A creature clicked and growled at him. A cliff bird, which Charlie knew was a masked booby, rustled in its cave, protecting its young.
“Just passing through,” he gasped.
The world went white.
He huddled half-blind against the rock. The air around him roared. Disoriented, he wondered if Fifth Fleet had started shelling the island.
A heavy drop of water splatted against his jungle cap. Another. Charlie hauled himself up with renewed energy, making every second count.
Wind blasted down the cliff face. Then the rain rushed down in buckets, pushing against him like a living thing. Water sluiced into his eyes, nose, and mouth. It soaked into his gear and boots. In seconds, sheets of it poured down the cliff like a waterfall.
The rope slid in his gloved hands. He tightened his grip and held on through sheer force of will, pulling himself up step by step against the deluge. His boot slipped, and he hung free as the men above hauled him up. He regained purchase with his feet and kept going, one pull followed by the next. His arms burned with exertion as they approached their limit.
Another heart-stopping flash of light, followed by a rolling avalanche of thunder. Hands lifted him by the armpits and dragged him onto a bed of grass, where he lay gasping as the rain poured down.
Unable to see more than a few feet in any direction, he crawled away from the edge. The other men were vague dark shapes behind a wall of rain.
Trembling with exhaustion, he pulled off his Mae West. They’d barely started the mission, and already Charlie was spent. The storm brought misery but also respite. They’d wait it out and rest up.
A shape appeared in his path. Eyes burning against a blackened face.
“On your feet, soldier,” Cotten shouted over the gale. “We’re moving out!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
BAPTISM
The violent storm pounded the jungle.
Charlie crept along the muddy game trail. He couldn’t see Cotten on point. For what felt like hours, they’d sneaked across a plateau tangled with underbrush and dotted with giant boulders.
When they’d reached the jungle, the Scout’s instruction had been simple: follow the trail. Surrounded by sheets of water falling from the jungle canopy, Charlie felt like he walked alone.
Then the rain stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
He froze, feeling exposed, and wiped water from his eyes. Cotten was waving at him. Get off the trail now. Pass it along.
Charlie turned and waved Smokey and Braddock off the trail. Dripping, he slogged into the ferns. Water condensed in the hot night air. Fog rose all around him as he pushed into the thick undergrowth, trying to keep an eye on the Scout.
Then Cotten disappeared. Charlie floundered after him. If they lost the lieutenant, they were finished.
The Scout reached from the darkness and gripped his arm. Held his finger to his lips. Keep quiet. Follow me.
Charlie stopped to rest his hands on his knees, sucking in the thick, humid air. He pulled as much of it into his lungs as he could and walked slowly in the Scout’s trail, one eye on Cotten, the other on the ground.
And much, much quieter.
With the rain stopped, the air filled with mosquitoes. The insects hummed around him. He knew better than to slap at them, which would produce noise. He rubbed them off his face, only to feel another nagging sting. Charlie brushed at them with his gloved hands until rage burned in his chest.
What I am doing here?
Make it your friend, he told himself. The rain, the exhaustion, the mosquitoes. Embrace it. Own it.
He waved a whining insect away from his ear.
Cotten was frantically signaling him. Get down!
He passed on the signal and lowered himself quietly onto the mud. Behind him, Smokey and Braddock sank into the fog like ghosts.
Voices. The clatter of gear.
A thought nagged at him.
He was lying on a patch of ground that had no plants growing from it.
Another game trail. In moments, the Japanese would march right up to him.
Charlie rolled into a tangle of ground vines as the voices grew louder and boots splashed in the mud.
A black shape materialized from the mist. A rain-soaked Japanese soldier in khaki uniform. Field cap with a neck flap, tunic, trousers with shins wrapped in puttees. Ammunition belt and pouches, canteen, bayonet, long Arisaka bolt-action rifle. Water vapor misted off him as he approached.
