by Chris Glatte
The three soldiers listened with interest. They knew the basic strategy, but it coming from the colonel shed new light on why they were there.
Colonel Canfield squinted and crossed his arms. “I think inserting you men to the south is our best option. I don’t think getting there undetected will be a problem. I’m more worried about getting you back. The only way I can see is set a date and approximate time for pickup. The PT boats can’t sit in one place night after night waiting for you.”
Carver and O’Connor exchanged worried glances. Lieutenant Swan raised his hand, and Colonel Canfield nodded to him like he was a student. “Sir, the men could return to Hill 260 directly.” He pointed to the map and approached. “If we dropped them off here and they traveled northeast to the mountains then cut north until they find the road, they’d be closer to our line than the coast.” He motioned to Carver. “They did it once before.”
The colonel nodded. “That sound okay to you, Sergeant?”
Carver looked the map over thinking about the mud, the thick jungle, the enemy soldiers. The distance to the mountains was only eight miles, they could walk that in less than an hour in ideal conditions, but things were far from ideal. He figured the round trip, assuming they found the road where Swan thought it would be, would cover nearly twenty miles. It might as well be a hundred. “That’s a lot of ground to cover, sir, but I think going to Hill 260 instead of back to the coast is the better option.”
Colonel Canfield heard the hesitation in Carver’s voice. Lieutenant Swan did too. He blurted, “They’ve done it before on Guadalcanal, with worse circumstances.”
The Colonel ignored him. “It’s up to you, Sergeant. I’m not ordering you to do it; this’ll be volunteer only.”
Lieutenant Swan started to speak but thought better of it when he caught the colonel’s withering glance. Carver looked at O’Connor who shrugged. Carver said, “Yeah we can do it, but I want enough control to scrub the mission if it’s not working out.”
Colonel Canfield nodded and without looking to Swan said, “Absolutely. You’re in charge.”
The particulars of the mission were worked out by noon. They’d be leaving the following night. They had the rest of the day to consolidate their gear and rest.
At 1500, the squad went down to the beach and met a small motor barge. Carver wanted to meet the PT boat crews before the mission, and Captain Flannigan had arranged for transport to Puruata Island.
They waded out to the barge through warm crystal clear water that lapped against their legs. Sergeant Carver thought what a nice place this part of the world would be if it wasn’t full of Japanese soldiers trying to kill him.
The boat driver was a grimy sailor who gave him a half-assed salute. Normally he would have put the man in his place, but he wasn’t in the mood. He saw Private Willy standing in ankle deep water with his gun over his shoulder.
He gestured for him to hurry up, but Willy shook his head, “Sorry, Sarge. Go without me. I forgot to pack something, and I don’t wanna forget it.” The entire squad looked back at him. He waved, “See you tonight.” He turned and splashed back to shore.
Carver looked at O’Connor who shrugged, and said, “Beats the shit outta me.”
The boat ride took a few minutes. Carver could see the cigar-shaped island was bigger than it looked on a map. They motored around the east side, giving him a good view of Cape Torokina, and it’s vital airfield. There weren’t any air activities happening at the moment but he could see the outlines of fighters parked in the shade of the palm trees. He tried to find Hill 260 to the north but couldn’t pick it out from all the other low hills.
The barge chugged around the corner and soon sidled up to a large docking area filled with PT boats. Carver was awed by the long lethal looking boats. Their low profile, bristling with machine guns and long torpedoes along the side was impressive. The boats looked to be in good shape. The Navy crews obviously took good care of them. At the moment there were no sailors in sight. Must be ducking the heat of the day, he thought.
The barge bumped against the dock between two PTs, and O’Connor hopped out and held the barge in place as the sailor shut off the engine and tied the stern and bow to the dock. The squad hopped out onto the dock. They’d brought their weapons with them, but nothing else.
