Tark's Ticks

by Chris Glatte

  Tarkington stepped forward, “We getting more rations, sir?”

  Glister nodded, “Yes, you’ll be fully resupplied before going out.” More nods of approval. Glister put his hands behind his back and leaned forward. “Listen men, I don’t want any heroics. It’s thirty miles to Mariveles give or take. We should only need two nights to get there. I’ll leave it up to the lieutenants on how you want to go about attacking, but I wouldn’t expect you to need to hit them more than twice. If you cause enough chaos, it’ll slow them down considerably.”

  Tarkington felt odd watching the rest of Hotel Company moving south without them. The GIs of 1st platoon were almost giddy as they filled their pockets and packs with ammunition and K-rations. The heavy weapons squad looked none too happy to be joining them and stood off by themselves giving furtive glances to the receding backs of the rest of the company.

  Lieutenant Smoker was back in charge, his stupor from the Mt. Samat battle, gone. Tarkington was glad to see him taking charge and looking confident. Once H Company was out of sight, he addressed the platoon. “I’m sending second squad up the road a mile, along with all the scouts and these Filipinos.” He indicated a group of fifteen Filipino men holding saws and axes. He looked directly at Tarkington. “You’ll provide security while half the Filipinos cut trees for a blockade. You’ll also bury mines on the road beyond the blockade. Before you leave, do what you can to set booby-traps on the blockade itself. We’ll be a half mile behind you and should be done with another blockade by the time you’re back. When they get to our blockade, we’ll hit them with mortars and small arms.” He held up his index finger for emphasis. “Don’t get pinned down. Throw a grenade, fire a few well-aimed shots and get the hell outta there. Got it?” There were nods all around. “This is the rally point. If you get split up, come here as quick as you can.” More nods. “Okay, move out second squad.”

  Tarkington barked, “Scouts out.” PFC Raker, Henry and Eduardo trotted up the road, followed by the rest of 2nd squad and seven of the Filipinos.

  Winkleman leaned in and whispered to Tarkington, “Why we always picked for this kind of shit?”

  Tarkington shrugged, “Could have something to do with this,” he touched his sword hilt. “I’m sure he noticed it, but I wasn’t about to go into combat without it. It’s my good luck charm now.”

  Winkleman grinned, “Tark’s Ticks out in front again.”

  “Yep.”

  27

  When Tarkington figured they’d gone a mile, he stopped them and they moved to the ditch on the right side and hunkered down. They listened for anything out of the ordinary. The strip of road was lighter than the surrounding jungle, which was pitch black. The constant hum of insects and the yammering of night animals was loud and constant.

  Eduardo moved to Tarkington’s side and gave him a thumbs-up signal. Tarkington gave a curt nod back. If Eduardo thought it was safe, it was safe.

  Tarkington signaled the men to move forward and spread out. Staying in crouches, they moved into the surrounding jungle, finding cover to kneel behind. The Filipinos were given the go ahead and they scampered into the jungle, looking for likely trees to cut down.

  Soon sawing and chopping sounds filled the night. Tarkington shook his head, not liking how loud it was, but they had no other choice.

  There was no traffic. The stream of refugees had ceased, which was good, but also ominous. Anything coming down the road now would be the enemy. He strained to hear over the din of wood-work, but realized if a Japanese convoy came, he wouldn’t hear their engines until it was too late. He silently willed the workers to hurry.

  PFC Stollman and Vick were in front of him. If the Japanese made an early appearance, the BAR crew would be their best chance of getting out alive. He touched the grenades hanging from his harness and felt the weight of the Springfield ammo on his belt. They’d be able to put down a good amount of firepower, hopefully enough to break away.

  A half hour later, he heard the first tree falling with a prolonged moan, then a mighty crash. He looked behind and saw a large tree settling across the road. The tree looked stout and immovable. The smell of sawdust and dirt reminded him of the sawmill back home where they bought their fencing materials. The memory seemed like something from another lifetime, like someone else’s memory.

  He called out, “Get the mines set out. Hurry.”

