by Chris Glatte
In comparison to Ahio’s village this village was immense. The same thatch huts were everywhere. They were bigger and looked more maintained. The village seemed rich and thriving, or at least it had been before the Japanese invaded and cut off supplies from the coast.
Chief Ahio’s guides greeted the other villagers in excited Pidgin, no doubt telling the tale of the white slave. It would boost their prestige in the area and they held it over the others in obvious pride. These villagers were similarly armed with old rifles and pistols. The men without guns had long knives with wood handles. There were at least three times more villagers than Ahio’s and they all gathered around the newcomers with interest.
From a central hut, a tall white man wearing wrinkled and torn beige pants and a short sleeve button down shirt emerged. He put his hands on his hips and took the scene in. He strode up to Lieutenant Caprielli, his long legs covering the ground quickly. He stopped in front of him and smiled through a thick dark beard. The man was immediately likable. He extended his hand, but the lieutenant saluted him instead. Morrisey grinned and gave him one back then extended his hand, “Courtney Morrisey at your service. You can call me Court or if you prefer, Captain.”
Caprielli took his hand and smiled, “It’s an honor to meet you, Captain. I’m Lieutenant Caprielli and this is Sergeant Carver. I think you know this man.” He gestured to Welch who was keeping himself well back.
Morrisey locked eyes with him and nodded, “Thomas Welch, I was wondering where you got off to.” He gestured to a group of native men standing behind the group and they stepped forward and took Welch by the arms.
Welch lifted his chin in defiance, “It had to be done. We have to join the war.”
Morrisey said something in quick Pidgin and three natives took Welch into a hut. One man stayed inside with him and the other two stationed themselves on either side of the door as guards. Caprielli watched, wondering what was happening. Welch was under his command; he couldn’t let this man, Captain or not, simply arrest him for no reason he could see. “Excuse me, Captain, but Welch is under my command and he’s been most helpful in guiding us to you. Please explain yourself.”
Morrisey nodded, “I suppose I owe you an explanation,” he gestured back to the hut he’d come from. “Come inside.”
Caprielli nodded to Carver, “Get the men situated and fed, have the gear separated and ready for dispersal.” Carver nodded and Caprielli ducked into the hut. He poked his head back outside, “Have Crandall climb a tree and transmit that we’ve found Captain Morrisey and his village.”
The inside of the hut was filled with furniture that had seen better days. On a table in the corner a huge radio was partially covered by a tattered canvas poncho. Morrisey sat on a padded rocking chair and tilted it back and forth. It creaked and groaned with each slow pass. He picked up a glass from a side table and held it out to him, “Something to drink?”
“Is it alcohol?” he asked hoping.
He shook his head, “Afraid not, we ran out of that some months ago, even before your Marines landed. It’s water.” Caprielli shook his head no. He took off his jungle hat and wiped his brow. “You chaps find it hot here, no doubt?” Caprielli looked at him like he was crazy. “I’ve been here so long it seems normal to me. I can’t remember what a cool breeze off the channel feels like. I suppose I’ve gone native by now.”
Caprielli couldn’t tell if he was remorseful or simply stating a fact. He said, “I suppose you can get used to anything.”
Morrisey stared at him and took a sip of water. “Yes, quite right.” He stared at the Lieutenant until he fidgeted under the gaze. “Mr. Welch left this village without my consent.” He placed the water on the side table. “In fact, I expressly forbid him to leave.”
Lieutenant Caprielli said, “He came to us asking for help, said your radio was dead and needed our assistance. Is that not the case?”
“Our radio gave up the ghost a week ago, that’s true, however I never asked for assistance from the Americans, or anyone else. He went AWOL essentially, so he’s under arrest. I’ll figure out how to deal with him later.”
Caprielli wasn’t sure how to take that, “Why wouldn’t you want our help? I mean we’re all in this together, we’re allies with a common enemy. We’ve come to supply you with weapons and ammo and to link up with you to harass the enemy from the rear.”
