Tark's Ticks

by Chris Glatte

  Tarkington grinned and shook his head. “Rest awhile. You got shot for Chrissakes.”

  Eduardo nodded. “Yes, shot here.” He pointed at the bandages then his head, “Not here. I’m good as new.”

  “It’s only been a few days. It must hurt like hell. Can you even walk?”

  Eduardo took it as a request and started to move to the side of the bed, but a nurse ran up and scowled at Tarkington. “What’s wrong with you, Sergeant? You can’t expect him to walk yet!”

  Tarkington was taken completely off-guard and held up his hands, “I didn’t ask him to… just asked if he could.”

  She scolded him again. “Course not, he was shot just a few days ago. You know how long a gunshot wound takes to heal? It’s like losing a limb almost.” She shook her head like he was an idiot. “Shame on you.”

  Tarkington didn’t have a response and was afraid saying more would only make it worse. Eduardo shook his head. “I not lose leg. I good as new.”

  The nurse looked at him as though he were a cute puppy and rubbed his shoulder. “Of course you won’t lose your leg. The surgery was successful. Don’t let Staff Sergeant…” she looked at his faded, stenciled name, “Tarkington put that idea in your head.”

  Tarkington held up his hands. “You’re the one that said it, not me. Criminy sakes, it’s like a damned nuthouse in here.” He looked at her name. “Sergeant Lundy.”

  She looked at him and smiled. She wasn’t the most attractive female he’d seen, but she was the first non-native woman he’d seen in a while and the newness was intriguing. “I’m only funning with you, Staff Sergeant Tarkington.”

  He blushed and nodded. “Well I guess I fell into that one.” He lowered his voice and moved her away from the bed slightly. “How’s he doing, really?”

  The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. “He’s doing fine, really. The doctor pulled the bullet out cleanly and there’s been no sign of infection. He’s expected to heal quickly.”

  “How quickly? I mean, what’s your best guess?”

  She moved closer to Eduardo who was straining to hear. “He needs at least a month for the tissue to heal properly, but he’s determined to get out sooner than that. If he rests and does the exercises,” she pointed at him as though scolding him, “he could be walking around in another week and a half.”

  Tarkington smiled. “You hear that? Another ten days,” he held up his fingers, “and you’ll be out of here.”

  Eduardo shook his head. “Ten days second squad be gone. Don’t want to fight with new unit. Like second squad. Tark’s Ticks,” he said proudly.

  Nurse Lundy scrunched her nose and Tarkington thought it made her look cute, like a young girl. “Tark’s Ticks?” she asked. “Tark?” She pointed at him, “Short for Tarkington?”

  He looked at the floor. “It’s - well, it’s something the guys came up with, you know, for a squad name.”

  She scowled, “Didn’t know we were naming squads. Is this like some kind of football game to you?”

  He shook his head and she turned and walked away, shaking her head. He watched her go, admiring her rather wide, but alluring backside, then turned back to Eduardo. “You made me look like an idiot in front of her.”

  Eduardo looked at Nurse Lundy then back to Tarkington. “You like her?”

  Tarkington shook his head and his mouth turned down. “No, and she definitely doesn’t like me.” He saw her greeting another patient. She bent over to better hear him, showing her backside. “Nice ass though,” he muttered and Eduardo started chuckling until tears streamed down his cheeks. “Keep it quiet, dammit. She’ll hear you.”

  Eduardo shook his head, finally getting control of his laughter. “Ass, funny word for woman.” He wiped the streaks of tears away and turned serious. “I be back to second squad soon, Sergeant Tark.”

  Tarkington drove the six miles back to the forward area and parked the Jeep in the same spot he’d found it. It was nearly dark, but he kept the headlights off to keep from attracting the attention of Japanese zeros. He shut off the engine and scooted away fast, pretending he’d been authorized to use it all along.

  “Hey you,” he heard someone yell. He kept walking, keeping his pace, forcing himself not to look back. “You there, I know you can hear me.”

