The Long Patrol: World War II Novel

by Chris Glatte

  “You’ve been out for a couple hours I guess. Hooper brought you back here then found the platoon. That’s how I knew where you were. You’re back at the aid station.”

  O'Connor closed his eyes. “Are you wounded?”

  “Nah, not really, couple scratches. After the attack they pulled our platoon off the line. Guess they thought we needed some rest.” He gestured behind him, but in the low light it was lost on O'Connor, “We’re camped over there, near where we landed.”

  “What you doing here?”

  “Like I said, I was in the area. Thought I’d check on you. Something wrong with a guy checking on his squad-mate?”

  O'Connor forced his head to look over, “No, guess not. Just didn’t figure you’d be the one to do it.”

  Dunphy stood up and slung his rifle. He picked up his helmet and put it on. “Yeah well, I wasn’t doing anything else.”

  As he walked out O'Connor said, “Hey, Dunphy.” He stopped and looked back, “Thanks for stopping by.” Dunphy nodded and walked back to his bivouac area.

  ***

  The Japanese Air Force bombed the airfield again that night, but the sound and rumble seemed distant and far away, almost harmless. O'Connor opened his eyes at first light, feeling like he’d slept for days. He felt good for the first time in a long while. He figured he got eight or nine hours of sleep, which didn’t seem like nearly enough, but his body felt good.

  A medic was working on the man beside him. He got his attention. “Hey, when am I getting out of here?”

  The medic startled and looked at him, “Damn, you’re finally awake. Never seen anyone able to sleep through so much noise. Thought something was wrong with you. Thought maybe you’d gone into a coma or something.”

  O'Connor sat up on his elbows, “What’re you talking about? I just fell asleep a couple hours ago.”

  The medic grinned and shook his head. He came over and lifted the blanket to look at his burns. “You’ve been asleep for two days. The battle was three days ago. You’ve slept through four air raids and one naval bombardment. Pretty damned impressive.”

  O'Connor shook his head, “What? I’ve gotta get outta here. Where’s my unit? I’ve gotta rejoin my unit.”

  “Well your wounds aren’t healed, but between you sleeping and the burn salve, it’s looking pretty good. You can stay another couple days, but if you wanted to go now I’ll bet the doc will approve.”

  O'Connor whipped the sheets off and swung to a sitting position. When his feet hit the floor he felt dizzy. He put his head in his hands and waited for the world to stop spinning. “Take it easy. Your body took a hit, so take it slow or you’ll end up back here in a hurry.” He went to the foot of the cot and handed him his pants. “That stunt you pulled, you know during the attack? Pretty stupid.” He pointed to another medic making rounds down the other aisle, “Gerry said you and that corporal, the one gave me this,” he pointed to the remnants of a black eye, “Killed some nips coming straight for the aid station. Said you two probably saved our bacon.”

  O'Connor remembered the skirmish. It seemed like a long time ago. He pictured the two charging Japs lined up in his sights, the way they looked when his bullets tore into them. They’d been flung back like rag dolls.

  When he felt better he pulled his pants on, careful not to scrape along the bandages. The medic said, “Doc hasn’t given you the okay to leave. You may be jumping the gun.”

  O'Connor continued to dress, pulling on his dirty t-shirt. “Not waiting for the okay, just gonna walk out of here. I’m fine.”

  “You can’t go against a direct order; you’ll spend the war in Leavenworth.”

  “Then you better get the doc in here to release me before I up and leave.”

  The tent flap opened and a man dressed in a filthy white apron walked in. He was drying his hand on a towel. He was tall and wore Captain’s bars on his shoulders. He stopped at the entrance letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. The medic looked up, “You’re in luck, that’s him. That’s Captain Wolski, he’s a surgeon. He can release you.”

  O'Connor got to his feet. He felt unsteady, but he willed himself to attention, determined to show the captain he was good to go. The medic raised a hand and got his attention. He waved him over. As he approached O'Connor snapped to attention and gave him a crisp salute.

  Captain Wolski gave him a lazy salute back, “At ease soldier.” He looked him up and down, “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes Sir, back to my unit, Sir.”

