The Long Patrol: World War II Novel (19 page)

The Chief yelled, “Nogat spik.”

The harsh voice stopped Dunphy. He raised his hands, “I don’t know what you’re saying, darkie, I…”

“Nogat tok.” And the Chief slapped Dunphy across the face with his big hand.

Even though Dunphy was a trained boxer, he never saw it coming. He whirled around and fell to his knees. He put his hand to his mouth and pulled back blood. His blood boiled and he came up swinging. He gave the Chief a quick right jab to the chin then a shot to the belly. The Chief’s eyes went wide and he reeled backwards. Dunphy went to press his advantage, but four men grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground. More natives gathered around and started clubbing him with thick lengths of wood. He tried to cover himself, but the blows were coming from every direction. He screamed and took the beating. It was over in less than a minute, but seemed an eternity.

The Chief stopped the men with a quick word. He kneeled and lifted him by the hair. He looked into his bloody face and shook his head, “Nogat,” then he pinched his lips together, “tok.” He tilted his head as if asking, “Understand?”

Dunphy nodded,
guess I’m not allowed to talk.
He picked himself up off the dirt. He felt like he’d been in the worst boxing match of his life. He didn’t think anything was broken, but he knew he’d be sore as hell in the morning. He looked at Chief Ahio, who nodded and said, “Em tasol. Tekewe.”

The native men grabbed him under the arm and took him to the hut he’d pointed out. Once inside the men stripped him down to his underwear. They laughed and pointed at his shaking white legs. He clenched his jaw, but didn’t let his anger get the best of him. He doubted he could take another beating.

They folded and stacked his clothes and left him alone. He looked around the empty hut. He wondered if they’d bring him something to sleep on; maybe some of those furs he’d seen in Ahio’s hut. He looked at the ceiling and could see two large holes that would do nothing to stop the torrential rains that were sure to come during his stay.
I wonder where my rifle is?

He peered out his rickety door and saw the men trotting back across the compound towards him. He backed away and looked for some kind of weapon. He shook his head; it would be useless to fight them. There was no escape; he wouldn’t last an hour without shoes, clothes, or a weapon. Even if he got away they’d easily track him then he’d get another beating. If by some miracle he found his squad they’d only turn him around and send him back. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He was just going to have to accept his sentence and live out the week with these heathens.
At least I’m not fighting the Japs,
he thought.

The men burst through the door, smiled and threw a garment onto the ground in front of him. He picked it up. It was the same loincloth they wore. They mimicked him putting it on and he nodded. He took off his underwear and slipped it on. He tied the cord and looked down at himself; he’d gone native. The others smiled and nodded their approval.

***

After two days living with the natives, Dunphy started to get the feel for their language. It wasn’t as difficult and foreign as he first thought. A lot of words were English and the rest were combinations of sounds that made sense. For instance, ‘Thank you’ was ‘tenkyu.’ Dunphy found if he closed his eyes and listened to the flow of the language he could pick up the gist of most conversations. He was able to avoid more beatings with his newfound language skills. After the first day he was beaten two more times for not doing something when asked.
Perhaps the key to learning languages quickly is simply a matter of having it beat into you,
he mused.

His days were spent doing menial tasks for his captors. He’d be awakened early, before light with a jab to the ribs. He’d pull firewood from the great stacks behind the village and bring it to the cooking stations. He’d help serve breakfast, which usually consisted of boiled roots and some unknown dried meat. Once the men were served, the women ate. Then it was his turn. The portions were small, leaving him hungry. When he was done, he’d police up dishes and clean them. Then the men would drag him along for the daily hunt. He wasn’t allowed a weapon and still didn’t know where his M1 was. He would follow behind trying to stay as quiet as possible. It didn’t seem to matter how careful he was, he always got withering looks as he made his way through the narrow jungle paths.

When the men found their prey, whether a snake, a lizard or a pig, he would be the one to carry the bulk of it back to camp. He cringed when the natives draped a huge snake as big around as his leg and so long they had to wrap it around his neck three times. The weight was too much for one man so the tail was strung out to two more men behind him. He carried the bulk of the ghastly thing around his neck. The awful feel of its skin was soon forgotten as he struggled to walk under the burden. By the time he got back to the village his legs were shaking and felt like noodles. There was no rest for the weary, though. With close supervision and the occasional smack to the back of the head, he learned how to skin and prepare a snake for eating.

After the hunt, he was put to work patching and repairing huts. Since he had no idea how to even start such a project, he would end up standing by and holding tools or handing them things they needed. He spent a lot of time moving back and forth between the creek filling flasks for the working men. The natives yelled at him whenever he wasn’t moving fast enough. They were worse than his drill instructors back in basic. They took great pleasure in ordering a white man around, something none of them had ever done and would probably never do again.

At midday the men would lay down for an afternoon nap. The days were hottest during this time and an hour of rest out of the direct sunlight was a relief. He was never allowed the nap though. He would be put to work doing menial tasks like stacking fire wood, or rewashing already clean dishes.

In the evening he was put to work preparing the evening meal. He was constantly scolded by the women who tittered and laughed at his clumsy hands and terrible culinary skills. The women were harsher than the men with their cutting remarks and hateful eyes. They never struck him though; he was still a man.

On the second night he laid down on the palm fronds he’d collected and closed his eyes. His body was exhausted and sore from his beatings and the hard work. Any thought of escape was gone. He was too sore to even contemplate running and he had no place to go. He’d wait for his squad to return.

He was almost asleep when he sat bolt upright with a terrifying thought,
what if the squad gets ambushed and killed? What if they never return? Will I ever leave this place?

He decided that would be a fate worse than death. He groaned and lay onto his aching back, but before he could close his eyes there was someone coming through the door. He pretended he was asleep; they couldn’t make him do more work at this late hour could they?
They have to let me sleep, don’t they?

