by Chris Glatte
His men, seeing their company commander charging the enemy alone, roared into action, screaming, running and firing. Soon they caught up to their commander and passed him. “Don’t let them get away. Kill them all.”
He ran forward and noticed a body lying at his feet. It was the GI he’d shot earlier. He fired twice into the inert body making sure, and stepped past.
He moved around the downed timber and stepped onto the road beyond. He could see his men running down the road, sometimes stopping to fire, but he couldn’t see the enemy and there was no return fire. “Dammit,” he seethed.
There was an explosion down the road that lit up the night, followed by a scream that cut to his soul. He yelled at Lieutenant Eto who’d come around the log with his sub-machine gun ready. “Call them back. Get them back here. The road’s mined.”
Lt. Eto took off as fast as his legs would carry him, calling for the men to halt. Captain Gima seethed, feeling anger - fueled by helplessness - course through his body. He hated these cowardly GIs and their vile Filipino puppets. He vowed, then and there, he’d show them no mercy. He’d make sure they died like the cowards they were.
Minutes later the soldiers were trotting back up the road, led by Lt. Eto. Gima watched soldiers carefully lay two ragged bodies on the ground near the roadblock. Lt. Eto saw him looking. “Mine. Probably an anti-tank mine, killed them both.” He held out a burnt playing card and Captain Gima took it and studied it. In the glow from the burning trucks he could see it was the king of spades. He could also see the etched writing, ‘Tark’s Ticks.’ “They must’ve placed the entire deck of cards on the mine. They were scattered everywhere, floating down like confetti.”
Gima crumpled the card and threw it into the jungle. “They will pay for this butchery.”
28
The 1st platoon didn’t stop running until they were back at the turn-off to the village where they’d started their mission hours before. They figured the Japanese had stopped pursuit and would be working to open the road back up. They’d heard at least one of the big anti-tank mines detonate.
Tarkington put his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to catch his breath. Lieutenant Smoker ordered between gasps, “Set up security while we catch our breath.” Tarkington looked to Winkleman, who nodded and tapped Holiday, who staggered to the edge of the road with his rifle ready.
Tarkington asked, “We need to set up another roadblock tonight?”
Smoker considered, then shook his head. “Took them awhile to get through the first one and the second tree’s even bigger. That, along with the mines, should be enough.” He pointed into the darkness towards the village. “Captain Glister said he’d leave us a few trucks.” He found 1st squad’s leader kneeling in the dark. “Mahoney, bring the trucks out. They’re in the village somewhere.”
He gave him an animated salute and said, “Yes, sir,” with a happy lilt to his voice. “Mighty kind of the captain.”
“Indeed. Get me a head count Staff Sergeant,” he ordered Tarkington.
“Yes sir.”
Minutes later the trucks, with slits for headlights, trundled out of the village. There were three of them. Tarkington leaned toward Smoker’s ear. “Second squads still got eight GIs plus Eduardo. Third’s got eight too. The heavy weapons squad lost two guys back there. They’re down to seven and first squad didn’t lose anyone. They’ve still got six.” He scowled, “That’s thirty soldiers, sir.”
Smoker nodded, “Miracle we didn’t lose more. Well, let’s load up and get outta here. We might have to cram a bit.”
Suddenly there was a yell from Holiday, which was cut short with the sound of many guns opening fire at once. Tarkington dropped to his belly instinctively. He heard Lt. Smoker grunt and fall awkwardly on his side. The air snapped with bullets. The hammering sounds of bullets tearing holes in metal as the idling trucks were swept, was deafening.
Tarkington saw Staff Sergeant Mahoney, who’d been leaning out the driver’s side window of the lead truck, disappear as his head snapped back with multiple impacts.
The distinct sound of a heavy Nambu machine gun filled the air and he could see the thick stream of tracer fire slamming into the trucks and men inside them. The second truck’s fuel tank ignited sending up a sudden concussive wave of heat, which swept over the cowering GIs. The blast engulfed the third truck and he watched in horror as GIs scrambled from the inferno, their clothes on fire.
