Later, the sound of crashing surf stirred him from a slumber. Dawson looked up and exhaled a sigh of relief. The placid beachhead calmed his nerves. Sun broke through the clouds and cast rays over the shimmering water and sandy beach.
“We’re here,” Chuck announced.
Dawson grinned. “Looks like we made it.”
“We’re just going to load you on the stretcher right into a boat.”
“Maybe I should sit up,” Dawson offered. “Give the critically wounded the room.”
“Nah, we’ll be making plenty of trips back and forth.”
When they reached a boat, the marines lowered Dawson into the bottom. His stretcher was sandwiched between the side of the raft and another wounded marine.
The litter bearers who’d carried Dawson to the beachhead began pushing the rubber boat towards the water. Dawson felt the bumpy sand, then the pebbled shore. And then, the craft eased over the water. He experienced a buoyed sensation, with the boat jostling in the current.
Both marines straddled the tubular sides of the boat, then they began paddling out to sea.
“Don’t worry,” Chuck said to Dawson. “The breakers are unusually calm this morning. We’ll get right out there with just the two of us going at it.”
“You’re headed over towards the lagoon, then out straight to avoid the breakers.”
“Yeah. How did you know, lying down there?”
Dawson shrugged. “That’s how we came in. Landed in one piece.”
“The rest of us went straight through the breakers and capsized.” The marine chuckled and dug his paddle deeper into the water.
Dawson felt the rubber boat undulating over the waves. They rose up and down quickly, then the troughs were spaced further apart as the boat grew more distant from shore. Eventually, the craft rippled across minor swells.
A fetid stench encompassed the bottom compartment of the rubber boat. The hot sun scorched Dawson’s face and made the fetor worse. He glanced at the next man and met eyes glazed over in death. The marine’s face was gaunt and pale from blood loss. Looking him over, Dawson noticed a crimson-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around the man’s midsection. The bandage held the marine’s guts in.
“Some weren’t as lucky as you,” Chuck said, paddling hard against the current.
“I was just thinking the same thing.” Dawson shook his head. “Wish this operation turned out better.”
“You blew up their entire infrastructure. The island is worthless to them now.”
“They can rebuild.” Dawson felt it was a minor win, but something to get into the press. A victory in the Pacific theater. “Maybe lost some lives for nothing.”
“Don’t say that. These men are heroes. And the fuel station is gone for the rest of the war.” The marine grinned. “They’ll be talking about your unit all over the nation. You’ll probably be highly decorated for your contribution. Heck, this is one great day for Marine Raiders. I’m proud to serve with you.”
Dawson considered the man’s words. “You really think so… I mean about success for the Raiders?”
He grinned. “Damn straight. First use of U.S. special operations in history. Some doubted the Raider battalions. Your unit just proved them all wrong.”
With that comment, Dawson let the discussion fall into silence. He hoped the man was right. His shoulder ached, but his leg throbbed. Dawson wondered which injury was worse.
Stench emanated from the dead marine’s viscera. The flesh had already begun to rot in the sunlight. And Dawson figured the man had defecated in his trousers before passing away. Dawson shifted on his elbows to stick his head above the edge of the craft.
He breathed in the salty air and saw the Nautilus in the distance. She sat in the water, appearing solid and imposing, as choppy waves splashed against the hull.
“Almost there,” Chuck announced.
Dawson exhaled. “Sure is a beautiful sight.”
“Bet you didn’t think that when you first climbed on board.”
“No, sir.” Dawson laughed. “I did not.”
The rubber boat jounced against the port side of the boat. Sailors stood on deck, ready to help load the casualties on board. They threw down ropes, and the marines stowed the paddles in the craft, then began the arduous process of transferring the precious cargo from raft to submarine.
Marines in the rubber boat wrapped a rope around Dawson’s chest, then the sailors on deck hoisted him up the side of the Nautilus. His back smacked the hull of the vessel and the sun hurt his eyes.
A flotilla of wounded Raiders headed towards the submarines. Beyond the breakers lay the sandy beach, followed by the canopy of flush palm trees.
The atoll appeared still, with no sign of life.
Only the glowing flames of the gasoline fires raging from the fuel storage tanks revealed any sign of human existence on the island. Black smoke billowed in the air and wafted northward, away from them.
The sight filled him with sorrow and joy. Many marines had fought bravely, and the mission was a success. But some were seriously injured, and several were dead.
Sailors heaved Dawson onto the deck and the scene fell out of view.
They lowered Dawson through the hatch into the hold and everything became pitch-black until his eyes adjusted. A couple of sailors carried him on the stretcher down the same narrow passageway he’d waited in prior to the battle. Lined with pipes and cables, the bulkhead resembled a high school mechanical room.
Eventually, they reached the enlisted quarters and transferred him into a rack. The shifting caused him to wince from pain.
“A corpsman will be along to check on you in a bit.” The sailor smiled kindly.
“Thanks.” Dawson shrugged. “But I’d expect them to treat the marines with serious injuries first. Get to me later.”
“They’ll tend to the critically wounded. Then someone will check you out.”
Dawson got the feeling he was a priority. “Why me?”
“Aren’t you Dawson?” The sailor kept grinning.
“Sure.”
“Well, there you have it.” The man beamed, like he’d explained it all.
“Sorry, but I don’t understand. Maybe it’s all the explosions that rocked my head.”
“Man, you’re the hero of this operation.” The sailor put his hands on his hips. “Everyone’s talking about the young marine who took out the transport plane and used a dinosaur as a tank. Led a unit to blow the fuel dumps, then participated in the demolition of the garrison.”
Dawson rolled his eyes. “This was a unit operation.”
“And that’s probably the reason someone will stop by shortly.”
“Why?”
“You’re humble.” The sailor was a few years older, likely enlisted in his early to mid-twenties. He seemed mature and understood how things played out at home. Dawson pictured him hunkered over in the galley reading a newspaper.
Dawson nodded. “Humble heroes help sell war bonds?”
“You’ve got it. You’re the All-American boy.”
The sailor beamed and laughed gently. “You take care.” He turned and left, hustling down the passageway to continue with his duties.
Dawson lay on the top bunk and stared at the flaky grey paint. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the tin and flipped through the letters housed inside. They wouldn’t have to send his on to Mary, but the others would be met with crushing sadness.
A feeling of relief and guilt washed over him, like the waves that had pummeled marines landing on the beachhead.
Forty-Six
A few months later, Dawson sat in a chair by the window of his room in the Naval hospital located in San Francisco. The Navy had treated him on board the Nautilus, then brought him to a hospital at Pearl Harbor for surgery. He tolerated the operations well. A couple of weeks after surgery, the Marine Corps sent him stateside to convalesce.