  Wolski nodded and looked at the medic who shrugged. “Have a seat soldier.” O'Connor sat, wincing as the skin around his burns tightened. “You can stand a few more days here, Son. Your body’s still healing. Another day or two would do wonders for you.”

  O'Connor replied, “With all due respect Sir, I’d like to get back to my unit. I feel fine, I’m ready for duty.”

  Wolski put up his hands in surrender, “Alright, alright, it’s against my better judgment, but I’ll allow it only because you probably saved our asses the other day.”

  O'Connor went to stand, but the Captain pushed him back down. “Now listen, that wound could get infected in this jungle environment. You need to keep it clean and change the bandage at least once a day. This is important. I don’t want to see you back here in a week with a septic leg I need to amputate. Fact is, I was going to release you today anyway. the division’s short men and the outcome of this misadventure’s still uncertain.”

  O'Connor stood up and this time Captain Wolski let him. O'Connor saluted and Wolski gave him a crisp salute back. “Good luck, Son and good hunting.”

  ***

  O'Connor walked with a slight limp, but with each step he felt better. He guessed it was loosening up. The day was bright and sweltering hot. Sweat was pouring off him. The aid station had been hot, but the direct sun pounding on his green uniform made him feel like an ant under his ten-year-old year old sister’s magnifying glass.

  He flagged a passing jeep and asked where Baker Company was bivouacked. The driver told him to hop in; he was going there now. He threw his pack in the back and took the empty front seat, his rifle propped between his knees.

  The jeep driver looked him over, “You been at the aid station?”

  “How’d you know?”

  He shrugged, “I don’t know you’ve got that antiseptic smell I guess.”

  “Sorry ‘bout that. I’ve been out of it a few days. What’s the situation?”

  He steered around a large mud hole, the Willie’s jeep bounced over ruts sending shots of pain throughout O'Connors’ body. The driver said, “Shitty. We stopped the Japs from overrunning Henderson, but now they’re giving the 1st Marines hell again. They’ve been probing the last day or two. The brass thinks they’re trying to run their tanks up the coast road straight to the airfield. We’re planning something, maybe our own assault.”

  “With the Marines?”

  He shook his head, “Scuttlebutt says they’re too tired for an assault. It’ll probably be us, the 164th.”

  O'Connor pondered that. Would his injury make it hard for him to move through the jungle? He thought he’d be fine sitting in a foxhole, but how would his wound feel if he was forced to walk and run on it? He guessed he’d find out soon enough.

  The jeep braked to a halt and the driver pointed, “There’s the CP, they’ll know where you belong.”

  O'Connor waved and approached the tent. He stuck his head in and a sergeant sitting behind a card table looked up at him, “What can I do for you?”

  O'Connor thought he recognized him, but couldn’t place his name. “Private O'Connor reporting for duty. I’m in 2nd squad, Baker Company.”

  The sergeant looked at him closer, “You the guy who took out those Japs heading for the aid station?”

  O'Connor looked down, “I wasn’t alone and why does everybody keep bringing it up?”

  “Yeah, Corporal Hooper was with you.” He looked sideways at him, “You mean you don’t know?” O'Connor only star
ed. “Those Japs were carrying satchel charges. The big sergeant had a diagram of the entire area and a big red X marked over the aid station. Those savages were gonna blow it up sure as shit, but you and Hooper stopped ‘em.”

  O'Connor felt embarrassed with the praise. The sergeant continued, “The LT’s not here, but I’m sure he’ll want you back with your squad.” He pointed, “2nds over there somewhere, maybe two hundred yards.” He grinned, “Just listen for Sergeant Carver’s voice, he’s always chewing someone out.”

  “Thanks Sarge.” O'Connor walked down the line of tents searching for his squad-mates. He recognized Private Troutman sitting outside drying his socks over a pathetic fire. “Hey, there you guys are.”

  Troutman looked up from his chore, “Well shit. Look who it is.” He leaned into the tent, “Red’s returned from the dead.”