  The owner of the voice was close, so he turned and saw an irate Platoon Sergeant McLunty charging at him. When McLunty recognized him his anger turned to a devilish grin. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Staff Sergeant Tarkington.”

  Tarkington faced him and puffed out his chest, “Hello Platoon Sergeant McLunty. What can I do for you?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Tarkington. You stole that jeep. Even you won’t be able to get out of a theft charge, you lout.”

  Tarkington shook his head, wondering how much McLunty saw. Did he actually see him drive up and park? He doubted it or he would’ve approached him sooner. “What jeep?”

  McLunty scowled and shook his head like a disappointed father. “Lying only makes it worse. I’m putting you up on charges. What do you think about that?”

  Tarkington glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sarge.”

  The vein on McLunty’s forehead popped out and his face turned red and he barked, “You will address me as Platoon Sergeant McLunty. Understood?”

  Tarkington braced, looked straight ahead and repeated, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Platoon Sergeant McLunty.”

  “Why you little pissant, sack of…”

  His tirade was interrupted with the distinct whistling of incoming artillery. McLunty looked up but Tarkington grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward. “Incoming, there’s a slit trench that way!”

  McLunty slapped his hand away, “Get off me, you little…”

  The noise grew in intensity. Tarkington couldn’t wait any longer. He dove sideways at the same instant the ground heaved and he felt the heat and shock wave of a nearby explosion. He was lifted off the ground and hurled ten feet closer to the slit trench. More explosions erupted all around him.

  He lay as flat as possible, feeling the ground shaking beneath him. chunks of trees and clods of dirt rained down on his back. He looked to where McLunty had been but there was nothing there. “McLunty!” He yelled but there was no answer, only more explosions.

  His instincts took over. He didn’t remember crawling, but he covered the thirty yards to the slit trench in record time and slid in face first. He stayed on the bottom holding his helmet close to his head. He curled his legs into his body making himself as small as possible. The ground vibrated beneath his body and he thought sure the walls of the trench would cave in on him and he’d suffocate.

  He had no concept how long the barrage blasted the area, but it seemed like a long time later that the bombs finally moved to a new section. He slowly became aware of the relative calm and opened his eyes.

  It was pitch dark inside the trench. He looked up but immediately regretted it when his eyes were pelted with dust and debris and he quickly looked down and rubbed the dirt from his face. He tried to spit but his mouth was dry as cotton. He gagged and thought he might throw up, but held it down. His ears were ringing and his head pounded. McLunty.

  He forced himself to his feet and swayed. He lifted his chin to see over the lip. He could see the bright flashes up the line of more artillery. This wasn’t harassment fire, this was the real deal. In the darkness and confusion, he had no idea if he was looking toward the rear or the front. Then he saw fire consuming the jeep he’d borrowed. It was burning brightly, as though it had taken a direct hit. “McLunty!” He yelled again, but his throat was dry and through his ringing ears he wasn’t sure he’d made more than a slight squawk.

  He hefted himself out of the trench with a force of will and a grunt and stood swaying on the lip. He finally got his feet stable and leaned forward, hoping his legs would catch him. They did and he staggered forward, weaving like a drunk. “Sergeant,” he squawked again. He got to the approxi
mate spot he thought he’d been speaking with McLunty but there was no sign of him.

  He took another step toward the jeep and nearly tripped on something. He backed up and squinted. The light from the jeep fire lit up the ground in front and he could see two smoking boots. He fell to his knees and vomited over what was left of Platoon Sergeant McLunty’s remains.

  The barrage lasted most of the night, sweeping back and forth over the entire Orion-Bagac line. Tarkington stayed in the slit trench until it finally stopped then staggered his way through the carnage and found 1st platoon.

  The area was clobbered. None of the tents survived and many vehicles burned brightly in the early morning light. He helped a few dazed GIs who were walking aimlessly, find their buddies and cover. He instructed them to stay in their holes until further orders.

  He saw many GIs still hunkered in their holes, some still clutching their helmets tight to their heads as though the barrage was still happening. He also saw bloody rags of clothing and parts of men scattered here and there. He saw a smoldering tree with what looked like a shredded arm near the top branches.