Once again, Charlie found himself within shooting distance of one of the toughest fighters in the world. The Japanese infantryman rarely ran, never surrendered, and would charge even if it meant certain death.
Charlie’s heart crashed in his ears. He wondered if the soldier could hear it.
Mud splashed his face as the soldier tramped past, followed by another. A file of riflemen. A section, about fifteen men. They grumbled as they marched.
A man stopped directly in front of Charlie. Strange boots with a split toe that made his feet look like hooves. Charlie shifted his eyes to look up.
The soldier gazed right back at him.
Charlie started to reach for his K-bar but froze. The soldier’s rifle remained slung over his shoulder. He fidgeted with his trousers.
A warm stream splatted against Charlie’s back.
He shut his eyes but otherwise remained still. Cotten had told him a man couldn’t see another in the dark unless he moved.
Think about something else, he told himself. Anything else.
A dozen memories sprang into his mind, but none held. The steady splatter between his shoulder blades blocked out any thought except disgust and fury.
That and pure terror the soldier would realize what he was urinating on.
At last, the stream stopped. The soldier sniffed the air once, twice. His head lowered to peer into the undergrowth where Charlie lay hidden.
A man called out in Japanese. The soldier raised his head and responded. Then he trudged after his section.
The jungle silenced except for the ring of insects. Something crawled across Charlie’s hand, but still he didn’t move, his body clenched with fear.
Cotten made a clicking sound. Charlie rose and followed the Scout deeper into the jungle, maintaining a five-yard interval.
He expected his legs to be shaky, but wrath had replaced his terror. He’d steamed halfway around the world to get pissed on. He wanted to blow up that gun and make this all worth something.
Dawn arrived with alarming suddenness. The team huddled around the Scout, who shrugged off the thirty-five-pound SCR-300 radio he’d carried on his back and sat against the trunk of a red-orange flame tree.
“All y’all did good,” he said. “We’ll hold up here for an hour.”
“What happens after that?” Charlie said.
Cotten checked his compass and put it back in his breast pocket. “A hundred meters or so to the north, there should be a stream. We’ll find a nice secluded spot to wait. When night comes, we’ll refill our canteens and cross over.”
“The island’s crawling with Japs,” Smokey said.
“We’re gonna take it real slow. Real slow and real quiet.”
“How far is the gun now?” Charlie said.
“I reckon we made around two klicks last night, which ain’t bad, considering. We’ll assault the gun tonight after it gets dark.”
Two kilometers inland. Right now, they were directly between Tsutsurran, Aslito Airfield, and heavy concentrations of entrenched Japanese troops guarding the island’s southwestern beaches.
“What were those soldiers talking about?” Braddock said.
“They were bitching about being out in the rain, their shit rations, and their lousy officers,” the Scout answered and took a swig from his canteen. “But that’s just a guess. Aside from a few military words, I don’t speak Jap.”
“They sound a lot like you, Braddock,” Charlie said. “If we get captured, I’m sure there’s plenty you can all talk about, comparing notes.
”
“Not me, sir,” Braddock said. “I regard my officers as an inspiration.”
Charlie snorted at the barb, suddenly aware how thirsty he was. His throat felt like leather. He unscrewed the cap on his canteen and poured the warm water down his throat. The most satisfying drink he ever had.
“Easy on that,” Cotten said. “It has to last the day. We can’t refill at the stream until it gets dark.”
“And wash up too,” Braddock told Charlie. “You smell like the head, sir.”
“Thanks for your concern.”
“Everybody gets scared. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
The Scout laughed. “That ain’t his piss you’re smelling. A Jap stopped and took a whiz right on our friend here. He smelled Charlie’s body odor, though.”
The men cracked grins. Charlie expected another smart-ass tirade from the machinist, but the man just nodded with something like respect.
“Damn,” Smokey said and whistled at how close it all was.
“Charlie,” said Cotten, “consider that your baptism. You’re a Scout now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
SACRIFICE
Braddock provided security with his BAR while the others got ready to chow down on their K-rations. Charlie pulled a box from his tunic pocket labeled, US ARMY FIELD RATION K, BREAKFAST.