  “Yep,” called out PFC Skinner. Tarkington saw Skinner and Holiday moving around the tree. Each soldier had a bulky mine tied to their backs. Like all good infantrymen, they’d bitched and complained about the extra weight, not to mention the increased chance of being vaporized.

  Tarkington returned his attention forward. He saw his lead scout, Henry frantically signaling him. Tarkington’s breath caught in his throat, something was coming.

  He focused forward, trying to see or hear whatever Henry had. Henry was his furthest forward soldier, crouched in the ditch beside the road. He could hardly see him and had only seen his waving because of the lighter background of the road. He doubted Henry could see him much better.

  He got into a crouch and, as quietly as possible, moved forward. He passed Vick and Stollman and whispered, “Be ready to move back.” He continued forward, having to move around and through brambles, staying off the road. Finally he was beside Henry. He noticed Raker there too. Once he stopped moving he heard the faint sound of engines. He tapped Henry and whispered, “Move back. Now.” Henry and Raker silently moved along the ditch staying low.

  Tarkington stood and signaled the only remaining man across the road, Winkleman. He hoped he saw his frantic signals. He strained to see if he were moving but couldn’t tell one way or the other. The engine sounds grew louder and he saw a flash of dimmed headlights through the trees. Staying in a crouch, he hustled to Vick and Stollman, who were already moving back with the scouts. Tarkington stopped and again, signaled the invisible Winkleman. If he didn’t retreat soon, it would be too late.

  He moved around the massive tree trunk and ran to the road along with his scouts and BAR team. Skinner and Holiday were placing the mines in the holes the Filipinos had dug. They quickly covered them with dirt, patting them down as best they could. Branches were placed carefully on top and leaves and brambles added too.

  Tarkington hoped to see Winkleman, but he wasn’t there. “Henry, go get Wink, quick. Raker, cover him.”

  They moved off to the left side of the road. Raker crouched behind the tree, resting his rifle on top as Henry vaulted over it like a monkey. The sound of engines was close, just around the corner. Once the headlights illuminated the blockade, the convoy would stop and deploy troops to investigate. Once that happened, it would be hard for Winkleman to move without being seen.

  He watched them finish camouflaging the mines. He hoped it would be enough, but doubted it would stand up to concerted scrutiny. His orders were not to engage, so the next blockade would be treated with less scrutiny, but if the Japanese saw Winkleman, he’d have no choice. He wasn’t here to sacrifice men.

  Headlights suddenly lit up the area, the light streaming through gaps between the road and fallen tree, making them freeze. Brakes squeaked as the convoy came to a stop. Tarkington pushed Stollman to the right and signaled the rest to the left side of the road. If the shooting started, he wanted the advantage of a crossfire. He glanced back at the BAR crew, but followed the men left.

  He heard yelling in Japanese and figured troops would be streaming through the area in moments. He pulled up beside Raker and placed his rifle on the tree, aiming at the front windshield of the lead truck. He pulled his eyes from his sights and searched for Henry and Winkleman, but the glaring lights ruined his night vision and he couldn’t see either of them.

  He saw shapes moving in front of the lights. Japanese were cautiously moving forward with their rifles ready. Tarkington figured it was thirty yards to the lead truck. He released his grip on the trigger and carefully pulled a grenade off his harness. He carefully let his rifle lean on the
tree. Skinner and Holiday followed suit.

  He’d try to throw the grenade beneath the lead truck. It was a long throw but he had a good arm, at least that’s what his high school baseball coach once told him. More and more soldiers stepped in front of the headlights. He figured there were many more he couldn’t see moving into the cover of the jungle.

  The nearest soldier stopped ten yards from the blockade and turned back to the truck and yelled something. It was now or never. Tarkington pulled the pin, reared back and hurled his grenade as far as he could. His arm still hurt from the night before and hurling the two-pound grenade didn’t help. He cursed under his breath.

  The Japanese whirled back around catching the quick throwing movements of Skinner and Holiday. He called a warning, which was interrupted with the blast of a grenade going off beside the truck on the driver’s side and peppering the cab with shrapnel.

