The Long Patrol: World War II Novel

by Chris Glatte

  Minutes later he caught up to both squads. They were crouched waiting for him. Carver saw him and raised his eyebrows. O'Connor shook his head, there was nothing following. Sergeant Carver looked to Lieutenant Caprielli, who nodded. Sergeant Carver called to the line, “1st and 2nd squads coming in with wounded.”

  “We heard you coming a mile away, come on in.” They stepped out of the dark jungle into the bright midday sun. They covered their eyes and squinted. The sun was brilliant after the darkness of the jungle. The rolled barbed wire was put back into place once they were inside.

  Lieutenant Caprielli and Sergeant Carver double timed to the headquarters tent. Corporal Hooper was helped to a jeep, thrown onto the hood and carted back to the medical tent near the beach.

  O'Connor went to his hole and sat on the edge. He took off his helmet and took a long pull from his canteen. He drained it and started on another. It was warm and had a chemical taste, but it was the best water he’d ever tasted.

  Dunphy sat beside him and put his head into his hands. He rubbed his short dark hair. O'Connor put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, could’ve happened to anyone.”

  Dunphy looked at him sideways, “What the hell you talking about?”

  O'Connor stared, “Thought you were feeling bad about wounding Hooper. I was saying it could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “Wounding Hooper? He made me fumble that grenade. The stupid spic could’ve killed us both. Getting his ass blown off was what he deserved.”

  O'Connor played it over in his head. He didn’t remember it that way. “You’re something else, Dunphy.” O'Connor ejected the bullet in his chamber and started stripping his M1.

  Dunphy pointed, “You’re a pretty good shot with that thing. Saw you bag those two nips back there.” He kept stripping and cleaning the rifle. “You learn how to shoot like that in the Army?”

  O'Connor wasn’t interested in talking with Dunphy. The stupid son of a bitch couldn’t even admit when he’d almost gotten someone killed. O'Connor was sure he’d say something he’d regret.

  “Stern silent type now? Shit, last night I couldn’t get you to shut up, now you’re tight lipped.”

  O'Connor stopped cleaning and looked at him, “Why you call Hooper a spic? He’s as white as you or I.”

  Dunphy only smiled and shrugged. “He’s a loser, got hit, he’s a spic.”

  “He got hit because you dropped your own grenade. You wounded him, it was your fault, I saw the whole thing.”

  “Really? You sure about that? Sure about what you saw? Cause that’s not what happened. He hit my arm and I dropped the grenade. I’m surprised I didn’t get hit.” He paused and picked up a colorful furry caterpillar. “I pushed him away, probably saved his life.”

  O'Connor couldn’t argue with him there. He pointed at the critter crawling from one hand to the other. “You know this island has a thousand different poisonous creatures that can kill you?”

  Dunphy kept playing with the caterpillar. “This thing’s not dangerous. Look how pretty it is. It’s harmless.”

  “A lot of times the colorful ones are the most poisonous. Their colors draw their prey in, they want to be found so they can attack.” Dunphy flicked it off his hand. “Mother Nature’s a bitch.”

  Sergeant Carver was making his rounds from hole to hole. When he got to theirs he said, “Dunphy you almost got Hooper killed today.”

  Dunphy started to protest, but Carver grabbed a fistful of shirt and pulled him close, nose to nose, “He told me you dropped your grenade. It’s your shrapnel in his ass.” His voice went an octave lower, “You better watch your shit soldier or someone may drop one near you.” He pushed him away ignoring his reddening face. He looked at O'Connor. “Good shooting today. You did good.” O'Connor couldn’t help beaming, feeling like a school boy getting kudos from the teacher.

  Dunphy stood up and walked away shaking his head. O'Connor thought he heard him mumble, “Spic.”

  Carver watched him go, “Sorry to put you with that prima-dona prick. If he gives you any trouble you’ve got my permission to beat the hell out of him.” O'Connor grinned and Carver continued, “I’m not kidding, whip his ass.” Carver stood up and went to the next hole. He turned back, “Keep your helmet close, this place gets shelled regularly.” O'Connor nodded.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The rest of the day was spent fortifying their position. The holes were reinforced with more palms. Soon O’Connor’s hole resembled a bunker, something he hoped would withstand the bombing he knew would be coming. They were dug in on the eastern side of the airstrip and depending on the wind the Marine fighters were either landing or taking off right over them.

