Now I know why children are so afraid of the dark.
“Now listen, Charlie,” I began, looking out of the corner of my eye where Allmann was sitting. “Levy’s going to be in our squad now, but I want you to be careful because he draws fire, okay? Things are gonna happen—and when they do, the minute Sy gets in there the shit’s gonna fly.”
Silence.
“He’s a good kid, but he’s like a magnet for Nips, so we gotta watch out for him, understand?”
More silence from Charlie. Either he was sleeping or, knowing Charlie Allmann, my speech was going through one ear and out the other. Anyway, with losses to Levy’s squad, there were no longer squads or fire teams. We simply divvied up whoever was left so we could at least function as makeshift combat units.
As always, I knew I couldn’t count on Charlie; so I merely resigned myself to the night.
At that moment a voice came from behind us.
“Hey, boys, how’s everything going over here?”
I looked up but could barely make out the face of Captain Haldane, peering out of the gloom. Evidently he had come up from the rear and was checking out our lines.
“Fine, Captain,” I said. Then I thought about it for a moment and changed my mind.
I wasn’t fine.
“Hey, Captain … do ya think we could get some flares up over those trees there? I’m thinkin’ that … ya know … that would be a helluva great place for the Nips to come out an’ sneak attack us or somethin’.”
Haldane looked in the direction of the trees; his faint silhouette was shifty, hazy. “Yeah, I think that’d be a fine idea. Listen … you guys stay alert and take care, alright?”
“Sure thing, Captain,” I said. Haldane moved again and was gone just as silently as he came.
Not long after, three flares shot up behind us and over the trees, light cascading down, turning the trees into dancing shadows, a shifting daguerreotype landscape. My mind whispered to me that behind the trees there must be ten thousand Nips out there, all bucktoothed grins and feeding off the night like a dog feeds off fear.
A machine gun popped off to our right.
Shit!
It never fails; the body goes rigid, with muscles you never knew you had going stiff. PFC Ray Cushing from I Company spotted some Nips, and in the half-glow of dwindling flares and arcing machine-gun bullets I saw them, too. The Japanese! These particular Nips were dressed in the black pajamas and split-toed sneakers of the “night fighters.” In the distance, they were ill-defined man-shaped things, living shadows blending among themselves. Though before the light ebbed back into night, I clearly saw two of the Japs return again to the shelter of the woods, goblins having fun with the village idiots.
Respiration. Rapid.
Heavy.
Yet so damn tired.
Like the last flicker of a dying flare, sleep in a combat zone is the way station between stops of consciousness. It is one toe in the water, always testing the temperature, yet knowing that a plunge can drown you—but because the suction is so strong you cease to fight the feeling.
I knew the Japs were out there. I knew it. We all knew it—which is exactly the reason I asked Captain Haldane to light the woods up. Nips in the woods. Spooky little bastards. It didn’t matter, though, because I was so goddamn tired. My adrenaline was seeping out of me with the dying light. Charlie was sleeping. I didn’t know if Ryzner was asleep, but I was nodding off.
Then it happened.
I couldn’t tell if it had been a minute or an hour, but some feeling—the childish part of my mind tugging on the coattails of my adult brain—woke me up just in time to see him.
A Nip running at a slash straight for us!
What…?
Yet I wasn’t fast enough to react. It was a dead feeling.
The Jap rammed into Ryzner’s foxhole, only four feet away from me. I couldn’t even move.
That’s when the volume was turned down on the world. Silent sounds, everywhere, save for the thrum of my heart galloping in my ears …
Then gradually the volume came up. A few muted grunts and the swish of clothes on clothes, faint exhales. So close. Not enough time, not enough time …
More volume, but not loud. Instead of shouts I could hear the Jap’s voice low in the dark, foreign lingo rattling around in the back of his throat. A prayer? A dirge? A supplication? A surrender?
At last I saw Hank’s form move up in his foxhole, pushing the corpse of the Jap up and out of the hole.
There’s not a clock in the world that could measure how slowly all of this happened, yet how swiftly the arrow of time flew. I was right there … yet where the hell was I? It all happened so fast that I didn’t have time to react.
