Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War

by DiLouie, Craig

  Smokey exploded.

  The grenades he’d been hugging against his body blew him in half. The soldiers around him went down like ragdolls and lay smoking.

  “Get up,” Cotten growled in his ear. “Get moving.”

  “Smokey?”

  It should have been him.

  “He’s gone. Come on!”

  Charlie wiped his eyes and got back to his feet.

  Then he followed Cotten through willows and ground vines into a sugarcane field, thinking all the while he’d finally found one regret that would haunt him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  INFERNO

  Another salvo smashed into the island and shook the earth. Shells tore the air overhead with metallic screams. Somewhere in the Philippine Sea, massive battleships, including four of the giants damaged during the attack on Pearl Harbor, gave Saipan everything they had.

  The Americans burrowed into a narrow tunnel between sugarcane stalks soaring ten feet tall. The fronds pressed in from all sides and blinded them.

  Cotten finally stopped. “We’ll rest up here a minute.”

  “I’ll see to Braddock,” Charlie gasped.

  Braddock slumped against a stool of maturing cane stalks. Charlie cut a hole in the sailor’s shirt and examined the wound.

  “How are you?” he said.

  The sailor grit his teeth. “How the fuck do you think I am, sir? I’m shot.”

  “Then stop moving so I can treat it, you asshole.”

  “It hurts like hell!”

  “It passed clean through the muscle. Now who’s lucky?”

  “Yeah, look at me,” Braddock man. “I’m the luckiest man alive.”

  Charlie produced a packet of sulfa, tore it open with his teeth, and doused the entry and exit holes. The white powder contained chemicals that controlled infection. In the tropics, without sulfa, infection would kill you if the bullet didn’t.

  Then he tightly wrapped Braddock’s arm in a bandage to stop the bleeding and keep dirt and insects from the wounds. “You’ll live.”

  He tried to smile but failed. Smokey was dead, finally able to truly rest. He pressed his hands against the sides of his head. He was supposed to go, not Smokey.

  “It isn’t only you, sir,” Braddock said. “It never is. You don’t get to figure this out just now.”

  Charlie couldn’t win the war by himself. And each time he took risks, so did the men he led into combat.

  “You’re right,” he said. “It isn’t just me. There’s a war on, and if we don’t step up, a lot more Americans are gonna get killed.”

  “The mission comes before the man,” Cotten agreed. “It’s why we’re here.”

  Braddock said, “Some of us want—”

  “Save it for later,” Charlie growled. “We have a job to do. Can you use the BAR?”

  The Browning Automatic Rifle weighed about twenty pounds, twice the weight of the Thompson Charlie carried. A powerful weapon with a strong recoil.

  “I can handle it,” the sailor said. “I see a Jap, I’ll put him down for good.”

  Another salvo howled overhead, sending waves of dirt reaching for the sky. The ground rocked underfoot, knocking them over. Heaved again, flinging them bouncing along the ground.

  The sky darkened as a massive dust cloud obscured the sun. Gray smoke encroached on the air around them. Dirt clods rained.

  “The field’s on fire,” the Scout said. “We got to move!”

  The farmers did this every year. They set fire to their fields to burn off the leaves and bugs, enrich the soil, and make the surviving cane stalks easier to harvest. But not this time, not now.

  The shelling had ignited the field. That or the Japanese knew the Americans were here and were flushing them out into the open like rabbits.

  Charlie wrestled against the thick fronds, which wrapped around him as if trying to hold him back. He remembered the checkerboard pattern of cane fields in the grainy recon photos. Each a thousand feet wide.

  The smoke thickened. The air grew even hotter. The fire was close and getting closer, its progress checked solely by moisture clinging to the leaves.

  Charlie stumbled as another shell crashed in the distance, and then he was free of the cane field.

  Cotten dragged him to the ground. “Down!”

  Charlie coughed on the smoke. “Japs?”

  The Scout scanned the area with his binoculars. “Looks clear to me. We’re gonna stay close to the field and then break for that sugar mill.”

