The Long Patrol: World War II Novel

by Chris Glatte

  The men checked their weapons. They spread out and started up fifteen yards abreast. Carver kept his sidearm holstered. He was able to move much better with both hands free. He moved from rock to rock, keeping three points of contact on the slippery rocks. Soon he was well ahead of the others. He stopped and looked behind him, catching his breath. He went another twenty yards and was able to see the top of the hill. He crouched behind a boulder and peered over the top. He dug into his pack and found Morrisey’s binoculars. They were dry and intact inside the case. He scanned the top slowly then down to the ground leading up to it. Nothing but more rocks and trees. He kept scanning until the others were in line with him. He pulled out his .45 and waved them forward. They went slower now that they were exposed.

  When they were yards from the top, Carver went flat and scanned the final terrain. It was as quiet as a tomb. He stayed crouched and went to the crest of the hill. He stood to his full height and waved them forward. He pointed to the other side and Dunphy and Hooper went to check it out. Carver kneeled and looked at the view. The rain was coming off the jungle in steam. He couldn’t see the beach or even the ocean; he was in a fog bank that was getting thicker by the minute.

  He saw Hooper’s head pop up and he was signaling him to come. He stayed crouched, his pistol at the ready and went to Him. When he was close, Hooper said, “There’s no one here, but there sure as shit was.” He moved to the other side of the hill, the part that would be facing the American lines. Carver saw the water filled holes spaced fifteen yards apart, foxholes. “There’s Jap stuff all over the place, bootprints too, the ones with the funny toe notch.”

  Carver took his jungle hat off and rubbed his forehead. He had a decision to make. Either the Japsanese that were here were long gone or they were simply on a patrol and would be returning. He asked O'Connor, “Can you tell how long ago they left?”

  O'Connor shook his head, “The rain’s done a number on the prints; most are washed away, just vague imprints. That rain storm would’ve filled those holes in a hurry. They were probably dry this morning.”

  “Well, at least we know they haven’t been here since the rain storm, couple hours anyway. It’s not like them to leave open usable foxholes though. Standard Jap procedure is to fill ‘em in when they’re done with ‘em, just like ours.”

  Hooper nodded. “Probably planning on coming back. Question is, when?”

  Carver continued, “We can’t see anything until this fog clears out anyway, so let’s find cover and see if they show. We’ll dig in and have our grenades ready. We’ll be outnumbered if they come back.”

  They dug in with their entrenching tools as best they could in the rocky, muddy ground. After an hour the wind whipped up. The men hunkered down, feeling cold for the first time since being on the island.

  The men’s ears perked up when they heard what sounded like voices. O'Connor, who’d been dozing, went onto his stomach and pushed his carbine forward, his finger on the trigger. He strained to hear the voices, but they were distant and not the guttural sound he’d come to equate with Japanese soldiers. Whoever it was, there was a lot of them. The voices seemed to be vying for the spotlight, like a room full of chatty women. It was wrong somehow. The voices weren’t quite right, there were no words, not even language really. He closed his eyes trying to decipher what was being said.

  The wind increased and the voices got louder. He smiled and looked over to Carver who was gripping his pistol and squinting towards the sound. O'Connor waved his hand to get his attention. He mouthed the word, ‘wind’ and pointed to the air. Carver didn’t get it and signaled him over. O'Connor crawled to him and whispered, “I think it’s the wind whistling through the rocks.”

  Carver listened hard. He nodded, “Only one way to find out.” He went into a crouch and looked to the others all hunkered as low as they could go. He signaled for them to cover him and he went forward, his pistol leading the way.

  O'Connor watched him, impressed once again at how well he moved. Not bad for an old guy. When he got to the crest they could see him relax. His shoulders lost their tension and he stood up. He waved them up and called, “Bring the radio.”

