by Chris Glatte
“Our job hasn’t changed, though. The more we keep the Nips looking our way, the easier time those boys on the beach will have, and the quicker we’ll link up.” He took out a cigarette and the flare of his lighter lit up the fog. He took a long drag and blew it out slow. “In case we don’t get a resupply, Captain’s ordered half-rations.” There were more groans. “We gotta make what we have last. Understand?”
“Yes, Sergeant,” they answered.
Hunter asked, “What’re we gonna do about those Japs on the near ridge?”
Rizzo smiled, “Glad you asked, Hunter. We can’t move down the canyon until we deal with ‘em. Willoughby’s been in contact with the 7th Recon. They’re a mile or so northeast of us. They’re gonna push onto the ridge overlooking our little problem and if the fog allows it, engage them from above. Meanwhile, we’ll be coming from below. We’ll also have mortars ready to help.” He looked at the glowing dials of his watch. “Since it’s too damned cold to sleep, Willoughby wants us to move out before it gets light. Be ready to move at 0200. Fill your canteens but remember to ration food. We gotta suck it up until we’re resupplied.”
Hunter filled his canteen upstream of the CP. The fog felt like a wet blanket draped around him. It was a bizarre sensation to be only yards away from people yet feel as alone as if he were on the moon. The darkness, coupled with the snow and fog, was surreal. He was used to the confines and limited visibility of a forest, but this was different. What would keep them from walking straight into a Jap machine gun nest? The thought circled through his head for the next few cold, miserable hours.
At 0130 Hunter and 3rd Platoon huddled outside the CP. Captain Willoughby himself briefed them. He stood at the base of the largest boulder and raised his voice. Hunter was a few yards away from him and could just barely see his outline. The thick air muted his normally booming voice. “Stay close together. I don’t want anyone getting lost in this soup. And remember, don’t engage the enemy until you can see something. The Seventh Recon boys will be in the area by daybreak. Let them engage and when the Nips are turned the wrong way, roll ‘em up.” It was brief and to the point. He’d leave the details up to Lt. Wilcox. “Questions?”
Sergeant Mavis asked, “What if the fog doesn’t thin out, sir?”
Lieutenant Wilcox stepped forward and fielded the question. “If I may, sir?” Willoughby gestured the affirmative, and Wilcox addressed the question. “I’ll make the call. If we stumble into ‘em before the 7th arrives, we’ll attack. They’re just as blind as we are.”
Private Lance leaned close to Hunter’s ear and whispered, “Yeah, but they’re dug in and we’re in the open.”
Wilcox continued, “Bring extra grenades and ammo. If it comes down to it, lead with grenades and follow with carbines. You NCOs with the Thompson’s—they don’t call ‘em trench sweepers for nothin.”
The platoon made their way to the base of the slope leading toward the enemy trench line. It was impossible to get an exact fix in the darkness and fog, so they guessed and moved slowly upward. The snow was deeper near the bottom and soon men were straining and breathing hard as they plowed their way through as quietly as possible.
Hunter could see a few GIs behind him. He was on point, but that only meant he was ten yards further ahead. Any farther and he’d be invisible and alone. He tried to picture the morning firefight. How far away had they been? How long would it take to climb to the trench?
He figured the trenches were maybe 150 yards above them. Lt. Wilcox wanted the platoon to stay on their left flank, so they’d started their slow climb directly from the CP. Hunter figured that would put them about 100 yards up the canyon from them. But what if the Japs had more than one trench line? What if they were waiting for them with their fingers on those damned machine gun triggers? And wouldn’t this trajectory put them directly in 7th Recon’s fire?
He shook his head—he only needed to concentrate on seeing what was directly in front of him. Seeing the enemy before they saw him would give him and the rest of the platoon, the best chance of surviving. He gulped, feeling the responsibility of the entire platoon upon his shoulders. He wished it was only himself he needed to worry about.
The higher Hunter led them up the wind-scoured hillside, the thinner the snow layer became. The fog was still thick, but at least the walking was easier. With each step, he felt he was pushing his luck. How far did Lt. Wilcox expect them to go? It was difficult to gauge, but he thought the trench line must be close.
