The Long Patrol: World War II Novel

by Chris Glatte

  Dunphy looked at O'Connor who was staring back at him. He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ve come this far on this fucked up patrol, might as well finish it.”

  O'Connor nodded, “screw it, let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Welch found himself an undamaged Arisaka rifle the previous owner no longer had a use for. He led the surviving Japanese soldiers through the jungle to the west of the ridge. The jungle canopy was thick above them, the undergrowth sparse, making for easy walking. They moved carefully hoping to keep themselves hidden from the Americans. Welch hoped they thought they were all killed in the bombing. He’d have surprise on his side and he’d roll up their defenses before they knew what hit them.

  Three hours later Welch held up the men and brought his two surviving sergeants to the front. Sergeant Murata was a stocky, thick chested man with a flat nose and yellowed teeth. He’d been in almost constant combat for the past three years, a veteran of many jungle fights. He was also an educated man. Welch knew he’d been sent to England in his youth to study at one of the more prestigious military schools. He’d spent three years there before his father, a Colonel, had fallen from the graces of the military and been discharged in shame. His family suffered and the young Murata was returned home in dishonor. He never spoke English, but Welch assumed he was fluent.

  The other, Sergeant Ozaki, was also a veteran, but much younger than Murata. He was short and thin, yet made up for his stature with an almost maniacal fighting spirit. His nose had dried blood from where Welch’s knee had impacted him. His eyes were bloodshot and were starting to darken around the sockets. He scowled at Welch, but took a knee in front of him and listened to what he had to say.

  Welch pointed up the hill. “We’ll rest here for a half hour then assault the hill from here. There’s good cover all the way to the ridge. It’ll be slower, but we should be concealed the entire way. When we’re on top, we’ll spread out and sweep up the ridge. I want strict noise discipline. We won’t engage unless we’re seen or I give the signal. I don’t think there are many of them, so we may even be able to capture them.”

  Sergeant Murata looked sideways at him, “We don’t take prisoners, Sir.”

  “We will if we can. I want to interrogate them before we kill them. I’d like to know what their plans are. It may help our comrades defend the upcoming attack.” The sergeants nodded. I also want to know what he knows about Morrisey.

  The half hour passed quickly. The men ate rice balls and dried meat, drank water and were ready to go. Welch had twenty men to work with, plenty to do the job. He was convinced there were only a handful of Americans on the ridge. If they could surprise them from the rear they’d have no chance. He’d have to watch his men though; they wanted blood and would slaughter them if given half a chance. He wanted them alive, at least for a while. When he’d gotten the information he wanted, they could do with them what they wished.

  They left the cover of the jungle in the late morning. There were thunderheads building above the island and Welch recognized the coming of another rain storm. He hoped to reach the ridge and be done by the time the rain came. If he was late, the rain would make excellent cover for his men to advance under. Either way, the American defenders were doomed.

  The men moved well, advancing slowly, using the natural cover of the car sized boulders for cover. The slope was steep, making the going slow, but they were under cover the entire way. It took an hour and a half, but they made it to the lip of the ridge without being seen. Welch went to the front and crouched beneath the ridge. He peeked over, looking for any movement, but saw nothing but shrubs and rock. They were hundreds of yards to the west of their last attack. He wasn’t expecting to see the defenders.

  He slung his rifle and pulled out his pistol. He waved the men forward and the sergeants split the men into separate squads and went over the cliff to the top. Welch went over, half expecting to hear the pop of the carbines, but there was nothing. He advanced with the men, crouched, using the cover. The men were covering one another, being careful not to make noise.

  Welch pushed forward, wanting to be close to the front to keep his men from immediately killing the Americans. He knew he was taking a risk; the Americans had obviously targeted him in the previous engagement. He doubted it was a coincidence he’d been the one shot at first. If he hadn’t tripped, that bullet would have killed him. He wondered which of the soldiers had fired; probably the sharpshooter, O'Connor. He would repay him with pain if he captured the young redneck. The thought made him smile.

  The clouds above were dark and ominous. It will come any second. If it rained soon he’d have his men push hard, catch them when they were hunkered down.

