by Chris Glatte
Caprielli folded it up and stuffed it in his front shirt pocket. “I’ll keep it. Can you get us there tonight?” Welch looked him in the eye, under the red glow they both looked like devils from a Halloween horror, he nodded.
When they came out from under the poncho Sgt. Carver stared at Caprielli. There was little doubt how he felt about him bypassing his opinion. He didn’t say a word, only stared. Caprielli tried to meet his gaze, but turned away. In the darkness he was able to keep his dignity. “Welch is going to lead us from here,” he whispered.
Sergeant Carver almost spoke, but decided to hold his tongue. Trusting this unknown Brit was folly as far as he was concerned. He didn’t think he would knowingly give them away, he’d be just as dead if he did, but he didn’t trust him to lead the patrol through the jungle without bumbling into Japs. He’d much prefer the stealth and obvious skill of his new point man, O'Connor. He moved close to O’Connor and spoke in his ear, “Stay right next to him. I don’t want him stumbling into the Japs.”
O'Connor nodded and waited for Welch to move out. When he did he was right beside him. Welch moved well, it was obvious he was comfortable in the jungle. O'Connor reminded himself that he’d been evading Jap patrols for months now.
They followed the river south, upstream. Where he was from in Oregon most rivers flowed west, but this one flowed due north, something he’d never seen. He shook his head. I’m not in Oregon anymore.
They were moving along a well-worn path beside the slow river. He was by no means a veteran of these parts, but when he hunted these were the trails he’d set up on, well used game trails. He didn’t like the feeling. He tapped Welch who stopped and listened. “Think we should get off this trail.” It was a statement not a question.
Welch shook his head, “This is a native trail, Japs don’t use it.” He followed along, but his sixth sense was buzzing and he’d learned a long time ago to listen. He was about to stop Welch again when the world behind him erupted in gunfire and bright flashes.
He dropped to his belly, pulling Welch down with him. He spun to the flashes, only yards away put his carbine to his shoulder and fired in quick succession. The noise was deafening as more shots rang out deeper in the jungle. His squad was getting hit hard. He fired at the new muzzle flashes. The air above his head came alive with buzzing bullets. He rolled to his left back towards his squad. He pulled Welch along, but he was dead weight, he wondered if he’d been hit. As the fire continued he yelled, “Welch, you hit? You hit? Move your ass.” He got no response.
He pulled his gun up and fired at the flashes. On the third shot his carbines’ firing pin slammed onto an empty chamber. He cussed, shucked off his pack and dug into his belt for another magazine. He pulled out the old and slammed another in, priming the weapon. He aimed more carefully, trying to judge where the enemy’s body would be in relation to the flash. Answering fire from his squad petered out as they retreated. He realized he was cut off, alone with Japs all around him, his only ally a dead or wounded Brit. A feeling of panic started to rise in his gut, but he suppressed it and fired again.
He was about to pull the trigger again, but thought better of it. He had to get away from the area quick. No shooting had come from the river behind him. It was his only chance. The Japapanese continued firing. He wanted to kill them, pour fire into them, give his buddies a chance, but it would be the last thing he did. Instead he reached out and pulled his pack along the ground towards the river. He wasn’t trying to be quiet anymore. Once the Japanese stopped firing he’d give his position away, but as long as they kept firing he could make all the noise he wanted.
He grunted and pulled the unwieldy pack along. With each step he got further away from the ambush. He wondered if any of his buddies had survived. He’d heard screaming, but not anymore. They’d been hit hard. It had been a perfectly orchestrated ambush. The thought made him feel uncomfortable, were they waiting for us?
The firing was slowing down. There was no return fire. He hoped that meant the squad had successfully disengaged themselves from the fight. He imagined them running like hell back to the deserted plantation, the enemy hot on their heels. It wouldn’t be a bad place to make a last stand.
