Shrouded Glory: A WWII NOVEL

by Chris Glatte

  Twenty-five hundred feet flashed by in under a minute. He didn’t want it to end, but the bottom of the canyon was approaching fast. Huge sprays of wet snow erupted in front of him as soldiers rolled off the track and somersaulted though the soft snow.

  He rolled left, hoping the man in front had gone right. His backpack dug into the snow and he back flipped three times before finally stopping. He was dazed but smiling. He saw the next man coming fast. He dove out of the way as PFC Runyon smashed and rolled into the spot he’d just vacated.

  Sergeant Mavis was next, and he waited an instant too long to bail. He plowed headfirst into the wall of snow piled at the bottom of the canyon. He thrashed and struggled, his body firmly planted. He had to be pulled out by two GIs who could barely contain their laughter.

  They lay two more tracks down and soon the majority of the company was in the canyon and out of the enemy gunner’s sights. The Japanese fired mortars. The small explosions bracketed the sledding paths, which were etched into the snow in stark relief.

  Gentry slapped Hunter’s back, “Glad we didn’t have to sled through that.”

  Hunter nodded, “Did you see Willoughby come down? The old geezer was grinning ear to ear and hollerin’ like a damned cowboy on a bronco.”

  For a few minutes they felt like kids. Their moods changed quick when the mortars marched steadily down the hill toward them. “Take cover!” Yelled Lt. Wilcox.

  Hunter’s squad pushed deeper into the canyon until they came to the little creek trickling down the center. There wasn’t much cover, just a few boulders and the soft edges of tundra that had been worn away by the creek water.

  Sergeant Rizzo ordered, “Dig in.”

  The mortar shells were soon landing among them, ripping tundra, and sending deadly shrapnel in every direction. Hunter felt as though his teeth would rattle from his head. A screeching whistle, then a thud directly in front of him almost made him lose his bowels. The barrage finally stopped, and he slowly raised his helmeted head out of the burbling creek.

  Three feet in front of him, a mortar shell hissed and sizzled. It was halfway buried in the creek. A dud, he thought. But then his mind whirred like a top, more likely a delayed fuse.

  Without taking his eyes off it, he backed away quickly. He backed into something soft. He turned and saw the smoking remains of a soldier. He couldn’t identify who it was, it was simply a mass of parts, glistening and bloody against the brown tundra grass. He pushed past it until he was far enough away from the unexploded mortar shell. He struggled to catch his breath.

  Men were moving, getting to their feet, and dusting themselves off. There was moaning and a few calls for the medic. From the top of the small hill protecting them from the enemy machine guns, rifle fire erupted. Geysers of water splashed him, and he rolled into an embankment. Bullets smacked the ground and ricocheted off boulders.

  Hunter pulled his carbine off his shoulder and for the first time, aimed it at the enemy. He could see helmeted heads popping up near the top of the low hill and firing down upon them. He fired just as his target dropped back into cover. He waited; he would come back up once he’d chambered another round. Other targets presented themselves, but he stayed steady. Finally, the space over his sights filled with a Japanese head and he pulled the trigger. The carbine’s .30 caliber pistol ammo didn’t pack as much of a punch as the M1 Garand or the .45 caliber Thompson that the NCOs brandished, but it did the job. The Japanese soldier’s head snapped back and dropped out of sight.

  He moved to the next target and fired again. The near miss sent dirt into the soldier’s face, and he hoped he’d blinded the son of a bitch. Someone had seen him, and a bullet whizzed past his ear. He ducked beneath the lip and wiggled his way up the creek a few yards before rising again.

  He had an even clearer shot. A soldier’s entire torso appeared. He was rearing back to throw a grenade. Hunter fired three times and the front of the soldier’s tunic turned red and he dropped out of sight. He heard a muffled explosion and dust and debris rained down around the trench line. He whooped.

  The firing slackened, but he kept his sights steady, waiting for more. The wind kicked up and it started sleeting. As if someone had pulled a curtain, the ridge line, along with the enemy soldiers, was suddenly out of sight. Hunter was immediately wet, and the wind made him shiver, despite the adrenaline coursing through him like an out-of-control freight train.

