by Chris Glatte
The crew didn’t make a sound as they traveled along the coast. Every gun muzzle aimed towards the barges except the starboard side twin fifty manned by Seaman Russell. He kept watch out to sea scanning for any enemy ships. He couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder though.
Ten long minutes passed, and it seemed they were invisible to the barges. They were within 10 miles of the beachhead at Empress Augustus Bay. Commander Hawkins knew the barges would be at their final destination soon. They wouldn’t have enough time to get the barges back to safe water before daylight unless they turned around soon. Traveling by day would almost certainly end with American planes strafing them.
He glanced at his watch and pulled his sleeve back to expose the luminescent dials when the world exploded in sound and light. He instinctively ducked.
“Open fire, open fire!” yelled Ensign Hanks. The streaking tracers lancing towards them were met with their own tracers. They met in the middle, and for an instant it looked like they were connected by a light bridge.
Seaman Floyd had been waiting for the barges to open fire, but when they did, he was taken by surprise. It only took an instant to recover. He depressed the top triggers and felt the satisfying chug of both barrels sending hot metal at the Japs. The tracers blinded him, but he kept the barrels steady and walked them through the first barge. Every fifth .50 caliber round was a tracer, making it easy to adjust fire. The barge was being torn apart with the massive firepower bearing down. Suddenly it flashed, and a yellow explosion lit up everything around it for a hundred feet. He saw debris flying through the air.
He kept the trigger depressed and moved to the next barge. This one had all guns blazing, and he could see the big tracer rounds coming at him. They looked like glowing beach balls. He hunched his shoulders as he heard the thumping sound of bullets hitting the metal combing of his turret. He gritted his teeth and depressed the trigger harder as if that would give his bullets more power.
For an instant he felt he was battling alone, trying to suppress and kill the Japanese all by himself. Soon he could see the 20 and 40mm cannons were tearing huge chunks out of the side of the barge. The Japanese must have added steel siding to this one. It sparked, and ricochets buzzed straight up like flaming turtles. He kept sweeping past the doomed barge and engaged the third and final one, but as his bullets started to hit, it exploded, obliterating everything inside. The concussion of the blast swept over the water making waves and slammed into PT 345 knocking the wind from several men.
Seaman Floyd felt the concussion through his eyeballs. He ducked down, the barrel pointing skyward sending a short stream of tracer fire into the black sky. Through the ringing in his ears, he could hear the cease fire order. A quiet passed through, only the sound of the engines purring at five knots. Ensign Hanks yelled, “Sound off.” When no one responded he yelled louder, “Sound off, Goddamit!”
He listened for voices and was just about to call out again when he heard, “Cutler here.”
“Russell here.”
“Floyd here.”
“Smitty here.”
Hanks kept a running list in his head. The men tending the engines were all accounted for as Machinist 1st mate Calvin poked his head up and said, “All accounted for below decks.”
With himself and the Commander, thirteen men had chimed in. He shook his head. Where’s the fourteenth man? He went through the names in his head seeing each man’s face. He was missing their signalman, Gramly. Nausea suddenly gripped his gut. He yelled. “Gramly, where’s Gramly.” No answer.
Beside him, Commander Hawkins tensed, and ordered, “Find Gramly! If he’s on this ship, I want him found now.” They searched all eighty feet, but there was no sign of Signalman Gramly. He got on the radio. “Boat 360 we’re missing a man, cut power and circle back with spotlights.”
Both boats turned lazily back the way they’d come. The powerful spotlights swept the sea. One of the biggest hazards on a PT boat during combat was getting thrown when the boat made a sudden turn. Commander Hawkins prayed that was what happened. He pictured finding the diminutive man cursing as he bobbed with his life preserver. He’d never hear the end of the ribbing.
Five minutes later his fantasy was squashed. Petty Officer Cutler yelled out pointing, “There, something’s over there floating.”