The quiet descended like a shroud over a death’s head. The firing had ceased, the jungle sounds ceased, so he stopped moving and strained to hear anything over the ringing in his ears. It was unnaturally quiet. Finally, like a far-away train approaching, the jungle started waking again. First the chirps and snaps of insects then the unknown night bird calls, he thought he even heard the call of a monkey. Does this place have monkeys? Soon it was as if the firefight hadn’t happened, the jungle returned to normal.
O'Connor didn’t move. His pack was in front of him. He could sense he was close to the river, but he couldn’t be sure how close. It may as well be a mile since the noise of dragging the pack even a foot would bring the Japs onto his position.
He rested his carbine on the pack and waited for a target. He had no doubt they’d pursue him. He’d walked right past the ambush without ever seeing them. They’d let he and Welch pass first to let the main force walk into the kill zone. How had he been so clueless? Why hadn’t he sensed the Jap ambush? Then he remembered he had, but Welch wouldn’t get off the trail. O'Connor gritted his teeth. The poor son-of-a-bitch was laying out there dead or dying; he’d paid the price for his mistake.
It wouldn’t take long for the Japs to come for him. They’d probably already found Welch and were searching for him. He wondered how many there were. The main force must have pursued what was left of the squad, but how many stayed back to finish off the point man? He felt his bowels loosen as he remembered the stories he’d heard of how Japs treated prisoners. Long torture and slow agony as you prayed for death. He decided they wouldn’t take him alive. He felt along his belt until he found a grenade. He pulled it and laid it next to the pack. If he was wounded in the next couple minutes, he’d end it with the grenade. Use the Jap playbook against them and take a few with him. He felt better with the grenade; it eased his mind to know he wouldn’t suffer at the hands of these savages.
Minutes passed with no sound to his front. He wondered if they’d all joined the chase. The night calm was shattered again with gunshots from down the trail. The heavy sound of rifle fire then the tinny sound of return carbine fire, then the heavy thumping of a Thompson sub-machine gun. He grinned, at least Sarge was still in the fight.
He used the firefight to make more ground towards the river. He pushed backwards until he was at arms-length from his pack then pulled it towards him, moving slow. He repeated the process three more times until the jungle to his front changed. He focused and readjusted his firing position. Someone was coming towards him. He felt sweat sting his eyes as it dripped down his furrowed brow. If he opened up, it would be minutes before the whole Jap army descended on him and he died.
He reached for the grenade, maybe he should throw it as a distraction, pull the Japs away from him. He dispelled the thought since he wouldn’t be able to throw it far enough. In the close jungle, it would be a clear signal of his whereabouts. He felt along his belt and put his hand on the cool handle of his K-bar knife. If it was one man and he got close enough, the knife would be just the thing. His mouth went dry as he pictured himself driving the knife into a man’s belly.
He carefully pulled it from its sheath and gripped the handle. It felt cold and deadly. Can I kill a man with a knife? He’d soon find out. He made a plan; if it was more than one man, he’d open up with his M1 and sprint for the relative safety of the river. If it was one man he’d kill him with the knife. He took a deep breath hoping it was more than one man.
The darkness to his front took on a shape, dim at first then becoming more distinct. It was the unmistakable silhouette of a man, one man. He released his grip on the carbine and licked his lips, it would be the knife. He tried to control his breathing as the soldier advanced ever closer. The Jap was being cautious, each step silent, his eyes scanning for
him like an owl searching for mice.
When he was only feet from him he stopped and turned back the way he’d come. It was perfect. He had his back to him, it was now or never, there wouldn’t be a better chance.
His muscles coiled. He launched himself at the man’s back. He drove his knee into the soldier’s back and with his left hand grabbed his head and pulled back, stifling a yell. His right hand held the blade and he drove it down toward the man’s chest, but something slowed his hand, something wasn’t right. Something about the way the soldier carried himself, the way he moved, the way he smelled. Something was wrong.