  They moved quickly along the field’s edge and darted to the ruins. The large sugar mill still stood, blackened by soot. The roof over one side had been smashed in by an errant bomb that turned its machinery into a tangle of twisted metal. The other side looked like a charred skeleton.

  Communicating with hand signals, the men cleared it and gathered around a body that sat against the wall, legs splayed.

  It was Walsh.

  The giant’s head lay cocked to the side, his sightless eyes aimed up at the sky visible through the holed roof. He’d given himself a field dressing and had tried to complete his mission, but he couldn’t make it. Walsh had come here to die.

  He’d scrawled a word on the floor with his blood. GADO.

  “What’s that mean?” Charlie asked Cotten.

  The Scout’s lips compressed into a hard line. “He taught me some Cherokee. It means, ‘Why?’”

  “Sorry about your man.”

  “We’re all sorry.” Cotten yanked his comrade’s dog tags and thumbed his eyes closed. He put his hand over the man’s still heart. “Tsayawesohlvga. Rest now.”

  They dug foxholes in the hard dirt floor while the shells kept falling outside. The sugarcane field burned brightly, pumping roiling clouds of thick black smoke into the sky. Then they dug a grave for Walsh and buried him.

  This work done, Charlie raised his canteen and chugged greedily. The warm water cleaned his parched and dusty throat.

  “Finish that off, and give it here,” the Scout said. “I’ll be back by dark.”

  Charlie shook the last few drops onto his tongue and handed over his canteen. “Where are you going?”

  Cotten frowned at Walsh’s grave.

  “Where, Jonas?”

  “I’m going back to the stream to refill our canteens.”

  “We should all go together,” Charlie said.

  The scout slung the canteens around his neck. “I’ll be all right. I move better on my own. Y’all stay and rest.”

  “What if you don’t make it back for some reason?”

  “I’m leaving the radio. If I don’t make it back, contact your ship. Then y’all can finish the mission or get off the island. Your choice.”

  “Just make sure you get back.”

  “Roger that.”

  As Cotten was leaving, Braddock called out, “Good luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Call me Jonas,” the man said. “We Scouts are an informal bunch.”

  Then he was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  INTO HELL

  Lying in his foxhole, Braddock snored through the bombardment while Charlie sat by the window eating his lunch, Thompson locked and loaded at his side.

  The window offered a stunning view of Mount Fina Susu getting pounded by Navy battleships. Smoke shrouded the mountain from dozens of fires. Chunks of earth sprayed into the air from impacts. The shelling went on until the pulsing roar became part of the background, noticeable only when it paused.

  He pitied any soldiers caught out in the open up there.

  Did those soldiers know what they were fighting for? He remembered Lt. Tanaka talking about the struggle of nations, empires playing chess for resources and room to grow. The inevitability America and Japan would fight. Charlie doubted the average Japanese soldier understood or cared about all that. The average Japanese fought for his honor and his emperor.

  Under this hellish bombardment, it probably all seemed so meaningless now.

  Still, they wouldn
’t give up. Tomorrow, when 70,000 Marines hit the beaches, the Japanese would fight tooth and nail. They’d fight to survive. Isn’t that what they were all doing at this point, everyone in this war? Fighting to stay alive?

  One thing Tanaka had taught him was that, for the average Japanese soldier, surrender wasn’t an option. The only way for him to survive was to win.

  Charlie checked his watch. He shook the machinist awake.

  “Shit,” Braddock said. “I’m still in Saipan.”

  “How’s the arm?”

  “Asking me about it isn’t going to make it better, sir.”

  Charlie shrugged and lay in the foxhole to sleep, grateful he’d made it this far, grateful to be alive. And feeling guilty he’d survived when men like Smokey hadn’t.

  He closed his eyes. Though he’d been running on pure adrenaline all night and morning, sleep eluded him. Again, he played Smokey’s death in his mind, trying to find a way it could have gone differently. Wondering if it was all his fault.

  Somebody kicked his boot. He sat up with a start. Braddock loomed over him, gnawing on a sugarcane stalk.

  Outside the windows, the light was failing.

