by Chris Glatte
Shrouded Glory
A WWII Novel
Chris Glatte
Copyright © 2021 by Chris Glatte
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Although the battle of Attu Island occurred, this is a fictional retelling and is not meant to be taken as historical fact. Some character names and situations represent actual people and events, however they are used fictitiously.
Created with Vellum
For my Mom and Dad, who have always supported us.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Afterword
About the Author
Also by Chris Glatte
1
Private Mankowitz shivered as he stood on the deck of the troop transport ship. Other soldiers surrounded him from the 32nd Regiment of the 7th Infantry Division. Despite the cold, he was glad to be getting off the ship.
The soldier beside him, Private Harwick, elbowed Mankowitz. “This is it. They won’t call it off this time around.”
Mankowitz nodded. “Finally. I’d rather face the Japs than spend another miserable night below decks.”
Harwick smiled, showing off crooked teeth. “Me too.” His pinched face turned serious, “Think they’re waiting for us on the beach?”
Mankowitz shrugged, “Fog’s so thick I can barely see the shore from here. If they could see us, they’d be shelling the boats by now, I guess.”
“Yeah, guess you’re right. Hope the fog doesn’t lift or we’ll be sitting ducks.”
“I’m just glad we’re finally loading. We’ve been standing here freezing our asses off for…” he checked his wristwatch, “six hours now.” He wondered how long the wristwatch would last in the wet conditions.
Harwick nodded, “At least we got some hot soup.”
Mankowitz blew warm breath into his gloved hands. The gloves weren’t army issue; they—along with a scarf, were a gift from his mother. He’d laughed, reminding her he was on his way to the baking California desert for training and wouldn’t have much use for them. She insisted, though, and now that he was in the icy north, he was thankful.
Because they’d trained in desert conditions, everyone assumed they’d be sent to North Africa to fight the Germans. However, now they were anchored off Attu Island, the western-most island in the Alaskan Aleutian chain, to fight Japanese. The island, or at least the surrounding sea, was wet and cold. Mankowitz doubted all the months of training and acclimatizing to the desert environment would translate too well. He hadn’t been in the US Army long, but long enough to know they didn’t always operate on logic.
The guns from Task Force 51’s destroyers and cruisers opened fire. The shells arced over their heads and disappeared into the fog. The crumps of exploding ordinance sounded muffled, and he couldn’t see the explosions at all. He wondered how they knew what they were shooting at.
Captain Smith barked, “Okay, men. Over the side. Let’s get this done.”
Mankowitz and Harwick exchanged glances and checked one another’s gear. “See you on the boat, Mank,” called Harwick.
Private Mankowitz’s mouth was suddenly dry as desert sand and he couldn’t reply. He nodded instead and took a step toward the rope netting hanging over the side of the transport. Soldiers in front stepped over the side carefully and disappeared. Some gave quick, nervous glances to the men still waiting.
Mankowitz’s thoughts went to his best friend from high school, Mack Hunter. He desperately wished he was by his side now, but he’d gotten a wild hair up his ass and volunteered for the newly formed Provisional Battalion. Though their purpose was a mystery, it required more training and had a high drop-out rate.
The mystique and commando-style training was too much for his naturally gifted best friend to resist. He’d begged him to join too, but he had no desire for that sort of thing. Before parting for his special training, they’d both taken part in an amphibious landing exercise put on by the legendary Marine General ‘Howlin' Mad’ Smith. Afterwards, they’d shaken hands, and parted ways. He hadn’t seen his friend since.
He got a letter a few weeks later. Mack had made it through the tough training and joined the 7th Scout Company. As they sailed from San Francisco, Mankowitz heard the unit was in the convoy but on a different troop ship and was heading in the same direction—north. He’d heard rumors that the Scout Company would land at a separate beach somewhere east of Holz Bay and would eventually link up with the 32nd Regiment. He looked forward to that day. It comforted him knowing his friend would chew some of the same ground.
It was Mankowitz’s turn to go over the side. He gazed down. The net reminded him of a massive spider’s web, full of struggling prey. The Higgins Boat, rocking below, was taking on the first soldiers. It looked small from up here, but he knew it could easily carry three squads of GIs. He swung his legs over and found the horizontal ropes. He descended slowly, reminding himself to only grasp the vertical ropes or risk getting his hand stepped on by the soldier above.
The weight of his pack threatened to pull him from the net, but he held fast and moved efficiently. He finally stepped from the net and onto the Higgins’ hard deck. Sergeant Calder was there, pushing him forward, “Move it along. Come on, let’s go. We don’t got all day, ladies.”
Mankowitz pushed forward and soon felt the man behind pressed up against his back. They were packed in tight. Mankowitz closed his eyes, staving off the claustrophobic feeling creeping over him.
The idling engines revved, and the Higgins Boat turned away from the transport and motored into the calm waters of Massacre Bay. Mankowitz chanced a look over the side. The fog had lifted a little and he could see the black shale on the beach. Snow-covered, stark mountains surrounded the sloping valley. Fog shrouded the tops, but the steep slopes leading up to them looked treacherous and besides the snow, featureless.
