by Chris Glatte
Hammond shrugged and handed him his M1 Garand. “Here, use this. You’re a better shot than I am, and you might actually do some damage with it.”
Hunter took the more powerful rifle and adjusted the sights. He settled his cheek into the stock. It was a long shot, but he could see the line of Japanese hunkered in the trenches and bunkers firing toward 2nd Platoon. He found the spitting smoke of a machine gun and settled on the dark area beyond. He blew his breath out slowly and fired. The kick was much heavier than the carbine, but he was ready, and it felt good. He fired three carefully aimed shots, then paused and took his eyes from the sights. There was no discernible change in the enemy fire, but he was sure they’d felt his presence.
He readjusted and fired methodically until the clip pinged. He handed it back to Hammond, and he reloaded it with a fresh eight-round clip. The Japanese machine gunner adjust his aim and soon the surrounding air was alive with bullets. They ducked into their holes; confident they couldn’t be hit unless they exposed their heads.
Hammond cursed as the volume of fire increased, “Well, you got your damned wish, Mack.”
Hunter nodded and pointed north. The plane was turning and slowly winging toward 2nd Platoon. The GIs were waving frantically. From the side of the aircraft came bushels of supplies. They crashed into the ridge with puffs of snow and tundra. The GIs swarmed over them like ants attacking a wounded fly. Another plane was right behind the first, and the process repeated.
The incoming fire died down to a trickle and Staff Sergeant Rizzo slid to the edge of Hunter’s hole, “What the hell was that all about, Hunter?”
“Just trying to take some pressure off Second Platoon, Sergeant.”
Rizzo watched the last plane disappear into the clouds. “Glad the flyboys finally found us. We were getting low on everything.”
Hunter said, “Sure hope they dropped some sleeping bags. It’s gonna be colder than a witches’ tit up here tonight.”
Rizzo nodded his agreement. “It was on the list, but everything’s been so screwed up…” he shrugged, “Who knows? Anything they drop will help.” Rizzo yelled toward Sergeant Mavis’ hole, “Johnny, get your ass over here.”
Sergeant Mavis hustled over and pulled his scarf off his cold, scruffy face. “Yeah? What’s the scoop, Rizzo?”
Rizzo pulled a crumpled cigarette from his pocket and held it between his gloved fingers. Hammond pulled out a zippo and finally got it lit. Rizzo took a deep drag and blew it out slowly. “This is my last one. There’ll be rations in the drop. I’ll resupply my stash then.” He took his eyes from the glowing tip and addressed them. “I got orders from Lieutenant Wilcox—we’ll be attacking tonight. Us, along with Second Platoon, will push along the ridges while Fourth pushes down the canyon. First will stay with the CP and be in reserve. We’ll fire down on any concentrations Fourth Platoon comes across. Second will do the same thing along the north ridge.” He looked at the small group of shivering men. “We’ll kick things off at 2000 hours. That should be enough time for the resupply to get to us, but conserve food and ammo in case that doesn’t happen.” The men nodded their understanding and he continued, “Spread the word to the others.” He leveled his gaze at Hunter and pointed his cigarette at him, “No more shooting.” Hunter gave him a quick nod and Rizzo continued, “If Fourth gets in over their heads, it’ll be up to us to bail ‘em out. We’ll cover any withdrawal that needs to happen.” He took another drag and savored the smoke. He blew it out quickly, “Get some food and rest and be ready to jump off at 1945 hours.”
Once Rizzo left and Sergeant Mavis was out of earshot, Hammond stated, “Gonna be black out tonight.”
Hunter nodded, “Be like fighting by Braille. I’m not sure what’s worse, the fog or the darkness.”
Hammond guffawed, “We’ll have both, no doubt.”
Hunter led 3rd Squad along the left side of the ridge. The night was dark and cold. The fog had lifted partially, but he could see a few yards in front of him. The canyon off his left shoulder, was black and appeared to be bottomless. Fourth Platoon was down there somewhere, but he couldn’t see them. The northern ridge where 2nd Platoon advanced was easier to see, but Hunter still couldn’t see any GIs.
PFC Hammond whispered to him, “Slow down. Remember the boys in Fourth won’t have it so easy.”