  O'Connor punched Troutman’s arm as he entered the tent. The smell of rotting feet and sour bodies struck him. He’d only been gone a couple days, but they looked like different men. Someone grabbed him around the neck as he entered and gave him a noogie. “Welcome back, asshole.” It was Private Crandall, but he had a set of stripes on his arm, Corporal Crandall.

  O'Connor shucked him off, “Whoa, corporal huh? You must’ve blown the right guy.” Crandall punched him in the arm. “You guys miss me?”

  He went over and slung his gear onto an empty cot. “You guys are living in high style. Cots?”

  The man in the cot next to him pulled the sheet from his face, “They figured we needed a break after the other day.”

  The mood sobered as each man remembered the Japanese attack. O'Connor sat down and looked at the man. It was Dunphy. He looked like he’d lost weight and his skin was pale. He lit a cigarette and took a long pull. He blew smoke towards O'Connor. O'Connor nodded through the blue haze, “Yeah, I heard.”

  As dusk was descending there was another air raid siren. They rolled off their cots, grabbed their rifles and trotted to the slit trenches behind the tent line. The Japanese bombers normally attacked the airfield, but you never knew if they’d switch things up and go after the beach.

  O'Connor was next to Dunphy as the bombs dropped around Henderson. Dunphy lit a cigarette and offered O'Connor a puff. He took a long drag and blew it out. O'Connor stood up and put his head on the side of the hole. “The attack the other day…heard it was bad.”

  Dunphy didn’t respond at first. O'Connor let the time pass, he’d talk if he wanted to. O'Connor sat next to him. Dunphy blew smoke out his nose and nodded. “Yeah, bad as it gets I guess.” He kept smoking. It was all he was going to get out of him.

  ***

  Their sleep was interrupted one more time during the night by an artillery barrage, but it wasn’t aimed at them. At first light Sgt. Carver stormed into the tent and in his booming voice yelled for them to form up in ten minutes.

  They stood at parade rest with the rest of the company as Captain Blade addressed them. “Men, the 164th is moving up the line to support the 1st Marines. We’re expecting the Japs to try another thrust from the east. We’re expecting them to run infantry supported by tanks up the coast road. That’s good tank country and we’re sure they still have em. The 1st Marines need assistance on their right flank and were going to provide it.” He let that sink in. “The rest of the day will be spent moving and digging in. Your sergeants will fill you in on the specifics.” He paced, “The Japs tested us and we rose and beat them back decisively, but they’ve still got a lot of fight left in ‘em. Have no doubt we’ll be in for more of the same. You men performed marvelously and I’ll expect the same in the coming weeks and months.” He put his hands on his hips and squared up, “That is all.”

  The sergeants dismissed them and they melted back to their tents to collect their gear. As they were packing, Private First Class Morgan said, “What’s with that guy? Is that really his name? I mean Captain Blade sounds like some comic book hero or something.”

  Corporal Hooper spoke up, “I don’t care if his name’s Captain Marvelous. He’s a good officer, cares about us. Can’t say the same about the LT.”

  Dunphy laughed, “Don’t get me started on that guy. Heard he never ventured from his hole during the attack, just cowered.”

  They collected their gear and went back to the main supply area to meet up with their transports. As they were standing beside the truck waiting to load, a man in white knee high socks, clean khaki shorts and shirt and a floppy jungle hat walked past holding his head high. The men watched him walk by, staring like he was something from another planet. Private Mcdougal in his flat Midwestern tone said, “Who in the hell is that?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Thomas Welch walked past the green clad soldiers with his chin held high. He’d show them how a proper Englishman carried himself even out here. He’d kept this clean change of clothes buried deep in his pack for this day. The day he came out of the bush and presented himself to the Americans.

  He sauntered up to a man with sergeant stripes and asked him in his heavily accented British, “Hallo, could you direct me to your commanding officer?”

  The sergeant unslung his Thompson submachine gun and squinted at him. He looked him up and down twice, “Who the hell are you?”

  Keeping his arms close to his sides he gritted his teeth, “That’s none of your business. I’d like to speak with your commanding officer. I have information he’ll want to discuss.”

  Not to be intimidated, Sgt. Carver growled, “If I’m taking you to the brass it sure as hell is my business.” He took a wide stance blocking his way.

