Last Flight of the Buffaloes - a World War II Story on the Fall of Java

Chapter 6 - Outmaneuvered

Everyone saw what happened. The Dutch Buffaloes were torn up and the Hurricanes were forced to flee, several of them shot down. Every Allied soldier knew who owned Java's skies now, and it weren't their flyboys. What followed was a sad, harrowing, and desperate anti-aircraft defense attempt by the ground troops, paired with what Buffaloes and Hurricanes remained; the Japanese had launched a full on air raid against the Allied position in Leuwiliang. Being diverted from the bombardment of the key cities of Buitenzorg and Batavia, a splinter group of attacker, fighter, and bomber aircraft would have completely destroyed the Allied positions. The sky would've been lit up if it were night for every machinegun, rifle, and anti-aircraft gun—if they weren't hopelessly hiding in their foxholes— tried to catch one of the Japanese planes, though to little effect as the Japanese, experienced, knew what they were doing, did their job, and went out.

The Japanese had two planes shot down and a few more damaged; Being outnumbered, the British lost three Hurricanes and many more severely damaged leaving one or two operational; the Dutch had one Buffalo shot down, one needing heavy repairs, and two still operational. If it were not for the spare planes, it would've been the end of the Royal Dutch East Indies Air Force.

As nightfall came and the air battle had ceased, the men of Lieutenant Desouza's Observation Post continued their job, though their firepower had been severely diminished. The air raid had taken out one howitzer and putting several others out of commission, more if not for the valiant efforts of the 131st Battalion's anti-aircraft trucks.

It was three in the morning. Jack Desouza looked through his field glasses into the darkness to what was the foot of the hill behind an old wall he used for cover. He could see nothing; the sky had been completely enveloped in thick rainclouds, so the O.P.'s usefulness was almost completely nullified. Additionally, it was humid as it could be, and warm, and so the bugs were out tonight, and the sweat couldn't stop no matter how little he moved. His neck and arms were caked with dirt, boots dirty, and face riddled with filth. He reeked of sweat, but so did everyone else—a soldier's smell.

While Sergeant Mike Nescu was checking on the Australian radiomen, Desouza, Butch the Australian, and a few others manned the post. Looking into their surroundings, they had no idea what they were looking for; one Digger escort, a Private Northumberland, in his campaign hat and shorts and all, even said "They wouldn't even find us up to the end of the war."

Lieutenant Desouza did not know whether the remark was made ironically or unironically, though. This deployment to Java was the first time he met Australians, and though he found them a loud, rowdy bunch with a weirdly funny sense of humor, he liked them, but sometimes got lost in their jokes. Same was with the British.

Butch the Digger came by him not long after, and asked if he had a light. "Christ, mate, I've been looking for a light all night." Said he. Jack gave him his lighter and Butch lit the cigarette behind the low stone wall, and kept it low, rifle ready. He said his thanks. Jack lit his cigarette too.

"Quiet nights like this make you think of home, lieutenant?"

"Not sure." Said Jack. "Seems like I always think about it, but some things make me prefer it out here."

"Well, we all got things to run away from." He said.

"To that, huh?"

"Makes me think, at least. These nights you oughta be having a barbie with the family. Crates of beer opened up. Having a good time." He slapped a mosquito from his thigh. "Fuck me. Fuck this shit. Well, what were you before you were... here?"

"I was working an office job. Didn't like it. Thought everything was going to shit. I signed up as a private, you know? Then they found out I could type, they bumped me up to corporal. I could speak some languages and knew some things, and they put me to... fucken' officer school."

Butch laughed at it. "Right, eh? I was mining coal in PNG myself, boss. Not too different from here."

"Well, you made corporal, you must be worth something."

"Oh I'm worth my weight in lead, mate. Go ask Rommel's Germans out in Africa. Haha!"

"Hey! Heeeey!" Suddenly someone shouted. It was Private Northumberland.

"What the fuck, Private?" said Butch, pulling him down, forcing him to go on one knee.

"Movement, south of us!" He said slowly, waving.

"Go warn the rest." Said Jack. "Everyone else, on me. On me." He said. He picked up his rifle, and trained his sights south, where there was only the dirt road and thick jungle. Butch followed him, and so did two others.

Northumberland went on his feet and ran for the small house where the radios and the rest were. It was then, that Jack realized, that they've had it all this time. A single shot cracked the night's silence, landing in Northumberland's neck, forcing him off his feet and crumbling to the ground. As Northumberland's soulless body fell, the treeline to the south opened up with gunfire, and so did the treeline to the northwest.

Jack Desouza raised his rifle and tried to find targets, but could not see them; he fired anyway. They all fired anyway. Mike manned the machinegun, and fired anyway. Shouts of sightings and orders and those who had been shot mixed in and Jack Desouza realized that they were all going to die.

Then, out of the wilderness, and amidst the gunfire, he heard a loud cry; it was not a scream, a shout—it was a war cry, as violent it could be... and out of the woods, a squad of Japanese soldiers charged in with fixed bayonets, their weapons fired from their hips, and at their head, their commander led with a raised sword.

As they came in, Corporal Butch went out of his cover, raised his Thompson submachinegun and hosed them down from the hip, and two, three of them fell, but even that wasn't enough as they were spread out. They were too close. And his last words were: "Get to the jeep, mate! Get out of this fucking Island!"

A Japanese soldier struck him in the gut with a bayonet, another right on his chest. Butch was gone.

Desouza raised his rifle and fired at them, missing, then again, taking one man down, who collapsed to the ground. Seeing that they were close, he pulled out his pistol, a Colt M1911 auto, and fired on them as he retreated towards the jeeps.

He raced towards the jeeps, and he could see several Allied soldiers do that too, led by Nescu, leaving the radio house, that had caught fire. Desouza got there first, naturally being closer. However, no one came to him, and as he waited, weary and filled with worry, he saw Nescu taking a stand carrying the Browning. With a heat glove on one hand, he set up against a rock and opened fire against the advancing Japanese. In disciplined short bursts, he took them down one by one as they charged, forcing them to stop. Jack loaded his rifle and supported him, going off the jeep. He continued firing, "Lieutenant!" He yelled. "Get outta here!" he continued firing, and Jack was not leaving, as he too was taking his fair share of Japs-in-the-open.

But then, it was a lost fight. A Japanese soldier hurled a grenade over Mike Nescu's position, and it blew right next to him. Thrown away several feet with melted and shrapnel-bound skin, he was immobilized, but even then, drew the revolver he always carried around, and fired his last six shots. It was here that Jack realized he could do something. He dashed over to Mike and slid next to him. He took two grenades off its pouch and threw one at the advancing Japanese while firing at them with his pistol. An explosion. Two Japanese soldiers were thrown away, just as severely injured as Mike was. He was out of rounds for his pistol. He ejected the magazine and rammed in another one. He fired off a couple shots, lead firing all above his head. He picked up his wounded friend and carried him on his back, then running towards the jeeps.

He turned the engines on, and drove down the dark dirt road.

He looked back, seeing that the Japanese were no longer pursuing. Yet even though he made it alive, it was clear to him that he had failed to lead his men out in safety. All of them, save for Nescu, were dead, and even Nescu was barely breathing, his face burnt, his body filled with shrapnel, and his eyes slowly going blank.

He headed down to the Texans, who, hopefully, were still there.

[***]