He aimed his rifle and fired at the source of the tracer fire, working the bolt as quickly as he could make his hands move. Eduardo was beside him, doing the same. Tarkington looked toward Smoker and saw him on his back. He was staring straight up, his mouth gaping open and closed like a fish out of water. He was holding his stomach, which glistened with wetness.
Tarkington moved to him, put his hand on Smoker’s, pulled himself half onto his body and yelled into his face, “Stay with me Smoke, stay with me! Medic!” he called but he knew it was too late.
From the darkness Yap came running at the medic call. Bullets whizzed and snapped, seeming to fill every square inch, but still he came and slid in beside Lt. Smoker, like he’d just stolen second base. He went straight to work, applying pressure to the wound. “I got you, I got you, I got you,” he repeated like a mantra.
Smoker lifted his head and grabbed Tarkington’s shirt with his fist and through bloodied teeth, ordered, “Get ‘em outta here, Tark. Get to the jungle. Fight another day.” Tarkington ignored him and hurled his last grenade toward the muzzle flashes.
He heard the heavy throb of PFC Stollman’s BAR coming to life. His grenade exploded with a crash and he took the opportunity to get into a crouch. Yap was still holding pressure, trying to wrap a makeshift bandage around Smoker’s midsection.
Tarkington leaned over and put his head under Smoker’s armpit and lifted. He got halfway up when he felt impacts shudder through the lieutenant’s body. He could feel the life leaving him and he dropped the sudden dead-weight. He went down with him and was face-to-face with him. Smoker’s normally-vibrant eyes were dead. He simply wasn’t there anymore.
Tarkington tore his eyes away and saw the world in slow motion. Yap had tears streaking down his cheeks as he cussed and screamed at the Japanese. A hole suddenly appeared in his forehead and he dropped backwards as though being pulled by an invisible force.
To his right, he saw Henry and Eduardo firing continuously from their bellies, working the bolts like well-oiled machines. Raker hurled a grenade which tumbled end-over-end and seemed to sizzle as it cooked, then bounced into the forest and exploded. There was no sound, just slow motion. His mind reeled trying to piece it all together but there was too much.
Suddenly the world came back, like a slap in the face from a sumo wrestler. The sound was deafening, the pace impossibly fast. His cheek suddenly burned like fire and he fell backwards. Eduardo saw, or heard it, and was instantly on him. Tarkington’s vision was filled with the worried Filipino’s kindly face. He pushed him off, shaking his head to clear the sudden cobwebs.
He moved to a crouch and saw the Browning .30 caliber machine gun laying on its side next to a GI whose face was caved in. “Raker,” He yelled and lunged for the weapon. He didn’t remember moving the twenty feet, but he was beside the machine gun, lifting it and suddenly Raker was with him, holding the tripod steady while he dropped it into place.
Bullets smacked the dead GI in front and the body pulsed and quivered with each impact. Tarkington lifted the breech and Raker fed the belted ammunition into place from a nearby ammo can. Tarkington pulled the bolt back and, sitting behind it, squeezed the trigger and unleashed hell.
The flame shooting out the barrel singed the dead soldier, setting his ragged uniform on fire. Tarkington kept firing, sweeping the muzzle side to side, watching every fifth round ignite and steady his aim with tracer.
For an instant, the Nambu and Browning were evenly matched, spewing death, but the Nambu ran out of ammunition and went silent. Tarkington continued squeezi
ng the trigger until the muzzle glowed white hot. Finally a bullet overheated, exploded and rendered the Browning useless.
Raker got to his feet and pulled Tarkington with him. “Come on!” He yelled, and pulled him backwards toward the abandoned village.
Tarkington shook him loose and yelled. His ears rang so bad, his voice sounded distant in his own ears, but he boomed, “Fall back to the village. Fall back!” He realized he’d left his rifle on the ground, so he pulled the only weapon he had left, his sword. He stood defiant as GIs streamed past him and bullets sliced the air all around. He counted far too few soldiers before Eduardo nearly tackled him, pushing him back behind the burning truck.
