Yowling, the creature wasn’t dismayed, and assailed him, ravenously chomping at his chest and arms. He sunk the knife into the thick hide, repeatedly to no avail, then drove his knee upward, shoving the creature from its offensive perch.
The effort exposed the dinosaur’s underbelly.
Dawson shoved the blade into its viscera, plunging it deep inside the creature, and his fist clutched the knife tightly and penetrated the intestinal cavity. Warm blood and body fluids encased his hand.
Caterwauling in misery, the dinosaur jumped back, and scrambled from the hole. It staggered, then turned back to set upon him again. Dawson instinctively reached for his rifle, slid it to his shoulder. He fired a round into the dinosaur’s throat.
A gurgle emitted from the hole as it tried to hiss and advance upon him.
He fired two more shots, digging into its chest. Another wail resounded from the dinosaur as it careened over the sandy berm toward him.
Dawson pulled the trigger. Click.
Tossing the rifle aside, he snatched up the knife and lunged from the hole, driving a shoulder under its chin, and embracing the creature in a bear hug. It toppled over and flailed with its hind legs, scratching and cleaving at his midsection.
He rolled off the dinosaur and rose to his knees. Reaching out with his left hand, Dawson grabbed it by the neck, squeezing with all his might. The creature thrashed in panic, with its body rippling over the sand. But the head remained still, pinned to the earth. He made a quick thrust into its eye, stabbing into the creature’s brain.
A single moan crept out with its last dying breath.
Dawson fell into the sand beside the slain beast and inhaled deeply, trying to regain his breath and recover from the conflict. He feared another Procompsognathus would happen upon the scene and make short work of him. Somehow, he couldn’t catch his breath, and could not budge from his position. All motor functioning was lost. Paralysis.
Sounds of gunfire blasted on the beach all around him, a muffled sound that no longer resonated as loud battlefield eruptions, but rather a surreal event unfolding in the landing zone.
Dawson drifted into a state of apoplexy. As he slipped into blackness, he contemplated whether the dinosaur had gotten the better of him, possibly inflicting a mortal wound.
An explosion brought Dawson to his senses. He sat up with ears ringing as flames wafted from the jungle. Dead bodies and dinosaur carcasses were strewn across the beach from the intense battle. Aerial machineguns strafed the tree line and tore into the underbrush.
The enemy command had called in air support, and likely reinforcements.
Another pass, and two Japanese zeros lit up the jungle with the same result. Bombs whistled into the underbrush and exploded, and enemy planes riddled the dense jungle to smithereens. Nothing in the vegetation could survive.
Dawson wondered if any marine scouts had ventured inland. He scanned the beachhead for members of Able Company and spotted a few marines he knew from the unit, and he figured the conflict with the dinosaurs had delayed plans to move into the interior. The planes flew off. He crept forward on hands and knees, trying to find Staff Sergeant Williams for an update.
“They’ve missed us altogether,” Mudhole said, grinning.
“Maybe they’re not trying to hit us.” Dawson took a seated position.
“You think there could be more of those… things?”
“We don’t know what’s on this island.” Dawson shrugged. “The British set up a remote outpost on the other side of the atoll years ago, but they didn’t spend much time here. Probably never explored the interior.”
“Well, the Japanese developed it more. They wouldn’t have done that if any more of those things were crawling around the island.”
Dawson considered the comment. Mudhole was trying to sound hopeful, but his tone didn’t reveal much conviction. He couldn’t be sure about anything. Looking around for the rest of his unit, he took a swig of water from his canteen.
He broke off in the middle of a sip, coughing uncontrollably.
Collins lay on the beach, torn apart, and barely recognizable. The sand was saturated in his blood, like oil had leaked from an old car.
A marine on the beach caught him glancing at the body. Bishop sat with his legs dangling in a fighting hole, checking over his Browning, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He lifted his chin, acknowledging Dawson with a sullen look in his eyes.
Bishop shrugged, suggesting there was nothing that could have been done. The Raiders had taken a lot of casualties, just not from the enemy they’d expected to encounter.
Another buzz from airplane engines reverberated off the ocean.
The Raiders would be sitting ducks if they remained on the beachhead. Dawson spotted Staff Sergeant Williams huddled with the commanding officer. The situation looked grim. He figured if they headed into the interior, they would encounter the rest of the Japanese garrison and possibly more dinosaurs. And the rubber boats would be left for the planes to riddle with bullets, hampering any return to the submarines.
Remaining on the beachhead would make them vulnerable to aerial attack. But heading back into the water wouldn’t be much better. The boats couldn’t get past the heavy surf. Dawson figured the Raiders would move forward with the mission and head into the interior.
The buzz of approaching fighters grew louder. And it sounded like a squadron.
Dawson crept closer to the command post and picked up some of the planning. Lieutenant Colonel Carson’s voice boomed over the others. He solicited input from the officers, and the staff noncommissioned officers stood by ready to provide feedback. Carson mentioned surrender, while others felt aborting the mission as a better option. Captain Roosevelt commented that the black rubber boats would make difficult moving targets, as compared to sitting waiting to get attacked on the beachhead. Everyone else wanted to push into the interior, figuring the way forward to completing the mission was open.
Carson had grown up in New England, the son of a Congregational Church minister. He’d run away from home to join the Army and fight in the Great War, then later he switched over to the Marine Corps and earned a commission as an officer. After being assigned to China for several years, he returned stateside to develop the first United States special operations unit.
The Raiders were established as commandos to function like their British counterparts and the Chinese guerillas. He did away with officer and noncommission officer messes and had all the commandos eat together, and he allowed everyone from the top down with an opportunity to provide input. Partly a New England town hall method and part communist egalitarianism, some senior enlisted marines disfavored the approach. Now, the staff noncommissioned officers stood watching the decision-making process with apparent frowns on their faces. They clearly preferred the simpler approach of taking orders and following through with an assignment.
Dawson had been indoctrinated by the marines to always step forward, advance on the battlefield, and close-width and destroy the enemy. Surrender was not part of the Marine Corps creed, unless it was absolutely necessary. At this point, the enemy wasn’t anywhere in sight, and conditions upon surrender were not necessarily going to be favorable. There had already been rumors of the enemy violating the Geneva Convention regulations for prisoners of war. The thought of giving up was a dismal prospect.
Every available option left Dawson with an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to surrender, and he hoped they would move into action soon. Anything was better than standing around waiting.
Thirteen