Christmas at the Front

Pvt. William Swanson
2nd Platoon, C Company, 9th Marines, 3rd Division

The Battle for Bougainville, a long and bitter jungle campaign, is finally winding down, or so the rumors are saying. The latest hot scoop being the Army will relieve us in a few days. Beautiful news to put it mildly, and having just been on patrol, we figure we have it made and with a little luck, we should be able to ride it out.
Then, just as we had the thing all planned out, in our dreams of course, orders come down for my platoon to get our gear on and prepare to move out. Our protestations that we had just been on patrol bring the usual response, the sergeant’s retort being something like, “Tell it to the Chaplain” only not in those exact words. This little outing is to be no run of the mill patrol but a serious effort to locate a rumored large enemy force building up for a counter attack against our lines.
Taking a moment to put this little tale into some sort of perspective, the jungle and its many miseries has taken considerable toll on us footsloggers. We are tired, beat down is more like it, and weary of the elements, the jungle itself, the mosquitoes and flies, the insects of all kinds, the cotton mouth of thirst, the never knowing what will happen next and whether you will be around to see it. More or less constant fear, over time, simply grinds one down.
Our dungarees are tattered and torn by almost two months of rain, swamp and hard use and, if all that not be enough, we are sick with one thing or another most of the time and not helped at all by an almost constant state of exhaustion. We haven’t been eating too well either. A real meal is just a distant memory. Still and all, we hold onto the old Gyrene feeling of camaraderie along with the spirit, though sorely tested, of doing what has to be done and a little, in truth a hell of a lot, of griping and cursing notwithstanding.
Another unit had originally been chosen for this trek but shortly after leaving the front lines, they set off a land mine—one of those damned “Bouncing Bettys” which seriously wounded several men. We somehow manage again to draw the short straw and were selected to take their place. The odds, those damn odds—how quick they change. We, of course, put any concerns we might have aside and do as ordered. Our gear consisted of full cartridge belts and canteens, first aid kits, rifles or B.A.R. as the case may be, a couple of grenades and, for most of us, a sheath knife of some sort. There would also be a few machetes scattered about the group.
Then, as we get ready to move out, my platoon, down to only seventeen or eighteen at this point, is joined by a small group from Regimental Headquarters—reconnaissance experts we are told. This brings the patrol up to perhaps the short side of twenty-five instead of our usual four or five, and only reinforcing that earlier assessment of a change in the odds.
Taking leave of the front lines, we move carefully down the steep trail, watching closely for trip wires or anything else that looks out of place. Our first chore is to set an ambush, hoping that some Japanese patrol would accommodate us by walking into our little trap. A couple of hours are spent in this endeavor but there is no such accommodation and we proceed with our primary mission. Valuable time has been used up, however. Time that will be missed as the day wears on.
Moving in a single file, we make our way through dense jungle and swamp, ford a river or two and by early afternoon are out beyond our normal patrol zone. The farther we go, the spookier it gets and we strain our senses, trying to look everywhere at once while at the same time listening for the slightest out of place sound. The point man always has the worst of it as he must keep our compass course while going over and around the many obstacles and, of course, living with the ever present thought that, when something happens, it will no doubt happen to him first. This being such a delightful job, we all (us Privates, that is) get a turn at it. The more the afternoon wears on, the more we get the uneasy feeling of walking into some dark, alien world, unsure of what to expect, yet expecting the worst.
Now, our quite regular late afternoon rain begins and it is a veritable downpour, adding more misery to an already miserable day. In addition, we should be thinking about heading back, instead, we begin to see trails and other signs of enemy activity and so are ordered to continue. We do this with extreme caution, hoping to see without being seen. However, as we pass more and more of these trails, the inescapable conclusion is that there are a lot of Japs around here and the report of a large buildup is apparently all too true. Along with this comes a growing awareness that we are completely on our own and no cavalry will come should we run into trouble.
Although sure that our enemy is close by, we have seen none yet; then, Son of a bitch, there’s one over there. Sure enough, in a small clearing to our left, a lone sentry is sitting down, trying to heat his dinner in the pouring rain. The poor bastard looks almost as miserable as we feel. There is a small discussion about killing him now but it is finally decided to leave the S.O.B. to his dinner, at least for the time being.
Leaving the Jap to his troubles, we push on slowly and carefully until the patrol leader decides some of us should scout a few of the trails. I get “lucky,” of course, and am ordered to check a faint path angling off to the right. After a few steps, I lose sight of the others and am immediately gripped by deep fear. A small, steady fear has been with us all afternoon but this is different. I find that being alone in the jungle, in the midst of the enemy, is a special kind of terror. Without a doubt, misery does love company.
Now, rather thankful for the rain, I move as quietly as possible and worry over each step. The foliage is extremely dense along the path, providing much cover for those who would do me in and, even though wishing to hell I was somewhere else, I manage to check the thing out as ordered. I see no Japs on this little stroll but am nevertheless struck with the uncomfortable feeling they are nearby. Turning back, I have an almost overpowering urge to take off running and it takes all my will power just to keep a somewhat normal pace…the miserable expectation of a knife in the back doffing each step. The patrol is a welcome sight and I allow my back muscles to relax just a bit.
With the many signs of recent activity, we wonder about not seeing more of the enemy and finally decide the downpour must be keeping them in their foxholes. Perhaps the rain is a blessing even though we are soaked to the skin. We continue to move cautiously, most of us hoping we can see what we came to see and then get the hell out. It wasn’t to be.