  He couldn’t help stopping his work and watching the graceful killing machines coming and going. They called themselves the cactus Airforce but to O'Connor they were the most beautiful machines he’d ever seen. He didn’t know what their missions were, he assumed fending off Japanese bombers and that was a beautiful thing. He wasn’t looking forward to being on the receiving end of another bombing run.

  Their positions were strengthened with the addition of more thirty caliber water-cooled machine guns. They’d already proved highly effective against Japanese attacks by the Marines and O'Connor felt better about their position with their presence.

  As evening came the company stopped filling sandbags and settled down for chow. They were hot, sweaty and black with dirt and dust. O'Connor lost count how many times he’d drained and filled his canteen. The water was from a nearby spur of the Tenaru river. It was silty and tasted terrible especially with halazone purification pills added, but it was wet and cooler than the thick muggy air. Surviving on this island without fresh water would be a difficult task. Fighting without it, impossible.

  As they were eating their K-rations, swatting flies and smashing mosquitos, the quiet was shattered with the sound of a freight train passing overhead. “Incoming! Take cover, take cover!”

  O'Connor looked around for his helmet, it was lying ten yards away, he lunged for it. He slapped it on and leaped for the foxhole. Dunphy was already inside peeking through the slit at him. In another second he’d be safe inside but before he got there a huge blast hit him from behind and he was lifted and tossed like a rag doll over the bunker. He flailed his arms and landed hard, knocking the wind out of him. He lay on his back stunned, trying to get his breath back. As he stared, the dust cleared momentarily and he saw the blue sky dotted with puffy clouds. He was dying and the world didn’t care.

  Across the sky something streaked, seemingly on fire. He marveled at the speed. He watched it arc then land near an F4 Wildcat, which immediately burst into flames. He shook his head, coming back to the world. He remembered seeing his hole fly by beneath him. He turned onto his stomach and started crawling the way he’d come. He could see the outline of the bunker. It was dim through the dust and smoke. It seemed like a million miles away; he’d never make it.

  He kept crawling. It was worth a try. Another nearby explosion lifted him off the ground then slammed him back down. He felt like a toy being played with by an unruly child. He felt something hot on his leg. He kept crawling, ignoring the burning pain. After an eternity which was actually seconds he found himself at the lip of his bunker. He poked his head through, then his shoulders then he fell to the bottom like a slug.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re on fire.” O’Connor didn’t move. He wondered what the man in the hole with him was saying. The ground shook with another close hit. The man pulled his tunic off and jumped onto O'Connor and started slapping and pounding on him. The man had clearly lost his mind. O'Connor tried to push him off but he was too weak, he felt tired and just wanted to sleep. He wanted this maniac to leave him alone. Blackness finally took over and he dropped into a dark place.

  ***

  When he woke he thought he must be dead. He tried to move. The pain lanced through every fiber of his being. He was definitely not dead. “Welcome back, asshole.”

 
He turned his head and saw Dunphy sitting beside him. He was shirtless and so dirty he looked like one of the dark skinned natives. “Wh-what happened?”

  “Jap Navy paid us a visit. They cruised by the beach and shot their big fucking naval guns at us.” He looked around. “You were on fire, your pants mostly. I got most of it out before it got to your skin, but doc says you may have some second degree burns. He rubbed some kind of salve on it.” He bowed his head. “Some of the others weren’t so lucky. We lost Wright, Victorino and Spalding. They’re dead.” He paused and stared as if picturing it, “Along with you, eleven other guys were wounded. You’re wounded the least.” He slapped his arm and O'Connor gritted his teeth, “So consider yourself lucky.”

  O'Connor mumbled, “If this is lucky, fuck luck.”

  “If you’d seen what was left of the others you’d understand. Their parts…they, well you couldn’t tell where one person ended and the other started. Mashed up like stew or something.” He pulled his K-bar out and jammed it into the ground, “Fucking Japs.”

