Staff Sergeant Williams led the unit. He walked across the deck, surefooted, as though accustomed to ambulating over metal doused by rain and seawater. Then, he hopped down into a rubber assault boat and waved to the men. All three rifle squads were lined up in order.
Jenkins climbed into the boat and set up his Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) on the bow. A 7.62 mm cartridge, the rifle fired 500-650 rounds per minute. His team circled around him, with Private Knight toting a Thompson automatic machinegun, and Private First Class Miller holding an M1 Garand semi-automatic rifle. The next squads loaded into the boat carried similar weapons and lined up on either side of the assault craft. Dawson joined them, sitting in the back of the boat with his rifle gripped tightly against his chest.
His fire team fell in around him. Private Bishop toted the BAR, and Private Collins had the Thompson machinegun. Private First Class Wells tucked in beside Dawson’s team, with Private Anderson holding an M1 and his team member’s BAR. An African American, Wells had begun his training at Montford Point, rather than Parris Island. He’d excelled and earned a place in the prestigious Raider battalion.
Private James “Mudhole” Merrill started the 6hp Evinrude engine and steered the rubber boat toward an assembly area as waves washed over the bow. Mudhole got his nickname because he’d forgotten to fill his canteen before a forced march and drank out of a puddle to quench his thirst. A sergeant coined the term and it stuck.
The boat pitched in rough seas and the downpour hindered visibility. Camouflage selected for the mission also made it difficult to observe the task force of twenty boats. Almost ninety Raiders had sailed aboard the Nautilus, while slightly over a hundred marines, the remainder of fleet marine force, had traveled in the Argonaut.
Pulling further away from the Nautilus, Dawson could barely make out the silhouette of either submarine in the dark night.
Many of the Raiders wore black-dyed uniforms and affixed scraps of burlap to their helmets, disrupting the round outlines. The remainder wore standard issue olive-drab, planning to smear mud on themselves after hitting the beach. Fleet command hadn’t yet released the lightweight Frog Skin battledress camouflage planned for fighting in the Pacific theater. Still, Raiders were highly trained commandos with the best equipment and tactics in the United States military. The units were formed with the expectation to perform special operations and function like British commandos and Chinese guerillas.
A group of black rubber boats collected near each other. Rain glistened off the smooth surface, helping to spot the various boats. Dampness crept into Dawson’s sinus cavity. It was difficult to determine who was piloting each boat or differentiate Able Company from Bravo Company of the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion. The boats pitched aimlessly in the choppy waters of the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Ocean.
Approaching the flotilla, murmurs passed from boat to boat. Dawson huddled next to his rifle squad wondering if the mission would go according to plan. Private Bishop held the Browning automatic rifle ready to fire, and Private Collins gripped his Thompson machinegun tightly.
“This doesn’t look good,” Collins muttered.
Dawson couldn’t see his expression. “What do you think is happening?”
“Hard to tell. But there’s a lot of commotion coming from the brass.”
A few boats were clumped close together, undulating in the choppy waves. The commanding officer’s beak of a nose stood out in the occasional slivers of moonlight that cut between the rain clouds.
Lieutenant Colonel Erik Carson gesticulated toward the large Makin atoll.
And then, Dawson heard the pounding of breaking surf before he glimpsed the obstacle between them and the beachhead; enormous waves. He figured the harsh conditions might wreak havoc on their landing. The situation looked grim.
“Maybe they’re thinking about calling it off.” This from Private Collins.
“I don’t think so.” Dawson shook his head. “Likely they’re refining the plans.”
The pounding surf added to the commotion, making it difficult for him to hear anyone other than his squad. Dawson knew that calling it off was not a likely option. Allied forces had taken a beating in the Pacific theater and they desperately needed to win a battle to bolster morale and gain more support back home.
“Let’s just hit the beach and get on with it,” Bishop finally said.
“Can’t just rush in there.” Dawson swallowed. “Once we land and start taking fire, there won’t be time to revisit planning. Have to do it before we hit the breakwater.”
“Naw, that beach doesn’t seem all too dangerous.”
“Coming from a lead swan, a Missouri boy. The surf is mighty dangerous.”
“Dawson, you grew up in New England. What do you know about rough surf?”
He sat up, peeved. “Know more about the ocean than you.”
“Says who?” Bishop was hunkering for a fight, with anyone.
“Let’s just focus on the enemy… and not each other.”
Through the light reflecting off the water, Dawson spied a sullen look in Collins’ eyes. He wondered if the young lad was up to the operation. Many of the Raiders were fresh recruits, taken from outstanding candidates in the fleet Marine Corps divisions, but also the standouts in basic training. Collins hadn’t been tested in combat by any means.
And Bishop was so bloodthirsty for battle, it caused Dawson pause. He could see Collins freezing up under fire and getting someone killed, or envision Bishop making a brash move, and getting a bunch of people killed, unnecessarily. Dawson understood the risks when he signed up, but now thinking of his fiancée back home made him concerned about dying a senseless death from another’s mistake or failure to carry out his duty. For reassurance, he tapped the metal tin in his breast pocket, housing a letter to Mary back home.
“When we hit the beach,” Dawson finally said, “you two are going to do exactly like I tell you.”
“Why, because you outrank us?” Bishop sneered.
“Precisely. Because I outrank you both.”
“I’ve been in service almost as long as you.”
“When you get promoted, you’ll get your own squad. But for now, you report to me.”
As Bishop turned away, Mudhole hit the throttle and steered closer to the three boats pitching in the middle of the flotilla, where the brass had set up an expedient command post. He cut the engine when they got a couple of boat-lengths away and drifted toward the closest raft.
Staff Sergeant Williams nudged his way toward the bow. Then, he leaned over and grabbed hold of the next boat, speaking to the brass about next steps as voices carried off in the wind, indiscernible.
Raiders murmured in the cockpit, wondering about the new instructions. Bishop started in again. “I bet we head toward the lagoon.”
“Quiet!” Williams looked back and glared at them.
Bishop swallowed, and the other marines broke off. Then, the staff sergeant spoke to the commanding officer further. A discussion that sounded in a whisper and drifted off in broken segments, so Dawson couldn’t make any sense of it.
A moment later, Williams groped his way toward the center of the boat.
“Listen up!”
The boat undulated and pitched Williams to the side. He fell over, then straightened up and grabbed hold of the line that encircled the rubber boat. “There’s been a change of plans.”
“No kidding,” Bishop muttered under his breath.
“We’re going to land both companies at the same beach. Our beach. This is going to cause some distraction as two units with different objectives will land in the same spot, commingled on the beachhead.”
Dawson figured the change didn’t affect them much. They would land in the same place, then carry on with their assignment.