And Fire Falls

by Peter Watt

  ‘You are a smart gal,’ Tony said, taking a bite from his sandwich. ‘I think you’ll be pleased to hear my news.’

  ‘Well, tell me then,’ Jessica said, punching him lightly on the bicep.

  ‘You and I are being sent down to Sydney for a conference with your prime minister and his cabinet. We leave the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘How did that happen?’ Jessica asked in surprise.

  ‘I was asked by the colonel who he should send from the department and I suggested you,’ Tony said. ‘He agreed, and so here we are.’

  ‘But why would he accept your recommendation of me?’ Jessica asked. She knew there were more senior personnel who should have been selected instead of her.

  ‘Maybe the colonel knows I have some things on him he might not want Washington to know about,’ Tony answered. ‘We have an understanding.’

  ‘I don’t think I want to know,’ Jessica said with a smile. ‘But it will be a wonderful break from the four walls of the department.’

  ‘Could we consider the trip away our first date?’ Tony said. ‘We’ll be staying in the same hotel so I can keep an eye on you. It’s standard operating procedure.’

  ‘No!’ Jessica said. ‘You have to wine and dine me before I consider it a date.’

  ‘Maybe that could be arranged in Sydney,’ Tony winked. ‘I have a certain amount of power to do that.’

  They finished their lunch in the park and returned to the HQ. Jessica didn’t know which excited her more – the opportunity to be involved in a high-level conference, or going away with Tony.

  *

  The dogfights over Henderson Field were now a daily event for Captain James Duffy. Early warning from Australian coastwatchers on islands to the north gave the pilots a chance to scramble and meet Japanese flights coming in from their airstrips in Rabaul.

  Twisting, turning and feeling the shudder of his machine guns streaming death into the enemy fighters and bombers was all James had come to know by day, and by night he lay in his foxhole, sweating out the heavy naval bombardments crashing shells down on them from out at sea, as the Tokyo Express made its nightly run down ‘the slot’.

  The battle for the strategic island of Guadalcanal went on relentlessly, with death raining down from the air, out of the sea, and on the land. James lay in the slit trench and felt the ground rise and fall as the huge naval shells blasted down the few remaining palm trees around the airstrip and destroyed the aircraft on the ground. Sharing his trench was a young USMC infantry officer, Lieutenant Guy Callum, who had tumbled in on his way back to his platoon to shelter from the exploding naval artillery rounds.

  James could feel his whole body tremble and his mind was screaming for him to be somewhere else, but the nightmare was real, and he could not wake up from it. Finally the shelling ceased, leaving fires burning, men screaming in pain and the crackle of burning aircraft and supplies.

  ‘Goddamned sons of bitches,’ Callum swore. ‘When are they going to learn that it only pisses Uncle Sam off when they do that?’

  James sat up and peered into the scene of devastation. It was like this every day and night. He groaned, he could see that his aircraft was ablaze and that meant swapping to an undamaged aircraft for the next day. He was superstitious and did not like the idea of being allocated a new fighter plane. His old one had kept him alive, and he knew every nuance of her performance.

  Both men scrambled out of the trench and brushed themselves off. James was just wearing his shorts, T-shirt and steel helmet. Callum was dressed in his combat fatigues and carried one of the new Garand semiautomatic .30 calibre rifles.

  ‘Thanks for sharing your foxhole,’ Callum said. ‘You’re that hotshot flyer, aren’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ James said. ‘I might be grounded come first light. That’s my plane over there.’

  James pointed to the burning fighter plane lighting up the area around it.

  ‘At least you’ll get the day off.’

  James thought about that and was secretly glad. He might even be able to grab some sack time as he could not remember the last time he had had uninterrupted sleep.

  ‘We’re heading up to a ridge with Colonel Edison today,’ the young marine officer continued. ‘We had an intel briefing that indicates we might get hit by the Japs from that direction pretty soon. Well, got to get back to the boys.’

