Imperial troopers were packed in the plane, holding rifles at port arms, ready to fight.
Turning, he broke toward the trees and stumbled into Jenkins, who crouched over a fallen marine. “Come with me,” Dawson yelled.
“What for?”
Dawson grabbed the Boys anti-tank rifle. “Just get the ammo can! And follow me.”
Breaking toward the lagoon, Dawson raced toward the seaplane, while Jenkins stumbled after him, lugging the heavy container of .55 caliber rounds. He halted a hundred yards from the plane and dropped to the ground, as the propellers wound down and the passenger door opened.
Soldiers began exiting the plane, climbing down rungs, as Jenkins fed ammunition into the big gun. The Kawanishi H8K2-L Seiki seaplane held sixty-four soldiers, all eager to engage the American invaders.
“Ready!” Jenkins tapped Dawson on the helmet.
“Holy cow.” Dawson shook his head as reinforcements alighted from the craft.
Pulling the trigger, he riddled the plane with powerful rounds, digging holes into the fuselage. Infantrymen plodded through waist-deep water and fired back. Bullets tore into the sand around them.
Dawson fired again. The Boys heated up as bullets ripped into the plane.
He aimed for the engines, riddling holes in the wing near fuel lines. The big gun vibrated in his hands, and his pulse raced with anxiety, concerned that he couldn’t stop them. A flame wavered from the torn metal, then ignited, rising high, as the fuel tank caught fire. The wing glowed amber for a moment. And the conflagration wafted toward the treetops.
An explosion blew the wing and engine to bits. Scraps of metal cascaded onto the beach. Then another blast shot through the cabin. More explosions followed, blowing down the line, as the fuselage burst to pieces.
Raiders hustled toward the action and took up position alongside Dawson and Jenkins. They fired their Browning and Thompson machineguns, laying down heavy fire on the troops that had exited the plane. Moments later the last of the reinforcements were put down.
Dawson rolled over on the sand and caught his breath. Steam rose from the Boys anti-tank gun as the mist and tropical evening air drifted over the barrel.
“Some damn fine shooting,” Bishop said, dropping beside him.
“That was close. Another moment and they would have been on us.”
“Yeah. But they didn’t get the chance.”
And just like that the fear of the intense moment had slipped past Bishop, like he didn’t experience any aftershock. The type of guy that pulled near death stunts in a hotrod and broke into a grin as soon as the tires were back on the road.
Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of smokes. He slipped one into his mouth, then flicked back the top of a chrome lighter.
“You’re not really going to smoke that now?”
“Sure as shit.” Bishop shrugged. “The beachhead’s clear and everyone on this island damn well knows we’re here.”
“The snipers might still be in the trees. You’ll be the next target.”
Shaking his head, Bishop grinned in the moonlight. “The way I see it, this entire island is about to explode. And we’re not likely to get another break until we shove off.”
The comment caught Dawson off guard. Would they continue inland on the mission knowing that creatures lay in the underbrush? He looked at Bishop, who seemed to read his mind.
“What?” He laughed. “Do you think the brass will call it off… report what we just saw?”
“Maybe they’d say the defense is stronger than intelligence had reported.”
“We’ve got planes strafing us, and there’s more ground troops likely coming from the garrison. So, we best plan for a night of non-stop fighting. But until then, I’m going to enjoy my smoke.”
Dawson thought about how the brass had already contemplated surrender. He wasn’t sure if Bishop was right, but, somehow, he knew in his heart the fighting was long from over.
He rolled onto his stomach and got to his feet. Limbs feeling rubbery, he snatched up the Boys and the ammo can, then he plodded back to the makeshift command post. Staff Sergeant Wilson hunkered with the brass working out options.
Discussion points drifted through the night along with moans from casualties. Lieutenant Colonel Carson bickered with the other officers, while the staff noncommissioned officers stood by and frowned. The commanding officer finally decided upon a surrender, but he conceded that affirmative action needed to take place until a truce was reached. He ordered two privates to carry a note inland, offering a peaceful surrender to facilitate their capture and protection from the native creatures. At the same time, he instructed Staff Sergeant Wilson to lead a unit into the jungle and head off any attack that might close around the base camp.
Wilson ducked back toward a group of Raiders and waved for Dawson to join them. His number was up. Now, Dawson would head into the interior and face the enemy, and lord knew what else. Deeply inhaling to calm his nerves, he got up and ran to join the others.
Sixteen
After some great developments in boot camp, Dawson had some decisions to make about his military career. Postmarked from Savanah, Georgia.
Mary,
My apologies but I haven’t had much time to write lately. We are quite busy training and things are gearing up towards the end. I haven’t gotten mail from you in a few days, but I expect some letters will come all at once like always. I did receive the paper and pencils that you sent, along with more stamps. Thanks so much! We only get issued a bit of writing stationery.
I passed the third phase testing, with only 2 wrong out of 80. This means that I’m coming down the home stretch. I was acting guide (platoon leader) for a couple of weeks. There isn’t much chance of me not graduating on schedule, and so now I’m counting down the days.
Things have really picked up and I’m highly motivated. My Senior Drill Instructor called me into the duty hut the other day. He said that I’ve done so well at testing and physical fitness that I should consider changing my contract. All Marines are volunteers due to the nature of the mission. None of us were drafted. I enlisted to be in artillery. Mostly because I didn’t think that I was as tough as the guys that would end up on the front lines. Well, my drill instructors have shown me that mental toughness and perseverance are important in combat. And not street corner brawling. Anyway, he said that I should consider changing my contract from artillery to infantry. The decision is up to me, but he’ll push it through if I decide to make the change.
I’m writing to you about it because I’ve got to make the decision within the next week. This might come as a surprise to you, and it’s a much more dangerous role. I’ve come to realize that anything that you do in life that’s important, you have to dedicate your life to it. This is a bloody war and the infantry will be on the front lines. But I’m training with a great bunch of guys. And the infantry is the best of the best. I’m sure that I’ll be in good hands. The Marine Corps wants the most capable out there battling the enemy.
This means a sacrifice for you, too. You’ll worry a lot more, and my letters from the front lines will get held up. Let me know what you think.
P.S.: I won’t have much time to write in the next couple of weeks. We’ll have limited free time as the platoon moves into the final weeks.
The change to infantry and the promise of battle on front lines came as a surprise. Many of Dawson’s letters had been focused on merely getting through basic training. She’d felt more comfortable with him further behind the lines in artillery. It was still dangerous, but somehow it didn’t seem as daunting. Postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.