March 10, 1942 near Abucay, Luzon
The air screamed. Steel shells reached their apogee and then tipped over. The northern horizon flashed as another salvo fired. The experienced infantrymen, veterans all, listened intently for a second and then they scrambled for cover. They could hear that the shells were approaching their position. Most of the men went into a series of bunkers they had dug out over the past two months.
Acting Lieutenant Ibling did not have that luxury. He had been squatting in a machine gun nest checking in on his men. The morning had been slow and quiet so he was able to make his rounds throughout the company, patting some men on the back, sharing a cigarette with others, letting a man vent about the monotony of the food. The machine gunner had been offering a suggestion to keep his ammunition cleaner. It sounded like a good idea and the acting company commander was taking mental notes to see if the idea would work when the artillery started. He looked around and saw his men scramble. The mule drivers and quartermasters who had brought up food for the next couple of days were still standing around, puzzled by the chaotic flurry of action from what had been a languid infantry company.
“Get down you fools” Ibling shouted as he dove. He rested his weight on his elbows and his toes, keeping his core off the ground while both hands held onto his helmet.
Rolando Cabling heard the warning but he was confused. He saw a couple of his work gang hit the ground and he followed them, his helmet rolling away. The first shells landed just as he hit the ground. They tore open the wet earth and scythed tree limbs. Wood and steel fragments ripped into any softness while rocks rained down as gravity asserted itself again. Ibling flexed his jaw and waited, his ears straining to count the scale of bombardment. Maybe two more salvos were left. Another one landed a little more dispersed this time, some of the shells destroyed an empty rifle pit and more tore into the thin strands of wire. The last salvo landed a touch to the rear of the position.
Silence cocooned the company for a moment as no more artillery was incoming. And then the cries of the wounded broke through. Ibling began to belly crawl through the newly divoted position. As he approached the trenches, he yelled at his platoon leaders to report their casualties. Those men yelled at their squad leaders for an update. Men were already leaving the trenches to run back to the rear echelon mule handlers who were screaming in pain.
Ten minutes later, the company had two men wounded, one just had his bell rung hard by a rock hitting his helmet and another had a good size gash on his arm. That man’s arm was wrapped before he was sent back to the battalion aid station with two buddies for support. The company commander now could walk back to the mule drivers.
As soon as he got there, he shot a pair of wounded mules with his rifle. Their braying and twitching endangered everyone around them. He then looked down at the quartermasters. Two of the men were dead, another man was rapidly dying. It was not even worth a bullet to end his misery, a single syringe of morphine could be spared to aid the man in the last few minutes of his life. The last man’s leg was a bloody stump, a shell fragment had debrided most of the calf and sliced his tibia. He could be saved.
Two tourniquets had already restricted blood flow below his knee. His head was up and he was being treated for shock by men whose bedside manner was horrendous but their pragmatic expertise could not be questioned. Ibling knelt next to the wounded man and squeezed his hand:
“What is your name”
“Rolando”
“Well, my boys will take good care of you Rolando until we can get you back to the aid station… just stay with us”
