Three more Marines made it to that house, their Tommy guns barking as they finished off that gun crew and two soldiers that had come in to support them. But the rest of the Japanese line wasn’t budging. The enemy was fighting with a fanatical zeal, and they would simply not retreat. At one point, when the weight of both Raider Battalions seemed like it might swarm one company, up came a reserve company wielding the bayonet and restoring the line. It was part of a strong contingent of the Yokosuka Naval Marines that had come in with the initial landings. They had been in reserve areas, posted at possible landing sites along the coast, but now the Japanese were relieving them with construction troops so they could rush to the fighting. That company stopped Solo from falling that day, and there were two more behind it that had come in by rail.
By now the 8th Marines had pushed so close to M’ba field that their mortars could put fire on the landing strip. They did little more than kick up dirt, for the last of the enemy planes there had already taken off, Zeroes dueling with the Wildcats in the grey skies above. Then those skies opened up with a heavy rain, and the whole scene was lashed with a tropical storm. It being late in the day, the Raiders fell back to regroup, Japanese artillery from the vicinity of M’ba harassing them the whole way.
“Carlson wasn’t happy when he met up with Edson.”
“Goddamnit Eddie, your battalion was supposed to be here three hours ago!”
“Couldn’t be helped,” said Edson. “Our lead company got over the river to lead in the Marines, but the Japs hit them pretty hard. I wanted my whole outfit before I swung west, so we waited until the Leathernecks could get through to my men. Now we’re here, so stop your bellyaching. Did to you see how my boys took down that infantry gun? Nicky did a good job with that.”
He was referring to Major Lloyd Nickerson and his Boy’s AT Rifle team, but Carlson wasn’t impressed. “We tried getting around their left, but the line goes all the way to the high ground east of M’ba. The only way we can hit them now is right over this open ground, and that’s going to kill a whole lot of good men. So I say we all move up into those highlands, and hit them tonight on that flank.”
“Tonight? In this rain? Night moves in unfamiliar terrain are risky. We won’t be able to see anything in his mess. I don’t like it.”
“Don’t get your knockers balled up,” said Carlson. “My boys scouted it earlier today. 2nd Raiders can lead the way. You tag along behind.”
“But if we move that far left we’ll lose contact with 2nd Marines.”
“So what? We’ve enough ammo to operate independently for another couple days out here. Now’s the time to do it. They know we don’t move at night, so we can catch ‘em by surprise.”
“They move at night,” said Edson. “Have you considered that? We ought to be hunkered down and ready for them, not caught flat footed like a bunch of suckers. And who said the smoking lamp was lit? You want some hot shot Jap sniper to put that cigarette out for you?”
“Pipe down,” said Carlson. “They can hear you a mile away. Why’d you turn into such a dead battery, Edson? Tell me that.”
“You out to prove something?” Edson came back at him. “Don’t go thinking to make a grandstand play here, cause all you’ll do is get good men killed.”
It was like that for a while between the two men, but they eventually worked out a compromise, and it was fairly predictable. Carson would try that flank tonight, but Edson’s battalion would hunker down and be ready to open up with everything they had if things went wrong.
The rain had abated somewhat when Carlson made his move, just before midnight, but the trees were still heavy with water, the steady drip dappling the undergrowth. With the front blown through a few hours ago, an eerie ground mist started rolling in on the light breeze. As Edson had expected, it was very dark under the remnants of that squall, and too damn quiet. As the men lined up, the clink of a canteen prompted Carlson to look over his shoulder with a frown.
They moved out, the scout who had reconnoitered the way earlier in the lead. The growing mist seemed to tamp down every sound, and all was whisper soft and quiet. The Marines could feel the mud under their boots, and one caught a glimpse of a snake slithering across the trail. When you move like that, in darkness and mist, your ears strain to hear the slightest sound, unseen things in the undergrowth, or lurking above in the rain sodden trees. You strain to hear the silence between those trees, for fear that it might suddenly coalesce, finding tryst with the darkness and shadows, and become a living thing bearing a rifle leveled at your gut.
The way led up, along the slope of the high hill to the west that was called Koronviria, or Hill 1299 on Carlson’s map. It was an imposing height, though the slopes were not steep, rising gradually to the west and growing taller with Hill 1763. It was wild country, with no habitation for fifteen kilometers in that direction, and nobody wanted to climb the slippery, muddied flanks of that hill.
They moved out in a long, sinuous line, the sound of runoff from the heavy rain creating little streams on the hillside and masking their quiet movements. Soon the frogs started up a chorus of croaking song in the clammy night. Edson had been right about the Japanese being keen on moving after dark, but not this night. General Toshinari Shoji had seen the Marines make their attack that afternoon, and he had a good idea what he was up against. The enemy had a brigade here, or so he thought, and with half his men on the other side of the M’ba River, he was in no mind to thin out his line here and make a night attack with what might amount to only 20 percent of his regiment. So he was doing what Edson had advised—hunkering down.
It was the last thing many of Carlson’s men wanted to be doing that night too, snaking through that low mist, the trees dappling your helmet with heavy drops of water, the leaves licking at your shoulders. The footing was always uncertain, causing a heavy set, well laden Marine to slip and fall with a dull thud and an involuntary curse under his exasperated breath. The whole line stopped whenever that happened, tense and alert, but there was no other sound or sign of the enemy. So they moved on, and ten minutes later Carlson saw the lead scout freeze, one arm extended, catching the subtle downward movement of his hand before the man slowly descended himself into the grey white mist.
The lead fire team went into a low crouch, one man looking to see he was eye to eye with a big fat ground frog hunched on a low branch. They were mostly dormant at night, and even by day they were sluggish “sit and wait predators,” hoping for insects to happen by.
That Marine didn’t have to worry much about the frog, but this night there were other sit and wait predators crouching in the landscape ahead. Toshinari Shoji wasn’t making a night attack, nor did he plan to move his men, but he had extended his perimeter with patrols, and several had been tasked with laying mines in the undergrowth where the Japanese thought the Americans might advance. One squad was right in the path of Carlson’s advance, with three men digging holes in the mud, two more laying eggs, and the last three sitting in a well concealed position behind a machinegun.
Whether by chance or fate, the gunner in that patrol was Kenji Tokawa, reputed to have the best night eyes in the battalion, and even better ears. He had been listening to the song of the forest, eyes closed, counting the frogs in his mind, hearing the raindrops on the thick green leaves of the trees. Then he felt, more than he heard or saw, that something was very wrong. He could hear the quiet mutter of the men in the mine detail about fifteen yards off. Then he opened his eyes and gazed past the shoulder of one of those men, and saw that Marine Scout forming from the shadows and mist like an apparition, silent, motionless, still as death. The specter had one arm extended, the shoulders and head of the man all that was visible above the heavy ground fog.