  Orders were passed, and although he couldn’t see more than a few yards, the company moved upstream until they rounded a bend in the canyon. There was more cover here. The bend created a collecting point for whatever detritus came from upstream. A few boulders pushed up against the wall, forming shallow caves and depressions. It wasn’t dry, but it was out of the wind and more importantly, out of view from enemy guns.

  They dug in along the line and Captain Willoughby made it his CP for the time being. The ridge they’d sledded down loomed on their left, the low hill with the newly occupied trench line was on their right. In front of them, the canyon stretched about a mile all the way to Holz Bay. Hunter wondered what that mile was going to cost them in blood.

  Charlie Company inched their way forward up the steepening slope toward Jarmin Pass. The roar of the 105mm Howitzers rolled over them and seemed to ripple through the thick, wet air. Flashes through the fog and darkness showed them the top of the pass they were creeping towards. It was getting ever closer.

  The occasional crack of a rifle or the hammering of an enemy machine gun kept them cautious. They couldn’t see the enemy and hoped they couldn’t see them.

  Private Mankowitz stayed close to Private Harwick’s back. He didn’t like being so bunched up, but Lieutenant Hubert insisted the men buddy up so no one would wander. Getting lost in the fog would be as simple as losing sight of the soldier in front of you for more than a few seconds. Calling out would draw enemy fire and backtracking might end in a friendly fire incident. Whether you were shot by the enemy or one of your own men—the results were the same.

  Harwick stopped and hunched in the snow. Mankowitz nearly bumped into him. Men behind stopped and hunkered all the way down the line. The platoon was moving up the valley in six different single-file lines. Mankowitz’s line was on the left flank. He couldn’t see it, but off to his left a few yards, the slope to the ridge loomed. He knew I Company was up there somewhere trying to push to the saddle in coordination with Charlie. G Company was doing the same thing on the opposite ridge.

  The mauling they’d taken a few hours earlier kept them vigilant and hyper-aware. They’d stowed their dead and wounded in a dug-out snow cave that became their temporary CP. They hoped they wouldn’t have to wait too long to get the wounded out. The platoon medic, Private Hayward, stayed with wounded, which didn’t help Mankowitz’s confidence.

  The volume of fire from the three Howitzers decreased. They only fired once every ten minutes. The flashes served as markers of the enemy's position. The 81mm mortars halfway up the east ridge were ready to provide support to anyone that gave them a firing solution. The heavy weapons platoon was with them, their .30 and .50 caliber machine guns facing Jarmin Pass.

  Tense minutes passed before Harwick moved again. There was no explanation for the delay, he simply stopped because the man in front of him stopped. Mankowitz felt the cold seeping into his bones. He hadn’t truly been warm since leaving California. Despite being in the middle of a platoon of men, he felt alone and vulnerable.

  They’d been creeping up the valley for an hour, and Mankowitz felt like they were well beyond where they’d first made contact during their first attempt. He sensed they were close to the top, but he couldn’t pinpoint anything concrete. The flash and crump of a 105mm shell lit up the fog. He was astounded by how close they were.

  Lieutenant Wilcox hissed an order and the column stopped again. They passed the word up the line to dig in quietly. This was as far as they were going until the fireworks started on the flanks. They spread out, wondering when things would kick off
.

  Mankowitz shucked his pack and pulled his entrenching tool out. Digging in the dirty snow was easy enough and cutting through the tundra grasses beneath was a breeze but going much deeper would put him into the mud and beyond that the hard frozen layer.

  Once he deemed the hole deep enough, he hunkered and blew warm air into his gloved hands. He checked his M1, made sure his ammo and grenades were easily accessible, then settled in as best he could. Harwick tucked in beside him, and he was grateful for his added body heat.

  Sergeant Calder moved from hole to hole. Mankowitz could barely see the two soldiers huddled in the next hole only ten yards away. When Calder got to them, he said in a gruff voice, “Rest awhile but don’t get too comfy. Soon as I and G company hit their flanks, the 81s will light ‘em up with flares. That’s our signal to move. Flares pop, you go. Got it?”

  “Got it, Sergeant,” mumbled Mankowitz.

  “How we supposed to see anything in this fog?” asked Harwick. Calder shrugged and moved off without answering.

