by Chris Glatte
Carver closed his eyes waiting for the steel to penetrate his body, but instead he heard gunfire. The cracking of bullets passing near his head made him slouch instinctively. He opened his eyes and the soldiers in front of him were crumpling as plumes of blood sprayed his face. The gunfire increased to a crescendo of death, then abruptly stopped. It had lasted seconds, but every Japanese soldier was down.
Carver looked to O'Connor who was staring at him through swollen, black eye sockets, his mouth hung open in astonishment. There was a voice he recognized instantly. “Mighty nice of them to line up like that. Makes it easy.”
Carver grinned through his torn lips and fresh blood dripped down his chin. “About time, Captain Morrisey.” He felt hands on his arms then a slice and his arms were free. There was someone at his feet cutting his bonds. He fell forward and was caught by one of the shirtless natives. He lowered him down and offered him his water flask. Carver thought he’d died and gone to heaven. The water tasted like nectar. He could feel its rejuvenating power.
After too short a drink the flask was pulled away. Morrisey was kneeling beside him, “Don’t want to drink too much too fast; make you sick.” He turned to look at Welch sprawled on his back only feet away, gasping with a bubbling chest wound. His eyes were open. Morrisey moved over him and noticed a Nambu pistol in his hand. It moved towards him. Morrisey calmly placed his heavy boot on his wrist and pinned his hand to the ground. He reached down and plucked the pistol from Welch’s hand. He looked it over and scowled. He looked into Welch’s eyes and shook his head, “Ever the disappointment, old boy.” He put the barrel against Welch’s forehead. “I have a question for you. How you die will depend on your answer.” He didn’t wait for a response. “Were you responsible for leading the Japanese attack on my village before the American invasion?” Welch gave him a confused look. Morrisey moved the barrel down his body until it stopped at his crotch. “The attack that killed my wife and baby son?”
Welch shook his head back and forth hard, but his eyes showed fear. With eyes cold as steel in winter, Morrisey pulled the trigger. Welch’s eyes flashed with pain. He tried to reach for his destroyed groin, but his arms were pinned.
“My wife suffered at the hands of your yellow friends for hours. When they were done with her, they shot her in the belly leaving her to die slowly. I assure you, your pain is nothing compared to hers.” His eyes went to slits, tears forming, reliving the moment. “I found her when she was minutes from death. She tried to tell me who betrayed her, but she died. I never suspected you until you betrayed me outright.” He moved the gun to his belly and fired again.
Welch’s eyes went to the back of his head. Morrisey leaned close and shook him until he focused on him. He pushed on his wound sending fresh waves of pain through Welch’s body. He raised the pistol to his face, “Rot in hell.” He shot him in the face and his head snapped back against a rock.
Sergeant Carver rubbed his wrists. He’d heard the one-sided conversation. He looked at Captain Morrisey and put his hand on his shoulder. “Too quick. More than the sadistic bastard deserved.”
Morrisey rubbed his black beard and looked around in the fading light. His men were picking over the Japanese corpses filling pockets with knives, ammo and anything that caught their fancy. Morrisey threw the pistol over the ridge. “You’re right, Sergeant.” He shook his head, coming back to the present. “Looks like we arrived just in time.” His eyes found Dunphy’s body, “Not soon enough, however.”
O'Connor walked to where Dunphy’s body sprawled in the fading light. He kneeled over him and pulled his body so he was on his back. His dead eyes stared into nothing. O'Connor reached down and closed his friend’s eyelids. The gaping wound in his chest was crusted over with dried blood. He patted his shoulder and whispered, “I’ll miss you, you son-of-a-bitch.” He stood up and went to where their carbines were leaning against a rock. He grabbed his and Dunphy’s and handed Carver Dunphy’s weapon. “We’ve gotta complete this mission, Sarge.” He pointed, “For him, for Dunphy.”
Carver checked the weapon and nodded, “Bet your ass.” He walked to Morrisey and sat down. Morrisey sat beside him. Carver said, “You got to us in the nick of time. I thought that was it, I really did.” He shook his head wondering how he was still alive.
