Dawson took a long swig. The water was warm, but it went down smooth. His throat was parched and needed the liquid. “The smoke must have been worse than I thought.”
“No kidding. You’ve been talking with a gravelly voice.”
“We’ve already polished off most of the water,” Simmons cut in.
Pouring water over the wound, Dawson winced in pain. He’d meant to wash out any dirt, but the simplest contact aggravated the injury.
“Hurts, don’t it.” Bishop chuckled.
“It’s not funny.”
“Well, it’s a little bit funny now that we know you’re not gonna die.”
Dawson inhaled and poured more water over the serrated flesh. Pain spiked through his thigh. He flinched. The moment passed and he dug out his first-aid kit. “You did a hell of a job bandaging this thing up.”
“Hey, I was just trying to stop the blood flow and clear out of there.”
Simmons stepped over and looked at the wound. “We planned to patch you up better once we got to a safe location.”
“What took you so long?” Dawson grinned.
“Didn’t want to disturb you,” Bishop griped. “Thought you could use the rest.”
“Yeah,” Simmons added. “Like when your body shuts down to heal.”
Dawson handed the canteen back to Bishop. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”
Then, he tore his utilities further open, treated the wound, and gingerly placed the scraps of flesh back into place. He bandaged it up. Pulling the gauze tight, he had Bishop tighten the dressing so it wouldn’t come loose.
“You going to put the tourniquet back on?” Bishop pointed at the dressing.
Dawson handed the belt to his comrade. “You take it. Might come in handy… keeping your pants on during the next firefight.”
Simmons laughed at the joke made at the jarhead’s expense.
A frown crossed Bishop’s face, then he laughed and took the belt. He put it on and checked over his Browning, making sure the magazine was full. He cleared dirt and debris from all working mechanisms to ensure it wouldn’t jam during combat.
“Guess it’s time to join the fray,” Dawson said, rising to his feet.
“Let me carry you the rest of the way,” Bishop said.
“You need to save your strength.” Dawson shook his head. “I can lean on my rifle, or use your shoulder if necessary.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve worn yourself out enough.”
Simmons stepped over. “I’ll carry you for a bit.”
He had a Browning slung over his shoulder and carried a Thompson. Various ammo belts and equipment dangled from his shoulders and war-belt.
“You’re weighed down enough.”
Simmons shrugged. “Can always handle more.”
“Spoken like a true Marine.” Dawson started down the beach, using his rifle for support. He’d grabbed it by the barrel and pressed the butt into the sand, walking like an invalid with a cane.
“Guess that settles it,” Bishop concluded, starting after him.
Pain radiated up and down the injured leg, as Dawson trekked from the beach through underbrush towards the commotion. The limb functioned, though. He figured they’d put down the enemy quickly and be headed back to the beachhead within a few hours.
The sounds of a chaotic battle grew louder, as they drew nearer to the target.
Stepping from the edge of the jungle, at the rear of the garrison, the clearing in front of the building came into view. A calamity like nothing he’d ever seen or anticipated lay before them.
Thirty-Eight
Tanaka had positioned himself behind the scout car, using the hood for cover. He’d come upon the scene and directed his troops to form a perimeter around the garrison. Some Imperial soldiers were inside shooting from the windows. A bamboo and thatch building, the structure didn’t provide much protection from the invaders.
Marines were spread out in front of the garrison, laying down heavy fire from behind rocks and fallen trees. Japanese troops were situated all around the building, so Tanaka couldn’t observe all of them from his vantage point. Some held positions under the scout car, while others shot from windows in the garrison. Many of the Imperial forces were in prone shooting positions on the ground with little cover.
He had taken a forward location that didn’t afford him a full command of the battlefield. Jumping hastily into the fray to take up the fight, he’d made a major tactical misstep that could potentially cost him the battle.
The Americans were well equipped, firing high-caliber machineguns from various angles. Imperial infantrymen had rifles and pistols, relying heavily upon their imitation Lewis guns to repel a landing party. The hasty retreat had not allowed for set up with the deadly tripod machineguns.
A surprise attack, he wondered how a force of such magnitude had gotten through the Japanese surveillance planes.
During the battle at the beachhead, he’d estimated approximately two hundred marines. Rubber boats were pulled onto shore, but he hadn’t spied any ships in the distance. He thought back to the retreat and considered the Japanese aerial attack. Guns had blasted from the deck of a naval vessel offshore. It wasn’t a destroyer or a battleship. The silhouette appeared as a barge offshore, similar to those he’d seen performing industrial work in Tokyo bay.
Submarines, he finally muttered to himself. They surprised us by approaching underwater. A stealth attack. He wondered if the marines blasting away at them were specially trained commandos.
Thwack! A bullet struck the door of the scout car with a resounding ding.
It traveled through the vehicle, then blasted out the other door and swished into the garrison wall. A soldier screamed from inside. Someone was firing a powerful weapon at them. Tanaka knew it could cut them to shreds.
He regretted being pinned down behind the Yonki more than ever.
Tanaka preferred to be further back, with his troops spread out around him, so he could make command decisions and fortify their defense. Without the Lewis guns to thwart the attack, he didn’t think they had a chance. There hadn’t been enough time to break into the storage locker.
That’s it, he thought. The storage locker.
A ding sounded off his helmet; a bullet had ricocheted off the metal of his Kabuto, pot-shaped, steel helmet. It was a glancing blow that didn’t penetrate the protective cover.
Japanese troops had a star painted on the front for Army and an anchor for Marines serving aboard ship. His troops were stationed on the island with the Army, so their helmets bore stars. The helmets were painted khaki-brown, matching their tunics. A few soldiers were positioned about the garrison defense with tropical helmets made of cork, which didn’t provide much protection from shrapnel and bullets.
The thought of Imperial troops wearing the wrong headgear seemed to escalate the attack. A blast resounded to his right, cascading dirt and metal fragments in his direction. Bits of shrapnel pelted him, but he was far enough away, so the wounds were superficial. Hot jagged pieces of the hand grenade had torn through his uniform and burned his skin, cleaving open small cuts, while sticking to the serrated exposed meat.
He turned to Superior Private Hirano and told him to take command. Then, he ducked behind the Yonki and crawled toward the barracks. Slipping through the thatch wall, he wormed across the floor and entered the building.
A few soldiers were shooting out the windows. They had stacked footlockers beneath the windows and used them for cover due to the thin walls. Firing at the invaders, the garrison was a cacophony of firearms exploding, and the Americans shot back at them. Bullets whizzed through the thatch walls and dinged off the metal rails of the bunks.