The Long Patrol: World War II Novel

by Chris Glatte

  By late afternoon, Carver’s eyes burned from staring through the field glasses, looking for more Japanese targets. The constant drone of circling Marine fighters took on a different tone and he looked to the cloudless blue sky. There was a new sound, more engines. They were higher pitched, as if they were diving. He caught a metallic flash out of the corner of his eye. He put the glasses to his eyes, but couldn’t find it again. O'Connor pointed to the sky, “Look, Jap fighters.”

  The Marines were rising to meet at least four Zeros diving on them. They were only dots to the men on the ground, but they knew the pilots were in a deadly battle of survival. Two to four weren’t good odds. The dots closed on each other, then the darker dots, the Marines, flashed through. One of the Zeros flashed and a black plume of smoke appeared. It looked like a careless child marking a perfectly blue sheet of paper with a ragged black marker.

  The dots turned together coming at each other again, but now they were lower and easier to see. The men watched as the deadly dance continued. Dogfights weren’t usually this close; they happened well beyond the horizon.

  The fighters slashed amongst one another and again there was a bright flash as one of the planes exploded. It was difficult to distinguish enemy from friend. The fight was taking the planes lower and lower. Now they could see the tracer fire shooting out like space age laser beams. As the fight got lower, it was obvious there was only one Marine fighter left and three Zeros.

  The Marine went into a steep climb and two of the Zeros followed. They couldn’t match the wildcats’ climb and both peeled off. The Marine took the opportunity to gracefully turn back to the descending Zeros; now he was on their tails. One broke off hard right and one went left. The Marine stuck with the closer one, the one that went right and soon his wings spouted flame and tracers ripped into the zero. It came apart like a toy and smashed into the jungle. A large plume of dust rose, marking its impact. The Marine continued diving and only pulled up when he was fifty feet above the jungle. He pointed his nose to Henderson field trying to make a break for it, but the Zero that hadn’t climbed in the chase was waiting for him. He was at one thousand feet and he dove on the fleeing Wildcat.

  The Wildcat was flying at red-line speed. The diving Zero was slowly catching up. The scene was playing out before the squads’ eyes like some crazy opera. Did the marine pilot know he was being pursued? It didn’t seem like it. He kept his low and fast course, not altering his beeline to the east. The Zero was now at the same altitude; he’d stopped gaining the second he stopped diving. He wasn’t shooting, but lining up the shot. The planes were almost out of sight. Carver pulled up the field glasses and watched them darting away. He kept the commentary going, “The Jap’s not shooting. Oh wait, he is, he’s firing. Shit, the Wildcat’s smoking.” He pointed, “He’s turning back towards the beach, you see?”

  Now they were coming closer to them. The doomed Wildcat was getting bigger as it flew over the American positions on the beach. A wall of tracers went up as the Wildcat passed over the friendly Army units. It looked like every man with a rifle must be firing. The Zero shuddered, then shot straight up like being pulled on a string. Both wings sheared off and it continued its upward arc, hesitated, then nosed over and sliced into the sea. The men lifted their fists in celebration.

  Carver put the glasses down and suppressed his own smile, “Alright, let’s get back to work.”

  Just before dark they heard more airplane engines. They never saw them, but the bright flashes along the beach told them they were enemy bombers giving the Army yet another pasting. Carver hated being away from the main force, but he had to admit, he didn’t miss the bombing.

  The men ate C-rations and watched the sun dip below the Pacific. Sergeant Carver put them on two hour watches. If the Japanese came during the night, they’d have no chance of survival. There were so few of them, they would be outflanked in an instant. Even if they came up the expected path, they could flank them quickly with only half a platoon. Even though the men were beyond exhausted, no one felt like sleeping.

  As a precaution, Sgt. Carver had the men attach their bayonets. If a night attack came they’d be hard pressed to attach them in the dark. No one particularly liked the bayonets on the M1 carbines. The weapons were small and the added weight of the bayonet threw off their aim. But if the Japanese came during the night they’d be upon them quickly and aiming wouldn’t be important, stabbing and cutting would.