What followed was a lull that opened the silence.
“Hey … Ryzner?” I whispered, not really knowing what to say. “Are you alright?”
For a second there was only more emptiness.
“Yeah,” he finally said, the arch of his back visibly heaving. I expected him to sound out of breath, but he didn’t. Hank simply sat at the rim of his foxhole, his bent back drawing up and down. For all I knew Hank could have been gazing at the dead Nip with a big grin across his face. How did he kill the Nip, anyway? I thought. It was a soft slaughter: one so light that it never raised an alarm, not even a few feet down our line.
I ventured again, “What the hell you think he was tryin’ to say, Hank? Trying to surrender or somethin’?”
Hank’s garbled words were noncommittal—faraway and feeble.
Ryzner was a weird kid anyway. He was bowed at the shoulders, scrawny framed; his skin was yellowed by atabrine tablets, and his head was nearly shaved down to the skin. An odd duck. Nevertheless, one thing Henry wasn’t was dead—and that was good enough.
As far as I recall, I never went to sleep again that night.
The next morning, just as soon as it was light enough to come out of our foxholes, I crawled over to Hank’s Jap and checked around the body’s waist looking for one of those “thousand-stitch belts” the Japs were so fond of sporting. The corpse didn’t have one. In fact, his body appeared as if some marine vulture had already picked the Nip clean during the night. The fact that I didn’t hear a marine creep up and scavenge the corpse was almost as eerie as groping over the Nip carcass in the first place. The dead man was a paradox: as stiff as a flatiron, yet cold and pliable. It was strange to think that he was killed just four feet away from me.
Later in the day, while we were lounging on the edge of our foxholes, talking and smoking, the press came to our company and began inquiring as to the whereabouts of Private Henry Ryzner, from Detroit. They asked about the story of how Hank single-handedly killed a Japanese night fighter.
Photos were taken. There was a lot of glad-handing. Ryzner was interviewed, and he was informed that his story would appear in his local newspaper. He was a hero for a day, and that was just as well for Hank.
We all thought the press hubbub was a load of crap, and I’m sure Hank felt the same. See, it’s not that Hank didn’t deserve the accolades, but there was a bigger story than Ryzner’s that night, and it happened only about twenty-five feet from us.
When the flares went up and PFC Cushing let loose with his machine gun on the Nips in the tree line, the two Japs that I saw linger around the woods waited just a little while for the star shells to die down before they made their move. One Jap headed straight for Ryzner’s foxhole, while the other one ran right into a rifleman and a contingent of mortarmen behind him. So while Hank was taking care of one Nip, another rifleman was fighting off the second.
Now, as I mentioned earlier, this wasn’t that far from the old phosphate factory—one of the few flat pieces of land on all of Peleliu, therefore one of the few that could be built on. There were no cliffs and no rises—merely a level tract of soil, facing the western side of the sea. In other words, the Nips had a straight shot at our line.
Of course, I witnessed the struggle with Ryzner and his
unwelcome guest, but it wasn’t until morning that we found out about the second Nip and how he was dispatched … or rather, the tragedy that ensued.
It seems that while the rifleman was fending off the second Nip’s attack, his foxhole buddy panicked, jumped out of the hole, and ran as fast as he could in the direction of the command post. As he hightailed it, one of the mortarmen, mistaking him for a Jap, came out of his foxhole and by accident hit the rifleman with his carbine, nearly knocking the marine out. However, accident or not, when one of the mortarmen heard the poor marine moaning out in the night, he slipped out of his foxhole and promptly shot the downed marine in the head with his .45, thinking he was a Nip.
At daybreak—about the same time I inspected Ryzner’s Jap for souvenirs—PFC Gene Sledge, a quiet guy from the mortar section, made a grisly discovery. Not only did they have a dead Jap, but they also had a dead marine—PFC William Middlebrook, the rifleman who took off during the fight. It was Middlebrook who was shot by the eager mortarman with the sidearm.
Scuttlebutt travels fast, and we all heard about the killing, just as Captain Haldane was holding court over what to do about it.
