by Chris Glatte
The flashes and gunfire became more frequent to the east. There was no way of knowing who had the upper hand, only that a lot of ordnance was being expended. The guns below remained silent. A light appeared and O'Connor’s heart skipped a beat. He adjusted his aim. The Japanese artillery unit wasn’t as far away as he thought. He hunched although he knew they had no chance of spotting him even if they were looking. More lights appeared, extending into the jungle. The Japanese were waking up, alerted by the long awaited American attack.
Carver saw the activity, but knew things were happening quicker than Morrisey had expected. He wondered if he was in position yet. If the guns opened up before Morrisey attacked he’d have to make a choice whether to attack on his own. Every round that went out would kill American soldiers; he couldn’t let that happen. He grabbed a mortar shell, pulled the safety off and dropped it into the tube. He adjusted the range dial and put the floating bubble in the center. He wrapped the lanyard trigger around his finger. If the big guns opened up he wouldn’t wait.
Flashes from the sea caught his attention; they were continuous and huge. He wondered whose navy held the advantage this morning. He didn’t have long to wait as the big naval shells rocketed toward the Japanese rear and exploded with bright flashes far below him, marking the headquarters area. He wished he could call those guns onto the artillery position below him. Maybe they’d see the artillery muzzle flashes and redirect their fire. He shook his head knowing the Japanese were too well camouflaged. If not, they would have been spotted and destroyed long ago.
Out of the darkness there was a much closer flash followed immediately by seven more rippling down the line of Japanese artillery. The flashes were much closer than Carver had anticipated. His night vision was ruined, but he didn’t hesitate. He pulled the lanyard and was rewarded with the soft thump of a departing shell. The smell of hot cordite filled his nostrils and he reached for another shell.
O'Connor heard the mortar leave the tube and aimed down the barrel of the Nambu. He put the barrel just below closest flash and depressed the trigger. He shot a short burst, watching his tracers streak into the jungle. He adjusted and gave them a longer burst, walking his fire back. Another flash of fire from the big guns almost took his night vision, but he had one eye shut preserving some vision.
He saw Sgt. Carver’s first mortar round explode near the second gun. The flash was tiny compared with the 105mm guns long tongue of flame, but the flash was enough to light up Japanese troops being flung backwards. He increased his rate of fire, knowing his own muzzle flash would be seen and he’d start taking incoming fire. He hoped Morrisey and his merry band would attack soon or his position would be inundated with fire.
The flashes from the west and the rumble that accompanied it pushed Morrisey’s timetable up. He’d been advancing slowly from his night bivouac position, but now his men were moving quicker. It would only be a matter of time before the artillery opened up on the hapless Americans. His original plan had been to attack the unit when they were still sleeping, catching them by surprise, but now he’d have to attack a fully alert force of unknown size. His only advantage would be the fact that they’d be busy working the artillery pieces not looking for attackers.
He was minutes from his takeoff point when the guns opened up with a deafening roar. The 105mm blast shook the men to their core, the percussion shaking their bodies, striking fear into them. He’d hoped to move his men to the side and attack from the thick jungle barrier that kept the artillery hidden. He had to reassess when he saw tracer fire arcing down from the ridge above them. Sergeant Carver and Private O’Connor weren’t waiting for his attack. He saw a mortar round explode near the second gun, then more tracer fire sweeping along the guns.
Morrisey kept his men moving, not wanting to get hit by friendly fire. The fire from the ridge would take attention away from his men. They were running to get north of the Japanese position when another round of artillery went out. The men flattened instinctively, as the big shells ripped over their heads. He had them up quickly and moved them into position. He did a quick head count; they were all there.
He broke them into two units. He’d lead his twenty men to the east and Chief Ahio would lead his men against the guns in the front. He knew he could trust Ahio; he had a debt to pay. He’d sacrifice his life and the life of his men to renew his honor. Before splitting, he told Ahio to wait for his attack. Ahio nodded and melted into the jungle with his men.