Chopped ham and eggs in a can, biscuits, malted milk tablets, dried fruit bar, instant coffee and sugar, Wrigley gum, toilet paper, and Halazone water purification tablets. He ate dutifully, replacing consumed calories, and saved the coffee. They wouldn’t be making any fires today.
“Makes you appreciate the chow Uncle Charlie gets us.” Smokey eyed his breakfast doubtfully. “I’ll never give the cook a ribbing again.”
Vice Admiral Charles Lockwood went above and beyond to ensure the submarines received the best provisions.
“We eat pretty good too,” Cotten said. “When we’re not in the field.”
The men finished their breakfast in silence. Smokey lay on the ground with his head against a tree trunk and fell asleep.
The tropical sun burned off the last of the mist. Through the jungle canopy, Charlie glimpsed Mount Fina Susu, carpeted in green. The 300-foot-high hill loomed over the surrounding countryside.
Somewhere up there, the Meteor maintained its sentinel watch over the waters west of the island. Ready to wreak havoc on the American landings. Tonight, Charlie and his team would have to assault that gun and destroy it.
Submarines often faced long odds. They charged into battle against numerous ships with bigger guns and thicker armor, and they emerged victorious because submarines always had one advantage that proved decisive.
Surprise.
As long as Moretti didn’t reveal their true objective, they’d launch their assault tonight with total surprise on their side. Overwhelm the crew, destroy the big gun, and get out.
Cotten caught him staring at the mountain. “We can do it, Charlie.”
He nodded. “We don’t have a choice.”
“We can prevent a lot of boys getting killed. And make my boys’ deaths mean something.”
Charlie took a swig from his canteen to wash down his breakfast. It took an act of will not to drain it. “What happened to the kid?”
The Scout said nothing.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Every other island we been on, lots of times, the locals either helped us or were doing their best to ignore a war was going on. Just trying to live their lives. This was our first mission with Jap civilians. They didn’t train us for that.”
The Scout picked up his entrenching tool and dug a hole to bury their trash. “I hope the Japs give up before we get to their home islands. I really do. They may not have weapons, but they’re soldiers, every one of them. Even the kids.”
Charlie pictured the massacre that was to come and wondered if the war would ever end. “They’re going to make us kill them all,” he said with disgust.
“You got any regrets, Charlie?”
Again, that question from a man who knew something about it.
“I’ve taken a few big risks that strike me as foolish now,” he said. “But I’ve been lucky.”
“While my boys were getting shot up, I stayed on the ground with the kid. The Jap grunts ran right past me. Me and this kid, we just looked at each other. Right in the eye. Me holding my knife, knowing I had to finish it. Him crying.”
Cotten’s face twisted into a mixture of fury and despair.
Charlie said, “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry I asked.”
“That kid was our Alamo. I actually wanted to kill him for what he done.”
“But you didn’t, did you?”
“After the fighting was over and the Japs all left, I put up my K-bar. The boy understood. If I let him walk, he’d keep his mouth shut. We made a deal.”
“There probably wasn’t much you could have done anyway. If you didn’t stay hidden, they would have killed you too.”
“What’s my life worth now?” Cotten’s eyes blazed. “I got my boys killed because I didn’t cut a kid’s throat. What would you have done in my place?”
“I don’t know, Jonas.” He was no good at this kind of talk. “I’d like to think I wouldn’t have killed him either. Part of me wants to think I would to save my men. Either way, I’d probably end up with one hell of a big regret.”
“Back home, I was nobody special. I joined the Scouts because I wanted to be the best I could. I wanted to meet myself. Find out what I was really made of. When I had my K-bar out ready to kill that boy, I did.”
“You aren’t a cold-blooded murderer,” Charlie said. “That’s a good thing.”