Hunter hissed back, “You think this is easy? I can’t see more than a few yards. I could walk right by an entire regiment of Nips and wouldn’t know about it.”
Hammond added, “I’m just telling you what Rizzo told me to tell you, asshole.”
Hunter flipped him the bird and Hammond gave him a wry smile, then blew him a kiss. Hunter slowed his pace to a crawl.
He followed the natural contours which led them downslope slightly. The walking was relatively easy. The snow wasn’t deep and unlike in the valleys; the tundra was solid. There wasn’t much cover to speak of, besides the darkness and he felt hopelessly exposed. If he bumped into an enemy trench or bunker, it wouldn’t end well. The sound of battle drifted up from the western arm of Holz Bay. He didn’t know if it was elements of the 32nd or the 17th slugging it out down there, but it was reassuring knowing they weren’t alone out here.
He wondered if his friend, John Mankowitz was down there fighting. It would be great to meet up with him again. That was the plan after all, linking up with the GIs attacking along the shore of Holz Bay. He wondered how many Japanese were between them.
Firing from the bottom of the canyon pulled him from his wandering thoughts, and he crouched. Flashes from deep within the canyon sparked. Despite his slow trudge, the fire was behind them about fifty yards. He turned down the slope. The sparks and noise intensified as GIs up the canyon returned fire. Tracers suddenly ripped up the canyon and ricocheted crazily. Through the darkness and fog it was difficult to discern exactly what was happening, but it appeared to Hunter that his platoon was above and behind Japanese.
Over the din of combat, he heard Lt. Wilcox on the handheld radio. The radios had given them fits since leaving the submarine, but Wilcox was in contact with someone and speaking in clipped tones.
The squad tightened up and Hunter was glad to see familiar faces. Wilcox signed off and talked with his sergeants. The fire from the canyon diminished. The Japanese machine gun spitting flame and tracer rounds a moment before was silent now, but Hunter remembered where it was in the darkness and kept his eyes on the spot.
Finally, Sergeant Mavis relayed their orders. “Wilcox couldn’t raise the boys in the canyon but talked with 2nd Platoon. They’re in contact with 4th and are coordinating their attack with them. We’re to dig in here and see if they flush ‘em this way.” His eyes focused and he held up a stiff index finger, “Be sure it’s a Jap before you fire.”
Hunter pulled his entrenching tool for what seemed like the millionth time and dug into the side of the slope. The hard ground made things difficult, but he was grateful to be moving and staying warm. He finally scraped out a hole and plopped into it, grateful it wasn’t filled with mud.
The cold, spitting rain and wet snow he’d endured, hadn’t allowed him to dry out. He was only damp and wanted to keep it that way. Stepping into a wet, muddy soup was to be avoided at all costs. Of course, if the Nips came his way, all bets were off.
He touched his ammo belt, his grenades, and his canteen, then settled into watching the light show. The occasional shot from the GIs in the canyon would bring a flurry of return fire from the Japanese. The opposite slope was a morass of darkness, but he knew 2nd Platoon was advancing toward the enemy’s right flank from the northern ridge. The Japanese were giving away their positions nicely.
Ten long minutes passed before a new sound joined the battle. Explosions rocked the canyon where the Japanese muzzle flashes were concentrated. Sergeant Mavis in the next hole over, grinned and said, “Leading with grenades…smart.”
More grenades exploded with bright flashes and the canyon walls amplified the noise, making Hunter lower his head. A sli
ght pause was followed with withering fire from the GIs across the canyon. The angle was wrong, but it felt as though 2nd Platoon was firing on Hunter’s position and he hunkered even lower. A few ricochets darted overhead, but they were never in danger. The fire continued pouring into the bottom of the black canyon. It amazed Hunter that anyone could still be alive down there, but the Japanese fired back with a renewed intensity of their own.
Fire from 4th Platoon increased and for a long minute the fire was a like a constant roar. Finally, the Japanese fire diminished to just a few rifle shots. Smoke wafted up the slope and Hunter’s nose crinkled, smelling the tangy sweetness of death mixed in with burnt gunpowder and sulfur.
Mavis tucked his rifle butt tightly to his cheek and barked, “Get ready. If they’re coming, they’re coming now.”