Morrisey kept rocking, “Your small group brought us weapons and ammo? Have you stowed it somewhere?”
The lieutenant shook his head, “We only brought what we could carry and we used some of the ammo getting here. Each man brought two extra M1 Carbines. They’re broken down in their packs. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than what you’ve got.” He pointed at an old Lee Enfield propped in the corner. We could teach your men how to be guerrillas, how to strike the Japs and live to fight another day.”
The Captain laughed, “I doubt you could teach us much about that. These men have grown up here, they’re better guerrilla fighters than you and your men could ever be.”
“I’m sure we could teach them something about tactics; they’ve never been through formal training have they?”
“Their training has been hands on I should think.” He clapped his hands, “Tell you what. We’ve got a patrol going out this evening to hit a group of Japanese that are getting too close. My amateur natives found them yesterday while blundering around the jungle. Would you like to tag along and take any notes on what you think needs improvement?”
Caprielli could hear the sarcasm in his voice. He looked him in the eye, “I meant no disrespect. I’m only relaying what we were told of your capabilities.” He smiled, “I’d love to tag along, would you like to take your new carbines?”
He considered it, but shook his head, “Probably not this time. The men should have weapons they know.” He stood up, “We shove off at 1500.” He looked at his watch, “Three hours from now.”
Lieutenant Caprielli stood and nodded. Before he left he said, “I meant what I said about Welch. He’s been helpful to us. He seems a good sort.”
“You don’t know the man like I do, Lieutenant. He’s been a thorn in my side for some time now. He’s gone too far this time.”
“You mind me asking why you don’t want our help? If I’m getting kicked out of here without completing my mission, my superiors are going to want an explanation.” He squared up his shoulders to Morrisey, “I Suspect your superiors will too.”
“Until I get a direct order from Australia telling me to follow American orders I’ll continue with the mission given to me, ‘report enemy activity, engage when victory is assured.’ Surely you can understand that?”
“What if you heard it from a higher ranking American ally? That countermands your last order. You’d have to follow orders.”
“Lieutenant, I never said you couldn’t join our guerrilla force. I’m simply not able to give you command over it. You’re welcome to stay, but seeing as I outrank you, I’m in command here, as I’ve always been. Have your men outside this hut, combat ready at 1445.” With that he drank the last of his water and said, “Dismissed.”
Out of habit, he snapped to attention and saluted. He cursed himself for falling into the trap. How did he come under his command? He’d pushed the man too hard and it backfired. He’d have to get on the radio and tell his superiors the situation. He wasn’t relishing the conversation.
***
The squad formed up outside Captain Morrisey’s hut at precisely 1445. His men had gotten fed and even bathed in the nearby creek. They felt refreshed and after last night’s feast and long sleep, rested.
A ragtag group of twenty natives formed up too. They wore loin-cloth shorts, some in bare feet, others in thin treaded sandals and nothing else. Their dark bodies were lithe and strong without an ounce of fat. They’d been forced to eat less with the Japanese invasion, their normal food supply routes cut off, but they’d managed to stockpile canned meats and vegetables from Australia and they’d raided s
ome of the abandoned plantation stores. Morrisey made sure to document everything they’d taken in order to compensate the owners upon their return. They were acting out of necessity; they weren’t looters.
As they waited for Captain Morrisey, Lieutenant Caprielli thought about the conversation he’d had with Colonel Sinclair over the radio. He’d told him to stay with Morrisey and his merry band of cutthroats until ordered otherwise. He was to offer the squad’s services in whatever manner he saw fit and the extra radio was to be given to him with all the extra batteries they’d brought. Caprielli wasn’t sure what to make of it, but his command authority was cut out from beneath him just like that.
The Captain emerged with his rifle slung over his shoulder. He was dressed in the same dirty top and pants as before, but had on a different hat. He looked through the thick tree canopy, “It’ll rain tonight, which will make the going harder.” He said it in English for his American friends’ benefit. The squad looked to the sky, but couldn’t see what he was seeing.
