Jurassic War

Two

On August 17, 1942 at 0300 hours, Private First Class Randell Dawson ambled single file down a narrow passageway aboard the submarine Nautilus. His unit reached the metal ladder and Dawson nervously awaited his turn to go topside. Fully loaded in sixty-five pounds of combat gear, the Marine Raiders were going to make headlines, with the first official special operations raid in United States military history.

He clamped a hand around the cool, steel crossbar, then placed a boot on the lower rung and began climbing toward the open hatch above. Mechanical fumes choked his breath.

Marines paused before scuttling onto the miniscule deck, holding up others on the ladder. When he finally popped his head out of the submarine, a deluge poured from the pitch-black sky. He breathed in the fresh, salty air. Large waves broke against the hull, and disorganization and turmoil were discernable on deck. A company of Raiders disembarked into rubber boats. Each craft held a ten-man unit, comprised of three rifle teams of three marines and a unit leader. Several marines battled miserable elements, slipping on the wet deck and struggling in the darkness from being cast overboard, while crews of sailors worked to line up the rubber boats.

Dawson hung close to his unit, making sure he didn’t get sidetracked in the fray. He worried the boat would launch without him.

Staff Sergeant Williams led the unit. He walked across the deck, surefooted, as though accustomed to ambulating over metal doused by rain and seawater. Then, he hopped down into a rubber assault boat and waved to the men. All three rifle squads were lined up in order.

Jenkins climbed into the boat and set up his Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) on the bow. A 7.62 mm cartridge, the rifle fired 500-650 rounds per minute. His team circled around him, with Private Knight toting a Thompson automatic machinegun, and Private First Class Miller holding an M1 Garand semi-automatic rifle. The next squads loaded into the boat carried similar weapons and lined up on either side of the assault craft. Dawson joined them, sitting in the back of the boat with his rifle gripped tightly against his chest.

His fire team fell in around him. Private Bishop toted the BAR, and Private Collins had the Thompson machinegun. Private First Class Wells tucked in beside Dawson’s team, with Private Anderson holding an M1 and his team member’s BAR. An African American, Wells had begun his training at Montford Point, rather than Parris Island. He’d excelled and earned a place in the prestigious Raider battalion.

Private James “Mudhole” Merrill started the 6hp Evinrude engine and steered the rubber boat toward an assembly area as waves washed over the bow. Mudhole got his nickname because he’d forgotten to fill his canteen before a forced march and drank out of a puddle to quench his thirst. A sergeant coined the term and it stuck.

The boat pitched in rough seas and the downpour hindered visibility. Camouflage selected for the mission also made it difficult to observe the task force of twenty boats. Almost ninety Raiders had sailed aboard the Nautilus, while slightly over a hundred marines, the remainder of fleet marine force, had traveled in the Argonaut.

Pulling further away from the Nautilus, Dawson could barely make out the silhouette of either submarine in the dark night.

Many of the Raiders wore black-dyed uniforms and affixed scraps of burlap to their helmets, disrupting the round outlines. The remainder wore standard issue olive-drab, planning to smear mud on themselves after hitting the beach. Fleet command hadn’t yet released the lightweight Frog Skin battledress camouflage planned for fighting in the Pacific theater. Still, Raiders were highly trained commandos with the best equipment and tactics in the United States military. The units were formed with the expectation to perform special operations and function like British commandos and Chinese guerillas.

A group of black rubber boats collected near each other. Rain glistened off the smooth surface, helping to spot the various boats. Dampness crept into Dawson’s sinus cavity. It was difficult to determine who was piloting each boat or differentiate Able Company from Bravo Company of the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion. The boats pitched aimlessly in the choppy waters of the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Ocean.

Approaching the flotilla, murmurs passed from boat to boat. Dawson huddled next to his rifle squad wondering if the mission would go according to plan. Private Bishop held the Browning automatic rifle ready to fire, and Private Collins gripped his Thompson machinegun tightly.

