The Long Patrol: World War II Novel (24 page)

When they got to their original outpost they hunched over hands on knees breathing hard. O'Connor was laughing. It had become a race near the end and Hooper had passed Carver and almost took O'Connor before the ridge ran out. O'Connor held his hands up in victory and did a happy dance.

When Carver caught his breath he barked, “Okay, let’s cut the horseshit. Bring me the radio, Hooper. I’ll check in with division.” As he called in and listened to the response, Hooper shoved O'Connor who’d been rubbing it in more. Carver shook his head, C
hrist, they’re like children. Hell, they are children.

He signed off. “Alright cut it out you two. Here’s the deal; they want us over there right now.” He pointed to the hill in the distance. He looked at his watch. “I figure we can get to the base of the hill before dark. I don’t wanna go to the top at night in case there’s Japs. We can check it out in the morning. If it’s empty were golden, if not, well there are only four of us. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

We need to gather our shit and get our asses moving. Division’s gonna make another push two days from now and they want us spotting the Jap artillery that our boys can’t seem to suppress. They think they might be up on a hill giving them the extra range they need to hit our troops without ours able to hit back. Without our help the attack may fail. You saw what happened last time.” He paused looking at each man for questions. When there weren’t any, he nodded, “Okay. We move in seven minutes.” With that the men went to the remains of the hut and collected the batteries, ammo and C-rats stowed there.

It was past noon and the sun was at it’s hottest. The trail was easy to find; it started off the nose of the ridge and was well worn. O'Connor followed it easily. Soon the sparse vegetation on top gave way to thick jungle and their surroundings condensed into a few yards to either side. O'Connor kept the pace quick, but this was new territory, so he was careful. The men were spread twenty yards apart, no use having one grenade take them all out.

They made good time to the bottom of the valley. The creek was bigger than expected. The water was crystal clear. They sat in it while they filled their canteens. The water coursing around and over them cooled their bodies. The sweat and grime washed off and they felt halfway human again.

After ten minutes, Carver gave the order to move. Normally there would be bitching and complaining, but since there were only four of them, there was no one to complain to. They’d been reduced down to their smallest element, a sergeant, a corporal and two privates. They understood that their survival was in each other’s hands more than it had ever been. If they lost it out here, their bodies would never be found. No one would ever know what happened to them; it would be like they’d never existed. The war would continue without them. It was a sobering thought and kept them focused.

O'Connor walked down the creek and found the trail leading towards the hill. At least he hoped it was the correct one. It was barely a trail at all, more like a game track that didn’t get used much. It meandered here and there, the general direction towards the hill. O'Connor took point. His pace was slower, the jungle thicker on this side of the creek and they were traveling uphill. Soon the pleasant feel of the creek was a distant memory as the late sun beat down. Their dungarees turned a dark green as their sweat soaked through.

After an hour the sun went behind the hill and the jungle darkened. Sergeant Carver jogged up to O'Connor and halted him, “Let’s get off the trail and lay in for the night.” O'Connor nodded and pushed his way past thick vines and bush until he found a relatively open space. Carver nodded and informed the others they’d found their home for the evening. It had been a long day and the men were exhausted. “Dunphy, watch our back trail while the others get some chow. We’ll relieve you soon.” Dunphy nodded and disappeared the way they’d come. Carver watched him go and realized it was the first time he’d given the man an order without any kind of push-back. The past week of slavery had done the prima-dona some good.

Without speaking, the men tore into their C-rats. Carver did an inventory of what he had left, about three day’s worth if they went to half rations. He’d give the men the news when they were on the ridge. Maybe they could find themselves a pig to butcher.

***

The night passed without incident. O'Connor’s watch was from 2:00-4:00AM. He thought he heard human voices coming from the hill, but when he focused on the sound it disappeared.
I’m imagining things
. He’d been in the bush too long. He’d heard about guys going nuts out here; they called it “going native.”

It was still dark when he went to where Carver was sleeping and nudged his foot. He sat up quickly with a knife shimmering in the dull pre-dawn light. O'Connor smiled and whispered, “Good morning.”

