The Long Patrol: World War II Novel (23 page)

Hooper sat bolt upright, wiping the alcohol from his face. The tiny cuts they’d accumulated from weeks of traversing the jungle stung like fire. “Sarge? Is that you?”

“You’re damned right it’s me. Now hurry up. You men are a disgrace.” He threw the empty bottle and it hit Dunphy in the gut. Carver went outside and stood next to O'Connor who was bent over laughing. Even the old chief had a toothless grin spread across his withered face. Carver shook his head and smiled, “They deserved that.”

Five minutes later Dunphy and Hooper stood before their sergeant trying to keep from swaying. Both men looked white as sheets and were obviously still drunk. Carver handed his canteen to Hooper who dumped it over his head, washing off the Saki. O'Connor gave his to Dunphy who did the same. Dunphy leaned forward and threw up whatever was left in his gut. The smell, the sound and the mere thought had Hooper joining him in an instant.

Once they were done Carver asked, “No more horseshit. Where the fuck’s Morrisey and the rest of the men?”

Hooper looked around the compound, “I dunno Sarge.” He pointed to the Chief, “Why don’t you ask him?”

“Cause I don’t speak Pidgin, numbnuts.”

Dunphy wiped his mouth and held his hand up, “I do, kind of.” Carver looked at him skeptically, “My time with the natives; it’s not a hard language.” Carver nodded and Dunphy fumbled through an awkward sentence. He listened to the response. Dunphy looked confused and asked a question. The chief shook his head and gestured them to follow. “I can’t make out what he means. Something about enemies and ambush and something about Welch, I think.” Carver looked at him sideways, “He wants us to follow him.”

They fell in step behind the chief who moved with perfect grace despite his age. When they got to the jungle edge the chief went into a crouch. The move was unmistakably combat-like and the men pulled their carbines from their shoulders, glancing at one another. Hooper licked his lips, the alcohol buzz much subdued. The chief didn’t have a rifle, but he pulled a long beat up machete from his belt.

They went as silent as they could for fifty yards before the chief stopped and they crouched behind him. The chief smiled and pointed. The jungle came alive around them with men appearing as if from thin air. The squad clenched their carbines, but they were caught completely by surprise.

When they saw Captain Morrisey and his thick beard appear, they all breathed easier. He sidled up next to them and whispered, “Welcome to the show, lads.”

“What show? What’re we up against.” It was obvious they were waiting in ambush for some enemy force. It was no use asking a lot of questions. “Where you want us?”

Morrisey pointed with two fingers and two of his men waved them to follow. They did so and found themselves in the back of the ambush, out of the way. The natives signaled them to stay put. They went to ground lying flat on their stomachs on the lush jungle floor.

The ground was still cool from the night, but the sun was rising higher bringing heat and humidity. Soon the men were sweating. Carver could smell the alcohol seeping from Dunphy’s and Hooper’s pores. It was a stale, fetid smell that turned his stomach.

An hour passed. Carver was anxious to figure out what the hell they were doing. He had a mission to complete and sitting on his ass in the jungle wasn’t helping him complete it, but Morrisey wouldn’t have his men out here for nothing.

He felt O'Connor slap his boot lightly. He looked at him and O'Connor tilted his chin to the front. He’d seen or heard something. Carver listened and strained his eyes, but didn’t detect anything. He was about to give up when he saw a slight movement. He’d only caught it because of his low angle. He focused on the spot and realized it was a human foot taking careful steps towards the ambush. He patted his carbine, knowing he could have it in firing position in an instant. The action would be in front of him though and he didn’t know exactly where all the friendlies were. He would be sitting this one out unless he was needed.

He watched the foot, his eyes slits. The foot was barely discernible, but it was a bare foot, not the notched toe boots of the Japanese soldier. It looked like a native’s foot. Were they that far out?

The foot moved forward, and was blocked by foliage. He lost track of it and was about to look to O'Connor, but sudden movement from all sides caught his eye. The ambush was being sprung, but there was no shooting. The natives had their ancient rifles aimed and ready to fire.

