The Long Patrol: World War II Novel (31 page)

The men instinctively dropped to the ground and watched their old position engulfed as the four Corsairs dropped their two hundred pound bombs.

When the ground stopped shaking they stood and looked up the hill. Another sergeant stepped up to Welch and saluted. “What are your orders, Sir?”

Welch looked at the men who were now cowed by the realization that he’d saved their lives. Welch understood these men weren’t afraid to die and would rather die than be dishonored. There was only one thing he could say. “We attack the ridge and kill the Americans, but we do it my way.”

Sergeant Murata looked to the ridge. It was still smoking and smoldering. There was no movement from the men who’d been attacking. He had no recourse, but to assume Lt. Kogi was incinerated somewhere up the hill. Welch wasn’t a Japanese officer, but he was a personal friend of the colonel’s, which gave him automatic rank in Sergeant Murata’s eyes. He also seemed to know his way around the jungle and this ridge. He made his decision to follow his orders, for now.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The strafing run had devastated the advancing Japanese troops. Sergeant Carver looked out over the slope, then back to the blue dots lining up for their bombing run. He thought the bombs would be enough to kill any remaining Japanese. He heard yelling coming from the slope and as he looked, he saw men starting to recover, beginning to stagger back to their feet. If they rushed they would overrun them, but the Corsairs would be there with their deadly bombs in seconds. The Japanese didn’t have a chance. He heard more yelling and saw the entire left side of the Japanese line retreating down the hill at a dead run. He raised his Arisaka, but the planes were too close. He yelled for his men to get down and threw himself into the bottom of the hole on top of Dunphy.

Captain Malone was leading the bombing run. He knew the planes would be spread out behind him at ten second intervals, plenty of time to keep out of the bomb blast of the previous plane.

He angled the Corsair down five degrees, but kept his speed steady at two hundred knots. He was slow, but he needed to be precise to keep from hitting friendlies. He timed the drop perfectly, releasing the two hundred pound bomb. His Corsair leaped into the sky with the sudden release of weight. He put in full military power and scratched for altitude. He felt, more than heard the air shimmer with the impact of his bomb. He turned to starboard and glanced at the fireball subsiding on the slope.
Bullseye
, he thought. He saw the next plane in line coming in on the same track. There’d be nothing left of the Japs when they were through.

Lieutenant Emmit was the last plane. He was still feeling the intense adrenalin rush from leading the strafing run. Now he was tail-end Charlie, flying through smoke and debris to get to the target. He slowed the Corsair, feeling the controls getting sluggish. He couldn’t see much, but he looked to his instruments, trusting them to keep him on course. When he thought he was in the right spot he held his thumb over the pickle. He swore he felt the plane shift to the right in turbulence, but his instruments remained steady. He put in some slight aileron to correct what he felt and released his two hundred pounder.

He pulled away out of the smoke and immediately felt sick. He was flying directly along the ridge. He looked back searching for his bomb strike, praying he hadn’t just bombed his own troops.

On the ground, the first three bombs struck the slope and sent carnage in all directions. The ground shook and the holes the men were cowering in collapsed all along the upper edges. The vibration shook the men down to their bones. Each man was curled into a tight ball, eyes closed hard, teeth gritted. Without realizing it, they were screaming. Their insides felt like they’d shake to jelly or their bones would break.

There was a longer pause before the fourth and final bomb was dropped. It was released late so it overshot their position, but it slammed into the ridge and exploded only thirty yards from Cpl. Hooper’s hole. When the dust settled, the men slowly dug themselves out of their half buried state. Private Dunphy felt like he’d been in the worst boxing match of his life. Every muscle ached, every joint screamed for attention. He sat on the edge of his collapsed hole and looked out at the charred, smoking slope. Nothing could have survived. Carver stood up and walked to the next hole, checking on O'Connor who was bleeding from his ears, then Hooper.

Hooper wasn’t responding. He’d been closest to the final bomb. Sergeant Carver pulled him out of the dirt thinking he was only staying down, but he still didn’t move. He knelt beside his splayed body and slapped his face, “Wake up, Hooper.” Nothing. He felt for a pulse on his neck. Nothing. He lifted his eye lids and looked into his lifeless eyes. He ripped his shirt open looking for the wound that killed him, but he was intact. Sergeant Carver started to pound on his chest trying to restart his heart. He yelled and cussed and pounded on the lifeless body.