Carver put his knife away, “Wake the others, eat some of the dried meat we have left and we’ll get moving in ten minutes.” As O'Connor turned to comply, Carver touched his shoulder, “Anything last night?” O'Connor shrugged. He was about to tell him about the voices, thought better of it and shook his head.

O'Connor was on point. The going was tough, the trail was steep and he was breathing hard within minutes. To make matters worse, it looked like it was about to rain. The sun never lit the sky. A dark cloud settled on the area and soon the first fat rain drops splattered off the jungle leaves. O'Connor looked to the sky. It looked like it was going to open up any second. He didn’t have long to wait. One second he was dry, the next he was soaked. The rain came in sheets. He couldn’t see more than a few feet. He felt like he was standing inside a raging waterfall, the noise was deafening. They stopped to top off their canteens. They held the open tops under large leaves and funneled the rain. It took seconds.

Sergeant Carver waved him forward. He went twenty feet and the trail angled up steeper. It was getting tough to keep his feet in the slick mud. He took a step and lost his footing on the trail, which was now more like a river. He went down and started sliding. He grabbed a branch and arrested his descent. He looked behind him searching for Sergeant Carver. He couldn’t see anything. He tried to stand, but slipped again. He stayed down, gripping the vine, waiting for Carver to catch up. After five minutes he decided it was futile. He gauged the slope and released the vine. At first nothing happened, but soon gravity and physics took over and he started sliding down the path. He kept his speed under control by digging in his jungle boots, but he was gaining speed. He reached for a passing vine, but missed. He was about to dig his rifle into the mud when he crashed into something solid. At first he thought it must be a tree, but it was cussing and yelling. He came to a stop and realized it was Sergeant Carver. He yelled, “Sorry Sarge, lost control.”

“Holy shit, we can’t go any further until this lets up.”

Carver went to take a step. O'Connor tried to warn him, but it was too late. The only thing keeping him from sliding was Carver’s body. When he stepped away he started sliding again. The movement dislodged Carver’s foot and he crashed down on him with an ‘oof.’ O'Connor tried to dig his rifle butt in, but it acted more as a rudder than a brake. They careened down the path, both men reaching for branches, rocks or vines, but it was no use. They were firmly in the grip of the slippery slope.

They busted through a layer of bush and only had a second before they slammed into Dunphy, who went down like a bowling pin. He yelled in surprise, finding himself on his back and coming down behind Carver and O'Connor. Hooper never saw them coming. He had his head down, pulling his hat over his eyes in a useless attempt to keep water out of his face. He had an instant to look up before he was knocked aside and sent into the jungle like he’d been shot from a bow. They finally left the trail when it took a turn and they slid off into the jungle. O'Connor instinctively went into a ball, expecting the impact from a tree or rock any second. It didn’t happen though. He stopped, uncurled and did an inventory of his body parts; all intact.

The rain hadn’t let up. He looked through sheets of water, putting his hand over his eyes like shading them from the sun. He had to find the others. Carver couldn’t be far. He thought he saw a dark shape off to his left, so he carefully took a step towards it, but it was a rock. He put his hand on it, relieved he hadn’t hit it. He’d be dead or shattered beyond repair if he had. He heard the unmistakable cussing of Sergeant Carver off to his right. He crawled towards the voice. It sounded like it was right next to him, but he couldn’t see him. “Sarge? Where are you?”

The response was faint, but close, “Here. Down here.”

O'Connor looked down, but could only see rain and bush. He took a tentative step and felt his foot break through the bush and dangle in the air. He pulled back. He was at the edge of a cliff and Carver was down there somewhere. “Carver!” he yelled.

The response was more immediate, “Down here. Hurry!”

The rain let up a little and O'Connor could see better. He moved laterally and held onto a large smooth barked tree. The cliff was evident. It was well hidden; he didn’t remember seeing it on the way up. As far as cliffs go it wasn’t much. The drop was only fifteen feet. He leaned out holding onto the tree, searching for Carver.

