high hurdles. Seeing how his tattered uniform hung from his thin frame made him shake his head. This war’s killing him.

  Sergeant Winkleman walked up beside him. “Heard he lost some men out there.”

  Tarkington nodded, “Yeah, Zachary and Hammond.”

  “Seems like he’s withering on the vine.”

  Tarkington turned toward him. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Looks like he’s lost half his body weight. Smoker says he has trouble eating. Just doesn’t have an appetite. Guilt’s eating him up, I think.”

  PFC Rabowski, Lt. Smoker’s runner loped up and stopped in front of him. “Lieutenant Smoker just got the word, we’ve been called back to HQ. Wants to be out of here in half an hour, Staff Sergeant.”

  Tarkington nodded, “Thanks Private. Carry on.” He ran off to find the other NCOs, but the word was already passing from man to man. Tarkington looked across the lazy waters of the Tuol River to the far bank. The greenery shimmered through the hazy air. Being close to the water made the day’s heat almost tolerable. Moving back to the plateau would be like moving back into a furnace. He raised his voice. “Second squad, we’re moving out. Top off your canteens and police the area. We leave in twenty minutes.”

  The GIs grumbled and pulled themselves from their holes, keeping wary eyes on the far bank. There’d been no sign of enemy activity all day, but they’d learned you live longer if you kept your guard up.

  For the next two days they stayed on the plateau. In the evening of the second day, Major Duerte and his Filipino company descended from the hill, victorious. They claimed the near total destruction of the Japanese pocket of resistance. They’d pushed them off the hill and forced them into the waiting fire of Able Company of the First Filipino Division. The victory was complete, they’d taken no prisoners.

  The 1st platoon re-occupied their old positions among the trees. On the second day back, Tarkington was sitting in his hammock. He thought about the Japanese sword and his anger flared. An idea came to him and he went searching for Sergeant Winkleman. He found him sitting on his hammock reading a faded letter. He saw him coming, “What’s up Tark?”

  Tarkington stood in front of him with his Thompson slung over his shoulder. “There’s a meeting this evening at 1800 to go over plans and company bullshit.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “When that happens I’ll need you to cover for me. I’ll be late. Tell ‘em I’m shitting.”

  Winkleman nodded and the edges of his mouth turned down. “Okay. What will you actually be doing?”

  “It’s best you don’t know. As far as you know, I’m suffering from a bout of diarrhea.”

  Winkleman nodded and asked, “This have anything to do with an antique Japanese s
word?”

  Tarkington stepped away, surprised. “How’d you guess that?”

  Winkleman shrugged. “You can’t just waltz in there and steal it. He’ll notice it’s gone right away.”

  “It’s not stealing, it’s mine. It’s war booty.”

  He nodded, “Yeah, but that’s neither here nor there. We’ve gotta make him think he’s still got it, otherwise he’ll sic McLunty on you. He’s been chomping at the bit to make trouble for you and that would be just the thing. Stealing from a superior officer would land you in the brig quick.”

  Tarkington’s surprise was evident on his face. “Seems like you’ve been thinking about this. Why?”

  Winkleman looked past him and yelled, “Hey Skinny, come over here.”

  PFC Skinner stopped cleaning his sidearm, a Japanese Nambu pistol he’d found somewhere along the line, and trotted over. “What’s up, Wink?” He glanced at Tarkington, “Tark,” he acknowledged.

  “The staff sergeant wants his sword back. Tell him about our plan.”

  “Your plan? Who else is in on this?” asked Tarkington.

  Winkleman grinned, “The whole squad’s in on it. What they did is horseshit. We can’t let ‘em get away with it. That sword’s rightfully yours.”

  PFC Skinner grinned at Tarkington’s stunned silence. He turned and motioned them to follow. As they went, the other GIs noticed and pulled in behind, until there was a line of GIs. Skinner led them deeper into the jungle until he got to a stack of boulders. He stepped behind them and pulled back a thicket of branches.

