by Chris Glatte
He found his crutches and made his way past the aisles of cots and snoring GIs. There was the occasional terrified cry as nightmares assaulted minds here and there. He wondered how long his own nightmares would last. He’d started having them a few days after his friend Mankowitz arrived a week ago.
They’d spent every moment together since finding one another. He hadn’t known he’d been worried about him, but when he saw him safe, an invisible weight lifted from his shoulders.
They’d spent the next several days talking about home. Each shared their own war-stories but once they were told, they didn’t revisit them. Talking about home and past shared experiences made them forget the war raging just a few miles out the front tent flap—at least for a little while.
The wind continued to carry the distant thumps of artillery and warfare to their ears. They craved information. The news was mostly good. The Japanese position was slowly being chipped away—bit by bit. No one expected them to last more than a few days at the most.
Hunter found Mankowitz’s rack and looked down on his friend. Mankowitz sensed his presence and opened his bleary eyes. He sat up slowly until he was propped on his elbows. His wound still ached, but nothing like when he’d first arrived. It felt more like a side-ache he used to get when he ran too hard. He’d been walking the floor with Hunter for days now and felt himself improving. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
Hunter nodded, “Nearly dawn anyway. Wanna do a lap or two before breakfast?”
Mankowitz nodded and pulled the wool blanket off his legs and gingerly swung them over the side. He waited and was happy to note that he didn’t feel dizzy. He got to his feet and touched his side. There was still a dressing over the wound, but it was there to keep the stitches from being pulled inadvertently. He resisted the urge to scratch.
Hunter leaned the crutches on the cot. “Think I’ll try it without them this time.”
Mankowitz nodded. Hunter had always been an overachiever. It was why he was drawn to the Scout Company in the first place—the challenge. Why would healing be any different for him?
The first lap was slow, mostly because it wasn’t well lit but also because they were still stiff from sleeping. The second lap was faster and by the time they were on their third, the sun was up, and other patients were stirring.
Hunter said, “Feel so naked without my carbine.”
Mankowitz nodded his understanding. “I know. I asked if I could keep my rifle at my bed, but they refused. Too many nightmares. They think someone might accidentally shoot. It’s like we’re in the loony bin or something.”
Hunter nodded but didn’t mention his own nightmares. He was sure it was temporary and would fade with time. “I asked Gentry to find where they’re keeping our stuff, just in case. He said they’re stacked across the street near an ammo dump.”
Mankowitz guffawed, “They’ve got the ammo dump next to the hospital? What if the Japs drop an artillery shell on it?”
Hunter shrugged, “We wouldn’t know about it if they did, just be dust in the wind.”
Mankowitz shook his head woefully, “Army logic.”
“Don’t worry; most of the Jap arty got taken out by our guys in Holz Bay.”
Mankowitz shuffled around a cot with a snoring GI on it. “I know, but how much thought went into that decision?”
Hunter grinned, “Not much. But don’t forget, this is the same Army that thought we’d take this turd island in three days. We’re coming up on three weeks.”
Mankowitz stopped in his tracks. “Holy shit, you’re right. It’s May 27th. Seems like we landed ages ago.”
13
Colonel Yamasaki and his remaining men were cornered, and trapped in Chichagof Valley. Despite their dire situation, the troops were in high spirits. Very few officers had survived and losing them caused Yamasaki pain, but also ebullient pride in their sacrifice to the Emperor.
Captain Wada stood by his side inside the fortified bunker near the town of Attu. The few villagers that lived there had long since been sent to Japan where they would labor and help in the effort to unite Asia. They’d been a pathetic bunch, but he respected their tenacity for carving out an existence on these miserable shores.
The snow-covered mountains surrounding them used to be manned by his men but were now held by the Americans. They could fire on them at will and often did so at all hours of the day. It was only a matter of time before the Imperialists made the final push. He had no intention of sitting here waiting to die.
He smacked his gloves against his leg. “We have three choices. Stand and fight, melt away into the mountains and fight them as guerrillas, or counterattack.”
