Shrouded Glory: A WWII NOVEL

by Chris Glatte

  Lance nodded and called back, “One less Jap to deal with.”

  “Amen to that,” Montgomery called back happily.

  When the firing died down, Mankowitz noticed Staff Sergeant Calder making his way through the line of shivering GIs. He wondered if Montgomery was about to get an ass chewing, but Calder briefly spoke with him and moved along until he reached their hole. “Tuck in tight. Arty’s gonna lay on the heat in about ten minutes.”

  They nodded and Lance gave him a sideways grin, “We gonna make a move on ‘em, Sergeant?”

  Calder sat, tipped his steel pot back, and rubbed his forehead. “Looks that way, but not until after midnight. I and K companies are gonna move up the valley to take some heat off us.” Silence followed. It was what they all hoped but also dreaded to hear. Calder got to his feet and slapped Mankowitz on the shoulder, “Good job getting Rattinger off the ridge.”

  Mankowitz nodded grimly and pointed at Rattinger’s exposed body. There were no spare blankets to cover him, so he slowly frosted over. “Didn’t do him a hell of a lot of good.”

  “He woulda died even if they had hit him inside a proper hospital. Gut wounds are the worst. Just be thankful we can’t smell him yet.” Mankowitz startled at the sheer cruelty of the statement. Calder nodded, “You cleared the path for the rest of the platoon.”

  Lance couldn’t let it go, “Maybe you’d have liked it better if he just kicked him over the edge?”

  Calder scowled darkly and shook his head slowly at Lance. “I would’ve done it myself if it had been you out there, Private.” He turned and left them without looking back.

  Mankowitz punched Lance’s arm, “You should be more careful, Lance. Why goad him like that?”

  “What’s he gonna do way out here? Hell, I’ll probably get shot on tonight’s raid.”

  “Yeah, by him,” added Harwick.

  Lance looked worried, “You really think so?”

  Harwick shook his head, “Nah…he wouldn’t waste a bullet—more likely gut ya with that pig sticker he carries.”

  Right on time, the shrieking of 105mm Howitzer shells arced overhead and slammed into Point Able. It was only 250 yards away. The ground shook and vibrated with the impacts. Waves of concussion smashed into the rocks they cowered behind, knocking dirt and snow onto their heads. The deluge of shells was intense but didn’t last long.

  When it was over, they shook themselves and bits of snow and dirt fell off their helmets and shoulders. “Damn, that felt close,” exclaimed Lance.

  Mankowitz agreed, “That’s because it was.” He felt the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “Feels like my damned teeth are loose.”

  Harwick nodded, “At least we’re off to the side, otherwise a short round would've killed us all.”

  Lance dusted off his front side, “At least I’m not cold anymore. Feel downright cooked.” He cautiously raised his helmeted head and peered into the mist and smoke. “Can’t tell if it did any damage, but I doubt the Japs enjoyed themselves.”

  Time passed slowly on the ridge. Fog shifted back and forth with the changing wind direction. Snow and sleet took turns pounding them and kept them damp and shivering. They ate what rations they had, drank water, and readied their ammunition and weapons for the coming push.

  A half hour before midnight, the Japanese on Point Able shot off three parachute flares. Two floated over the valley where I and K companys were advancing. They shot the third over 2nd Platoon’s heads.

  Mankowitz watched the little parachute dropping slowly through the clouds and fog. It sputtered and hissed in the wet environment but put off enough light to bring the dark landscape to eery life. The woodpecker sound of a Nambu machine gun opening fire made him cringe, but it wasn’t directed their way. More rifles opened fire and tracers lanced into the valley.

  From their position, the bottom of the valley wasn’t quite visible. “I and K must be getting hit,” Mankowitz noted.

  Harwick rose and risked a look at Point Able. He ducked back down quickly. “Their entire line’s firing. Nothing coming this way though.”

  They made their way to the rallying point in the middle of their little piece of heaven, fifteen minutes before midnight. The GIs exchanged glances. Their faces were stoic and hard.

