The 164th Regiment Series Boxset

by Chris Glatte

  Two hours passed and the jungle was black. There was starlight sifting through the canopy, but Carver could only see a few feet ahead. The only way he’d know if the enemy was there, was if he heard them, or they stumbled into his hole. He checked his watch. He’d give Mathews another half hour. He could hear his soft snores from the blackness at his feet.

  He adjusted his Thompson and shifted his feet. He felt the circulation return to his right leg. He hadn’t realized he was standing awkwardly. The coolness and tingling felt good and took his mind off how tired he felt.

  The jungle sounds suddenly quieted. He concentrated on the jungle. There was still a lot of insect noise, but some part had quieted. It was subtle, but his veteran’s ears noticed it immediately. He gripped his Thompson tighter and strained to see into the gloom. He concentrated on his peripheral vision. The soft babble of the now tame creek sounded loud as he concentrated. Then he heard a splash. Not large, more like a footfall. Like someone was crossing or walking along the side and misstepped. He held his breath and listened. There it was again.

  He kicked PFC Mathews and felt him instantly jolt and tense. Without a word, Mathews got to his feet and was near Carver’s left shoulder. Carver whispered, “Something’s coming down the creek.”

  Mathews shifted his M1 and strained to hear. All grogginess disappeared, replaced with alertness. Another sound, this time the barely audible snap of a branch. In slow motion, Mathews put his rifle to his shoulder, aiming over the sights.

  They both nearly jumped out of their skin when the bark of a rifle erupted below them and lit the night with a muzzle flash. Carver had no targets but he aimed in the direction he’d heard the noise and fired off five rounds. Mathews joined in sending his own .30 caliber bullets into the night.

  There was yelling coming from the darkness, then there were muzzle flashes in the jungle. Carver’s night vision vanished when he fired his Thompson, but he saw multiple muzzle flashes coming from the jungle to his front. He shifted his aim from the creek to the new targets and walked a ten-round burst into the night. Mathews also shifted and emptied the rest of his clip. It pinged and he dropped down to reload. “Reloading!” he yelled.

  Carver felt the buzz of a bullet passing close and he ducked down. The two remaining .30 caliber machine guns opened up and for a few seconds the enemy fire was drowned out. Carver popped back up and waited for another flash, but there wasn’t any. He swung his Thompson back and forth, breathing hard. He wanted to fire at the spot he’d seen the flash, but the Japanese soldier may be waiting for that. Mathews finished reloading and popped up again, ready to engage. “Don’t shoot unless you’ve got a target.” He could hear Mathews breathing hard and moving his rifle side to side, but he held his fire.

  The .30 caliber machine guns lowered their firing cadence to five round bursts, ending when the tracer round lanced into the night. There was no return fire. Carver listened for retreating troops, but his ears were ringing. He heard Lt. Swan yell, “Cease fire,” and the guns stopped. “Anyone hit?” There was no response. Thank God, Carver thought. “Stay in your holes, they may be sneaking in closer.”

  Carver dropped down and whispered, “Reloading.” He ejected the magazine and inserted a new one, putting the half-spent mag back in his pocket. Carver rose back up. Together, they watched for anything out of the ordinary. Ten long minutes passed. There was the occasional shot from other sectors. Nervous soldiers seeing ghosts in the night, Carver thought.

  He could feel Mathews tense suddenly. At the same instant he heard the soft thump of something landing nearby. He reacted instantly. He dropped down and pulled Mathews along with him. He screamed, “Grenade!” at the same instant it exploded.

  More explosions thumped along the line. Debris rained down on Carver’s foxhole. There was screaming coming from GIs. Carver gritted his teeth. “Get ready!” Carver and Mathews were inches away. Carver waited another five seconds then yelled, “Now!” As one unit, Carver and Mathews stood up.

  Carver immediately saw movement charging toward their hole. He didn’t have time to aim. He leveled his sub-machine gun and blazed away, holding the trigger down and sweeping the area. The flame from his muzzle lit up the agonized faces of multiple Japanese soldiers.

  Mathews fired repeatedly until his clip pinged. He didn’t have time to reload, the surviving Japanese were charging and would be upon them in a moment.