  With that, Callum wandered off into the night, leaving James alone. He just hoped that his tent had survived the night’s bombardment, and was pleased to see that it had. He lay down on his bunk and stared at a hole in the canvas torn by shrapnel. He could see the stars and wondered at how peaceful they were. He could also feel his body trembling uncontrollably and as he drifted off to sleep he wondered if he would be better in the morning. But when he was shaken awake by one of the ground crew, he was still trembling badly.

  ‘You okay, captain?’ the mechanic asked as James slowly sat up and placed his feet on the ground. The man passed him an enamel mug with steaming, strong, black coffee. ‘I have bad news. Looks like we can’t get a replacement plane for you today.’

  ‘That’s bad luck,’ James said but secretly he was pleased. He did not want to admit to himself that he was reaching the end of his tether and at any moment his nerves would snap. He sat for a long time on the edge of his field cot staring across the airfield where ground crew worked amongst the debris of the bombing, retrieving what they could and clearing the area of wreckage. Smoke rose in the blistering heat of the day, and beyond the airfield James could see the files of USMC infantry moving towards the far forest-covered ridge.

  He picked up his .45 pistol and held it in his hands. How easy it would be to end this life of never-ending gut-gripping fear. The devil was the enemy, taunting him from day to day with the promise of violent, painful death.

  James raised the pistol to his head and smiled grimly. Just a matter of pulling the trigger and it would all end.

  He lowered the gun, and continued to watch the marines heading into the hills to take up defensive positions on the ridge. Should the ridge fall, then the enemy would be able to overwhelm the airfield.

  James dressed in his combat fatigues, holstered his pistol and walked towards the distant hills. He did not know why but it was as if the ridge was calling to him and the devil was on his way. He would not take his own life but face him on the ridge.

  *

  ‘With all due respect, captain,’ Lieutenant Guy Callum said to James. ‘You shouldn’t be up here with us.’

  The two men stood in the kunai grass atop the low coral ridge while the men around them dug in with entrenching tools. Below them lay the treetops of a dense tropical forest that provided cover and concealment for any approaching enemy.

  ‘I don’t have a plane, so I figured I might be of some use up here,’ James said.

  Lieutenant Callum shook his head. ‘Goddamn! I could get into trouble if I let you stay.’

  ‘You might note that I am not wearing any rank, and if you have a spare rifle I can join your platoon,’ James said.

  Callum shrugged. ‘I don’t have a spare rifle, but you can join one of my machine gun teams. I’ll take you over to my left section.’

  James smiled and Callum thought that the senior officer was acting strangely. He knew that the marine pilot was the recipient of the Navy Cross, and figured that heroes are a bit eccentric. He found one of his machine gun teams setting up their belt-fed machine gun behind a pile of fresh earth.

  ‘I’ve got a spare man to work in your crew,’ Callum said. He turned to James with a questioning look.

  ‘PFC James Jones,’ James said, dropping into the trench beside the two men with the machine gun.

  The chief gunner was a scrawny-looking kid barely out of his teens, and his assistant a nuggety, dark-skinned man in his mid-twenties of Mexican heritage. They did not in
troduce themselves. Everyone knew it did not pay to get close to a new member when they could be dead by daylight the next day.

  The scrawny kid looked James up and down. ‘You ain’t got a rifle,’ he drawled, and James figured he was from the deep south. ‘That peashooter on your hip ain’t goin’ to be much use.’

  ‘I’ll keep the ammo up to you,’ James said. ‘Need both hands free for that.’

  The southern kid shrugged and returned to bedding in the tripod on which the air-cooled machine gun rested.

  James asked where the .30 calibre ammunition was being stored, and also asked questions as to the layout of the platoon defence.

  His questions were answered.

  ‘Where you from?’ the older man asked when they were satisfied they had finished their preparations. He hardly had an accent and James guessed that he had been born and raised in the USA.