“This doesn’t look good,” Collins muttered.

Dawson couldn’t see his expression. “What do you think is happening?”

“Hard to tell. But there’s a lot of commotion coming from the brass.”

A few boats were clumped close together, undulating in the choppy waves. The commanding officer’s beak of a nose stood out in the occasional slivers of moonlight that cut between the rain clouds.

Lieutenant Colonel Erik Carson gesticulated toward the large Makin atoll.

And then, Dawson heard the pounding of breaking surf before he glimpsed the obstacle between them and the beachhead; enormous waves. He figured the harsh conditions might wreak havoc on their landing. The situation looked grim.

“Maybe they’re thinking about calling it off.” This from Private Collins.

“I don’t think so.” Dawson shook his head. “Likely they’re refining the plans.”

The pounding surf added to the commotion, making it difficult for him to hear anyone other than his squad. Dawson knew that calling it off was not a likely option. Allied forces had taken a beating in the Pacific theater and they desperately needed to win a battle to bolster morale and gain more support back home.

“Let’s just hit the beach and get on with it,” Bishop finally said.

“Can’t just rush in there.” Dawson swallowed. “Once we land and start taking fire, there won’t be time to revisit planning. Have to do it before we hit the breakwater.”

“Naw, that beach doesn’t seem all too dangerous.”

“Coming from a lead swan, a Missouri boy. The surf is mighty dangerous.”

“Dawson, you grew up in New England. What do you know about rough surf?”

He sat up, peeved. “Know more about the ocean than you.”

“Says who?” Bishop was hunkering for a fight, with anyone.

“Let’s just focus on the enemy… and not each other.”

Through the light reflecting off the water, Dawson spied a sullen look in Collins’ eyes. He wondered if the young lad was up to the operation. Many of the Raiders were fresh recruits, taken from outstanding candidates in the fleet Marine Corps divisions, but also the standouts in basic training. Collins hadn’t been tested in combat by any means.

And Bishop was so bloodthirsty for battle, it caused Dawson pause. He could see Collins freezing up under fire and getting someone killed, or envision Bishop making a brash move, and getting a bunch of people killed, unnecessarily. Dawson understood the risks when he signed up, but now thinking of his fiancée back home made him concerned about dying a senseless death from another’s mistake or failure to carry out his duty. For reassurance, he tapped the metal tin in his breast pocket, housing a letter to Mary back home.

“When we hit the beach,” Dawson finally said, “you two are going to do exactly like I tell you.”

“Why, because you outrank us?” Bishop sneered.

“Precisely. Because I outrank you both.”

“I’ve been in service almost as long as you.”

“When you get promoted, you’ll get your own squad. But for now, you report to me.”

As Bishop turned away, Mudhole hit the throttle and steered closer to the three boats pitching in the middle of the flotilla, where the brass had set up an expedient command post. He cut the engine when they got a couple of boat-lengths away and drifted toward the closest raft.

Staff Sergeant Williams nudged his way toward the bow. Then, he leaned over and grabbed hold of the next boat, speaking to the brass about next steps as voices carried off in the wind, indiscernible.

Raiders murmured in the cockpit, wondering about the new instructions. Bishop started in again. “I bet we head toward the lagoon.”

“Quiet!” Williams looked back and glared at them.

Bishop swallowed, and the other marines broke off. Then, the staff sergeant spoke to the commanding officer further. A discussion that sounded in a whisper and drifted off in broken segments, so Dawson couldn’t make any sense of it.

A moment later, Williams groped his way toward the center of the boat.

“Listen up!”

The boat undulated and pitched Williams to the side. He fell over, then straightened up and grabbed hold of the line that encircled the rubber boat. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“No kidding,” Bishop muttered under his breath.

“We’re going to land both companies at the same beach. Our beach. This is going to cause some distraction as two units with different objectives will land in the same spot, commingled on the beachhead.”

Dawson figured the change didn’t affect them much. They would land in the same place, then carry on with their assignment.

“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.