Jurassic War

Nine

Dawson had just hunkered down with his squad when rifle fire erupted from the interior, a half mile away. He wondered if a unit of Raiders had penetrated the jungle and encountered the enemy. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn that a few assault boats didn’t get the change of plans. But the gunfire wasn’t accompanied by heavy automatic weapons.

Unsure of the situation, he expected a conflict to break out on the beach long before they entered the jungle. He watched Able Company entrench their fighting holes closest to the tree line. They were billeted to enter the interior and seek out the enemy first.

A light rain continued to fall, and the island remained cast in a blanket of darkness. With most of the landing party digging into the beachhead, the likelihood of Raiders chancing upon Japanese infantry inland appeared slim. The fight would come to them.

Dawson couldn’t explain the gunfire he’d heard, though.

“What’s got you on edge?” Collins said.

“Nothing in particular. Just need to be ready in case the Japanese arrive.”

“You’d expect them to run into Able Company before even reaching us.” Bishop shook his head and shoved a cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, you can’t smoke out here,” Dawson said. “You’ll give our position away.”

“Not planning to light it until after the shit hits the fan.”

“Even then, it will make you a target. They’ll—”

A bullet dinged off the side of Bishop’s helmet, and everyone hit the deck. Another shot plinked off an ammo can and ricocheted into a marine. The injured man squealed in pain.

Dawson spotted the second muzzle blast. A sniper had climbed up a coconut tree and zeroed in on them. The Raiders burrowed into their fighting holes in the sand, but the fortifications were only designed to fend off a frontal attack.

Another shot rang out, echoing across the beach and nearby lagoon.

Someone else cried out in pain. Dawson moved into a seated position and slung his rifle around one arm, then tucked the butt tightly into his shoulder. He sighted his weapon. Then he squeezed off a round and the sniper dropped from the tree with a resounding thud.

Then, a shot resonated from another tree, and then another. Snipers had approached quietly and ascended the coconut trees. Dawson figured they’d trekked in by foot or bicycle. A truck grumbled in the distance. Headlights hadn’t shown through the dense foliage, so the driver must have cut the lights, but the sound of troops unloading from a transport carried across the beachhead. Minutes later a wave of machinegun fire erupted from the tree line, riddling the Raider’s positions.

And then, the marines returned fire with BARs and Thompson machineguns lighting up the beach. Immediately, snipers shot at the muzzle blasts and the Raiders took casualties.

Riflemen homed in on the snipers and managed to drop a few more from the trees. Their battalion was the only Marine Corps outfit that had been issued the new M1 Garand rifles. All the other marine units were still using the old M1903 Springfield bolt-action rifles. Lieutenant Colonel Carson had recruited President Roosevelt’s son and it had resulted in some favorable treatment in selection and acquisition of weapons and equipment.

A pause in the fighting allowed the Raiders time to reload, let their weapons cool, and to entrench further into the sand and dirt. Dawson peered over the berm of his fighting hole and waited for more machinegun fire.

Nothing else erupted from the tree line a hundred yards away.

Still, they waited for what the Japanese infantrymen planned next. Rain now sprinkled from an overcast sky and a sliver of moonlight shone on the battlefield. The surroundings appeared almost serene as waves splashed upon the shore and a tropical wind gust shook the leaves on various coconut and palm trees.

Machinegun fire ignited from the jungle, tearing up the sand, and boring into equipment strewn on the beach. And then sniper fire rained down on the Raiders dug into the sand, who were barely able to return fire.

The enemy launched a banzai attack. Lines of infantrymen charged across the open beach, firing rifles with fixed bayonets, and prepared to fight to the death.

Raiders returned fire, spraying lead from Thompson submachineguns at the swiftly encroaching infantrymen. Brass casings spit from the ejection ports, clinking spent rounds in the air, and muffling as they lobbed into the sand. Other marines blasted at the enemy machinegun stations with their Browning automatic rifles. The heavy rounds tore the enemy to shreds. And the riflemen carefully aimed their M1 Garands and took down charging soldiers one at a time. Spent gunpowder wafted in the drizzling early morning air.

Several marines tossed hand grenades at the approaching enemy troops. Explosions flared, and shrapnel tore Japanese soldiers to pieces. Shrieks of anguish flitted across the battlefield along with smoke and dust. Advancing infantrymen broke through the dissipating smoke unfazed and resounded their battle cry. “Banzai!”

Dawson squeezed off a few rounds, striking soldiers at center mass, hitting them in the chest with powerful bullets that stopped the charging infantrymen in their tracks. A shot impacted a soldier in the shoulder, spinning him around, and causing him to stumble.

Another soldier appeared from behind him, rushing madly at Dawson’s position, with bayonet fixed and shouting: “Banzai.”

Dawson aimed his rifle.

Pulled the trigger.

Click.

The magazine was empty, and the soldier was upon him, thrusting the bayonet towards Dawson’s chest. Dawson rolled to the left as the infantryman plowed into the fighting hole and speared the sand with the sharp blade.

Dawson reached for his stiletto fighting knife and grabbed the handle with the bottom of his fist against the hilt. He swung, outstretching his arm, and buried the blade deep into the soldier’s neck.

A slight moan was followed by a gurgling sound as the soldier keeled over. Removing the knife, blood spurted from the wound, pumping, until the moans and gushing streams ebbed, and finally abated altogether.

Reaching under the fallen soldier’s arms, Dawson heaved him out of the fighting hole and tossed him onto the sand, using the body for protection. He scanned for more hostiles, then ejected the clip and replaced it with a loaded magazine. Dawson raised the rifle and sighted in on an enemy soldier charging at marines positioned to his immediate right.

The shot struck the infantryman in the upper chest and hurled him backward, dropping him in the blood-soaked sand. Dawson spotted another soldier and shot him in the arm. Another round whistled from the left and slammed into the wounded man’s cheek.

A trembling hand reached for the wound as the soldier dropped to his knees. Then, a Raider with a Thompson machinegun riddled his chest, popping the soldier into a rhythmic death dance, until the man finally collapsed face first into the sand.

When the machinegun fire ceased, a lull fell over the battlefield; smoke dissipated, revealing the banzai charge as a failure. Dead enemy infantrymen were strewn everywhere in the sand. Raiders hooted and hollered all around Dawson’s position. He figured they hadn’t taken many serious casualties while putting down the attack. A feeling of encouragement slipped over him as confidence in the operation built with the successful stance.

Machinegun fire from the jungle ceased altogether. Foot soldiers retreated into the interior, and the marines occupied the beach alone.

A few minutes later, the tree line illuminated with penlights, beaming yellow orbs. Dawson gulped in anticipation of another wave of enemy attack. And then, a chill ran up his spine and dread constricted his lungs. Unable to breathe, he realized the enemy soldiers were gone.

Something else lingered on the edge of the jungle.