by Chris Glatte
As Lieutenant Taro approached, the sergeant snapped off a salute. “First squad ready for departure, sir.”
Taro returned the salute. “We leave immediately.” He realized he didn’t know exactly how to get where he was going. “Lead on Sergeant.”
The sergeant nodded and barked, “Echelon formation. Forward.” The men staggered themselves and moved off at an easy pace. Lieutenant Taro waited until half the soldiers had passed then put himself in the middle of the group. He clutched the satchel to his chest like it was the most precious item in the world. The enemy would have to pry it from his dead arms if they wanted it.
They moved cautiously along the road, but kept up a good pace. The road was well used and mostly mud. The constant slurp and suck slowed them down, but they didn’t stop to rest. They came to the gates of the POW camp at noon. Mud encrusted their legs up to their knees.
The camp was well hidden in a particularly dense section of jungle. It would be invisible to any allied air, and enemy ground troops would have to stumble upon it accidentally.
The front was defended by a ten-foot fence topped with barbed wire. On the corners, guard towers manned by sentries with machine guns. The back of the camp was pushed up against the steep hills of the Crown Prince Range. An enemy approaching from there would need ropes and considerable climbing skills, and they’d be exposed.
Lieutenant Taro was impressed. He hadn’t heard anything about the camp and assumed it would be a temporary, ramshackle prison, but this camp looked more permanent and built to last. The guards looked well fed and disciplined. He assumed all the derelicts and deadbeats would be sent here as punishment, as he’d been, but these were professional troops.
As he stood at the front gate waiting to be let in, he thought things might be looking up in his world. He’d assumed he’d be treated even worse here than in his old unit, but maybe he was wrong.
As an officer, he received more food rations than ordinary enlisted men, but even so, he was always hungry. He was quietly optimistic about his new unit with the well-fed soldiers.
The squad stood at attention at the front gate, sweating. A guard had scurried off when they’d approached. Taro saw him returning with an officer in tow, a major.
The major stepped to the gate and stood with his hands on his waist. He was tall for a Japanese and looked like an athlete. Taro guessed his age to be early forties. At twice Taro’s age, he looked like he could outdo him in any athletic endeavor. Taro was by no means an athletic man, but he respected those that were and was in awe of the major.
Lieutenant Taro snapped to attention, clicking his heels and presenting a stiff salute. He hoped to make a good impression. The major had a seemingly permanent downturn to his mouth. He returned the salute and pointed at the satchel he was carrying. “I’ve been waiting for that.” He spoke to the guards and they unlatched the wooden gate and opened it inward. “Welcome to Camp Honsu, Lieutenant. I’m Major Kotani.”
Taro bowed and ordered the squad forward. He entered the gate, and it was shut and latched behind him. Major Kotani reached for the satchel, and Lieutenant Taro handed it to him. Relief flooded through him; he’d completed his mission for the colonel. It felt good to succeed after so many failures. He couldn’t help smiling.
“Something amusing, Lieutenant?”
Lieutenant Taro’s smile disappeared when he heard the menace in the major’s voice. “No sir, just happy to be in this fine camp.”
Major Kotani looked at the surroundings. “I suppose you thought you were being sent to a hovel, somewhere disgraceful.” Lieutenant Taro shook his head no. “I can assure you our prisoners aren’t as pleased with the surroundings.” He turned to the bamboo and thatch hut he’d come from and called to someone. A lieutenant appeared as if by magic awaiting the Major’s orders. “Lieutenant Shibata, show our colleague what we do here.”
Lieutenant Shibata nodded and gestured for Taro to follow. He gave a last salute to the major and shuffled off to follow Lt. Shibata. When he was beside him Lt. Shibata said, “Do you have a strong stomach, Lieutenant?”
Taro looked at him; they were the same rank, equals. “What do you mean?”
“I mean do you get queasy easily? You will see things here that might upset a delicate stomach.”
Lieutenant Taro didn’t answer. As they approached the center of the camp, a smell assaulted Lt. Taro’s nostrils. He put up his hand to block the overpowering stench. “Wha, what is that smell?”
