The 164th Regiment Series Boxset

by Chris Glatte

  To his left was Private First Class Blake. He’d joined them in January and seen a lot of combat on the canal. He was reliable and had become one of the best BAR men in the company. He could accurately shoot the big gun from his hip. He’d seen him hit enemy troops while running too, an unheard of feat with the unwieldy weapon.

  A few rows up, he recognized the sloped shoulders of Private Willy. He was the greasiest kid he’d ever met. His complexion was mostly black-heads. Whenever he smiled, which was damned rare, his face would erupt with mini-volcanoes of puss. He’d seen him scrub himself until his skin was raw and still he’d come out with a greasy sheen. But what he lacked in hygiene he made up for in fighting intensity. The kid seemed to slip into another zone when the bullets started flying. He seemed to be charmed. Multiple times, Carver had seen him bolt from a foxhole and charge headlong into a Jap attack, or into the withering fire of a Nambu machine gun, but he never got a scratch. He hoped his luck would last, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

  He found the other veteran, Sergeant Milo grinning at him from the second row. Carver spat and scowled until the man turned away. He was a quiet, competent son-of-a-bitch that could wield his Thompson submachine gun almost as well as he could. He liked Milo, but found his chumminess with the enlisted men annoying and dangerous. He was a good man under pressure, and he was glad to have him in his platoon, leading first and second squad.

  He looked to his right and gave Lieutenant Swan a once over. He was a new addition, joining Able Company after Guadalcanal. From what he’d seen during the endless training on Fiji, he made mostly good decisions. He could read a map, but he was unsure of himself, often giving orders that sounded more like questions. He needed to toughen up if he hoped to survive in the jungles of the northern Solomon Islands. Carver wondered if the kid had to take a shit.

  The driver of the LCVP leaned down and tapped Lieutenant Swan’s shoulder. He jumped and stifled a yell. He turned to the helmeted Navy man, “Land in five minutes, sir.”

  Swan nodded and looked to Sergeant Carver. “Tell the men?”

  Carver shook his head and bellowed above the engine noise. “Five minutes! Check weapons and gear. There’s not supposed to be any opposition, but I want to see an organized landing. Let’s show these dandy boy Marines how to hit a beach.” The men grinned and looked over their weapons. Sergeant Carver always had a way of cutting through tension.

  The LCVP lurched, and the front gate smashed onto the beach. It was just getting light. The men ran as one onto the beach, went halfway up, spread out and crouched with their M1s ready. Captain Tom Flannigan walked off the LCVP beside Carver’s and sauntered to the crouched men. He put his hands on his hips, his right hand near the handle of his service issued .45 caliber. He tilted his helmet back and looked behind at the approaching Lieutenant Swan and Sergeant Carver.

  He turned his broad shoulders square to the men who snapped to attention. Lieutenant Swan saluted, Sergeant Carver hesitated not wanting to draw attention from unwanted snipers, a lesson he’d learned on the canal. He snapped off a salute, pulling it down as soon as Captain Flannigan returned it. Carver took a half step back trying to take himself out of the line of fire, but Flannigan didn’t notice. He only had eyes for the diminutive Lieutenant. He looked him up and down then leaned in. “These your men, son?”

  Lieutenant Swan looked at the men as if he’d never seen them. “Uh, yessir. My men, sir.”

  “Well, they look like shit. That the way you assault a beach? Good thing the Marines have already cleared the way or you’d be chowder, cut to ribbons like confetti.”

  Sergeant Carver gritted his teeth. His men looked sharp; Captain Flannigan never had anything good to say about anyone except his 4th platoon. Carver didn’t know how Flannigan got mixed up with his men, but the sooner he could get him shuffled back to command the better. Sergeant Carver thought Lieutenant Swan was going to cry.

  “I, I’m sorry, sir. No excuse, no excuse,” he stuttered.

  “You’re damned right there’s no excuse. How are these men going to fight the Japanese? How are they going to keep our proud tradition from becoming a laughing stock of the whole damned division?”

  Sergeant Carver saw Corporal O’Connor start to move from his position on the flank. He thought he better intervene before his Corporal got his stripe pulled. Carver snapped to attention. “My fault, sir. I’ll drill them harder. We’ll whip ‘em into shape, I’ve been too easy on ‘em, sir.”