  The nearest soldier writhed as bullets scythed through his body until he finally dropped. The other two grenades went off among the soldiers in front of the truck sending them to the ground with fragmentation wounds. Tarkington hoped Henry and Winkleman hadn’t caught any fragments.

  He picked up his rifle and fired twice into the truck’s grill, hoping it was out of commission. He fired another shot at a soldier on the ground, lit up by the still-shining headlights. He caught movement in the shadows to his left. Two men he figured must be Henry and Winkleman. “Fall back!” he yelled.

  Suddenly there was a ripping sound and the air came alive with snapping bullets. There was a Nambu machine gun mounted on the back of the truck. Bullets stitched the tree trunk and Tarkington could feel it vibrating. The BAR opened up from the right side of the tree. The truck pulsed with impacts. Windows shattered, the wood siding splintered and the Nambu stopped firing. “Pull back Now!”

  The men took off, staying to the side of the road as best they could, but were forced to the main road so they could run flat-out. The initial surprise of the attack wore off and the Japanese sent volleys of fire down the road, but by that time the GIs were around the slight bend in the road and relatively safe. They kept running though, finally stopping with their hands on their knees, breathing hard.

  Tarkington did a quick headcount, everyone was there. He found Winkleman gasping for air with his head leaned back as though gazing at the stars. Through heavy breaths he asked, “Wh - where were you?”

  Winkleman shook his head and grimaced in pain before answering. “I - there was a snake. Big fucking snake. Couldn’t move.”

  Tarkington shook his head, “Snake? You get bit?”

  Winkleman pointed at Henry who was grinning. He drawled, “I killed it for him. One of those caped sons-of-bitches.”

  Winkleman nodded, “By that time it was too late to move.”

  Tarkington shook his head in disbelief. “Let’s keep moving. Come on, double-time. It won’t take long for those bastards to blow through that tree.”

  Captain Gima wasn’t happy. The huge tree blocking the road would mean more delays. Every delay meant the Americans and their puppet Filipinos would have time to dig in and more of his men would die as a result.

  For the hundredth time he cursed this backwards island and its people. What kind of country only had one usable road? Once they defeated the colonialists, the Empire of Japan would build roads and pull these backwards people into the modern world.

  He gnashed his teeth as he watched another stretcher with a wounded soldier on pass by. The cowardly Americans were resorting to guerrilla-style attacks. It was a sign they were on their last legs but it was also effective at slowing their advance.

  He had orders to push forward and crush any resistance, trapping the Allies near Mariveles and killing them before they could escape to the island fortress of Corregidor. He’d been incensed when ordered to halt while two companies assaulted Mt. Samat. They’d met resistance but soon overwhelmed the forces there. However, instead of immediately resuming his attack, they were ordered to wait while artillery batteries were hauled up and placed.

  His men were tasked with building the revetments the guns were placed in. He didn’t mind hard work, but his men were combat soldiers - not engineers - and while they wasted an entire day digging holes, the Allies moved further away.

  He was brought from his thoughts by a loud explosion that rocked a nearby truck and fluttered his uniform. That would be his demolitions team trying, for the second time, to blow a hole in the massive tree. The first explosive had damaged it, but not enough to split it. The team was reprimanded by Lieutenant Eto. From the sounds of it, they’d used plenty of explosive this time.

  He strode from behind the cover of the truck and saw the results. The tree was in half, indeed most of it was shredded, nearly all the way to the edge of the road. Bits of wood splinters, dirt and dust filtered down all around him, plinking off his shoulders and hat. Lt. Eto warned, “Better take cover, sir. There’s bound to be bigger pieces.”

  Captain Gima glared at his cowering lieutenant. “Move forward and see if it’s passable, Lieutenant.”

  Lieutenant Eto immediately moved forward, keeping a wary eye toward the night sky. Gima watched his silhouette against the burning wood. From here it looked like a successful breach. Moments later Lt. Eto returned and nodded, “It’s open, sir. There’s a bit of a crater, but it’s passable.”

