“We’re all going to land on the main beach. And before dawn breaks, we move forward with our objectives.”
And there he confirmed that it was only a slight change of plans. Everything would move ahead as anticipated, except both companies would land on the same beach. Dawson noted the various rubber boats bumping into one another. The rough seas and heavy downpour made communication difficult. Raiders were passing the revised orders on to each other, boat to boat. Now, they just needed the go ahead to move towards shore.
They waited in the boats, laden with marines, weapons, and ammunition, as the rain beat down on them. Rubber boats drifted on the current and the landing beach was no longer in direct view. Hurry up and wait, Dawson thought.
Finally, the command boat gave the go-ahead and Mudhole pulled the ripcord and the Evinrude spat back to life. He turned the throttle and the boat plugged ahead, with the pointed bow plying through thick waves. Ocean spray cast into the boat along with rainwater. The bottom of the raft puddled with water. All the Raiders were soaked to the bone, long before they’d alight from the assault boats.
Wilson’s unit motored through the middle of the armada. Dawson could see the boats on either flank. Every unit within view appeared focused on the beachhead, steering straight for the landing zone, with all Raiders watching the coastline.
Only a grim image of the atoll reflected in the darkness, with the spattering of sand and whitecaps at the breakwater, and an ominous silhouette of the jungle overhanging the beachhead.
Soon, the bow shot upward, and the boat twisted, almost knocking marines overboard. Fifteen-foot waves. Dawson snatched onto the line running around the boat with his right hand and held on for dear life. He squeezed the M1 Garand tightly to his chest with his free hand, making sure not to lose the rifle in the pitching, turbulent waters.
Another surge launched the raft into the air. When it came down, the boat raced ahead, accelerating along with the breaker, rushing toward shore faster than the little motor could propel the small craft. The situation felt out of control. It appeared to be one of fate with nature rather than poor seamanship.
Dawson understood the boat could capsize at any moment. They might lose their weapons and then be mowed down by an entrenched enemy. Marines could easily drown and become noncombatant casualties. The boats were too small to handle the surf and the engines weren’t powerful enough to plow through the breakers unfettered.
As the boat chugged up a steep wave, a few marines pulled out paddles and gave the craft further assistance. They muscled the boat over the crest and it plunged downward, speeding ahead. Dawson held on for dear life and the island came into view. An ominous sight with dark vegetation sprouting from the atoll, draping a canopy over the sandbar, like the hood of the grim reaper, personifying death to all who approached.
He gulped for breath as dread consumed him. Mudhole cut toward the left of the landing zone, and the boat cruised over choppy waves, missing the greater part of the breakers. A moment later, they were close to touching down. Then, a Raider disembarked from the boat. Plunging into the water, he grabbed the line and waded toward shore. He pulled the boat along with him.
The rubber bottom scraped on sand, and other members of the unit piled out. Dawson stood and lost his balance as the boat slid onto a small beach. He fell on his rear and scrambled to get upright, while scanning for muzzle flashes from the tree line.
No hostile fire came from the jungle. A stealth approach, they’d come in surprise.
The boat slid further onto shore and whapped against some vegetation. A member of another rifle squad, Private Knight, rose to his feet and placed a boot onto shore.
Suddenly, the Raider cried out in agony and flailed wildly.
Knight was on the ground. He squirmed and kicked.
Dawson peered around Knight and saw a lizard the size of a turkey biting the marine’s arm. Stepping onto the beach, he trained his rifle at a menacing yellow eye and squeezed off a round at close range.
The creature squealed. It dropped to the sand, kicked, and hissed, and then rolled onto its side.
After a series of convulsions, the lizard gave a final kick, and defecated. A horrendous stench permeated the damp air.
Then, Dawson knelt by the fallen marine and inspected the wound. A large tear in Knight’s upper sleeve revealed an alarming injury. Teeth marks encircled the entire arm, leaving deep punctures in the flesh. Surprised at the thought of lizards with teeth, Dawson inhaled and reached for his first-aid kit. He cleaned the jagged cuts.
“Hurts like hell,” Knight complained.
“Just hold on while I wrap it up.”
“My right arm, too.”
Dawson tightened a bandage around the arm and tucked it off. “This should take care of it. Continue on with your squad, but if you can’t carry out your charge, fall back and support the command post.”
Knight nodded and rose from the ground and ran after the others.
Stepping away from the boat, Dawson peered at the dead lizard on the ground. It stood about a foot tall and measured over three feet from nose to the tip of its tail. The creature had stout rear legs and puny appendages on the front, appearing more like a set of hands with claws. The thing clearly walked on its hind legs, and had a long tail and jutting snout, filled with sharp teeth. Its greenish skin reflected in the pale moonlight as rain beaded off the creature’s thick hide. A yellow eye stared at him, gleaming in the night. Locked in a state of death, the eye seemed to cast a sense of anger and intelligence.
Dawson had never seen a lizard with sharp teeth before. He’d been warned that the islands were inhabited by strange giant lizards, but command reported they were all harmless. Striking the hide with the butt of his rifle, it felt solid, like protective armor.
He realized it had been unfortunate to fire a shot and announce their arrival. Dawson considered how long it would take the enemy to mobilize. And he wondered how many more strange lizards were on the atoll.
A sinking feeling grew in the pit of his stomach as he pondered the forthcoming battle with tropical elements. They would fight more than the enemy on this uncharted island. He patted the metal tin that housed his letter home, shoved into the breast pocket of his utilities. Writing to his fiancée had always comforted him during training. He hoped to write more letters, but he penned the most recent one as though it would be his last.
Rain pelted his steel helmet. Then, he turned and spotted a massive calamity washing up on the beachhead.
Three
Randell Dawson’s first letter to his fiancée was written over a period of several days, during the initial weeks after he first reported to Marine Corps basic training. It was drafted on stationary embossed with the Marine Corps logo: an eagle, globe, and anchor. And it had the words United States Marine Corps written in the top right corner with Parris Island printed beneath. Postmarked from Savana, Georgia.
Mary,
This is the first chance that I’ve had the opportunity to write. Our drill instructors are very intense, and training takes place seven days a week, from hours before dawn to late at night. And that’s how it is right now. When we first got to the island, the receiving barracks during processing didn’t provide for any quiet time. Then we got placed into our training platoons and now we get an hour a night, but most of that time is spent preparing for the next day, cleaning boots, rifles, and ourselves. Upon arrival here, they shaved our heads completely bald and kept us up for a few days without sleep. Now, we get about 4-5 hours of sleep a night. But last night I had fire watch, so I only got 3 or 4 hours. Seems like I’m tired all the time.