Carver stood, confusion on his face. He looked back at his men who were also standing and trying to see what was happening. Carver walked forward and stood beside Morrisey who was standing with his new carbine aimed at the ground. In front of him were twenty natives, all armed and looking from muzzle to muzzle. The natives stood in the killing zone of the L shaped ambush. Their weapons were down. There was a white man amongst them. Carver recognized Welch instantly. Carver wanted to know what the hell was going on, but kept his mouth shut.

Morrisey spoke in Pidgin and addressed a big native beside Welch. Dunphy sidled up beside Carver and tried to translate. He whispered, “He’s telling them they’re surrounded and they should put down their weapons.” Ahio spoke and Dunphy translated again, “He’s saying something about coming to eat, or feast or something.”

Morrisey laughed and continued. “You always come in battle formation? And where are your women? They don’t enjoy our hospitality?” he pointed at Welch, “I fear my colleague has promised you things he has no right to promise, Chief.” His eyes went dark, “Now, put down your weapons and go back to your village.”

Welch spoke, “You pompous ass. Chief Ahio deserves to rule both villages as it was long ago.”

“I fear Mr. Welch’s view of history is as false as his friendship, Ahio. He is an ambitious man who has no interest in anything except his own advancement. He’s using you, coercing you to war for his own ends. He’s no friend to you or your village.”

Ahio looked at Welch and was about to speak, but Welch spoke first, in English. “You’re a disgrace, Morrisey. You’re leading your men against the very men you should be fighting for. The Japanese will win this war and the sooner you realize that, the more of your precious natives you’ll save from the slaughter.”

Captain Morrisey stood in stunned silence. His eyes hardened and he found his voice, “You’re a traitor.” He bared his teeth like a feral animal, “You were the one that led those yellow bastards to the village. You killed my wife and child.” The realization struck him like a blow. The image of his baby boy and his mutilated wife crossed his mind. He saw red.

Quick as a jungle cat, Welch brought up his carbine and fired three quick shots. Morrisey went to his knee bringing his carbine to his shoulder with practiced calm. The bullets sliced past his ear. He fired in rapid succession, but Welch was already diving away. As Welch lunged, he fired into the surprised ambushers. Two went down spinning. Ahio’s natives brought up their rifles, but Morrisey’s men were ready and fired into the men at close range. Plumes of blood spouted and sprayed as men’s bodies shattered.

Morrisey tried to track Welch, but he was too quick. A native was bringing his rifle to bear, but Morrisey pulled the trigger and dropped him, his mouth in a surprised 0 shape. The survivors turned and ran. Ahio hadn’t moved a muscle during the slaughter. Now, in a booming voice he yelled, “Stop!”

Morrisey’s men looked at him and the fleeing men stopped, heeding their leader’s command. The sound of a man crashing through the jungle faded as Welch ignored the order and continued to flee. Morrisey pointed at two of his men, then towards the sound. The two natives took off like they’d been shot out of a cannon.

Captain Morrisey stood and walked up to Ahio, who handed his brand new carbine to him. Morrisey hefted it, realizing it was one of the American weapons. Welch must have stolen it.

Ahio’s men returned to his side and each man kneeled down and placed his rifle on the jungle floor. Ahio said, “We surrender to you.”

Morrisey nodded and was about to speak when there was a loud wail from behind the ambush. Soon more cries filled the air and Morrisey’s men started fading from their ambush positions, leaving them unguarded. Carver and his men filled in the gaps as the natives rushed to their comrades.

Morrisey, seeing the Americans had the situation in hand, turned to see what had happened. He went to the men forming a circle around someone on the ground. Lying prone was old Chief Pavu, his lifeless eyes staring into the jungle canopy above. He looked like he may be resting. The only indication of anything awry was the perfect hole in the center of his forehead with a thin trickle of blood snaking down past his nose. The men were in mourning, tears flowed from the eyes that only moments before had been hard and deadly.

Chief Pavu had been old when they were born. There had never been another chief. He seemed to never age and the men thought him impervious to the passing of time. They believed he would live forever and now the impossible had happened. He was dead.