At exactly 1500 he nodded to the native who seemed to be the acting sergeant. He nodded back and loped off into the jungle. The others followed in a loose line. The squad unslung their carbines exchanged glances and followed.
Morrisey hung back with Lieutenant Caprielli, “Your men move well for inexperienced jungle fighters, but keep to the rear. Let my men lead; they know this jungle better than their own mothers.
The Lieutenant nodded and waved his men forward. “Follow their lead.” He let O'Connor and Carver pass then fell into the line. Morrisey trotted forward.
After twenty minutes of fast patrolling the natives stopped and crouched. The squad did too and watched as silent commands were issued. The guerrillas spread out, their rifles unslung. Morrisey waved the squad forward putting his finger to his lips. They crept forward and crouched in a line to either side of the Captain. He lifted his hand and pointed. The squad followed his gaze and they saw a small group of Japanese soldiers sitting around a tiny fire about twenty yards away. It was obvious they were going to spend the night.
O'Connor strained to see any guards, but couldn’t find any. They must have men watching for intruders. His question was answered when he saw a native dart out of the jungle like an arrow from a bow. He had his long knife out and he grabbed his target, a snoozing soldier. He put his hand over his mouth and expertly buried his blade into the back of the man’s neck, angling up into his brain. He lowered the twitching man to the jungle floor and crouched beside him. He pulled his dripping blade out and wiped it on the enemy’s green uniform. He looked to where O'Connor was watching and gave him a gnarled tooth grin. A shiver went up O'Connor’s spine despite the heat.
At that second the sky opened up and the rain came down in sheets. Everyone and everything was instantly soaking wet. The ground went from solid to soup in seconds. O'Connor couldn’t see anything further than a couple of feet. He felt someone pulling him back. It was Morrisey, “Let’s get you blokes a better view.” He gathered the squad up and had them follow him to the left, angling closer to the group of Japanese. Morriseys’ men had disappeared like ghosts. Morrisey pointed and crouched, the others followed suit. The Japanese were only fifteen yards away, scrambling to get ponchos over themselves. The presence of enemy soldiers so close made the Americans nervous. The Japanese soldiers were oblivious to their impending doom. Each squad member had his weapon trained on them. Morrisey pushed O'Connors’ barrel down and shook his head. He pointed to the Japanese, then his eyes, “Watch.”
The hapless soldiers were wet and bedraggled, wet lumps under their green ponchos. They were desperately trying to keep their fire going. One soldier held a large jungle leaf over the flame, but the fire looked to be doomed to a wet death. There were eight of them, each man looked thin and miserable.
Out of the jungle there was sudden movement. The guerrillas attacked with raised knives and short sword-like weapons. They didn’t make a sound as they converged on the Jap soldiers and drove their knives and swords into spines and skulls. A soldier yelled out and reached for his rifle, but was stopped when his head was cut from his shoulders with a vicious cut. It was over in seconds. The soldiers were alive, then dead, like someone had flipped a switch.
The guerrillas cleaned their weapons and put them back in their belts. They quickly went through the dead soldiers’ belongings keeping things of interest and tossing the rest. Three men collected weapons and ammo and any food they found. The Japanese soldiers were well stocked with rice and dried fish.
The squad watched the butchery in silent fascination. The operation had gone off without a single injury. Indeed, it didn’t appear anyone had even broken a sweat. twenty minutes later the bodies were dragged and piled into a shallow rain filled pit. They were covered with jungle leaves and vines until they were invisible. Captain Morrisey explained, “We don’t want them to be found or they’ll start looking for us. We want the patrol to simply disappear and never be heard from again. A bit of psychological warfare.”
Carver spoke up, “What do you suppose they were doing out here? They’re a long way from the coast.”
Morrisey nodded, “Probably looking for the other two patrols we dispatched.” He watched his men working, “They’re getting closer. We think they may have used triangulation on our radio transmitter before the batteries went dead so they have some idea where we are. I’m surprised they still care about us; we haven’t sent out a signal in over a week. I’d think you Americans would be their priority.”