Commander Hawkins followed the light beam and saw a body bobbing in a green life preserver. He was facedown. When they were ten feet away, Bosun’s Mate Smith dove in and came up beside Gramly. In the white light, he turned the man onto his back, hoping he was only unconscious. There was nothing left of Gramly’s face except an eyeball floating at the end of a ligament. Smith reared back and vomited into the sea, the bile quickly spread like a drop of oil.
He recovered and put his arm under Gramly’s armpits and stroked for the boat. The men were there, and they carefully lifted him onto the deck and laid him beside a Mark 13 torpedo. Smith was pulled in a second later. He stood dripping wet, staring down at Gramly. Petty Officer Cutler found a wool blanket and covered the man’s body, hiding the gruesome wound. The men stood around staring.
Commander Hawkins gave the controls to Ensign Hanks who took them without looking him in the eye. Hawkins gritted his teeth. I should’ve engaged them first. There was little doubt based on where they found him, that he’d died within the first few seconds of the firefight.
Hawkins went to the body and kneeled beside him. He took his helmet off and dropped it at his side. He put his hand on Gramly’s shoulder and whispered, “I’m sorry, so sorry.” His shoulders slumped and he bit his knuckle. “Dammit,” he said.
The men stared at their commander. He was tough as nails, and that’s the way they liked him. He’d lost men before but he hadn’t shown outward emotion. The crew shifted and looked one another in the eye. Petty Officer Cutler barked, “Back to your stations.” When they hesitated, he yelled, “Now!”
43
When Sergeant Carver told Lt. Swan about using the PT boats to insert them far enough south to get behind the Japanese lines, he discounted it as too complicated. But the more he banged his head against the problem without a solution, the more he warmed to the idea.
Sending the men south on foot would add days to the mission, days he didn’t have. Lieutenant Swan liked the idea, but didn’t know if the brass would. Nor did he know if the PT boats were even available. They were part of the Navy, what business did the Army have with them? Guess it can’t hurt to ask.
Asking brought up another hurdle. Swan hadn’t told Regiment about sending the squad out the first time. He had the freedom to do what he thought best for his position, but now he’d need to run the whole thing by them. He doubted they’d interfere, in fact they’d be thrilled with the information, but it was another step out of his control.
He’d sent a runner with a detailed note of his intentions. He’d received a reply the same day. They’d look into it and let him know. Lieutenant Swan’s shoulders slumped when he read the reply. They might as well have said, ‘don’t call us we’ll call you,’ like an unwanted salesman. He decided to move onto other projects, like making his defenses stronger. In the morning he organized work teams and would have the men digging new holes and improving old ones with more sandbags. He had two platoons now, which would make defending Hill 260 more manageable.
Around noon a runner came from Regiment. Swan was surprised he got an answer at all, or maybe this was about something else. The corporal said the brass wanted his men assembled and on the beach by the end of the day. More good news, four Sherman tanks would arrive to help shore up his defenses.
Swan called Sergeant Carver, who was overseeing a group of sweating soldiers filling sandbags. He was covered in a thick layer of dust and grime. Swan gave him the news. The corner of Carver’s mouth turned down, and he nodded. “When do we leave, sir?”
Swan slapped his back, and a dust cloud erupted like from a dirty rug. “Right now. Assemble the team you chose and gather your gear. We leave in an hou
r. The corporal there,” he pointed at the runner who was looking around the base as if an attack would happen any second, “Has some drivers with jeeps to take us to the beach.”
Sergeant Carver nodded and turned to tell the men. Despite Lt. Swan’s obvious delight, Carver felt a heavy doom settle over him. Another damned patrol. Thought I was in a line company, not recon. He found Corporal O’Connor who was holding a bag while Private Denn scooped dirt. “Give it a rest you guys.” The men slumped to the ground and guzzled water from canteens. “O’Connor, follow me.” He walked ten paces away and thumbed towards the command bunker. “Looks like MacArthur, AKA Lieutenant Swan got the recon mission approved.”
O’Connor spit a chunk of dirt off his tongue. “No shit? When we leave?”
“An hour. Get the men we decided on and make sure they get their shit packed tight. I have no idea how long we’ll be out there. We’ve got jeeps waiting at the base of the hill for us.”
