by Chris Glatte
He yelled, “Sergeant Ishida!”
The NCO was only yards behind. He ran up beside him, “Here, sir.”
Yamasaki pointed his bloody sword at the low hill. “We must take that position. Once we do, we’ll have an open path to Massacre Bay.”
The old sergeant saw the truth of it immediately. Between puffs of breathing, he said, “Yes, sir. We’ll take it quickly. Probably rear echelon soldiers, sir.”
Yamasaki nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. He pointed, “Captain Wada is that way. Send a few men to relay the message.” Ishida nodded and relayed the message to nearby troops. They sprinted to pass the message as though hell hounds pursued them.
Yamasaki pointed his sword at the new objective and yelled, “Attack that hill!” He didn’t know exactly how many soldiers he had left. He’d lost many already this morning, but not nearly as many as the enemy. Some hadn’t been able to keep up with the frenzied pace, and some had gotten mired down in brutal engagements. His men were spread out from here all the way back to Chichagof, but his main force still numbered over a thousand men. They’d simply overwhelm the hapless soldiers.
They moved like an inexorable tide toward the base of the hill. When they were half a kilometer from the base, a machine gun opened fire. Bullets stitched through the first line of soldiers and they stumbled and fell. The survivors jumped and weaved over them and kept moving steadily.
Rifle fire added to the machine gunfire and more men fell. Some soldiers paused, raised their rifles, and fired before continuing their charge. Their yells echoed from the walls of the valley, mixing with sound of gunfire.
By the time they made it to the base of the hill, many soldiers were out of the fight. Yamasaki raised his sword. “Banzai!” He yelled. The battle cry rose through the ranks, bringing the men into a renewed frenzy. Yamasaki ran with them, weaving through dead or dying soldiers. Another machine gun opened fire from the American right flank and swept them. Men fell, but the overall push continued.
The top of the hill bristled with rifles and was obscured with clouds of gun smoke. Bullets whizzed past Yamasaki and he wondered how he was still alive. His men were encouraged by his presence. They saw him charging and fighting fearlessly beside them. They charged with renewed vigor.
Soldiers near the front hurled grenades. They didn’t wait for their detonations, but followed their throws, unafraid to die from their own blasts. The explosions rocked the American lines and Yamasaki thought the support troops would break and run, but instead they closed ranks and continued killing his men with concentrated, accurate fire. Hundreds had fallen, but they were near the top.
The ground shook with explosions and soldiers were lifted and ripped apart as mortar shells rained down upon them. Yamasaki dug his boots into the soft tundra, willing his legs to keep churning, despite the burn. Soldiers bypassed him and he wished he were a younger man.
The soldier directly in front of him was suddenly thrown backwards. His torn body stopped most of the mortar shell’s steel fragments, but his body had slammed into Yamasaki and sent him reeling backwards. He felt a dull ache in his side.
For a moment, his mind shunted away from the battlefield. He stared at the sky. Thick gray clouds moved as though he were gazing into a witches’ cauldron. It felt good to lay there. Calm. He’d be happy to die here.
He felt hands upon him and through his ringing ears, he heard Sergeant Ishida’s desperate voice. “Colonel Yamasaki!”
Yamasaki returned to the battlefield and shook his head. He struggled to his feet, feeling the deep ache in his side. He glanced down and saw the right side of his body glistening with blood. He knew he was beyond help, but he shook Ishida off and lifted his sword with shaking arms.
Soldiers still charged, but the mortars had torn large swaths of destruction through their ranks. They faltered, seeing their commander struck down. He reached to the depths of his soul and yelled one last time, “Banzai!”
He lunged forward and his men rallied and charged with renewed vigor. They crested the hill, and his men were finally among the desperate Americans. They slashed, grappled, and died.
Yamasaki swung his sword, catching a soldier’s arm. The soldier dropped his rifle, screamed, and clutched his nearly severed arm. Yamasaki ran him through, and their eyes met. The soldier was young, and his eyes were pleading and full of pain. Yamasaki pulled his sword and stepped past the dying soldier.
