by Chris Glatte
Sergeant Winkleman stopped running and kneeled beside a thick tree, trying to count men as they passed. Stray bullets still whizzed through the trees occasionally but he couldn’t see any Japanese and figured they couldn’t see him either. His breath came in hard gasps, making his chest hurt. Sweat poured off his face and he wiped his eyebrows trying to keep his eyes clear.
2nd squad was all accounted for. He needed to tell Staff Sergeant Tarkington. That’s when he realized he hadn’t seen Tarkington. He turned and followed 2nd squad toward Mt. Samat.
The GIs stopped when they came to a dirt road. Sergeant Winkleman panted up next to them and looked around, “Has anyone seen Tarkington?” The GIs looked around. There were GIs from other squads mixed in and they shook their heads along with everyone else. “Shit,” he muttered.
PFC Henry pointed back the way they’d come and drawled, “I saw him stop to help someone. I haven’t seen him since though.” He stood, “I’ll head back there and get him.”
Sergeant Winkleman shook his head, “Negative. The Japs are coming hard. Our orders are to get to Mt. Samat. He’s probably mixed in with another squad, just like these guys.”
The GIs of 2nd squad looked doubtful, and Henry looked ready to disobey the order. “What if he ain’t?” asked Raker. “Henry and I will either find him or figure out what happened.”
He moved to go but Winkleman put his hand on his chest, stopping him. “You lead the men to Mt. Samat. Tell the lieutenant what’s happening. Henry and I’ll see about Tark.”
Raker was about to protest but Winkleman didn’t give him a chance, simply turned and moved off. Henry glanced at Raker and winked. “Meet you at the mountain.”
Sergeant Winkleman knew it was a bad idea, but the men wouldn’t allow them to leave Tarkington behind. They revered their squad leader. Indeed he’d taken on Godlike status throughout the entire platoon. Winkleman wondered if the men would be so adamant if he were the one missing. He shook his head, anger flashing with the selfishness of the thought. He wasn’t Tarkington, but he was trusted by him and that was good enough for him.
He crouched when he heard a rifle crack. Henry came up beside him like a ghost. He leaned close to his ear, “He was another hundred yards or so.”
Winkleman nodded and pushed him forward, knowing Henry was much better at seeing trouble before it found him. He gripped his Thompson and glanced back, but the squad was out of sight. He waited until Henry was ten yards ahead and followed, trying to stay quiet.
Henry moved from tree to tree with the grace of a ballet dancer. Winkleman did his best, but had to work just to keep him in sight. They’d moved nearly a hundred yards and he was just about to move to the next tree when he saw Henry hold a fist up. Winkleman froze and moved his eyes side to side, looking for movement. He didn’t see anything, but knew if Henry saw or even sensed something, it should be taken seriously.
Without looking back, Henry’s hand went from a fist to flat and he lowered it slowly. Winkleman glacially moved to his stomach, careful to keep the muzzle of his Thompson clear and pointed in the correct direction.
He lay on the jungle floor, his eyes searching but he still didn’t see anything. Then he heard it, the faint sound of talking. It was so faint, he wondered if he were imagining it at first.
He watched Henry, who was low and utterly still, his rifle aimed forward. The sound increased, as though the speech had been carried on a slight breeze. Then he saw movement. Two soldiers were moving forward with their long rifles aimed at a rock. They approached the rock carefully, keeping their rifles ready as though it would spring to life at any moment. Winkleman realized, it wasn’t a rock but a body. He recognized the dull, faded green of a GI’s uniform and he swallowed hard. Is it Tark?
The soldiers were twenty yards away. Winkleman didn’t dare raise his Thompson to his shoulder. He looked beyond the soldiers. He couldn’t see any others. He wondered where the tanks were and realized the trees would be too tightly spaced. They’d probably moved to the road along with the rest of the infantry. Now they’d broken through, they’d want to move fast to make the most of the headlong retreat.
Winkleman watched in horror as the nearest Japanese soldier kicked the inert form and he heard a grunt of pain. His mouth went dry, the GI was alive. The soldiers started yelling. The furthest soldier put his rifle to his shoulder and took a tentative step back, while the first advanced and kicked again. Winkleman could hear the solid thunk of boot hitting flesh and he felt anger building.