The intruder took two quiet steps towards him. He opened his right eye. This was unlike them; usually they’d burst in and kick him, not sneak.
What’s this all about
? He almost jumped when he felt small hands touch his chest. He knew immediately it was a woman. He sat up quickly trying to see in the pitch blackness. The hands caressed his chest and then pushed him to his back. The soft voice said, “Sikrapim bel bilong.”

He shook his head; this was how he got into the predicament in the first place. He tried to push her away, but she was persistent. She had his loin cloth off in an instant and massaged his manhood until there was no going back. He shut his eyes and stopped resisting. She straddled him. It only took a couple of minutes before the lovemaking was done. He was breathing hard, sweat coming off him in tiny rivers. He couldn’t believe he’d gone so fast in his battered state. During the lovemaking his aches and pains had disappeared, but when she laid beside him they came flooding back and he moaned. She took it as pleasure and she nuzzled into his neck and they were both asleep in minutes.

***

When one of the natives burst through his door before light, he sat up in a panic. He looked around the dim room, but the woman was gone. She must have left during the night.
Or had it been a dream?
He sighed in relief. He had no idea what Chief Ahio would say if he knew he’d been with his daughter again. Probably cut his balls off and hang them next to his shrunken heads.

He stood, every muscle in his body protesting. He felt around for his loin cloth and wrapped it around his waist and tied it. He was getting used to the comfort of these simple garments. The native said something in Pidgin which he took to mean, ‘go get firewood’. When he went in that direction and there was no yelling, he’d guessed right.

It was just getting light; the air was the coolest it would be which wasn’t saying much. He pulled the loin cloth to the side and pissed into the jungle. His spray went in all directions until it settled down. He shook his head thinking about the woman who’d visited him. He was convinced it was Lela, Chief Ahio’s daughter, but in the darkness he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. He shuddered as his stream came to a halt. He was about to continue to the wood pile when he heard talking coming from his right. He hesitated trying to listen. He thought he recognized Chief Ahio’s voice and another familiar voice he hadn’t heard in a while.

His curiosity peaked; he took a few steps towards the conversation. The voices were easier to hear now, speaking in Pidgin, he couldn’t decipher every word, but he definitely recognized the second voice. He carefully peered around the corner and confirmed his suspicions. Thomas Welch was across from Ahio talking quickly. They were twenty feet away, he couldn’t make out anything they were saying in their rapid fire Pidgin. He wondered if the squad had come back early for him. His hopes rose and he was about to approach and ask that very question, but his instincts told him not to disturb them. Welch wasn’t here for him. There was something else going on and he had the distinct feeling it was meant to stay between Welch and Chief Ahio. As Dunphy watched, Welch pulled the the M1 carbine he had slung over his shoulder and with two hands held it out to Chief Ahio. He smiled and took the weapon, holding it up and feeling the weight.

Dunphy felt better. He’d witnessed one of the reasons they were out here in the first place; to arm the natives with better weapons. Welch was helping his squad complete the mission.

He watched for another ten seconds as Welch took the Chief through the ins and outs of the carbine. Dunphy put the incident out of his mind and went back to what promised to be another long day of back breaking work.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The men spent the night on the ridge. As darkness enveloped them, Carver thought about the men he’d lost. Out of the twelve that started he only had four left. This mission was fucked up the moment they stepped out of the 164th division’s shadow.

The original mission to bring the natives together as an effective guerrilla force wasn’t happening. He picked mud out from under his fingernails,
hell, Morrisey’s got ‘em better off than we ever could. They’d probably win the war by themselves if they were left to it.

He remembered hearing Welch’s crazy idea to launch an attack toward the mountains where he said a large number of Japs were. He’d been ignored and as far as he could tell there was no such Japanese force. If there was they’d be in amongst them on this ridge. He wondered about that. He’d have to bring it up to Welch when he saw him again.
If I see him again
. Morrisey didn’t seem too pleased with him. He wondered if he’d suddenly disappear. He didn’t think Morrisey operated that way. He was usually a pretty good judge of character, but he’d been wrong before.

He lay down and tried to get some sleep, but the vision of Lieutenant Caprielli’s body in pieces, scattered across the ridge kept popping into his head. He’d never had nightmares or been affected by death, but there was something about the Lieutenant’s torn up body that was keeping him awake. Maybe it was the stupid way he died, jumping around like some high school cheerleader.
What the fuck was he thinking?

He sat up grabbed his carbine and crawled to the nearest hole. O’Connor whispered, “Who goes there? Identify.”

“It’s me, numbnuts.”

“Sorry Sarge. What are you doing here? It’s not time to switch.”

He crawled into the hole with him and looked out over the valley below. The occasional flash from a distant gun in the jungle made the battleground almost beautiful. There was a sliver of a moon and its glow made the distant ocean glimmer. Carver thought he could see the shape of a navy ship’s silhouette, but he was probably imagining things. “I can’t sleep. I’ll take your watch. I was going to be your relief so I’ll take two shifts.” He put his big hand on O’Connor’s shoulder, “Go get some sleep, Son.”

O’Connor nodded and crawled back the way Carver had come. He was glad for the early call; he was barely able to keep his eyes open.

***

When morning came the men tore into c-rations and had breakfast. They were stiff and groggy. Sergeant Carver wasn’t the only one having trouble sleeping. Hooper tore open a hard D-bar and tried to tear off a chunk. The thing looked like a hard hunk of shit. It was supposed to be chocolate, but tasted like bitter cocoa. Its one attribute was its high calorie count. The villagers had been supplementing their rations with rice and dried meats, but now they were back to their C-rats and D-bars. “Never thought I’d miss that smoked iguana or whatever the hell that stuff was.”