His men slashed and hacked and were finally beyond the first line of defense. Yamasaki felt weak with blood loss, but he was ecstatic. They were going to do it. The way to Massacre Bay was open. He limped after his men as they swarmed into the base.
Multiple machine guns opened fire all at once. The heavy concentration of lead shredded his men. It infuriated him. They mowed them down as though they were mere strands of wheat.
Sergeant Ishida yelled and ran in front of Yamasaki. The colonel watched in detached horror as his best and oldest friend’s body writhed and shook with .30 caliber bullet impacts.
Yamasaki raised his sword and lunged past Ishida’s body. The nearest enemy machine gun muzzle was only meters away. The red-hot barrel smoked and hissed. The assistant gunner was struggling to reload. Yamasaki used the last reserve of energy he could muster and charged.
He took the last few steps and raised his sword to sweep it across the gunner, but the machine gun opened fire and it cut Colonel Yamasaki in half.
14
Hours Earlier
Another nightmare awakened Hunter. Like most mornings when there were only a few hours until dawn, he took the time to walk. Mankowitz was sound asleep, so he didn’t bother him. The night wasn’t as miserable as usual, so he ventured outside the tent and walked the perimeter.
He stepped carefully, not wanting to step into a hole and reinjure his leg. He had his crutches in case he got himself into trouble. A few bored sentries smoked cigarettes along the perimeter. They nodded at him as he limped past.
The glow of flares toward the front lines a few miles away reminded him of the still unfinished work that needed to be done. He knew he wouldn’t be a part of it. He wondered what it must be like for the Japanese soldiers out there; cut off and hopeless. He’d heard stories from other GIs about Japanese soldiers killing themselves with grenades rather than surrendering. He didn’t understand their way of thinking, but he couldn’t help but admire their fighting spirit.
He pulled up short and stopped, listening. The last few nights had been quiet, but now he heard distant explosions and gunfire. The sounds of battle increased until it was nearly constant. He wasn’t privy to command decisions, but scuttlebutt was as reliable as though it had come straight from Captain Willoughby’s mouth. He had heard nothing about a push this morning.
The intensity diminished considerably, but the shots and explosions he heard sounded closer. He retraced his steps and approached a sentry. He had his rifle off his shoulder and the discarded cigarette smoked on the ground near his boots. “What the hell’s going on down there?”
The GI turned slightly and shrugged. “Dunno. Sounds like it’s getting closer. Better get back inside, soldier.”
Hunter bristled at being treated like he needed protection. He didn’t move. A bright explosion erupted in the valley. Flames roiled skyward and a sustained rumble grew until it made Hunter’s sinuses ache. “What the hell just blew up?”
The GI looked annoyed but answered, “Think that’s the ammo depot. Someone must’ve gotten too close with a cigarette or something.”
Hunter guffawed, “With all that shooting beforehand?” He shook his head, “Something’s up.”
The sentry still looked skeptical. “If something was up, they’d tell us.”
“Not if the Nips are attacking. They don’t put out flyers, far as I know.”
The GI scowled, “Get back inside. If something’s up, we’ll get orders.”
Hunter scowled but turned and left. Instead of going back to the infirmary, he took a detour across the street. He drop
ped the crutches, grabbed two M1s, pouches of ammo, and all the grenades he could carry.
The infirmary was buzzing. The immense explosion was impossible to sleep through. Wounded soldiers listened to the sounds of battle and discussed what it might mean.
Hunter went straight to Mankowitz’s rack. He was lacing up his boots. Corporal Minks was beside him, holding his service .45. Minks still looked pale, but the determination in his hard, blue eyes left no doubt; he would not take whatever was coming sitting down.
Mankowitz took the offered M1, loaded it with a fresh clip and chambered a round, then asked, “What the hell’s going on out there?”
Hunter put grenades on the cot, and they stuffed them in whatever pockets they had available. “Sentries don’t know shit. That big explosion looked like an ammo dump going up.”
Minks’s eyes narrowed and his voice was low. “Jap counterattack.”