He’d gotten glimpses of the peaks from the transport ship. As far as he could tell, there wasn’t a tree growing on the entire island. Native Alaskan scouts told them the ground was covered with a thin layer of tundra. They warned them about treacherous holes and crevices filled with bottomless mud.
The Higgin’s driver turned in lazy circles awaiting the rest of the landing force to join. The naval artillery continued, although the intensity had died down, and Mankowitz figured it was because there’d been no return fire. The Japanese had taken the island a year before and were used to getting bombed and shelled. They probably thought this was more of the same. If there were enemy troops on the beach, they’d have to be blind not to see them, but so far there’d been no hostile fire.
Finally, the driver yelled through a bullhorn, “Hold onto your asses! We’re going in.” The throb of the 225-horsepower diesel engine increased and soon they were chugging toward the beach at 12 knots. Sea spray drifted over them, but the adrenaline coursing through Mankowitz’s blood stream made him forget about the cold. Harwick was to his left. He was shorter than Mankowitz and he had his head down, staring at his boots.
Mankowitz found his voice. “Here we go. Holy shit! It’s really happening.”
Harwick looked up at him and grinned. Mankowitz
thought his face was paler than normal, but that might just be the cold. Harwick’s gaze went back to the deck and Mankowitz mulled over for the thousandth time what the officers and NCOs had been telling them for weeks. When the door opens, move up as far as possible to clear the way for the next wave. That was it. It was an easy, uncomplicated assignment. That didn’t keep the doubt and fear from creeping in though. What if the Japs had a machine gun nest directly in front of them? What if the Japs charged them? What if they mined the beach? He shook his head. It was no use worrying, whatever was going to happen couldn’t be helped now.
The Navy coxswain yelled, “One minute.”
The dual .30 caliber machine guns mounted on either side of the boat were silent, which made him feel better. If there were enemy troops visible, they’d be firing by now. He wasn’t a religious man, at least not any more than the next man. He considered sending up a prayer but thought it might come as a surprise to whoever was up there listening, so he didn’t.
The engine cut to idle and the boat mushed into the sea, then abruptly slid onto the rocky beach. The loud squeak of the front hatch dropping, followed immediately by it slamming into the ankle-deep water, made Mankowitz jolt back to the present. How the hell had he been daydreaming? Someone yelled, “Go! Go! Go!”
Mankowitz lurched from the boat and splashed into the water. His high laced leather boots dug into the shale and he sprinted after the soldier in front of him. He recognized Private Lance, the squad’s grenadier. He expected to be shot at any moment, but there was nothing but the wind and fog.
Private Lance ran until the beach turned to grass, then threw himself against the lip it formed. He brought his M1 Garand to his shoulder as Mankowitz rolled in beside him. Between breaths, Mankowitz sputtered, “See anything?”
More men slid in beside them and soon the entire squad was there. Lance lowered his head from the lip and shook it. “Nah. Nothing but grass and fog.”
Harwick took his pack off. He was barely breathing hard, but his eyes were wide, filling most of his scrunched face. “Think they saw us coming and left?”
Lance shook his head. “Hell, if they saw you coming, they’d be invading Seattle by now.”
Harwick scowled at him. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
Lance’s grin widened, “Cause one look at you and they’d think they were fighting children.”
Harwick’s eyes went to slits. His temper was legendary. Despite his small stature, he wasn’t afraid to fight, and since he’d been dealing with people making fun of his size his entire life, he was damned good at it.
Sergeant Calder intervened, “Knock it off. First squad, we’re moving up to that cover.” He pointed to a mound covered in bent dead grass thirty yards ahead. “Move out, Team One! We’ll cover you.”
Mankowitz got to his feet and took off, keeping his profile as low as possible. He’d dumped his heavy pack and didn’t feel as though he were running through taffy anymore. The other five GIs were to either side, keeping a ten-yard interval. They got to the little knoll at the same instant and went into crouches, their M1s at the ready. The land in all directions was empty of anything living.
The rest of the squad moved up and joined them. Soon the rest of Second Platoon moved inland, bringing First Squad’s packs to them.
The fog continued to waft in and out, sometimes cutting visibility to twenty yards. The black shale rock gave way to tundra. It felt spongy. Mankowitz had never felt anything like it. He commented to Harwick, “Feels like we’re walking on an angel food cake my mom baked.”
Harwick cursed, “Dammit, Mank. Stop talking about food. I’m hungry enough already.”
After moving one hundred yards up the valley, Lieutenant Hubert called a halt. They still hadn’t seen anything other than a few ravens. The wind whipped up and Mankowitz shivered and pulled the collar of his wool coat tighter around his neck, but the wind cut straight through and he shivered. He silently thanked his mother for giving him the scarf.
A few minutes later, Sergeant Jakant barked, “We’re digging in until the rest of the Company joins us. Don’t get too comfortable, should be here pretty damned quick.”