  He reversed his grip and held the barrel end of the M1. He could feel the heat of the barrel but ignored it. A Japanese was lunging toward his heart with his bayonet mounted Arisaka. Mathews swung the M1 and knocked the lunge away. The soldier tripped into the hole. Mathews ducked and had just enough time to move under the forward part of the foxhole. The Japanese soldier slammed into the back wall. The muddy hole was suddenly crowded and Mathew’s had trouble turning around to engage the enemy. He dropped his rifle and pulled his K-bar knife from the scabbard on his waist. He jabbed and felt the blade slice and glance off the soldier’s forearm. The Japanese screamed in agony. With speed he didn’t know he had, Mathews lunged the blade over and over into the soft flesh, not caring where he hit, as long as it was flesh.

  Sticky blood gushed over his hand. The Japanese dropped to the floor. Mathews heard the final click of Carver’s Thompson. Mathews felt exposed. His back was facing the enemy. He tried to spin, but his feet tangled in the dying soldier’s legs and he fell on top of him. In the darkness he could see Carver’s silhouette blotting out the stars. He was yelling something, but Mathews couldn’t understand it through the ringing in his ears. Then Carver leaped and was out of the hole. The sudden space, allowed Mathews to untangle and stand.

  He scrambled out of the hole. Carver was struggling with another soldier. They were grunting and screaming at one another. A dark shape from the left appeared and Mathews saw the glinting of a bayonet. The Japanese was running at Carver’s back. He’d skewer him if Mathews didn’t act. He still gripped his bloody knife. He lunged forward like a free safety hitting an exposed receiver. He wrapped his arms around the soldier, slamming his knife into his back. It was a solid hit and they went flying into the night.

  When they hit the ground, Mathews released his grip and rolled to his feet. The knife was gone, still planted in the soldier’s back. He couldn’t see his victim, but another shape appeared out of the darkness. The enemy was running to finish the job on Carver, who was still locked up with the other soldier.

  Mathews felt like his lungs were on fire. He couldn’t catch his breath, but he didn’t have time to recover. He launched at the passing soldier and ran into him broadside. The soldier screamed in surprise. Mathews straddled his chest, but he didn’t have a weapon. He reared back his right fist and slammed it into the soldier’s face. He felt teeth break, but the pain in his own hand made him yell. The soldier was dazed. Mathews balled his left fist and slammed it into the soldier’s nose. It collapsed with a crunch and blood spurted from beneath his fist. In the darkness, he could barely make out the soldier’s features. He remembered his helmet. He pushed it forward off his head and in one motion slammed it down into the soldier’s face. The three-pound steel pot clanged and stunned the Japanese. Mathews plunged it down again and again until the soldier stopped moving.

  He sat atop the soldier, his chest heaving, trying to catch his breath. He could see the dim outline of a soldier where Carver had been, but he couldn’t tell if it was his sergeant or the Japanese. The figure stepped his direction. Mathews tried to move off the dead Japanese, but he couldn’t seem to get his body to work. The dark soldier continued striding toward him. If it wasn’t Carver, Mathews didn’t think he had the energy to fight.

  A gruff voice cut through his growing panic. “That you Mathews?” Muzzle flashes continued lighting up the jungle, but the intensity had died down. Carver knelt down. “You okay?”

  Mathews nodded and in a shaky voice he barely recognized said, “Yeah - yeah I’m alright.”

  Carver pulled him off the motionless body. “Le
t’s get back to the hole. Doubt the Japs are finished with us yet.” Mathews tried to stand but his legs didn’t want to cooperate and he had to lean heavily on Carver. “You hit?”

  Mathews shook his head. “Don’t think so. Can’t seem to catch my breath.”

  “Well get your shit squared away, soldier. Come on.” He dragged him to the edge of the hole. He kicked the body of a dead Japanese soldier that was perched on the edge and started to lower Mathews into the muddy foxhole.

  Mathews shook him off. “No, there’s a dead Jap at the bottom. I’m not going in there.”