Lieutenant Shibata smiled, showing off teeth that didn’t seem to fit in his mouth. They went in every direction at once. “The prisoners of course.” He pointed to a long wood building. It was off the ground, supported by stones and logs. It was well built and clean on the outside. The smell was coming from the inside.
There were two hard looking guards at the front door. When they approached, they saluted and gave Lieutenant Taro a long look. “He’s our new officer, come to relieve me. This is Lieutenant Taro.” Lt. Taro wondered how he knew his name and decided Colonel Araki must have radioed ahead. The guards nodded.
Lieutenant Shibata gestured for them to open the doors. They did so and entered the darkness to hold the doors open. Lieutenant Shibata gestured for Taro to enter. He went up the two steps and peered into the darkness of the long room. The smell was overpowering, but Taro kept his hand away from his face. He didn’t want to show weakness.
He stepped in past the guards and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He could tell there were people in front of him; he could smell their fetid humanity and sense their movements. The smell was like an open sewer mixed with the tanginess of yeast, or was it blood? He thought he might pass out if he stayed a second longer, but he closed his eyes and calmed himself. He would not let the colonel down again, no matter what. He steeled himself.
A guard lit a gas lantern and Lt. Taro almost fell over when he saw the gaunt faces of men staring at him with bloodshot eyes. The prisoners were mostly white men, Americans he assumed, or possibly British colonists that hadn’t left when the war began. There were a few dark faces, obviously natives.
He stared back at their tortured faces. Their tattered clothes were filthy and hung off their skeletal frames, as if hanging from closet hangers. He wondered how long they’d been here, and how long since their last meal. Their faces said years, but they’d only landed a few months before. They must have been captured early in the battle.
He figured he should say something, rather than staring like an idiot. “How, how many prisoners are here?”
He jumped when Lieutenant Shibata spoke next to him. “We have twelve Marines and three natives.” He corrected himself, “Excuse me, eleven Marines. One died this morning in a pool of his own shit.” Lieutenant Taro nodded, maybe that explained the smell. “They all have weak systems; they die of dysentery quite frequently. We used to have fifteen Marines. The natives are a hardier bunch. They only seem to die when you kill them.”
Lieutenant Taro didn’t know what to say. Was he supposed to inspect them? Make them stand at attention as he walked down their barracks? He wanted to get out of the hell hole as soon as possible. He turned to Lt. Shibata, “What time do the prisoners eat?”
Shibata looked at his watch. “They dine in the mess hall at 1500 hours. They have one hour to eat then they form up for final inspection before retiring back here.” Hearing Lt. Shibata talk about dining and retiring made it sound like the men were on a resort vacation. The contrast repulsed him and that combined with the smell almost sent him over the edge.
He swallowed the bile threatening to disgrace him and turned to leave. “Very well, I’ve seen enough.” He took long strides and stepped into the relatively fresh air.
Lieutenant Shibata stood beside him. He slapped his shoulder with a scarred hand. “You did well, Lieutenant. Most aren’t able to keep their stomach contents contained when they first meet our guests.”
Lieutenant Taro looked at him with disgust. “You tried to disgrace me in front o
f them?” he didn’t wait for a response. “What is the purpose here? Are we interrogating them?”
Lieutenant Shibata smiled his crooked smile, “Purpose? There is no purpose. We aren’t trying to rehabilitate these cowards. These men surrendered, they are lower than the lowest mongrel dog. I have more respect for the natives than these weak Americans.” He rubbed his chin contemplating the question like some dime store philosopher. “I suppose the purpose is to make them suffer as much as possible before they die.”
47
Sergeant Carver had the men up and moving before light. No one had slept. The night had passed without incident. They hadn’t heard anything that could have been the enemy. The jungle was thick. It pressed in on them like something alive. Even laying down on their ponchos was no relief. Their bodies slowly sank into the mud, and soon the jungle wetness seeped into their clothes making them cold, despite the muggy air.