The nearest Japanese talked quickly, a staccato stream of foreign words which sounded like gibberish to Winkleman’s Western ears. The soldier aiming the rifle nodded and pulled something from his hip, and attaching it to the end of his rifle with an audible ‘click’. Winkleman knew what was about to happen and knew he couldn’t sit idly by and watch.
The anger flooded his senses and, without making a conscious decision, he got to his feet and ran straight at the pair with his Thompson leveled from the hip.
The Japanese looked up in astonishment. The nearest soldier, who had stripes on his shoulders, reacted fast and turned towards him, bringing his rifle up at the same time. Winkleman realized he might hit the wounded GI if he fired. He stopped and brought the Thompson to his shoulder, but knew the Jap had him beat. Suddenly the enemy soldier’s chest erupted with blood and he dropped to his knees. Winkleman aimed and fired three more rounds into his chest and he toppled backwards.
The second man was frozen in place, his mouth open, seeing his death coming. Winkleman strode toward him, his Thompson’s muzzle aimed at his chest. He didn’t want to fire over the wounded GI. He wanted to be sure he only hit the Japanese. Anger coursed through his veins and he stopped when he was mere feet from the soldier, who continued to stare.
The Japanese still held his rifle, the long bayonet scraping the dirt. Winkleman’s finger touched the trigger, but he didn’t fire. The soldier looked young and terrified and, despite the rifle, helpless.
The anger subsided, replaced with pity. His eyes locked with the enemy. The soldier’s eyes suddenly flashed with anger and, with tears streaking down his cheeks, he raised his rifle. Winkleman yelled, “Stop!” but the rifle continued to rise. He had no choice. He pulled the trigger and the soldier’s diminutive chest exploded, taking the full brunt of three .45 caliber bullets. His eyes never left Winkleman’s but the anger did, replaced with emptiness. He fell backwards into a heap which suddenly no longer looked human.
Henry ran up, slung his rifle and bent down to help the wounded GI. He grunted and strained to get him up and finally had to yell, “Dammit Wink, snap out of it. I need your help here. We gotta get outta here before those shots bring others.”
Winkleman tore his eyes away and shook his head. The image of the dead soldier’s eyes sank deep into his soul, promising to come out late at night and torture his sleep for the rest of his days.
He slung his Thompson, feeling the heat coming off the muzzle. In a daze he moved to the other side of the wounded GI, whose head lolled to the side, caked with blood and dirt. Henry was struggling to get him hitched to his side and upright. Winkleman went to the other side and wrapped his beefy arms around the soldier’s back, forcing him upright.
The soldier moaned, clearing Winkleman’s head. With his free hand, he lifted the GI’s face, seeing if he recognized him and, at the same time, checking for a wound. The GI’s helmet was missing and his dark hair was caked with blood, suggesting a head wound. “That you, Pullman? Hey, Pullman, wake up soldier, we got you now. We got you.” The soldier’s head flopped forward and he muttered something incoherent. “I think it’s Pullman from third squad.”
Henry nodded, “Uh huh, well he’s a heavy son-of-a-bitch. Let’s get moving.”
“What about Tarkington? He might be further back.”
They started forward, half-carrying, half-dragging Private Pullman. Henry shook his head. “If he is, those Japs probably already ran him through.” He shook his head, “I can’t
explain it, but somehow I don’t think he’s back there. He’s okay.”
“That Cajun sixth sense of yours?”
“Something like that,” he murmured back through strained breathing.
They struggled, moving back towards the road. There was still the occasional shot, but nothing directed their way... at least they didn’t think so. Winkleman doubted he’d be able to hear an advancing tank column over his heavy, labored breathing and his pounding heart.
Pullman dropped into unconsciousness. He hadn’t made a sound in a long time, but they couldn’t stop to find and treat his wounds. They’d get him back but they didn’t know if he’d still be alive.
They finally got to the road and found no one waiting for them. Winkleman ordered them to move to the mountain, but he thought perhaps someone would hang back, just in case.
