1945

"Sir, it's a standard Jap bunker setup. There's one main fortification and at least three machine-gun nests connected to it by zigzagging trenches. There may be a fourth on the other side of the hill, but I kinda doubt it. For once artillery did help out, at least a little. They nailed the nest directly in front of the main bunker. Ain't nothin' left but smoke and dead Japs. However, the big bunker and the two light machine guns flanking it are operating just fine, thank you."

Paul nodded. The Jap complex had been well hidden, and had the enemy gunners showed any fire discipline at all, the platoon would have walked right up to it and been slaughtered. As it was, they'd still been hurt. Jap light machine guns had thirty-shot clips, and he considered them the equivalent of an American Browning automatic rifle, or BAR, and not a true machine gun, which was belt-fed. Even so, they could be quite lethal and were helping to keep the platoon pinned down.

"How're my guys?" Collins asked.

"Holcomb took a bullet through the hand that ripped off at least three fingers," Paul answered, thinking of the grisly mess of tendons and flesh that was Holcomb's hand. "He's okay, but in shock. Keye was shot in the thigh and lost a lot of blood before someone got a tourniquet on him. Unless we can get them to the rear sometime soon, they may not make it."

Both men understood. The healthy could wait in wet misery for darkness and then make their escape, but the wounded needed help immediately.

Paul sighed. "What's in the bunker?"

"Jap tank."

"A what?" said Paul, astonished. Since landing on Kyushu, no one had seen a Jap tank. For that matter, they'd seen precious few American ones.

Collins grinned through his fatigue. "Yessir, it's a real live Jap tank, and she's dug in hull-down in the bunker and covered with dirt and logs. Nothing but a direct hit is going to knock her out, and there's damn little of her poking out from the bunker besides her big gun."

It was commonly accepted that Jap tanks were small, thinly armored, and carried a small-caliber cannon. Thus, they were no match for American M4 Shermans, or even the lighter M24 Chaffees. But even a small-caliber cannon was more than Paul's platoon had.

However, that was not his main problem. He had two men who might die if he didn't get them some help, and he might lose still more men if he tried to move them back. There was only one answer. He would not sacrifice additional men for his wounded. They would have to wait until darkness or until help came.

"Sir," Collins asked, "you get through to the captain?"

"Yeah. He's got his own problems but said he'd try to get us out of this mess." The rest of the company was one hill over and had their own problems with Japanese guns. The irregular folds of ground had separated their platoon from the rest of the company. For that matter, Paul thought, they were pretty well separated from the rest of the army. He had the damnedest feeling that he and his platoon were all alone on Kyushu.

Collins risked a quick look at the top of the hill, where the mist now seemed even thicker. "Too bad we can't get a napalm strike on them. Armor or no, that'd cook their goose, literally, and settle things real fast. It's a shame the flyboys don't like to run into mountains when they bomb in the rain."

They gave no thought to sending a man up with a flamethrower. They had one, but he'd be an easy target for the Japs.

With that, they settled down to wait for help or night, whichever came first. As time ground on, they dug in deeper and were able to put substantial mounds of earth between themselves and the machine guns, while the Jap cannon remained ominously silent. It occurred to Paul that the entire platoon had been stopped by fewer than a dozen Japanese.

At first Paul didn't notice the grinding, whining, growling sound in the distance, but as it grew louder, he realized that something big was getting close. Then he and the others grinned hugely as an M4 Sherman tank breasted the hill behind them and descended gracelessly, sliding the last few feet into the ravine where they were hidden. The tank commander positioned the Sherman between them and the Jap guns, and Paul cautiously moved over to the driver's hatch, which opened a crack.

"You guys call for a tank?" came a voice from inside the dull brown armored vehicle.

Paul grinned. "Damned right."

The hatch opened wider and a man with dark, curly hair stuck his upper body out. There was grease on his face. "I'm Staff Sergeant Joey Orlando and this is my tank. How can I help?"

Paul quickly explained the situation with the Jap tank and the machine guns. As if on cue, the Jap tank fired a round that landed farther down the ravine, and one of the machine guns fired a burst that did nothing but make everyone wince. The Japs had seen the American tank and weren't happy.