Hunter nodded slowly. “I think so, too. We’re miles behind the lines, but I figured just in case….” He indicated the rifles and grenades. “You want me to get you one? They’re just across the road.”
Minks shook his head and waved the .45 caliber pistol. “I’m too weak to aim a rifle. This’ll have to do. I’ve been keeping it under my pillow,” he grinned.
Captain Bakerman burst into the tent. He looked like he’d just woken up, but his voice was clear and left little doubt that he was in charge. “Settle down, men. We’re getting reports of a strong enemy counterattack. None of the information’s more than hearsay right now, but something’s going on. We’re miles from the front lines. I doubt whatever’s happening out there will reach us. I’ve requested more troops just in case, but until they figure out what the hell’s going on, that probably won’t happen.”
A nearby shot rang out and they all flinched and ducked. The distinct sound of an M1 firing just outside made them scramble off their racks and lay on the floor. Some patients were too injured and simply lay as still as possible. More shots and the tent walls perforated with holes. The dim overhead light shattered, sending them into darkness. Bullets whizzed past and men grunted as bullets slammed into bodies with a distinct meaty sound.
A sentry’s body fell through the tent flap and lay sprawled halfway in and halfway out. Blood soaked the canvas flap from his gaping head wound. Nearby, excited Japanese voices made them all hold their breath. They were yelling and calling to one another.
Hunter, Minks, and Mankowitz aimed their muzzles at the entrance, but Captain Bakerman put his hand out and shushed them. “Quiet,” he implored. “Maybe they’ll pass on by.” Hunter thought it more likely they’d send a few grenades inside, but he held his fire and stayed quiet.
The soldier in the next bunk moaned. Hunter went to his side and covered his mouth and whispered in his ear, “Keep quiet, buddy. Keep quiet.” He noticed fresh blood seeping from the soldier’s chest. Captain Bakerman was watching him through the gloom and Hunter waved him over urgently.
Bakerman moved cautiously and Hunter pointed at the gaping wound. Bakerman ripped his tunic open and applied pressure, but it was like trying to stop a flooding river. The soldier’s breathing became erratic and soon stopped altogether.
The voices outside subsided, but the sounds of running feet continued past the entrance. A Japanese soldier flung the tent flap back and nearly tripped on the dead GI blocking the entrance. His face contorted in disgust, seeing the soldier’s exposed brains. He squinted into the tent, but the darkness kept him from seeing more than a few feet. He turned, yelled something, and took off running. The tent occupants breathed again, and Hunter relaxed the pressure on the trigger.
The sounds of battle continued up the valley. Sometimes it was sporadic, other times, intense. Dawn finally broke and muted shafts of daylight streamed through the perforated tent walls and front flap.
They couldn’t hear any more enemy soldiers nearby. Captain Bakerman ordered the men to push the dead bodies toward the entrance to hinder more troops from trying to enter. The grisly work was done, and the dead sentry was joined by three other unfortunate men.
Hours passed. Along the edges of the tent, they tipped over tables, cots, and anything which might deflect or stop a bullet. The sounds of battle continued. After conferring among themselves, Corporal Minks approached Captain Bakerman. “Sir, we need to get help. One grenade through the front door’s gonna kill us all.”
The strain in Bakerman’s eyes was disconcerting. “What do you propose, Corporal?”
Minks pointed at the other two, “We’ll get help. We can’t sit here waiting to die. Command might not even know we’re still alive out here.”
Bakerman closed his eyes and nodded. “Don’t let ‘em see you coming outta here or they’ll blow the place up.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be careful.” He put his hand on Bakerman’s shoulder, “You saved all our asses, doc. It’s time for us to save yours.”
Hunter carefully stepped over the dead GIs and poked his head past the tent flap. The tent was erected on a slightly higher piece of land to keep it from sinking through the tundra and into the mud. He looked due east, toward the Chichagof Valley. He couldn’t quite see the sea, but the air held its scent. There were plumes of black smoke everywhere. He saw flames licking the remnants of the distant ammo dump. There was no sign of enemy soldiers, nor American soldiers.
