Jurassic War

Fifteen

The decision was made for the marines. A squadron of enemy fighters dipped from the dark sky and zoomed toward their location. Dawson spotted a seaplane transport, trailing the zeros. Reinforcements would pile onto the island in support of the enemy soldiers.

Machinegun fire erupted from the decks of the allied submarines.

“Grab the equipment and head for the jungle!” Lieutenant Colonel Carson stood on the beach, motioning for the marines to head inland, and take shelter from the attack planes.

“Move out!” All the unit leaders called in unison.

Dawson slung his rifle over a shoulder and grabbed a Boys anti-tank rifle in one hand and an ammo can in the other. He dashed across the beachhead towards the jungle as fighters swooped in and let loose with aerial machineguns. Rounds strafed the beach and dug into the sand and riddled marines running for protective cover.

Raiders dropped as the 7.7 mm machinegun bullets tore into them. Blood spurted from each hit, like water balloons exploding on concrete.

The planes shot upward and circled for another pass. Deadly machines.

Finally reaching the interior, Dawson dropped the equipment and his rifle and ran back to the beach. He spotted a marine sprawled on the ground with a bullet hole in his thigh. Striding across the beach, marines groaned from their wounds.

He knelt and tore the young marine’s utilities open. A 7.7-millimeter round had cleaved the flesh open. Blood pumped from the entry hole, spurting onto the beach. The bullet had struck an artery.

Dawson removed the marine’s web-belt and wrapped it around the injured leg, fastening it above the wound. He cinched it tight. The leg would come off, but the man would live.

Then he grabbed the marine under the shoulders and dragged him from the beach. Several marines had set up a makeshift triage post along a pathway, approximately twenty feet into the jungle. Navy Corpsmen treated the casualties. Dawson left the fallen marine with them and returned to the beachhead.

Multitudes of Raiders worked in tandem, dragging wounded marines to the safety of the interior. Occasionally, a sole marine carried a comrade over his shoulders. Dawson spotted a marine squirming in the sand.

He ran to the injured man. Through the moonlight, he spied the marine grasping at his throat with both hands. Crouching by his side, Dawson reached for the marine’s hand, trying to pull it away and get a better look at the injury.

The marine shook his head frantically. A dire gleam shone from his eyes.

“I need to get a look at the wound, so we can treat it.”

“No.” A garbled reply.

Blood dribbled from the fallen Raider’s mouth, and crimson rivulets leaked through the man’s fingers, like cupping a hand around the nozzle of a bubbling hose. Dawson shook his head. This kid would never get back home. “Let me get you to the corpsmen.”

The marine shook his head. Understanding of the grim situation registered on his face.

“What do you want me to do?” Dawson pled.

The young Raider motioned with his chin towards his breast pocket.

“You’ve got a letter prepared for your girl?”

He nodded. A tear ran from the corner of his eye.

Retrieving the letter from the fallen marine’s pocket, Dawson then unbuttoned his breast pocket and slid the letter inside next to the tin that held his own. He patted the kid’s hand.

The marine watched the letter transferred from pocket to pocket. He smiled.

“What’s your name?”

“Frank.”

“Let me get you off the beach, Frank. Back with the others.”

The kid shook his head. Then he let go of his neck.

“No!” Dawson lunged toward him as blood gushed from the wound.

He wrapped his hands around Frank’s throat but couldn’t quite get a grip on the pressure point. A gurgling belch emitted from the wound. Blood cascaded through Dawson’s fingers and dowsed his hands. The marine smiled at him kindly. And then, life slipped away from him, and his eyes glazed over with the endless stare of death.

Dawson shoved his hands under the dead marine’s armpits, then dragged him from the landing zone, backpedaling through the sand. He dropped the marine with Navy corpsmen. Glancing at the casualties, men moaning in misery, he shook his head, and then ran back onto the beachhead in search of more injured marines.

Raiders scrambled all around, pulling and carrying the wounded toward the tree line.

A large seaplane touched down on the far side of the atoll, near the calmer waters that Dawson’s unit had traversed when avoiding the major breakers. Rotors spun and jockeyed the aircraft toward the lagoon.

Imperial troopers were packed in the plane, holding rifles at port arms, ready to fight.