  They’d covered one hundred yards with no sign. The next one hundred would bring them to where they’d attacked. He wondered if perhaps they’d abandoned the position. He hoped not. He wanted his revenge.

  He was thinking how he’d get his revenge when the man in front of him held up his hand and went to one knee. He looked back at Welch and pointed forward. Welch felt his heartbeat increase. He took a deep breath, getting control and made his way to the soldier’s side. He pointed and Welch looked. At first he didn’t see anything, then he did. There were three men crouched behind bushes. It looked like they were packing their backpacks. Welch had the feeling they were getting ready to leave.

  ***

  Carver had let the men sleep while he watched for enemy troops. It had been quiet since the air attack. He contemplated moving down the hill to see if they could recover any more Japanese ammo, but decided against it. They had plenty and exposing themselves wasn’t worth the risk. They’d buried Hooper in the hole he’d died in. Carver added his dog tags to the growing wad he kept in his pack.

  The weather was turning. Dark clouds were forming over the mountain and he was sure it would start raining soon. He’d woken Dunphy and O'Connor and they sat in a circle packing their backpacks. Every nook and cranny was filled with ammo and the remaining food. The Nambu machine gun was dismantled from the tripod and strapped to O'Connor’s pack, the tripod on Dunphy’s. Carver almost decided to leave it behind, but the firepower would be needed if they found the artillery position. He’d strapped the ten pound knee mortar onto his own pack and taken as many mortar rounds as he could fit. He’d given one to each man as well. Their packs were heavy, they’d have to take breaks or risk exhaustion.

  Initially, Carver wanted to leave at dusk, but the coming storm pushed his plans forward. It would be easier to deal with the rain once they were in the cover of the jungle canopy. It would act as a natural umbrella and moving would keep them warm and their minds occupied.

  They were cinching their packs when Carver caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He instinctively reached for his rifle, but before he could bring it up, Japanese soldiers rose up fifteen yards away, aiming long rifles at his chest. He heard a voice he’d hoped to never hear again. “Drop the weapon or you die, Sergeant Carver.” A leering soldier with sergeants stripes stepped from behind Welch. Welch said, “Drop it now. These men want nothing more than to fill you with lead.”

  Dunphy and O'Connor were frozen by the sight of many enemy soldiers so close. They glanced Carver’s way, wondering what he’d do.

  Carver held the Arisaka, but knew he had no chance. He may get a shot off, but he’d be filled with holes seconds later. The thought didn’t scare him; the thought of the inevitable torture did. His mind reeled. He didn’t want to be captured. He told himself he’d never let that happen, but he couldn’t make that decision for his men. If he made a move the others would key off him and they’d all die in a storm of lead. He couldn’t decide these brave men’s fate. He had to surrender. Within minutes he regretted his decision.

  ***

  Welch was ecstatic. His men had come on the unsuspecting Americans and followed his orders to capture rather than kill. He’d repay them by letting them kill the Americans slowly when the time came.

&n
bsp; Welch knew there wouldn’t be many of them, but he was surprised there were only three. His men had found the buried man; Welch remembered his name was Hooper. They’d unearthed him and in front of the three Americans cut off his genitals and shoved them in his mouth. Carver seethed, becoming unbalanced, which is exactly how Welch wanted him. Welch found the Japanese propensity for torture somewhat distasteful, but if it got him the desired results it was worth it.

  Welch had them tied up and let his soldiers go to work on them with their fists. They delivered vicious blows to their bodies and faces. Sergeant Murata found a bamboo stick and used it on their shins until they were bloody messes. Twenty minutes after the beatings began the skies opened up and the rain came down in sheets. The cool water washed away the blood and gave the prisoners a brief respite from the Japanese soldiers’ wrath.

  Welch took the time to start his questions. “What was your mission? Why are you on this ridge? When will the Americans attack? Where will they attack?” The only answer he got was Carver’s name, rank and serial number. The other two were no different. He’d have to use another tactic.