  There was a sudden increase in firing. The .30 caliber, which had been silent the last few minutes came alive again and sent lancing death tracers into the jungle. Carver crouched. “You got a weapon? My Thompson’s around here somewhere, but I can’t find it.”

  Mathews shook his head. “My rifle must be in the bottom with the dead jap. Left my knife in someone’s backside over there.” Carver nodded and hopped into the hole. Mathews could hear the soft thump as he landed on the man he’d killed.

  “Here’s your M1.” In the darkness he could see Carver holding it up to him. “Muddy as shit.” Mathews reached for it and felt it’s familiar weight. He had to prop it on the ground. “Cover the jungle while I clear this hole out.”

  Mathews nodded and wiped the sludge from the stock and barrel. He felt in his pocket and found a loaded clip. He carefully inserted it and shuffled his feet until he faced the jungle. He wondered if he had the energy to aim and fire. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. He resolved not to give up. He felt a rejuvenating surge and positioned himself better. He searched the darkness for targets.

  There was still fighting in the creek-bed, but there didn’t seem to be any Japs up where they were. He hoped the others were holding the line, or they wouldn’t last through the night. He could hear Carver struggling to push the dead weight of the soldier out of the hole. He grunted and cussed but finally got the body over the lip and rolled him down the hill. Carver spoke between heaving breaths, “I’ve got his rifle. See if he’s got any ammo.”

  Mathews took one last look into the jungle. He put his rifle down and turned to the body. He didn’t relish what he had to do. He was about to put his hands into the man’s pockets when there was a loud commotion from the jungle directly behind him. He knew in an instant it was a charging Japanese. Instinct set in and he dove to his right, reaching for the M1 as he did. He rolled twice then came up onto his knees.

  The sharp crack of a rifle followed immediately by another shot split the night. The blast from the two rifles lit up the grisly scene momentarily. Mathews got a flash of a charging soldier and the bloody body on the ground. The Japanese went down, slamming headfirst into the body. The angle was wrong. He couldn’t fire for fear of hitting Carver. More movement from the jungle. He swung his M1 and fired. The rifle nearly jumped out of his grip, but he readjusted and fired again. The target went down and he pointed the barrel toward the jungle. He pulled the trigger until it pinged. He reached for another clip, but his ammo pouch was still at the bottom of the hole. His pockets were empty.

  Another loud crack from the direction of the hole spurred him into action. He got to his feet and yelled, “Coming in from your right, don’t shoot.” He didn’t wait to hear a response. He crossed the ten feet to where he’d seen Carver shoot. Suddenly the ground was gone beneath his feet and he fell into the hole. He slammed into Carver on the way down and landed in the bloody muck at the bottom. Carver swung the long Arisaka rifle and rested it on his forehead. “Don’t shoot, it’s me.”

  Carver barked, “Dammit! I almost shot you.” He pointed the rifle back out toward the jungle. “Get your ass up.”

  Mathews struggled to find a grip in the muddy sides and finally got to his feet. “Are there more?”

  Carver didn’t take his eyes off the jungle. “Don’t know. Can’t see shit. Be ready.”

  “Shit. I’ve gotta find my ammo.” He dropped back down and started feeling the muddy bottom. It didn’t take long before he felt the half-buried ammo pouch. He pulled and it slurped out of the sludge. He reached inside and found another clip. He pushed it into place and rejoined Carver at the lip of the hole. “Ammo’s dirty, but hopefully functional.”

  They stood shoulder to shoulder searching for more Japanese. After five minutes the firing from the creek died down to the occasional shot. There was no movement. Drifting white smoke snaked around them in the stagnant air. Carver spit. “Think we stopped ‘em … for now.”

  93

  Corporal O’Connor and the men of Hotel Company were exhausted. They’d been in a running fight for nearly two weeks. All O’Connor wanted to do was sack out for a week. He’d found the hastily erected mess hall and found an out of the way corner and eaten a meal that didn’t come from a can. He savored every bite of the meatloaf and fresh bread. Those Navy boys sure know how to cook.

