by Chris Glatte
Mavis was charging and burning through another magazine on full automatic. Hunter caught up to him. The trench, which had been so well concealed by the fog, was now a gaping maw stretching out before him. Bodies lay in the shadows, some squirming, most immobile. Yellow-tinged smoke mixed with the fog and wafted and shifted around the ugly scar in the tundra. Hunter fired into the gyrating mass of bodies until his magazine ran dry.
GIs suddenly filled the trench and the sounds of men grunting as they clashed in life-or-death grapples was terrifying to hear. Agonized screams rang from the fog. Hunter reloaded and kept his smoking barrel ready, but the fight had moved beyond him.
Third Squad guarded the trench entrance while the rest of the platoon cleaned up any remaining resistance. The only shots were from the carbines. The enemy Type-98 Arisaka rifles were silent.
A jubilant Lt. Wilcox walked out of the gloom surrounded by grim and dangerous looking GIs. Hunter had never thought of them that way, but in that moment that was the only word to describe them. He didn’t know if he looked as dangerous—he doubted it—but he was bursting with pride. The 7th Scout Company was his unit and by God, they’d just taught the Japs a thing or two.
5
Private Mankowitz huddled as close to the potbellied stove as possible without actually burning himself. The rest of the squad pushed in on either side and for the first time in a long time, he felt warm.
The attack on Jarmin Pass had failed. The dead and wounded were hauled back to the beach under the cover of fog and spitting rain. The rest of the night, the pass was hammered with 105mm Howitzers joined by naval guns from destroyers patrolling the outskirts of Massacre Bay.
Harwick hunched beside Mankowitz. He rotated his gloved hands in front of the heat as though slow cooking them. “Think they’ll send us up there again today?”
Sergeant Jakant standing across from him nodded. “Probably this evening. I heard there was some progress along the western ridge, so at least the Japs will have to worry about their flank and can’t hammer us coming up the front side.”
Private Lance stomped his feet, trying to force circulation back to them. “We’re going up the middle again? Didn’t work so well the first time, Sergeant.”
Jakant scowled at him, “I don’t know what the captain’s got planned, but whatever it is, you’ll damn well do it with a smile on your face, Private.”
Lance showed him his palms, “Just making a comment, Sergeant.”
Jakant grinned, “You'll suck it up, soldier.”
The tent flap opened letting in a flurry of wind laced with cold wetness. The squad hooted and cursed at Private Montgomery. He yelled over their jeers, “Cookies say they’ve got hot food ready for us, but it won’t stay that way long.”
They hadn’t eaten anything except K-rations, but none of them moved from the heat. Another head poked into the tent. Everyone stiffened hearing Lt. Hubert’s voice. “Get your asses to the mess hall. We’re hitting the pass again at 1500 hours. Be at my tent at 1430, Sergeant.”
Jakant braced, “Yes sir.” Hubert left and Montgomery gave a sheepish grin, then left too. The BAR man, PFC Numchenko, growled, “Giving us hot food before sending us up the hill? We must really be in for it.”
Jakant stepped from the circle and hitched up his collar. “Shaddup Numbnuts. You don’t want your portion, I’m sure you can find someone who will.”
Numchenko’s heavy brow furrowed. “It’s Numchenko—not numbnuts, Sergeant Jakant.”
The squad laughed and reluctantly left the heat and followed Sergeant Jakant out into the blustery, wet day.
Mankowitz shivered and pulled his scarf over his chin and nose. Once again, he silently thanked his mother. He felt the wind cut through his clothes and mumbled to Harwick beside him, “Could really use a heavy coat out here, for crying out loud.”
Harwick guffawed, “Yeah, no shit. You’d think the Army would know it’s cold in the Bering Strait.”
The food wasn’t gourmet by any means, but the oatmeal and grits was hot, and the inside of mess hall was out of the wind and felt almost muggy. The GIs of Charlie Company ate in stages, and when everyone was more or less satiated, they filtered back into their respective tents and readied themselves for the next attack on Jarmin Pass.