  The others looked at one another, still hearing the voices, but stood and trotted to their sergeant’s side. Once on the ridge the sound of the voices was obviously coming from the wind hitting the rocks. The sharp ridges and tiny holes of the volcanic rock were acting as perfect noise makers. The wind speed was perfect for sounding like high pitched human voices. Carver folded his arms across his chest and told the men about Morrisey and his native’s superstitions. “I’ll bet this is what they’re afraid of; a little wind.” He pointed, “Look at that view. We’ve got a perfect view of the Jap lines from here.” Indeed, it was almost too good and the men instinctively crouched. The fog had cleared. The Japs were miles away, but they were much closer than they’d been from the ridge across the valley.

  They hunkered down out of the wind and Carver checked in with Division. He kept his call short, not wanting to use the precious batteries. Division informed him the push would happen the day after tomorrow at dawn and they should be ready to direct naval and air assets onto targets.

  He’d signed off and spent the next hour scanning potential targets, writing down coordinates on his map with his nub of a pencil when O'Connor ran up to him and said, “Japs coming up the trail.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thomas Welch was running through the jungle at top speed, crashing through the bush, vines and branches cutting his arms and cheeks. He hadn’t heard any shooting or felt any near misses for a while. Can I slow down? Are they still after me?

  He slowed his pace, taking more care with his steps. His breath was coming in short spurts and sweat poured from his body. He’d have to stop soon or risk dropping from heat exhaustion.

  He stopped and tried to calm his breathing, listening to the jungle, listening for pursuit. He wiped his brow, only hearing normal jungle sounds. There were no gunshots, no yelling. He thought he’d come a couple kilometers from the ambush site. In the jungle, even a half kilometer was enough to disappear and he was a master at disappearing in the jungle.

  He was surrounded by thick jungle. He thought about the terrain around him, picturing his direction and speed from the ambush. He figured he was south of Ahio’s village. He knew his path would be easy to follow from his headlong run through the jungle; now it was time to lose any pursuers. He’d move quietly and carefully from now on, leaving no signs of his passage. He was as skilled as any native and was sure he could make himself invisible.

  He checked his new carbine. He’d fired four shots. He was pretty sure he hadn’t hit Morrisey with any of them. He gritted his teeth, How had the old fox known he was coming? He’d most likely never know the answer. He took a drink from his canteen and thought about his next move. He couldn’t go back to the village; he couldn’t go to any of his old haunts. News traveled fast amongst the natives. He’d be hunted. He only had one option left and it sent shivers up his spine to think about. He’d have to get to the Japanese lines and somehow get to Colonel Araki.

  He took a deep breath knowing the odds of getting through the Japanese lines without being shot weren’t good. He started moving further south to bypass Ahio’s village. Once around it he’d head northwest until he ran into the Japanese lines. It would help that he was fluent in Japanese, but once they saw he was a white man, would they shoot first? He’d just have to convince them.

  Getting through the lines might be the least of his worries though. He cringed thinking how Araki would receive him. He’d failed at everything he’d set out to do. Colonel Araki did not take failure well. They went back a long way, but friendships only went so far in war.

  ***

  As he made his way through the jungle, he remembered the last time he’d been in Japan with the then Lieutenant Araki. It was years before the war. He’d been out of Japan for four years attending university in London. Upon graduation, he made the long
trip to Japan to surprise his old friend on the day he would be accepting his commission as a 2nd Lieutenant in the Imperial Japanese Army.

  The voyage had been long and arduous. Diplomatic relations between Japan and Britain had deteriorated over the years, but Welch didn’t worry too much about it; politics ebbed and flowed as often as the tides. When he walked off the ship though, he was struck by how much had changed in the four short years since he’d left. The cities were bustling with feverish activity. He was astonished at some of the new buildings and more than a little intimidated with the pervasive military presence. As a European, he received withering stares from the young men in uniform. Had things deteriorated so much as to incite violence at the mere sight of a foreigner?

