The Long Patrol: World War II Novel

by Chris Glatte

  The platoon knew that eventually Carver and Dunphy would come to blows. They were split 50/50 in the betting pool. Carver had the brawn and the street fighting experience, Dunphy had the benefit of professional training.

  Sergeant Carver wanted to take Private Dunphy down a notch, but now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to get squared away. He pointed, “Move further west until you find a less shitty spot and clear it out.” He turned back to Dunphy and yelled, “Now!” Dunphy leaned back, the force of Carver’s voice startling him. He turned and with the others put his wet top on and moved away from the latrine area.

  Sergeant Carver looked to the Marines who were still laughing. He walked to them and was confronted by another Sergeant, his counterpart. Sergeant Carver pointed, “Why’re you shitting in the boonies, why don’t you have proper latrines?”

  The Marine gunnery sergeant smiled showing brown, tobacco stained teeth, “The Japs blew ‘em up couple nights ago. They come by almost every night, drop their bombs and skedaddle.”

  Carver put his hands on his waist, “Well shit.” The gunny nodded agreeing with his sentiment.

  There was yelling from the beach, “Sergeant Carver.” He turned and saw his commanding officer tromping up the beach from a just beached landing craft. Carver looked at the Marine, “Don’t ask me why he wasn’t in the first wave with his troopers.” The gunny spit out a long stream of black tobacco juice and made himself scarce.

  As Lieutenant Caprielli trudged towards him, Sgt. Carver stiffened, but didn’t salute. Caprielli looked him up and down, “It’s protocol to salute your commanding officer, Sergeant.”

  Carver snapped off a crisp salute, “Sorry, Sir. It’s common for Jap snipers to shoot officers. They figure out who’s who by seeing who gets saluted.”

  Caprielli cringed and pulled Carver’s hand down. He looked around wondering where the shot would come from. He pulled Carver behind an idling jeep and crouched pulling Carver with him. He pointed to the landing crafts beaching and dropping their front gates. “Our supplies are on those boats. Have the men start offloading them to that spot there.” He pointed to the same spot the Marines were using as a latrine.

  Carver said, “I’ve got the men clearing an area out over there,” he pointed, “the spot you’re looking at is a latrine.”

  Caprielli nodded, “Well, okay, the other spot looks fine, but get the men moving, we’re sitting ducks on this beach.”

  Carver stood up, “Yes Sir. Don’t we have tractors or something to help with the offload?”

  Caprielli shook his head, “No, there’s only a couple of jeeps. This beach isn’t big enough to build harbor facilities. The men will just have to grunt it out.”

  “Yessir.” Carver went to tell the men the good news and Lieutenant Caprielli got in his jeep and trundled away along the beach. Carver had no idea where he was going.

  ***

  Hours later the equipment and supplies were moved to the relative safety of the sparse jungle. O'Connor sat on a box of rations and pulled heavily on a cigarette. He had his shirt off, as did the entire company. He was dripping with sweat. The heavy labor had taken its toll. He felt like his limbs were made of concrete and the heavy air made his lungs feel like they were pulling oxygen through taffy.

  He looked around at the others, they looked as haggard as he felt. His red hair was darkened with sweat. Suddenly he heard a loud Siren. The Marines, who were three hundred yards up the beach scrambled and jumped into foxholes disappearing like mice when a hawk’s shadow passes over. O'Connor looked around, knowing the Siren meant air raid, but he had no idea where to go. They’d been so busy offloading supplies they hadn’t had time to dig their own holes.

  He grabbed his rifle, put his helmet on and dove to the only cover he could, the boxes they’d just off-loaded. A minute later the throaty sound of airplane engines starting up added to the Siren. He looked towards the sound and figured it must be Marine fighters from Henderson field scrambling to meet the threat. He hoped they’d get up in time and kick the crap out of whatever was coming.

  As he laid there he noticed the box he was lying next to was labeled ‘20mm ammunition’. He wondered what would happen if a bomb landed nearby. Would it explode the ammo and tear him to shreds? He didn’t want to find out. He grabbed his M1 and took off towards a thick grove of palms. He heard someone yelling for him to take cover. He thought, no shit. He was halfway to the palms when he heard the distinctive sound of incoming. He hadn’t heard the enemy bombers, but he sure heard their whistling ordnance.