  Carver thought about the conversation he’d had with Colonel Sinclair. He’d been careful not to say too much over the radio. He’d said the attack would come soon. How long would it take the Japs to send a patrol up here? If the attack didn’t come in the morning he’d have to hold out another day. It wouldn’t take the Japanese soldiers long to make the trek up the hill, maybe half a day. That meant if the American attack didn’t happen in the morning, he could expect company by midday tomorrow. With the help of the Marine fighter cover, assuming they weren’t having dogfights of their own, he could hold off one, maybe two attacks, depending on numbers and tactics. One well-coordinated flanking maneuver and they wouldn’t last more than a couple of minutes. He stared into the dark night, leaned back and shut his eyes. They wouldn’t come tonight. He dropped into a fitful sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Corporal Hooper and the others were watching the sky lighten. It was at the edge of their perception. Morning was coming and they could all feel that their mission was coming to a conclusion one way or another. The coming American assault would either fail or succeed. Their small unit would play an integral part. They all knew it and they all felt the inevitability of the path before them. There was no shirking their duty. The men on the lowlands would die by the hundreds if they didn’t silence the Japanese artillery. It was up to them. The next twenty four hours would see them succeeding or dying; there was no middle ground.

  When the sun was still a half hour from rising, O'Connor whispered to no one in particular, “I’ve gotta take a shit, be right back.”

  He used his bayoneted carbine as a crutch to help him out of the hole. He stretched his tight muscles. He thought he may have gotten a couple hours of sleep. He stumbled his way west feeling for plants to use for toilet paper. There wasn’t a great selection; he’d have to use a rock again. It wasn’t as though there was much to wipe; he’d been mostly pissing out his ass for the past week, if he shit at all.

  He went to the cliff edge, near the shredded hut and squatted. He was facing the valley and the ridge they’d occupied only the day before. As he stared at nothing, concentrating on getting the deed done, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t look, but kept his gaze straight ahead, hoping his peripheral vision would see it again. Sure enough, there was something out there. He turned slowly to the movement. Nothing. He pulled up his filthy pants; the shit would have to wait. There was something there, he was sure of it. He crouched down, his carbine at the ready. He stared straight ahead hoping to see the movement again. The sky was lightening, shapes of rocks and trees becoming more than just dark blobs.

  He tensed. There. Definite movement, definitely not natural. There were people down there. His senses went into overdrive; he could hear the small sound of boots scraping ground then the distinct sound of metal scraping on metal. If he wasn’t listening for it he may not have heard it. Whoever it was, was still a long way down the hill. He scooped up his carbine and in a crouch, ran back to the foxholes. “Sarge, someone’s coming up the hill from the ridge side.”

  Carver gave him a startled look and popped out of his hole. He trusted O'Connor and didn’t question him. “Pull the machine guns up and take one to the hut, find cover for the other. Keep ‘em a good distance apart.” He grabbed the knee mortar and ran it over to the other ridge. When he came to the edge he peered over, looking for the enemy. At first glance he didn’t see anything so he found a medium sized rock and put the mortar behind it, aiming towards the valley. He ran back to the others and helped them move the Na
mbus. Hooper had an armful of mortar rounds. “Take them over there behind that rock.” He pointed. Hooper nodded and stumbled his way. He deposited the load and went back for the rest.

  Sergeant Carver got on the radio. “Mother, this is Falcon 6. How do you copy? Over.”

  There was a long pause then a scratchy response, “Falcon 6 this is Mother. read you five by five. Over.”

  “We have troops coming up the eastern side of our valley. Any friendlies out here with us? Over.”

  “Wait one, Falcon 6.” 30 long seconds passed before they came back, “Negative Falcon 6. No friendlies in your area. Over.”

  Carver said, “You got any air cover for us? Over.”

  Another pause then the good news, “Scrambling a pair of Corsairs for you, should be on station in fifteen minutes.”

  Carver thought they could hold out at least that long. “Roger. It’s gonna get busy up here real quick. Tell the pilots we’ll mark our positions with smoke. Over.”

