by Chris Glatte
“What about this cliff? I can’t keep moving south. We have to skirt it.”
Carver took a deep breath and blew it out. He took a look at the sky and made his decision. “We’ll move away from the cliff and wait for daylight. I think we’ll be able to see Hill 260 from here. I’m betting it’s right there.” He pointed into the gloom. “I’ll bet the Torokina river’s at the base of this cliff.” Crofter looked at him with a blank stare. “It’s the river that runs near the front of Hill 260. We can follow it upstream. It’ll lead us home.” Crofter smiled. “Find us a good place to sit for another hour. Should be light enough by then.”
They sat in the jungle for forty minutes. Everyone except Carver and Dawkins slept. Carver stood on aching legs. “Stay here, I’m going to the cliff, see what I can see.” Dawkins nodded and looked downhill, the way the Japs would come when they did.
As he came out of the jungle, the day brightened significantly, and he looked out over the green expanse of Bougainville Island. It was beautiful despite being deadly.
He peered over the edge and caught a glimpse of water moving past vines. He felt relief flood over him. They were almost home.
He followed the river upstream and saw the bombed out husk of Hill 260. He thought the ugly little hour glass shaped hill was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He figured it was a mile away as the crow flies. The terrain between himself the hill would be tough going though. He figured they had two hours of hard walking, but at least they knew there was an end in sight.
He hustled back to the squad. Dawkins looked at him with raised eyebrows. Carver smiled. “Get the men up. We’re a mile away from hot chow and a nice safe foxhole.”
Dawkins pushed himself to his feet. He moved as if made of wood. He kicked the nearest man’s boot. It was Palmer. It took a number of hard kicks before his eyes flickered open. It was the same for all the men.
Carver helped the Marines to their feet. They swayed like thin willow branches in a strong wind, but they weren’t ready to give up. They shouldered their captured rifles because they were too weak to hold them in their arms.
Carver led the squad to the edge of the cliff, and they walked along it, moving east. He moved slow, not because the men were tired, but because he figured they had to be smack dab in the middle of Japanese territory. If the Japs behind us don’t kill us, we’ll surely run into others that will.
The cliff descended toward the river, and without anyone noticing when it happened, there was no more cliff. They were walking along the river’s edge.
Carver stopped and crouched, watching the water flow past. The rest of the squad crouched. Carver looked downstream. The morning light danced off the surface burning his aching eyes. He pulled his helmet lower and looked upstream. The river’s edge was sloping sand. It looked inviting. He wanted to slip off his boots, wade into the fresh water and float downstream on his back. He shook his head. He desperately needed to sleep.
He took a deep breath and waved the squad forward. Won’t be long now. Their eyes looked hollow in their red sockets. He moved out and heard them follow.
There was the unmistakable sound of a rifle firing, and the sand in front of Carver erupted in a geyser. The men dropped to the jungle floor.
Carver spun to the sound of more firing coming from above and behind. He couldn’t see where it was it was coming from, but knew they were exposed. He pushed himself up and raised his Thompson to his shoulder. “Run, get around the corner,” he yelled.
They ran past him, ducking bullets that smacked the ground around them. Carver still couldn’t see where it was coming from, but he fired towards the ridge. The thumping of the heavy caliber sub-machine gun felt good. He sprayed bullets along the ridge they’d left. He could see rock and soil exploding as his bullets slammed the ridge. He burned through half his magazine before his finger came off the trigger.
Private Palmer ran past him, the last of the beleaguered squad. Carver didn’t wait, he pulled in behind Palmer and ran. His ears were ringing, but he could still hear the crack of Japanese rifles.
The squad followed the river. It curved to the left, and soon the shooting stopped, but they kept running.
