Shrouded Glory: A WWII NOVEL

by Chris Glatte

  They froze and evaluated the situation for another few minutes. Hunter leaned into Mankowitz’s ear. “We need to get closer. We have to make sure we kill them on the first try.”

  Mankowitz nodded. “Not too close or our own guys will shoot us.”

  Hunter gave him a curt nod, “You throw grenades, I’ll do the shooting.” Mankowitz nodded and they continued crawling forward. When they were thirty yards away, they stopped. The pinned down GIs fired occasionally, and bullets zinged off the metal tractor.

  Mankowitz put his rifle aside and pulled two grenades from his pockets. He placed one within easy reach and clutched the other. “I—I’m gonna have to get on my knees to throw them.”

  Hunter had his sights on the gunner’s back. He nodded, “Okay. I’ll fire as soon as you throw the first one.”

  Mankowitz nodded and carefully pulled his knees beneath his body. His side screamed, but he swallowed the yelp trying to escape. He steadied himself and got control of his breathing, then sat up, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade. The spoon detached and the fist-sized explosive sailed through the air and thumped into the dirt directly behind the machine gunner. The assistant turned at the sound. Hunter fired and the gunner’s back erupted in geysers of blood. His body was flung forward as though pushed by an invisible hand. The grenade exploded a second later and the surprised assistant gunner disappeared behind a blanket of shrapnel, smoke, and fire.

  The second grenade was already on the way. It ricocheted off the tractor and bounced back toward the machine gun nest. It exploded a second later, sending the already dead gunner’s body flying over the destroyed machine gun.

  Hunter was ebullient. “Damn, Mank! Nice throw. I hardly had to shoot.”

  Mankowitz smiled through the pain. “Thanks,” he muttered, clutching his side.

  Hunter pulled himself painfully to his feet and waved his arms at the distant GIs. They stood with their weapons aimed and Hunter was ready to hurl himself to the ground if they opened fire. He yelled, “We’re Americans! Americans!” Mankowitz pulled himself upright and tried to wave his arms, but he felt dizzy, nauseous, and just watched with glazed, pain-filled eyes.

  Four GIs sifted through the destroyed enemy machine gun nest while the other six greeted them. A sergeant from the 17th shook their hands. “That was some fine work. Damned Nips had us pinned down good. You men wounded?”

  Hunter told them their story ending with, “Can you help us at the hospital?”

  The sergeant who introduced himself as Sergeant Emilio Ingot, shrugged. “To say things are messed up would be a severe understatement. The Nips broke through and are spread all over the place.” He shook his head sadly. “We’ve lost a lot of men. Some were asleep when they came through. Japs butchered ‘em in their damned tents and sleeping bags. Just chucked in grenades and moved onto the next one, like they were delivering the damned mail.”

  Corporal Minks’s jaw flexed with anger. “Dirty sons of bitches.”

  Sergeant Ingot nodded his agreement. “We were headed toward Engineer Hill.” He pointed, “Hear that?” There was a near constant hum of battle coming from the south. “Been like that for the past hour. We were going to see if we could lend a hand but sounds like you may need us more.”

  Hunter nodded. “If the Japs check the tent, those wounded men won’t have a chance, not the mention the doctors and orderlies.”

  Sergeant Ingot nodded. “You’ve sold me, Private. Let’s go.”

  They spread out and moved back the way they’d come. Getting back was much quicker than their trip out and they soon spotted the top of the tent fluttering in the wind.

  They approached cautiously from three sides, but there was no sign of enemy soldiers. Hunter yelled, “Captain Bakerman! You in there?”

  There was a pause, then a harried voice, “Hunter? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir. We brought help.”

  Captain Bakerman stepped over the bodies at the tent flap and went outside. Men who could walk streamed from the tent and soon they were shaking hands with the GIs and congratulating one another.

  Sergeant Ingot bellowed, “Before you get too excited, we’re still in Indian country. We’re behind enemy lines.” To help cement his case, the wind shifted, carrying the sound of battle to them.

  Captain Bakerman nodded. “What do you suggest, Sergeant?”

  He scowled, “We can’t move these men. Better to stay here, dig in, and prepare to defend our position.”