  He pointed at Dunphy and his men lifted him from his crouching position by his shoulders. Dunphy winced in pain, feeling his shoulders stretched. He was separated from the others and sat down on a boulder. His hands were bound behind him and he bled from various parts of his face. His head hung to the side and he watched his tormentors through swollen, dark eyes.

  Carver watched through his own slits. O'Connor slumped beside him watching as well. O'Connor had been given extra attention. Welch told him it was for trying to shoot him earlier in the day. O'Connor was tough though and took each new assault with the stoicism wrought from a lifetime of hard knocks. Dunphy whimpered with each new punch, but he was taking it better than Sergeant Carver had expected.

  He doubted Dunphy would hold his tongue with more concentrated beatings, but he wasn’t worried. The questions weren’t important. The answers, which they didn’t have for the most part, weren’t important anyway. They didn’t know the exact attack plan, but the Japanese knew it was coming any day and were already prepared. The answers wouldn’t help them all that much. Carver wondered what Welch was playing at. Maybe he’d find out in the next few minutes.

  Welch put his face close to Carver’s. “Tell me about Morrisey. Is he and his band still in camp or are they nearby?” Carver scowled, but didn’t respond. Welch looked to the sergeant standing in front of Dunphy with his bayonet pointing at Dunphy’s chest. Welch touched his shoulder and nodded. With a yell straight from the training grounds of basic, Sgt.Murata lunged and buried his bayonet into Dunphy’s shoulder. Dunphy screamed, his eyes squeezed shut in agony. A line of drool escaped from the side of his mouth mixing with the blood and rain. Murata kept the bayonet planted in his shoulder and smiled. The bayonet dripped the rain and blood mixture, making it look like a diluted red wine.

  Welch continued. “I want to know about Morrisey and his men, Sergeant. You’ll tell me what you know or Private Dunphy pays the price.”

  Carver seethed and pulled against his restraints. He wanted nothing more than to get loose and snap Welch’s neck like a toothpick, but it was hopeless. He was bound fast and wouldn’t be able to move quickly even if he were to get loose. Carver thought about Morrisey. What did he really know? Not much, nothing that could help Welch. When the answer wasn’t forthcoming he nodded to Sgt. Murata who twisted the blade. Dunphy’s screams renewed, finally fading to whimpering. Carver hoped he’d pass out soon.

  Through bloody lips Carver said, “What you wanna know?”

  Welch smiled and held out his hand. Sergeant Murata pulled the bayonet out in a smooth motion and Dunphy fell forward, but was caught by the soldier standing behind him. He pulled him back to a sitting position. Dunphy’s left sleeve was saturated in his own blood. It mixed with the rainwater and flowed to the growing pool near his boot. He was losing a lot of blood. Carver knew they’d be killed when the questioning stopped.

  “Are they in camp? How many men are with him? What weapons does he have?”

  Carver looked at him. These questions were inane. Welch probably knew more than he did, since he’d worked with Morrisey for years. He decided he’d go along with the farce. “He’s in camp.” He faltered and glanced at Sgt. Murata, whose bayonet was poised over Dunphy’s heart. “He’s lightly armed with old rifles and a couple of our carbines.” He watched Welch’s smile grow.

  Welch asked, “And they’re planning on attacking us from these very mountains? Attacking us from the rear?” he repeated the question in Japanese for his sergeants to hear.

  Carver didn’t know what he was talking about, but he seemed to want him to agree. “Yes, they’re planning to attack soon. Attack your buddies from the rear while we attack from the front.”

  Welch smiled and didn’t translate. He looked to Sgt. Murata who was staring at Sgt. Carver. Welch spoke a quick phrase in Japanese and Sgt. Murata smiled and steeled his eyes. He lunged forward and his bayonet pierced the center of Dunphy’s chest. Dunphy’s eyes flashed open in surprise and he looked at the bayonet buried in his chest. The sergeant leaned against the rifle, his yellow teeth bared as he stared into Dunphy’s darkening eyes. He twisted the bayonet and pulled it out, a long stream of dark red blood sprayed and mixed with the rain. Dunphy’s eyes rolled back and he slumped forward. This time the soldier let him collapse and he fell onto his face with a sickening crunch.

