The Long Patrol: World War II Novel (2 page)

BOOK: The Long Patrol: World War II Novel
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Sergeant Carver noticed O'Connor eyeballing him and in his flat Midwestern accent said, “Whaddya lookin’ at Private? Eyes front, pay attention.”

O'Connor looked away staring at the back of Dunphy’s helmeted head. He clutched his rifle checking the plastic cover. His M1 was his most prized possession. Of course it wasn’t his, he was only borrowing it from the Army, but he thought it was the finest weapon he’d ever held, even more than his trusted Winchester he shot deer with back home.

Carver pushed him in the back knocking him into Dunphy who scowled. Carver yelled to the squad, “Keep your fucking heads down, when the gate comes down haul ass and get to cover. I know the Marines have made things all safe and sound for us, but they’re Marines so who knows.”

O'Connor grinned. Carver’s disdain for his Marine brethren was well known. He detested the way they strutted around like they were something special. He’d been in the Army since his 18th birthday. To him it was the only military branch that made any sense. He did what was asked of him, never complained, always delivered and never asked for special treatment. The Marines were always striving for the limelight, trying to be the golden boys of the armed forces. When there was real work to be done they called in the Army. And now, here it was again, the Army coming to the rescue to finish kicking Tojo off this shithole island.

The boats’ throaty motor went from idle to full throttle and the brick shaped boat plowed forward. The sea was calm this early in the morning, barely any chop. It was a smooth ride all the way to shore. O'Connor waited for the thumping of artillery, but it never came. When the boat ran up on the beach, he lurched into Dunphy. “Get off me, hick.”

The front gate slammed open and thumped onto the beach. Sergeant Carver was yelling, “Go, go, go.”

O'Connor was glad to be moving. He jumped off the gate and felt his feet sink into the sand of the canal. There was no opposition, but they still sprinted to the tree line and took cover. O'Connor laid against the roots of a huge palm tree. He unwrapped his rifle and checked the breech. He looked around at the others doing the same.

Dunphy was beside him, he stood up and held his rifle against his hip, the barrel pointed to the sky, like he was posing for a Remington commercial. He looked around, “Shit, what are we hiding from? there’s nothing but palm trees and beach.”

The landing craft backed away and headed back to the transports to bring more of the 164th. O'Connor heard clapping and laughing. He peeked around the palm tree into the shadowed jungle. There were soldiers in raggedy uniforms, no, not soldiers, Marines. They were laughing, clapping and pointing. O'Connor felt his face redden wondering what the hell was so funny.

“Nice job Army. You saved us all from the big bad Japs.” There were one hundred Marines milling around tents. O'Connor felt like an idiot, he stood and studied the Marines. They didn’t look like the proud men he’d seen a couple of months ago. Most of their uniforms were ragged and torn. Their boots were worn, some with gaping holes. They were thin, like wraiths from a Halloween nightmare. Most were unshaven, some with full beards, the less developed only sporting wisps of uneven growth. They were all dirty, the kind of dirty that would would never completely disappear. O'Connor wondered if he’d look like that in a couple of months. He shivered despite the oppressive heat.

Sergeant Carver stood up, “All right, lets get to our rally point.” O'Connor trotted with his squad. “Set up over there,” he pointed to a thinned out area one hundred yards west of the Marine camp. He yelled, “Clear out a spot for our gear, it’s coming with the next wave.”

O'Connor got to work pulling undergrowth from the area. The dirt smelled rotten, like dead decaying animals. He wondered what could possibly make such a foul smell. Dirt was supposed to smell like dirt. He heard Private Crandall yell, “Goddamn, were digging in a shit trench.”

O'Connor looked over his shoulder at the Marines who were laughing and pointing and falling over themselves. “Goddammit, were grousing in the Marine’s shit trench.”

O'Connor and the rest hurried to the waters’ edge, stripped off their soiled tops and tried to wash. Sergeant Carver saw his platoon in the ocean, “What in sam hell you doing? I told you to clear an area for our supplies.” He pointed to where they’d been.

Dunphy spoke up, not wanting to miss a chance to mess with Sgt. Carver. “You sent us to a shithole…literally. That’s the Marines’ latrine we were digging in, genius.”