Using the jungle, Morrisey moved down to the last gun. The Japanese troops charged with protecting the guns were shifting to the south towards the incoming fire from the ridge. They were returning fire up and down the line, keeping their attackers pinned down. Mortars kept raining down, but the machine gun fire had dwindled. He heard the occasional crack of a rifle from the ridge. He’d sent Enops because he was his best marksman. He was sure with every crack of the rifle a Japanese soldier was dying. More and more Japanese were moving away from the big guns, leaving them exposed.
The darkness was lifting and Morrisey could clearly see the Japanese artillery crews working like a well-oiled machine. They were in a rhythm; load, clear, fire, eject. They were putting shells out faster and faster. Their professionalism kept them focused on the job at hand and not on their dangerously exposed flank.
Morrisey wanted his men to use grenades. The natives pulled them from their loin cloths. Each man put his rifle down and got ready to throw. Morrisey waited thirty seconds. He watched the rhythm of the firing and threw his grenade at the instant right before the artillery lanyard would be pulled. His timing was perfect. The grenades went off amongst the seventh and eighth guns just as they fired, the sound masking the smaller bang of the grenades. Japanese soldiers were flung against the guns and shredded with shrapnel. Morrisey grabbed his second grenade and hurled it towards the line of soldier’s backs firing on the ridge. His men followed suit. Without waiting, Morrisey unslung his M1 Carbine and charged from the jungle. He fired from the hip, killing the remaining crew on the eighth gun. His men fired, working their bolt action rifles as quick as they pulled the trigger.
Ahio and his men assaulted the front two guns hurling grenades and firing their Enfield’s with devastating effect. Within a minute, four of the eight guns were out of commission. The Japanese soldiers assaulting O'Connor and Carver were oblivious to the threat. Morrisey moved his men up the line toward the middle guns which were still firing in their rhythm. The guns were the Japanese soldiers only focus; they were oblivious to the attacking natives.
A Japanese loader picked up a 105mm round and was shuffling it to be loaded when he saw a gun barrel flash behind him. He looked and saw dark shapes moving amongst the big guns. They were firing small arms. He realized they were being attacked and he shouted a warning seconds before his head snapped back with the impact of a bullet. The shell dropped from his hands and crushed his foot. He was beyond caring.
Lieutenant Tomeo heard the man’s cry and looked up in time to see his head snap back. He was stunned as he was sprayed with blood and brains. His mouth hung open, trying to comprehend what had happened. He was using his Samurai sword to direct his men. It had been his father’s and his fathers before him, a family heirloom.
Rage filled him as he realized what was happening. He raised the sword and screamed a battle cry, running towards the dark shapes. He was closing on a shirtless black man, a native, he realized. The man saw him coming and raised his rifle in time to deflect the sword blow. Tomeo raised it to strike him down, but was thrown back as three bullets slammed into his chest. He saw the native he’d tried to kill reach down and pick up the ancient sword. Rage filled his chest, but his body wouldn’t react to his dying brain’s impulse. His eyes glazed over and there was only darkness.
Ahio’s man lifted the sword and smiled. He went to Ahio who was putting a fresh magazine into his Carbine and held the sword out to him. Ahio nodded and tested the sword. He swung it side to side. He slung his rifle and pointed to the backs of the
Japanese soldiers still firing on the ridge. Soon they’d notice their artillery wasn’t firing, so they had to attack while they still had surprise on their side. Ahio raised his new sword and ran towards the Japanese line. His men followed firing as they went, shooting the soldiers in the back.
The onslaught from behind caught the Japanese off guard. They were dying, but how? When Ahio’s men were almost upon them they turned and met the threat. The natives were amongst them, using their rifles as clubs. Ahio brought his sword down and cleaved a corporal nearly in half. The finely tuned blade went all the way to the man’s pelvis. He pulled the sword and swung at another man who was squirming on the ground. The blade went through his neck like butter and hit a rock. It sparked as rock chunks disintegrated. Ahio’s blood lust was up. He lunged his big body into a group of soldiers who’d just shot one of his men. He swung the blade from the side like a baseball bat. It caught the first man in the side and went through him, severing his torso. Blood and gore spilled from him as he collapsed. The next man lunged his bayoneted rifle at him and before Ahio could react, sank it into his belly.