  Captain Flannigan spun to the Sergeant looming behind him. Lieutenant Swan looked at Carver like he was a lifeboat to a drowning man. He was grateful, but he felt heat pulse up his neck with rising anger at the captain. “See that you do, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Swan tried to look into Carver’s eyes, but he looked at his own feet instead.

  Carver glanced at O’Connor who was still getting to his feet. He gave him a quick head shake. “All right you men, on your feet and double time it up to the edge of the beach.” The men sprang up and ran to the thick jungle and crouched.

  Their weapons were leveled at the jungle. They were all breathing hard, but being this close to the jungle gave them pause. It wasn’t Fiji; this was an enemy jungle full of hidden death. O’Connor nodded. “This is the real deal, men. Stay sharp, and don’t listen to that asshole, Captain Flannigan. We look good.”

  The rest of Christmas Day, 1943 was spent moving the division’s gear from the ships to the beach. The Third Marines were starting to move their gear to the beach as well in preparation for their departure on the same ships the Americal Division arrived on. A smooth transition of forces was the goal.

  Captain Flannigan and Lieutenant Swan went to a briefing by the departing Marine General, Turnage. They entered the open air tent swatting at flies and mosquitos that seemed to feast on the fresh meat. Lieutenant Swan slapped at the bugs in a hopeless attempt to remain unbit, but his skin already looked like a moonscape.

  The Marines clustered in front of their General. The flies and mosquitos seemed to leave them alone. Lieutenant Swan hoped he’d eventually adjust, or would be able to ignore the constant buzzing and biting, but he doubted it.

  He found himself a folding chair and sat down as General Hal Turnage entered. He was a handsome man with perfectly combed hair and piercing blue eyes. Despite the heat and dirt of Bougainville, he looked freshly showered and shaved. The men braced at attention, Lt. Swan knocked the folding chair over making a racket that earned him a glare from the Marine General.

  “At ease, men.” He stood behind a makeshift podium, gripping the sides with tree trunk hands. An aide stepped behind him and placed a map of the island. General Turnage extended a pointer and smacked the area of Empress Augusta Bay. “As you know, we are here. The Third Marines along with the 37th Infantry Division landed here on November 1st to light resistance. Our objective was to push inland a few miles, set up a secure beachhead and build an airstrip here.” He smacked the map again indicating the finger of land poking into the sea. “Torokina Airfield. In early December with almost constant Japanese harassment, we succeeded. The airstrip went operational earlier this month and is currently used by both Navy and Marine squadrons.” He paused to look the men over. “They’ve successfully used Torokina to hit deeper than they’ve ever been able to before. The Nips have brought artillery pieces to the surrounding hills and have struck the airfield a number of times.

  “My Marines have been able to hunt down and kill most of these guns but make no mistake; this jungle is thicker than anything you’ve seen on the canal or that tropical paradise you grew so attached to, Fiji.”

  The Marines in front looked back and sneered. General Turnage continued. “We’ve pushed into the hills to deny the Japs the high ground. This hill here,” he smacked the map again, “is Hill 700. It’s dotted with bunkers occupied by the 37th Infantry. It’s the key to this whole operation. If the Japs own it, they can rain artillery fire on any part of the beachhead including Torokina. The smaller hills to the south are also key a
nd defended, but we expect the Japs to make a push for Hill 700.” He paced away from the podium and clasped his hands behind his back.

  The pointer extended above his head like an antenna. “The nips we’re facing are the 17th Army led by General Hyakutake. The same General that lost on Guadalcanal. So far, his forces have been smart and tough. They use the thick jungle to their advantage and can bring artillery pieces to bear despite it. There are no roads, only footpaths, so they’re hauling these pieces by hand.” He looked at the attentive faces, “These are tough hombres with an ax to grind. The main force we’re fighting is the 6th Division. These sons-of-bitches have been fighting since the ‘30s. They’re brutal and professional soldiers. They’re the same troops that fought in Nanking, China.” He stopped pacing and stared hard at the fidgeting army officers. “Don’t underestimate these soldiers. They’ll make you pay if you do.”