He pulled the man to the ground and put the knife to his neck. Better to kill him on the ground, less sound of falling. The man was gagging, trying to talk. Then he recognized English words, the reality of the situation now clear. He put his face close to his and whispered, “You stupid Brit, I almost killed you.”
Welch was breathing hard, his second shave with death even closer than the first. His eyes were wide, “Right, it’s me so get off and let’s get out of here?”
O'Connor kept the knife at his neck. He looked the way he’d come, straining to see lurking Japs. “Thought you were hit.”
Welch pushed his hand from his jugular and sat up, “Grazed my forehead, must’ve knocked me out, probably our own chaps returning fire.” He reached up and felt his forehead showing off the gash.
Even in the low light, O'Connor could see it had bled a lot. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You okay to move?”
“Head wounds always bleed a lot, I was moving until you knocked me over.”
O'Connor grinned and nodded, “Come on. Let’s get to the river. We can stay near the bank and float along, use the bank for cover if they get too close. We can float all the way to the ocean, our guys are set up on the west side.”
“That’s where I was headed when you jumped me.”
9
They crouched along the river bank, guns pointed back the way they’d come. O'Connor still had his pack, but Welch had lost his in the fighting. O'Connor leaned in close and whispered, “Watch the jungle.” Welch nodded. O'Connor dug into his pack and pulled out his heavy rain poncho. He folded it then tied the ends closed with cord from his pack. He laced the remaining cord through the grommets spaced at ten-inch intervals along the side and cinched it off as tight as he could. Welch looked over his shoulder wondering what this crazy hillbilly was doing besides making a lot of unwanted noise.
O'Connor placed his pack next to the river’s edge and slid into the water. The bank was steep, but the water only three feet deep. He pulled both ends of the poncho under water and stepped on them. The belly of the poncho floated to the surface with trapped air. Then to Welch’s horror O'Connor started splashing furiously beside the poncho pulling air into the makeshift float. He was making a hell of a racket, but after a few seconds the poncho was floating high.
O'Connor pulled his pack over and keeping the edge of the poncho under water wrapped it around and through the shoulder straps of the pack. He slowly released the pack testing its stability. The buoyancy floated the pack halfway out of the water. Satisfied, O'Connor whispered, “Let’s go, we’ll put the carbines on the pack, keep ‘em out of the water.”
Welch backed towards him, “I’m not getting into the river.” O'Connor stared, it was their only chance. “It’s called Alligator Creek for a reason. It’s infested with crocodiles.” O'Connor looked at him funny. Exasperated, Welch explained, “Whoever named it didn’t know the difference between a crocodile and an alligator.”
O’Connor looked around, were they coming at him now? He didn’t see anything except black water flowing to safety. “We’ll have to take our chances. I haven’t seen any crocs though. If we stay here the Japs’ll get us for sure. I’d rather take my chances with the crocs”
Welch had seen crocodiles attack and kill on land and in the river, they were terrifying predators. The thought of being slammed then rolled and stuffed under a river ledge until tender, terrified him. He sat on the edge weighing his options. O'Connor had his hand out wanting the carbine. Welch’s mind was made up when a flare popped overhead and he heard Japanese voices. They were close. He ducked down and slid into the cool water. He kept his carbine pointed back to the lit-up jungle. The flare seemed to hang forever. When it was almost out he saw a shape emerge only yards from him. There was no doubt it was a well-armed Japanese soldier searching for them.
The light extinguished at the perfect time. The Jap kept coming, but he stumbled and fell, blinded by the sudden darkness. Like a viper striking, O'Connor lunged out of the water and drove his razor sharp K-bar into the neck of the soldier. He cut his spinal cord and without a sound the soldier died.
O'Connor pulled the dead soldier into the water, pushed him under and sent him downstream. Welch shook his head, “The blood will bring the crocs.”
“Well now they’ll have something to eat besides us.”
Welch shook his head, “You don’t understand. They go into frenzies, like sharks.”