  He wasn’t going to make it to the trees, he threw himself to the ground and quick crawled to a small depression. He felt, rather than heard the first bomb impact. His body quivered as the shock wave pulsed through him. It was followed by more bone jarring explosions. He dropped his rifle and pulled the edge of his helmet down tight around his ears. Time seemed to stand still as the bombs thumped and thundered. It was less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

  He heard the distant sound of airplane engines leaving the area. He looked in the direction he thought the bombs had hit. He was surprised to see smoke rising far from his position. He’d thought they were right on top of him, but they were three hundred yards away. He’d never been in any real danger. He went up on his elbows and wondered what it would be like when they were landing within yards, or feet, or inches.

  He started to get up, but Sgt. Carver yelled to stay down. The Siren was still wailing. He looked up at the sky, but couldn’t see anything through the palms. Soon the same whistling sound of impending doom. He went flat pulling his helmet down. This time the impacts were closer. His body shimmered and bounced on the fetid ground. He wondered if the dancing dirt beneath him would be the last thing he saw.

  This wave of bombs didn’t last as long, but they’d been close enough to knock palm fronds onto his bare back. He cringed every time thinking a tree would crush him if a bomb didn’t kill him first.

  This time when the bombs stopped the Siren’s wail also stopped. Is it hit or is the raid over? O'Connor decided he’d stay down until given the all clear.

  He heard feet beside him, he turned his head and saw Carver’s size elevens. “It’s over, get your ass off the ground.”

  O'Connor sprang up with his rifle at the ready. He looked at Carver and nodded, “I’m okay.” He said it as if confirming it to himself.

  Sergeant Carver shouldered his rifle and slapped his back hard. “Course you’re okay, they weren’t aiming at you, they’re aiming at Henderson, dumb-ass.”

  Oconnor nodded still shaken up. “We gonna dig in now, Sarge? Feel like my ass is hanging in the wind.”

  “Yeah, it’s time to move up to our positions south of the field.” He pointed with his thumb where the smoke was rising.

  “We’re going closer to the field?” O'Connor looked like he’d eaten something rotten. Sergeant Carver scowled and walked away yelling for his soldiers to gather their shit and form up. O'Connor found his shirt covered with a fine layer of dirt and various unidentifiable bugs. He shook it out and put it on. It felt gritty and hard against his sweaty body. He found his rucksack and swung it onto his shoulders. He formed up with the others in a ragged combat formation and tromped through the shredded forest toward Henderson field.

  The closer they got the more bomb craters they encountered. Some were still smoldering. They came to the edge of the jungle and looked out over the expanse of Henderson. The Japs and then the Marines had done a good job of fleecing the jungle. The field was flat with not a single living plant growing within its borders. It looked like a moonscape, it even had the craters.

  As they skirted around to the south they watched the fighters that had gone off to intercept the bombers coming in to land. They landed two at a time, the powerful F4 Wildcats looked like dangerous predators. They sent up plumes of choking dust and taxied to parking. They stayed spread out, not making themselves easy targets for any uninvited guests.

  O'Connor nudged Dunphy who
marched beside him, “Love to get my hands on one of those.”

  Dunphy guffawed, “You wouldn’t get off the ground, you’d kill yourself and anyone nearby. Besides, you have to be an officer to be a pilot.”

  O'Connor shrugged, “Doesn’t look that hard.”

  “You have no idea, there’s more to it than you think.”

  O'Connor looked at him sideways, “You’ve flown before? You’re shitting me. If you were a pilot you’d be in one of those.”

  Dunphy kept his eyes forward. “Forget about it, Red.”

  Dunphy always called him Red, unoriginal, but probably inevitable. O'Connor watched the graceful planes landing and parking. He wasn’t going to let Dunphy ruin his fantasy. He’d only seen a handful of airplanes in his life and none as sexy as the Wildcats.

  They finally got to the southern edge of the airfield. The company was ordered to dig in. They didn’t have to be told twice. The recent bombing and their move closer to its target was incentive enough to get busy. Soon every soldier had dug a deep hole. Some of the men had cut down large palm trees and were using the thick trunks to cover the tops.

