Shadows In the Jungle (23 page)

Like Rounsaville, Nellist also felt he had assembled the best possible team. Twenty-four-year-old Sgt. Andy Smith was beyond tough. Voted the 6th Army's top athlete, he was a superb basketball player and a deadly accurate knife thrower. Pvt. Galen C. “Kit” Kittleson, formerly of the 503rd Parachute Infantry Regiment, was a top-notch soldier who had won the Silver Star for knocking out a Japanese machine-gun nest on Noemfoor. The team included two Filipinos in Pfc. Sabas A. Asis and Staff Sgt. Thomas A. Siason. Rounding out the group was Pfc. Gilbert Cox, a large man, built like a defensive football player, and Tech Sgt. Wilbert C. Wismer.

When informed by Rounsaville about the mission, Nellist eagerly joined in, and they decided to ask Lt. Jack Dove to serve as the contact. Dove assembled a scratch team of Tech Sgt. William Watson, Pvt. Charley Hill, and Naval Machinist Mate 1st Class K. W. Sanders. In addition, the escaped prisoner would accompany Rapmund, and, once ashore, the group would be met by three native guides secured by Rapmund.

On October 2, the teams arrived on Biak and held a briefing with 6th Army G2, laying out plans for the twelve-hour mission.

“The boats will drop us here,” Rounsaville told the others as they bent over a map lying on a table in the briefing hut, “at the Wassoenger River. We will then have to walk about six miles to the village. Expect about thirty Japs there, but there are two thousand more some twenty miles away, so we get in, hit them, free the hostages, and get out as fast as possible. By the way, the guys holding the Dutch governor are Kempeitai, Jap secret police.”

Using four PT boats, the flotilla slipped out of the base at Biak that evening, but were turned back by a heavy storm. The second attempt the next night was foiled when one of the PT boats hit a submerged log and bent a screw. On October 4, just after the tropical nightfall at five p.m., they tried again. Cruising across the black ocean on a moonless night, the PT boats slid to a halt off the dark coastline around midnight.

“Get the boats over the side,” Rounsaville ordered.

While loading into the dinghies, Rapmund lost his balance and would have tumbled overboard had Kittleson not grabbed his web belt. Within a few minutes, three rubber boats were silently gliding toward shore, their occupants somewhat disconcerted by the newly risen bloodred moon that rode low in the eastern sky.

“Don't worry too much about being spotted,” Rounsaville had told Nellist before departing. “Rapmund took the liberty of having all the native canoes in the area temporarily confiscated, so no night fishermen will see us and get a message to the Japs.”

The beach was narrow—only about a yard wide—and as the Scouts came ashore forty-five minutes after leaving the PT boats, three dark-skinned natives, dressed in khaki shorts, materialized from the jungle.

“Kit,” Rounsaville whispered to Kittleson. “You and one of the guides take the point. Everyone, stay together. It's blacker than a witch's heart in that jungle. Let's go.”

As the teams disappeared into the dark woods, Dove and Charley Hill lashed the three rubber boats together and rowed back to the PT boats.

The dense canopy of foliage overhead blotted out what little moonlight there was, casting everything into pitch-darkness. The only natural light was the twinkling foxfire created by decaying vegetation. Despite the blackness, the natives quickly found the path that led away from the Wassoenger River toward their objective. The footpath was narrow and muddy, and Kittleson made his way forward by the red glow of a flashlight taped to the muzzle of his Tommy gun, its beam invisible fifty feet or more away. Others used red-hooded flashlights as well.

“Hell, the last thing the Japs will be expecting is for an enemy patrol to be snooping around the jungle at night carrying flashlights,” Rounsaville said, when he OK'd their use.

Flashlights aside, even though the guides assured the Scouts that Japanese security was lax, the GIs were taking nothing for granted, and Kittleson tested each step before putting his weight down. After picking their way through the jungle in this fashion for more than two hours, Rounsaville ordered all flashlights doused, after which, Kittleson later recalled, the trip grew “hairy.”