Hunter aimed his carbine down the slope. He was on the squad’s extreme right flank. He shared time between watching downslope and watching the gloom to his right. The Japanese in the canyon might’ve called for help. One possible route was up this slope to take the high ground. The rest of the platoon spread out to Hunter’s left and faced downslope. If the Japanese came from the right, he wouldn’t have much support.
He was about to bring this up to Sergeant Mavis when a carbine fired close, shifting his full attention downslope. He couldn’t see more than ten yards. Someone yelled, “They’re coming,” and fired again. The pop of the carbine sounded pathetic after hearing the power of the earlier firefight. More pops joined in, but Hunter couldn’t see any targets in his sector.
Something tugged at Hunter’s subconscious. Long hours of hunting had taught him not to ignore his inner voice. He tore his eyes from downslope and gave his full attention to the right flank. He scanned and listened. The sporadic pops continued, and he heard screams and groans from wounded enemy soldiers, but he fought the urge to look.
Something caught his attention—something ill-defined—a movement. He pulled the stock closer to his cheek, but kept both eyes open, hoping his peripheral vision pinpointed whatever was out there.
He raised his voice, “Mavis—Mavis, someone’s coming from the right.” There was no response, so he raised his voice, “Sergeant! dammit! Over here.” He remembered what Mavis had said about the grenades. Keeping his muzzle aimed with one hand, he unclipped a grenade with the other. Without taking his eyes off the darkness, he pulled the pin with his teeth. The metal was cold and left a foul taste in his mouth. He threw the grenade and it disappeared into the gloom. He spit out the pin and steadied his aim.
Sergeant Mavis finally responded, “What you…” the flash and bang of the grenade interrupted him. The flash lit up hunkered Japanese soldiers. Hunter fired into their fading impressions. He swept the carbine, firing quickly into dark and indistinct outlines.
The roar of Sergeant Mavis’s Thompson firing on full automatic nearly drowned out the sergeant’s roaring yell, “Japs! Right flank!”
Hunter burned through his fifteen-round magazine. Before reloading, he unclipped another grenade and hurled it into the gloom. He smacked in a fresh magazine. His grenade exploded, hurtling shapeless men sideways—some missing parts. Japanese soldiers seemed to be all around him. He fired into them methodically. More fire from his squad cut the charging soldiers down, but not before a few had lunged past Hunter’s hole.
He stayed down and continued firing into legs and chests. He fired his last shot and realized he didn’t have time to reload. The sickening crunch of a Japanese skull being bashed in by a vicious backstroke from Mavis’s Thompson, was all the coaxing he needed.
He stood in time to parry a lunging soldier's bayoneted rifle. The soldier’s forward momentum pushed him beyond Hunter, and he crashed into Sergeant Mavis’s back. Hunter swung his carbine like a baseball bat and the barrel caught the Japanese soldier in the neck. The iron sights cut deeply, and he screamed in agony. Hunter lunged from his hole at the same time Mavis spun with his smoking Thompson muzzle to attack the soldier.
The big barrel loomed in Hunter’s face and for a moment, he thought Mavis was going to blow his head off. He instinctively ducked and Mavis fired. The roar of the submachine gun blasted his eardrums, and he felt his face burn with gunpowder. He heard the unmistakable, meaty sound of heavy caliber bullets tearing through flesh behind him.
He landed on the enemy soldier he’d attacked. The soldier was reeling side to side, holding his seeping neck wound and screaming. His face was inches away and Hunter smelled his fish-tinged breath.
Hunter rolled away, giving himself space, then plunged the stock of his rifle into his face as hard as he could. The sound and feeling of bone shattering nauseated him, but he continued hammering until the hard bone gave way to mushy brain.
A hand gripped his shoulder and he tried to swing his carbine, but his muscles didn’t want to respond. Sergeant Mavis’s iron, blood dappled face was centimeters from his and he seethed, “Knock it off! It’s over. He’s dead.”
Hunter looked wildly side to side. Bodies were strewn in the darkness, some still quivering or trying to crawl away to die. He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He lurched off the man he’d killed and expelled what little food remained in his belly. His gut spasmed over and over, then finally released him. He rolled onto his back—exhausted—and stared into the fog and darkness.