  “Was I asleep?” Charlie mumbled.

  “It’s 1800, sir.”

  He rubbed his face. “Where’s Cotten?”

  “He hasn’t come back.”

  He hauled himself to his feet with a groan. Every part of him ached. “It’ll be dark soon. I’ll take watch while you get your supper.”

  “What if he doesn’t come back? I guess you’ll want to keep going.”

  Charlie peered through the hole in the wall to inspect the cane field outside, now a smoking ruin. “We can’t stay here.”

  But where to go? Keep going, or head back? They’d only made it this far because of the Scout. On a submarine, they served as part of a war machine that slaughtered ships and men. On land, they were fish out of water.

  Untrained and possibly unequal to the task.

  “We’ll proceed with the mission,” he said.

  Braddock pulled his K-rations from his pack. “Good.”

  “And here, I thought you’d be bitching to make a run for it.”

  “Smokey is on me too,” the sailor said. “I didn’t shoot. If we blow that gun, maybe he died for something in this stupid war.”

  A terrific explosion rent the air. The shockwave shook the building. Dust and ash fell from the shattered roof. An American shell had scored a lucky hit on an ammunition dump.

  “Right now, I’m worried about us,” Charlie said.

  “As much as I don’t like you, sir, you always try. No matter how many punches you take, you don’t give up. Don’t give up now.”

  Charlie scowled at the scenery, irritated the man’s respect pleased him as much as it did. “It’ll be dark soon. Get your chow. After that, we’ll go blow up that gun.”

  He wiped sweat from his forehead, feeling an awful thirst. Saipan reminded him of the S-55, where temperatures soared as high as 130 degrees in the engine room, with 100 percent humidity. When the old submarine surfaced and ventilated, which reduced temperature, fog sometimes formed throughout the boat.

  The bombardment eased up at sunset. They collected their gear.

  “Take a look at this,” Charlie said at the door.

  Two canteens hung from a nail in the doorframe. Braddock took one down and shook it. “It’s full. What does it mean?”

  “It means Cotten doesn’t need us after all.”

  The Scout had failed his own squad then lost Smokey despite his promise to Charlie he’d get his people back to the Sandtiger safely. Or maybe seeing Walsh’s body and final message made him want to go it alone.

  Cotten was one of the most capable men Charlie had ever met, but right now, he was being a damned fool.

  He’d also taken the satchel charges. All Charlie and Braddock had that could damage the gun was incendiary grenades.

  “So what about us?” Braddock said.

  Charlie uncapped his canteen and took a long swallow. The water was warm and tasted terrible from the Halazone tablets, but he drank greedily, eyes closed in grateful bliss. He screwed the cap back on. “We’re going after him.”

  Braddock nodded. “Aye, aye.”

  He glanced at the sailor’s arm. “I have to ask.”

  “Feels like there’s a bell in there ringing my brain.”

  “Can you manage?”

  “I’m fine, Mom. Now let’s go.”

  They set out in the darkness toward the hill country surrounding Mount Fina Susu. Silently, mindful of everything the Scout had taught them. They reached the edge of the plateau that dominated the southern part of the island. The land here was covered in scrub trees, brush, and high grass.

  The ground sloped upward into hell.

  They trudged across torn-up earth carpeted with uprooted trees, giant splinters, and smoking impact craters. Fina Susu glowed like a massive heap of hot coals. Despite the need for quiet, they coughed.

  As they gained altitude, the drifting pall of smoke parted. Lake Susupe and its surrounding swamps sprawled at the bottom of the great hill. To the west was the village of Charan Kanoa, dark now. They were close to the coast now, close to the Japanese positions.

  Flashes out in the water, followed by booms. Thunder as shells crashed into the area around Tanapag Harbor to the north. Charlie knew the shelling continued to pose an existential threat, though by suppressing Japanese movement, it had also allowed them to progress this far.

  Braddock clicked his tongue and pointed at a tangle of smashed 20mm AA guns. Charlie moved that way, sweeping the wreckage with his Thompson.

