The Great Alone (108 page)

“What the hell are they doin’?” someone asked.

Wylie heard the explosive bursts of their guns an instant after he saw the flash of their tracers as they strafed the beach, riddling the rubber rafts with their bullets and sending the three men Willoughby had left behind scrambling for cover. The boats were destroyed.

“One damned thing’s for sure, we can’t retreat now,” Big Jim observed cynically. “Makes you wonder whether they did it on purpose.”

Turning their backs to the sea, they struck out again for the high ridges above them, plodding through the snow and the spongy tundra. Wylie could hear the thundering report of Navy guns bombarding the beaches where the other two assault forces were to land.

The sun continued to shine on the island’s heights, but fog hung in the valleys like cottony clouds. With the snow, the cold winds, and the soft ground, it was slow going even for men in top physical shape. Wylie’s beard was crusted with icicles from the moisture in his breath. Late in the afternoon, Wylie and Big Jim topped the crest of a ridge in advance of the battalion. From the high ground, they could see in the distance Holtz Bay, where the Japanese rear defenses were supposed to be located. They crouched low in the howling wind and waved Willoughby up to show him their position, then waited there, scanning the terrain, while he went back to bring up his men.

“I haven’t heard any enemy fire yet.” The wind tore at Big Jim’s voice, trying to carry it away. “S’pose the others made it onto the beaches?”

Wylie shook his head, reluctant to speculate, and flexed his numbing fingers to keep them supple, then tightened his grip on the automatic rifle. “I heard General DeWitt claimed we could take this island in three days. One’s almost gone by, and we haven’t seen any sign of the Japs.”

A pair of American bombers rumbled through the sky overhead, then banked to circle their position and make the scheduled airdrop of more ammunition, medicines, and food to replenish their meager thirty-six-hour supply. Wylie watched the bundles fall from one of the B-24s, the attached parachutes billowing and filling with air. As they drifted earthward toward their position, the high wind caught them and carried the parachutes past the steep ridge. Wylie swore bitterly as he watched the chutes come down in a deep fissure, completely inaccessible.

As the bombers continued to circle overhead like a pair of giant vultures, Big Jim muttered angrily, “Whose fucking side are they on? If the goddamned Japs didn’t know we were here before, they sure as hell do now!”

Not far away, their captain was furiously waving his arms, trying to signal the bombers to leave before they gave their position to the enemy. Wylie wiped at his runny nose with the back of his gloved hand, conscious of the mucus freezing on his nose hairs. “Maybe there aren’t any Japs on the island.” So far he’d heard no sound of resistance, presuming the other landings had taken place as scheduled. He couldn’t help wondering if this was going to be like all the other missions where they had landed, expecting trouble and finding none.

“They’re here.” Big Jim gazed out across the steep ridges and fog-filled valleys. “I can smell the slant-eyed bastards.”

As Willoughby gave the order to move out, Wylie glanced one last time at the supplies in the bottom of the crevasse, then pressed forward. He knew if they weren’t able to link up with the Northern Force, they’d have some hungry times ahead.

The Scout Battalion spent their first night on Attu trapped atop a mountain by darkness and a blinding fog, and blasted by an icy wind. Barely able to see a hand in front of the face in this treacherous terrain, they were forced to camp. With no fires to warm them, Wylie and Big Jim kept moving, despite their exhaustion, and joined their commander in exhorting the rest of the soldiers to do the same. Some didn’t. By dawn they were suffering from severe frostbite.

At first light, they headed southeast, forcing their half-frozen limbs to carry them over the western mountain summit. They overlooked the enemy’s defense positions along the ridges west of Holtz Bay. Wylie no longer had to wonder whether there were any Japs still on the island. At the moment, the enemy appeared unaware of the Scout Battalion at its rear.

Moving quickly while they were still undetected, they descended the steep slopes, literally sliding down them. Suddenly the Japanese artillery opened up. Wylie scrambled for cover behind an ice boulder. Below, the Jap soldiers abandoned their ridgetop trenches and attacked up the slope. Wylie started shooting at the moving human targets, his rifle joining the clatter of machine guns returning the enemy fire. A big mortar from the rear forced the Japs to retreat to their ridge entrenchments. Wylie and the others dug in on the cold, snowy slopes.