  He saw the foxhole occupied by PFC Henry. He was covered in dirt and his hole was partially covered with tree branches. He had his rifle pointed toward where the enemy would be and flinched when Tarkington slid in beside him. “You alright?”

  Henry nodded and spit. “That was bad. Really bad. Worst I’ve ever seen by a long shot.”

  Tarkington nodded, “Any movement?”

  Henry shook his head. “Quiet as a church out there.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Smoker?”

  Henry pointed, “He’s over there, came through here not long ago making sure we were okay and ready in case the Japs come.”

  “McLunty bought it.” Henry looked at him, “I tried to push him to cover but he was too busy chewing me out. Not much left of him.”

  Henry shook his head. “Doubt he’s the only one. No one from second squad got hit, but there’s definitely casualties from other squads.”

  Tarkington looked grim. “Yeah, I saw body parts and lots of blood but have no idea who or how many.”

  “Lord have mercy,” Henry muttered.

  Tarkington slapped Henry on the shoulder, “Glad you’re okay buddy. I’m gonna go see Smoker.”

  Henry just nodded and kept his vigil forward. Morning light streamed through the trees and smoke and dust gave it an orange tint, adding to the hellish feel of the landscape.

  He encouraged the men he passed, stopping and telling them to keep a close eye and be sure their weapons were clear of debris. Despite the shellacking they’d taken, they were still ready to fight and Tarkington was proud of every one of them.

  He finally found Lt. Smoker trying to get through to someone on the radio. He wasn’t having any luck. When he saw Tarkington his eyes lit up momentarily. “Glad to see you made it, Tark.” He looked down at his boots, “Unfortunately that sword of yours didn’t. My tent took a direct hit, things in a million pieces.”

  Tarkington grimaced wondering if Rabowski had made the switch yet. He entered the large foxhole and nodded at the radio operator who was ducked down, looking sheepish. He nodded back and looked at the sky as if it were filled with more enemy shells. “Seems trivial at the moment, sir.” replied Tarkington.

  Smoker nodded slowly, “I thought there’d be a follow-on attack by now, but nothing’s happened. I haven’t heard any fighting since the barrage stopped. Doesn’t make sense.”

  Tarkington nodded and looked out over the killing field. He looked Smoker in the eye, “McLunty didn’t make it, sir.”

  Smoker’s eyes widened for an instant and Tarkington saw true sadness flicker before they turned hard again. “Dammit. Where - where is he?”

  Tarkington didn’t want to tell him what he found. “He’s back there a couple hundred yards. There’s - well there’s not much left of him.”

  Smoker’s lips pursed and he shook his head. “He was a good man. I know you and him didn’t get on well, but…” he stopped and tilted his head to a new sound. Tarkington heard it too and they looked up. “Shit,” he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled as loud as he could, “Air-raid, air-raid, take cover!”

  Tarkington threw himself into the bottom of the hole beside the quivering radioman and listened as the buzz of engines grew louder. Soon the air was alive with droning aircraft followed immediately by whistling bombs.

  Once again, the ground shook as the bombs marched along the ground in parallel lines of destruction. The devastation was mostly east of their position. Tarkington risked a glance over the lip of the foxhole, making sure Japanese infantrymen weren’t moving forward while they had their heads down. Instead of soldiers he saw the flashing silver of Japanese zeros diving toward their position. “Strafing run!” He yelled. He brought his Thompson to his shoulder and lined up on the closest fighter. They were diving hard and fast and he figured they’d be very low when they finished their runs.

  It seemed like the lead fighter was coming straight at him, targeting him alone. He knew there was no way the pilot could pick out individual men, but it felt personal somehow. He ground his teeth together and kept his muzzle aimed and his trigger finger poised. He saw the winking flashes of the planes machine guns, followed immediately by great geysers erupting in the empty killing zone and marching straight at him. He squeezed the trigger and held it down, then rolled and watched the fighter flash over the trees with scant inches to spare.

  Lt. Smoker gripped his shirt. “You crazy bastard! You’ll get yourself killed doing that.”

