Jurassic War

Twenty-Six

Dawson slung his rifle over a shoulder. Watching the Japanese soldiers retreat into the jungle and run off down the road, he breathed a sigh of relief. The scout car ripped up clay from the roadway and tore after infantrymen on foot.

A raucous battle scene drifted into silence. Combat boots padding on the muddy lane made the only sound. He glanced at the hole the dinosaur made in the vegetation.

Compys fed on entrails that had snagged on a fallen tree.

Shaking his head in disgust, he turned to face the marines behind him. A similar grotesque scene came into view. Gaggles of Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs feasted upon corpses and wounded soldiers. A few Imperial troopers groaned in agony.

Raiders kicked at the scavengers and poked them with bayonets.

The dinosaurs snapped at the marines, scampered from the wounded and the dead, then pounced upon the carcasses in waves as soon as the marines stepped away. Some marines turned back to the fracas, wielding their bayonets, stabbing and cutting into the scroungers. The larger Procompsognathus dinosaurs advanced upon the marines, ready to fight over their spoils.

One jumped on Private Knight and clawed its way up his chest. The dinosaur swiftly advanced to the marine’s neck and latched on. Knight grabbed its head and tried to pull the dinosaur loose, but it held on with a death grip.

Dawson swung his rifle into action. He inhaled and took aim.

Knight twirled around in a death dance, as blood gurgled from puncture wounds in his neck. Churning its hind legs, ragged claws sliced into his abdomen. All the spinning around prevented Dawson from getting a bead on the dinosaur.

Raiders standing behind the victim fell in and out of view.

Dawson finally got a clear shot.

He pulled the trigger.

A bullet dug into the beast. It yowled in pain. Dropping to the ground with a thud, the Procompsognathus squirmed and kicked in the throes of death. A final scratch at the earth, then the creature lay in the mud, lifeless.

Knight dropped to his knees while grabbing his throat with both hands.

Crimson streaks trickled through his fingers as life blood seeped from his body. A gurgle emanated from his throat. Knight gasped.

Then, he wavered and teetered into the mud, disoriented and horror-struck.

Rushing to his side, Dawson crouched beside Knight. He checked the marine’s injured neck. Scraps of flesh were torn away.

An artery was severed open, pulsating blood, gushing from the wound.

Knight’s face turned pale; blood wasn’t getting to his heart.

Without a place to attach a tourniquet, the marine would bleed to death. Dawson couldn’t tie off the open artery without choking Knight. And he couldn’t determine any other means to help, except to apply a gauze and compress the wound to help diminish blood loss.

“Corpsman!” Dawson scanned for a Navy medic.

A hand clasped his shoulder. “There’s nothing left you can do.”

“We need to try.” Dawson shook his head.

“He’s gone, son.”

Dawson looked up. Staff Sergeant Wilson had a dire expression.

Gurgling emitted from Knight’s throat and mouth.

“Hang on. Corpsman!” Dawson pressed the wound tightly.

The young marine coughed, then he belched up blood. A copper scent wafted from Knight and mixed with pungent smells from the jungle, moisture and decaying vegetation. Odors of death whisked into Dawson’s head as poignant and distinct as stepping onto a beach at low tide or walking past a swamp while hunting in the New Hampshire woods.

An ashen hue replaced the pallor of Knight’s skin. He lay still and didn’t take another breath. Knight passed, almost peacefully. Slipping calmly into the midst of death, the young marine never uttered his final words.

“Go ahead,” Wilson encouraged, as though reading Dawson’s mind.

“Knight didn’t ask me to do anything, though.” Dawson shook his head. “Feels like an intrusion.”

“He didn’t have to say it. You’re looking out for him.”

Dawson nodded, understanding.

“Go ahead.”

“Sure.”

Reaching into Knight’s breast pocket, he fished out a letter. The paper was folded over and fit snug between the tin holding his own letter and the one he’d already taken off Frank. He stood up. “All set.”

“You did great work earlier. Using that beast as cover was ingenious.”

Dawson nodded, appreciating the comment.

“Just let me know in advance before you pull a stunt like that… we can’t have everyone running off in their own direction.”

“Sorry. The thought came to mind and I acted without orders.”

“You saved our ass. I’m not chewing your butt over it. Hell, I expect to put you in for a promotion.” Wilson tilted his helmet back considering his next comment. “Let’s divide the troops into two prongs. One will go after the fuel dumps and the other will take out the garrison and docks.”

“Understood.” Dawson waited for the detailed instructions.

Staff Sergeant Wilson glanced him over.

“Which contingency do you want me to join?”

Wilson shook his head and grinned. “You’re not getting my drift, son. I’ll lead one force inward and you’re going to lead the other.”

Dawson gulped for breath. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Let’s plan to break this off, so I take two thirds of the men.” Wilson placed his hands on his hips. “You get the rest and head for the fuel dumps. We’ll go after the garrison and docks and any bridges we come across.”

“My fire team is down to me and Bishop.”

“You take the team we got from Staff Sergeant Kane… Simmons and them.”

“Got it.”