  He’d cabled ahead to Araki’s family telling them of his surprise visit. They’d written back a short cable telling him he shouldn’t come. He’d been distraught. The Araki family had always been close friends; in fact, they’d been the one family he and his family had bonded with during his father’s diplomatic career. It was unimaginable that he wouldn’t be welcome. He’d ignored the note and decided he’d go anyway. He could stay in a local ryokan or inn. He’d see them at the ceremony and hopefully his presence wouldn’t embarrass them.

  The next two days he’d walked around Tokyo visiting his favorite places. He was suerprised at the changes. There was an anger towards him that he couldn’t understand. People that once happily sold him a newspaper or his favorite pastry, Sata andagi, with a happy word or a joke, now looked at him with suspicion and even fear. They’d look around as if searching to see if they were being watched. On the second day he was convinced he was being followed. It was never obvious, but he had the distinct feeling he was being watched.

  He’d planned on staying in the city for at least two weeks, but decided he’d leave as soon as he’d seen his friend commissioned. He’d travel to the countryside and visit some of his favorite gardens. Maybe it was only Tokyo.

  He’d shown up at the ceremonial garden where Araki would receive his commission. He entered quietly and sat in the back so as not to create a stir. He received withering looks from the Araki family, which made the blood drain from his face. The family that had been such a huge part of his childhood were looking at him with outright hatred; or was it fear? He was frozen in indecision. He decided he wasn’t wanted and was about to leave, but it was too late. The ceremony was starting. It would be rude to leave.

  He watched as each graduate received the coveted commission of a Japanese officer. When it was Gobo Araki’s turn, he stood proudly before the Colonel and received his 2nd Lieutenant’s patch. He saluted the Colonel with a hand that looked as though it could cut through metal. Welch was stunned at his friend’s transformation. He’d always been a skinny man, but he’d filled out, his body thick and strong. He had the bandy legs of a man who rode horses.

  When the ceremony was over, the crowd stood and bowed towards their newest members of the Army. Welch stood head and shoulders above the audience and Araki caught sight of his old friend. He gave a slight smile and winked. Welch felt a weight lift from his shoulders; at least his friend hadn’t changed so much. He smiled back at him.

  After the short reception he finally got to speak with his friend face to face. They went to a sushi bar, drank Saki and laughed. It was good to talk with his friend again. Araki told him about the changes sweeping the country. He was genuinely excited to be a member of the Army and was convinced his generation would make history and he’d be at the forefront. The talk sounded dangerous to Welch, warlike. He told him so and Gobo Araki responded. “The West has ignored us for the past decade, slowly forcing us into submission. We are a proud people and won’t let our superior race be trodden on in such a manner.”

  Welch, feeling the alcohol, looked at him in disbelief, “Superior race? You sound like that crazy son-of-a-bitch Hitler. Since when are you a racist?”

  Araki grinned, “Not racist, realist. Our Emperor is ordained by God, so of course we’re superior to the mixed races.”

  Welch was stunned. He stood and paced, rubbing his chin. “So, you feel any Gaijin, myself included, is not as pure so is inferior? Am I inferior to the street urchin selling fish at the wharf?” He was red in the face. He’d never known his friend to carry such disturbing beliefs.

  Araki smiled, “I’m not going to argue something that is obvious. I’m not debating the issue.” Welch shook his head not knowing how to continue. He suddenly wanted to get out of the bar and out of the country. 2nd Lieutenant Araki smiled, “I was visited by a Colonel this afternoon after the commissioning. He asked about you.”

  Welch raised his eyebrows, “Oh?” He looked at his friend, but he couldn’t seem to focus. He shook his head trying to clear his vision. The saki’s stronger than I remember. He grabbed the side of the table and held on as the room started to spin. He tried to speak, but couldn’t seem to make a sound. His tongue felt like a bloated fish; he couldn’t make it work. He released the table and held his head trying to get the world to stop spinning.

  He woke hours later in a white room without furniture, except for the medical gurney he was strapped to. He looked side to side until he felt his head throb. He shut his eyes experiencing the worst headache he’d ever felt. A man was beside him and he spoke softly to him, “Relax Mr. Welch. No harm will come to you if you relax. Can you relax?”