Once behind the trucks the intensity of fire subsided. They ran straight back and kept running until they were well away from the light of the fire and had pushed into the jungle beyond the village. They didn’t stop moving until the sound of burning trucks and exploding ammunition was only a memory.
Tarkington sheathed his sword and hissed, “Stop here.” The sound of his own voice sounded foreign to him, as though he’d been transformed into something he didn’t recognize.
He shut his eyes as he caught his breath, reliving scenes of bodies shredded by bullets, terrified, pained eyes beseeching him to help, but being completely unable to do so. Lieutenant Smoker’s eyes suddenly turning from alive and vibrant to cold and dead in an instant, as though he’d never been.
He opened his eyes and stared straight back the way they’d come. He saw Eduardo, Henry, Raker, Skinner, Stollman, Vick and Winkleman standing beside him, catching their breath. “Is this it? Is this all?” He asked.
After a long pause, Winkleman answered, “Eight. There’s eight of us left.” He shook his head, “It was a damned massacre,” he uttered, trying to keep his voice from breaking. Minutes passed before he asked, “What - What’re we gonna do now?”
Eduardo answered, “Come with me. My people will help.”
Tarkington looked at him curiously and Eduardo pointed to PFC Vick. For the first time, Tarkington noticed he was injured and leaning on his gunner, Stollman, for support. “You’re hit,” he said matter-of-factly and moved to him.
Vick pulled his bloodied hand away from his side showing the grisly wound. “It hurts real bad, Sarge.”
“Anyone else hit?” He asked, looking from man to man.
They all shook their heads. Henry pointed at Tarkington’s cheek, “You’re hit too, Tark.”
Tarkington touched his cheek and winced as he felt the deep gash. He’d forgotten about the heat he’d felt slapping him during the battle but now his own salty sweat dripping into the wound made him slightly dizzy with pain. He silently cursed himself, knowing his pain was minor compared with what Vick was experiencing. “It can wait. We need to get Vick cared for.”
Eduardo pointed. “I know this area. I know a place. I take you there.”
They fashioned a stretcher, tying their shirts and pants across two rifles and after doing what they could to stop his bleeding, laid Vick onto it carefully.
They followed Eduardo deeper into the jungle. He urged them forward, afraid the Japanese would pick up their trail, but the thicker the jungle became, the harder it was to maneuver the stretcher and the slower they went.
Finally, after climbing a slight incline for five-hundred feet, they descended, and the downslope was much more open.
At the bottom of the slope, they stopped at a little creek bouncing happily through the valley. They were exhausted and thirsty. They waded in and dunked their heads. Tarkington thought it was the best tasting water he’d ever experienced and he drank deeply. Raker floated on his back, letting himself be pulled to the end of the pool where he bumped up against a rock. He opened his eyes and nearly shit himself when he saw a looming figure staring down at him with a rifle barrel only inches from his nose.
“Drop it,” Henry said, stepping from the night with his rifle aimed at the man’s head. The man only grinned and Henry froze when another rifle barrel appeared near his temple. Henry took his finger off the trigger and raised his right hand, still holding his rifle with his left.
Eduardo said something in rapid fire Tagalog and the rifle barrels went down, although only slightly. He spoke to Tarkington, who was clutching the hilt of his sword. “These men help us. These men from village. Good men. We can trust these men.”
The GIs were taken to the village, which was far from any road. The only access was along jungle trails which only the locals seemed to be able to find.
Eduardo explained that one of his sisters-in-law was from the village. His oldest brother had met her when she’d been in Manila to see the big city for the first time along with other teenagers from her village.
He’d immediately become infatuated with her during her week-long stay and insisted they keep in contact. She’d explained that her village was far too remote and he should forget about her, but he’d persisted, finally marrying her in the village a few months later.
The wedding was a huge event for the villagers and Eduardo’s family was almost considered royalty. The couple had settled in Manila a year before the Japanese invasion. Now, he didn’t know either of their fates. Vick’s wound was thoroughly cleaned and an herb poultice applied to stymie infection. He’d passed out the night they arrived and didn’t wake until the fourth morning.