Coordinates of the enemy artillery positions were radioed to the Navy battleship lying off the coast. When its shelling proved ineffective, the Air Corps was called in to bomb the targets. By day’s end, the Japs still had them pinned down on the slopes. They’d fought to a draw. Under the cover of darkness, Wylie helped some of the wounded to a ravine in the rear area where a makeshift clinic had been set up by the battalion’s doctor. It kept his body moving and kept his mind off the numbing cold and the gnawing hunger in his stomach. Their food supply had been exhausted that morning.

The next day started off as a repeat of the previous afternoon’s fighting—no food, no rest, no warmth, and still pinned down by the Japs. Wylie heard a plane fly over, but the clouds were too thick and low for it to be seen. The captain couldn’t raise anybody on the radio, so the situation of the other assault forces was unknown. Their own was pretty dire.

That afternoon, Willoughby led an attack against the enemy ridges. Running from ice clump to ice clump with machine-gun fire kicking up snow and tundra all around him, Wylie advanced on the enemy position, shooting at anything that resembled a target. On his belly, he crawled across a stretch of ice toward an enemy machine-gun nest while Big Jim gave him cover fire. As he looped his finger through the icy cold ring of the grenade pin, he was conscious of the battle sweat that dampened his clothes and absently marveled that he could be bone-cold and perspire at the same time. He pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade at the Jap nest, then hugged the slushy ground as the explosion shook it. Then it was up and over, firing as he went into the smoking hole.

After several hours of fierce fighting, they dislodged the Japs from their high ground. By the time darkness came, they were firmly dug in. Wylie retreated into a cave that had been hollowed out of a snowdrift and crept close to the tiny fire that had been built. After warming his hands over the small flames, he pulled off his boots and changed to a dry pair of socks, aware how quickly wet things could freeze in these temperatures. If that happened, frostbite—or worse, a frozen limb—was guaranteed.

Wylie glanced up as Big Jim crawled into the snow cave, a hoary apparition with his beard, eyelashes, and eyebrows crusted with snow and ice. Wylie knew he didn’t look any better. With hands shaking from the cold, Big Jim lit a cigarette, then crumpled the empty pack and nudged it onto the small fire, fueled by empty ration boxes and anything else they could find that would burn.

From beyond the perimeters of the summit, a Japanese voice, amplified by a megaphone, taunted them in English: “American dogs! You die! Tomorrow we kill you!”

“Hell,” Big Jim muttered. “All they have to do is sit out there and wait for us to either freeze or starve to death.” He took a drag on the cigarette, then offered it to Wylie.

“Thanks.” His lips felt so numb that he could barely feel the cigarette between them as he inhaled. The smoke made him a little dizzy, and he passed the cigarette back to Big Jim. “How far do you figure we are from the mountain pass between Holtz and Massacre Valley?”

“Two miles, more or less.”

They were supposed to link up with the Northern Force at the pass. They’d been two days without food. Both their ammunition and medicine were running low. At the moment, their only hope of obtaining the needed supplies lay in reaching their own lines. But there was an obstacle in their way.

“Yankee! You die!” their Japanese tormenter shouted again.

Wylie gritted his teeth. Under the circumstances, it was difficult to argue with his prediction. He rubbed his feet, feeling the needle-sharp stings tingle through them as he tried to stimulate the flow of blood. Finally he pulled on his boots.

“Hey, the fire’s getting low. Anybody got anything they can throw on it?” Big Jim glanced at the other soldiers huddled in the snow cave taking their turn at stealing a little warmth. They dug into their pockets, but all they came up with was a chewing gum wrapper.

Wylie stared at the dwindling flames a couple of minutes longer, then unbuttoned his parka and reached inside. He pulled out the last letter that he’d received from Lisa—the one he’d read so many times that he almost had it memorized. He smoothed out the wrinkles, then laid it gently on the fire. He watched it char and curl as the flames shot around it. For a brief moment, the writing stood out clearly, then the paper blackened. He refastened his parka, wrapped his arms around his loose-slung rifle, and huddled forward, staring at the flames.