He pushed the rest of the way past the bodies and hunched. Crouching made his leg ache, but he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the pain. Distant machine gun fire and explosions wafted through the midday air. He moved a few feet and scanned side to side. The little bench of land was completely deserted. Without taking his eyes from the front, he waved for the others to follow.
Mankowitz and Minks stepped from the tent. Both of them winced in pain with each awkward step. Hunter thought they’d look like comically easy prey to a healthy enemy soldier. Mankowitz and Minks spread out to either side and listened. When they were sure they were alone, Hunter poked his head back inside the tent. After being outside, the inside of the tent was very dark. He whispered, “It’s clear out here. No sign of Japs.”
Captain Bakerman’s voice came from his right and startled him. “Good. We’ll stay inside, probably safer and I’m not leaving the wounded to fend for themselves.”
Hunter nodded, “We’ll be back with help.” He closed the flap and stepped around the bodies. He joined Minks and Mankowitz. “Let’s go west toward the sound of the fighting.”
They moved off the raised land and used any cover they could find as they advanced. The further they moved, the closer the sound of battle became. After a half hour, they stopped and hunkered in a ditch to catch their breath. Hunter pointed. “I see someone.” The others peered over the edge and saw the distant figures moving west. “I can’t tell who they work for.”
Mankowitz agreed, “Too risky to get their attention. Even if they’re our guys, they might think we’re Japs.”
Minks spoke low, “Wish I had my sniper rifle. I could tell you exactly who they work for. You’re right though; we can assume everyone’s hostile out here.”
The woodpecker sound of a nearby enemy machine gun made them duck. They expected bullets to rip into their position, but they soon realized whoever was shooting, wasn’t shooting at them.
They peered back over the ledge and saw the soldiers in the distance taking cover and returning fire on the hidden MG. They were nestled on the backside of a gentle slope. It sounded like the MG was on the other side of the slope from their position.
Minks pulled himself over the ledge and Hunter grabbed his leg. “What the hell are you doing, Minks?”
“We’re behind the MG. Our guys are pinned down. If we take it out, they’ll know we’re friendlies and they can help us out.”
Hunter exchanged a glance with Mankowitz, then shrugged. Hunter said, “He’s impulsive like that. It’s what got him shot in the first place.”
Mankowitz shook his head, “You sure know how to pick ‘em, Mack.”
Minks was a few feet up the slope. He looked back at them. He held his 1911 .45 but his pale, pain-filled face made him look anything but deadly. “You two coming or you gonna sit there with your thumbs up your butts?”
Mankowitz murmured, “Oh, for crying out loud.”
They pulled themselves from the ditch and caught up with the corporal. Hunter put his hand on Minks’s shoulder, “Let us go on ahead. You’re moving like a damned wounded bull.”
Minks nodded, and Hunter and Mankowitz went around him. When they reached the top of the little rise, the exchange of fire had tapered, but the occasional burst from the machine gunner pinpointed his position. He was to their right. It was difficult to know the exact range as the wind whipped and swirled, making it sound louder sometimes and more distant other times.
The pinned down GIs were even more difficult to find in the rolling tundra grasses and hills. Minks joined them at the top and gingerly went to his knees. They listened for a few more minutes. Hunter finally said, “Let’s go over the top. I think he’s gonna be right about there.” He pointed 45 degrees to the right. “We’ll be above and behind him. Shoot him in the back.”
Mankowitz clutched his arm, “What if there’s a rear guard?”
Minks added, “I’ll watch your backs.”
Hunter and Mankowitz crawled forward. Mankowitz’s side ached. He could feel his stitches stretching and tugging. He wondered if it was bleeding. The machine gun opened fire, making him forget his wound momentarily.
Hunter leaned in, “Just like old times—eh buddy?”
Mankowitz nodded his agreement, but added, “The deer didn’t shoot back, though.”
Hunter nodded and continued crawling. They finally spotted the machine gun’s position. The gunner and his assistant huddled in a foxhole beside a burnt tractor. Hunter wondered if the tractor was a victim of the morning attack or had died on a different day.