They pulled into regimental headquarters a few minutes past three. The jeep ride left them jarred to the core. The mud made for interesting driving. The drivers were forced to find harder ground and would fishtail and bounce along from side to side along the narrow track. The tanks that were at the base of Hill 260 had chewed up the road, making it look like chocolate pudding.
Carver was impressed though. Even with the mud and mauled road, the drivers were skilled enough to get them to the beachhead without getting stuck. The last thing the men wanted to do was get out in the slop and push.
Lieutenant Swan was in the lead jeep, and when it swung in front of a faded green tent at HQ, he stepped out a second too early and had to run to keep from falling on his face. He almost recovered, but he tripped on a rope holding the tent secure and sprawled out in front of the entrance.
Feet appeared at his nose, and he looked up to see Captain Flannigan looking down at him in disgust. He had his hands in fists against his hips. “Still as athletic as always, I see. Get out of the dirt Lieutenant.”
Swan leaped up and saluted his company commander. “Sorry, sir.”
Captain Flannigan ignored him and looked at the men piling out of the jeeps. They hadn’t had time to clean up after the work detail, and even if they had their second sets of fatigues were just as filthy. “Jesus Christ, Swan. This is the crack unit you wanna send behind enemy lines?” he took a step closer and recognized Sergeant Carver, Corporal O’Connor and a few of the others. They put up crisp salutes despite their uniforms. He saluted back and spun around to face Lt. Swan. “Would’ve thought you’d pick Sergeant Milo to lead it.”
Lieutenant Swan squinted and shook his head. “Sergeant Carver’s got a lot of experience doing this sort of thing on…”
He was interrupted, “I know all about the canal and the silver stars, Swan. How much you think a man can take? Carver’s tough, but Milo’s fresh. Carver could be one casualty away from the nut-house.” He spoke as if Carver wasn’t five feet behind him. Carver didn’t flinch just stared at the back of his head and concentrated on his breathing. “You’ve heard of battle fatigue, no doubt?” without waiting for an answer he spun back around to look directly into the Carver’s dark eyes. “You got battle fatigue Sergeant?”
Sergeant Carver extended his chest and bellowed, “No sir.”
Captain Flannigan put his hands behind his back and walked around the men, who stood in loose formation. O’Connor rolled his eyes. He didn’t like being treated like some raw recruit, particularly by this Ivy League asshole. O’Connor looked sideways at Sergeant Carver beside him. He could tell by his rippling jaw line that he didn’t like it either.
Lieutenant Swan spoke up in a nervous voice, “I need to be excused, sir.”
Captain Flannigan looked at him like he was out of his mind. “What’s so urgent, Lieutenant?” He said lieutenant like the word tasted like dog shit.
Swan bounced from foot to foot. “Where’s the latrine?” Captain Flannigan saw the beads of sweat forming on Swan’s forehead. He pointed, and Swan ran around the corner with clenched butt cheeks.
There was a moment of silence while the men watched their officer running like a stiff flagpole. Captain Flannigan turned back to them and shook his head. O’Connor’s face was turning purple, and Private Willy was shaking his head side to side with a crooked grin. Flannigan threw up his hands and walked back into the tent. The squad burst into laughter.
The squad of twelve men plus Lieutenant Swan were put up in an unoccupied tent. The cots felt like luxury after sleeping in foxholes. For the first time in many nights, the men slept soundly in the comfort that came with life in the rear.
At 0600 they woke to the sounds of a blaring horn over a loudspeaker. They sat up looking confused; then they heard the distant ‘whump’ of enemy artillery landing on Piva Airfield to the north. They were up and scrambling out the barracks tent running towards the slit trenches they’d found before going to bed. They slid in half dressed clutching their M1s.
The artillery stopped after a few more explosions. They waited for the all clear signal. It came a few minutes later, and the men went back to the barracks to finish dressing. A corporal poked his head in, “You fellas sleep okay?” The corporal had a face that wouldn’t need a razor for another five years.