  ‘New Hampshire,’ James answered. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Texas. My gringo buddy is from Tennessee, and we call him the Tennessee Kid. He don’t like us Mexicans.’

  ‘Goddamned straight,’ the scrawny marine said, biting off a chunk of chewing tobacco. ‘All them wetbacks should swim back over the Rio Grande and go home.’

  James had had little contact with men from working-class backgrounds like these two, and was taken aback that such racial animosities existed in the southern states of his country. But he was also confused because he could perceive a strong bond of friendship and respect between the two.

  As if reading James’s confusion, the kid from Tennessee spat a brown stream of tobacco juice over the front of the trench. ‘Pedro here is a marine. That makes him a brother. He don’t have to swim back to Mexico.’

  In this simple statement James truly understood the bond that existed within the corps he had joined.

  Callum returned just before sunset to review the defensive layout. He stopped by the machine gun. ‘You guys okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Got our shit together, lootenant,’ the Tennessee Kid answered in a casual drawl of confidence.

  Callum glanced at James, who nodded. The young marine officer moved on and the night came. James settled back in the trench and wondered what the reaction would be to a missing USMC pilot back at Henderson airfield. At least up here he would see the devil face to face. He just hoped it would not be the three Japanese soldiers he had watched that night on the beach. They had looked and acted too much like himself to be the devil.

  Rations were consumed in silence, and then the night noises took over. James could sense the unspoken fear of his two comrades, but for some strange reason he no longer felt afraid. Maybe it was because if he died he would not be alone – as he would be if he were killed in his aircraft. At least he would have others around him if the devil came for his soul in the next few hours.

  At around 10 pm the devil came.

  He came with the sound of bugles and shouting out of the jungle below, and the .30 calibre machine gun spat a deadly stream of tracer into the night, lit with floating illumination flares. The shells from the supporting American artillery flew overhead and exploded in the jungle below, as well as a couple of hundred yards in front of the defending marines.

  ‘Gettin’ low,’ the Tennessee Kid yelled, and James barely heard him above the crack of small arms and the ear-splitting explosions of bursting grenades and artillery rounds. Acrid smoke poured off the barrel of the machine gun and it stopped firing. James was just about to leave the trench when a shape loomed up in front of their position. Behind the shape was more, and James realised that they were the enemy, who had closed the gap despite the tremendous battering of artillery and small arms. One of the figures was waving a sword and screaming encouragement to the men following him. Already the two gunners were reaching for their rifles and James exited the trench with his .45 in his hand. He swung around and fired a volley into the shape of the leading Japanese, who fell backwards.

  Then a grenade exploded near the edge of the trench and James felt the heat and blast knock him to the ground. He could hear screaming and as he recovered he saw Pedro grappling desperately with an enemy soldier. He was hacking with an entrenching tool at the Japanese soldier, who was armed with a long bayonet. Both men grunted and swore. James was about to go to his rescue when he suddenly became aware of a figure in the dark to his left. He swung around and saw the glint on the edge of the bayonet aimed at him. In desperation he went backwards, firing his pistol until the figure fell. James fell into the trench onto the Tennessee Kid.

  He instinctively knew he was dead. He looked around for Pedro. He could not see him and another star shell lit up the area in front. James groped around and found a rifle. He hefted it up and prayed it was ready to fire. The butt bit into his shoulder as he fired, and when it was empty he dragged ammunition from the body of the young marine in the trench with him. Loading the rifle with a fresh clip of rounds he continued to fire into the night. Sometimes he did not see a target but figured anything to his front had to be the enemy. He was hardly aware that he had been hit when the enemy rifle round found him. The devil had come to James Barrington and had touched him with his steely fingers.

  26

  Waves of agony enveloped James. He rolled over and, through pain-filled eyes, saw Pedro behind the machine gun, with fresh belts of ammunition. The Mexican was firing bursts into the shadowy figures struggling up the hill, and cursing in Spanish at the top of his voice.