  Lieutenant Callow took center stage. He pulled his non-regulation scarf off his face and addressed them. “I and K are moving up, drawing their attention. We’ll stay on the left side of the ridge as long as possible. Stay out of sight even if you’ve got an opportunity for a shot—don’t take it.” He looked hard at Private Montgomery, then continued. “Scofield scouted the ridge earlier and thinks we’ll be able to get within fifty yards before we’ll have to expose ourselves. The grenadiers and BARs are gonna stay at that spot and cover us when we sneak on ‘em. Questions?”

  Answering fire from the valley rose to a crescendo. The flares extinguished, but the exchange of fire continued unabated. Staff Sergeant Calder tilted his head in that direction. “What about our guys down there? They can’t tell friend from foe that far away.”

  “They’ve got orders not to shoot after 0100 hours.” He gave a sideways grin, “The radio’s been spotty, but I’m pretty sure they got the message.” He shrugged, “We’ll find out.” He turned serious. “Look, we’ve only got enough ammo to try this once. If we fail, we’ll have to go back across that damned ridge and then do it all over again. I don’t know about y’all, but that scared the living hell outta me and I don’t wanna do it again, so let’s get this done tonight.”

  The GIs grinned and nodded at their new officer’s candor. Mankowitz couldn’t have agreed with him more. He’d rather fire his last shot and die attacking than have to cross that damned ridge again. He gulped against a dry throat and realized he’d get his chance to test that theory in just over an hour.

  For once, 1st Squad wasn’t leading the way. They were running tail end charlie and Mankowitz was ecstatic. The snow was only a few inches thick most of the way. Sometimes the wind stacked blowing snow into deeper sections but traversing those was much easier when there was already a nice worn track. The slope was steep, but nothing compared to the knife-edge ridges they’d already crossed. Falling here would be a considerable inconvenience but probably wouldn’t kill you.

  By the time they got to the jump-off point, Mankowitz was warm and relatively comfortable. It had taken 45 minutes at a leisurely pace. The shooting between the GIs in the valley and the Japanese at Point Able had dropped off to the occasional rifle shot, or a quick burst from a machine gun.

  Mankowitz kept glancing back at their trail, but he wasn’t too concerned about someone following them. He tucked into the hillside out of sight from Point Able, along with the rest of his squad.

  The wind swirled as it crested and curled over the top of the ridge, but it lost most of its power on this side. Mankowitz thought he might be able to curl up and actually sleep. The thought made him yearn for his goose down pillow and matching comforter back in Montana. He thought about his best friend, Mack Hunter. He must be on this miserable island by now. He wondered how he was faring. He looked at the sky, hoping to glimpse the moon or a cluster of familiar stars, but the clouds were socked in tight.

  The dim silhouettes of soldiers surrounded him, and he felt safe and secure in their midst, despite being a stone's throw from men who eagerly sought out his death. Word passed down for the grenadiers and BAR men to move forward. Lance glanced back at him and extended his hand. Mankowitz took it and Lance whispered, “Good luck, Mank. I’ll keep their heads down for you.”

  Mankowitz nodded and squeezed harder, “See that you do.” They released and Lance slithered his way through the shadows. Mankowitz exchanged a glance with Harwick, who looked worried. “He’ll be okay,” he assured him.

  Harwick shook his head, “He’s staying back in cover…I’m not worried about that lucky asshole.”

  Men in front moved up the slope toward the top of the ridge. Mankowitz followed Harwick until they were the
last ones on the ridge besides the grenadiers and BAR men. The wind smacked them in the face, its power no longer muted by the ridge.

  Mankowitz could hardly see the GIs crossing the exposed 50 yards toward Point Able. During their 45-minute trek, they’d lost altitude and were now below and to the left of the Japanese trenches and bunkers. He could barely make out black slithering shapes crawling up the slope. He licked his lips and pulled himself over the ridge. The first twenty feet were down, and he felt exposed. If the Japanese fired a flare now, 1st Squad would be spotted easily. Mankowitz slithered as quickly as possible but couldn’t go any faster than the man in front and so on up the line. He wondered if he’d feel the bullet that was about to punch through his back.