The sailor led them to the small buildings just off the dock. They were wood structures with Army green canvas covers. The sailor pulled a flap aside and gestured for the squad to enter. Carver ducked down and paused to let his eyes adjust to the darker interior. There were folding chairs set in a line facing a large chalkboard with indecipherable drawings. It reminded him of the highschool locker room he’d sat in before football games back in South Dakota. The sailor waited until they were all inside then said, “Have a seat, I’ll let the C.O. know you’re here.”
Sergeant Carver didn’t sit, but the rest of the men found chairs, unslung rifles and talked amongst themselves.
A minute passed then the front flap opened, and in came Ensign Hanks followed by Commander Hawkins. Sergeant Carver barked, “Ten-hut!” and the men snapped to attention.
Commander Hawkins stepped past Ensign Hanks and stepped in front of the chalkboard with his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a faded brown top with a frayed collar tucked into pants with a pleat that had lost its crispness a long time before. “At ease, soldiers.” The men sat on the metal folding chairs. “I’m Commander Hawkins, and this is Ensign Hanks. I’ve seen the plans for your insertion. I’ll be honest with you, we’ve never done anything like this.” He paused and looked the men over. “I don’t see any reason it won’t work, but I want to do a reconnaissance of the drop off point first. The maps of this place aren’t too good as I’m sure you’re aware, and the reefs surrounding the island are even less well marked. Since we’re not dropping you off until tomorrow night, we’ll do the recon tonight.”
Sergeant Carver asked, “Is it a good idea to go to the same area twice in a row? Basic patrolling procedure is to vary your movements. I’m not a boat captain, but I’d think the same would apply.”
Hawkins exchanged a glance with Ensign Hanks. Hawkins answered. “That’s certainly true for foot patrols, and normally I’d say the same about boat patrols, but in this case, I think the information we’ll get outweighs the risks. If we come under fire or see the enemy, we may have to reconsider the drop-off point anyway.” Sergeant Carver nodded his understanding.
Commander Hawkins continued. “One of my men has come down with a nasty bug, can’t stay off the toilet. He won’t be able to patrol with us tonight.” Carver and O’Connor exchanged glances. “Every boat’s going out tonight, so I can’t pull from the other crews. Any of you men willing to fill in? It’d be in a gunner’s position. I assume you’ve trained on the fifty?”
O’Connor shot to his feet. “I’ll go.” He looked down at Carver, “Unless you wanted to Sarge.”
Carver looked up at O’Connor who looked like a school boy on Christmas morning. “Fine with me.” He shook his head and addressed Commander Hawkins, “He can shoot the fifty.”
Hawkins gestured to Ensign Hanks. “The Ensign will show you around the boat. It’ll be tight quarters tomorrow night. It’ll be important for you men to know where to be and what to do if we make contact. Mostly you’ll just stay out of the way.” He looked over the men and focused on O’Connor. “You may as well stay here, Corporal. We’ll be shoving off at 1700 and be gone most of the night.”
44
O’Connor reported to PT boat 345 at 1600. The day’s heat was stifling but would start turning more manageable as the sun descended towards the sea. He was on the starboard side twin fifty caliber machine gun. It took a few minutes to become familiar with the weapon, particularly how to move it within the mount. He rotated the wheel feeling the ease of movement.
He met the crew. They were scruffy but had a way of going about their jobs that gave him confidence. He knew they were veterans even if he hadn’t seen the eight barg
es and half a destroyer painted on the side of the pilot’s cabin, marking kills. He felt comfortable going into combat with them, but nervous at the prospect of meeting the enemy in such an exposed craft.
He sat inside the metal cupola behind the fifty, but he felt exposed and naked not being able to dive behind a tree or into a foxhole.
The throaty sound of all eight PT boat’s engines starting filled the evening air. He could smell the one hundred octane fuel as it heated and burned moving the pistons in their chambers.
O’Connor sat in the worn seat of the gun mount with his hands on the gun handles. As the boat edged away from the dock, he saw Sergeant Carver watching. His arms crossed his chest and a half chewed stogie was on the side of his mouth. O’Connor waved, and Carver nodded.