Private Sparks tripped and went down hard. Palmer stopped and bent to help. Carver got on the other side, and they lifted the Marine. Carver gasped, “Bend down I’ll put him on your back.” Palmer bent, and Carver threw the Marine onto his back. Carver marveled at how light he felt. Like bones covered in skin. Sparks grunted as Palmer started running again. The rifle on Spark’s back thumped and gouged him with each jarring step.
The squad veered towards the river and were soon out in the open running on the hard sand. Carver didn’t like how exposed they were, but they were moving fast and right now getting to their lines fast was all that mattered.
They were low on ammo. Carver had half a magazine for his Thompson and two clips for the rifle. The others were worse off than him. They wouldn’t last long if they had to stand and fight.
They came around another corner and Carver got a glimpse of Hill 260. The river continued turning away from the hill. They’d have to cross it, or they’d be moving in the wrong direction. Carver yelled to Private Crofter in the lead. “We’ve gotta get to the other side. The hill’s across the river!” Crofter was lost in the headlong retreat and didn’t respond.
Carver yelled, “Cross now. I’ll cover you.” He waited until he saw the squad heading for the river. It was larger than the creek they’d fought in, but the current was slow. It looked like it would be up to their waists at the deepest. He hoped they wouldn’t have to swim. He doubted they had the energy.
The squad splashed into the river and started wading across. Carver was crouched where the jungle turned to sand watching their back. There hadn’t been any signs of pursuit since they’d made the corner, but he knew the Japs were close.
He glanced back at his squad. They were halfway across. Palmer still had Sparks on his back and Dawkins had the other two Marines at his side, helping them along. A couple more feet and he’d move across too. He heard yelling coming from downstream, and his mouth went dry. He yelled, “Here they come, hurry your asses up!”
He saw a figure dressed in the greenish uniform of the Imperial Japanese Army run from the jungle onto the sand. He saw the Americans crossing and went down to his knee and brought his rifle to his shoulder. Carver stepped out from cover with his Thompson firm against his shoulder. The enemy soldier saw him and tried to adjust to the new threat, but Carver was already firing. The soldier flew backward as plumes of red mist erupted from his chest. A second and third soldier burst from the jungle. They’d also seen the Americans and couldn’t stop in time before seeing Carver.
They skidded and slipped, and Carver emptied the rest of his magazine into them. They bucked and writhed as the .45 caliber bullets tore into them.
The Thompson was empty. He slung it and unslung the Arisaka rifle. He worked the bolt action and chambered a round. He saw movement in the jungle and fired. The bolt action was slow, but he got in a rhythm, and emptied the clip. He retreated back to the jungle as he fumbled for another. He heard yelling and screaming coming from the jungle.
The squad made the other bank. Private Palmer and Dawkins were waving him to cross. The Marines and Crofter were prone with their rifles up. They were firing, giving him cover and a chance.
He didn’t hesitate. It was now or never. He threw the rifle down and secured the satchel and took off like he was running a fifty-yard dash race. The hard sand was easy to run on, but when he hit the water, he needed to high-step to keep from tripping. His progress slowed, and he knew he’d be shot in the back any second. Will I feel it?
He kept churning forward knowing his luck would run out any second. His squad was firing, but they seemed too far away. He was too easy a target. He would die in seconds.
Over the sound of rifle fire and river splashing, he heard another sound; like someone whistling a long drawn out note. He thought maybe his e
xhausted mind imagined it, when he felt the thump of a mortar round slamming into the river bank he’d just left.
He was halfway across, up to his waist and moving slowly. The current pushed him, coaxing him downstream. He turned as another mortar shell landed in the jungle. The explosion looked small, but he saw a body flung forward.
More explosions followed. He stood in the middle of the river watching the spectacle. There was splashing to his front, and he saw Corporal Dawkins high-stepping through the water with his M1 rifle held high. Carver shook his head and waved him back. “Get back. I’m alright, get back.”
Carver pushed forward, and the water shallowed, and he was running again. Dawkins met him halfway and tried to assist, but Carver pushed him away. “I’m fine. Let’s get outta here.”