Captain Wada nodded his agreement. “All are honorable choices, sir.” He was sure Yamasaki had already made his choice, so he didn’t voice his own opinion. If Colonel Yamasaki wanted his opinion, he’d ask for it.
Yamasaki raised his chin and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have sent a message telling command of my decision to counterattack. I did not wait for a reply but know they will approve. The Americans are overconfident. We shall thrust straight up the valley, cross into Massacre Bay and and seize their artillery batteries. We will fire on them with their own ammunition and destroy them. They will be in disarray and will need to retreat and re-consolidate their forces.”
Captain Wada nodded his approval. “They are strong on the ridges, but thin in the center. A fine plan, Colonel. We have been fighting them from entrenched positions, they won’t expect a frontal attack.”
Yamasaki knew the plan had little hope of success, but he exuded confidence. “Gather the men. Be sure they get full rations and bring out the remaining Sake. We attack at 0300 tomorrow. I will personally lead the attack.”
Captain Wada bowed, “Sir, it would be an honor to be by your side.”
Yamasaki nodded, “We will divide our men between us. You will lead the Northern group and I shall lead the Southern group. Have the men assembled at 0200 hours. I will give them their orders and toast their success.”
Colonel Yamasaki couldn’t help smiling. His men were raucous and obviously enjoying themselves. He only wished he could make their night better by providing female companionship. But none of them had seen a female since leaving Japan.
Since the Americans landed nearly three weeks ago, his men had been fighting and dying every day. He was proud of all of them. They’d fought like tigers, only giving ground when it was necessary and doling out death and destruction for every meter they lost. He checked his watch, 0100; it was time to visit the infirmary.
The night was unusually clear. The ever-present wind was there, but the fog, spitting rain, and snow had abated. Good weather for an attack. The gods were smiling upon him.
He stepped into the low light of the transformed schoolhouse. It was jammed full of wounded soldiers. The smell of putrefaction and death assailed him, but he was used to it by now. He’d first smelled it in China. It seemed ages ago now. He glanced at Sergeant Ishida. He’d been by his side then, as he was now.
The harried doctor Sano shuffled over and snapped off a crisp salute. “Major Sano at your service, Colonel.”
Yamasaki knew all of his officers quite well. Major Sano had gone to medical school in California and spoke perfect English. He’d returned to Japan a few months before ill will between the two nations exploded into war. He was a good man and an even better doctor. He’d kept soldiers alive, despite being low on every kind of medication. As far as Yamasaki knew, the man never slept.
Wounded soldiers tried to sit up as he entered, but he waved them back, “At ease. As you were.” He pulled Sano aside, “As I’m sure you heard, I will lead a counter-attack in a few hours.”
Major Sano nodded, “Yes, sir. I heard the news. What do you need from me?”
“We will kill many Americans today, and many of us will die honorably. Every man that can walk will need to fight. Unless we achieve total victory, those that can stand, should stay here, and help the critical cas
es honor their ancestors by taking their lives. You will do the same, doctor. It is your duty to make sure those that can’t end their lives are helped into the afterlife.”
Major Sano bowed deeply, “The walking wounded are already with the others. No one left here will be dishonored, sir.”
Yamasaki put his hand on the young doctor’s shoulder. “I know this is difficult for you. You’re a healer. Your Hippocratic oath means nothing in our culture. You understand that,” he stated flatly.
Major Sano nodded, “Of course, sir. I will do my duty.” He lifted his chin, “It was an honor to serve with you, Colonel Yamasaki.”
Yamasaki squeezed his shoulder and nodded, “The honor was all mine, Major Sano.”
Yamasaki sauntered through the wounded soldiers and said a few words of encouragement to each of them. By the time he left, his eyes sparkled with pride and sorrow. Once outside, he stopped and looked at the skittering clouds. He faltered for a moment, as though unsteady, and Sergeant Ishida put a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.
Yamasaki patted his hand, “Emotion overwhelms me. Such fine soldiers.” He lifted his chin and steeled his soul. “It is time to address the rest of the men.”