Soon PT boat 345 was in open water, and Commander Hawkins pushed the throttles. O’Connor couldn’t help grinning at the sensation of power and speed as the boat went up on a plane and started to glide across the light chopped sea. He’d been on lumbering transports and landing crafts plenty of times. He wanted off them as soon as he was on, but the PT boat was a thrill. He let out a whoop before he could contain himself. He looked back at the commander who grinned and gave him a thumbs up. Ensign Hanks shook his head and leaned in to say something to the commander.
O’Connor went back to searching the horizon. What the hell am I looking for anyway? He decided he’d man his post and do what they told him to do, nothing more.
They went out to sea and waited for evening. As the boat drifted at idle, O’Connor watched the sun melt into the sea. The orange color seemed to dissipate and become a part of the water, like butter melting in a heated pan. The warm breeze and the view made him forget there was a war on. As darkness descended, the short-lived fantasy came to an end.
Ensign Hanks growled, “Alright men stay sharp were heading down the coast.” The engines pushed the boat along at a steady 10 knots. The darkness was complete, and stars shone brilliantly above as the PT boat made it’s way east a half mile from the Bougainville coastline. They zigzagged to throw off any enemy subs. There hadn’t been a sub sighting for months but there was no point taking chances.
An hour passed before the commander turned the boat toward the coast line. O’Connor saw the signalman flash a message to the trailing PT and they turned in unison. Ensign Hanks said, “Stay sharp, watch for barges.” When the island seemed to be right in front of them, Hanks said, “Smitty get to the bow with the sounding line.”
“Aye.” Bosun’s mate Smith went to the bow of the boat with a coil of rope with a 30-pound weight dangling from the end. Once there, he strung the line through an anchor point and ran the rope down with the weight leading. He counted in his head as each fathom marker on the rope passed the anchor point. The weight hit bottom after three marks. The water was eighteen feet deep.
He whispered to Petty Officer Cutler, “We’re at three fathoms.” The information was relayed back to Commander Hawkins and Ensign Hanks. As they moved forward, BM Smith continued to call out the depth. When they were twenty yards from the shoreline, he called out, “All stop.”
Commander Hawkins idled the engine and added power to the reverse engine bringing the boat to a full stop. “Take over, Ensign.”
Hanks took the controls. “I have her, sir.” He turned the rudder and goosed the engine a touch turning the boat parallel to the shoreline. He kept his hands on the throttles ready to put in full power if they came under attack. The other PT boat had stopped to cover their approach and was loitering 50 yards off their stern searching for targets.
They sat at idle as Commander Hawkins walked to the bow. Bosun’s mate Smith still kneeled, the coil of rope in his leathery hands. Hawkins put a hand on his shoulder. “Figure we’re twenty yards out?” He could see Smith’s head nod, but he didn’t take his eyes off the coastline. “I’ll mark this spot on the map, looks like as good a place as any to drop off the ground pounders.”
Commander Hawkins could feel Smith’s tense shoulders. “I don’t like being this close to shore any more than you do.” He turned to move back to the pilot’s seat. Without turning, Smitty backed up pulling the rope with him. He secured it and went back to his station beside the signalman. His sidearm was on his belt, but he felt better feeling the snub nose of his M3 grease gun.
The engines went a decibel higher as they made slow progress away from the shore. The blackness of the island was still ominous. They’d only gone thirty yards when the night behind them lit up with tracer fire. The sound came a second later, the ripping of a Japanese Nambu machine gun.
Everyone aboard ducked. Corporal O’Connor knew the distinctive sound immediately and swung his fifty caliber machine gun around to face the line of tracers. His breathing came in short bursts, thinking the tracers would find him in his lightly armored cupola.
An instant later, he realized the tracers weren’t directed at him, but the other PT boat. He could see sparks as the rounds found metal. Some of the tracers bounced straight up in ricochet, but most sliced into the mahogany side planks of PT 278. They were catching hell.
It wasn’t long before PT 278 recovered and started returning fire. The tracer fire increased from both sides, the light-show meeting in the middle. The fire was thick, and it lit up the ocean.