The fog wasn’t as thick as they pushed towards Jarmin Pass this time. Streaks of actual sunlight shone through in spots, lighting up the dirty snow, leading toward the enemy defenses. The pass was shrouded in mist and Mankowitz hoped it stayed that way until they were off the open slope. The artillery and naval guns were silent. The distant sounds of fighting—cracks of rifles and the staccato of answering machine guns—wafted through the air.
Mankowitz’s muscles were sore, but it felt good to be moving. With each step, he felt warmth returning to his extremities. They followed the tracks they’d left the night before. It was surreal, as though he were revisiting a crime scene. The rain and sleet made the tundra soft and men cursed as they broke through or stepped into mud-holes. More than a few had to be hauled from the sticky, black mud with help from fellow soldiers.
Mankowitz stepped carefully. The thought of falling into a wet morass of mud made him shiver. Even standing in front of the potbellied stove for eight hours hadn’t completely dried him out, and he didn’t want to have to start all over.
They made steady progress. The wind blew from the pass, straight into their faces. Once again, he wondered how the fog could stay in place despite the wind. It seemed to defy physics and all reason. The tundra gave way to dirty, wet snow. Their tracks were obvious from the night before.
The company spread out and moved slower as the terrain steepened and the Japanese defensive line loomed. Mankowitz noticed signs of battle. Wind-scoured body depressions in the snow, scraped out holes, and frozen empty shell casings sticking from the snow, made it look as though the battle had happened years before.
He kept his eyes on the pass. The fog still clung to it. Streaks of sunlight shone on the snowfield. If it wasn’t for specter of looming violent death hanging over them, it might’ve been pretty.
So far, they hadn’t been spotted, but Mankowitz wondered how much longer that could last. He looked to either side, seeing well-spaced GIs moving up the slope cautiously. Everyone was on edge. They gripped their weapon’s as though they were shields against dragon fire.
Mankowitz glanced down the slope and saw Lt. Hubert forty yards behind him. How far would he let them get? He longed to hunker down and dig in before the Japanese spotted them and raked them with machine gun fire.
He placed his boot into an old boot print and wondered who it belonged to. Was the soldier still alive? Was it bad luck to step in a dead man’s boot print?
The fog enveloped him as though embracing him in a weightless, wet hug. He could barely see the GIs on either side. He couldn’t see anyone behind him. He kept his concentration forward. The last thing he wanted to do was stumble into a trench or machine gun nest.
The fog thickened, cutting his vision to ten yards. The comforting, hazy forms around him were gone. Panic gripped his gut. He had a nearly overwhelming urge to sprint back the way he’d come—back into the light. He forced himself to breathe. Panic would kill him. He crouched, keeping his muzzle pointed up the hill. There was no point continuing forward until he knew he wasn’t alone. He’d wait until the others caught up or someone ordered him to proceed.
The cold seeped into him like death. The fog shifted in a constant dance of deception. He wished he was fighting the Krauts in North Africa right about now. He cursed the fates that put him on the slope of this godforsaken island on the edge of the world.
A voice from below made him focus and helped quell his rising panic. “Mank? Where are you?”
It was Harwick’s voice. Mankowitz matched his voice level, “I’m here. Up here in the fog.”
Harwick’s slight frame came into view and Mankowitz waved at him. Harwick waved back, giving him a sideways grin. “Lieutenant wants us to hold up
.” He came up beside him and hunkered. He squinted into the fog. “Watching you disappear into the fog…” he shook his head, “Looked like you got swallowed up.”
Mankowitz nodded, “Felt like I’d stepped off the edge of the world.” Harwick pulled a chocolate bar from his pocket and offered him a piece. Mankowitz nearly dropped it but shoved it into his mouth. He savored the chalky treat as it slowly melted in his mouth. He mumbled, “What’s the plan?”
Harwick shrugged, “Dunno. Just got the word to hold up.”
“We’ve gotta be close. Hell, they could be yards away and we wouldn’t know about it,” Mankowitz whispered.
Harwick nodded, “This fog scares the hell outta me. I thought I’d considered fighting in all types of weather and terrain, but I never thought about fog.”
Silent minutes passed. The fog swirled, sometimes revealing, sometimes hiding the slope ahead.
Finally, they got the word from their squad leader, Staff Sergeant Calder. “We’re gonna move up to contact. Lieutenant thinks they might’ve bugged out.”