  O'Connor was pleased with his hole, but not to be sharing it with Private Dunphy. He looked up at the sturdy cover and wondered if it would be strong enough to withstand a direct hit. After seeing the size of the bomb craters he had no illusions. He only hoped for relative safety. He’d soon find out if his efforts were enough.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Once their positions were consolidated on the southern end of Henderson field with clear fields of fire and zeroed mortar crews there wasn’t much to do. O'Connor was exhausted. He slumped to the bottom of the hole. Beside him Private Dunphy napped fitfully, unable to get comfortable. “This fucking hole’s disgusting. How am I supposed to sleep in here?”

  O'Connor closed his eyes and leaned back. “You can’t complain; you didn’t do shit. If you wanted it comfy you should’ve helped.”

  “Fuck you Red, I helped plenty.” He held up his palms, “Look at my hand, those are blisters.”

  O'Connor laughed, “First time?” Dunphy picked at his hands. “Look I don’t like it any more than you. Were in a hole.” He pointed to the overhead palm logs, “You think those’ll sustain a near miss?”

  “How should I know?” he reached up and pulled on one, it was solid. “Pretty sturdy, doubt it’ll take a direct hit.”

  “I’m gonna try to get some sleep, when’re we up for outpost duty?” When there was no answer, he looked over at Dunphy who shrugged. “You’re worthless, you know that?”

  O'Connor sighed and stood up poking his head through the slot between the palm logs. He looked around and spotted Sgt. Carver talking with Lt. Caprielle. “I’m gonna go find out.”

  Dunphy punched him in the leg, “Don’t make work for us, asshole, they’ll tell us when it’s time. Why you so damned jumpy?”

  O'Connor ignored him and hopped out of the hole. It was evening, the day was winding down, but still hot and humid. It felt better out of the hole, there was a slight breeze. He stopped to relish it. The entire company was gone, hidden in their holes waiting for the next bombardment. O'Connor stretched his back and trotted over to Carver who was walking away from Lieutenant Caprielli. When he saw O'Connor he said, “What you doing out of your hole?”

  “Sorry Sarge, have to take a leak real bad. Can’t hold it.”

  “Well hurry up and get back in your hole.”

  He nodded. As he veered towards a nearby bush he asked, “What’s the guard duty schedule tonight? Am I on?”

  “Nope, the observation post’s already out there…don’t worry you’ll get your turn.”

  “Yes, Sarge.” He took his leak and slithered back into his hole. It was getting dark quick. He was amazed how fast night came in the jungle. He looked towards the jungle. The thick green was now deep black. It looked nothing like his forests back in Oregon. The jungle was thick and daunting, he couldn’t see a path through. He figured there was though, there always was, animal trails probably snaked through everywhere.

  He loved traveling through forests, loved finding their secrets. Every forest was different. He supposed even though this was jungle it was still a forest, still wild country. He stared into it, wishing he knew its secrets. He wished the enemy wasn’t lurking out there hunting him, he’d like to explore this place properly.

  He watched the edge of the jungle not ready for the utter darkness of the foxhole. He could hear Dunphy’s soft breathing. The jungle’s blackness seemed impenetrable, but the longer he focused on it the more features he could pick out. His hole was twenty yards from the edge, he knew the OP was just inside the jungle. He thought how terrifying it must be for that pair. Wonder who drew the short straw?

  The sounds alone were terrifying. They’d been on New Caledonia for a couple of months so they were used to the exotic locale, but this jungle was different, more alive and more deadly. Every sound was an animal, some new secret waiting to be discovered. He knew from the forests back home that animal sounds were a good thing. If the animals were going about their normal routine it meant there was nothing unnatural out there disturbing them, like Japs. Most of his hunting success was because he could move through the forest without disturbing the wildlife. He could sneak up on his unsuspecting prey and the first they knew about it was when the bullet or arrow sliced into them. Wonder if Japs hunt?

  He kicked where he knew Dunphy was sleeping, “Dunphy, wake up, hey Dunphy.” He kicked him again harder.

  He felt him stiffen coming awake, “What is it? Japs?”