  “Did your men find any more mines?” A segment of the engineers, along with an infantry escort, had moved around the tree checking for traps and mines. They’d immediately found two anti-tank mines buried haphazardly in the road. They had removed them and searched further down the road.

  “They’re still out there, sir. But if they’d found more they would’ve sent word.”

  “Good. Mount up and move out, we’ll pick them up on the way.” He slipped into his jeep and spoke to the driver. “There’s a crater but it’s passable.” The driver nodded his understanding.

  The first troop truck ground forward, its gears grinding harshly before finally slipping into place. The second truck was close behind. The jeep was third in the long line of trucks. Many were filled with soldiers but most contained ammunition and supplies for the spearheading company. They passed a burned-out truck, a casualty of the ambush earlier in the evening. He glanced at the burned Nambu machine gun tilted toward the stars and wondered what became of the soldier who’d manned it.

  The lead truck slowed as it bounced into the shallow crater and churned up the other side. Captain Gima stood in the passenger side and watched the second truck maneuver through it without difficulty. He was thankful it wasn’t raining. If it were muddy, they’d be forced to fill it in, creating yet another delay.

  After a few minutes, he had his driver pull to the side, allowing more trucks to pass. He walked to the side of the road undid his pants and took a leak. His driver had his pistol out and scanned the area. “Relax, Haru. It would be very unlucky and unlikely that I chose to piss near an enemy.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied but did not stop scanning the jungle for threats.

  Gima hopped back into the jeep and they’d just gotten back into the lineup when the truck in front of them jolted to a stop. Gima stood and watched the truck behind barely stop in time. He glared at the Private clutching the wheel, who looked like he would die of fright. “Now what?” he raged.

  He hopped from the jeep and moved to the left, walking past troops, who watched him curiously. He strode with purpose, his sub-machine gun snug against his chest. Lieutenant Eto was running towards him. When he saw him, he stopped and pointed, “Another roadblock, sir.”

  Gima barked, “Dismount,” at the same time as he heard the whistling of incoming mortars. “Cover,” he yelled and he dove into the ditch on the left side of road. He was joined immediately by his driver, who had his pistol out again. Gima pulled his head down, “Get down, you fool.”

  The mortars fell in pairs and walked up the line of trucks. There was a loud clang of metal and he glanced up in time to see the fourth tr
uck in line take a direct hit to the hood. The hood was flung into the air and there was a brief secondary explosion as the gasoline in the engine burned. The second round hit in the bed of the truck sending wood splinters and metal shrapnel in every direction. He didn’t see any soldiers in the truck, thank the gods, but the truck was turned into a useless inferno.

  As quickly as the mortars started, they stopped. There was a brief second of relative silence, then the popping of more explosives, followed immediately with withering fire from machine guns and rifles. He strained to see muzzle flashes, but buried his head in the ditch when the ground to his right erupted in geysers and ricochets.

  He rolled to his back and extended his Type-100 sub-machine gun in the general direction of the incoming fire and squeezed the trigger. He knew he had little chance of hitting anything, but he might keep their heads down. He went back to his belly and crawled forward, staying low in the ditch. If he could make it twenty more meters he might have a better shot.

  He heard the hammering of machine gun bullets slamming into the metal sides of trucks. He lifted his head and saw one of his men near a truck lean out with his rifle extended. He fired then crumpled and fell as though he were a used-up toy.

  Gima felt rage inside. His men were being slaughtered. He crawled the rest of the way and popped to his knees with his sub-machine gun ready. He saw a muzzle flash only fifteen meters away. He fired, spraying the area back and forth until his magazine ran dry. He dropped back down as the air above his head came alive with zipping bullets. He struggled to find another magazine and when he did he released the empty and slammed in the new.

  In the time it took to reload, the shooting had stopped. He got to his knees again and aimed, searching for muzzle flashes but there weren’t any. His men were firing now. He squeezed the trigger and fired controlled bursts where the enemy was moments ago. He realized they were trying to break contact, a hit-and-run guerrilla tactic. It enraged him. He wouldn’t allow it to happen. He yelled, “Attack!” And ran straight at the spot where he’d seen the muzzle flashes.