  “Understand. You’ll mark your position with smoke. Over.”

  He didn’t bother repeating himself, but went to the edge and looked down the slope. The sun wasn’t up yet, but it was minutes away. The slope was easy to discern and he quickly acquired the khaki colored advance of a large Japanese force. He pulled his field glasses up and from behind a bush scanned them. They were coming up the hill at a slow steady pace, being cautious. Did they know they were here? Where’d they come from?

  He swept the line then stopped on one man. He was dressed differently and was taller. He watched and said, “I’ll be damned.” He put the glasses down and whispered to his men. “That son-of-a-bitch Welch is down there. He’s armed with a pistol. Treacherous prick.” He grit his teeth. Welch had played them all like a damned fiddle. “Take off the bayonets, but keep ‘em close. We’ll have a coupla Corsairs up here in fifteen minutes. O'Connor, I want your first shot to be Welch. Kill that bastard.”

  O'Connor took off the bayonet and placed it beside him. He was lying prone and he sighted down his carbine. Sergeant Carver spoke again, “Wait until I fire the first mortar. When it’s in the air, take him. The rest of you pour it on. Make every shot count.”

  The line of Japanese soldiers advanced, using the sparse cover as best they could. Carver thought they looked green; they weren’t moving as smoothly as seasoned troops and their uniforms looked brand new. Maybe they’d break and run. He dispelled the thought. He’d never seen a Japanese soldier run away.

  He went to the knee mortar and gazed over the top at the advancing troops. He tried to gauge the distance. He pulled the pin on the shell and dropped it into the tube. He twisted the range dial to sixty meters, found forty five degrees and pulled the lanyard. The 37mm grenade left the tube with a soft thump. He watched the grenade arc then he heard the sharp crack of O'Connor’s carbine.

  ***

  Welch was near the middle of the reduced company. They’d come across the valley in the night hoping to make the ridge by dawn. Lieutenant Kogi put him on point first thing and he led them quickly across. He’d been on this route a few times before. He didn’t know the area as well as the rest of the island because the natives were afraid of the hill and rarely visited. Nonetheless he’d led them efficiently and they’d be on the ridge with the observation unit within the hour. He wondered how long the two units would spend grab-assing before he could get back to the ridge and attack Morrisey’s village. Hopefully before dark. He’d lead them back at a fast pace.

  Now they were close. The unit was being as stealthy as possible. Lieutenant Kogi wanted to surprise his comrades and teach them a lesson on how to assault a hill. The inexperienced troops were doing the best they could, but in Welch’s estimation they were making way too much noise. He hoped the unit on the hill would see them and realize they weren’t Americans or natives. Being fired on by Japanese troops was something he didn’t want to experience again.

  The dawn was coming but it was still dark. Welch had his pistol holstered, not expecting trouble. The men around him were more cautious, looking at the hill as if it housed sleeping dragons. He tried to calm them, telling them there was nothing there but their own troops. The soldiers scowled at him with undisguised disgust. How dare this white-skinned heathen speak to them as if they were children. Welch decided he’d keep his mouth shut unless spoken to first.

  When they were sixty meters from the top, Welch thought he heard a faint pop. It was out of place; not a natural sound. He looked up quickly and tripped on a protruding rock. He fell forward at the same instant something buzzed by his ear. The sound of the shot followed close behind. He caught his fall by thrusting his right hand onto a craggy rock. The sharp edges cut into his hand and he fell the rest of the way forward. Before he could process the buzz and the shot, there was an explosion near the front of the company, followed immediately by the popping of gunfire.

  He stayed down and pulled his pistol from his holster. He looked up at the ridge, but couldn’t see anything. They were being fired on by their own men. This had to be stopped before anyone was hurt. He looked to his right and saw the man he’d tried to speak to staring at him. He was about to say something when he noticed the dark blood pooling beneath the man’s head.

  He peaked his head above the rock he was behind and a bullet slammed into it, sending tiny rock chips into his cheek. He rolled back cussing. The men around him started rising up to take shots at the ridge. It was insanity; a deadly misunderstanding.

