Timor June 13, 1942
Three Marines huddled behind the hull of a burned out light tank. A satchel charge delivered by a suicidal run had destroyed the tank that morning. One crew member escaped without harm, while the other roasted alive as he was covered in gasoline that broke free of the fuel tanks during the attack. The infantrymen tried to ignore the pungent smell and for the most part they succeeded. They stayed low as the bullets from a Japanese machine gun nest pinged the thin steel of the ruined Marmon tank.
One man checked the bullets in his rifle, while the other two felt for grenades. The rest of their platoon had been forced back another sixty yards into the jungle by a ferocious counterattack. They had been isolated as they were helping the fourth Marine in their position, his lifeless body now being used to give one man a strong shooting position around the corner of the tank. No one fired as movement and noise just invited another counter-attack. The platoon’s BARs were not set up to support the three men that the LT had to have thought were lost.
Another burst of machine gun fire went over the rear deck of the destroyed tank. The bullets struck a tree forty yards away, a few inches above the dirt hugging bodies of more riflemen. That line of Marines fired a few quick shots before rolling out of the way to better or at least different cover. Even as the machine gun paused, a dozen light mortar shells arced out of the jungle. They went over the heads of the three Marines and landed in the wet soil of the tree line where riflemen were preparing for another assault on the Japanese hard point.
The youngest man tilted his helmet down to cover his eyes for a moment before taking a long, satisfying sip of water from his canteen. He then pulled his rifle back to his body and resumed waiting, hearing the occasional string of bullets rip through the air like freight trains, holding himself to the dirt when an Army 155 millimeter battery fired in the support of another Marine company further north, and then enjoying the few moments of pristine quiet until the cacophony of war resumed.
As the morning wore into the afternoon, the three men and the corpse of a comrade at the light tank were still. They had whispered a plan to crawl back to the Marine lines once darkness fell. Movement in daylight was suicide.
And then as the heat of the afternoon wore on, movement was heard in the tree line held by the other Marines. Japanese riflemen and snipers began to shoot at leaves staying still instead of swaying in the breeze while machine gunners in the wood and dirt bunker checked their ammunition once again. A few minutes after the fire fight resumed, the whistling of shells hurling overhead was heard. A mix of delayed and contact fused high explosive shells as well as some smoke from a battery of 75 millimeter guns slammed into the forest. The first shell was merely a marker, and the second was a correction but within three minutes of the warning shot, a battery three miles away went to rapid fire to support the next assault. Heavy machine guns had been brought up from the battalion reserve and a pair of light anti-tank guns were now firing as well, their shells seeking out the Japanese bunker.
The three living Marines huddled behind the burned out tank until they saw the attack break cover. They belly crawled away from the tank. One man still used the corpse of a fellow Marine for cover as he put his rifle against his shoulder and looked for movement or fire. He did not have long to wait as he saw a helmet a five dozen yards away move as a Japanese soldier popped his head out of a spider hole. The rifle moved slightly and then he stabilized the barrel, relaxed and pulled the trigger. The first shot ripped through the shoulder of the Japanese private while the second shot penetrated the thin steel helmet he was wearing.
Those two shots were unnoticed as a growing volume of fire was coming into the primary Japanese position from the main Marine jumping off points. No one noticed that the Japanese position was accidentally flanked. The three men near the burned out tank began to slowly move, their hips seldom ever getting more than ten inches off the ground and their eyes scanning forward as they began to move towards the Japanese defensive positions.
A machine gun manned by three men fired at the main Marine attack. Off in the distance, a single scream was heard, presumably the burst hit a man. The three Marines were only the distance of a shaded shortstop from first base. The oldest man, the 21 year old private first class nodded at his two compatriots before they all pulled grenade pins and tossed them forward. Even as the iron eggs were arcing towards the Japanese machine gun nest, the three men charged with their rifles. Bayonets led the way. The grenades exploded a few seconds ahead of the three man rush. Two grenades were short of the machine gun nest. One blast wasted itself against the dirt and log walls. The other blast sprayed shrapnel that nicked one man. The final grenade was long and harmless to the men in the machine gun nest although it sprayed steel fragments into the back of a pair of Japanese riflemen.
The three Marines took the last few steps, losing their surprise as they began to scream inarticulate rage. The three Japanese soldiers manning the machine gun tried for half a heart beat to lug their machine gun around to confront the new attackers. The wounded man still tried to move the hot barrel around but the other two men let go of the gun. One brought a shovel up to defend himself from the first thrust of the bayonet. The thrusting rifle was forced to the side and the shovel’s flat steel blade slammed into the near side arm. Even as another strike was ready, the rifle fired and the heavy, high speed bullet slammed into the defender’s hip. The sore Marine’s bayonet plunged into the gut of his opponent and their eyes locked for a moment as the bayonet came out of the bleeding torso and then re-entered in two more hard plunges. The other two Marines had shot the gunner and clubbed the already wounded man into unconsciousness.
The youngest Marine paused, unsure of how his lungs had emptied. Fifteen seconds had passed since the first grenade was thrown and now the tempo and tenor of the battle was changing as the flanking assault had eliminated a keystone position in the Japanese position. Marines who were caught in interlocking enfilading fire streams began to poke their heads up without drawing fire. The pause was a breath, maybe two before the three Marines shot the Japanese machine gunners several times apiece and they threw grenades at a cluster of Japanese riflemen who were now just beginning to react to the threat behind them.
Half an hour later, two of the Marines who had turned the battle were back with their platoon. One was throwing up while the other was being questioned by the company commander. The private first class was already on a stretcher being carried back to the battalion aid station. He had at least three stab wounds and two bullets in his leg. A tourniquet was keeping him from bleeding out and it only promised a hope that a surgeon might have a chance to keep him alive.