Morrisey looked at his old friend and felt bile rise in his throat. He knelt and put his hand over his old friend’s face and closed his eyes. He looked like he was merely sleeping, his lined face serene. He was at peace. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and went back to Ahio and his men.

They knew what had happened and were as sad as the others. Their heads were bowed, their arms hanging from their sides. They’d been excited for war only minutes before, but none of them wished any harm towards the legendary Chief Pavu. Even the stoic Ahio had his head bowed in sorrow. Morrisey clenched his jaw.
These simple men wanted war, seeing only glory. Now good men are dead and they’ve lost their stomach for it. Fools.

He spoke, “This is murder and there must be punishment.” He pointed into the jungle, “The man who pulled the trigger has escaped, but you, Chief Ahio are complicit in this heinous act. It cannot go unpunished.”

Ahio nodded once and looked Morrisey in the eye. “I agree. I take responsibility for Chief Pavu’s death.” He looked around at the other men feeding the earth with their blood. “And these.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Chief Ahio and his men were led under guard back to Captain Morrisey’s village. They carried their dead in makeshift stretchers they’d put together with tree branches and thick vines. Chief Pavu was carried with loving hands at the head of the somber procession. Sergeant Carver and his squad took the tail-end of the column and halfheartedly checked their rear.

When they entered the village the women and children dropped to their knees, mourning their fallen Chief. There seemed to be nothing but death here. The village hadn’t seen such devastation since the time before the Colonials. The bright, warm air took on a dark feel. Sergeant Carver wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. He had a mission to complete and the longer he took to do it the more men’s lives he was putting at risk. He thought about his comrades slugging it out along the lowlands without the benefit of his eyes on the enemy.

He pulled Morrisey aside. “I’ve gotta get to that cursed hill ASAP. Is the best way to go back to the ridge and cross the valley?”

“As I said before, it’s been a long time since I’ve been there, but yes, that route would make the most sense.” He looked him in the eye, “My natives have some seemingly strange beliefs to our western eyes, but they usually have good reasons.”

“Are you saying the hill really is cursed?”

He shook his head, “Probably not in the sense you’re thinking. It might be better to think of it as being bad luck.”

Carver looked annoyed “Well spirits or not, we’ve gotta bee-line it and report in. Wish we had more current reconnaissance on it. Seems a mighty good piece of real estate to be unoccupied. You can probably see all the way to Cape Esperance.”

Morrisey nodded, “Indeed you can. As I said, the time I was there was eerie. The wind blows and makes all sorts of odd sounds. Probably just whistling through the rocks on the top, but it sounds a lot like a wailing…” he paused and looked to the sky, “Spirit, I suppose.”

Sergeant Carver looked annoyed, wanting information, not superstition. Morrisey continued, “The easiest way to get there is back up along the ridge you just left, then down into the valley, yes. You’ll find a footpath leading to the creek at the bottom of the valley. The trail takes up again about one hundred meters downstream. Follow it to the top. It becomes more of a game trail the higher you climb.” Carver nodded his thanks. “If there are Japs up there, and there very well might be, you don’t want to take the trail the last two hundred meters. It’s very wide open and they’d see you coming.”

Carver rolled up the map and shoved it into his inside pocket. He stepped back from Captain Morrisey and gave him a crisp salute. “It’s been an honor, Sir. Thanks for all you’ve done.” Morrisey returned the salute then put out his hand. Carver shook it, “Sorry about your men.”

Morrisey nodded, “And yours, Sergeant. Someday when this bloody war’s over we’ll have to meet up and tip a beer and remember our valiant soldiers.”

Carver nodded and released his hand. He looked to his men who were ready to tackle the next phase of their mission. “Let’s get on with it,” he murmured.

With each step away from the village they felt lighter, like walking from a smoke filled room into cool night air.

O'Connor took point, Carver following close behind then Dunphy and Hooper watching their back trail. Everyone except Dunphy had been along this path many times and weren’t overly concerned with running into Japanese patrols. Hooper pushed Dunphy forward, Dunphy pushed Carver, who pushed O'Connor and soon they were running flat out across the ridge. It felt good to move fast, to put the death smell of the camp behind them, to get on with a new phase, to stretch their legs.