  Tarkington realized the thicket was actually woven together, making a sort of camouflage door. Skinner placed the door on the ground. He crouched and stepped into a little room formed by the boulders on one side, and a thick palm on the other. More thatched walls connected the space, making it nearly invisible to anyone that didn’t know it was there. “What the hell’s this?”

  Skinner poked his head back out and motioned him to follow. Tarkington looked to Winkleman, who grinned and motioned him to enter. He crouched and followed Skinner. The room was small, too short to stand in. Once inside, he noticed Japanese war trophies. Against one wall were stacks of Japanese bayonets, neatly folded Jap flags, and five more Nambu pistols, along with Japanese ammo, but the most prominent piece was a Japanese sword, propped up on the wall in its scabbard.

  “Where’d you get all this stuff, Skinny?”

  Skinner’s smile showed off crooked and broken teeth. “Collecting and selling’s in my blood, Sarge. Pop owns a trade shop back home, been working with him since I was knee-high to a grasshopper.” He winked, “Acquisitions is my specialty.” He moved his hand like a car salesman showing off the newest Ford. “Figure this stuff’ll be worth a fortune back home.”

  “Home? How the hell you plan on getting it home?”

  He shrugged, “I’m not. Just saying, wish I could. Stuff’s worth a lot here too though. When we were in Mariveles I made a fortune selling to the rear echelon guys. They’re itching for war booty.”

  Tarkington reached out and gripped a flag. “Where the hell’d you get so many Jap flags?”

  Skinner grinned sheepishly. “Don’t look too close, they’re not real. I cut up an old silk parachute, been dyeing the red Jap circle onto ‘em.” Tarkington put his fingers through what looked like a bullet hole. Skinner nodded, “They sell better with a little battle damage. The chumps don’t know the difference.”

  Holiday stuck his head inside, “Unless it rains, then they notice.”

  Skinner’s grin disappeared, “Yeah, the dye’s low quality, runs like soup when it rains, but we move around so much it hasn’t caught up to me yet.” He ran his hand through his greasy hair. “I was glad to get out of Mariveles though. Made a bundle that day.”

  Sergeant Winkleman pointed. “Show him the sword.”

  Skinner nodded and handed the scabbard to him. Tarkington took it and looked at the etchings. He gripped the handle, it felt similar to his but not the same. “Suppose you wanna sell this to me?”

  Skinner looked offended, “No, it’s not for sale. Pull it out.”

  Tarkington was confused but did as he asked. He pulled slowly in the confined space and when it was halfway out, it ended with a jagged break. Tarkington’s shoulders fell, “Hmm, broken.”

  Skinner nodded, “Yep and I don’t have the rest of it. Damned shame.”

  Tarkington nodded and put the broken blade back into the scabbard. He was about to tell them he appreciated the thought but he didn’t want a broken replacement. Winkleman spoke first. “The plan’s to swap this one with the one Smoker stole from you.”

  Tarkington shook his head. “That’ll buy a little time, but he’ll obviously figure it out when he pulls the broken sword out.”

  Winkleman shook his head, “He never pulls it. Thinks of it as too precious or something. He barely even picks it up, just stares at it sometimes.”

  “How the hell d'you know that?”

  Silence stretched as he looked from man to man. Skinner shrugged, “We’ve got a man on the inside, you could say.”

  Tarkington thought about the men around Lt. Smoker, none of them were in 2nd squad and he knew it couldn’t be Platoon Sergeant McLunty. “Who?” he demanded.

  Skinner looked to Winkleman, who shrugged and said, “That new runner, Rabowski. He’s at Smoker’s beck and call round the clock.”

  Skinner grinned again and added, “And he’s about two hundred dollars in debt to me.”

  Winkleman nodded. “The debt’ll be paid when he makes the switch.”

  Skinner scowled, “We’ll see about that. Two hundred bucks is a lot of dough, Sergeant.”

  “How’s it possible I never knew about this stash of yours?”

  Skinner shrugged, “I don’t advertise. The people that need to know, know and the ones that don’t, don’t.”