  He spent the next week and a half at the facility. At first he was afraid, after all he’d been kidnapped, but he was released from his restraints soon after waking and he’d been treated like an honored guest ever since.

  2nd Lieutenant Araki visited often and they’d sit and talk for hours about events happening in Japan and around the world. He also spoke to knowledgeable men of power with unique insight into the way they thought their country and indeed the world, should be developed. Their plans were auspicious and full of optimism and they wanted him to be a part of them. His decision to help them was sealed when they assured him he’d be well compensated, both in money and power. They rewarded his decision by putting him in a richly decorated room with a huge bed in the center. Soon he was joined by four beautiful geisha girls who kept him up all night.

  He’d sailed back to England with plans to join the Foreign Service. He applied and got what was considered the bottom of the Foreign Service barrel, the Solomon Island chain protectorate. He’d spent the next four years working in the Solomons, his most recent assignment, Guadalcanal.

  ***

  He’d been walking for three hours towards the Japanese lines. He hadn’t seen any signs of pursuit. It wasn’t surprising since he was very skilled at hiding his trail. Even if they were following him, it would be difficult and slow. He’d be at the lines long before they could catch up with him.

  He had to be more careful now. He was close to the Japanese line. He’d be shot on sight if he was seen. In order to survive, he had to be the one that saw them before they saw him.

  He came to the edge of a small meadow and crouched in the tall grass. He listened and thought he heard voices. He melted into the jungle and listened as boots tromped through the field towards his position. There was no more talking, but he knew it had to be a Japanese patrol. Then he saw them, no more than ten yards away. They walked past his position. He thought about calling to them, but soldiers on patrol were jumpy and it would be risky. He waited until they passed out of sight and hearing, then followed their path back the way they’d come.

  He had his rifle slung over his shoulder, no reason to give someone an excuse. He thought about what he would say. Should he call out as if he were a soldier coming in or simply walk in with his hands held high pleading his case? He hadn’t made up his mind when he came to the Japanese line. He laid down and crawled forward a couple yards. He peeled back the brush and could clearly see a a foxhole occupied by four soldiers. Their rounded helmets were poking above the hole. He could make out their chatter, but no words. It was good to hear the Japanese language again.


  He called out in Japanese, “Friends, I’m coming in, don’t shoot. I’m your prisoner, don’t shoot.”

  The four men put their Arisaka rifles to their shoulders and yelled, “Who goes there? Holy sun, Holy sun.”

  They were looking for a counter-sign that he couldn’t know. He called out, “I don’t know the counter-sign. I’m standing up, I’m not dangerous. I’m your prisoner.” He took a deep breath. He’d either live or die in the next few seconds. He put his hands up and stood. He was fifteen feet away. The soldiers were sighting down their rifles, their fingers tightening on the triggers. “Don’t shoot, I’m here to see Colonel Araki. Colonel Araki is my friend. I’m your prisoner, don’t shoot.”

  A stocky sergeant bounced out of the hole and keeping his rifle trained on him, motioned for him to come closer. Welch did so slowly, keeping his hands up and trying to keep his smile as friendly as possible. When he was a few feet away he said, “I’m your prison…”

  The sergeant was half his size, but thick and mean looking. He yelled, “Shut-up!” and butt stroked him in the gut. Welch bent over, grabbing his stomach. The next swing was across his chin and he fell to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth from several broken teeth. The other soldiers helped their sergeant pull their prize into their lines. They all punched and kicked him, taking great delight in inflicting pain. The sergeant ordered two men to stay in the hole as he and the other dragged him through the lines.

  He was taken to a green, open-sided tent, pushed into a chair, his hands tied to a post and punched mercilessly until a lieutenant walked in and the enlisted men snapped to attention, stepping back from their labors. The lieutenant leaned down and inspected the bloody face. “Who told you to beat this man?” none of the soldiers responded. The lieutenant screamed, “Answer me, Sergeant!”