After a minute, O'Connor put his hand on his shoulder and pulled him away. Carver looked at him with seething eyes. He went back to compressions, savagely pushing and thumping. O'Connor pulled him away and yelled, “He’s dead, Sarge. He’s fucking gone. Stop.”

Carver gave one last look at Hooper’s staring eyes, stood and strode away, muttering, “Stupid eye-tie mother-fucker.” He went thirty yards and sat down hard on the edge of the small cliff. He yelled, “You motherfuckers! you motherfucking sons-of-bitches!”

O'Connor and Dunphy stared, never having seen their hard-assed sergeant lose it. It gave them pause. If this hard, combat professional was cracking, they had no chance.

Carver stared down the slope for another minute, trying to get control of himself. He’d lost most of his men. The men who’d entrusted him with their lives were gone, blown to bits or shot full of holes. He’d let them all down. He’d killed his entire squad.

He heard O'Connor call, “Sarge? You okay?” No, he hadn’t killed them all, not yet. He still had O'Connor and Dunphy and he still had a job to do. He shook himself and stood. He closed his eyes hard and squeezed his fists until they were bright white. He’d lost it momentarily and the thought of it drove him mad. There was something about seeing Corporal Hooper dead that had turned something inside him. He’d felt an overpowering sadness, then an overarching rage, then sadness again. He’d seen more death in this war than most men would see in four lifetimes and he’d never been bothered. Not like this. What was it about Hooper that set him off? He couldn’t begin to know, but he’d have to pull it together if he wanted to get what was left of his unit through the next few hours.

He yelled, “Dunphy get me the radio, it’s in our hole.” He pointed at O'Connor, “Find the machine gun that was with Hooper. See if it’s still operational. If not find the ammo, and anything else we can use to kill Japs.”

Seconds later Dunphy ran up holding the radio in two pieces. “Radio’s fucked. It must have shaken apart or something. It’s useless.”

Sergeant Carver held the two pieces.
How do I continue the mission without a radio?
He let it drop out of his hands and it shattered on a rock. Dunphy looked at him wondering the same thing. Carver motioned with his head towards O'Connor. “Help him recover whatever you can. Don’t think the Japs are done with us yet.”

Dunphy looked down the slope and saw it was still smoldering. The only evidence he could see of Japanese soldiers were smoking bits and pieces. “Don’t think we need to worry ‘bout them, Sarge.”

Carver’s voice was gruff, “Saw a bunch running down towards the jungle just before the bombs dropped. They might have made it in time.” Dunphy looked down the hill and ducked down. “Keep watch, but help out O'Connor. If they come they’ll come from a different direction.”

Ten minutes later they were huddled on the ridge going over what they had left. One Nambu machine gun with three hundred rounds, six grenades, 12 rounds for the knee mortar, three M1 carbines with fifteen clips and the Arisaka rifle. It was enough to inflict damage if the Japanese came again, but with only three of them it might be a short last stand.

O'Connor said what was on all their minds. “What are we gonna do, Sarge? Without a radio we can’t complete our mission. There’s no reason to stay up here and die.”

Carver looked at the guns and ammo, then looked each man in the eye. “If we don’t take out those guns tomorrow morning a lot of G.I.’s are gonna die. Hell, we may lose the island. You wanna be left here?”

Dunphy spoke, “But what can we do? We can’t call in a strike without a radio and besides, we don’t know where the guns are.”

Sergeant Carver looked to the west. “Division thinks the guns are on one of those ridges, overlooking the main Jap forces. If we move that way, we’ll see their smoke when they fire and we can hit them with everything we’ve got.” Dunphy and O'Connor were silent.

O'Connor scuffed the dirt with his foot. “Gotta have at least a platoon protecting those guns, Sarge.”

Carver continued, “We could use the knee mortar to confuse ‘em, hit ‘em with grenades and the Nambu, maybe disrupt ‘em enough to give our guys a fighting chance. Once they’re in the Jap lines they’ll stop the arty.” Carver wasn’t sure about that last bit. The Japs tended to sacrifice their own soldiers more easily than their American counterparts. “Look, I’m not gonna order you to do this. You’re right; it’s got all the makings of a one-way trip, but it’s our only chance to complete the mission and maybe save some G.I.’s.”

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.