  He returned to the podium and let out a sigh. “My Marines are needed elsewhere, so it’s up to you men to continue what we started. You’ll occupy our outposts and headquarters tomorrow. I’ll expect a smooth transition.

  “Reconnaissance patrols haven’t picked up any unusual activity, so we’re not expecting an imminent attack. You can be sure they’re watching us, but I don’t think they have a sizable force in the area to take advantage of our transition.

  “Some of my men will hang back with you for a day or two until you get the lay of the land. They’ll show you defenses, trails, problem areas, that sort of thing. Listen to them; it’s information that’s come at a price, believe me.”

  35

  Corporal O’Connor didn’t sleep well his first night on Bougainville. The incessant buzzing and biting of millions of insects wouldn’t allow it, so he got up from his cot and with bleary eyes went out to take a leak. He wore his skivvies; his rifle slung over his shoulder. The night was black. He squinted into the jungle as his stream made a puddle in the dirt. There could be a Jap right in front of me, and I’d never know it. The thought made him cut his stream short and unsling his rifle. He held it at the ready and tried to pierce the night. All his senses were firing, but the only sound was the buzz of insect life.

  There was a sudden brightening of the sky, he crouched waiting for the boom of artillery, but it never came. The brightness flared then dimmed. He wondered if he was seeing Mount Bagana acting up. The massive volcano was always spewing white smoke and could be seen from every corner of the island. O’Connor watched the light disappear. He shrugged, if that thing blows it’s top everyone on this island will cook.

  He went back to the tent he shared with the other six men and sat on the edge of his cot. It creaked like an old rocking chair. The deep breathing of sleeping men surrounded him. He envied them. He was desperate for sleep, but knew he wasn’t going to get any tonight. A voice cut through the darkness in a whisper. “You can’t sleep either.” It was a statement more than a question.

  O’Connor laid on the cot pulling the thin sheet over his body as an ineffective barrier to the biting insects. His cot protested in loud squeaks. “That you Blake?” A grunt from PFC Blake. “Nah, can’t sleep. You seen that volcano? Looks about ready to blow.”

  “Yeah, that would shorten this little operation. We could make a break for the ships, but the Japs wouldn’t be able to escape.” He sat up on his cot. “That’s not a bad idea, wonder if our bombers could drop a stick of bombs through the top and cause it to blow?”

  O’Connor smiled picturing the scene. “That’d be a neat trick alright, but I don’t think it works like that.”

  Blake said, “Oh really, you a professor of volcanic activity or something? I think it’d work. I read about it somewhere. It’s worked before.”

  “Really? Where?” O’Connor was suddenly interested; he didn’t think Private First Class Blake could read well and doubted he’d be reading about volcanos if he could.

  Blake continued, “I saw it in a comic book my little brother had I think.”

  O’Connor sat up and laughed, “A fucking comic book? Does that mean you think there’s a Superman living somewhere in the States?” he didn’t wait for a reply. “You know that’s all made up, right?”

  Blake said, “Fuck you, Corporal.”

  From across the tent a gruff sleepy voice, “would you two shut the fuck up?”

  Blake said, “Sorry Sarge.” Sergeant Carver grunted, and his breathing returned to deep sleep.

  O’Connor slapped at a large insect that smacked into the side of his face, closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

  It was still dark when Sergeant Carver’s internal alarm clock went off, and he swung his legs from under the dirty sheet and sat on the side of his cot. He rubbed his stubbled chin. Gotta shave this morning. It would be a busy day moving the men and material to the Marine’s positions. He doubted he’d get another chance over the next few days.

  He pulled on his pants, shirt and laced his boots. He’d gotten new boots right before shipping out from Fiji. They still looked new, but the mud and grime of the Bougainville jungle would take care of that soon enough.

  He stood and stretched. He felt good. He’d slept better than he normally did on a hostile beach. He could feel his muscles relaxing. He’d packed on all the weight he’d lost fighting on Guadalcanal. He’d lost 20 pounds during that campaign. He wondered what he’d look like after being on this shit-hole for a couple of weeks. He slapped at a fat mosquito, and a smudge of his blood stained his arm. Damned bugs will drain a couple pounds of blood before the end of the day.

  He’d been in the tropics for two years now, first on New Caledonia, then Guadalcanal, then Fiji and now Bougainville, but he’d never seen the insects as thick as they were here and they hadn’t even ventured into the jungle yet.