He continued. “We lost our radio so our mission’s changed. We’re gonna find and take out the Jap artillery.” Morrisey lifted a dubious eyebrow and Carver continued. “Our guys are attacking tomorrow morning and they’ll be decimated unless we take out the Jap artillery. We were preparing to leave when Welch and his merry band showed up. We know the approximate location of the guns, but,” He shrugged, “Were gonna be in the general area then take ‘em out when we spotted their smoke.”
Morrisey considered him. “Three men? That was your plan? You realize there’s probably a large contingent guarding those guns?” Carver nodded. Morrisey laughed, “You’re a credit to your nation, Sergeant. Certainly brave. Suicidal possibly, but brave.” He looked around at his gathering men. They were fidgeting and wanting to leave the cursed mountain. “I suppose you’ll want our help?”
Sergeant Carver said, “O'Connor and I’ll be going whether you come or not. Obviously, our chances of success would increase dramatically with your help.” Morrisey stroked his beard. “I’m not trying to convince you; you’ll do what’s best for your men, as it should be, but if this attack fails, it may prolong the fighting for months. Our forces will have to fall back and wait for reinforcements. More men will die.”
Morrisey smiled, “What do you think we were doing in these parts, Sergeant? We weren’t on our way to your aid, but on the way to the front to do what we could for your Army. Of course we’ll join you. I know this area well and my men know it even better. I’ve a good idea where the Japs are set up.” He looked O'Connor and Carver over. They were beat up and haggard, but standing on their own two feet. “You be ready to go in an hour?”
30
It was dark and they’d been traveling west for three hours through thick jungle. The natives were setting a fast pace, too fast for the exhausted Sergeant Carver and Private O'Connor, but they weren’t going to ask for any special favors. They were already asking these men to risk their lives for them; the least they could do was try to keep up.
Every cut, minor and major, was seeping blood and puss. There wasn’t a specific spot that hurt more than any other, just a constant mind-numbing throb.
Morrisey was aware of their fickle condition and made them drink water every fifteen minutes. Even so, neither of them felt the need to pee. They finally stopped and took a half hour break. Carver didn’t want to sit down, afraid he wouldn’t be able to get back up. O'Connor immediately fell to the ground and drained his canteen. He was given another immediately and he slurped more of the life-saving fluid. It could’ve been piss and he wouldn’t have known the difference. It was wet and that’s what his body was demanding.
Carver decided to sit beside him and slug his water. Both men were covered in a thin coat of sweat. It stung as it moved down their bodies finding each cut and scrape. “How you holding up, private?”
O'Connor nodded, “I’ll make it. I’ll make it.” He said it like it was his new mantra he was voicing for the first time.
Carver slapped his knee and O’Connor winced, but Carver couldn’t see it in the darkness. “We’ll make it, no problem. Can’t be far.”
Morrisey approached and crouched beside him without making a sound. When he spoke, Carver flinched, “Course you’ll make it and you’re correct, we’re in the area. We’ll slow our pace from here on out.” He looked at the phosphorescent dial of his watch. “We’ll move for another hour or so, then wait for dawn. Don’t want to stumble across the bloody Japs in the dark. That’d give away the whole show. We’ll wait until they start firing, unless we come across them soon.”
The half hour passed and Carver had to force himself off the ground. He felt like he’d aged fifty years since the morning. He was
glad to see, O'Connor wasn’t in much better shape. Sometimes being ornery beat out youth. He helped O'Connor to his feet and slapped his back. O'Connor winced again.
Their eyes were well adjusted to the dark jungle. They were able to see the natives moving like silent ghosts. They tried to mimic their stealth, but their sore muscles made them move like wooden toy soldiers and they endured withering looks with each broken branch or stumbled upon rock.
Carver tried to keep his bearings, but found it hopeless. They’d moved too far, too fast. If someone had asked him to lead the way due east, he’d have no idea. All he knew was the terrain was getting steeper, angling downhill. Occasionally they’d walk along some razor ridge, then descend again down a jungle slope. Going down was harder on his legs than going up. Each jarring step felt like needles coursing through his body. Even in the darkness he was careful to hide his pain.