Ahio grunted, feeling the pain of steel in his gut. It enraged him and his eyes seemed to shoot fire at the soldier on the end of the rifle. The soldier held the rifle firmly lodged. Ahio lifted the Samurai Sword and lunged forward. The blade sank into the soldier’s cheek, he screamed and dropped his rifle. He stumbled back holding his gushing face.
Ahio gripped the rifle hanging from his gut and yanked it straight out. A gush of dark blood followed and he staggered. He raised the sword to finish the job, but another Japanese soldier was charging from his left with his bayonet aimed at his chest. He tried to turn to the new threat, but knew he wouldn’t make it in time. He braced himself, but the soldier was flung back as a bullet slammed into his chest. Ahio turned to find his men beside him, their dark torsos shimmering with sweat and blood.
Ignoring the bleeding gash in his belly, he gave a fearsome yell and led his men into the midst of the remaining soldiers.
The Japanese recovered from their initial surprise. Their bayonets shone in the morning light. A yell of “banzai” went up and they surged forward screaming.
Morrisey kept his men back at the guns. He’d already spiked two of them by putting grenades into the barrels. The thick barrels had bowed, but not bursted. He hoped it was enough to destroy them. His men were in crouched positions firing their bolt action Enfields into the line of Japanese soldiers with deadly accuracy.
Morrisey watched as the unmistakable form of Chief Ahio charged towards the Japanese line. He had a sword in his hand and his carbine slung on his back. He was yelling, exhorting his men to follow. Morrisey thought he looked like a crazed Viking. He watched as Ahio’s men ran to keep up, but the big chief got to the line quicker and engaged the soldiers who were turning to meet the threat. Morrisey watched as he cut through men like wheat to a scythe. Then he saw a soldier lunge and he could tell Ahio was wounded. It was time to leave the guns and help his old friend. In Pidgin he yelled, “Sasim, sasim!” His men didn’t hesitate. They rose as one and charged.
The Japanese line saw Ahio’s men and were turning to engulf them. The Japanese didn’t see Morrisey and his men until they were on top of them. Morrisey fired point blank into the backs of three soldiers. He stopped and picked off targets one by one. His men were too close to use their bolt actions so they used them as lethal clubs, beating the Japanese soldiers down.
Morrisey expended his magazine and kneeled to reload. A short Japanese soldier leaped up only feet away, screamed and charged, his bayonet leading. Morrisey dropped his carbine and unholstered his Webley pistol in a practiced movement. He rolled to his right, firing at the same time. The Japanese soldier’s bayonet buried in the soft jungle dirt beside Morrisey. The soldier fell to the side, half his face torn away by the large caliber bullet.
Morrisey went to his knee and leveled the Webley at another charging soldier. He missed with his first shot, but as he got closer he connected. Two bullets smashed into the soldier, opening his chest. Before the man hit the ground, Morrisey was aiming at another soldier who’d just bayoneted a shirtless native. Still crouched, he fired his last two shots, but missed. In disgust, he dropped the pistol and picked up the carbine. He slammed a magazine home and shot the man in the back as he was sparring with a native. He didn’t miss and the soldier fell away. The native, Taton, gave him a smile of thanks. His face changed suddenly as he looked beyond Morrisey. His eyes were big. Morrisey knew he was in trouble. He dropped to his left and rolled, bringing his weapon to his shoulder as he came to a crouch. The Japanese soldier was close and Morrisey pulled the trigger in quick succession.
The small caliber bullets ripped into the soldier, but he continued his charge like a crazed bull. The bayonet was inches from his chest when a dark flash from the right knocked the soldier away.
Captain Morrisey opened his eyes, relieved to be in one piece. The Japanese was on the ground next to him struggling to get Taton off him. Taton wasn’t moving. Morrisey pulled his knife and drove it into the only part of the soldiers’ body he could see, his head. The blade glanced off his forehead, but continued downward until it found the soft eye socket and sank deep into his brain. The soldier shuddered then stopped moving. Morrisey pulled Taton’s shoulder to get him back on his feet, but his staring eyes were lifeless. The bayonet stuck from his side, a large pool of dark blood soaked his loin cloth. Morrisey paused, but the fight was raging all around him. He drew a bead on another soldier and fired.
