Merrick was also taken aback when he saw that one or two of the relief troops still wore the aprons they’d had on back in the mess area, as if they had been rounded up in the middle of slinging hash. But what he really cared about was that these were men with rifles. A cook could still shoot.
He shouted orders, getting them into position.
One of the newly arrived soldiers was Private Dean Rafferty, a clerk whose chief skill was that he could accurately type sixty words a minute on his military-issue manual typewriter. Anyone who had ever tried to type on one of those clanking beasts would realize that this was no small feat. Clearly Private Rafferty had fingers like steel claws.
Still, Rafferty was on the scrawny side, being five foot six and weighing 125 pounds soaking wet. He was so skinny that it looked like he might fall between the typewriter keys if he wasn’t careful. He’d barely made it through boot camp. His drill sergeant had never once used his actual name, but had dubbed him “Pencil Neck.” It was probably no wonder that he had quickly been designated as a clerk. Nobody seemed to think he would get very far marching with a rifle and a fully loaded haversack.
Watching the battle-worn soldiers trudging through camp, young Rafferty had often wondered what it must be like to experience combat. He had even daydreamed now and then of leading a charge, or single-handedly wiping out a nest of Japanese. However, the headquarters tent back on the beach was as close as he’d come to the sights and sounds of battle — until now.
Nearly tumbling out of the truck that had rushed reinforcements to the front line, he had stumbled around in confusion until he found himself shoved into position, literally landing on the ground next to a tough-looking soldier with bad scars on one side of his face.
Holy cow, what happened to him?
The soldier gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, a look so cold that Rafferty felt his blood chill a bit despite the tropical heat. The soldier went back to firing a rifle with a telescopic sight. A sniper, then.
The noise of battle was deafening and confusing, but Rafferty figured out what he was supposed to do fairly quickly, helped by the fact that an officer with an eye patch was shouting, “Shoot the bastards!”
Another clerk who’d been brought up from the beach suddenly slumped over, shot through the head. Too late for that poor soldier, the officer added further instructions, “Dammit, keep your heads down while you’re at it!”
Rafferty focused on the stretch of land in front of him. He was amazed to see actual Japanese soldiers on the hillside. The officer had reminded him that his job was to shoot at them. The enemy soldiers were scurrying from rocks to clumps of bushes, running low, making difficult targets.
He fired off a shot that went wide. He tried again, but in his nervousness he ended up yanking on the trigger before he had even picked out a target. He’d forgotten to put the rifle butt tight against his shoulder, so that each time he fired, the stock leaped back and kicked him. His shoulder soon ached, and he felt like he’d been punched in the jaw.
His own rifle was beating him up worse than the Japanese.
During a pause while reloading, Deke glanced at the scrawny soldier beside him. It looked like he was trying to wrestle with the rifle as much as shoot it. Deke shook his head. Where did they find these dumb bastards?
He wasn’t sure why, but he took pity on him. Judging by the soldier’s clean uniform, he was not used to frontline duties, probably a clerk. Something safe back at HQ. The kind of fella who typed up long lists of soldiers killed in action, confident in the fact that his own name wouldn’t be on that list anytime soon. All that had changed with the Japanese advance threatening to overrun the beachhead.
Deke had to give him credit. This clerk was fighting as best as he could against the oncoming Japanese. He just couldn’t shoot that rifle worth a damn.
“That ain’t a typewriter,” Deke growled. “Put that rifle butt snug against your shoulder. Squeeze the trigger. Just like you were taught in basic training.”
The clerk looked at him, fear mixed with determination in his eyes as he nodded and did as he was told. The next three shots were better — at any rate, he didn’t appear to be wrestling with his rifle anymore. Whether or not he had hit anything remained to be seen, but at least he was sending bullets in the direction of the enemy with enough accuracy to make them keep their heads down, instead of all his shots going wide.
“Keep at it,” Deke instructed him. “Aim and fire. If you miss one, shoot at him again. If you don’t, he’ll just shoot at you.”
The clerk didn’t respond, but fired two more shots. The stripper clip ejected, and the soldier fumbled with the fresh clip of rounds for the M1.
“Give it here a minute,” Deke said. Deftly, he showed the clerk how to reload the weapon, then handed it back. “Don’t slam your thumb in there. Think you can do that yourself next time?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“All right, then. Do some good with that.”
Up and down the line, similar scenes were playing out as men who didn’t normally handle weapons were getting reacquainted with the M1. More than a few got their thumbs slammed by the action as they tried to reload, a common hazard that often resulted in a swollen and bruised thumb, known as “M1 thumb.” However, with so much enemy lead flying at them, a mashed thumb was the least of their worries.
Mashed thumbs or not, the influx of fresh men began making a difference, bolstering the number of defenders on the line.
The firing continued hot and heavy, neither side willing to pull back and admit defeat. It had become a grudge match.
“Hey, Charlie!” shouted one of the Japanese, hidden in a pile of rocks no more than fifty feet from the American line. “We kill you now!”
“To hell with that!” shouted an outraged Private Frazier, who poured fire from his BAR at the rocks. Dirt and bits of rock flew in every direction. It was hard to say whether he’d gotten the enemy soldier, but the flurry of lead had certainly shut him up.
Setting aside the clerks and other support staff, the backbone of the defense was made up of veteran soldiers. For the past few months, they had lived and breathed combat. They knew their M1 rifles and other weapons better than they knew the contours of their wives and girlfriends. The combat veterans were tough and stubborn, even when the Japanese were equally so.
The Japanese made one last, mad push down the hill. The US line had been holding steady and hadn’t appeared in danger of being overrun — but this renewed attack made it waver and buckle, similar to a sail billowing in a strong wind.
Handfuls of attackers reached the US line, screaming their battle cries, resulting in hand-to-hand combat. Most of the Japanese had already fixed bayonets, which was a popular tactic. The idea was to rush in close with the Americans, overwhelming their defenses. On the US side, knives were drawn. Rifles on both sides were fired from the hip, no aiming necessary.
The supply staff and mechanics proved to be an ace up the Americans’ sleeve, because they were excellent brawlers. Maybe operation of the M1 gave them some trouble, but they understood well enough how to smash the butt into the skull of an enemy infantryman. The tactic being used by one big sergeant was simply to grab the enemy soldier’s rifle and twist it away, then punch the man in the face.
But as fast as they dealt with the Japanese, more appeared. Once again, the outcome of the battle balanced on a knife’s edge.
Captain Merrick came running at a crouch and slid into position beside Deke, like he was sliding into home plate. A burst of tracer fire stitched the air that his body had occupied just an instant before.