He stepped around a thicker patch of snow then turned and searched for the others. He nearly panicked when he didn’t see anyone at all, not even the faint fuzzy outline of a GI. How long had it been since he last checked? He shook his head and took a deep breath.
His father used to tell him, ‘if you get lost in the woods, don’t panic. Once you let panic take root, you’ve signed your own death warrant.’ His father, an accomplished woodsman, spoke from experience. He’d been on more than one search and rescue mission, looking for lost souls in the forests and craggy mountains of Montana. Invariably, the ones that lived to tell the tale, hadn’t panicked but used their wits to make it easier for the searchers to find them.
The overwhelming urge to call out, passed. It hadn’t been more than a few minutes since he’d last seen the other soldiers. They must be close, just out of sight. He hunched beside a snow patch and split his time between watching uphill for enemy soldiers and downhill for GIs.
Two minutes passed. It was time to retrace his steps and find the platoon. He hated doing even that. He might be mistaken for an enemy soldier. He eased down the hill, placing his feet into his own tracks. When he’d gone ten yards, there was a challenge from the mist, “Stone.”
Hunter stopped and immediately answered, “Barricade.” The native-Japanese English speakers had trouble pronouncing the letter r, so even if they knew the password, barricade would come out, ballicade.
“That you, Hunter?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Why’d you guys stop?”
“Wilcox wants to send a team up from here and see if they can find the Japs without exposing the entire platoon.”
Hunter knelt beside PFC Nunes. “Whatever happened to waiting for Seventh Recon?” he whispered. Nunes shrugged. Hunter asked, “Who’s he sending?”
“Not us; team from 1st Squad.”
Hunter expelled a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “I thought sure it’d be us again.”
“No such luck. Follow me. Wilcox wants to hear from you.”
Nunes led him to Lt. Wilcox. There was a hint of light in the east, but with the fog, it was more of a feeling than actually seeing direct light.
Wilcox lifted the rim of his helmet. “See anything up there, Hunter?”
He shook his head, “Nothing past a few yards. Feels like we must be getting close though, sir.”
Wilcox nodded, “Agreed. I figure we’re within sixty yards or so. I’m sending a team forward to check.” Hunter adjusted his carbine and looked at his boots. Wilcox noticed his agitation and asked, “Something you wanna say, soldier?”
The 7th Scout Company prided itself on high caliber, tough training. The officers respected the common foot soldiers and vice versa. Everyone from the lowliest private to Captain Willoughby could speak their mind if they felt strongly about something. Hunter heard the challenge in Wilcox’s voice, however, and thought better of making his opinion known. “No, sir.”
Wilcox stomped away to give the order to 1st Squad. Hunter found his own squad and settled his ass into a partially dug out foxhole between Gentry and PFC Hammond. He placed his carbine across his lap and took a slug from his canteen.
Private Gentry elbowed him in the ribs. “How you doing?”
He twisted the lid back onto the canteen. “Don’t feel good about 1st Squad trying to find the Nips. What’s the point of orders if Wilcox isn’t gonna follow ‘em?”
PFC Hammond scowled, “He’s not disobeying orders. He’s trying to find them so we can
assault them easier once it’s light.”
“I know he’s not disobeying directly but look at this fog. You can’t see five yards. If they find the Japs, the Japs can’t help but find them too.”
Hammond shrugged, “Maybe they’ll hear ‘em talking first.”
Gentry guffawed, “At this hour; more like snoring.”
Fifteen minutes passed like a slow drip from a leaky faucet. The cold seeped into Hunter’s bones. He had been warm while taking point, but now he couldn’t keep from shivering. He wondered how the wounded were faring. There were a few sleeping bags at the CP they could share, but that wouldn’t be enough to keep them warm. What they needed was a blazing fire and a nice cozy enclosed space somewhere out of the elements.
His wandering mind was ripped back to the present by the sudden pop of a rifle, followed with the roar of a Thompson submachine gun on full automatic. The muzzle flashes were dim through the fog, but the contact was close. They all went onto their bellies and faced uphill with their carbines ready.