  He heard Lieutenant Kogi yelling for his men to move forward. Welch stayed down, the last one had been too close. He felt his face and looked at his hand. It came away bloody. He felt his cheek, pulling out embedded pieces of rock. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his cheek. He’d sit this one out until they either killed one another or realized they were shooting at their own men.

  ***

  Sergeant Carver peered around the rock to watch where his mortar landed. He couldn’t tell if O'Connor’s shot had killed Welch. The others started shooting using only their carbines; picking their shots carefully, making them count. The mortar landed on the leading edge of the Japanese soldiers and he saw two men fly sideways. He went back to the tube and moved it laterally a fraction. He dropped another mortar in, pulled the trigger and watched it arc away. Without waiting for its impact he moved the tube to his left slightly and fired again. He repeated the process three more times, sweeping the mortars across and up and down the exposed Japanese troops.

  He put the tube down, picked up the Arisaka and crawled to the edge of the ridge. The men were shooting carefully, knocking soldiers down then pulling back to cover. He laid the barrel on a rock and lined up the iron sights. He’d never shot an Arisaka, but knew the rifle was deadly accurate. He found a target, a soldier trying to get a better look around a rock. He fired and saw the man’s head snap back and out of sight. Whoever owned this rifle before me had it zeroed perfectly. He opened both eyes searching for another target and saw a man’s exposed leg. He pulled the trigger, but nothing happened. He cussed at himself and worked the bolt, loading another round. He fired and the leg blossomed red. He won’t be charging up the hill anytime soon. He looked to his left and saw O'Connor shooting. The Japanese were getting over their initial surprise and were starting to put more fire out. There were too many for the small force to keep pinned down.

  Between shots he yelled at O'Connor, “You get him?”

  O'Connor looked behind him and noticed Sgt. Carver. He shrugged, “I had him in my sights. He went down hard, but not sure if he got hit or tripped.”

  It wasn’t what Sgt. Carver wanted to hear. He knew he shouldn’t be aiming to kill one man, but he wanted that traitorous bastard dead.

  He sighted and shot another soldier who stood up to throw a grenade. It would have been an impossibly long throw. He must have aspirations to be a baseball star. Carver’s shot hit him in the side and he spun, losing the grenade. It dropped feet from him and exploded, sheering his legs f
rom beneath him like twigs splitting. Two of his comrades were caught in the blast, one wounded and screaming, the other lay still.

  He saw an officer stand and wave his pistol, exhorting his men to attack. Carver brought him into his sights, but before he could pull the trigger the ground in front of him erupted with incoming bullets. He was forced to cower behind the rock and make himself as small as possible. The shots were flying by him and slamming all around him. He was too exposed. He heard the distinctive ripping sound of a Japanese machine gun opening up. At first he thought it was one they’d captured, but the incoming rounds intensified, walking up and down his line, giving no doubt it was a Japanese owned weapon.

  He yelled, “Hooper get on the Nambu and return that fire, now! You too Dunphy.” He backed straight away from the rock sheltering him. The incoming fire was intense, but somehow he found cover without getting hit. He went to his knee mortar and peeked over the rock. The Japanese were up on the right flank charging up the hill. The left side of the Japanese line was laying down covering fire. They’d be overrun in minutes if they didn’t get fire on those advancing troops. He was about to lob some shells their way when he saw a flash in the sky. He looked up and almost whooped when he saw the four Corsairs. He put the knee mortar down and picked up the radio. “Marine high flyers, this is Falcon 6. How copy? Over.”

  The calm voice came back immediately. “Five by five Falcon 6. Where you want it? Over.”

  “We’re on the ridge facing east. The Japs or coming up the face right at us. Suggest strafing south to North. I’ll pop smoke on our position. Over.” He threw a smoke grenade a few feet behind him and was immediately enveloped.

  “That’s affirmative. We have smoke on your position. Keep your heads down. We’ll start with strafing and come around again with some two hundred pounders.”