The trail took the men south, across Cape Oransbari, to the Maori River. As they neared the dark waterway, the distant but distinct
crack crack
of two rifle shots rang out in the dark. The Scouts froze and dropped to a knee. One of the guides said something to Rapmund, who told Nellist and Rounsaville, “The Japs hunt wild pigs at night.” Rounsaville nodded, but the men waited unmoving in the brush for fifteen minutes. Then Nellist crept forward to tell Kittleson to move out. After reaching the bank of the Maori River, the Scouts held their weapons up and cautiously waded through the knee-deep water, just upstream of the village.

The low moon was below the tree line when the Scouts arrived at the village at about three a.m. In the darkness, they dropped to their knees within reach of each other to observe and listen. The scent of smoke was in the air—hopefully, Rounsaville thought, from last night's cook fires. The attack depended upon surprise.

Rounsaville turned to Rapmund.

“Think you could send one of the natives in to check things out?” he whispered, barely audible. “I need to confirm the number of Japs and where they are.”

Rapmund nodded and then spoke softly to the former prisoner, who had served as an orderly for the Japanese garrison before he took flight. The man slipped away as quietly as a passing cloud. As they waited for the native's return, the men sat silently in the night, watching the village. A dog barked somewhere off in the darkness and a rooster crowed, both sounds eerie in the stillness of the jungle. About an hour later, the native returned, carrying three Japanese rifles he had stolen. He spoke to Rapmund, who whispered to Rounsaville. Rounsaville then gathered the men around him and spoke in a low voice.

“There are twenty-three Japs in the village and five manning the outpost,” Rounsaville began. “Eighteen of them are asleep in the long nipa hut, which is set up on stilts. There's another hut about twenty yards beyond it with five more. That's the Kempeitai HQ. I'm told they have the governor there. By the shoreline are shallow machine-gun emplacements—a heavy Dutch MG and a light Jap gun. There are four men there. But there are no sentries anywhere so they must feel pretty damned safe.”

“The hostages are confined to various huts in the village, with orders to stay inside or be shot.”

Rounsaville nodded.

“We go at oh four hundred,” he said. “That will give us all time to get in position. My first shot will be the signal.”

The assault had been laid out beforehand, based on Rounsaville's earlier reconnaissance. It would be a three-prong attack with Rounsaville, his team, and Rapmund hitting the main barracks. Asis, Wismer, Smith, and one of the guides were to enter the Kempeitai hut, kill the soldiers, and take the commander prisoner if possible. Nellist, the rest of his team, and a guide were to trek to the coastline and knock out the gun emplacements. That was to be their exfiltration point, and Rounsaville needed the beach secured in order to call in Dove.

“Let's go,” Rounsaville said.

The men split up and went about their assignments.

* * *

Rounsaville and his men slowly worked their way around the village through the underbrush and got into position near the long nipa hut. Palms and other vegetation grew around the outside of the makeshift barracks, so the space under the elevated hut was in total darkness. Signaling the others to follow, Rounsaville cautiously led his men up to the building, and then ducked under it, bending low so as not to bump their heads on the floor above. All was quiet from the room overhead except for the soft snoring of sleeping men.

Splitting the team in two, Rounsaville led some of the men to the ladder at one end of the hut, while the rest of the team moved toward the ladder at the opposite end. There they waited, sweat pouring from their bodies, nerves taut. Rounsaville kept an eye on his watch for what seemed like an eternity. When four a.m. finally arrived, he crept out from under the hut and slowly climbed the ladder. At the other end of the building, his men did the same thing. The doorways to the hut, as well as all of the windows, were covered in mosquito netting. Rounsaville slid the netting back and peeked inside. An oil lamp glowed dimly, casting deep shadows around the interior. A soldier wearing only a loincloth was putting a teapot on a woodstove. Rounsaville looked at Opu Alfonso, who was next to him, brandishing a Remington twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun with a flashlight, now minus its red hood, taped to the barrel, and nodded.

Rounsaville looked at his watch again. It was four ten a.m.

Taking a deep breath, he threw back the netting and stepped inside, flicking on his flashlight. He fired a lone round—the signal shot—into the man making the tea, then emptied his magazine at the sleeping forms. Scouts burst in from both doorways. The Japanese scrambled to get up as their peaceful slumber had suddenly been converted into a madhouse of gunfire, muzzle flashes, screams, and the blinding glare of flashlights. A few managed to reach for their weapons, but most died in their beds, cut down by the savage fire. A few dove through the windows, hit the ground, and scampered into the jungle. The Scouts fired after them as they ran. Two were hit and tried to seek shelter in a ditch, but the Scouts finished them off with quick, short bursts. Alfonso and Fox started chasing the other fugitives into the jungle.