Corporal O’Connor was closest to the tent entrance. “Yeah, until the rude wakeup call.” The corporal looked confused. O’Connor pointed east, “You know the artillery strike?” the corporal nodded suddenly understanding. “How often does that happen?”
“Everyday at least once but usually more. They’re shooting from the high mountains to the north. They can’t see what they’re shooting at, but sometimes they get lucky and hit a parked plane. It was worse when the Marines first got here. They cleaned them out a little, but now they’re coming back I guess.”
Lieutenant Swan stood up and approached the corporal who was surprised to find an officer bunking with the enlisted men. He snapped off a sloppy salute. Swan said, “You here to take us to the PT boats?”
The corporal looked confused, “No sir. You’re to report to HQ for a briefing.” Lieutenant Swan dismissed the corporal. He turned to Sergeant Carver. “You and O’Connor come with me, the rest of you find the chow line but be ready to roll soon.”
They walked across the muddy ground to the headquarters tent. A sentry was standing outside with his M1 slung over his shoulder. He eyed the three men. “Lieutenant Swan?” Swan nodded. The soldier stepped aside and let them enter.
The sides of the tent were pulled up, but even with the added air flow, it was stifling inside. They started sweating.
Standing with his back to them was a tall officer looking at a large map of Bougainville Island. Beside him was the bullish figure of Captain Flannigan.
Lieutenant Swan cleared his throat, and they both turned. The three visitors saluted smartly. The tall man had graying hair and light blue eyes with deep creases at the edges, and the silver eagle on his shoulders of a full colonel. He returned the salute and gave them a once over. “So, you’re the men going to find the enemy road?”
Lieutenant Swan swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. Standing in front of the regimental commander had him speechless. Colonel Canfield was a legend amongst the troops. Swan squeaked, “These men are going, I’m just along to help with logistics.” He stammered, “It was my idea. I sent them off Hill 260 first, but the Japs are too thick.”
The colonel glanced at the captain standing beside him. He stood with his meaty arms across his chest.
The colonel continued. “It’s a good idea, lieutenant and I think you’re onto something sending them with the PT boys. They’ve been busy busting up enemy barges most nights.” He paced a step to his right. “Using them for this type of insertion is risky. It’ll have to be at night, and they’ll have to get close enough to drop you off. They don’t pull much draft, but there are shallow rocks and reefs all around this island. The risk is grounding them. You don’t want to be stuck when the sun comes up. We’ve thinne
d out the Jap Navy, but there are enough troops around to still be dangerous.”
Lieutenant Swan nodded, wondering why the colonel was telling him all this. If he didn’t think it was worth the risk, why were they here?
The colonel continued. “I’ve passed it by the PT commander, a good officer named, Hawkins. He’s in command of the eight boats we’ve got, and he thinks he can pull it off. He’ll get as close as he can then send you off with a crewman and a rubber boat.” He looked squarely at Sergeant Carver, “You have any small boat maneuvering training?”
Carver stood straighter and shook his head, “No sir. But I’ve paddled around a lot of lakes with my father. I can handle a boat, sir.”
Corporal O’Connor chimed in. “Me too, sir. Canoes and some row boats, mostly on rivers.”
Colonel Canfield nodded. “Well the PT men’ll be able to put that experience to work.” He pointed at the map behind him. “The PT base is on the other side of Puruata Island.” He pointed to the small island off the coast from where they were standing. “They run patrols most nights and usually come in contact with Jap barges trying to reinforce their stranded troops.”
Carver looked confused. “Barges sir?”
The Colonel looked him in the eye. “That’s right. The Japs are cut off from their main supply lines. Our main forces have bypassed this island cutting off one hundred thousand front line troops. They’re slowly starving over there.” He gestured east. “They’ll wither and hopefully surrender.” He shook his head. “That probably won’t happen, but at least we’ve taken them out of the fight.” He paused letting it sink in. “So the Japs are trying to resupply their troops on this side of the mountain range with barges from Biak Island to the north and Buin from the south.”