They stopped and Winkleman looked left and Henry looked right. “Clear to the right,” Henry gasped.
Winkleman looked up at the sudden roar of enemy planes flying overhead. They were in a line and as he watched, he saw winking flames firing from their wings. Dark objects detached from their underbellies and soared gracefully toward the side of Mt. Samat. There was a shuddering explosive thump and Winkleman saw flames erupting up the side of the hill. “Hope to God nobody’s beneath that,” but he knew there undoubtedly was, and probably his own men.
Henry’s voice was laced with unease, “How’s it look left, Wink? Can we cross?”
Winkleman tore his eyes from the macabre air-show and looked down the dirt road. It turned out of sight twenty yards away, but he couldn’t see anything coming, no dust clouds or clanking tank tracks. “It’s clear, let’s go.”
They leaned forward, dragging the top of Pullman’s boots across the road, leaving train-track-like divots. If they were being followed, it’d be an easy task.
They got to the other side and had to maneuver across a ditch. Winkleman’s foot caught and he tripped, pulling Pullman and Henry down with him. He released Pullman’s inert body and laid on his back, his chest heaving for air. “Rest,” he gasped. “Need a quick rest.” Henry stopped trying to lift Pullman, nodded and laid back too.
Five minutes passed before Winkleman got his breathing under control and felt somewhat normal. He leaned over Pullman and put two fingers deep into his neck, searching for a heartbeat. He adjusted and pushed again then laid back. “He’s gone.”
Henry sat up and looked Pullman over. “Must’ve bled out.”
“Dammit. I should’ve stopped back there and stopped his bleeding.”
Henry shook his head and pointed at a gaping hole just beneath Pullman’s shirt collar. It was filled with dark, thick blood and was the size of a baseball. “There was no way we coulda helped that.”
Winkleman stared at the gore then shook his head. “Damn them. Damn this war.”
Henry suddenly tensed and leaned forward, looking down the road. His voice turned icy. “Something’s coming.”
Winkleman got to his feet, “Need to get away from the road. We’re too close.”
“Too late,” Henry whispered and rolled himself and Pullman’s body into the ditch. Winkleman rolled too and his boots smacked Henry’s head. He scooted forward until he cleared the lead scouts head and pulled as much brush and cover as he could grasp over the top of himself.
The first vehicle passed only feet away. Winkleman was on his side facing the road, tucked as deeply into the ditch as he could push himself. The driver of the first troop transport was only feet away and Winkleman could see his Asian features clearly as he slowly crept along the road. The rear of the truck was full of soldiers, their sweat soaked backs to him. There was a mounted Nambu machine gun on the roof pointing the way they were driving. It was manned by a soldier who used the gun’s handles for balance.
More trucks followed, some towing small anti-tank cannons and artillery pieces. Six light tanks passed and Winkleman could clearly see the drivers and tank commanders poking their goggled faces through the open hatches. Dust was thick and he wondered how they were able to breathe. More trucks and then a flurry of small jeeps with mounted machine guns brought up the rear.
Winkleman and Henry stayed put until the dust settled. “Think that’s all of ‘em,” whispered Winkleman.
Henry poked his head out and looked each way. “Think you’re right. Japs are definitely behind us now.”
Winkleman took his meaning. “I know, but we have to link up with first platoon and they’re up this hill.”
“Think that column’s gonna pass, or take one of them mountain roads up the hill?”
Winkleman shrugged and adjusted his Thompson on his back. “I don’t know, but we better get a move on unless we wanna fight our way through ‘em.”
Henry suddenly clutched Winkleman’s arm and put his finger to his mouth. He pointed up the hill and whispered, “Someone’s coming.” He slid his knife from the scabbard and hunkered down.
Winkleman slipped into the ditch. He couldn’t hear anything except buzzing insects and the far-off drone of enemy planes. Then he did hear something, or more accurately, somebody. The unmistakable footsteps of an approaching human. Winkleman cursed himself for not having his own knife out. If they were seen, Henry would have to act, or Winkleman would be forced to fire the Thompson.