  James was not sure where he was hit, but he dragged himself to the edge of the trench to give any aid he could to the machine gunner. Pedro was unaware of his presence, and when James tried to survey the situation he thought, due to the lack of firing either side, that they were cut off. The marine-manned .30 and .50 calibres around them were silent, and the enemy seemed to be streaming through the gaps in the lines – except Pedro was raking either flank, bringing their advance to a halt. The Japanese realised that all that stood between them and full encirclement on this section of the ridge was a lone machine gunner cursing them to hell in a language that was not English.

  James drew out his .45 Colt Browning pistol, and groped for a fresh magazine in a pouch on his fatigues. When he felt for the canvas holder he discovered his wound. A bullet had ripped through the side of his stomach. His fingers were sticky with blood as he released the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. He had hardly completed the recharging of his weapon before a Japanese soldier loomed up on the left. Pedro had not seen him and James could see that the soldier was about to hurl a hand grenade.

  James rolled on his side and fired half-a-dozen shots, felling the soldier before he could throw his grenade. The man fell with the grenade, which exploded and showered James with bits of dirt debris.

  Then there were no more enemy to their front or flanks, and Pedro replaced the belt of ammunition for the gun.

  ‘Hey, Pedro!’ James called. ‘I’m with you.’

  Pedro turned around and flashed James a grin. ‘Got a few of those yellow sons of bitches,’ he said as smoke poured off the barrel of the overheated machine gun. ‘Are you okay?’

  James wanted to say no but he knew that if he did he might distract the courageous gunner from his focus of covering their sector of the ridge. He tried to smile a response but grimaced instead. The pain was terrible and he knew that he could not use the morphine he carried as it was forbidden for gut-shot soldiers to do so for medical reasons. Instead, he pushed a field dressing into the gaping wound in his side.

  ‘Can you get back and get some more ammo?’ Pedro asked. ‘I’m gonna need it.’

  James shook his head and Pedro realised then that his assistant was badly wounded. He left the gun to scramble to James’s side. ‘Where you hit?’ he asked, rolling James on his back.

  ‘Gut shot,’ James said between gritted teeth. ‘Just leave me and get back to the gun.’

  ‘No use now,’ Pedro said. ‘She’s finished
and the spare barrel is broke. I’ll get you outta here.’

  James tried to resist his efforts to get him to his feet but the Mexican marine was strong and hefted him up easily, keeping his arm around him for support. They stumbled in the dark as the firefight continued to rage with the ever-present ear-splitting explosions of the artillery support. Tracer bullets laced the night like deadly fireflies. Pedro was able to half-drag, half-walk James back to an area on the reverse slope relatively safe from the fighting. He dropped him in the long kunai grass.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ Pedro whooped, spotting a .30 calibre machine gun that must have been left by marines falling back. He grabbed it and saw that the previous gunner lay on his back, dead, some feet away. A tin box of rounds lay alongside him and Pedro scooped it up and disappeared into the dark to return to his position. James rolled on his back, and that was the last thing he remembered before the merciful darkness came for him.

  *

  There were voices and the sun was on his face. A corps man hovered over him, and James was aware that he was being treated for his wounds. He was desperately thirsty and begged for water but the medic said that with a gut shot wound he would have to wait. James had needles in his arm and could see a medic standing with a bag of clear liquid. What struck him was the relative silence of the day, broken only by the groans of the wounded being brought in to join him.

  Besides the wounded, bodies were being collected and laid out in rows. James turned his head and saw a stretcher being carried past him. The body had yet to be covered, and with a shock he recognised the face of the brave Mexican gunner. Pedro had obviously died at his post holding off the enemy. But he had also saved James’s life, bringing him back out of the direct line of fire.

  The two marines carrying the litter rolled Pedro onto the earth without much ceremony.

  ‘Hey, give that man respect,’ James tried to shout. ‘He’s a Goddamned hero.’