“Figure the fuel dumps is a straight-forward seek and destroy mission, so you’re better suited to lead that one.” Wilson paused and contemplated his next statement.

“What?”

“The fuel dumps might be more heavily defended, though.”

A vision of Japanese troops, dug into the earth and blasting away with Lewis guns, came to mind. Dawson pictured marines getting riddled by enemy gunfire.

“Start thinking about losing a battle before it begins, and you’ve pretty much given the enemy an upper hand.” Wilson flashed a kind grin. “From what I saw at the beach with the Boys anti-tank gun and the stunt you pulled here, you’ll do just fine.”

“Guess we should get moving.” Dawson started to wipe down his rifle.

“Let’s move out!” Wilson called to the troops.

Raiders gathered their equipment and fell into two columns without further instruction. A number of them were marked for Dawson’s contingency. He raised a hand. “Bishop and Simmons’s fire team, come with me.”

They glanced at him, askance. Simmons began to question the direction.

“Shut your piehole.” Wilson shook his head. “You’re going with Dawson. And do exactly what he says. He’s in charge.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.” Simmons waved to his team.

Dawson watched the larger force march down the muddy lane. Glancing at the road and looking towards the swath cut through the jungle, he considered the options. The lane headed in a northeasterly direction, but the fuel dumps were on the opposite side of the road towards the north. A path through the bush was the most direct route.

“You’re not thinking of taking us through there?” Bishop pointed at the broken limbs.

Dawson nodded. “Likely the fastest way to the fuel dumps.”

“What about those creatures? Likely to be more of them in there.”

“I thought of that. But I’m thinking the huge beast running through there might have scared the smaller ones away.” Dawson released his magazine and reloaded. “We could get a clear pass through the jungle or risk the road and something jumping out at us.”

“At least Wilson’s unit would be nearby.”

“Not for long.” Dawson trotted to the path. “Let’s go. We’re losing time.”

“Don’t like the feel of this,” Bishop muttered, plodding after him.

Simmons caught up, as Dawson stepped into the undergrowth. Private Fuller followed him carrying a BAR, while Private Meserve pulled up the rear with an M1 Garand. They ended up with rifles on point and at the tail end of the column, and BARs next to each rifleman. Simmons was dead center in the procession toting a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun.

Drizzle trickled from the jungle canopy and the palm fronds were sopping wet. Mud caked on Dawson’s boots, applying resistance to the march. He muscled through each step. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, he pondered.

Trekking through the jungle, he thought back to his training. Boot camp had seemed like a thrust into a different world. Shock set in immediately. Arriving at Parris Island in the middle of a rainy night, the recruits were kept up for days. The Marines Corps shaved their heads bald. Recruits were belittled, stressed, and physically challenged. Sleep deprivation continued, often with only four to five hours rest a night. Rising early and training seven days a week, the process was meant to weed out the weak and leave the remaining few.

Marching became a way of life. They marched to chow, and out to the rifle range. Drilled on the parade deck in the sun, wind, rain, and cold. Drilling in the barracks with the racks moved aside late at night. Initially, he had trouble adjusting to the marching, walking in cadence. To the rear march, forward march, right oblique march.

Eventually they threw in the rifles. Port arms march. Right shoulder march. Dropping the rifles into position, checking the chamber, lowering it to an at ease stance with the butt resting on the deck.

As punishment for not performing in unison, the drill instructors would make them hold the rifles by the end of the barrels, with arm extended. They would hold it and hold it, until eventually muscles in the shoulder would tire. Lowering the rifle out of position without a command to do so resulted in further punishment. Dawson made this mistake once and was rewarded by the senior drill instructor snatching his rifle and bashing him in the sternum. The blow was so hard, it knocked the wind out of him and pushed him out of formation. Falling out of formation earned him another blow of the rifle butt in the back of his head. Knocked into a dizzy spell, he suffered for hours, barely keeping it together the rest of the day.

Progress was slow, impeded by the mud and their soaked uniforms. A pungent scent of decayed vegetable matter wafted through the air. Then, the ground became dense.

“This is god-awful going,” Bishop griped. “We’re not making headway.”

“Gets better further in.” Dawson plied through the brush.

Eventually, the way became less discernible and he realized the dinosaur had broken off a path that animals used to get to the lagoon and forged its own route. The ground was solid, but the way forward became obscured, a dismal situation.

He paused to get a bearing. Something moaned, almost a wailing tenor that drifted over the underbrush from nearby.

As first, he didn’t see anything. Then, a mound became apparent, rising from the ground like a slight hillside. Dawson faced the back of the Tyrannosaurus, fallen in the jungle after decimating the smaller bull and laying waste to numerous enemy troops.

Such a gentle lament of suffering, he almost felt sorry for the creature.

Glimpsing into the dense jungle behind the dying T-Rex, he searched for a way forward. The muddy lane couldn’t be much further inland.

Something moved on the other side of the Tyrannosaurus. Distinctive black stripes covered the reddish hide of the creature gorging itself on the T-Rex’s innards. The beast froze, then slowly raised its head and peered over the back of the fallen predator.

Bull horns protruded from the top of its head. It rose up from a stooped feeding position. A massive Carnotaurus stared at him, unblinking.