Staff Sergeant Rizzo was hustling past them. He hissed, “Tighten it up. Come closer. I’ll see what’s going on.” More sporadic fire was suddenly punctuated with the unmistakable sound of a hand grenade exploding. It was impossible to tell if it was made in the USA or Japan.
More grenade explosions mixed with rifle and submachine gun fire, and Hunter hunkered lower. The woodpecker sound of an enemy MG firing a long, sustained burst, pierced the night. Tracers sliced through the fog and ricocheted wildly in all directions. The large muzzle flash marked the enemy trench line. It was closer than he figured it should be. Perhaps 1st Squad had stumbled into a new, closer enemy position.
There was yelling and cursing filtering through the fog. American voices mixed with harried Japanese voices as more fire was exchanged. Rizzo returned and told them to stay put for now but keep their eyes open.
Close yelling made them all aim their weapons toward the voice. It sounded American, but they’d been warned on the boat ride from San Francisco that there were plenty of Japanese that could speak very good English.
Someone yelled the challenge word, “Stone.” There wasn’t an immediate answer, just the thumping of feet. “Stone—or I fire!” the challenger’s voice quavered.
Finally, there was an answer, “Barricade! Barricade! For Chrissakes, don’t shoot. Six of us coming in.”
Hunter wanted to collapse into the center and hear what was going on, but there could be enemy soldiers right on their tails or they could try for a flanking end-around. The Squad kept their carbines steady and watched their sector.
The harried voice of Sergeant Morganlander was loud, but Hunter couldn’t make out all the words. The only thing he was sure of was that Morganlander had many colorful words for the enemy soldiers up the hill.
Sergeant Rizzo returned from the sergeant’s tirade and told them what he’d learned. “Morganlander stumbled onto the Jap trenches. He didn’t even see it until a Jap fired on him. He said his team returned fire and exchanged grenades with ‘em but he doesn’t know if they got any. Morganlander got creased across his cheek, but by some miracle, no one else was hit.”
Sergeant Mavis asked, “So what now?”
“You’re not gonna like it,” he whispered. Everyone stared and he finally uttered, “The lieutenant wants to retreat thirty yards and cross in front of ‘em then hit ‘em from the other side.”
Mavis shook his head, “Thought it’d be something like that.”
Rizzo shrugged, “I know it’s not the original plan, but if we can pull it off, we might surprise ‘em. For all they know, that was just a patrol. They’ll be awake but looking the wrong direction. I told him I agreed with his plan.”
Mavis asked, “What about waiting for 7th Recon?”
Rizzo shook his head, “He doesn’t want to play odds on the fog dissipating and thinks it’ll actually help the attack he’s planning. Now that we know where they are…” he squinted into the fog and ever-lightening world, “We can sneak on ‘em better.” Rizzo slapped Hunter’s arm, “He wants you leading the platoon again. You up for it?”
Hunter gulped against a suddenly dry throat. “Of course, Sergeant. I’m ready.”
“Okay then. If anyone’s gotta piss or shit, now’s the time. We leave in ten minutes.”
Mavis asked, “Why the delay?”
Rizzo answered with mirth in his voice, “I think Morganlander might’ve shit his pants. A little cleanup’s in order.”
Mavis shook his head, “Can’t wait to razz him about that.”
“I wouldn’t, if you know what’s good for you, Jack,” he said, his voice taking a serious tone, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. “He’ll probably never hear the end of it.”
Twenty minutes later, Hunter was leading the platoon back up the hill, only this time, they approached from the enemy’s right flank. There was no way of knowing how far the trench extended, but they knew approximately how high it was from their last contact. His senses were tingling and on high alert. Hearing how Sergeant Morganlander and his team hadn’t even seen the trench until the enemy soldier fired, sent a chill up his spine. His survival depended upon spotting them first.