  Carver screamed, “No!” and tried to come to his feet, but was slammed down by the butt of a rifle to the top of his head. The blow dropped him to the edge of consciousness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The rain stopped after an hour. The skies cleared and the dusk air filled with rising mist. The sun would set within the hour. Welch left O'Connor and Carver to fester where they sat. He wasn’t ready to kill them yet. He might still need them.

  He set the men to digging holes, which was sloppy work with the recent rain. He wanted to leave during the night and attack his old nemesis, Captain Morrisey, but he had to convince Colonel Araki of the need for the preemptive strike. He’d been pleased how Sgt. Carver had confirmed the made up statement about Morrisey attacking their flank. He’d maneuvered him into saying it, even though he knew it was a lie. Carver had been confused, but Welch didn’t think Sgt. Murata picked up on the ruse; after all, it had been in English which Murata didn’t think Welch knew he understood. Sergeant Murata’s own conniving had come back to bite him in the ass. Welch smiled at his own clever ploy.

  He settled into the recess of a rock outcropping and told his radioman to contact headquarters. Once he had contact he handed the radio to Welch. Sergeant Murata was nearby, listening to the exchange. Welch took a deep breath and told the private on the other end about their successful attack. The private relayed the information and the next voice Welch heard was none other than Colonel Araki’s. “Why are you reporting? Where is Lieutenant Kagi?”

  “Lieutenant Kagi was killed on the initial assault. I took command. We lost twenty two men to an airstrike. I led the remaining to the American flank and we captured three of them. Over.”

  There was a long silence. Welch thought he may have lost the connection, but soon Colonel Araki’s gruff voice returned. “Well done, Thomas.”

  “Thank you, Sir. We’ve gotten some intelligence from the Americans.” He glanced at Sgt. Murata, who was pretending not to listen. “Captain Morrisey and his natives are planning on attacking our rear in conjunction with the American attack. Our captives don’t know the timing, only that it’s soon. I would guess it to be in the morning.”

  Another pause, “Good work. We’ll increase our rear guard.”

  “If I may make a suggestion, Sir?”

  “Go ahead, Thomas.”

  “Including myself, we have twenty one well-armed men. We could move into position tonight and ambush Morrisey as he moves to your flank. I know the trails he’d take and can lie in wait for him. Over.”

 
“Did any sergeants survive? Over.” Welch gave the affirmative naming the two soldiers and Araki continued, “Give the radio to Sergeant Murata.”

  Welch acted offended, but handed the radio over. Murata took it and moved around the corner away from Welch. Welch could hear him speaking, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. It all hinged on what Sgt. Murata believed.

  Thirty seconds passed, then Sgt. Murata came around and handed the radio back to Welch who took it from him with a fabricated glare. Murata’s slight nod was all Welch needed to know he’d succeeded with his farce. He keyed the radio, “This is Welch, go ahead, Colonel.” He kept his voice curt, hoping to convey his displeasure over not being fully trusted.

  “Thomas, you’re cleared to proceed as you see fit. I’ve told Sgt. Murata to take your every command as if you were a ranking officer in the Imperial Army. After your successful ambush, return to the ridge and report any targets. Good hunting. Over and out.”

  Welch put the radio down; he couldn’t help beaming. Morrisey would finally get what he so dearly deserved.

  The sun was thirty minutes from setting and there was one last thing to do before moving on Morrisey’s camp. “Sergeant, bring me the Americans. It’s time to reward our men for a job well done.” Murata gave a quick bow and went to do his bidding.

  ***

  O'Connor and Carver were shivering and barely able to stand. They’d been beaten on and off since watching Dunphy die. Carver felt each blow, but was beyond caring. He only hoped they’d kill him quickly, although he thought that unlikely. They were dragged to a small stand of trees, their hands were bound behind the tree, their feet lashed together. Carver was sure this would be where he died. The wind started up and the ghostly whistling through the rocks sounded like angels calling for him. He welcomed their call; he could finally rest.