At first the GIs were skittish, keeping their weapons ready in case the Japanese suddenly appeared to wipe them out. They took turns on guard duty, despite the village elder assuring them his men would know of any approaching Japanese in plenty of time to either hide or, if the group was small enough, ambush them.
A week into their stay, they’d relaxed a bit. The war seemed to have passed them by. They still heard and saw the occasional Japanese aircraft but the village's isolation deep in the inaccessible valley, kept the war out.
For the first time in a long time, they were well fed. Tarkington, who’d given up on ever having a normal bowel movement again, was pleasantly surprised to actually have some substance. Despite the recent loss of nearly the entire platoon, they couldn’t help but be in good spirits.
Another week passed and Tarkington was sitting beside Vick, who was sitting up in bed eating cooked lizard meat. Vick’s recovery was remarkable. Two weeks before, he’d been at death’s door, now he was smiling, sitting up, eating and talking. “How long you figure we’ll be here, Tark?”
He shrugged, “Depends on you. Once you’re ready to travel, we’ll try to link back up with Division.”
He shook his head, “In that case, I don’t plan on ever getting better.”
Tarkington knew he was joking, but there was also some truth there. How could he ask his men to go back to half-rations and getting shot at? “You know as well as I do, we can’t stay here forever. Those sons-of-bitches attacked our country. We have to get back in the fight.” It sounded hollow even to him. He gave Vick a hard look, “I can’t shake the image of Smoker and all the rest dying on that road. I need to get back in the fight.”
Vick’s smile faded and he nodded. “Yeah. I know. Me too.” He lifted his shirt and poked around his wound. “Still hurts but nothing like before. I don’t know, maybe another week?”
Tarkington nodded. “We’ll take as much time as you need. The last order I got from Smoker was to retreat to the jungle and continue the fight, which is exactly where we are.”
There was a commotion outside, raised voices both in Tagalog and English. Tarkington put his hand on Vick’s shoulder and stood. “I’ll see what that’s all about.” He walked to the door of the thatched hut and peered out.
Two villagers with ancient rifles were talking animatedly with their hands and holding out pieces of paper to Eduardo. Eduardo took the paper, read it and looked worriedly back at Tarkington.
Tarkington stepped down the stairs, gripped his sword hilt and strode to the group. More GIs, seeing the commotion converged on the men. Tarkington thought they looked nearly as healthy as they had before the
Japanese attack.
Eduardo handed the sheet of paper to Tarkington. It was a pamphlet with both English and Japanese writing. There was a caricature of a Japanese soldier’s boot stepping on the American flag. The short bit of writing said: ‘April 9th USAFFE surrenders Bataan to Japan.’
Tarkington’s jaw rippled and he handed it to Winkleman, who passed it along. “Think it’s true?”
Eduardo said, “These men saw celebrating Japanese on the road, singing and drinking Saki.”
Tarkington nodded, “Surprised it took this long, honestly.”
Winkleman asked, “So what are we supposed to do? Give ourselves up?”
The GIs fidgeted and murmured amongst themselves. Tarkington shook his head, “No one gave me an order to surrender.” He looked at each man. He took a deep breath and let it out slow. “Look, I’m the ranking soldier here, but I’m not going to order anyone to continue the fight. Far as I’m concerned the Japs are still the enemy. I’ve seen what those sons-of-bitches do to prisoners. I decided long ago, I’d sooner take a bullet from my own weapon than surrender and be at their mercy.” He stopped and shook his head, “But that’s just my own thoughts. I intend to keep fighting until I’m given a direct order to the contrary, but I’m not gonna force any one of you to join me.” He paused and met their stares, then turned and continued, “I’ll give you as much time as you need to…”
He was interrupted by Henry’s Southern lilt, “We already talked about it.” Tarkington looked confused. “It was only a matter of time. We saw this coming. We’re sticking with you.”
Tarkington saw Winkleman smiling and nodding. “We’re Tark’s Ticks.”