Carver took the ten steps to Dunphy in five strides and pulled up close. They were nose to nose. Dunphy didn’t back down even though Sgt. Carver outweighed him by thirty pounds of muscle. Instead he sneered at him. Carver growled, “You got something else smart to say?”

Dunphy didn’t, just stared back, not intimidated. Sergeant Carver growled, “Your attitude’s gonna get you hurt, slick.” He looked around to the other men who were watching the confrontation with interest.

Dunphy came from a rich family, joined to piss off his parents, but never thought he’d actually be put into a normal unit. He didn’t think his parents would allow that to happen, but it did. His parents made sure he went into a regular unit to teach their spoiled son a lesson.

He may have been a private, but he thought of himself as a general and let everyone know his disdain for their lower class. He also let it be known that he was a champion boxer and could best any man that cared to try. A few had and he’d been true to his boast. He was light on his feet and his jabs were lightning fast and powerful.

The platoon knew that eventually Carver and Dunphy would come to blows. They were split 50/50 in the betting pool. Carver had the brawn and the street fighting experience, Dunphy had the benefit of professional training.

Sergeant Carver wanted to take Private Dunphy down a notch, but now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to get squared away. He pointed, “Move further west until you find a less shitty spot and clear it out.” He turned back to Dunphy and yelled, “Now!” Dunphy leaned back, the force of Carver’s voice startling him. He turned and with the others put his wet top on and moved away from the latrine area.

Sergeant Carver looked to the Marines who were still laughing. He walked to them and was confronted by another Sergeant, his counterpart. Sergeant Carver pointed, “Why’re you shitting in the boonies, why don’t you have proper latrines?”

The Marine gunnery sergeant smiled showing brown, tobacco stained teeth, “The Japs blew ‘em up couple nights ago. They come by almost every night, drop their bombs and skedaddle.”

Carver put his hands on his waist, “Well shit.” The gunny nodded agreeing with his sentiment.

There was yelling from the beach, “Sergeant Carver.” He turned and saw his commanding officer tromping up the beach from a just beached landing craft. Carver looked at the Marine, “Don’t ask me why he wasn’t in the first wave with his troopers.” The gunny spit out a long stream of black tobacco juice and made himself scarce.

As Lieutenant Caprielli trudged towards him, Sgt. Carver stiffened, but didn’t salute. Caprielli looked him up and down, “It’s protocol to salute your commanding officer, Sergeant.”

Carver snapped off a crisp salute, “Sorry, Sir. It’s common for Jap snipers to shoot officers. They figure out who’s who by seeing who gets saluted.”

Caprielli cringed and pulled Carver’s hand down. He looked around wondering where the shot would come from. He pulled Carver behind an idling jeep and crouched pulling Carver with him. He pointed to the landing crafts beaching and dropping their front gates. “Our supplies are on those boats. Have the men start offloading them to that spot there.” He pointed to the same spot the Marines were using as a latrine.

Carver said, “I’ve got the men clearing an area out over there,” he pointed, “the spot you’re looking at is a latrine.”

Caprielli nodded, “Well, okay, the other spot looks fine, but get the men moving, we’re sitting ducks on this beach.”

Carver stood up, “Yes Sir. Don’t we have tractors or something to help with the offload?”

Caprielli shook his head, “No, there’s only a couple of jeeps. This beach isn’t big enough to build harbor facilities. The men will just have to grunt it out.”

“Yessir.” Carver went to tell the men the good news and Lieutenant Caprielli got in his jeep and trundled away along the beach. Carver had no idea where he was going.

***

Hours later the equipment and supplies were moved to the relative safety of the sparse jungle. O'Connor sat on a box of rations and pulled heavily on a cigarette. He had his shirt off, as did the entire company. He was dripping with sweat. The heavy labor had taken its toll. He felt like his limbs were made of concrete and the heavy air made his lungs feel like they were pulling oxygen through taffy.