“You sure did pick a terrible route,” Bishop yammered. “At least there aren’t any Japs—”

“Quiet.” Dawson shushed him, waving a hand intently.

“What?” Bishop reached into a pocket and pulled out his smokes.

Dawson turned to him, cringing. “Keep it down.”

The jarhead didn’t catch on. Slipping a cigarette into his mouth, he shook his head in dismay. “Many of you guys have too much respect for the enemy. Getting all fussy over what we call them.”

Simmons tapped the squawker on the shoulder and pointed.

Bishop finally registered the Carnotaurus and the butt dropped to the ground. Mouth agape, he fumbled to bring the Browning around. Then, he shouldered the weapon. Locking onto the beast, he was prepared to shoot, when Dawson stepped into the line of fire.

Waving for the private to lower his machinegun, Dawson didn’t want to engage the creature and advertise their approach to the Imperial troops.

“Just settle down a moment,” he said to the entire team.

Bishop stared at him, puzzled.

“It might not attack…”

“Huh?”

“The creature has a much larger meal than us,” Dawson whispered. “And it’s still warm. It probably will only attack us if we provoke it.”

“Or if it thinks we’re going to steal it’s food.” This from Simmons.

While they discussed the situation, the Carnotaurus merely eyeballed them, as though trying to make up its mind whether to feast upon its spoils or pursue another kill.

Dawson told them to hush. A silence fell over the jungle, except for the occasional sprinkles landing upon palm fronds. The scent of blood drifted from the carcass. Remaining steadfast, they watched the beast glare back at them. Both the marines and beast were locked in a stare down, with either side ready to engage in a moment’s notice.

“Let’s ease back,” Dawson said. “Maybe it will relax, seeing we’re not after its prize.”

“Good idea.” Bishop was the first to move. “Make it think we’re leaving.”

Dawson backpedaled, keeping an eye on the dinosaur.

A branch snapped behind him. Bishop.

The beast canted its head and snorted. It stepped away from viscera of the fallen dinosaur, stomping the ground with enormous feet and crimping decayed vegetation with sharp claws. Sniffing the air, it appeared to savor the fresh meat.

“Run!” Dawson commanded and turned to bolt.

Chasing after them, the dinosaur stretched its massive legs and was among the marines in a few strides. It lowered its head and knocked Meserve to the ground.

Then, it rushed after Bishop and swung its horns into his back, sending him hurling through the air. He impacted with a tree and slid into leafy underbrush. Rotating around, the Carnotaurus watched the rest of the marines fleeing in various directions. It snorted and pounded the ground with its right foot. A warning that meant it didn’t mean to pursue them.

Dawson slowed to a walk. He waited for the dinosaur to return to its fare.

Another threatening snort, and the large bull turned away. Its massive tail extended from a gargantuan rump, and it swung from side to side, decimating the foliage. When it reached the Tyrannosaurus, it growled a final warning, then plunged into the split abdomen and culled the remaining entrails from the vanquished beast.

The bull glanced up. Its crimson maw chomped a section of intestine. Feasting upon the king of the jungle, the spoils were more than it could ingest. An overindulgence, the Carnotaurus didn’t show any signs of letting up, and it did not mean to share.

When it ducked into the hide again, Dawson checked on his team. Meserve was on his feet but Bishop hadn’t recovered from the blow.

Dawson marked the tree and jogged over to the clump of palm fronds.

Spotting the marine lying face down, he crouched beside him and looked for any signs of a puncture wound. The jungle was full of broken branches. Dawson feared the Raider had suffered a mortal injury from being flounced about.

Bishop’s helmet lay on the deck. Checking him over, the forehead was unhurt, so Dawson felt the scalp. Nothing. He rolled the marine onto his side and pressed on his chest. A cough, then Bishop opened his eyes. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

“Trying to see what’s wrong with you.”

“Just got the wind knocked out of me. No need for all of that caressing.”

“You good to go?” Dawson stood up.

Bishop moved into a seated position and reached for his canteen.

“We’ve got to move out of here, now.”

Shaking off the blow, Bishop took a long drink and looked over at the bull. Its head was completely submerged in the open cavity. Moist chomping and slurpy munches at organs emanated from the remains. “That thing ain’t chasing after us anytime soon.”

“Can’t take the chance.”

“Well it hasn’t gotten to the good meat on the drumstick yet.” Bishop shook his head. “And it’s too bloated with stuffing itself to run.”

“Get to your feet.” Dawson held out a hand and pulled him up.

Bishop cracked his neck, then he took another drink before returning the canteen to his belt. “What’s the rush? They’ll be dug in by now.”

Taking a peek at the Carnotaurus, Dawson shook his head. “I’d like to face the enemy and get off this damn island as quickly as possible.”

“Roger that.” And Bishop fell in pace behind Simmons’s team.

Making the comment brought his dread of the creatures to the surface. Dawson wondered about their chances for survival. He patted the tin in his breast pocket holding the last letter to his fiancée. And then, he tightened his grip on the rifle and moved ahead with resolve.

He wanted to get home. Planned to see her again.