He figured he’d made up the thirty yards they’d retreated and added another fifty. He was either slightly above the trench line or even with it. He stopped and signaled the man behind him to come up. It was Sergeant Mavis. He came up silently. Hunter signaled that he thought it was time to move laterally. Mavis nodded and held up a hand for him to wait. Soon the rest of the platoon was moving up and spreading out.
It was definitely getting lighter, but the fog was as thick as ever, giving the day a grayish look and feel. Water dripped from Hunter’s helmet and off his nose. He felt as though he were living on the inside of a flushing toilet bowl with the lid shut. The wind increased and he wondered if it had anything to do with the rising sun. So far, he couldn’t see any pattern between the time of day and the fog and wind. Both happened seemingly at random.
The Alaskan scouts had told them about the Williwa Winds which could—without warning—race down the hillsides toward the sea at well over 100mph. There was some—geologic/meteorologic/oceanic relationship causing the phenomenon, but the bottom line was, the wind could knock you off your feet and it was impossible to predict.
He closed his eyes tight and reopened them quickly. Focus, focus, focus. He moved forward, making sure of each footfall as though he were walking through a minefield. The GIs spread out in a V formation behind him. Down the hill another twenty yards, he knew another point man moved along carefully. He couldn’t see him, but the company had practiced and trained enough to know the drill and would be within a few feet—forward or back from one another.
Hunter took long, slow strides. The fog shifted and rolled down the hill in front of him. All night, it had been as still as a tomb, but now it was moving. Not thinning—just moving. In the gray light, it looked like apparitions in long flowing gowns were floating into the canyon. It would be mesmerizing if he wasn’t worried about dying.
He heard something ahead. He froze and held up his fist. It took a moment for Sgt. Mavis to see the signal, but when he did, he stopped and passed it down the line. Hunter slowly brought his carbine to his shoulder, but didn’t put his eye to the sight. Had he really heard something, or was it his imagination getting the best of him? There it was again. He’d definitely heard voices, like low murmuring.
He stayed scrunched in a ball, his carbine aimed toward the phantom voices. There was more than one, he realized, and they were close—maybe twenty yards. He couldn’t see anything but shifting fog, snow, and dripping grasses.
Mavis came up beside him. Without a word, Hunter touched his ear and pointed. Mavis listened for five minutes, but there was nothing. He looked questioningly at Hunter, and Hunter gave him an exaggerated nod. He was sure. Mavis slunk back into the darkness. Hunter felt alone. An entire platoon surrounded him, but the old familiar feeling of being on the moo
n was undeniable.
The platoon moved up until they were ten men deep and stretched thirty yards downhill from Hunter’s position. Mavis was beside him again and he signaled he should use grenades. Hunter nodded and placed his carbine in the dirty snow at his feet. He pulled a grenade off his battle harness and wrapped his index finger around the pin. He flexed his other hand around the ridges of the deadly explosive which gave it the nickname, pineapple.
Mavis held up five fingers. He counted down, curling one finger at a time until his hand was in a fist. Hunter pulled the pin. The sound was slight but sounded like thunder to him. He released the spoon and hurled the grenade toward where he thought the voices were, then scooped his carbine, and pulled it to his shoulder. He closed one eye, trying to save his sight from the coming flash. It was a wasted effort. The flash was barely visible through the fog. More explosions erupted, reminding him of a string of firecrackers popping off on New Year’s Eve.
There were screams. Hunter saw darting shapes. They couldn’t be anything other than enemy soldiers. He fired at them, moving his barrel side to side, sending lead into them as fast as he could pull the trigger. Mavis opened fire with his Thompson as he walked forward.
Hunter reloaded and followed a step behind. He didn’t see more shapes, so he held his fire. Down the slope, the intensity of fire grew to crazy levels and it wasn’t just the pops and heavy thumps of Thompsons…there was return fire.
Hunter saw the large muzzle flash of a machine gun. He couldn’t see the gunner, but he didn’t have to. He pulled another grenade. It was only thirty yards away. He pulled the pin and chucked a line drive directly at the muzzle flash. He followed it with .30 caliber from his carbine. He wasn’t the only GI with the idea. Grenades exploded around the machine gun and it finally fell silent.