  Most of his veterans had been afflicted with some kind of ailment from the terrible conditions on the Canal. Many had cases of malaria, dysentery and various forms of foot rot. Many had combinations of all those and some were incapacitated and had to be evacuated. He wondered how many men he’d lose to insects and jungle during this campaign.

  A chow hall was set up to accommodate the extra men in the headquarters area. There was a group of Marines standing in line when Sergeant Carver and members of Able Company arrived. The Marines gave them scathing looks and the soldiers returned them.

  The Marines looked bedraggled and skinny, much the same way they’d looked after fighting on the canal. The veteran soldiers could tell the Marines standing in front of them had been in combat. The way they carried themselves, the way they looked at green soldiers was a sure giveaway, but the green soldiers only saw men who looked like shit.

  Sergeant Carver saw one of his bigger soldiers lean down and whisper something to the man behind him. They snickered, obviously talking about the Marines. His men were tough, even the ones that hadn’t faced a Japanese soldier yet. They’d been training nonstop for months, their bodies highly tuned killing machines, but Carver was sure the Marine vets would make short work of them if they brawled. The vets wouldn’t hold back. As he knew all too well, the only way to stay alive in combat is to show no mercy; to come at the enemy relentlessly until either they’re dead or you’re dead.

  The Marine in front of the soldier turned around and looked up at the man sneering down at him. He looked him up and down then nudged his buddy and said, “Looks like this one stayed on his momma’s tit too long don’t it, Lee?”

  The other Marine, who looked to weigh all of one hundred pounds soaking wet, laughed, “Didn’t know they stacked shit that high.”

  Sergeant Carver stepped forward as his soldier, Private Bennett, was about to lunge. Carver stepped in front, and even though he was six inches shorter, his presence was giant. He thrust his thick finger into Bennett’s face. “Stop right there soldier. Don’t do something you may not live to regret.”

  Private Bennett scrunched his head in confusion. He pointed at the smiling Marines. “They’re jar-heads, Sarge, talking shit about my momma. No one gets away with th
at.”

  Sergeant Carver’s finger stayed in Bennett’s face, which turned from confused to angry as he saw the Marines snickering. Sergeant Carver raised his voice so all the men could hear. “There will be no fighting. Any man caught fighting will have to face me, and God help you.” The mess hall went silent. Every man in the unit knew of Carver’s fighting prowess. He’d received the Silver Star for gallantry on the battlefield on Guadalcanal. He was one of two men that survived a twelve man patrol and by sheer force of will completed an impossible mission. Even the Marines knew who he was. He wasn’t a man to be trifled with and every man knew he’d follow through on his promise.

  Private Bennett, the big farm boy from North Dakota, looked crestfallen. He wanted to beat the puny Marines into the ground. He couldn’t understand why his hero sergeant wasn’t letting him. From what he heard Sergeant Carver wasn’t a big fan of the Marines. One of their pilots had killed some of his men on that patrol.

  The Marines turned back around and slapped one another on the back. Sergeant Carver pushed Private Bennett to the back of the line like the big oaf was in middle school.

  Carver joined him at a long table full of Able Company soldiers. Sergeant Milo was beside him. He looked pissed as he shoveled food into his mouth. Between bites, he leaned close to Carver and said, “Why didn’t you let Bennett get his ass whooped? A little brawl might be just what the men need to shake off some steam.”

  Bennett dropped his spoon splattering the brown gravy like substance onto his shirt. Sergeant Milo looked at him and squinted, “Those are combat vets, they’d have killed you if the rest of us weren’t here.” Bennett shook his head not believing any ten Marines, veterans or not could take him.

  Sergeant Carver looked hard at Sergeant Milo. “Those men beat back a Jap assault just a few days ago. They were on Hill 260, where we’re headed. They were attacked by a large force. I heard over 1000 men to their 200, and they kicked their asses.” He looked up and down the long table at his rapt audience. “If they hadn’t held, our reception wouldn’t have been near as friendly. We’d most likely be fighting the little yellow bastards as we speak. We owe them gratitude and respect, not some small town bullshit.” He stared at Private Bennett who lowered his head and pushed his food around his plate.