“Wylie.” Big Jim spoke hesitantly, his voice pitched low. “I’ve got a favor to ask you.”

“Ask.” Wylie watched the ash from his letter crumble and break off. “Steve and I are getting married”—the words seemed burned into his brain.

“Do you remember me mentioning that I had this woman who cooked and kept house for me up at my cabin outside of Circle?”

“Yeah. What about her?” Wylie grunted.

“If … if anything happens to me, Wylie, would you kinda look out for her? You know, make sure she’s all right.”

Roused from his own private reverie by the unexpected request, Wylie lifted his head. “What are you talking about? Nothing’s going to happen to you or me—unless you count freezing your balls off. You’re talking crazy and you know it, Dawson.”

“I know. But just the same, if anything happens, will you go see her?” Big Jim persisted. “Her name’s Anita Lock-wood. She’s staying at my cabin on the Yukon. I told her she could till I came back.”

“Damn it, will you stop it, Dawson?” Wylie was angry with him for talking like this.

“Will you check on her?”

“Yes,” he snapped.

In the brief silence that followed, two of the soldiers inside the cave traded places with two from outside the snow shelter. They hovered next to the fire, their teeth chattering. Reverently one added torn pieces of a ration box to the greedy flames.

“Wylie.” Again Big Jim hesitantly claimed his attention. “She’s … a breed—part Athabascan Indian.”

For an instant Wylie was motionless, recalling the number of times he’d seen signs stating no natives allowed. There were many business establishments Matty wasn’t allowed to enter, which meant his grandmother had to do most of the shopping for the boardinghouse. Nearly all public places, such as movie houses, had separate sections for the natives. Eskimos, Aleuts, and Athabascans weren’t allowed in the USO’s. Now Wylie understood why Big Jim hadn’t talked very much about this woman before and why he thought it might make a difference to Wylie.

He glanced at his friend. “So?”

Gratitude flashed across Big Jim’s expression before he averted his face and mumbled, “I just wanted you to know that.”

“You’ve told me, so let’s just drop it. There isn’t going to be any reason for me to go see her anyway.” He paused and stared at the fire. “And for your information, my ancestors were Aleuts, Tlingits, and Russians.” The captain ducked inside the snow cave. “While you’re all sitting there warm and toasty by the fire, make an ammunition count.”

“Hey, Joe!” The Japanese shouted from the darkness. “Tomorrow morning you die!”

“I wish somebody would shoot that fucking bastard,” Wylie growled.

On the fourth day of battle, their fifth on the island, exhaustion, hunger, and killing cold claimed more victims than the enemy did. Men hobbled on frozen feet and vomited in the snow. Yet they successfully fought off a Japanese counterattack, but the last of the mortar ammunition was used doing it. Wylie knew it was desperation that drove all of them forward, even if it meant they had to crawl because they were in no shape to walk. They couldn’t retreat; there was no place to go. Their only salvation lay in reaching the American lines.

When the sun went down that night, enemy bullets, illness, or frostbite had incapacitated half the battalion. From the radio reports Willoughby received, neither of the other two forces of the three-pronged invasion were faring much better. The Southern Force at Massacre Bay, the main assault group, hadn’t advanced ten yards from their first position. The enemy held the pass and the high ridges overlooking the valley, and the Southern Force was suffering heavy losses from its repeated assaults on the pass. Massacre Valley was living up to its name. And the Northern Force had advanced a little more than a mile.

Willoughby ordered a continual harassment of the enemy that night, determined not to give them a chance to rest or to move reinforcements to face the Northern Force. Wylie spent the night in a cold ravine, sheltered from the wind, stamping his feet and flaying his arms to keep warm and stay awake. Periodically, he’d crawl to the crest of the ravine and fire at the Jap positions.

Early the next morning, the Japs stopped returning their fire. By radio, Captain Willoughby informed the commander of the Northern Force that the battalion was moving out. As they advanced—walking, hobbling, and crawling—it quickly became apparent that sometime in the night the Japanese had pulled back. The way was clear.