Mankowitz pulled his trusty entrenching tool. It was scratched and worn down from scraping and cutting through the dense California desert. He relished the soft ground of Attu. “This’ll be a piece of cake,” he muttered to Harwick. He jabbed it into the soft ground and scooped large chunks of grass and tundra. He was almost giddy until he got about two feet down. His blade sunk into a morass of black, oily mud. It was the consistency of thick soup and had a smell he couldn’t quite place. A cross between a dead animal and burnt oil. It flowed as though there was a river of mud just beneath the tundra grasses.
Harwick reared back, “Damn, that stinks. We gotta lay in that?”
Mankowitz kept scraping the black mud from the hole until he finally got to something solid. It sounded and felt like rock, but upon further inspection, he realized it was frozen ground. He sighed, “I’m not sure I’m gonna like this place after all.”
Harwick nodded his agreement then shrugged, “At least there ain’t any Japs.”
Private Mack Hunter shivered as the wind cut through his heavy wool clothes and whipped icy sea spray into his face. The submarine USS Narwohl gently submerged beneath their black rubber boat, leaving them and six other boats, floating. Lieutenant Wilcox waited a few seconds until the submarine’s mast was completely out of sight, then signaled them to paddle.
Private Hunter was happy to comply. The movement would help keep him warm. It was the middle of the night and pitch black. He took up a steady cadence along with the other men of 3rd Squad from 3rd Platoon. The rubber boat plowed through the water quietly. Lieutenant Wilcox corrected their angle from the stern as he watched his wrist mounted compass.
Hunter’s sharp eyes picked out the outlines of mountains. Large patches of snow showed up even in the darkest of nights and he could see their little armada of rubber boats was entering a small bay surrounded by low hills and steep mountains. He knew from the briefing that they were paddling through the waters of Austin Cove. He didn’t know where it had gotten its name, but he thought it was close enough to austere, to fit.
His gloved hands went through painful pins and needles as the numbness wore off. Finally, the boat kissed the beach. He stowed his paddle between the thwarts and the floor, pulled his M1 carbine off his shoulder, and watched the four GIs in the bow hustle into the darkness. No one expected the beach to be defended, but there was only one way to find out.
A few tense minutes passed. More boats touched the beach. The rest of the 7th Scout Company coming off the second submarine, Nautilus, had arrived.
There was no firing, although he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear much over the whistling, biting wind. He saw no muzzle flashes and nothing that looked like enemy movement.
Finally, his squad members returned and gave Lieutenant Wilcox the all clear. He signaled and Hunter and the others offloaded packs and gear. They hefted the mostly empty boats up the beach and hid them as best they could in a ravine.
Even through the exertion, Hunter wasn’t warm. They had issued the Provisional Battalion cold weather gear, but he still felt underdressed. He wondered what his best friend John Mankowitz was doing at that exact moment. Probably warm and sleeping comfortably in the hull of some rust bucket transport ship off Massacre Bay. The thought made him colder. It was times like these, he wished he’d stayed with his buddy from Charlie Company.
They signaled the submarines loitering off the cove that they’d landed successfully. There was no responding light signal the enemy might spot. Their mission was underway, and so far, they were on schedule.
Lieutenant Wilcox muttered an order to Staff Sergeant Rizzo and soon 3rd Platoon was leading the company along the little creek bisecting the valley which drained the looming mountains beyond.
Hunter had viewed the terrain, first from the escorting destroyer’s deck, then agai
n from the mast of the submarine a few days later. The mountains were beautiful but constantly enshrouded in fog, rain, and spitting-wet snow. He’d grown up in the forests and mountains of Montana, hunting and fishing with his two brothers and best friend John. This treeless land was like something he imagined on the moon. Despite the cold and the occupying Japanese, he couldn’t keep the excitement of exploration off his mind. The Alaskan scouts who’d briefed them, said there wasn’t much wildlife to speak of, a few imported foxes. This place was as wild as they came though, and he couldn’t wait to learn its hidden secrets.
2
Private Mack Hunter was on point, leading the long string of men up the mountains separating Austin Cove from the west arm of Holz Bay. He hadn’t seen the enemy, or even any sign that they’d ever been there. The darkness combined with freezing rain and thick layers of fog didn’t help matters. At first, he’d worried he might lead them into an ambush, but the further he trudged, the more convinced he became that there wasn’t another human being within miles.
The snow deepened as they gained elevation. Icy wind hit him in the face, and he wondered how the fog managed to hang on. It was as though it wasn’t air, but something solid. His mind wandered and he imagined it wasn’t fog at all, but some massive, angry spirit.
Breaking trail through the knee-deep, heavy snow was exhausting. He was in the best shape of his life, but his pace slowed, and he was thankful to rotate his position.
A few hours later, they crested a tall peak and halted for the night. There wasn’t much cover from the incessant wind. They dug themselves into the snow and laid upon their thin ponchos. The cold seeped into their bones and Hunter wished they’d been issued sleeping bags. They were considered too bulky and heavy for the long march up the mountains. They would be airdropped to them, along with more food and ammunition once it was light enough to see. For now, all they could do was huddle together and shiver.