O'Connor slipped deeper into the water and started floating downstream. Welch made his decision, he handed his weapon over and slid in behind him. He fingered the knife he had at his side, it would be a small defense against a croc, but it would have to do.
The pack was floating well on the poncho and Welch and O'Connor gripped the edges like a raft. They could float like this for a long time, all night if need be. With every passing foot they drifted further away from the ambush site. Another flare popped back where they’d been and tracer fire arced into the night slashing across the river well upstream. Either the Japs were jumpy or they’d found some stragglers.
O'Connor stroked closer to the bank and Welch followed. They heard Japanese voices yelling from upstream. “Let’s keep close to the bank in case we have to get out in a hurry.” Welch nodded. The bank was steep and the jungle leaned over it dipping vines and branches into the water like fingers feeling the passing coolness.
O'Connor figured the Japs had found their entry point. There’d been a lot of blood and trampled jungle. They could hardly miss it even in the darkness. O'Connor wondered how close the river trail was. He remembered it being close most of the way. If the Japanese suspected they were in the river, they may be moving down the trail to get in front of them. “We have to move faster, Japs’ll be coming down the trail fast, can’t let ‘em get in front of us.”
They pushed the pack in front and started kicking underwater to propel themselves. They had to move away from the bank to avoid the overhanging jungle. They were more exposed, but they were moving much faster now. The darkness was their only cover. The effort had them breathing hard. They dipped their heads to keep the sweat from dripping into their eyes.
They were making good time, but after thirty minutes they needed rest. The poncho was losing its buoyancy, despite forcing more air into it. O'Connor suspected the para-cord was loosening in the water. Their carbines were dangerously close to being submerged. He pointed to the near bank, “Gotta retie the poncho. Let’s get to shore.” Welch nodded.
They pushed into the bank and worked their way downstream until they found a relatively flat spot where the bank sloped into the river. They pushed the pack onto the muddy bank and lay still, listening. After two full minutes O'Connor said, “Keep watch upstream while I retie this.” Welch nodded and pulled himself out of the water. The water dripping from him made the bank muddy and as he tried to crawl up he felt himself slipping back into the river. He dug in with his finger tips and pulled himself until he could see upstream. He realized he was lying beside the trail they’d walked up earlier; the trail he’d deemed safe.
He wondered what time it was. He looked at his watch, but even in the dim light he could tell it was beyond repair. Another victim of Alligator Creek. He thought the sun must be coming up soon, they’d been at it a long time. He watched the trail and listened to the young O'Connor working on the poncho. He wondered where he’d learned that trick, was i
t something they taught in the Army?
Minutes passed. It felt good to be out of the water. He felt his eyes growing heavy as a thick wave of exhaustion swept over his body, threatening to send him to blissful oblivion. He shook his head trying to shake the fatigue. Here he was in a desperate situation and he was having trouble staying awake? Bugger that. He bit his lip, the pain keeping him in the here and now. He heard something coming. Boots pounding on the muddy path, the Japanese were double timing down the trail. O'Connor was right, they were trying to cut them off.
He looked back to O'Connor who heard it too and laid still beside the pack, his body half in the water. Welch realized he’d left his carbine on the pack. Their only chance was to lay low and hope the Japanese passed without seeing them. From the sounds it was a sizable force. Welch scooted himself deeper into cover. He hoped it would be enough, the trail was only feet from his prone body.
He kept his head down, but kept one eye open. He watched as the Japs’ cleft toe boots landed only feet from his head. He tried to keep count, but lost it after forty. The pounding boots sounded like thunder, but he was sure they’d hear his own beating heart. He tried to control his breathing. It took all his concentration to keep from hyperventilating. His mantra; breath in, breath out, slow it down. After an eternity the troops stopped coming. He laid there until he couldn’t hear the boots at all. He lurched when O'Connor touched his boot and pulled him towards him. It was time to get on with it.