  The rain started soon after he finished eating. He was walking in the street. The cascade of water instantly turned the streets to muddy, impassable little creeks. He sprinted to find shelter, eschewing the military tents for something more substantial. He burst through the front door of a sturdy looking house. The surprised faces of a family of Filipinos met him. Their faces changed from fear to smiles when they saw it was an American GI. They called him in and gave him a cloth to dry off with. He was ushered in and they sat him at their table where they’d just sat down to eat.

  O’Connor was already full, but he took off his steel pot and sat with them. The food was delicious, some kind of sweet meat. Despite having just eaten a full dinner, he stuffed himself with more. The rain hammered outside. The din on the roof sounded like artillery, but inside it was warm and dry.

  He thought about his old unit. He knew they were out in the jungle, lying in wait for the Japanese he’d been fighting along the beach. He looked outside. The gray sheets of rain looked like a massive waterfall. Those boys are catching hell right about now. There was nothing he could do about it, so he tucked into the dessert. He had no idea what it was, but it tasted amazing, some kind of mushy fruit.

  The rain finally stopped. Outside the streets looked like rivers. A real gully washer. He realized it was a phrase his father used. He let his mind drift to thoughts of home. He pictured the little cabin in the woods, the wide, well-worn path that split, one leading to the well, the other to the two-hole outhouse. He remembered hating having to trudge through the wet and sometimes the snow, to take a shit. It seemed like hell to him then, but now like heaven.

  He hadn’t thought of home for a long time. It was an unattainable goal to return there. He’d never survive long enough to make it back. The war seemed to be winding down, it would have to end soon. He shook his head and looked east. Night was closing around the world quickly. He thought of Japan and the thousands upon thousands of soldiers still willing to fight and die to keep him from setting foot on their homeland. He shook his head and wiped the thought of survival and home away. Worst part of the fighting’s still ahead.

  O’Connor woke from his slumber and instinctively clutched his rifle. He sat up from the bed the Filipinos had insisted he use. It was a wood and thatch bed, the best in the house. He swung his feet to the floor and started putting on his boots. Something was happening outside. He could hear American voices yelling. It was a call to form up.

  He was dressed and ready under a minute. He went to the door and looked back into the dimly lit house. The man of the house, Juan, was up and staring back at him. O’Connor thanked him for his hospitality and stepped into the night. The air was heavy with the stench of wet decay. A thin layer of fog drifted along the street. He shivered, despite the warm mugginess.

  GIs were jogging toward the center of town. O’Connor recognized one and yelled. “What’s going on, Duncan?”

  Private Duncan turned when he heard his name. He squinted and recognized him. “Damned if I know, Corporal. Sergeant Flanders told us to meet in the town center.”

/>   O’Connor looked toward the hills and wondered if something was happening with his old unit. He adjusted his belt and trotted after Duncan.

  Once they were loosely formed up, Lieutenant Hopkins addressed them. He looked like he’d been woken up too. “A platoon from Able Company’s found our group of Japs and are in a fight for their lives. They’ve called for reinforcements and we’re it.”

  There was grumbling all around and O’Connor heard Duncan mutter, “Can’t them damn 164th boys take care of themselves?” O’Connor gritted his teeth, but kept his mouth shut.

  Hopkins continued. “Make sure you’ve got plenty of ammo and food, we don’t know if we’ll be coming back here any time soon.” He pointed at a group of soldiers hanging near the back. “Bring the four-inch mortars and all the .30 caliber Brownings we can find. There’s still a Jap force to the south of us. We want all the firepower we can get in case they hit our flanks.” He looked at his watch. “We leave in thirty minutes.”

  An hour later O’Connor was in the middle of the single file line snaking through the jungle. It was pitch black out and every step his boots sank into mud. They were being led by a group of Filipinos that seemed to know where they were going.

  O’Connor heard the distant sounds of fighting. It ebbed and flowed like the tides, sometimes constant and steady then barely a shot. It was impossible to know how far away the fighting was. Sound was an odd thing in the jungle. It seemed to sometimes absorb and other times pipe it through like a gramophone.

  They didn’t try to stay quiet. The ground was slick, and each passing GI made it worse. By the time a halt was called, O’Connor was covered in a thick layer of mud from his boots to his crotch. The line of GIs stopped and weapons pointed into the dark gloom.