  A half hour passed. Mankowitz and Harwick shivered beside each other. Harwick whispered, “Wish we’d get this thing started for crying out loud. Freezing my ass off.”

  Mankowitz nodded, “Funny, isn’t it? I feel the same way, but once it starts—we’ll probably wish it hadn’t.”

  “Jesus, Mank. You a philosopher now?” Another 105mm shell slammed into the saddle. The flash was brighter; the fog had thinned. Harwick shook his head, “How long’s this night gonna last? It feels never-ending.”

  Mankowitz grinned, “Who’s the philosopher now?”

  Fire erupted from the west ridge, but instead of being near the saddle it was much farther back. The volume intensified. The fog had thinned, they could see flashes and red tracer rounds crisscrossing.

  Mankowitz was aghast, “That all the further they got? They’re supposed to be up here with us.”

  The woodpecker sound of multiple enemy machine guns from the eastern ridge joined in, and tracer rounds sliced across the valley and engaged I Company.

  Harwick’s face was lit by the muzzle flashes and tracers. “Shit, they’re all behind us. This is not good.”

  More fire joined along the eastern ridge. Green and yellow tracer fire cut into the enemy machine guns shooting across the valley. Mankowitz pointed, “That’s gotta be G Company getting in on it. You’re right; we’re way the hell out front. If they spot us, we’ll have them on three sides.”

  Harwick spit then said, “Hope Captain Smith’s got the sense to have us fall back.”

  A few minutes passed and the firefight happening along the ridges was like watching some bizarre 4th of July celebration. Suddenly a series of bright flares burst over the top of the saddle. They floated lazily beneath small parachutes, descending through layers of thinning fog.

  “Aw shit,” Harwick complained.

  The heavy machine guns flanking the 81mm mortars opened fire on the saddle and were immediately met with multiple streams of Japanese return fire. Lieutenant Hubert stood and waved them forward. “That’s it. Let’s go. Move up. Bound and cover.”

  Harwick and Mankowitz got to their feet and took tentative steps. Mankowitz’s joints were cold and stiff, and he grimaced with each step. The snow wasn’t as thick on the edges and they made good progress. The machine gun duel overhead, combined with the sputtering flares, lit up the dirty snow.

  Mankowitz’s heart was in his throat; he could see the silhouettes of enemy soldiers just seventy yards away. There was a long line of them, all aiming and firing toward the ridges and heavy machine guns. The sustained flashes and long tongues of fire marked the enemy machine gun positions. There looked to be a hell of a lot of them.

  They hadn’t been spotted yet. Perhaps they wouldn’t see them at all. Perhaps they could walk right up on ‘em and kill them in their trenches. That pipe dream ended when a startled yell from the trench line focused the enemy on Charlie Company. At first it was only rifle fire.

  Mankowitz dropped to a knee and aimed over his sights at an enemy’s helmeted head. He fired and the kick of his weapon felt good. He steadied his aim and fired again. His target dropped out of sight. He did not know if he’d hit him or just made him duck. He moved his muzzle left and fired again and again. GIs moved up and he continued firing, keeping the enemy’s heads down.

  The eight-round clip pinged, and he quickly inserted a new one. Harwick sprinted forward and before he knew what he was doing, Mankowitz was running too. Bullets snapped past his ears and he dove forward. Something tugged at his arm. He ignored it and rolled into a slight defilade. More parachute flares burst over the Japanese lines, silhouetting them nicely.

  Mankowitz was ten yards closer to them. He pushed his rifle through grass sticking up from the snow. In the light from the flare, he saw a Japanese soldier’s torso lift above the trench line. He was aiming a long rifle at the advancing GIs to Mankowitz’s right. Mankowitz adjusted and fired. He pulled the trigger in quick succession and the soldier spun as the powerful 30.06 rounds pierced his chest.

  Harwick slapped his shoulder and got to his feet again. He ran forward and Mankowitz cursed and fired in the general direction of the trench, trying to give him cover. Harwick hurled himself into the next depression. Mankowitz couldn’t see him and hoped he’d made it. Bullets whipped the air overhead, and it pockmarked the snow with geysers, forcing him to duck and reload.

  He thumbed in a fresh clip and glanced right. GIs were moving up and making excellent progress. The covering fire from the heavy machine guns on the east ridge was keeping most of the enemy machine guns occupied. Explosions rocked the slope and Mankowitz wondered if the Japanese were hitting them with mortars again.