  Tarkington couldn’t seem to catch his breath, as adrenaline surged through his body. He stayed down as wave after wave of fighters swept the area with deadly fire. “Where the hell’s the anti-air for Chrissakes?”

  Smoker yelled over the din of hammering machine guns and nearby aircraft engines. “Wiped out by artillery. We’re getting our butts kicked.”

  Finally, the strafing stopped. Lt. Smoker pushed Tarkington, “Get to your squad and prepare for an attack. I’ve no idea if anyone else is alive, but by God we’ll give ‘em a fight.”

  Tarkington nodded and ran back to his men, checking as he passed. No one was hit, but everyone was mad as hell. PFC Holiday was cursing a streak that even Tarkington found impressive. “Be ready, and wait for the word before opening fire.”

  They eagerly waited for the attack but after a few hours it was evident it wasn’t happening. Tarkington felt his eyes growing heavy as he tried to stay vigilant. No one had slept a wink and now that the adrenaline had worn off, they were struggling to stay awake. Tarkington passed the word for every other man to sleep and soon he heard the soft sounds of snoring. He shook his head trying to keep his eyes open. Henry tapped his shoulder, “I’ve got it. You need sleep, Tark.”

  “You sure?” He nodded and Tarkington drifted to the bottom of the hole and was asleep in seconds.

  22

  March 12th, 1942

  The twice-a-day artillery barrages made the GIs of Hotel Company dig their foxholes deeper and with more fortifications, until they resembled mini-bunkers. Interconnected trenches were built from foxhole to foxhole to eliminate the chance of being caught in an exposed position.

  The GIs felt much safer, although there were still the occasional casualties from direct hits, or simply being unlucky. Tarkington didn’t know why the Japanese hadn’t attacked yet, but he felt the new fortifications would make it much tougher on them when they did.

  Without the constant pressure of attack, they were able to position what was left of the heavy machine guns and anti-tank guns making Tarkington feel even better about their chances. They’d even managed to place Howitzers atop Mt. Samat, a mile and a half behind the main line of defense, despite the harassment of enemy aircraft. There’d been no fire missions and Tarkington supposed they were saving every precious shell for the inevitable push.

  Tarkington was in his fortified bunker, staring at the Samurai sword. He’d dug out a secret
compartment in the far corner of the foxhole and concealed the opening with a lid from a wooden ammunition box. Henry and Holiday were with him, keeping an eye out for Lt. Smoker.

  True to his word, PFC Rabowski had sneaked into Lt. Smoker’s tent, only a day before the first big artillery barrage, and swapped the intact sword with the broken one. It was a seamless operation, made all the better by the obliteration of Lt. Smoker’s tent the next day. Even if he’d found the blade, which he hadn’t, he would’ve assumed it was broken by the shelling. The only problem was, Tarkington had to keep it hidden. He wanted it strapped to his waist when the Japanese attacked, but couldn’t risk it.

  Henry whispered, “Smoker’s coming.”

  Tarkington quickly sheathed it hearing it slide perfectly into place with a satisfying metallic scrape. He stowed it, placed the crate lid over the hole and moved to the front of the hole to stand looking out over the killing ground.

  Lt. Smoker and Lt. Govang came around the corner and the GIs snapped to attention. “At ease,” said Smoker.

  Tarkington could tell something was wrong. Both platoon leaders looked almost ill. “What’s happened? What’s wrong, sirs?”

  Smoker guffawed, “That obvious, huh?”

  Tarkington shrugged, “Let’s just say, you should stay away from poker, sir.”

  Lt. Smoker sighed heavily. “Mac left the island last night. Apparently Roosevelt ordered him off the island a couple weeks ago, but he kept postponing it. He and his family finally evacuated last night.”

  No one spoke for a long minute. Finally Tarkington nodded. “Well, it’s what I thought all along. There’s no reinforcements coming.”

  Lt. Govang took his steel pot off and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Looks that way. They wouldn’t be pulling him out unless there was no hope left.”

  Holiday asked, “So what’s that mean for us? We getting out of here too?”