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

Chapter 7 - Dirt Roads of Java

The roar of the jeep's engine was loud against what should've been a quiet, lonely country road down the forest. If it had been any other time it could've been a worthwhile road trip; Jack Desouza remembered how he used to take those trips with his family or with his school where they would go ahead and visit Bandoeng or Buitenzorg away from the bustle of Batavia, where he used to live. Had he not opted to go over one of the spoor matschappij trains, then the only would be by car through long roads over and around the calm forests and hills of Java. But such trips, having seen what had happened, would never seem the same anymore.

He trembled and shook with every distant gunshot and explosion, and they were plenty. He could hear artillery in the distance—howitzers and mortars both—paired with staccatos of varying gunfire coming from the road below, where all skirmishes had stopped, and a full-on battle had commenced. With the Japanese occupying the O.P., that meant Blackforce's right flank was exposed and whatever he was going to do next—run? Stay and fight?—he had to first alert Colonel Tharp and the rest of the Texan battalion that their flank is exposed and they should withdraw. He hurried, trying to keep the jeep from sliding off the unreliable and barely visible dirt roads.

Thank God it rained only when he reached the bottom of the hill and back on the main, paved Dutch road. And it was no meager drop, it was a shower. The blood—Butch, Northumberland, Nescu, God... all those good men—was washed off his face, at least the ones that had not dried and caked on his dusted face. Out of the hill's road, he took a sharp right turn that he was amazed he could pull off and not run into anything considering the weather.

Nescu, using his good left arm, covered himself with a poncho, but that didn't save himself from being wet. Still in shock, he was bleeding profusely from his right arm and torso, but the shrapnel plugged in most of the blood flow... but it still looked bad.

"You hang in there, Mike!"

He mumbled something, Jack couldn't understand.

"Stay with me. We're almost there!" He could hardly hear himself over the rain and engine.

As they headed towards the American camp, the gunfire grew louder. As if... That was the source of the fire. As he rushed down the road, he saw several figures standing guard, facing his way, rifle raised. He saw their outline: Brodie helmets not the round ones—they were definitely American. He honked the jeep's horn and shouted: "Hey! American! American wounded!"

They lowered their rifles and let him through. He was thankful once more that they weren't in Japanese khakis.

One of them, he couldn't see their faces, said to him, "Damn. Where've you been?"

"I'm Lieutenant Desouza from the observation team up the hill."

"Where's the rest of the team, lieutenant?" the other guard said.

"This is it." He said. "I need a medic for Sergeant Nescu, quick."

"Sergeant Nescu? Shit, Mike?" asked the guard, he peeked over and looked. "Well didn't you get fucked up good?"

Nescu mumbled in reply.

"Yeah, yeah. I got you. I got you. Over there, sir. Straight ahead. Big tent on the left side. Won't miss it."

"Appreciate it, soldier." Said Desouza he switched the gears of his jeep, prepared to go. The engine hummed different and started kicking. "Where's the rest of the perimeter guard?"

The guardsman chuckled and answered a similarly stoic tone. "We're it. Just the two of us."

"Well... God bless you."

"Godspeed to you too, sir. Watch it, Japs everywhere."

"Heh. No shit!" Said Jack. He hit the gas and headed to the camp.

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