  “Nah, just a question, you think the Japs have any hunters? I mean you think they have any stealthy hunter types that could be sneaking up on us right now?”

  “What the fuck you talking about? You didn’t wake me to ask me that did you? Did you? I finally get to sleep and you wake me with that?”

  O'Connor continued, “I don’t think they do, they live in cities. All they are is a bunch of city slickers…like you.” He grinned, “Bet they’re clumsy as hell, could hear ‘em coming a mile away.”

  Dunphy started to respond, but was cut off by the wailing of the air raid Siren. “Shit, not again.” O'Connor looked towards the airfield, all the lights were out, he pictured the pilots running out to man their fighting machines. He listened for the tell-tale engine noises of the Wildcats or the bombers. Would the fighters launch at night? They wouldn’t take off without lights would they? Wouldn’t the lights be perfect aiming points for the Japs?

  Five minutes passed, he heard nothing from the airfield, but he did hear the dull, distant rumble of approaching aircraft. Then he saw spotlights erupt from the jungle and slice into the night sky searching for the bombers. The anti-air started flashing from various points around the airfield. The light was chaotic, he could see tiny explosions in the dark night sky. He hoped they’d find their mark so he wouldn’t have to test his hole. He longed to see the flames of a dying Japanese bomber, but nothing. Then he heard the distinct whistle of approaching bombs. He hunkered back into the hole and held his M1 tight to his chest. He adjusted the chin strap of his helmet. Looks like the Japs are throwing us a welcoming party.

  This time the bombs were much closer. The sides of the foxhole flexed and caved in with each terrifying impact. He thought he’d be buried. A flash of panic coursed through his body, Should I get out? Save myself from suffocation? He didn’t bolt, he knew it would be suicide. The ground above him was being shredded. He understood why there weren’t any plants alive around Henderson, the bombs were more effective than a scythe.

  He tried to count the impacts, but lost count after twenty. The bombs seemed to be falling closer and closer together making it impossible to distinguish one from another.

  As suddenly as it started, it stopped. The only sound that of diminishing engine noise. O'Connor wondered if anyone was hit. He got his answer soon enough when he heard screaming coming from his right towards the airfield. The screaming sounded far away, but he realized h
is ears were ringing and he couldn’t judge distance. The wounded man or his nearby buddies were calling for a medic. He wondered if he knew the man. Was he in his platoon, his company? Would he die? Lose a limb? Be paralyzed? A minute passed and finally the screaming faded to a whimper.

  O'Connor put his head above the foxhole and was amazed to see his world was still intact. How could anything survive after such a thrashing? He could see the silhouettes of the Marine F4 Wildcats in the distance, pushed up against the jungle for protection. The one building in the entire area was still standing. The hut, or ‘the pagoda’ as it came to be called was standing defiant and untouched by the bombing. The airfield had taken a number of direct hits. The Marines were already firing up tractors and men with shovels were dashing around filling the holes with surplus piles of dirt made for the occasion. He had no doubt the airfield would be ready to launch fighters in the morning.

  A soldier was running past. Dunphy, who was up watching too, reached out for him, “Hey, what’s going on? Who got hit?” the soldier kicked off his hand and kept running without answering. “I need to figure out what the hell’s happening?” said Dunphy.

  O'Connor felt a deep fatigue rush over his body. He slumped into the hole and pulled his rifle close. He’d never felt anything like it, he had to sleep now. He shut his eyes, but the flashes of exploding bombs wouldn’t leave his vision. Finally sleep overtook him. He slipped into fitful sleep full of starts and stops.

  CHAPTER THREE

  O'Connor woke when he felt Dunphy’s boot in his ribs. He nearly jumped out of his skin; whatever dream he was having playing out in terrifying form. “Get up. Something’s happening.”

  O'Connor sat up and peeked over the edge. Men were shuffling about stretching. He hopped out of the hole and felt his back spasm. He was nineteen, but felt like eighty. He wondered how the older Dunphy felt. Dunphy sprang from the hole without so much as a grunt. He looked around taking in the scene. Men were gathering around a tattered tent. A Sergeant was trotting from hole to hole giving instructions. When he got to them he said, “Eat K-rats and form up at the tent in fifteen minutes for a patrol.”