Sudden Threat (54 page)

“Yeah, but they’d make short work of this. I don’t see a single air-defense weapon,” Zachary said.

He was right. In Zach’s assessment the Japanese had gone into the conflict severely unprepared, despite their strategic and tactical surprise. They had some stinger gunners riding in the tanks and infantry fighting vehicles, but all they could do was react. There was no integrated system set up for early warning such as the Americans used.

Zachary and Slick lay against a rotted log, soft from the rain, waiting for the word from Kooseman. Zachary had played cowboy enough for one war and was growing apprehensive over his isolation from the rest of the unit. Once again, he was all alone, save for the Rangers to his left flank. It was, however, his fault. He had moved the company on his own initiative.

Something instinctual had governed him, almost forcing him to the new position, as if he was supposed to be there.

They heard wet, muffled sounds of artillery rounds leaving their tubes and cutting a path through the driving rain and high clouds. The rounds popped in the distance. Through his binos Zachary saw timber crash and mud splash on the wooded knoll they had earlier defended. The Japanese self-propelled artillery pumped round after round into the infamous knoll, then shifted its fire onto the town of Cabanatuan, indiscriminately spraying the area.

Zach could see thatch huts, the ones that had withstood the onslaught of the rain, disintegrate under the now-incessant bombardment. They had learned one lesson, Zachary figured, and that was to go nowhere without artillery support.

“Bravo six, this is Knight five, over,” came Kooseman’s voice over Slick’s radio handset.

“This is Bravo six, over,” Zachary said.

“Can you do anything about that artillery; it’s getting pretty bad over here?” Kooseman asked, anger in his voice.

Zachary’s mind raged white-hot
He’s got a lot of balls.
Kooseman had chastised him for moving so far away but had the nerve to ask Zachary to attack the enemy formation and compromise his new position. Yesterday, he would have done it without fail, but today, he had gained a better perspective. Some of the edge had dulled from his hate, the driving force to kill every Japanese soldier. He recognized that he had a larger responsibility to protect his company and complete the mission.

“What do you want me to do? I’ve got about fifteen missiles,” Zachary said, hoping that would discourage Kooseman.

The artillery volleys increased, and for the first time Zachary heard the impotent battalion 105mm rounds impacting near the Japanese 155mm self-propelled guns. They landed harmlessly around the armored hulks of the Japanese guns.

“Can you see their arty? How many guns do they have?”

Zachary didn’t like the way the conversation was going; but then he thought of guys like McAllister and Glenn Bush, who were probably over there getting shelled.

“Roger. I count sixteen guns. Looks like two batteries. All are firing,” Zachary said, knowing imme-diately what his new mission was going to be.

“You’ve got enough to take them out,” Kooseman said, trying to make it sound like an order.

Water dripped steadily off the black handset that Zachary held to his ear and mouth. His elbow had busted a hole in the log, and he saw some maggots crawling on his sleeve. As he brushed his elbow against the soggy wood, he wondered about Kooseman’s mathematical capabilities. Sure, he could get most of the artillery, but then would have to bear the brunt of nearly two hundred armored vehicles turned against him.

It was suicide.

“I’m not so sure it’s a smart move,” Zachary said into the handset, realizing he was being insub-ordinate.

“I’m not asking your opinion, Garrett. Shoot the artillery. Do it now,” Kooseman retorted. He heard loud explosions amplified by the transmission. Looking through his binoculars as the gray shade of morning lightened ever so slightly, he watched as a shell tore a huge hole in the prison roof.

“What happens when these two brigades turn on my ass?” Zachary asked.

“We’ve got you covered. Have you shot the artillery, yet?”

“Roger. Happening now,” Zachary said, tossing the handset to Slick. Zachary ordered his platoon leaders to his position, and they rapidly arrived, Kurtz limping with a large bandage around his lower leg.

“We’ve got orders to destroy that artillery,” he said, pointing at the dark figures jumping backward each time they fired. They were nearly five hundred meters away, perfect distance for the missile gunners. Zachary hated to use the passive voice regarding an order. Normally he took responsibility for every-thing, but he had a hard time justifying to his men that their company was supposed to attack a two-hundred-strong armored vehicle convoy.