Private Lance asked, “Why’s he think that?”
Sergeant Jakant slapped his arm, “Shaddup and do as you’re told.”
Calder answered, “I Company pushed past the pass this morning and Hubert thinks the Japs left to keep from being flanked.” He shrugged, “We’re gonna test his theory.” Private Lance started to say something, but Calder cut him off. He pointed at Numchenko. “You and Montgomery be ready to lay down fire at the first hint of contact. Our job’s finding them, not assaulting them.”
Numchenko patted his heavy BAR. “I didn’t haul her all the way up here for nothing, Sergeant. We’ll be ready.” Montgomery, his assistant, nodded his agreement.
Calder pointed at Private Lance. “You’re so eager…take point.”
Lance was about to argue that he was a grenadier not a damned point man but thought better of it after seeing Jakant’s eyes spitting flames. He simply nodded, “Yes, Sergeant.” He looked at the others, then moved up the slope.
Mankowitz and Harwick were next in line. The fog was thick as ever, making the entire world gray and cold. They kept Lance in sight, which meant they were only five yards behind. Harwick moved a few yards from Mankowitz and the next man back, Private Numchenko moved away from him until the entire twelve-man squad was spread out and moving uphill steadily.
The snow thinned and Mankowitz didn’t see anymore boot prints or shell casings from the night before. It didn’t make him feel better to know they were much closer to the enemy this time around. The smell of sulfur and gunpowder filled his nose, and he thought he must be smelling the results of the long barrage. Perhaps the Japanese had been obliterated. He doubted that was possible. Without spotters, the cannon cockers were guessing at best.
Lance disappeared and called out suddenly. Mankowitz put his M1 to his shoulder, searching. He released his breath when he saw Lance’s head reappear over the lip of a crater.
Mankowitz blurted, “Criminy sakes, Gary. I thought you got shot.”
Lance shook his head, “Fell into a bomb crater, I think.”
Mankowitz advanced, keeping his rifle ready. Sure enough, the snowy ground was gouged with a large crater. Tundra grass was uprooted, and the blond strands made it look as though they’d stumbled upon an unkempt barber shop.
The fog thinned, turning from a solid mass to wisps. More craters dotted the hillside, and for the first time, they got a good view of the top of the pass. Mankowitz took in a sharp breath and aimed his rifle at something twenty yards away. He pressured the trigger but at the last instant realized he wasn’t aiming at an enemy soldier but a torn-up chunk of wood sticking from the tundra. It didn’t help ease his fear. “Shit, bunker straight ahead,” he gasped.
He ducked, expecting an onslaught of machine gun fire, but nothing happened. Sergeant Calder didn’t look into their hole as he walked past them, aiming his Thompson, but hissed, “Looks abandoned. Come on. Cover us, Numchenko.”
The sound of Numchenko pulling the bolt on his big weapon was reassuring. He flopped onto his belly, extended the bipod, and aimed at the bunker. Mankowitz caught his breath and calmed his beating heart, then stood and took in the scene. Gouges from artillery fire dotted the area. Long trench lines and well-concealed bunkers were everywhere. There were no enemy soldiers visible.
They moved slowly, their weapons at their shoulders, and spread out as they approached the first enemy hole. Calder signaled them to stop. He unclipped a grenade, pulled the pin and hurled it into the bunker as he yelled, “Fire in the hole.”
Everyone flopped to their bellies. The explosion wasn’t impressive but sent them all into action. Mankowitz pulled himself to a crouch, waiting for a target, but there was no response. Six GIs, with Sergeant Jakant leading, ran forward and disappeared into the smoking bunker. Mankowitz got to his feet, expecting to hear a clash of fire, but there was nothing. More GIs surged forward with him. Harwick took off running, charging the dirty gash in the snow. Mankowitz kept his rifle at his shoulder and trotted forward.
The shattered bunker held pieces of human bodies, but the grenade had only mixed the offal. The bunker had suffered a near miss from one of the 105mm Howitzers, killing everyone inside. Beyond it, the trench line was intact, but it was empty of enemy troops.