  Captain Bakerman asked, “How long till the calvary arrives?”

  Sergeant Ingot shook his head, “Like I was telling the others; I’ve got no idea what’s happening besides the fact that the Japs broke through our lines.”

  Captain Bakerman nodded his understanding. “We outnumber them 5 to 1. Our guys will turn ‘em back soon.”

  Ingot scowled, “I agree. Only problem is, they’ll probably push ‘em straight into our position here.”

  Bakerman said, “We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

  “We’ll need anyone that can dig and shoot. This ain’t a bad position. We’ve got the high ground—just need some foxholes to keep our heads down. If all goes well, the Japs won’t even know we’re here.”

  Hunter pointed to the small tent across the road, “That’s where the wounded men’s guns and ammo are kept. It’s not much, but it’ll help.”

  Sergeant Ingot nodded, “Let’s get to work. It’ll be dark in a few hours—be nice to be ready before then.”

  The orderlies and Ingot’s men did most of the work. Hunter and Mankowitz helped, but in their weakened states, needed to take frequent breaks. Minks tried to help but passed out and had to be helped back into the tent. He slept as though someone had drugged him.

  By the time the sun was setting, they’d dug foxholes around the entire small perimeter. They counted ammunition and passed it out evenly to every soldier able to fire a weapon. Ingot lamented not having a machine gun, but they had enough rifles and carbines for everyone that could wield one, and enough ammo to last through a prolonged firefight.

  The sounds of intense battle continued in the south. To the relief of everyone, artillery and mortar fire entered the mix, letting them know the allies must be getting the upper hand. It was difficult to discern, but the sounds of battle seemed to get closer.

  As the hours passed, Hunter struggled to keep his eyes open. Near midnight, Sergeant Ingot told the wounded to get some sleep. Most went back to their cots, but Hunter and Mankowtiz slept in their foxhole.

  Mankowitz was jolted awake by the sound of a nearby explosion. It startled him to see it was morning. He was huddled against Hunter in the bottom of the foxhole they’d dug. They looked at one another through bleary, bloodshot eyes.

  Another explosion brought them fully awake, and Mankowitz shivered, reminding him of his wound. Hunter pulled himself to the lip and peered over the side just in time to see the tail end of an explosion. He saw men in the distance cartwheeling as the 105mm shells ripped into their ranks.

  Sergeant Ingot’s hole was ten yards away. Hunter asked, “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

  Mankowitz poked his head up. Ingot kept his eyes on the morbid scene unfolding five hundred yards distant. “Japs got caught in the open. Howitzers are giving them the business.”

  “Are they retreating?” asked Mankowitz.

  Ingot shook his head, “No. They were trying to cross from the far side to this side.”

  Mankowitz felt his face flush, “They’re coming this way?”

  Ingot nodded, “They were. Now they’re just getting torn up.”

  Hunter chimed in, “If they’re hitting them with arty, there must be friendly spotters around. Maybe they’ll see us and send help.”

  “The ridges are full of GIs. I’m not willing to put up a sign, though. The Japs are just as liable to see it.”

  The artillery continued for a few more salvos, then shifted to a more urgent target. Mankowitz could see the dark smoking craters the big shells ha
d chewed into the tundra. Dark outlines of bodies were strewn around the holes. He wondered if they had wiped the entire force out.

  His hopes were dashed when he saw movement. More dots appeared and coalesced into a large ragtag group of shellshocked soldiers. They were coming directly at them.

  Sergeant Ingot cursed. “Dammit! Perkins, tell the captain to get every man that can fire a weapon out here on the double.” A young private sprang from his hole. “And Perkins,” the soldier stopped and turned back in Ingot’s direction, “That includes the good doctor.”

  Mankowitz whispered to Hunter, “Why the hell are they coming up here?”

  Hunter shrugged, “It probably looks like a good place to fight from. They don’t know we’re here.”

  Corporal Minks shuffled his way into their foxhole and grinned. “They’re gonna find out real damned quick.”