  He harrumphed, “Very well, my name is Thomas Endicott Welch the Third. I’m a member of the British government, who happen to be your allies, and I’ve urgent news for your commanding officers.”

  “Wait here. You guys keep your eyes on him, don’t let him leave and don’t hurt him.” He spun and walked off towards the end of the truck line.

  As the minutes passed the men of the 2nd squad surrounded Thomas Welch and grinned. They stared at him like he was a prize cow at auction. The sight of someone not covered in grime was awe inspiring. O'Connor was the first to speak, “How could you come out of the jungle looking so clean?”

  Before he could reply, Sgt. Carver came trotting back and put his grimy hand on his clean shirt. “Come with me. Captain Blade and Lieutenant Caprielli will see you now.”

  Thomas took a look around at the men and gave a curt nod, “Very good. Lead on Sergeant.”

  Captain Blade and Lieutenant Caprielli were seated behind a makeshift desk made from oil barrels and a large plank of splintered wood.

  When Thomas Welch entered he gave a smart British style salute, palm facing them. The two officers looked at one another then returned his salute. “Are you military or are you saluting out of courtesy,” he hesitated, “Mr. Welch is it?”

  He dropped his salute, “Ah well, let me explain. When all this nastiness started,” he gestured at the world, “my higher-ups decided it would be a good idea to give us military rank in case the Japanese captured us. Guadalcanal is a British territory and as such has British rules. I am a part of the provincial governing body that oversees this territory.”

  Captain Blade nodded, “I thought all the civilians left, thought only natives were left.”

  Thomas Welch nodded, “Yes, most did. The plantation owners left months before hostilities started, leaving many locals out of work in the process. Made for difficult governing, all the out of work natives. But back to the point. We were instructed to stay on the island and do whatever we could to foil the Jap’s efforts.”

  “You mean you’re partisans? You’ve been fighting the Japs?”

  He shook his head, “Not the way you imagine. They’re much too well equipped; they’d annihilate us in a matter of days. Our armaments are few and our ammunition scarce. That’s not to say we’re not armed, we are, but we don’t have enough men or guns to take on the Japanese army in a head on fight.” He smiled, “We’ll leave that to you bl
okes. We’ve been fighting them by reporting their whereabouts and movements. We have radios we use to communicate with Australian forces. Much of the information you have about Guadalcanal no doubt was derived from our reports.” He looked at them hopefully.

  Captain Blade nodded, “Yes, we were briefed about you guys before the invasion, told to keep an eye out for you. I’d forgotten all about it. The Marines have been here since August. Why didn’t you come forward earlier?”

  “This is the first time we felt we could make it through the lines undetected. Besides, being behind the enemy gives us some advantages as far as watching the Japs.”

  Blade nodded and looked at the ground trying to remember something, “What do they call you? Watchers?”

  “Coast-Watchers, yes. We’re referred to as Coast-Watchers.” He smiled, “Seems a silly name, like we’re bird watching or something. Fact is, we’re in danger nearly every second of the day. We’re either dodging Japs or your incoming artillery and aircraft.”

  Captain Blade nodded, “Well, yes, sorry ‘bout that, but there’s a war going on. The sergeant said you had some important information for us?”

  “Yes, quite. Can we confer with your commanding generals so I don’t have to repeat myself?”

  Blade smiled, “We’re kind of in the middle of a major move, not sure now’s a good time.”

  Welch grit his teeth, “I can assure you your generals will want to hear what I have to say before you make your move. It can shorten the battle by months.”

  Blade looked at Caprielli then back at the smiling Englishman. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do for you, but if you’re jerking me around there’ll be hell to pay.”

  “I’m sure they’ll find it worth their time.”

  ***

  An hour later Thomas Welch sat on a fallen palm log and faced General Thornton and Colonel Sinclair. Because of the urgency and the short notice, they too sat on fallen logs and stumps like a Boy Scout troop around a campfire. General Thornton spoke first, his rough, low voice the reason for his nickname, ‘Thorny.’ “We hear you have some vital information for us?”