  Another soldier slid in next to O'Connor. He had a red cross on his arm. He dropped his rifle and looked at his wounds. “How you doing, Pal? Glad you’re awake; that’s a good sign.” He poked and prodded, “Think you had a concussion too, along with your burns. Both will heal with time. We’re not able to get you to a hospital ship. Not sure you’d be safe anyway, the Jap navy seems to have taken up residence. You just need a day or two, then you’ll be ready for duty. We’ll get you to the rear for a couple days, just waiting for a jeep…okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but sprinted off to check on more men.

  O'Connor nodded, “Doc sure has a lot to say.”

  It wasn’t long before a jeep pulled up and Dunphy and the driver were lifting him onto the hood.

  The ride to the rear was short and painful. The driver and a medic lifted him off the hood and helped him to a cot. The other wounded men were far worse off than he was; he felt he didn’t belong there. Men were covered with seeping bandages, most unconscious. His wounds paled in comparison. He was embarrassed. He decided he’d take the first opportunity to rejoin his unit. He was taking the medic’s time away from these men who needed the care more than he did. He decided he’d just take a nap then slip back to his unit.

  ***

  Dunphy was back in his hole. Their patrol had run into the Japanese line far closer than they’d expected; only a couple hundred yards. The thick jungle made the distance seem farther. The Japanese would have as much trouble traveling through as the soldiers, but they’d gotten far closer than expected. Command thought they’d be hit any time. They’d put outposts to the edge of the jungle as an early warning system. Everyone was on edge. With O'Connor at the aid station, Dunphy was alone and as much as he loathed the hayseed, he’d rather have him beside him. The kid could shoot. He dropped those two Japs with three shots.

  He was thinking about his predicament when the first mortars started raining down. At first he thought it was another artillery strike, but someone yelled “Mortars, take cover.” He hunkered down as the line of explosions worked their way toward his position. It was like an advancing hail storm, coming at him with purpose. He cringed with every impact. He looked up at the logs over his head. Would they stop a direct hit? Would he survive such a thing? He doubted it would end well.

  There were some close impacts, but soon the mortars passed his hole. He heard desperate calls for medics. At least one soldier had been hit. He wondered who. He heard the L-T call to Sgt. Carver to get the OPs in. Dunphy knew what that meant; a Jap attack. He gripped his rifle and took deep breaths. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He thought about how his boxing coach prepared him for matches. Control the breathing, picture the fight, picture winning the fight, beating the opponent to hamburger. He pictured the soldiers O'Connor had shot, then pictured himself pulling the trigger.

  There was an eerie silence when the mortars stopped dropping. Maybe that was it, maybe it was just more harassment and they wouldn’t attack. The silence was broken as the engines of multiple fighters from the airfield were cranked. They were getting airborne, never a good sign.

  Dunphy peeked over the hole towards the jungle. He saw the last of the OP sprinting back to their original holes. He poked his head higher and called to one, he thought it was Crandall, “Hey, hey Crandall. What’d you see out there?”

  Crandall didn’t look at him but slid into his hole fifteen yards to his right. He popped up, “They’re coming, right on our ass. The whole Jap army.”

  Now their own mortars were firing. The outgoing sounded good. The explosions lit up the jungle. The mortar crews were walking their shots back, giving the Japs their own medicine. Dunphy had his rifle out and scanning. He pulled four grenades off his battle harness and placed them within easy reach. He looked to his right and saw Crandall and Troutman sighting down their M1’s sights.

  The Japs would have to cross fifty yards of open ground before getting to their holes. He hoped it would be enough. The thought of hand to hand combat terrified him. As if on cue he heard Sergeant Carver yell, “Fix bayonets. Hold fire until you hear the machine guns.”

  Dunphy tried to remember where the machine guns were. There were two to his right and three to his left. He was in the middle of the company. He took a deep breath. The mortars were still working the tree line and he thought he could hear screaming. Then there was a whistle and the jungle seemed to come alive. Where there had been nothing now there were green clad soldiers. The shrill whistle kept blowing, carrying on the humid air over the sound of falling mortars.