Turning, he broke toward the trees and stumbled into Jenkins, who crouched over a fallen marine. “Come with me,” Dawson yelled.

“What for?”

Dawson grabbed the Boys anti-tank rifle. “Just get the ammo can! And follow me.”

Breaking toward the lagoon, Dawson raced toward the seaplane, while Jenkins stumbled after him, lugging the heavy container of .55 caliber rounds. He halted a hundred yards from the plane and dropped to the ground, as the propellers wound down and the passenger door opened.

Soldiers began exiting the plane, climbing down rungs, as Jenkins fed ammunition into the big gun. The Kawanishi H8K2-L Seiki seaplane held sixty-four soldiers, all eager to engage the American invaders.

“Ready!” Jenkins tapped Dawson on the helmet.

“Holy cow.” Dawson shook his head as reinforcements alighted from the craft.

Pulling the trigger, he riddled the plane with powerful rounds, digging holes into the fuselage. Infantrymen plodded through waist-deep water and fired back. Bullets tore into the sand around them.

Dawson fired again. The Boys heated up as bullets ripped into the plane.

He aimed for the engines, riddling holes in the wing near fuel lines. The big gun vibrated in his hands, and his pulse raced with anxiety, concerned that he couldn’t stop them. A flame wavered from the torn metal, then ignited, rising high, as the fuel tank caught fire. The wing glowed amber for a moment. And the conflagration wafted toward the treetops.

An explosion blew the wing and engine to bits. Scraps of metal cascaded onto the beach. Then another blast shot through the cabin. More explosions followed, blowing down the line, as the fuselage burst to pieces.

Raiders hustled toward the action and took up position alongside Dawson and Jenkins. They fired their Browning and Thompson machineguns, laying down heavy fire on the troops that had exited the plane. Moments later the last of the reinforcements were put down.

Dawson rolled over on the sand and caught his breath. Steam rose from the Boys anti-tank gun as the mist and tropical evening air drifted over the barrel.

“Some damn fine shooting,” Bishop said, dropping beside him.

“That was close. Another moment and they would have been on us.”

“Yeah. But they didn’t get the chance.”

And just like that the fear of the intense moment had slipped past Bishop, like he didn’t experience any aftershock. The type of guy that pulled near death stunts in a hotrod and broke into a grin as soon as the tires were back on the road.

Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of smokes. He slipped one into his mouth, then flicked back the top of a chrome lighter.

“You’re not really going to smoke that now?”

“Sure as shit.” Bishop shrugged. “The beachhead’s clear and everyone on this island damn well knows we’re here.”

“The snipers might still be in the trees. You’ll be the next target.”

Shaking his head, Bishop grinned in the moonlight. “The way I see it, this entire island is about to explode. And we’re not likely to get another break until we shove off.”

The comment caught Dawson off guard. Would they continue inland on the mission knowing that creatures lay in the underbrush? He looked at Bishop, who seemed to read his mind.

“What?” He laughed. “Do you think the brass will call it off… report what we just saw?”

“Maybe they’d say the defense is stronger than intelligence had reported.”

“We’ve got planes strafing us, and there’s more ground troops likely coming from the garrison. So, we best plan for a night of non-stop fighting. But until then, I’m going to enjoy my smoke.”

Dawson thought about how the brass had already contemplated surrender. He wasn’t sure if Bishop was right, but, somehow, he knew in his heart the fighting was long from over.

He rolled onto his stomach and got to his feet. Limbs feeling rubbery, he snatched up the Boys and the ammo can, then he plodded back to the makeshift command post. Staff Sergeant Wilson hunkered with the brass working out options.

Discussion points drifted through the night along with moans from casualties. Lieutenant Colonel Carson bickered with the other officers, while the staff noncommissioned officers stood by and frowned. The commanding officer finally decided upon a surrender, but he conceded that affirmative action needed to take place until a truce was reached. He ordered two privates to carry a note inland, offering a peaceful surrender to facilitate their capture and protection from the native creatures. At the same time, he instructed Staff Sergeant Wilson to lead a unit into the jungle and head off any attack that might close around the base camp.

Wilson ducked back toward a group of Raiders and waved for Dawson to join them. His number was up. Now, Dawson would head into the interior and face the enemy, and lord knew what else. Deeply inhaling to calm his nerves, he got up and ran to join the others.