Lieutenant Hubert waltzed up the slope as though he owned the place. He tried the radio, but even though he had line-of-sight to the beach, he couldn’t connect, so he sent a runner to tell command that Jarmin Pass was deserted.
With the squad on either side of him, they moved up to the top and looked out over the island. Fog still clung to the highlands, but the valleys and lower hills were easily visible. Smoke from distant clashes to the north mixed with the fog and there were occasional barks of rifles, but it was relatively peaceful. The wind wasn’t quite as harsh, and it wasn’t raining or snowing. Although Attu was a relatively small island, the terrain looked ominous from Jarmin Pass.
Calder stood beside the commander of 2nd Platoon and asked, “Where to from here, sir?”
Hubert pointed to the next valley and the next ridge. “Through there. The Nips must’ve retreated back that way. Doubt they’ve gone far.”
The distant crack of a rifle followed the sickening thump of a bullet hitting flesh. They all dropped, and Staff Sergeant Calder yelled, “Sniper!” He noticed Hubert’s body laying at a crazy angle and he crawled to him. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant, are you hit?” There was no answer. Calder pushed his fingers into Hubert’s neck, searching for a pulse or a wound. His hand came away wet and dripping with blood. He lay nearly on top of him and looked into his face. Hubert’s eyes were wide with surprise and pain. His mouth gaped open and closed like a fish out of water, but the only sound was gurgling as he drowned in his own blood. “Medic!” Calder yelled.
Hayward was already sliding in. He pushed Calder off and ripped Hubert’s clothes away from the seeping wound. He reared back as blood poured from Hubert’s neck in a thick funnel. He placed his gloved hand over the fleshy wound and pressed hard, but there was nothing he could do. Hubert’s eyes turned glassy and his breathing stopped. The hot blood steamed off his body in sickening waves, adding to the wisps of fog. Hayward’s voice was distant, “He’s gone, Sergeant. Bullet hit an artery—nothing could’ve saved him.” He took his gloves off and wrung the blood out like a dishrag. Blood dripped onto the dirty snow.
Calder fumed, “Damn that cock-sucking Jap to hell! Anyone see him?” No one answered and no one deigned to lift their heads to find out. Calder shook his head and yelled, “Stay down. We’ll kill all these sons of bitches soon enough.”
6
Private Hunter huddled in a foxhole nestled into the hillside overlooking the canyon that 7th Scout Company occupied. After taking the low ridge from the Japanese the night before, they tasked 3rd Platoon with holding it. So far, the Japanese hadn’t tried anything. Hunter’s position allowed him to look south across the large valley to the enemy occupied peaks b
eyond, and north across the canyon where 2nd Platoon occupied the ridge. Whenever the fog lifted, the Japanese peppered the GIs on the northern ridge with machine gun and sniper fire. Due to low ammunition supplies, they couldn’t fire back.
Hunter liked the view from his foxhole, but not the exposure to the constant cold and wind. Fog plagued the view more often than not, and a few times he convinced himself that the Japanese were sneaking on his position. But nothing but wind, snow, and fog assaulted him.
The buzzing of an aircraft overhead made him look up. PFC Hammond in the next foxhole over jolted, as though he’d been sleeping. Hunter searched the sky as the plane’s engine noise changed. It wasn’t quite as foggy as it had been most of the day, and the tantalizing engine noise grew louder, raising their hopes of resupply. Hammond pointed, “There it is. I see it to the north.”
Hunter turned and squinted. Sure enough, he saw the twin-engine plane flying low, directly at them. A flare from 2nd Platoon on the higher northern ridge lanced through thin layers of fog. From his position, it looked as though it might hit the low-flying aircraft, but it wasn’t close. It did the job though. The plane turned toward the slope and went into a shallow dive. Machine guns from the Japanese on the valley floor and southern peaks opened fire. The plane was out of range, but the exposed GIs waving bright orange markers were a tempting target.
Hunter leveled his M1 carbine and fired off a few rounds toward the valley. Hammond scolded him, “Knock it off. You’re just wasting ammo.”
Hunter nodded, “I know I can’t hit ‘em, but maybe I’ll draw their attention away from our guys.”
“You want ‘em to fire on us?”
“Sure, why not? They don’t have a good angle on us.”