O’Connor didn’t think he could get more uncomfortable as he stood and shook the mud off his boots. He looked around in the darkness trying to figure out which way was north. He always had a good sense of direction, but in this jungle, his skills were hard pressed.
This was nothing like the forests he’d grown up hunting in Oregon. He’d spent the better part of two years in the jungles of the South Pacific, and he’d never seen a more miserable place than Bougainville. We should let the damned Japs have it; it’ll kill everyone on it eventually.
The squad tried to find dry spots while they ate their K-ration breakfasts but ended up standing. No one felt hungry, but they all knew they needed the calories.
O’Connor shoveled a spoonful of what was supposed to be spaghetti. It had a vague ketchup taste, but spaghetti was not what his taste buds told him it was. He wondered when he’d get another chance to eat, not for the sake of calories but the sake of taste. His sparse upbringing wasn’t big on culinary delights, but when something was labeled spaghetti, he expected it to at least be in the same ballpark.
Ten minutes later he was at the front of the squad on point. While it was still dark, the men stayed close. It was too dark and too easy to get separated. He moved slowly, careful not to make excess noise. He doubted there were Japs anywhere close but he’d led a squad into an ambush once before, and he wasn’t going to let that happen again.
A half hour passed and the jungle started lightening up with the rising sun. Back in Oregon the rising sun always dropped the temperature a degree or two, but out here the only temperature change was hot and hotter.
With the daylight, O’Connor realized he was heading northwest instead of due north. He adjusted his course and moved further ahead. If he ran into an ambush, he wanted plenty of separation between himself and the squad.
A point man’s job was to get the squad through the jungle safely, but if the shit hit the fan, it was also to die. He didn’t intend to die, so he moved with caution and trusted his senses. Right now his senses were telling him there was nothing in front of him but jungle and mud. He increased his pace.
The jungle was seemingly impenetrable, but O’Connor’s woodland sense found the tiny creases between the vines. The rest of the squad wasn’t as skilled, but they could easily follow his boot tracks in the mud.
They were making good time. O’Connor had been on point for two hours when he stopped and waited for the rest of the men to catch up.
Private First Class Daniels moved forward. Corporal O’Connor signaled for Sergeant Carver to come to him. The PFC nodded, and went back through the clinging wet vines. He disappeared from O’Connor’s view like he’d been swallowed by a huge green mass of vegetation.
Soon Carver was beside him. O’Connor pointed. The land was starting to rise, leading up to a low hill. It looked like a good spot to lay up for a rest and possibly see some of their surroundings. Sergeant Carver liked it and sent O’Connor, PFC Daniels, and Private Gomez up to investigate.
Minutes later Carver could see O’Connor giving him the all clear. The squad moved up the hill. As soon as they started up, the mud gave way to more solid ground. They went to the top of the hill, and Sergeant Carver told them to take ten. With the exception of two men posted to the perimeter on guard duty, the men sat down. The absence of mud was like a minor miracle.
Corporal O’Connor and Sergeant Carver huddled together looking over an antiquated map. They guessed their position. They’d covered nearly half the distance to the foot of the Crown Prince Range. Carver said. “We’ve come farther than I thought we would by now. The ground’s not quite as shitty as the last patrol.”
O’Connor ran his finger over the map, Studying it closely. “It seems like the ground should rise as we head towards the mountains, but who knows. These maps are shit. I may lead us directly into an uncrossable swamp.”
“Well, if that happens we’ll backtrack.” He slapped O’Connor’s shoulder. “You holding up? You need a break?”
O’Connor shook his head. “I’m okay, Sarge.” He glanced at his watch “I’ve gotta take a piss before we go.”
Carver nodded and noticed Private Gomez. “Gomez, how you at climbing trees?”
Private Gomez pulled himself off the ground and trotted over to Sergeant Carver. He had a Mexican accent left over from his first ten years living south of the border. His parents had legally emigrated from Mexico, and their first order of business was getting their ten-year-old son his American citizenship. He was a short man with dark skin. His black hair complimented his deep brown eyes. He didn’t look like much, but the man could shoot the ass off a gnat at two hundred feet with his M1. “I climbed many trees, Sergeant, yes, many trees.”