It ended up being a big nothing, once they swept it under the rug—but we riflemen realized this was the second time an event like this had occurred among the mortarmen.
The mortarmen were good marines, by and large—the same as any other marines, from any other platoon. Nevertheless, while it’s easy to overlook an isolated event, it becomes a real challenge not to cast an evil eye on what appeared to be a pattern. So when the press came up, Ryzner’s kill was the perfect way to deflect any unwanted questions about what happened to PFC William S. Middlebrook Jr., from Houston, Texas. All they had to do was give the press a hero in exchange for a killing.
As for Henry Ryzner, true to the reporters’ word, Ryzner’s photo on Peleliu and his story appeared in the Detroit Free Press, about a week after it happened. The same day, in fact, that his mother got the news that her son had been killed on Ngesebus.
*
On the other side of the world (it might as well be a different planet), Bing Crosby croons over every Philco in America the song “Swinging on a Star,” from the soon-to-be Best Picture Going My Way. Yet the best picture that any of us marines have is of our own pilots skip-bombing the hell out of the Japanese across the causeway on Ngesebus. Low flying, the F4U Corsairs skim so close to the ground, they appear as if they’re going to bounce right into their exploding munitions. At any time we expect the planes to collide in midair, but they don’t. These marine pilots are real pros, swishing and gliding through the air, sending up showers of flames and sparks in all directions. For many of us, it’s a spectacle that will forever ruin even the best fireworks shows back in the States, as the world shatters and explodes across the water. In Queens, however, they never feel a thing. The price of milk is still fifty-six cents a gallon. A bottle of Coke is five cents. Admission to the Bronx Zoo will cost you nothing.
Coming down to the beach that morning it seemed we were all in good humor—or at least in a better mood than when we landed on Peleliu. It wasn’t a long march—just a stroll of about sixty yards from our lines to the sand, where thirty army amtracs idled. The amtracs were lined up in a row, facing toward Ngesebus, waiting for us, as if to ask, Going my way?
It was a Thursday morning the day we walked aboard the tractors, heading for Ngesebus. Thursday morning, so different than our experience a week ago. We were a little wiser—maybe even a little dumber. What made us think Ngesebus would be an easy operation? Perhaps because Peleliu was such a shit-farm, nothing could possibly be worse. Maybe our temperament was lighter because the thought of a tiny island full of Japs gave us better odds than what the bookies on Peleliu were handing out.
Once inside the tractor, a couple of the big shots immediately moved up to the front of the vehicle. PFC Phil Magginello manned one .50 caliber machine gun on the left side of the amtrac, and McEnery stood at its twin on the right, both bracing themselves for the tractor to take off.
With a shift of gears, all the amtracs lurched at exactly the same time, right on cue, synchronized swimmers: a picture-perfect operation. There was plenty of firepower and support, to boot. Sitting atop the water we had a battleship, two cruisers, and a destroyer, leaning their guns landward and plastering the island with fusillade upon fusillade of scary heat—really breaking it up and claiming the island for the United States of America.
I sought out Levy and gave him a thumbs-up. He gave it right back and followed with a nod. Yeah—I looked over the side of the amtrac toward the smoldering island—this will be a piece of cake.
At least it appeared easy. Unlike in the first landing, we weren’t catching any return fire. In the fifteen minutes it took to cross the six-hundred-yard causeway, it was the USMC who spent all the ammunition. No guff from the Japs.
On our way across, I spied a little island about fifteen feet off Ngesebus. Just a small thing—it was only another fifteen feet in diameter. I yelled up at Jimmy, above the din, “Hey, Jim, why don’t ya hit that place with a few bursts! Looks dangerous!” I thought that little patch would be an easy place for some Nips to hide, so Jim let go with a few sprays from his machine gun just to be certain. For the most part, marines were pointing out obvious spots for Jim and Phil to hit as the beach loomed closer: a pillbox here, what appeared to be a hut there. It went without saying, the closer we got, there were masses of noise; our heads were in kettles and someone was beating the outside of them with ratchets. Yet there’s one type of loud you get from the enemy guns, and another brand of bedlam you get from your own. Your own, you can stand it a little more, because you know it’s the Nips who are sucking down flames. The Jap guns, on the other hand, even if they scream in a whisper, they lobotomize and turn the bowels to jelly.