7
Private Mankowitz trudged through knee deep drifts while wet globs of falling snow hit him in the face. He mumbled to Private Harwick trudging alongside him. “We get it coming and going.”
“What?”
“This damned snow. We gotta wade through it and get hit in the face with it.”
Harwick shrugged. “I dunno which is worse, the snow or the mud-holes in the valleys.”
Mankowitz guffawed, “God knows what the stinking Japs want with this place. We should let ‘em keep it.”
Harwick looked abashed, “This is US territory. We can’t let ‘em keep it.”
“Ha! You thinking of moving here? Hell, not a bad idea—I’ll bet the land’s dirt cheap.”
Harwick shook his head. “I couldn’t live in a place like this. Hell, this is the nice time of year.”
Mankowitz nodded, then looked around at the surrounding peaks. Their destination was a distant peak with an unusual rock outcropping sticking out like a blood blister. It was still miles away, even though their company had been moving toward it for two solid hours. “Heard there were people living here before the Nips showed up…natives, mostly.”
Harwick adjusted his rifle sling and asked, “Yeah? What happened to ‘em?”
Mankowitz shrugged, “Japs shipped ‘em off to work camps. Least that’s what I heard. That was over a year ago now—so who knows if they’re still drawing breath.”
Harwick shook his head, “Can you imagine living in this hellhole then getting shipped off somewhere worse?”
Mankowitz shook his head slowly, “Might’ve improved their location, but not their circumstance.”
“There you go again being all wordy.”
Mankowitz laughed, then pointed at the rock outcropping. A dense layer of fog clung above it, making it look as though the mountain top went on forever. “Think the Japs are up there waiting for us like they were at Jarmin Pass?”
Harwick stopped and looked at the unusual outcropping. “Yeah. I reckon they are. That rock’s a natural defensive point. It looks out over the next pass we gotta go through. If they’ve got artillery up there, they’re probably getting ready to fire on us.”
Mankowitz took a pull off his canteen, then blew out a slow breath. “I reckon you’re right.”
Charlie Company continued their march across the snowfields for another half an hour before Lt. Callow, their new platoon leader, called a halt. Callow wasn’t new to the division. They had brought him over from Hotel Company, where’d he’d been an assistant platoon leader. After a quick promotion from 2nd Lieutenant to 1st Lieutenant, he joined their platoon. Lieutenant Hubert’s body had been taken off the pass a
nd placed with the other KIAs.
As 1st Squad squatted in the snow, Private Lance gestured toward their new officer. “What you think of the new Louie, Mank?”
Mankowitz pulled his pack off and sat on it. He shrugged, “Seems like a normal guy—I guess—but we’ll see what happens when the bullets fly.”
“Heard he was screwing a movie star in California.”
Mankowitz’s face screwed up, “What—before the war or something?”
Lance shook his head, “Nah. While we were at Pendleton.”
Harwick chimed in, “No way. We barely had time to shit. That’s just baseless bullshit.”
Lance persisted, “They’re officers. They had more time than us ground pounders.”
Mankowitz shook his head, “Movie stars? We weren’t in Hollywood, Lance. Besides, what do you care if he did?”
Lance grinned, “I don’t. Just wondering who it was? I mean, there’s some fine women I’d like to bed—you know?”
Harwick guffawed, “What makes you think they wanna bed you? For crying out loud, Lance, you’re not movie star material.”
Lance dug into the depths of his layers and pulled out a small photograph. He gazed longingly at it, then extended it toward Harwick. He snatched it from his hand, quick as a viper. Lance lunged after it, but Harwick turned his back to him. He gave a low whistle, “Whoa, Lance. You sure you didn’t pilfer this from someone else?”
Lance growled, “Read the back, asshole.”
Harwick turned it over and read out loud, “To my darling soldier boy, Gary. Stay safe and come back to me. Love Dolly.”
Lance lunged to get it back but Harwick passed it to Mankowitz who gave a low whistle. “I’m gonna keep this for later.”
Lance seethed, “Dammit, Mank, give it here.”
Numchenko snatched it away and nodded. “Wow, Lance. Nice gams on this one. Glad I’ve got a name to work with.” He pursed his lips to lay a kiss on the photo, “Dolly, Dolly, Dolly…”