“Then what?” Taylor asked.

“Then we fight like good soldiers, Andy. We do our best. We’ve been given a mission, and we’re gonna do it.”

Kurtz and Barker were silent as Zachary sketched out a new plan. It was simple: Assign each gunner an artillery piece, everyone would fire simultaneously, then the company would move a kilometer to the rear, into the jungle.

He watched as his platoon leaders trod back to their platoons, and could not help wondering about that night attack they had botched in training over two weeks ago.

Just don’t screw the pooch here.

“Packers,” he said into the radio after receiving word from the three platoon leaders that they were ready.

He looked over his shoulder and thought he saw something, something blue, but then watched as his antitank gunners once again scored strikes on the enemy armor.

Despite the pelting rain, thirteen of the sixteen artillery pieces were burning a bright orange hue, the color of a sun.

The sun, yes. Blue skies mean the sun will come out.

Zachary looked back over his shoulder and saw a blue patch of sky moving slowly above a mountain peak, like an old man on a Sunday drive.

Hurry up!

“Knight this is Bravo. Destroyed thirteen of sixteen. Out of missiles,” Zachary reported to Kooseman, ready to pack his bags and move into the jungle.

“I sent you some AT4 yesterday. Get the other three. We’re still taking arty,” Kooseman demanded.

Zachary wanted to tell him to pack sand, but instead obeyed, as he knew he always would.

“Roger, out,” Zachary replied.

“You don’t say out to me, Captain! You say, over, over.”

Zachary threw the handset into the mud and stood. He could still hear Kooseman squawking, but quit listening when he noticed … something was different.

It had stopped raining.

CHAPTER 97

Takishi told Muriami to move out. They weren’t going to wait for the rain to stop. Muriami gunned the jet engine, tossing Takishi’s ribs into the padded rubber of the commander’s hatch.

Takishi surveyed the wet, gray morning. The rain had continued through the night, and Takishi had decided to move his tanks after the enemy had destroyed his helicopters.

He radioed his commanders and told them to follow him north. He positioned an infantry battalion on each side of his column of tanks. His soldiers, all soaked to the core, revved the diesel engines and began the muddy trek north toward Bongabon, only to cut south from there toward Manila.

The light infantry had been pesky, though, and using the new route, he could avoid them.
“Just drive around the bastards!”
Mizuzawa had told him. The Marines had made a penetration in the defenses and were bearing down Roxas Boulevard with at least three companies.

He needed an operational victory to counter the weight of the tactical defeat. If Takishi could spring free, then the Americans would have to react to the threat that he posed.

Mizuzawa was desperate, so he had told Takishi if he was not successful, the ship was going into harbor. Takishi had protested mildly, but he knew there was nothing he could do. With Mizuzawa, you either signed up for the entire plan or took a hike. He had been opposed to the idea of the ship, but Mizuzawa had overruled him, saying it was necessary.

“This time, we must make it,” Takishi said to Muriami, as they splashed along the muddy road. The tank tread bogged down briefly, then got a grip, gaining purchase on firmer turf. Takishi looked ahead and saw that the road was strewn with chunks of asphalt. Without a decent surface, the road would be impassable.

After an hour of tough slogging, Takishi slewed his turret 180 degrees and ordered Muriami to stop the tank. The going had been slow anyway, and a brief halt would not make a big difference one way or the other.

Frustrated, he watched the American missiles chew into his artillery, then he saw about thirty men come charging downhill toward the pieces that were still firing. They set up shoulder-launched weapons and fired, setting the remainder of the artillery ablaze.

All he had left was direct-fire capability. He pressed the toggle switch on his CVC helmet and ordered the right-flank infantry battalion com-mander to dismount and destroy, once and for all, the pesky light infantry.

Whether it was for glory or because of pure frustration, Takishi lifted his M4, a prize among all of his troops, and stepped out of the relative protection of the tank turret. He jogged into the fray behind hundreds of his infantry and saw a man running down the hill with a radio handset in his ear and a black coil stretching to another soldier, who was trying to keep up.