He looked around at the others, they looked as haggard as he felt. His red hair was darkened with sweat. Suddenly he heard a loud Siren. The Marines, who were three hundred yards up the beach scrambled and jumped into foxholes disappearing like mice when a hawk’s shadow passes over. O'Connor looked around, knowing the Siren meant air raid, but he had no idea where to go. They’d been so busy offloading supplies they hadn’t had time to dig their own holes.

He grabbed his rifle, put his helmet on and dove to the only cover he could, the boxes they’d just off-loaded. A minute later the throaty sound of airplane engines starting up added to the Siren. He looked towards the sound and figured it must be Marine fighters from Henderson field scrambling to meet the threat. He hoped they’d get up in time and kick the crap out of whatever was coming.

As he laid there he noticed the box he was lying next to was labeled ‘20mm ammunition’. He wondered what would happen if a bomb landed nearby. Would it explode the ammo and tear him to shreds? He didn’t want to find out. He grabbed his M1 and took off towards a thick grove of palms. He heard someone yelling for him to take cover. He thought,
no shit
. He was halfway to the palms when he heard the distinctive sound of incoming. He hadn’t heard the enemy bombers, but he sure heard their whistling ordnance.

He wasn’t going to make it to the trees, he threw himself to the ground and quick crawled to a small depression. He felt, rather than heard the first bomb impact. His body quivered as the shock wave pulsed through him. It was followed by more bone jarring explosions. He dropped his rifle and pulled the edge of his helmet down tight around his ears. Time seemed to stand still as the bombs thumped and thundered. It was less than a minute, but it felt like an eternity.

He heard the distant sound of airplane engines leaving the area. He looked in the direction he thought the bombs had hit. He was surprised to see smoke rising far from his position. He’d thought they were right on top of him, but they were three hundred yards away. He’d never been in any real danger. He went up on his elbows and wondered what it would be like when they were landing within yards, or feet, or inches.

He started to get up, but Sgt. Carver yelled to stay down. The Siren was still wailing. He looked up at the sky, but couldn’t see anything through the palms. Soon the same whistling sound of impending doom. He went flat pulling his helmet down. This time the impacts were closer. His body shimmered and bounced on the fetid ground. He wondered if the dancing dirt beneath him would be the last thing he saw.

This wave of bombs didn’t last as long, but they’d been close enough to knock palm fronds onto his bare back. He cringed every time thinking a tree would crush him if a bomb didn’t kill him first.

This time when the bombs stopped the Siren’s wail also stopped.
Is
it hit or is the raid over
? O'Connor decided he’d stay down until given the all clear.

He heard feet beside him, he turned his head and saw Carver’s size elevens. “It’s over, get your ass off the ground.”

O'Connor sprang up with his rifle at the ready. He looked at Carver and nodded, “I’m okay.” He said it as if confirming it to himself.

Sergeant Carver shouldered his rifle and slapped his back hard. “Course you’re okay, they weren’t aiming at you, they’re aiming at Henderson, dumb-ass.”

Oconnor nodded still shaken up. “We gonna dig in now, Sarge? Feel like my ass is hanging in the wind.”

“Yeah, it’s time to move up to our positions south of the field.” He pointed with his thumb where the smoke was rising.

“We’re going closer to the field?” O'Connor looked like he’d eaten something rotten. Sergeant Carver scowled and walked away yelling for his soldiers to gather their shit and form up. O'Connor found his shirt covered with a fine layer of dirt and various unidentifiable bugs. He shook it out and put it on. It felt gritty and hard against his sweaty body. He found his rucksack and swung it onto his shoulders. He formed up with the others in a ragged combat formation and tromped through the shredded forest toward Henderson field.

The closer they got the more bomb craters they encountered. Some were still smoldering. They came to the edge of the jungle and looked out over the expanse of Henderson. The Japs and then the Marines had done a good job of fleecing the jungle. The field was flat with not a single living plant growing within its borders. It looked like a moonscape, it even had the craters.

As they skirted around to the south they watched the fighters that had gone off to intercept the bombers coming in to land. They landed two at a time, the powerful F4 Wildcats looked like dangerous predators. They sent up plumes of choking dust and taxied to parking. They stayed spread out, not making themselves easy targets for any uninvited guests.

BOOK: The Long Patrol: World War II Novel
10.79Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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