The footsteps were nearly on top of him, but suddenly stopped. Winkleman’s mouth went bone-dry. He didn’t dare move but peered beneath his helmet, trying to glimpse whoever it was only feet away. Sweat ran down his forehead and pooled into the side of his eye, stinging, but he didn’t wipe it away. Was he about to be bayoneted?
A gruff, whispered voice, “You fellas ready to come outta there yet? Think it’s clear.”
Winkleman recognized Staff Sergeant Tarkington’s voice and lifted his head from the ditch. “Tark? That you?” He got to his knees, debris cascading off his back and helmet.
Tarkington was there, kneeling, holding his Thompson by the barrel, his sheathed sword sticking out behind him. He was grinning. From behind him, Henry emerged like a wraith, seemingly appearing from thin air. Tarkington looked at him with surprise and Henry sheathed his knife and grinned, “Getting sloppy, Tark.”
Winkleman thought Henry was in the ditch and was just as surprised as Tarkington. “How the hell’d you do that?”
Henry looked at him, confused. “Do what?”
Winkleman didn’t prod but shook his head. “Glad you’re on our side, Henry.” He refocused on Tarkington. “What the hell happened to you? We’ve been looking for you.”
Tarkington shrugged, “Tried to help a fallen GI, but he was already gone. By the time I was able to get up and run, everyone was gone and the Japs were right on my tail. Fired an arsenal at me, but I somehow managed to get away. When I stopped running, I had no idea where I was, but I saw those Jap Zeros hitting the hill and knew it had to be Mt. Samat, so I veered back this way. I saw you three when you crossed the road, but then that convoy came.” He looked around, “Where’s the third man?”
Winkleman pointed into the ditch, pulled back the foliage and shook his head. “It’s Pullman from third squad. He’s gone.”
Tarkington reached down and took Pullman’s dog tags, then stood, looking grim. “Anyone got any water?” He asked hopefully.
Henry pulled his canteen and handed it to him. Tarkington’s hands shook so badly he had trouble unscrewing the cap. He finally got it open and took a long pull, forcing himself not to drink it all. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, relishing the coolness. “Thanks,” he handed it back. “Well, time to get back into the war, gentlemen. Take us up the hill, Henry.” Henry nodded without a word and moved up the hill with his Springfield ready.
24
It took most of the day to find Hotel Company and 1st platoon. Mt. Samat had been bombed mercilessly and they had to skirt bare areas and spots where the forest still burned, making their route circuitous and slow. They had to cross the mountain road multiple times, as it wound up the mountain
in a series of hairpin switchbacks.
When they were near the top, they were challenged by a ragtag group of GIs from an artillery battery. Tarkington didn’t recognize any of them. They looked skeletal and sickly.
Once they worked out that they weren’t Japs, they led them past a minefield on the road. Tarkington asked, “How many Howitzers you got left?”
The nearest man guffawed, “None. Between the Jap artillery and airstrikes, there’s just nothing left.”
Tarkington leaned toward Winkleman and grumbled, “Then why the hell we up here? There’s nothing left to defend.”
They followed the human skeletons a couple of hundred yards up the hill until one pointed. “There’s your H Company.”
Tarkington saw a group of GIs milling about, sifting through what looked like the remains of buildings. “Thanks,” he murmured as he passed. “What’re your orders now you don’t have guns to man?”
The soldier tilted his head. “Lieutenant told us to watch for Japs coming up the road.” Tarkington nodded.
They watched the two soldiers walk back the way they’d come. Their rifles looked huge next to their thin frames. Winkleman shook his head, “They look spent and near starved.”
“Yeah, food’s in short supply. We’ve been lucky.”
“Half rations are lucky?”
“More’n those two are getting by the look of it,” Tarkington replied. He pointed forward, “Let’s find someone knows what the score is up here.” He strode with purpose and Henry and Winkleman followed.
As they approached, men started recognizing and greeting them. Tarkington saw Lt. Govang. He had his back to him and was leaning over a map laid out on a flat piece of charred wood.
Tarkington shifted his sword to his back. “Sir, Staff Sergeant Tarkington reporting.”
Lt. Govang spun and smiled as he looked him up and down. He extended his hand and they shook. “Glad to see you in one piece, Sergeant. That was a hell of a fight back there.”