  Dunphy sighted on a Jap’s chest and was about to squeeze the trigger when he remembered his orders; wait for the machine guns to open up. He didn’t have long to wait. Up and down the line the thirty calibers opened up, their distinctive staccato cadence a welcome sound. He watched Japanese falling all along the line, but for every man down there seemed to be three more. He fired at his man, but the shot went high. The Jap hunkered and kept coming. Dunphy adjusted and fired three more shots; the man went down. He found another target right behind the first and dropped him, a spray of red mist from his chest. Another target, he shot and spun the man around, his shoulder shredded. He found another, but this one went down before he could shoot. The Japs were being decimated by their withering fire, but they were getting closer. He heard pings as men around him burned through their clips. He wondered how many more shots he had and cursed himself for not knowing.

  He fired and missed and his clip pinged. He ejected the clip, grabbed another and slapped it home, just like training. There were targets everywhere. He burned through another clip. He stopped seeing the men he was shooting. He was shooting at uniforms and colors instead. They’d halved the distance. Mortars were still falling amongst them, tearing limbs from bodies, but another couple yards and the mortars would have to stop for fear of hitting their own men. Dunphy went through another clip and slid another home, but before firing again he grabbed a grenade, pulled the pin and hurled it. Before it exploded he had another in hand and threw it. He had his rifle sighted on another soldier when his grenades went off in the middle of a pack of soldiers. They were cut down with hot shrapnel. He could see their red insides exposed as they fell.

  He was in a rhythm. All fear had left him and he was on automatic pilot. Find a target, fire, move to the next. He was in the zone, the place he lived when he boxed, the place where he won.

  All his efforts though were only delaying the inevitable. The Japanese were going to be on top of them. They would get to their holes and it would be hand to hand. He threw his last two grenades and slammed his second to last clip into the M1. The explosions ripped a hole in the advancing line. He noticed Crandall and Troutman scrambling out of their holes to meet the screaming soldiers. Dunphy thought that was a good idea; he’d rather fight them hand to hand in the open. The hole was too constricting, one grenade and he’d be shredded.

  He was about to hop out, but there was a
looming soldier only feet away. He was leveling his long Arisaka rifle. Dunphy didn’t aim, but shot from the hip until his clip emptied. He sprang out thinking he’d be shot by the big man, but when he got out he saw him grimacing and shuffling backwards, trying to keep his intestines from spilling onto the ground.

  Another soldier filled his vision; this soldier bent low running at him full speed, his rifle and gleaming bayonet aimed at his guts. He only had time to jump out of the way. The man flashed by him and Dunphy hit him with the butt of his rifle, sending him to the ground. The soldier tried to roll to defend himself, but he was too slow and Dunphy sank his bayonet into his spine. The soldier tensed like a spring. Dunphy pulled back trying to dislodge it, but the bayonet was stuck in the tensed soldier’s bones. He tugged and yanked, but it wouldn’t come loose.

  He saw another Japanese soldier coming for him, an officer. He held a sword over his head with both hands. It shimmered in the late evening sun, dulled by dripping blood. He gave one last pull then released the M1 and confronted the charging officer. His boxing instincts kicked in. He had to get in close on this guy to keep him from using his sword.

  Instead of backing away from the threat, he charged. The Japanese officer brought the sword down hard, but Dunphy was too quick. He got inside the sword’s arc and the officer’s arms came down on his shoulders. The enemy was overextended, off balance. Dunphy was crouched and once the man was exposed he sprang up hard. His steel helmet shot into the officer’s chin and he reeled backwards. He still held the sword so Dunphy pulled his helmet off and charged him. The officer’s eyes went wide; he was reeling and wouldn’t get the sword up in time. Dunphy swung the steel pot, aiming for the side of his head, but instead it slammed into his neck. There was a sickening crunch and the Japanese officer went down. Dunphy pulled his K-bar, the only weapon available and jumped onto him. He led with the knife and he felt it enter his guts. The sensation of sticky warm blood turned his stomach.