  Finally, they were on the up slope toward Point Able. Since they shared the same slope, the Japanese would have to lean way out of their holes to see them. They were closer to the enemy, but less exposed, which was a strange juxtaposition in Mankowitz’s mind.

  He closed his eyes tight and forced himself to get control of his growing fear. The weight of his M1 across his back was reassuring, and he concentrated on the feeling. He thought about what he’d do once the shooting started. Roll to the side, pull the rifle off his back, check the bolt and safety, and get ready to defend his life and those of his buddies.

  The ground was wet, and parts were muddy from the GIs dragging themselves across. Cold seeped into Mankowitz’s core, and he shivered involuntarily. He kept watching and following Harwick’s worn boot soles. It was slow going. There were forty men in front of him and he thought the leading elements must be getting awfully close to the Japanese lines. An image crossed his mind of Lemmings following one another off a cliff. Was this any different? Only instead of a cliff, Japanese bullets, and grenades? Knock it off, dammit!

  Harwick’s boot sole stopped moving. Mankowitz grasped the M1 barrel sticking over his right ear and froze. The only sound was the whistling of wind through the massive boulders of Point Able. It sounded surreal and a shiver of another kind snaked up his spine.

  He lifted his head and saw a quick motion from the men near the front. Tiny dark orbs sailed from their hands and disappeared into the gloom. He shut his eyes and waited. Grenades popped and exploded in quick succession like someone had lit off a brick of firecrackers.

  Mankowitz pulled his rifle smoothly off his back and was aiming past Harwick in seconds. Yelling and screaming filled the night. The heavy staccato from the BARs and the thunks of rifle grenades from the ridge added to the din. GIs stood and ran forward, firing. Mankowitz noticed fixed bayonets and he panicked, realizing he’d forgotten to attach his own. He fumbled at his side, finally found it, and it clicked into place. The thought of jabbing it into another living human being—even a Jap—made his stomach somersault.

  A great yell rose, and soldiers were getting to their feet and charging uphill. Mankowitz felt the surge of adrenaline and power rising in his chest. He rose with the rest of them and charged, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  Dark shapes of charging GIs were all around him. Firing from the trench grew in intensity. He recognized the pings of M1 clips running dry, the hammering of Thompson submachine guns firing on full automatic, and the distinct pops of Arisaka rifles firing back.

  He kept his legs churning up the slippery slope. Harwick suddenly dropped face first. Mankowitz lost his breath and went to him, fearing the worst, but Harwick was cursing and trying to get back onto his feet. “Are you hit?” Mankowitz screamed.

  Harwick shook him off and shook his head. “It’s slick as snot. I fell. I’m okay.”

  Mankowitz could breathe again as relief flooded through him. They ran side by side up the hill. They came to the lip of the trench. It was filled with GIs running and firing, some beating their rifle stocks into formless shapes beneath them. Mankowitz stepped over a prone GI lying on the lip of the trench. He reached down to help him, but when he turned him upright, he saw only a caved-in shimmering mass where his face should be. He reared back and fell down the slope a few yards before arresting his fall.

  Harwick disappeared over the lip of the trench. Mankowitz got his feet beneath him and glanced behind him. He could see the occasional muzzle flare from the BARs on the ridge, but they’d clearly backed off as more and more GIs entered the trenches and blocked their fields of fire.

  He dug his boots into the soft ground and forced his way back up the slope. The sounds of battle were moving away from him, and he cursed himself for letting himself get distracted from the fight.

  He finally crested the trench. He stood on the bloody edge, not wanting to plunge in until he could see the bottom. He was breathing hard and fast. A motion from his left caught his attention and he turned his barrel to meet it. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

  The sight of three Japanese emerging—seemingly like magic—from the wall and charging directly at him like crazed bulls, made his bowels loosen. The leader held a pistol in one hand and a raised sword in the other.

