Clearing the Point
November 1942, Point Cruz Guadalcanal : LNLT- Heroes of the Pacific
I’m Pvt Klonis, I’m used to the drenching sweat, oppressive humidity and being constantly wet. It is the rainy season after all. But I am not used to leading which would explain the shaky hands and the grip on my submachine gun.
For some reason Sgt Stryker decided that I was to be leading the squads today. “A leadership opportunity Klonis, you got potential “ is what he said with a grim smile. What Gunny Stryker is not saying is that we are undermanned. The 1/7 took a beating a few weeks back, but we had it worse just a few days ago. We are part of the 2/5 and we got mauled. Sixty plus wounded and at least 18 dead. But the Point still got to be cleared.
Point Cruz just might be the death of all of us. Hell Major Rogers died moments after we rushed the beach trying to finish off these guys. We had been trying to get behind the enemy. But rain, adhesive mud, slippery mud, more rain, mortars and savage counter attacks had driven us back to the boats.
So yeah, what Sarge really meant was our Gunny was injured, some Jap sniper had clipped him bad, along with the two next in line. Then we had boys struggling to keep their pants on as dysentery had ruined nearly all of us.
I called it the ‘Canal Special Sauce a fever and inability to function like you ain’t never seen. A few of the Texans in our platoon figured it was like trying to live on jalapenos and chile relleno what ever the hell a relleno was. All I knew was I was finally able to keep food in. So that put me in charge. Not where I want to be, I’m a rifleman, a grunt. But here I am “oorah Retreat Hell”. We got work to do and the 2/5 is here to do it. Or some shit like that.
The plan was simple enough, the new Lt was going to sit back with the ATG and provide suppressive fire and stay out of the way. Stryker would flank, running up the trail across the stream. Well not running. Slogging. As the mud was like thick glue to our boots. Me and my two squads would keep the stream on our right and push up through the jungle and find the Jap, his bunkers and then we would hit ‘em from two sides.
Easy.
Nothing to it.
Yeah.
Not so much.
The high flat snap of a Japanese rifleman told us we were close. Next thing you know all hell breaks loose. Mortar rounds shake my guts, palm fronds and foliage tear to bits, it starts to rain and we are pinned down in seconds flat.
‘Anybody see where that fire is coming from?’ I yell to the guys.
‘Klonis, ya dumb ass, its in front of us.’ Some one said. More rounds peppered us, chewing bark, hissing and spit past us. Some one called for a medic.
Rain, and sweat stream down my face, I cant get these boys killed by making a wrong call. I cannot The only way to beat this fire is to fire back. ‘Platoon, get your guns up, fire!’ I roared. Ignoring the incoming I wedged myself against an impossibly thin trunk, steadied my gun and fired for all I was worth. Seeking our enemy. Pushing 45 calibre slugs from the 20 round mag in controlled bursts. Praying the rest of us would do the same! ‘Come on you fuckers y’all eat this!’ That had to be one of the Texans, I stole a glance sure enough, he was laying the hate with his BAR. More lead went out. The enemy fire slackened. I swapped mags on my M50 Reising, one of the side benefits of being tasked with squad leadership.
‘Move move, bounding moves lets go!’
10 yards.
I prop up, jam more lead in front of me, pushing another fresh mag in as the two Texans race past and hit the dirt. The rest of teh squad had 1903’s, we had not yet got the M1’s but my lads could run the bolt action smooth, and we all know smooth is fast. The rain eased, we rushed forward one more time.
Then I’m falling.
Shit, they are right here, we are on top of them before I know it. Four of us. maybe half a dozen of them, all with bayonets fixed. They look like shit. Worse than us. Ragged uniforms, gaunt, angry. Suicidal.
As I’m falling I lash out with a heavy boot and smash some little bastards face in. That momentum carries me around, and past the bayonets thrusting into the air. Tex with the BAR ain’t so lucky. He takes one to the leg. screaming in fury, louder than the bastard who stuck him swings the stock of his BAR into the enemy, using it like a twenty pound baseball bat, the Jap collapsed in a heap three feet away. Tex drops to a knee, and empties his twenty round mag into two more of the bastards. The other boys were joining us now, they could hear the fight.
They wanted in.
They wanted to see who had been killing their friends.
They wanted blood.
Revenge.
Payback. A release from the pent up fear, stress and lack of sleep. The anger is released in a visceral wave.
Landing heavily on my back, the wind momentarily knocked out of me, I see the scene unfold. The remaining Japs fight savagely in the fox holes.
Not one quits.
They shoot, stab, thrust bite. This is for all the marbles, or for them what? I wonder.
All the chopsticks. I smile, ha, I made a funny. Raising my weapon, and pulling it in snug so its on the money. Got to be accurate in this crazy melee, I take aim at the filthy ragged back of the nearest ferocious but about to be very dead fighter.
Crack.
His chest explodes outward, guts, ribs, viscera splatter everyone.
The ground now churning into what looks like red clay. But its blood and bone.
Our blood and theirs intermingled as one. Forming puddles, pooled together. What a waste I think.
We are all animals.
Then its over. Silence. The rain pitter patters, on large leaves, bouncing off puddles of blood, washing the smell of cordite and death away, streaking our faces with God only knows what.
I take a hand up, it takes two fellas to get me on my feet, I’m a hefty guy every bit of 250 pounds. We suck in in wet air, as the fight bleeds from us our energy sapped.
Looking around us, I see the chaos, carnage, and what are now just carcasses strewn haphazardly like broken dolls. The other Texan, I just call him Dallas, he goes around to each body with his pistol, to make sure they are all dead. Pow, pow, pow, pow. The sound muted by the rain. We ain’t playing that game every again Mr Jap guy.
A few hundred yards ahead, is our main target. This was the warm up, the picket line. Just to get us to the fight. The men rally around, we wrap wounds, re charge guns.
‘Lets get this over with.’ The muddy, blood stained, drawn, worn faces all nod. ‘Yeah, lets do this, fuck these little bastards.’ I say.