  “Couple of unmarked graves here,” the sailor said.

  “The rest bugged out. Let’s keep moving.”

  “Wait. Do we know where this big gun is?”

  “Yeah,” Charlie said. “It’s somewhere on this hill.”

  They just needed to keep going up. The gun would be near the summit, on the west side, facing the barrier reef lagoon.

  Braddock gazed up the slope and spat. “Wonderful.”

  They continued to creep up Fina Susu’s scarred face, zigzagging to avoid the heat and light of still-burning fires. Drifting layers of smoke obscured the summit. Between smoke and the darkness, Charlie was marching nearly blind.

  Braddock clicked his tongue again. Charlie turned and searched for the sailor behind him.

  Then he realized the sound had come from his right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ATTACK!

  Charlie wheeled, his instincts tingling. Thompson raised and ready to fire.

  Instead, he gave the proper answering signal.

  Cotten materialized from the tall grass. “I thought I gave you boys a pretty clear out of this.”

  Charlie shook his head. Too late for that. “I’m glad we found you.”

  Braddock crept forward. The Scout told them what he’d discovered. A hundred meters from where they crouched in the dense grass, the Meteor stood ready to shoot from a camouflaged, reinforced bunker built into the hill.

  From there, its massive gun aimed into the waters off Saipan’s western shores.

  The casemate was thirty feet wide and likely about thirty feet deep. Gun room, magazine, ventilation, crew’s quarters. Around fourteen gunners and guards.

  Bad odds, but the Americans still had surprise on their side. If they hit the Japanese hard and fast, they could sweep the bunker before the enemy could react.

  Two doors led inside. The main entrance opened to a guard room. The other an emergency exit. Both carved into the hillside.

  “The Japs are on high alert,” Cotten said. “We can’t attack tonight.”

  “Then what’s the plan?” Charlie said.

  “We get under cover fast in case the Navy decides to pound the hill some more. We wait until the Japs start shooting their gun. Then we’ll know most of them will be in the gun room and focused on Fifth Fleet.”

  An armored faceplate pr
otected the Meteor’s crew while preventing the enemy from entering the bunker. However, this thick metal plate also featured wide slits used for spotting and small arms defense.

  Just wide enough to cram a satchel charge through.

  “We’ll be making the assault in broad daylight,” Braddock said.

  “That’s right.”

  The sailor sighed. “Wonderful.”

  Cotten passed him a satchel containing four tetrytol TNT blocks with an M1 pull-fuse igniter. “You take the front. Me and Charlie will take out the machine gun at the entrance and mop up from there.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  Cotten glanced at Charlie’s Thompson. “You any good with that?”

  “Not really.”

  Braddock snorted. “You should have seen him on Mindanao. There wasn’t a tree left alive after he was done shooting.”

  “It don’t matter,” Cotten said. “We’ll be in close quarters.”

  “We only have a few hours of darkness left,” Charlie said, not wanting to think about shooting men at point-blank range.

  “Let’s get into position,” said Cotten. “John, once that gun starts booming, you know what to do. We’ll hear the TNT go off. That’ll be our signal.”

  Charlie said, “One more thing, Jonas. From here on out, we’re in this together. We all want to be here. That’s how it is.”

  “Even if we’re not thrilled about it,” Braddock added.

  The Scout offered a grim smile. “Then let’s get to it.”

  The men crouched and sneaked across the blasted landscape. Cotten patted Braddock’s back, pointed, and sent him on his way. Then he led Charlie toward the entrance and stopped as the cover thinned.

  “We wait here,” the Scout said.

  They lay in an abandoned foxhole and waited for dawn to bring Fifth Fleet’s invasion. In hours, thousands of Marines would storm the beaches. Charlie looked up at the stars glimmering through a veil of smoke and radiated heat, praying Fifth Fleet didn’t shell the hill again before dawn.

  The breeze brought a lilting sound. He caught a snatch of song. The Japanese soldiers were singing in the bunker. Despite the savage bombardment, their morale had held. They’d fight tomorrow.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” Charlie said. “This line of work.”