"Meaning what?"
"Meaning, possibly," Moore thought aloud and immediately regretted it, "that the Ichiki Butai is already ashore."
"What the fuck is whatever you said?" the technical sergeant asked.
"The Ichiki Butai is an infantry regiment-the 28th-of the 7th Division. First class troops under Colonel Kiyano Ichiki. The Japanese are going to send them here from Truk. If I'm right, and they're already here, that would be important."
"How the hell do you know that?" Captain Feincamp asked. "What units the Japs intend to send?"
"I know, Sir. I can't tell you how I know."
"The captain," the technical sergeant said furiously, "asked you a question. You answer it!"
Captain Feincamp raised his hand to shut off the technical sergeant.
"How do we know the Japs didn't issue Army helmets to- what was it you called them?" Captain Feincamp asked.
"The Rikusentai, Sir," Moore furnished. "It's possible, of course. But that Major in G-2..."
"Major Stecker?"
"Yes, Sir, I think so. He told me to look for anything out of the ordinary."
"Captain," the lieutenant said thoughtfully. "I have something... I mean, out of the ordinary. The Japs we killed seemed to be heavy on officers. Maybe half of them were."
"You just forgot to mention that, right?" Feincamp said, sarcastically.
"Sorry, Sir. I didn't think it was important."
"What I think you had better do, Lieutenant," Feincamp said, "is get down to Division G-2, and tell Major Stecker what happened... No, tell the new G-2; I forgot about him. I'm going to send your sergeant and Sergeant Moore back down the beach to see what else Moore can come up with."
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"I don't think I have to tell you, Moore, do I, what to look for?"
"No, Sir."
(Six)
Aside from perhaps four hours familiarization at Parris Island, the only experience Sergeant John Marston Moore, USMCR, had with the U.S. Submachine Gun, Caliber.45 (Thompson) was vicarious. He had watched half a dozen movie heroes-most notably Alan Ladd-and as many movie gangsters-most notably Edward G. Robinson-use the weapon against their enemies with great skill, ‚lan, and
They were now forty minutes down the beach toward the site of the encounter between Able Company, First Marines, and the Japanese; and he really had had no idea until that moment how heavy the sonofabitch was.
He had opted to leave his utility jacket in the S-2 Section of the First Marines, which he now recognized to be an error of the first magnitude. The canvas strap of the Thompson had worn one shoulder and then the other raw. And as they made their way down the sandy beach, the two spare 20-round Thompson magazines he carried, plus the.45 pistol and its two spare magazines, had both banged against him, in the process wearing raw and badly bruising the skin and muscles of his legs and buttocks.
He had also quickly learned that the good life he had been living in Melbourne and Brisbane had not only softened the calluses he had won at Parris Island-the balls of his feet and the backs of his ankles had quickly blistered, and the blisters had broken-but it had softened him generally.
To the technical sergeant's great and wholly unconcealed annoyance and contempt, he had absolutely had to stop every five minutes or so to regain his breath. His heart pounded so heavily he wondered if it would burst through his rib cage.
Twenty minutes down the beach, they began to encounter other members of Captain Brush's patrol. Five minutes after that, they encountered Captain Brush himself, bringing up the rear.
When the technical sergeant responded to, "Sergeant Ropke, where the hell do you think you're going?" by informing him of their mission, Captain Brush assigned a Corporal and a PFC to go with them.
Fifteen minutes after that, they reached the site of the action. It was marked by Japanese bodies scattered over the beach in various obscene postures of death. Even more obscene, in Moore's judgment, were the three-quarters-buried bodies of the three Marines who had been killed.
They had been buried with one boondocker shod foot sticking out of the ground so that their bodies could be more easily found later.
In the clothing of the third body Moore examined, that of a Japanese Army Captain, he found positive proof that the Ichiki Butai had indeed been landed on Guadalcanal. He also found in the calf of the Captain's boot a map which looked to him like a Japanese assessment of the Marine defense positions on the beachhead.
He gave this to the technical sergeant, and oriented the map for him.
"Jesus Christ!" the technical sergeant said, after carefully examining the map. "They did a good fucking job with this!"
Moore spent another twenty minutes searching for the bodies of Japanese officers, and then searching the bodies for materials he thought would be important. Finally he had a Japanese knapsack full of documents, maps, and wallets.
They started back. Five minutes down the beach, after the first time he stopped to catch his breath, the technical sergeant relieved him of the Thompson.
"Let me carry the Thompson," he said, not unkindly. "That shit you picked up is slowing us all down."
I should be embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated. I am not. I am simply grateful that I don't have to carry that sonofabitch anymore!
Ninety seconds after that, there was a faint suggestion of something-some things-flying through the air in high arcs. And a moment after that, there were two almost simultaneous flashes of light, and then a moment later, a third.
And then something like a swung baseball bat hit Sergeant John Marston Moore twice, once in the calf of his left leg and once high, almost at the hip joint of his right leg.
This was followed immediately by a loud roar, and the sensation of flying through the air. He landed on his back, and the wind was knocked out of him.
After a moment, while he was still trying to figure out what was happening, he became aware of people running out from the woods onto the beach. Two of them had rifles, and the third a pistol.
He rose on his elbow for a closer look.
He saw that the Corporal and the PFC who had been sent with them were down on the beach, crumpled up, and that the technical sergeant was trying, without much success, to get to his feet.
Moore rolled over onto his stomach and took the.45 Colt automatic from where it had been bruising his buttocks raw and sore and worked the action and held it in two hands and shot at the three men running onto the beach. He shot until two of them fell, and until the slide locked in the rear position indicating that the last of the seven rounds in the magazine had been expended.
He searched desperately for a spare magazine.
There was a short, staccato burst of.45 fire, accompanied by orange flashes of light, and then another. The technical sergeant had gotten the Thompson into action.
By the time Moore found a fresh magazine, ejected the empty magazine, inserted the fresh magazine, let the slide slam forward, and then looked for a target, there was none.
What he saw was the technical sergeant, bleeding profusely from cuts or wounds on the neck and face, crawling over to him.
"You all right?" the technical sergeant said.