Sergeant Carver pointed at a thick trunked tree whose top couldn’t be seen through the canopy. “Get up there and see what you can see.”
Without missing a beat, Private Gomez trotted over to the tree. He looked up from the base for a few seconds, unslung his rifle and laid it against the trunk. He spit on each hand, and rubbed them together, and launched his small body up to the first limb. He went up the tree like a monkey. Sergeant Carver smiled remembering another soldier who’d been a good tree climber, Private Caldwell. His smile faded when he recalled that soldier’s fate.
Sergeant Carver watched Gomez climb until he was into the jungle canopy and out of sight. He kept thinking the little man would look down and swoon when he saw how high he was, but he never looked down except to secure a foothold. He shook his head, crazy sumbitch.
Minutes passed, and Carver sat and leaned against a tree trunk. He angled his head up watching for Private Gomez. He hoped he wouldn’t see him falling from limb to limb all the way to the ground. He was starting to worry that he’d been taken by a jaguar or some other tree-dwelling creature when he saw him coming down the tree almost as fast as he’d gone up.
He watched as Gomez got to the last branch pushed off and landed softly in a crouch. He looked up at the tree and slapped his hands together. He was grinning like a schoolboy.
He looked around for Sergeant Carver and saw him shaking his head. Gomez lost his grin. “Is something wrong, Sarge?”
Carver pulled himself up and readjusted the Thompson on his back. He shook his head. “No, nothing’s wrong, just can’t believe how fast you moved up and down that tree.”
Private Gomez smiled showing off perfectly straight teeth. “I climbed a lot of trees when I was a child.”
Carver expected more of an explanation, but when there wasn’t one forthcoming, he moved on. “Well? What’d you see?”
Gomez dropped to his knee and cleared leaves and sticks from a piece of ground. He smoothed it out and put his finger in the dirt. “This is our location.” Carver stopped him and waved Corporal O’Connor over. When he was there, Gomez continued. “We’re on this little hill. To the north, about three miles is the base of the mountain range. The jungle looks like a carpet all the way there. I can’t see anything except the tops of trees. It’s the same in all directions. I think I could see Hill 260 and also Hill 700.” He pointed northwest.
“About three-quarters of the way to the mountains I saw smoke coming through the trees. At first, I thought it was fog, but it moved more like smoke.” He put another point on the dirt. “I’d guess it would be about here, maybe two miles.”
Carver nodded and cuffed Gomez’s shoulder. “All right, good job. We’ll be moving out soon, pass it along.” Gomez beamed and spun away. Carver called, “Gomez,” he stopped, and Carver pointed back to the tree he’d climbed, “you’ll need that.” Gomez’s dark features turned pale. He went to the tree and scooped up his M1. He looked back and nodded to Carver, who watched him retreat.
He spoke to O’Connor. “He’s a damned good tree climber.” O’Connor nodded but didn’t comment. “You okay on point still? Sounds like there’s something in front of us, could be Japs.”
O’Connor shrugged. “Our mission’s to find that road. If we find Japs we go around ‘em, right?”
Carver nodded. “Doubt natives would be stupid enough to show smoke. From what I’ve heard, they’ve gotten the hell out of the way and moved to the other side of the island. Be careful out there. We get in a firefight there’s no help coming.”
O’Connor nodded. “Seems familiar, don’t it?” he slapped Carver’s back, “Don’t worry, Sarge, I’ll be careful, always am. The men are moving well, I think they understand our situation. We’ll probably have to hunker down another night though, this jungle’s thicker’n snot.”
Carver nodded. “Let’s move out.”
When they came off the hill, the ground once again became a muddy mess. They’d hoped things would dry out with the gradual elevation gain towards the mountains, but it wasn’t happening. The going was tough, and their pace slowed.
O’Connor was out front trying to find the best route through tough terrain. He had to backtrack once when he led the squad into a swamp. He wondered for the thousandth time why the hell they didn’t just leave the Japs this piece of shit island.