They’d descended another slope and were moving along flat ground when he stumbled into the crouched form of a native. He fell and the native reached out and caught him before he hit the ground. He held his finger to his lips and Carver froze. The native eased him down and pointed forward, then cupped his ear, listen.
Carver strained to hear. At first nothing, only the breeze moving through the trees. Then the wind stopped and he heard the distinct sound of metal on metal and men’s voices; Japanese voices. He nodded to the native and pulled himself into a crouched position. He wondered if he was expected to do something. He was the ranking American, but O'Connor was the only man under his command. Morrisey was the one risking his men; he’d let him lead. After all, he could hardly see through his swollen eye sockets. This was no time for a pissing match.
He waited and soon Morrisey was beside him. He put his lips next to his ear and said, “My men’ll scout forward, see if this is what we’re looking for. If so, we’ll retreat and evaluate, if not, we’ll go around them. Carver nodded his understanding and looked over his shoulder at the dark form he knew to be O'Connor. He could take care of himself; a good soldier.
Forty minutes passed before Morrisey was at his ear again. He didn’t hear him coming again. The man’s like a cheetah. “Confirmed target. Eight artillery pieces, well camouflaged. We’ll pull back.” Carver nodded and got to his feet, grimacing.
They moved thirty yards into the jungle and stopped. The natives fanned out in a defensive perimeter. Morrisey spoke to Carver and O'Connor. “There are Eight artillery pieces, probably 105mm’s. My men aren’t good at identifying big guns, but they said they were ‘bikpela’, which means big, so I’m assuming these are the ones you blokes are looking for.” His white teeth flashed in the night. He looked up, the stars were obscured by the overhanging canopy, with occasional spots you could see through. “The canopy’s not conducive for using your mortar here, but the ridge we passed over not long ago is clear and overlooks the Jap position. Do you think you and Private O'Connor can get up there and set up your mortar and machine gun?”
Carver squinted through the darkness trying to decipher where the ridge was, but he could barely see ten feet. “I’ll take your word for that, but yes, we can make it. Is the base close enough for the machine gun to hit?” Morrisey looked annoyed and Carver said, “Sorry, course it is or you wouldn’t have said it. I’m a little loopy still.” Morrisey smiled at the phrase and Carver continued. “Could your men take us there? I don’t think I could find my own ass in this ink.”
Morrisey smiled again and shook his head. He said, “You Americans and your idioms. Yes, of course my men will take you there and they’ll take the guns too, just like they’ve been doing all night.”
Carver grinned and looked down. “Thanks Captain, thanks for everything. There’s no way we could’ve found our way here without you.”
Morrisey squeezed his shoulder, “No need for that, you may wish we hadn’t in a few hours.”
Walking up the steep slope to the ridge took Carver and O'Connor a long time. Each step felt like they were carrying three hundred pounds on their shoulders. The slope was slippery and they fell several times before the natives relieved them of their packs and carbines. Except for their knives they were defenseless, but neither cared. When they reached the top, sweat was pouring off and they were out of breath. They were near their physical breaking points.
The natives hustled them along and set them up in a recessed area on the ridge. While some had helped them up the hill the others had dug them foxholes and prepared their positions.
The soldiers slipped into their holes, grateful to be sitting down. All but one of the natives left. The remaining man crouched beside them and with hand signals, indicated they should set up their weapons. O'Connor nearly laughed out loud at the native’s rendition of firing a machine gun; hands in a fist, shaking back and forth and sweeping side to side.
With fumbling fingers, they put the Nambu together. The knee mortar didn’t require any assembly; it was ready to go. They slunk back to their holes and the native signaled they should sleep while he kept watch. Carver and O'Connor fell to the bottom of their holes and were asleep in seconds.
Colonel Sinclair and General Thornton leaned over the map spread before them on the rickety table. Neither man had slept in the past twenty-four hours and wouldn’t for the foreseeable future. It was the middle of the night, but the temperature had only gone down three degrees from the height of the day. Beads of sweat dripped from their noses. Colonel Sinclair pointed at an area with tight contour lines. “This is the ridge we suspect the guns are on. It’s steep and inhospitable, but reconnaissance flights show a possible area where the guns could be hidden.”