O’Connor couldn’t tell what was firing, but he knew it wasn’t coming from the island. The Japanese had sneaked up on them in a boat. He saw white water around PT 278’s bow and realized they’d put the hammer down and were speeding away from the threat with guns blazing.
O’Connor had a bead on the Japanese muzzle fire but hadn’t received an order to fire. He caressed the trigger and licked his dry lips.
He fell to the side when the PT’s engines went to full power. He struggled to keep his position, but when the order to open fire came, he wasn’t ready. He struggled to right himself. They were still heading straight out to sea. He figured they’d turn towards the injured PT any second.
He steadied himself and depressed the trigger. The flash from the fifty was intense. He squinted and continued hammering the big shells out. His fire was low, he could see great geysers of whitewater erupting, obscuring his view of the Japanese. He adjusted his aim slightly, walking the rounds into the yellow flashes.
A second later the PT boat swung to starboard directly at the enemy boat. O’Connor swung the fifty, but the cupola wouldn’t let him swing the muzzle into the boat. As the target went out of his muzzle sight, he released the trigger. The twin muzzles glowed a red hot orange.
He raised his head to watch as the big twenty-millimeter gun opened up. Petty Officer Cutler was standing behind the gun, braced and hammering rounds into the now visible Japanese Barge. He expertly walked the rounds up and down the length of the vessel. The barge came apart like a cookie jar hitting a concrete floor. O’Connor watched as silhouettes of helmeted Japanese troops were shredded and flung into the sea. It was over in seconds. Commander Hawkins yelled for a cease-fire and the thumping twenty-millimeter stopped.
They kept their speed, still aiming straight for the sinking barge. O’Connor thought they were going to ram it, but at the last instant, Hawkins made a high speed ninety-degree turn to port. Seaman Floyd on the port-side fifty swept the smoldering remains of the barge. Tiny fires lit up floating debris and bodies.
They flashed by then turned back to sea. The faint phosphorescence from the fleeing PT 278 was like a trail in the dark. They soon came up alongside PT 278 and hailed them. Both vessels slowed and in the calm seas were able to tie to one another.
PT 278 had been hit hard in the first few seconds of the firefight and had suffered damage to the engine room. The hull had large holes in the planks. The lower holes had already been caulked stopping more sea water from coming in, but the reverse engine had taken multiple hits and didn’t function. It wasn’t vital for forward operations, but it would need at least a couple of days for repair.
None of the engine room crew were hit; they’d been near
the bow in their makeshift chairs. If they’d been fussing over the engines as they normally were, there would have been casualties.
Once PT 278 was squared away, they continued patrolling. It was unusual for Japanese barges to be traveling alone. It was also unusual for a barge to take on a PT boat’s superior firepower and maneuverability. Either they’d thought they could disable PT 278 before they knew what was happening or someone on the barge had opened fire in a panic.
They patrolled for two hours before turning back for home. O’Connor was tired. Being on constant vigil through the night was exhausting. He was far more on edge than he would have been in the jungle, an environment he was on intimate terms with. The wide open sea with its unknown dangers and sparse cover made him nervous.
The ride back was uneventful. They pulled into the docks of Puruata Island at 0400. The sky was still dark, but there was a hint of the coming day on the horizon. When the boat docked, he came out of the cupola he’d been sitting in for the past few hours and stepped onto the dock.
An immense feeling of relief swept through him, and he knew why sailors sometimes kissed the ground after being at sea for long periods of time. He’d only been out a couple of hours, and it was all he could do not to drop and give mother earth a sloppy kiss.
He stretched from side to side. He groaned as his stiff muscles protested. Commander Hawkins came up beside him. “You did well out there, Corporal.”
O’Connor cringed not used to praise from the brass. He stammered, “Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll make a sailor out of you yet.”
O’Connor gave him an exaggerated head shake, “No sir, no way.” He thumbed towards the docked PT, “The boat’s great, but I felt like I had a target painted on my chest. Give me the jungle with plenty of stuff to hide behind over that any day, sir.”