Sergeant Carver burned through his remaining mortar rounds. He’d walked them back to front with devastating effect. The Japanese soldiers were dark shapes running for cover in the predawn light. O'Connor’s Nambu rounds were slicing into the Japanese lines. The tracer rounds left no doubt about their position. The Japanese were firing towards the muzzle flashes, their fire getting more accurate as they crouched and aimed.
O'Connor ducked away as rounds hit the rocks he was using for cover. Dust from the front of the rock filled his nostrils. The fire was heavy. He looked to the prone form of Enop still firing methodically. He was better protected, the only thing exposed, the barrel of his rifle. O'Connor tried to come back to the gun, but the fire was too intense. The ricochets were zinging around his head like an angry swarm of hornets. He gave up and hunkered into the bottom of his hole. He covered his head, listening to the bullets and Enop’s firing. He felt useless. He thought about grabbing his rifle and crawling next to the native, but he didn’t think he’d make it out of the hole without getting hit.
He heard Sgt. Carver yelling, “You okay, O'Connor?”
He hunkered lower and yelled as loud as he could, “I’m fine, but I can’t move.”
“Stay down, don’t move. I can see Morrisey making his move he’s in amongst the guns.” Carver stopped firing watching the action below. The Japanese were moving towards the cover of the jungle, getting out of the exposed clearing, moving towards Carver’s position. They were oblivious to Morrisey’s men.
Now that O'Connor stopped firing, the Japanese didn’t have a target and started spraying the entire ridge. Carver went to his belly as rounds narrowly missed him and thudded into the trees behind him. He grabbed his carbine and crawled forward. There was a large palm to his front and he crawled to the base and peered around the edge. He could see Morrisey’s men overrunning the big guns. The men attacking the front guns weren’t satisfied and continued forward into the backs of the Japanese. In the growing light he could see the biggest of the natives charging forward with what looked like a sword. That big bastards gotta be Chief Ahio.
Carver leveled his carbine and shot towards the Japanese lines. At this range he couldn’t tell if he was hitting anything, but he figured he would help any way he could. The mortar was out of ammo. Even if it wasn’t, with the natives mixed with the Japanese, he’d do more harm than good.
As the attack continued, the incoming fire on his position dwindled to a trickle. He yel
led, “O'Connor, get on that gun. Be careful, our guys are mixed with the Japs.”
O'Connor pulled his hands from around his head and noticed the incoming fire had stopped. He said a silent prayer of thanks and felt his body for any holes. Miraculously he was unscathed. He sat up and dirt cascaded off him. He poked his head up and looked down on the clearing. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was light enough to see the entire scene. He grabbed the handle of the Nambu and checked his ammo, which was covered in dirt and dust. The gun looked operational. He traversed the barrel to the Japanese line. It was easy to discern friend from foe; the natives were shirtless and black. He lined up on a line of soldiers firing their Arisakas. He depressed the trigger, but nothing happened. He squeezed it again, nothing. He pulled on the belt of ammo sticking from the side, but it wouldn’t budge. He stood and pulled back on the breech, trying to clear the jam. He couldn’t move it. He pulled the weapon into the hole and immediately saw it had been hit. The left side had a gaping hole.
“The Nambu’s fucked, Sarge. Took multiple hits.” He threw the useless weapon over the side of the ridge and found his dirt covered carbine at the bottom of his hole. He shook the weapon, knocking the dirt off. He checked the breach and crawled forward to the notch where the machine gun had rested. He sighted down the barrel and found the line of Japanese soldiers again. He pulled the trigger methodically, correcting his aim each time. It was a long shot, but he could tell he was close when the soldiers squirmed and moved from their position. One soldier stood and his back blossomed red. He pitched forward. O'Connor looked to Enop’s smoking barrel. “Nice shot,” he yelled.