Close.
The planes began pulling out, trailing vapor behind their tails like mirages on the open road.
Closer.
The amtracs are vibratory: a unified solid sound, a constant, as every one of the amtracs hummed the same. I peeked over the side of our amtrac and watched the other tractors glide on a glassy surface, a mirror image of what we must’ve looked like to the other marines. In fact, I couldn’t tell us apart. We were one, like the thrumming of the amtrac engines.
Closer now.
There was nothing ominous about the shore. Only a beach, as thin as a thumb’s nail, touching the meaty mangrove beyond it.
(“There’s not a Jap alive on the island, let’s go!”)
Suddenly our amtrac scraped and then shuddered against the turf. I wasn’t expecting it so soon. The jolt pushed us back and then forward again as we tried to keep our balance. Slap! The ramp dropped at the water’s edge. A fan of surf splashed up and broke my vision.
Here we go again!
Just like before, we pile out like gangbusters. I veer off to the right.
Somewhere, deep in the mind, behind the bangs and shouts, a dead marine screams, “Just around the corner, hit on the beach, hit on the beach, Larry Mahan, hit on the beach, hit on the…”
I don’t have the time to dream about shit! Running up the beach I spy a pillbox, and I see someone scamper out the back. Alarms ring in my head. Shadows move within the rear of the box. Immediately I pop off eight rounds into the entranceway, as if to say, If you’re in there—stay the fuck in there! I think they got the message, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I nailed one of them, but this isn’t the time to find out. I’ve got the muzzle of my BAR scanning everything before me. An extension of myself, this rifle is sacred to the point where my life dances on the business end of it. I’m scared as hell, but when I pull that trigger I’m invincible.
I keep running. The world is sped up like one of those old silent films—fragmented and jumpy—yet it’s far from silent, as grenades explode and small-arms fire fills the air. I’m through the mangrove and across the airfield so quickly that once I’m on the other side, in a dumb-ass move I grab the ba
rrel of my BAR with my right hand and burn the crap out of my palm. It’s as if the chaos has control of me—and the strings that make me dance are being snipped, one by one.
My hand smarts—yet this pause gives me the first opportunity to scan the island, as marines pile in around me. We catch our breath and lean on a vacant bunker (the “bunker” really amounts to just a simple rise in the earth, little more than an anthill).
Simply stated, Ngesebus is the bastard child of Peleliu. The beach itself is perhaps a couple of yards in width, littered with rocks and bits of wood that have been washed up with the tide. Beyond that is some scrubwood, and just a jump farther is the airstrip—shot up and full of holes, filthy with debris. I’m not an expert in airfields; nevertheless, the airstrip on Ngesebus looks like it could scarcely accommodate a Piper Cub, let alone a Nip Zero.
What’s more, just like Peleliu, Ngesebus has its own ridgeline beyond the airfield, only a lot smaller, akin to Johnny Roventini, the dwarf I used to work with back in my Philip Morris days.
“Call for Philip Moore-ea-es!”
Yet if there was a time for a cigarette, it wouldn’t be right now. We’re winded, and the whole place smells like live Japs.
“Hey, gimme a hand, willya, Mace?”
“Huh? Oh … oh yeah, sure.” I help Roy Kelly get a foothold on the lip of the ridge, and then I sling my BAR over my shoulder and begin my own ascent. It’s just a few hand-and toeholds up to a relatively flat surface. Then someone hollers, “There’s one! Get that sonuvabitch!”
“Where?”
I see a lone Jap, about fifteen yards away, duck at the sound of rifle fire and then suddenly disappear. Just like that.
Bang! We’re off! Scrabbling and running as fast as we can, giving chase, then quickly skidding to a halt at a hole in the coral—barely large enough for a human to slip through.
“This is where the Nip must’ve jumped! Don’t let the fucker get away!” Ray Grawet growls.
Battleground Pacific Page 12