  Minks’s face was white as a sheet, but his eyes burned with a simmering hatred. He propped an M1 rifle on the lip of the hole and sighted over it, adjusting the sights minutely. “You look like hell, Minks,” stated Hunter. “Thought you couldn’t hold a rifle.”

  Minks kept making micro-adjustments to the sight. “I don’t have to. Just need to prop it up. I can still aim and pull the trigger just fine.”

  Mankowitz complained, “Kinda cramped in here, Corporal.” Minks ignored him and Hunter and Mankowitz crammed themselves along the walls and adjusted their ammunition to accommodate Corporal Minks. “Maybe they’ll stop before they get to us,” murmured Mankowitz.

  Minks shook his head and licked his lips. “No. They’re coming all the way.”

  When the Japanese were still too far away to hear them, Sergeant Ingot called out, “Don’t fire until I do. We don’t want them to know we’re here till the last second. Keep your fool heads down. If I fire—come up shooting.”

  Mankowitz left his rifle propped on the ledge and dropped below the edge of the hole. He wished he had his helmet. He leaned against the back wall and smelled the dirt. Intricate tiny white roots snaked through the dark soil. He realized with surprise that he’d never seen a bug. All the foxholes and trenches he’d dug and hunkered in since landing on this godforsaken island, and he’d never seen a single bug. He shook his head, wondering how his mind could focus on something so banal when death was literally marching towards him.

  Minks couldn’t keep from peering over the ledge occasionally, and Mankowitz wanted to punch him in the face. The son of a bitch was going to give up their position. Hunter was staring past Minks, leveling his gaze at Mankowitz. Mankowitz stared back and gave him a slight nod. He was glad his best friend was beside him. If anyone could get him through the next few minutes, it was Mack Hunter.

  He had no idea how long they sat in that hole waiting for Ingot’s weapon to fire, but it felt like hours. Was his mind playing tricks? He wished he had a wristwatch, but his had succumbed to the constant wetness and stopped working the first day off the boat. He didn’t remember what he’d done with it.

  He was pulled from his revelry by Sergeant Ingot’s bellowing voice, “Open fire!” followed immediately with his barking Thompson submachine gun. For an instant Mankowitz remained frozen, unable to move. Minks fired and Hunter rose and fired a second later.

  Mankowitz pushed himself up and pressed the stock into his shoulder and saw multiple targets diving for cover. They were much closer than he expected, and his first shot went wildly high. He adjusted and found a crawling target. He could only see the enemy soldier’s distorted face. He was pushing himself along the ground, clutching what looked like a stick with a bayonet attached to the end. Mankowitz steadied his aim and fired. A neat hole appeared in his forehead and red mist sprayed out the back of his head.

  He moved left and fired into a shape in the grass. He didn't know if the man was alive or dead. The shape shuddered with the impacts and he pulled off, searching for another target. The Japanese were all down, taking cover in the grass. It was difficult to see them without extending and exposing themselves.

  Someone yelled, “Grenade out!”

  Mankowitz ducked and there were multiple explosions, followed by tormented screams. An enemy screamed in broken English, “You die GI!”

  Minks screamed back, “You first, Tojo!” he pulled the trigger until his clip pinged. He struggled to reload, and Mankowitz noticed. He dropped his own rifle and ripped the clip from Minks’s hand and pushed it into place for him. “Thanks,” Minks muttered.

  Mankowitz took up his own rifle in time to see the Japanese soldiers rise as one, and with a horrifying yell, they charged. Mankowitz fired into bodies, his bullets causing catastrophic damage. Soldiers dropped and died, but there were more behind them. Bullets whacked into the tundra and he heard GIs screaming in pain and anguish.

  Minks burned through another clip, but Mankowitz couldn’t help him reload. Minks pulled his pistol and fired point blank into a soldier’s face. His forward momentum dropped him halfway into their hole. Minks pulled him the rest of the way inside and stood on his back and continued firing.

  Hunter and Mankowitz reloaded as fast as they could make their hands work. Mankowitz kept telling himself to concentrate. Ignore the crazed enemy soldiers and reload.

  He finished thumbing in another eight-round clip. He didn’t have time to aim. He simply pulled the trigger. His bullet smashed into the wrapped shin of an enemy soldier and cut it cleanly in half. The soldier toppled onto him and he shoved him off and away from the hole. The soldier screamed, and Mankowitz thought his head would explode from the noise.