As they neared the center of the camp, the unmistakable sounds of partying soldiers reached him. There wasn’t enough Sake to get the men drunk, just enough to give them courage. Flares sparked in the distance, marking the front lines. A company of soldiers stood ready to repulse the Americans if they came now. They’d been rotated forward and replaced by another company, so no one was left out of the extra rations and alcohol.
The room quieted when Yamasaki entered. The soldier’s faced him and braced with pride. Yamasaki raised his voice. “Today, we honor our Emperor. Today, our ancestors will look down upon us and see the true fighting spirit of the soldiers of the rising sun. Today, we embrace our destiny. Today, we honor our families.” He paused and bellowed louder, “Today, we crush the American devils!” A raucous cheer went up. Yamasaki unsheathed his Samurai sword. It had been in his family for generations. He held it stiffly to his shoulder then raised it quickly and the soldiers joined his yell with each raising and lowering, “Banzai!—Banzai!—Banzai!”
“What the hell are they so happy about?” asked Sergeant McMurtry. He’d just joined the two GIs at the forward outpost.
Private Vasquez and PFC Brown were to either side of him, hunched low and out of the wind. Vasquez shrugged, “One last party? They’ve been going at it all damned night.”
The forward OP was on the northwest side of Lake Cories, facing the hopelessly surrounded remnants of the Japanese. The wind coming off the lake had an extra bite to it, but the fog had lifted, and the mixed rain and snow had stopped for a welcome change.
Sergeant McMurtry shrugged, “It does sound like a party, doesn’t it?”
PFC Brown sighed, “How long we have to stay out here, Sergeant?”
“You know as well as I do. You’ll be relieved at dawn.”
Vasquez shook his head, “How’d we get the short end of the stick? Half the division got sent off the line and here we sit.”
McMurtry gave him an evil grin, “Guess you’re just special Vasquez.” He checked the radio, “This thing seems to work tonight. Keep checking in on the hour.”
PFC Brown nodded, “Yes, Sergeant.” A friendly flare erupted overhead, and they hunkered to keep out of its eery light. The scene in front of them looked the same as it always did; bleak and cold.
McMurtry waited for the flare to hiss into the ground and extinguish. “Stay on your toes and report anything strange.”
They both nodded and chimed, “Yes, Sergeant.”
McMurtry left, leaving them watching the dark night. The enemy soldier’s voices wafted over them in waves depending on the wind. With two hours until dawn, the partying seemed to stop. They strained but couldn’t hear the raucous laughter anymore. The only sound was the wind-driven waves lapping the shores of Lake Cories.
Brown pulled his scarf tighter, “Finally. They’re all partied out.”
Vasquez nodded, “Be a good time for us to attack. They’re probably all drunk and passed out.”
Brown shook his head, “That’s not gonna happen. Everyone’s back getting hot chow and a nice warm rack.”
“Yeah, everyone but us,” complained Vasquez.
Fifteen minutes passed. They hunkered lower. They were still twenty minutes from the top of the hour, when they’d call in their radio check. They both perked up, hearing loud cheering. It was followed closely with a loud call of ‘Banzai.’
They exchanged glances. Vasquez asked, “Banzai? What the hell does that mean?”
Brown shrugged, “Just Jap gibberish.”
“Should we call it in?”
Brown checked his watch. “We’ll mention it when we check in. I don’t wanna call in twice.”
Five minutes before 0300 hours, they heard the Banzai call again, but this time it was much closer and seemed spread across the entire valley. Instead of fading away like last time, the Japanese voices continued, unabated.
They exchanged worried glances. PFC Brown grasped the radio handset. “I’ll call it in. Fire a flare.”
Vasquez nodded and clambered to find the flare gun in the dark hole. He finally found it, loaded it, and fired. The bright white incandescent light arced overhead gracefully and lit up the tundra. At first, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Then they saw undulating movement. It appeared as though they were being charged by a herd of deer, or elk, but there were no deer or elk on this island.