The mortar fire continued. The fire from the Japanese stopped. Carver and his squad were in the jungle moving towards Hill 260. They were breathing hard. Carver couldn’t get control of his breathing, none of them could. Are we dying?
There was another voice to their front and it took Carver a moment to realize it wasn’t one of his men. “Halt. Identify yourselves.”
The squad exchanged confused glances. They had no idea what to do. None of them figured they’d make it back alive. The soldier challenged them again. “Identify, or I’ll shoot.”
Carver took a deep breath and got control. He managed to say between gasps, “Don’t shoot…we’re Americans. Able Company, 164th Regiment, Americal Division.
61
O’Connor jolted awake. For an instant, he thought he was back in the forests of Oregon, but the trees were wrong. Where are the towering ponderosas and craggy scrub oaks? The war and jungle of Bougainville came rushing back when he saw Private Gomez looking at him with his rifle across his lap. He whispered, “Morning, Corporal.”
Corporal O’Connor wished he was back in Oregon, but he’d woken from a dream into a nightmare. He pulled back his sleeve and wiped the face of his watch. It was 0500. He’d gotten a few hours of sleep. He did a silent assessment of his body, there was a general fatigue and soreness, but he felt a little better. He rolled to his side and pushed himself onto his elbow. The ground was wet, and he was too. He sat up and had to stifle a groan as his muscles protested. “Did it rain?”
Gomez nodded, “yeah, hard, but only for a few minutes. You slept right through it.”
That was a first for O’Connor. Must be more tired than I thought. “We gotta get a move on.”
Private Gomez shrugged. “You know where we are? Where base is?”
O’Connor nodded and pointed northwest. “Our lines are that way. We should move out before it gets too hot again.”
“How far you think it is?”
“Couple miles maybe.” He looked southeast, the way they’d come. “The Japs will pick up our trail in the daylight.
“We don’t have much food left, but we’ve got plenty of water.” He gestured to the stream flowing past.
O’Connor dug into his small pack and pulled out the food he had left. Even combined with Gomez’s, there was barely enough for one person to live on for more than a day or two.
They split what they had and decided to eat before moving out. Watching the river flow by as the sun brightened the sky reminded him even more of Oregon. He wondered if he’d ever see his home again.
Private Gomez tore off a chunk of chocolate bar and pointed the way they’d come. “Beautiful the way the rain washed our prints away. Japs would have to stumble onto us.”
O’Connor thought he was right. The rain had turned the strip of sand perfectly flat. It looked as though nothing had walked upon it since the beginning of time.
He looked around the piece of jungle they’d chosen. It was thick with a tiny view through to the river and beach beyond. It was like looking through a green tube. It was a good position, they had a view a long way down the beach, and they were completely concealed.
Gomez finished swallowing his half a candy bar and stood. The sun was barely above the horizon, and steam was rising from the jungle floor.
O’Connor hated to leave such a good position, but they had to keep moving. If he wasn’t pursued by Japanese troops, he could live off the jungle. Their entire Regiment was trained to live off the land if it came down to it, but the Japanese presence was the main threat, not starvation.
O’Connor leaned over to push himself up when Gomez’s body went rigid. O’Connor heard him take in a sharp breath then lower himself down. He whispered, “Japs.”
O’Connor looked through the peek hole and saw figures moving down the beach. They were still a long way off, but he knew it had to be Japanese soldiers. He counted four. They walked close to the jungle, probably looking for any signs of their passage.
Gomez looked at him with wide eyes. O’Connor needed to make a choice. He looked northwest towards freedom. He went over their options in his head. If they moved, they’d leave fresh boot prints in the wet ground. The Japs were searching every inch and would find their tracks. If they stayed put, they could stay hidden, and the patrol might move past them, but then what? They’d have the Japs between them and their lines. He made his choice. He signaled they were staying.