“Then I don’t belong here.” Cotten turned away and wiped his eyes. “This goddamn war. Only the cold-blooded are gonna survive it.”
Charlie wished he had the words that might ease the man’s conscience. He doubted any words could. “Sometimes it’s just that. The war. Not you—”
A rifle cracked deep in the jungle. Braddock screamed and went down.
“Contact!” Cotten snatched up his M3 grease gun.
Charlie crouched and ran to Braddock, who lay writhing on the ground.
“Fucker shot me,” the man growled.
A bullet snapped past Charlie’s ear as he located a bloody patch on Braddock’s arm. No time to dress it. “It looks like it passed clean through.”
“It hurts like hell!”
“Get on your feet! Move it!”
Muzzle flashes in the trees. Charlie fired wildly with his Thompson then helped the sailor up. Together, they ran past their comrades, who laid down suppressing fire before falling back.
“They’re gonna try and flank us,” the Scout said as they darted through the trees. “We got no choice but to get across the stream.”
“They’ll shoot us while we cross,” Charlie said. “I’ll strike east and see if I can draw them off. Meet up with you later.”
“No, sir,” Smokey said. “I’ll do it. You get to the gun.”
“Go, Smokey,” said Cotten.
Before Charlie could protest, the quartermaster sped off with his Garand.
The Scout was already running toward the stream. Charlie chased after him, Braddock huffing at his side, nursing his bleeding arm.
Behind them, a Garand popped, followed by the ping of an ejecting clip. Smokey was harassing the Japanese flank, making himself known.
Bright sunlight struck Charlie as the jungle cleared. The stream gurgled, cool and inviting. He splashed into it.
“Go!” Cotten said. “I’ll cover forward.”
Bracing his legs against the current, Charlie forded the water with big strides. Braddock kept pace alongside him, his face white as a sheet. They flinched as the jungle behind erupted with the crackle of gunfire.
Reaching the other side, they hunkered down in the bushes. Cotten was already coming across while Braddock covered him with the BAR.
Distant booms. Rumbles
Charlie felt deep in his chest. Freight trains tore the air overhead. Meteors flamed across the blue sky.
The naval bombardment had begun. Fifth Fleet was in action, a day earlier than scheduled.
The ground trembled as the massive shells struck the island. The next blast knocked him flat. The air shimmered in the south as a vast plume of dirt, entire trees, and the matchstick remains of buildings reached for the sky.
Cotten landed next to him. “Stay down!”
Charlie hugged the ground as Smokey emerged from the trees on the opposite bank, nursing a wounded arm.
He smiled with relief. “There’s Smokey!”
Come on, he thought, willing the chief to go faster. Run!
The quartermaster dropped his rifle and raised his left arm.
Khaki-clad soldiers encircled him, screaming over the blasts. Charlie quickly counted thirteen men, nearly a whole section of infantry.
“Jishu! Jishu!”
Smokey had taken two of them, and now the rest had caught him. They’d beat him. Torture him. Then they’d execute him.
The ground shook again from the impact of sixteen-inch shells.
Charlie aimed his Thompson. Not on my watch.
A strong arm wrapped around his throat, the other reaching across to shove his weapon’s barrel into the dirt.
Charlie struggled, but the man held him fast.
“Stop,” Cotten hissed in his ear. “He’s done. There’s nothing we can do.”
“The hell we can’t,” he grunted.
“Smokey knows the score.”
“Braddock, fire that BAR. That’s an order.”
The sailor glanced from Charlie to Cotten and shook his head. “The lieutenant’s right, sir. And he’s in charge.”
“I order you to shoot!”
“The Scout knows what he’s doing.”
“It’s on me,” Cotten said. “It’s on me, not you.”
“Damn you,” Charlie raged. He stopped struggling and gaped as the Japanese soldiers closed in on the chief with their bayonets. Another wall of dirt and trees roared over the jungle behind them. The shockwave rippled through the earth.
Contact!: a novel of the Pacific War Page 10