“Oh my God,” uttered Vasquez. “It’s the whole Jap Army!” He picked up his M1. “We gotta get outta here! Now!”
Brown was on the radio yelling, “Come in! Come in! Are you receiving? The whole Jap Army’s coming. We need artillery! We need support!”
A tired voice answered, “Calm down. What did you say? Repeat your message.”
Vasquez fired his M1 into the charging mass until his clip pinged. He fumbled to reload, but the wave of screaming Japanese soldiers cut him down with multiple rifle shots. Brown, still hunkered, felt warm blood splatter his face and hand. He saw Vasquez drop and looked up in time to see a looming silhouette slashing down at him with a fixed bayonet. The radio handset fell from his hand and the tinny, bored voice continued asking for a sitrep.
Breaking out of Chichagof Valley was exhilarating. It surprised Colonel Yamasaki how easily his charging men rolled through the American defenses. The enemy was caught completely by surprise. The first real resistance they faced was once they were well past Lake Cories.
His men gleefully charged through stunned pockets of American soldiers and either shot, grenaded, or bayoneted them. Their swift, unrelenting charge through the early morning darkness didn’t falter for the first few hours and Yamasaki thought his plan to push straight through to Massacre Bay, might actually work.
His men destroyed soldiers, equipment, and even a large ammunition dump. The explosion lit up the darkness and he could see the pass they’d need to go over. Once beyond it, they’d have a clear path to the enemy artillery batteries.
The darkness was lifting, and the day promised to be gray. He kept his sword out and pushed his men forward with gleeful battle cries. Fifty yards ahead, a line of enemy soldiers dropped to their bellies and opened fire. Beyond them, a small city of tents flapped in the wind.
His men crumpled as bullets sliced into them, but the others kept up their frantic pace and soon closed the distance.
Yamasaki ran forward faster than his sixty-year-old legs had carried him in years. He felt like a god surrounded by demi-gods. He ran with his sword in his right hand and his service pistol in his left.
His men fell upon the line of enemy soldiers and chaos ensued. Men slashed and clawed at one another in brutal hand to hand combat. He reached the line and focused on an American sergeant. He was driving his bayonet into one of his men. The Japanese soldier arched his back and screamed. The American pulled his bayonet a
nd spit onto the dying man’s back. Anger filled Yamasaki like dragon fire, and he charged, screaming and waving his ancient sword.
The American sergeant looked up, but not in time to defend himself. Yamasaki sliced sideways and his blade cut through the soldier's neck, barely slowing its bloody arc. The sergeant’s head spun loose and fell beside his feet. An explosion of blood spouted from the cleanly cut neck and the soldier’s torso swayed but didn’t topple.
Yamasaki ran past and fired into the back of another soldier grappling with one of his men. His man pushed the stricken American off and drove his bayonet into his stomach with a vicious jab. Yamasaki saw he was using a long stick with the bayonet lashed to the tip. His men were low on supplies and resorted to any weapons they could find or fashion.
The soldier snatched the American’s M1 and slung his ammo pouch over his shoulders like a bandolier. He grinned at Yamasaki and they continued charging through the doomed American camp.
Soldiers fired through the flimsy canvas tents and threw grenades inside. The explosions distended the fabric, reminding Yamasaki of a Puffer fish. Stunned, bloody soldiers staggered from the front flaps. They were shot and run through with bayonets.
He saw Americans running away in all directions. Those that stood to fight, died. His men fired and gave chase, but Yamasaki kept control and bellowed for them to return. Their objective was the pass and Massacre Bay beyond. His men complied immediately, despite their overflowing bloodlust, and soon they were beyond the destroyed camp.
Yamasaki kept his eyes on a low hill ahead. It appeared to be full of equipment. He wondered if perhaps it was another ammunition dump. Perhaps it was a forward artillery battery. Regardless, he could see many enemy soldiers darting this way and that among the equipment and tents. He calmed his mind and thought tactically. If he steered his men past it, the Americans could fire on them as they passed. He didn’t know what was up there, but even one well-placed machine gun nest would decimate, or more likely halt, their advance.