  He fired into the next man. He was charging hard and fast with his bayonet low and deadly. He fired three times, watching his bullets smash into his pelvis, then his stomach, and finally his chest. He crumpled at the edge of the foxhole and his eyes stared as his mouth gaped and blood oozed from the corners.

  Hunter’s M1 pinged, and Mankowitz heard him scream. He didn’t have time to check on him, there were more Japanese coming fast. Minks screamed crazily and with newfound strength burst from the hole.

  He fired his .45 continuously, tearing gaping holes in men’s chests and faces. Mankowitz fired into two more darting enemy soldiers before his rifle pinged. He searched for another clip but couldn't find one. He ducked and felt along the bottom of the hole. His hand came away bloody from the dead soldier Minks had pulled inside.

  He noticed Hunter curled in the bottom of the hole. He had a deep gash along his hairline, and it covered his face in a thick sheet of blood. The fight went out of him. He lunged to Hunter and pulled him into his arms. Hunter’s eyes were glazed. He was alive. Mankowitz rocked him, and his tears mixed with his friend’s blood.

  The ground shook and Mankowitz felt as though he was being bounced violently on a giant’s knee. He held tightly to Hunter’s quivering body, trying to protect him. The edges of the hole flexed and shed grass and dirt onto them. He thought how fitting it would be to die in the same hole he’d dug.

  Finally, the shuddering stopped, and the only sound was dirt falling onto the brittle grasses. He couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing as though he lived on the inside of the old school bell at Lone Pine Elementary. He closed his eyes and rocked Hunter fiercely.

  No one expected anyone in the hole to be alive. When GIs from the 17th looked inside, they’d seen an obviously dead Japanese soldier alongside two bloody GIs wrapped in a death embrace. They nearly fell over when the soldiers both startled at their touch.

  They were extracted gingerly and given blankets and water. Mankowtiz looked over the battlefield. Gaping, smoking holes from danger close artillery, dotted the landscape. Dead Japanese were stacked in contorted, unnatural poses. Their mouths hung open and their eyes were staring into nothingness. GIs were carefully poking and prodding them, making sure they weren’t playing possum.

  Far from the dead enemy soldiers, there was a neat row of dead GIs. He counted six bodies. He couldn’t take his eyes off the body on the far right. He was the only soldier not in full battle dres
s. He’d been a patient—it was Corporal Minks.

  Captain Bakerman moved between wounded soldiers. His hands were bloody and the front of his uniform was splattered with mud. He finally got to Mankowitz and Hunter. Earlier, an orderly had checked out Hunter’s head wound and decided it wasn’t critical. The bleeding had stopped, and his face was crusty with his own blood.

  Captain Bakerman sat down heavily beside them and ran his hand through his graying hair. He looked out over the shattered and torn bodies. “My God,” he uttered. “They nearly got through. If they had, it woulda been even worse.”

  Mankowitz shook his head. “Minks didn’t make it.”

  Bakerman nodded sadly, “I know. He saved a lot of good men.” He looked over at Hunter who was rubbing his temples.

  The little hill drew more GIs, and soon it was crawling with soldiers. Mankowitz heard his name, “Mank!”

  He turned on shaky legs and saw remnants of Charlie Company filtering in. He recognized Harwick, Lance, and Numchenko striding his way. Harwick slapped his back, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “We’ve been trying to get back here for hours. We kept running into Nips. Fought ‘em all damned night, then we saw the arty shelling the crap out of you and feared the worst.”

  Mankowitz bit his lower lip. He was overwhelmed with joy to see them, but the emotions were too much, and he had to sit down. They crouched with him and greeted Hunter.

  Hunter’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, but he recognized the men from Mankowitz’s platoon. He asked for the hundredth time, “So, what happened again?”

  Hunter’s wound was superficial, but whatever had hit him had given him a concussion, and for the moment, his short-term memory was only seconds long. Mankowitz didn’t mind answering—he was ecstatic that his best friend was alive. “We survived, Mack. We survived.”