The clean up was done and the guerrillas started patrolling back towards home. They used a different route, avoiding any chance of being ambushed. The going was harder, the ground was soft and muddy. Each step sank deep and had to be pulled free with a sickening sucking sound. Their footprints immediately filled with seeping water. If anyone was following them they’d be easy to track.
Sergeant Carver brought it up to Morrisey. “Don’t worry, I’ve got two men behind us covering our passage. We haven’t found the Japs to be especially good trackers, but just in case, we always make it hard for them.”
With the extra precautions it took longer to get back. It was full dark when the lead guerrillas whistled to the perimeter guards and they entered the village. The rain hadn’t abated, but the center of the village wasn’t muddy.
It was a relief to be on relatively solid ground. O'Connor knelt down and picked up a swath of dirt. It was muddy, but not bad. Morrisey came over, “The Melanese have lived here for thousands of generations they know a thing or two about drainage.” He kneeled down and pointed, “Notice how the center is slightly higher? That little bit of relief is all it takes to keep the area from getting too sticky. There’s also an assortment of bamboo pipes three feet down that act as drainage, like gutters on your American houses. They need to be tended every ten years or so, I hear it’s quite a difficult job.” He smiled at Caprielli who was listening in, “Not bad for a bunch of heathens, aye Lieutenant?”
Caprielli only nodded. Morrisey continued. “Your men can take those two huts over there, they’ll be protected from this squall. There’s a fire built, they can dry off inside. Why don’t you and Sergeant Carver come into my hut for a debrief? It’s warm and dry inside.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The squad felt like they were on vacation. The village was patrolled night and day by Morriseys’ men. He assured them they needn’t worry about being surprised by Japanese soldiers. If there was a threat his men would warn them with ample time. Lieutenant Caprielli offered his men up to rotate through the guard duties, but he declined. His men would do it anyway, not trusting the safety of their families to strangers.
They ate their own K-rations, they’d brought enough for a few weeks, but the natives insisted on them sharing their food as well. It was mostly rice and dried meat they’d stockpiled before hostilities, but the added calories were welcome.
It had been a day since the deadly patrol that had killed the eight enemy soldiers. The men had cleaned weapons, dr
ied out clothing and generally sat around relaxing. The sounds of distant combat were constant, but they didn’t feel guilty knowing their brothers in arms were being barraged and bombed almost daily. The drone of aircraft was a common sound and they spotted the planes high overhead, mostly bombers delivering deadly eggs to Henderson field.
The squad was told to be ready for another patrol scheduled to leave at noon. They showed up at 1145 ready to go. Sergeant Carver was chewing on a piece of grass, his dark eyes shrouded by heavy brows. O'Connor spoke, “Hey Sarge, what do you know about the op?”
He spit out the grass, “Shaddup, you’ll know soon enough.”
Lieutenant Caprielli and Captain Morrisey came out of the hut. Morrisey was sporting his new M1 Carbine. He’d shot it the day before and was pleased to have a weapon that could fire at such a rapid rate. The other carbines were put together and passed around, but most of the natives stuck with their trusty Lee Enfields. O'Connor noticed a few of them were using captured Japanese Arisaka rifles. He supposed shooting their own ammo back at them was sweet justice.
Captain Morrisey addressed the gathered men. “We’re going out for an extended patrol. If everything goes well, we’ll be back here this time tomorrow. If there are no questions, we’ll start…”
Sergeant Carver interrupted, “What’s the target?”
Morrisey smiled, “Ah yes, not used to working with outsiders. Sorry. We’ll be patrolling along the ridgeline to our west.” He pointed. “There’s a long ridge that’s very good for observing the enemy, particularly the enemy navy. Some of my messengers have reported increased naval activity and were going to find out whether or not the Japs are trying to bring in more troops and if they are where and how many. Your radios should be able to talk with your blokes and give a running account. Should be most helpful to your troops, I should think.”