  Mankowitz didn’t have time to aim. He simply pulled the trigger, firing from the hip. The swordsman staggered but kept coming and slashed the sword straight down. Mankowitz kept pulling the trigger until his clip pinged, then dove into the trench. The blade narrowly missed cleaving his head in half. It buried into the dirt and the Japanese tripped and went sprawling down the hill.

  The other two were armed with rifles with gleaming bayonets attached. They followed him into the trench, but it was too narrow for both of them to attack side by side. They jostled each other, giving Mankowitz enough time to bring his rifle up. He pulled the trigger, but he’d fired his last shot into the swordsman.

  The leading Japanese soldier gave him a sardonic grin and lunged his bayonet at his guts. Mankowitz instinctively batted the thrust away with his M1, but the soldier recovered and pulled his rifle back, then lunged at him again. Mankowitz went to a knee and pushed his rifle up, deflecting the thrust again. He saw his chance. He dropped his rifle and punched the surprised soldier in the crotch. The fight went out of him and he dropped his rifle. His mouth was open in a silent scream of agony. He fell sideways, clutching his ruptured gonads and vomited violently.

  The second soldier was screaming and charging. He had his rifle raised over his head, ready to slash it into his face. Mankowitz had an instant to react. He threw himself out of the trench. He felt a hot pain in his side and wondered what it meant. He allowed himself to roll and roll, trying to put distance between himself and crazed soldier chasing him. He rolled up against something soft and reared back, seeing the Japanese swordsman staring at him.

  He backed away on all fours in an awkward crab walk. His side ached and throbbed. He finally realized the man was immobile and covered in his own blood. He wasn’t a threat. The soldier charging down the hill after him, was. He groped for a weapon, coming up empty. His knife was attached to his rifle back up at the trench.

  He lunged back toward the dead swordsman and groped in the darkness. The charging soldier was closing, and his screams were threatening to drive Mankowitz crazy with fear. He finally felt what he was looking for. He grasped the smooth leather sword handle and pulled it from beneath the slain soldier’s body with a sharp snick.

  The charging soldier didn’t slow down. He led with his bayonet and lunged it at Mankowitz’ chest. It was easy to step aside and let the soldier run right past him. He felt as though he were playing tag with a group of friends on the playground in middle school.

  He swept the sword across the soldier’s back as he ran by and the razor-sharp blade cut through his uniform and sliced deeply into his back, changing the tone of his battle cry. He arched his back and fell, grasping at his back.

  Mankowitz thought about chasing him and finishing him, but the thought of running him through was repulsive. It was dark; he was alone, and his side felt as though it was on fire.

  The sounds of battle were far away. He took one last look at the writhing soldier then moved up the hill, still clutching th
e sword. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to use it again, but it was all he had at the moment.

  He was nearly at the trench line when he heard the distinctive sound of an M1 firing close by. He dropped to his knees just beneath the lip. He got control of his breathing and called out. “I’m—I’m coming up, don’t shoot.”

  Harwick poked his head over the side, “That you, Mank?” He stepped onto the edge and looked down at him, his smoking rifle barrel at his side. “What the hell are you doing down there?” His eyes widened, “Where the hell’d you get the sword?” Mankowitz stepped onto the ledge beside him. The soldier he’d punched in the balls had a neat hole in his forehead. Harwick explained, “Came looking for you. Found him up here clutching his balls, so I put him out of his misery.” He looked at him sideways, “Was that your doing? What the hell happened to you?”

  Mankowitz felt his knees weaken and he had to sit down. He felt dizzy. He shook his head, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  10

  Another day without resupply meant the GIs of the Provisional Scout Company were even more miserable. More GIs were pulled off the line as exposure cases rose. The CP had become more of a field hospital than an HQ. Captain Willoughby ordered the soldiers near the CP to dig into the snow and the tundra beyond and they’d scraped out a relatively warm cave system. It was dark and dank, but out of the wind, snow, and rain.

  After finding the Japanese line, there’d been sporadic firefights throughout the day. The GIs on the opposite ridge from Hunter’s squad took the brunt of the exchanges. Japanese artillery slammed them every few hours, followed by sweeping machine gun bursts.