Charlie Watts was going solo!

Standing, Zachary predicted
that the right-flank battalion would turn on his position. It did.

Soon, a 25mm chain gun was chewing the soggy ground to his front. Barker’s platoon, having just destroyed the remainder of the artillery, was suddenly stranded by the advancing vehicles.

Like army ants, Japanese infantry came pouring from the backs of the fighting vehicles, firing their American weapons at American soldiers.

With horror, Zachary watched as ten vehicles started driving at Barker’s platoon of thirty men, caught in the open like a herd of mustangs surrounded by cowboys. Some of the troops had time to move, but many did not. The twenty-ton armored weapons crushed them, some pivoting atop the bodies.

Zachary saw Barker crouched low, firing his M4 at an oncoming tank, his bullets ricocheting wildly off its rolled steel. The tank impaled him on its front deck, as the tank commander leaned over the turret and emptied a full magazine of submachine-gun ammu-nition into Barker’s body, leaving it glued to the tank by streaming blood. Zachary saw Barker’s head bouncing crazily as the tank stopped, then backed, forcing Barker’s body to slide onto the ground. It pivot-steered to gain the proper angle, finally chewing the wet turf, then Barker, mixing the mud with the blood and bones of the young lieutenant.

“I need artillery, air, and helicopters here now!” Zachary screamed into the battalion net.

“Hold on, Zach,” came McAllister’s voice, “I’m almost there.”

McAllister’s voice comforted him briefly, then the wave of charging infantrymen flushed the thought from his mind.
Must be three hundred.

His remaining two platoons, positioned along the open ridge, began firing.  The squad’s automatic weapons sang through the morning air, thrumming lightly in contrast to the Japanese 7.62mm machine guns, which made loud, cracking sounds.

“Fix bayonets,” Zachary said calmly into the company radio.

Some did, most already had.

The two lines of soldiers merged, one indistinguishable from the other. Zachary saw Slick’s eyes grow wide with fear as he fumbled with his bayonet.

Too late. A small Japanese soldier drove the butt of his weapon into Slick’s helmet, knocking him back. Zachary took his pistol and fired it almost point-blank at the man’s face, leaving a mangled mass in its path, like a plate of spaghetti.

Zachary stuffed the pistol in his belt and lifted his M4, firing it at the many targets. The scene reminded him of a Civil War painting he’d seen at Gettysburg, the Union and Confederate lines locked together in combat, brother against brother.

These were no brothers, though. He knew about brothers. The thought sent a hot, violent rage surging through his body.

 He stood, let out a low, guttural moan, then screamed wildly and waded into the fray, flailing his weapon back and forth, stabbing some with the bayonet, shooting others who were far enough away. Small Japanese men, clad in dark olive uniforms, mouths contorted, were screaming words foreign to Zachary. As he parried bayonet thrusts, he had a sense that he was one of seven—a man named Stanard who had fought so valiantly in a little battle near the Blue Ridge called New Market nearly 140 years ago. Stanard and his six VMI classmates had died as cadets, battling the Union invasion of their beloved Virginia countryside, and the Blue Ridge folks had named a small town after him.

He felt close to Stanard as a knife pierced his left shoulder from behind. He turned and saw the blackened face of a Japanese officer as the knife made a cracking sound cutting through his clavicle.

Zachary pulled the pistol from his holster with his right hand, dropping the empty M4, and bored a hole through his attacker’s neck, bright red blood spraying in all directions.

He pulled the knife from his shoulder in time to thrust it into another enemy soldier coming at him with a bayonet. The forward momentum of the small man knocked Zachary onto his back as he slid fifteen feet through the mud, coming to rest at the feet of two men fighting.

He saw Kurtz wildly swinging his rifle, crushing a man’s temple. Zachary stood and wheeled around as he pointed his pistol in Slick’s face, pulling the trigger, but moving the barrel to the side just in time.

Slick grabbed the commander and pulled him from the mêlée.

The sound of gunfire and screaming men filled the air. It was a horrible noise, the decibels of death, rising into the fresh, cool morning.