He almost missed him. He was covered in mud, hanging from a thick root. Water careened off the lip of the cliff and was threatening to drown him. He had his head forward trying to keep his mouth clear. O'Connor almost laughed, but didn’t when he realized what the consequences of a fall would be. He’d drop fifteen feet onto a jumble of vicious looking black rocks. At the very least he’d break a leg.

He cupped his hand over his mouth and yelled, “Hold on, Sarge! I’m coming, hold on.” Using the trees and vines he made his way to where he guessed he’d gone over the ledge. He cautiously leaned through the bush. He was directly above him. “Sarge, I’m here.” Carver looked up and sputtered as muddy water filled his nose and mouth. He put his head back down.

O'Connor looked between his legs. The water was digging out a new rivulet which was emptying off the cliff in a spout. “Hold on. I’ll try to fix the water.”

He turned to the jungle, looking for something to redirect the flow. Nothing jumped out at him so he jammed his foot into the small stream. Water piled against his boot. The spigot running over Carver stopped abruptly. Carver looked up, his eyes seething. “Get me out of here,” he growled.

The water was coming around his boot. He realized if he moved he’d create a huge deluge of water falling directly on Carver. The force might be enough to make him fall. He looked around in a panic. “Can you pull yourself up? I can’t hold this water back much longer.”

Carver attempted a pull-up. Without the water beating down he was able to pull himself halfway up, but his pack and his sodden clothes kept him from making it all the way. The water started cascading over O'Connor’s boot and the flow gained volume. Carver moved laterally along the length of the root. He was able to move eight inches to the left. The water was pounding on his right shoulder and splashing into his face. He turned away and screamed an obscenity.

O'Connor yelled, “I’ve gotta pull my foot out so I can get to you. Get ready for more water.” He pulled his foot out, but in its place a large rock appeared, dropped there by a grinning Dunphy with Hooper right behind. With the water flow stemmed, they formed a human chain and O'Connor reached down to Carver. “Give me your hand.”

Carver noticed the flow of water was gone. He looked up scowling. “Get me outta here.” O'Connor nodded and with his left hand holding Hooper’s he reached down with his right. He grabbed his wrist and pulled. With the help of the others they had Carver on the correct side of the cliff in seconds. Carver took his pack off and laid on his back breathing hard.

“You okay?” Carver nodded, but didn’t speak. He rubbed his forearms trying to get circulation back to them. His hands tingled as blood flow brought them back to life. He grit his teeth, his muscles were screaming. The rain had subsided to half of what it had been. “Where’s your Thompson?” O'Connor asked.

Carver sat up looking around. He shook his head, “I lost it off the cliff, I think.”

Dunphy went to the edge, laid on his stomach and peered over the side. He came back, “Yeah it’s at the bottom of the cliff, the stocks shattered, can’t tell if the barrels bent.”

Hooper directed him to see if he could recover it. Dunphy nodded and carefully worked his way around the cliff and down the steep slope.

Carver got to his feet and looked himself over. He was surprisingly clean. The constant shower had washed away the mud. “That was some ride.”

O'Connor chuckled, “It sure was. Never seen anything like it. It was like the mountain decided it didn’t want us on it.”

Carver thought about what Morrisey had said about the native’s superstitions. He looked up the trail they’d slid down. The rain was slackening. If the trend continued it would be finished soon. “Let’s try side-hilling this thing. The trail’s too muddy, but we should be able to cut across the hill so we don’t have to go straight up.” O'Connor followed his gaze and nodded.

Dunphy returned with the Thompson. The stock was shattered and the barrel was dinged and slightly bent. “This thing’s fucked.”

He handed it to Carver who inspected it. He tried to eject the magazine, but it was jammed. He couldn’t budge it. He threw the Thompson off the cliff and they could hear it shatter against the rocks. He pulled out his .45 caliber 1911 he had strapped to his belt, checked the action and nodded. “Let’s move out, take it easy and remember, we don’t know what’s up there.”