  “Here I come!” he yelled. He heard Harwick firing as he got to his feet, ran a few yards, and hurled himself forward. More GIs piled into the depression. In the darkness it was difficult to tell who who was.

  A new sound from the top of Jarmin pass gave them pause. Bright flashes exploded over the top of the mortar crews and machine gunners halfway up the eastern ridge. The popping blasts reverberated throughout the valley and sounded like amplified bursts of popcorn.

  “What the hell’s that?” someone yelled.

  Someone else answered, “The Japs got an ack-ack gun!”

  The fire from the friendly machine guns stopped. The sudden lack of fire was like losing a security blanket. The ack-ack bursts continued lighting up the heavy weapons platoon in ghastly flashes. Quick views of smoke and darting shapes was all Mankowitz could see.

  The air overhead suddenly came alive with machine gun fire. The Nambus, freed from the suppressing fire from the ridges, chopped away at the advancing GIs. The last sputtering flares from the 81mms landed and extinguished, plummeting them into darkness.

  Mankowitz rose, but ducked when bullets smacked the lip of snow he huddled behind. Without the flares it was utterly dark. The only light came from muzzle flashes and grenade explosions. The advance stopped. The enemy machine guns poured a steady dose of lead into them. The firefights along the ridges seemed to abate. There was less and less tracer fire from friendly troops.

  The clang of a bullet smashing into metal made the soldier beside Mankowitz curse a blue streak. He recognized Private Lance’s voice. “You hit, Lance?” he asked.

  Lance held up his helmet. It had a jagged crease over the top. “That came from behind us!” He chucked the ruined helmet down the snowfield and it slid into the darkness. The GIs tried to make themselves as small as possible.

  Sergeant Jakant’s voice pierced the darkness. “You men up there, fall back! Stay low. We’ll cover you.”

  Shells from the Howitzers slammed into the enemy positions, but the incoming enemy fire didn’t diminish. Mankowitz and the others crawled as fast as they could as bullets whizzed in both directions only feet overhead. Explosions rocked the slope as Japanese grenades hurled from the trenches rolled downhill and exploded. They were too far away to do much damage, but they added to the chaos
.

  The GIs got to Sergeant Jakant’s line of soldiers. “Anyone wounded?” he asked.

  Mankowitz shook his head, “Don’t think so.”

  Jakant raised his voice, “Captain wants us off this hill before the Nips behind us on the ridges decide to cut us off. The cannon cockers are gonna fire smoke. That’ll be our signal to fall back.”

  “Where’s the fucking fog when we need it?” exclaimed Private Lance.

  The firing died down gradually. The darkness hid them for now. Smoke shells popped and enveloped the pass. The occasional muzzle flash pierced through. Jakant and Sergeant Calder pushed them down the hill, “Go! Don’t stop till you get to the CP.”

  4

  The fog settled into the canyon which Hunter and the rest of Scout Company huddled in throughout the rest of the day and into early evening. There’d only been the occasional rifle exchange with unseen enemies since they’d moved to their makeshift CP.

  The droning of an aircraft overhead made them all look up hopefully. Two squads had stayed on the ridge, hoping to receive another air drop. Hunter hoped it wasn’t as foggy up there as it was down here.

  Private Gentry shook his head, “If it’s even half as foggy up there, I don’t see how they’ll make the drop.”

  “Flares?” asked Hunter.

  Gentry shrugged, “Maybe, but the fog will hide those too.”

  The droning of the aircraft engine lasted for a half hour. It would fade, then grow, then fade again. Finally, as darkness enshrouded them, it faded into nothingness.

  Sergeant Rizzo emerged from the gloom with bad news. “The boys on the ridge radioed. The plane didn’t make a drop that they could see. It’s as thick up there as it is down here.” There were groans and low curses. He held up his hands for quiet and continued. “This might not be as quick a job as we thought. There're no guarantees about getting resupplied either. The thirty-second landed at Red Beach a day late,” he pointed northeast. “Captain has spotty contact with them. He doesn’t know much beyond the fact that they landed. They could be here tomorrow or a week from now…just depends on the Japs.