  “How the hell you move it from place to place?”

  Skinner’s mouth went flat and he squinted, “Now, now, Sergeant, I’m willing to help get your sword back, but you don’t get to know all my secrets.”

  Tarkington put both hands up, “Okay, okay. Probably best I don’t know.”

  19

  February 25th, 1942

  With the Japanese incursion past the Orion-Bagac line squashed, Hotel Company moved north to reinforce the line. A trip of only twenty miles took two full days due to refugee-clogged roads. The Japanese had pulled back from the line licking their wounds and, everyone assumed, getting ready for another assault. The locals took advantage of the respite to move south.

  When Hotel Company finally arrived, they filled a gap near the center of the line, bridging I and II Corps. Tarkington’s 2nd squad still only consisted of eight GIs and two Filipinos. There simply weren’t any more men to bring their numbers back up to full strength. Everyone that could be spared from rear positions had already been transferred to line units long before. Cooks, mechanics and drivers were all down to the bare minimum to keep the operation going.

  The 1st platoon took the center position between 2nd and 3rd platoons. There were already foxholes and slit trenches but they got to work expanding and making them better. Lt. Smoker ordered a detail to move forward and hack down the incessant foliage which seemed to grow inches in a day. By the time evening came, they’d hacked a kill zone that stretched forward forty yards from their positions.

  Captain Glister chose to place one of the rare heavy machine gun units in their midst and 2nd squad got busy, helping to fortify their position with cut palms and anything else they could get their hands on which might stop a bullet, or deflect an artillery shell fragment. There was a hurried frenzy to get the defensive positions done. No one had any illusions that the lull in the fighting would last long.

  Tarkington was sleeping in the bottom of his hole, while PFC Henry stayed awake and on guard, when the first mortar rounds whistled overhead. His eyes snapped open and he could see Henry’s face light up with each mortar shell impact. The shells weren
’t close, so Henry didn’t duck. In a gravelly, just-woke-up voice, Tarkington asked, “What’s going on up there? Any movement?”

  Henry didn’t look at him but shook his head. “Just more harassment fire to keep us awake.” He grinned and looked down at him, “It’s working on you anyway. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

  Tarkington pulled his feet beneath him and stood up, sighing. “I’m too damned hungry to sleep anyway.” Henry kept staring into the night, and Tarkington continued. “Didn’t realize how good we had it back south. We didn’t eat like kings, but we got more than the guys up here. Last I heard, we’re getting damned low on food and ammunition.” A shell landed in the freshly-cut field and lit up the area for an instant. “Could really go for a burger right about now.” He grinned, “Or even some of that python.”

  “Doesn’t do any good thinking about it. Just makes it worse. Put it out of your mind. Think about sex.”

  Tarkington looked at him curiously. He’d never heard Henry mention sex in all the time he’d known him. It wasn’t odd, just never came up with him. “Sex?” he asked.

  “Yeah, when you have to take a piss, or you’re hungry, or anytime you're uncomfortable and can’t remedy it, think of sex.” Tarkington continued to stare and Henry explained. “Humans are geared toward procreation; it trumps everything else. So, if you want to get over being uncomfortable about something, think of sex and you’ll forget all about the other thing.”

  Tarkington shook his head, “So you’re walking around with a hard-on all the time?” He couldn’t keep from laughing.

  Henry shrugged, “Nah, I don’t let it get that far, just the notion is enough to curb things.”

  Tarkington guffawed, “I had no idea you were so dirty-minded.”

  Henry shook his head, “Human nature.”

  The shelling stopped. Tarkington’s gut cramped and he bent slightly. He tried thinking of sex, forming a picture of a cute Filipino prostitute he’d lain with before the war. The image of her naked, perfectly brown body filled his mind but was suddenly replaced with her holding a plate with a huge rib-eye steak. He shook his head, the gnawing hunger returning. “Doesn’t work for me, dammit. It’s also human nature to eat regularly.”