General Thornton nodded. “Did they see any guns or is it just guess work?”
“The jungle’s too thick to even see the ground.” The General stared at him, “It’s guess work. We don’t have any hard evidence.”
Thornton slammed his fist onto the table sending pieces across the map like a petulant child losing a board game. “Still no word from that sergeant of ours?”
Colonel Sinclair shook his head. “Nothing since the air strikes they called in yesterday. It may be their radio malfunctioned. The Marine pilots said they had good hits on the target. Whether they’re KIA or out a radio, the outcome’s the same on our end.”
Thornton watched the Lieutenant putting the pieces back to the appropriate spots on the map. “How’s our timeline? The men getting into position okay?”
Colonel Sinclair nodded. “Yes Sir, things are moving smoothly and on time. We should have everyone in place in another hour.”
General Thornton looked at his watch then back at the Colonel. “I want the timeline moved up. I want our boys attacking before dawn. Let’s not wait. Maybe it’ll throw off the Jap’s shooting if they can’t see us, get our boys in amongst their troops quicker.”
Colonel Sinclair didn’t like last minute changes, but he understood the logic. “I’ll pass it along. What time you want the attack to begin?”
General Thornton looked at his watch and made the calculation. “They’ll be in place in an hour, that’s 03:30. Let’s move the takeoff time to 0415. That should be enough buffer for any unknowns popping up.” He grinned, “Gotta give old Murphy his due.”
Colonel Sinclair smiled, “Yes Sir. No doubt he’ll rear his ugly head somewhere.”
It seemed like only seconds had passed, but O'Connor and Carver had slept two hours before the native awoke them. It only took his voice to wake Sgt. Carver, but O'Connor had to be poked and prodded before he opened his eyes. Neither man was happy; they felt sorer than they’d been before napping. O'Connor took a swig of water, swished it around and spit it onto the ground. “My mouth tastes like I ate a shit sandwich.”
Sergeant Carver took a swig and swallowed. He only grunted. The native was crouched beside Carver’s hole. Carver reached out and touched him, “Anything happening down there?” the native looked at him with a blank stare. In the darkness, Carver could see the whites of his eyes. He pointed towards the jungle then shru
gged trying to get his question across. The native seemed to understand. He shook his head, but pointed to the east. It was still dark, but there was a tiny hint of the coming day. Carver looked at his watch and was surprised to see it was 0345. Morrisey wanted to begin his attack a little before light, at 0500.
Sergeant Carver got out of his hole and went to where the natives had placed the knee mortar. There was a neat stack of 12 shells beside it. It was still too dark to see his target despite the native pointing it out.
O'Connor set up the machine gun in the crook of two boulders. He sat behind the gun and worked on digging out a comfortable sitting position in the dirt. He swung the gun’s barrel side to side and up and down. He would be aiming down, having to elevate his arms to get the proper angle. He adjusted his spot until he could do so with ease.
Now they waited. The night was quiet except for the constant chatter of jungle birds, insects and animals.
The time passed slowly. The night seemed to linger. The hint of light grew in the east as the morning threatened to break, but slowly. A half hour passed and the jungle noise stopped abruptly, like a light switch being turned off. The world seemed to hold its breath. Carver and O'Connor felt the tension in the air like something big and unknown was about to happen. O'Connor pivoted his gun back and forth, traversing the lightening jungle. Different shades of green started to separate themselves from the darkness. He thought he could see the clearing below where his target lay hidden, but he couldn’t be sure.
Off to the east there was a muted chattering of gunfire. The sky lit up with flashes, the low rumble of explosives reached them. Carver adjusted the mortar tube and whispered between clenched teeth, “This is it. Wait for Morrisey to start things off. We’re still early, looks like our guys are starting things.” O'Connor nodded and raised the brim of his floppy jungle hat. He checked the ammo sticking out the side of the Nambu machine gun. He glanced to the stack of ammo at his side and took a deep breath. The native, whose name they learned was Enops, laid beside him propping his ancient Enfield rifle on a rock and jamming the stock into his bare shoulder. O'Connor looked where he was aiming and tried to see his target. He angled his barrel to follow the same trajectory.