“Let them go,” Rounsaville called. “Let's gather up the hostages and get the hell out of here before they bring back help.”

* * *

When Smith saw Rounsaville climb the ladder of the barracks twenty-five yards away, he, Asis, and Wismer gathered at the doorway to the Kempeitai hut. Inside, four Japanese were asleep, two in cots to the right of the door and two to the left. Another man, doubtless the Kempeitai officer, slept in a bed at the rear. Smith and Asis slipped inside, bumping into a bookcase in the dark. The thump did not wake the sleeping men. At the sound of Rounsaville's signal shot, Smith leveled his carbine at the two on the left and fired. Emptying the fifteen-round clip, he dropped it, reloaded, and resumed firing until there was no more movement.

“Sayonara, assholes. Pleasant dreams,” he snarled after the second magazine was empty.

Meanwhile, Asis riddled the men to the right.

The officer was still in his bed, eyes open wide in surprise, watching the Americans. Smith approached him, leveling his carbine at the man. It had been decided earlier that he was to capture this officer, so Smith had memorized the phrase demanding his surrender. Now Smith told the man to give up and he would not be harmed.

The officer glared at him as Smith dropped his empty clip and loaded in a fresh one. The Japanese officer did not move.

“Surrender, you crazy sonofabitch,” Smith yelled in English, having suddenly forgotten the phrase in the heat of the moment.

Without warning the officer threw back his mosquito netting and sprang at Smith, a bayonet materializing in his hand. Smith took a swipe at the officer's head with his weapon, but missed. Asis shot the man, who fell back on his bunk, dead. The Scouts found and freed the governor, then quickly searched the hut for documents. Finished, they stepped outside. Wismer slipped a phosphorous grenade from his belt, yanked the pin, and tossed it into the hut. The Willie Peter exploded and the hut began to burn.

* * *

The attack had taken less than three minutes. After the cease-fire order, the Scouts fanned out to search the rest of the village. The hostages huddled in their huts, uncertain of what was happening, until Rapmund began calling them out. As they were being collected, Rounsaville sent a runner to Nellist to have him radio Dove to send in the rubber boats.

In one hut, a Japanese radio was found. A few well-placed .30-caliber rounds converted it into junk. In another hut, Smith discovered a table holding a gramophone and several 78-rpm records, all American, including several by Bing Crosby. Smith put his weapon aside and removed Crosby's recording of “My Melancholy Baby” from its sleeve and placed it on the turntable. As Crosby began to croon, Smith sat down on a crate, closed his eyes, and propped his muddy boots on the table to enjoy the music and think of home back in St. Louis.

As Smith was reveling in the moment, Vaquilar, the ex-con, strode in and, without a word, leveled his Tommy gun and sent a burst of lead buzzing by Smith's head. The startled Smith jumped to his feet.

“Goddamn it, Pontiac, what the hell are you shooting at!” Smith screamed at Vaquilar, who stood there, smoke curling from the muzzle of the Thompson. “The fucking fight is over!”

Vaquilar, who spoke little, simply nodded and left the hut. A shuffling noise behind Smith caused him to turn. A Japanese soldier, blood pumping from holes in his tunic, a gleaming bayonet fixed firmly on his rifle, was leaning against the bullet-scarred rear wall. Smith watched as the soldier began to sink slowly to the floor and fall dead just behind where he had been relaxing.

Smith stared at the dead man, then at the record player from which Crosby's voice still crooned unconcernedly, and sighed, “Jesus Christ.”

It would be the last time Smith would let down his guard on a mission.

Rounsaville and the others, meanwhile, had assembled all of the hostages. The Dutch governor, who spoke English, was dazed but otherwise in good shape. With him was his wife and twelve children, ages seven through teenage. The Scouts also freed his native staff, mostly women and children, the men having either been executed by the Japanese or fled into the jungle. However, instead of the thirty-two prisoners Rounsaville had planned on, he found he now had sixty-six captives to bring out.