They were fifteen yards off the beach. They’d burrowed deep into the underbrush, and the fresh rain had invigorated the plants they’d trampled returning them to their stout selves. Unless the Japanese stepped directly on them, they’d never find them.
O’Connor pulled his ammo pouch off his belt and set it beside him. He had six more clips for his M1; forty-eight shots. Gomez had seven clips. If they had to fight, they wouldn’t go down easily.
Captain Tagami had his men up an hour before the sun. They ate what little food they had and did their morning duties. Every soldier had the runs. Having a solid shit was a distant memory for all of them.
He gathered them in the lightening jungle. “We will find the lost trail and kill the Americans this morning.” The men nodded taking it as fact as if it had already happened.
An hour later, the trackers figured out what the Americans had done. “They left the trail here.” The taller of the two pointed to a rocky outcropping. “Once we passed they got back on the trail and went back the way they came.”
Captain Tagami nodded and pointed. “Go.” The trackers trotted off with their rifles slapping their backs.
When the trackers got to the fork in the trail, they studied the ground. The brief cloudburst rainstorm the night before made everything muddy. The taller tracker stood to his full height and pointed, “They went this way, sir.”
Tagami nodded. “South, towards the ocean. They’ll be easier to track if they’re on the beach.” He bellowed, “move out.”
It took another forty-five minutes to reach the beach. The trail stopped. Both trackers looked around, desperate to find the trail, but there was nothing. Captain Tagami towered over them with his balled fists on his waist. “Well? Which way?”
The taller soldier looked to his comrade who spoke. He had an annoying nasal voice. He stuttered, “S-Sir the trail stops at the beach. It looks like they used the beach, but the rain washed away any sign. There’s no way to know which way they went.” He lowered his head expecting it to be lopped off.
Tagami sighed and nodded. “Sergeant Chida.” The stout sergeant was at his side standing stiff as a board. “Take two men southeast along the beach. I’ll take the others this way.” He pointed. “The American lines are this way, but they’ve been clever and may try another trick by going a way we wouldn’t expect.” Sergeant Chida nodded and picked out two soldiers. As they stepped onto the sand, Captain Tagami said, “Don’t go more than a mile. If you don’t find anything join us. If you do, come get me immediately.”
Captain Tagami watched them move down the beach. There was a small strip of sand. Sergeant Chida walked on the firm sand while the two others were in the jungle moving slow, checking for any sign.
Captain Tagami led the remaining soldiers northwest. He dropped to
the strip of sand and looked out to sea. The water color was green and inviting in the early morning light. There were no ships on the horizon. He didn’t expect to see any, but he longed for the days when he wouldn’t have been surprised to see a Japanese naval vessel cruising along. He wondered if he’d ever see another friendly ship.
Since the landings, the main American forces had moved beyond the Solomon Islands, leaving himself and every other Japanese soldier on the island to wither on the vine, like a fruit tree without water. The image saddened him. He knew he’d die on this island, maybe today.
He let the men pass in front of him. Two moved along the strip of sand with their eyes towards the jungle. The others moved off into the jungle. If the American’s had moved inland, they’d find their tracks.
With the early morning deluge of rain, any tracks would be hard to find, but it was his only chance. His mission to recover the satchel of maps had already failed. He knew the men he was pursuing were a diversion from the main body and the satchel. He wondered if he’d made the right decision, but he was committed. Finding and killing the Americans would help him feel better, but would do nothing to make his mission a success.
He pictured Colonel Araki’s face turning into a mask of rage at his failure. Perhaps bringing the Americans in as prisoners would alleviate his rage. He decided he’d try to keep at least one American alive.
As they moved down the beach, the strip of sand widened. It was perfectly flat, like a blank page of paper. As the strip widened, the sand softened. The gentle lapping of the green sea and the peaceful sounds of the jungle made him feel like he was walking along a beach back in Japan. No, this sea was warm and gentle unlike the cruel sea of his boyhood.