(Five)
Santos Bay, Lingayen Gulf Luzon, Territory of the Philippines 0515 Hours, 10 December 1941
Captain Edward J. Banning lay behind a quickly erected sandbag barrier at the crest of the hill leading down to the beach.
The day was going to be cloudless. Cloudless and probably hot.
It was entirely likely that he would die here today, possibly even this morning. Behind a sandbag barrier on a hot, cloudless day.
The beach was being defended by two companies of Marines. They had not had time (or material) to mine the approaches to the beach. They had four water-cooled.30-caliber Brownings, six air-cooled.30-caliber Brownings, and half a dozen mortars. Somewhere en route, allegedly, were two 75-mm cannon from a Doggie-officered, Philippine Scout Field Artillery Battery.
A mile offshore were two dozen Japanese ships, half merchantmen converted to troop transports, half destroyers.
At first light, they were supposed to have been attacked by Army Air Corps bombers. Banning was not surprised that they had not been. The Japs had wiped out the Air Corps in the Philippines after it had been conveniently lined up on airfields for them. It had occurred to some Air Corps general that since there was a chance of sabotage if the planes were in widely dispersed revetments, they could be more "economically" guarded if they were gathered together in rows.
They had been all lined up for the Japs when they came in.
There would be no bombers to attack the Japanese invasion force, and the Japanese landing force would not be repelled by two companies of Marines and a handful of.30-caliber machine guns.
These two companies of the 4th Marines would die here today, in a futile defense of an indefensible beach.
And the rest of the regiment would die on other indefensible beaches.
He was resigned to it.
That's what he had been drawing all his pay for, for all those years, so he would be available for a situation like this.
He heard movement behind him and turned to see what it was, and had trouble believing what he saw.
It was Corporal "Killer" McCoy, without headgear, wearing a khaki shirt and green trousers, staggering under the load of a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle, Caliber.30-06) and what looked like twenty or more magazines for it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Banning asked.
With what looked like his last ounce of energy, McCoy set the BAR down carefully on the sandbags and then collapsed on his back, breathing heavily, still festooned with bandoliers of twenty-round magazines for the BAR.
It was only then that Banning saw the small gold bars pinned to McCoy's collar.
"I found the BAR and the Ammo at a checkpoint," McCoy breathed, still flat on his back. "Whoever was manning the checkpoint took off."
"What are you doing here?" Banning asked. "And wearing an officer's shirt?"
"I thought you knew," McCoy said. "I went to the Platoon Leader's Course."
"No, I didn't know," Banning said. "But what the hell are you doing here?"
"I came in as a courier," McCoy said. "Now that I am here, I guess I'm doing what you're doing."
He rolled onto his stomach and raised his head high enough to see over the sandbags.
"Jesus Christ, they're just sitting out there! Isn't there any artillery?"
"There's supposed to be, but there's not," Banning said. "There was also supposed to be bombers."
"Shit, we're going to get clobbered!"
"Did somebody order you up here, McCoy?" Banning asked.
"No," McCoy said simply. "But I figured this is where I belonged."
"Where are you supposed to be?"
"They told me to hang around the Navy Comm Center, in case there was a way to get me out of here. But that's not going to happen."
"You've got orders ordering you out of the Philippines?" Banning asked. McCoy nodded. "You goddamned fool! I'd give my left nut for orders like that."
McCoy looked at him curiously.
Perhaps even contemptuously, Banning thought.
"Get your ass out of here, McCoy," Banning said.
McCoy didn't respond. Instead he picked up Banning's binoculars and peered over the sandbags through them.
"Too late," he said. "They're putting boats over the side."
He handed Banning the binoculars.
Banning was looking through them when the tin cans started firing the preassault barrage. The first rounds were long, landing two, three hundred yards inland. The second rounds were short, setting up plumes of water fifty yards offshore.
The third rounds would be on target, he thought, as he saw the Japanese landing barges start for the beach.
The first rounds of the "fire for effect" barrage landed on the defense positions close to the beach.
The fucking Japs knew what they were doing!
When the first of the landing barges was five hundred yards off shore, maybe six hundred yards from where they were, McCoy brought it under fire.
The noise of the BAR going off so close to Banning's ear was painful as well as startling. He turned to look at McCoy. McCoy was firing, as he was supposed to, short three-, four-, five-round bursts, aimed bursts, giving the piece time to cool a little as he fired.
He's probably hitting what he's shooting at. But it's like trying to stamp out ants. There's just too many of them. And in a minute, some clever Jap is going to call in a couple of rounds on us. And that will be the end of us.
Captain Edward J. Banning's assessment of the tactical situation proved to be correct and precise. Two minutes later, the first round landed on their position, so close to him that the shock of the concussion caused him to lose control of his sphincter muscle. He didn't hear the sound of the round explode, although he heard it whistle on the way in.
It's true, he thought, surprised, just before he passed out, you don't hear the one that gets you.
Banning awoke in great pain, and in the dark, and he couldn't move his right arm. He sensed, rather than saw, that he was no longer on the crest overlooking the beach. Then he felt his body and learned that he was bandaged. He was chilled with panic at the thought that he was blind, but after a moment, he could make out vague shapes.
He lay immobile, wondering where he was and what he was expected to do. And then there was light.
One of the vague shapes moved to him and put a matter-of-fact hand on his neck to feel for a heartbeat.
"McCoy?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where the hell are we?"
"In the basement of some church," McCoy said.
"You brought me here?"
"The sonsofbitches dropped one right on us," McCoy said, without emotion. "I don't know what the hell happened to the BAR, but it was time we got the hell out of there."
"Did you get hit?"
"I took a little shrapnel in the side," he said. "They just pulled it out."
"Where are the Japanese?" Banning asked.
"Christ only knows," McCoy said. "They went by here like shit through a goose."
"We're behind their lines?"
"Yes, sir."
"This may sound like a dumb question, but what kind of shape am I in?"
"We got you pretty well doped up." McCoy said. "The Filipino-she's a nurse, the one that took the shrapnel out of me-says you shouldn't be moved for a couple of days."
"Then what happens?" Banning asked.
"They say we probably can't make it back through the Jap lines. So when you can move, they're going to take us up in the mountains, and maybe off this island onto another one. Mindo something."
"Mindinao," Banning furnished.
"That's right."
"What happened to the Marines on the beach?"
"They were gone before we got hit," McCoy said.
God forgive me, I have absolutely no heroic regrets that I did not die with the regiment. I'm goddamned glad I'm alive, and that's all there is to it.