The Far Reaches (8 page)

He heard now the low voice of Colonel Shoup, still talking into his radio. Josh crawled over to him. “You still alive?” he asked, clearly surprised.

“After a fashion,” Josh answered. “Jap attack us yet?”

“No, and it's almost dawn. Don't know why they didn't. If they had, they might have pushed us into the sea. Either we were lucky or Jap was stupid, not sure which.”

“It doesn't make sense,” Josh said after a little thought. “Jap loves to fight at night. It's when he figures he has the advantage. What could have happened?”

Then an amazing, miraculous sight appeared from around the back of the amtrac. Barefooted, bare chested, wearing only his dungaree pants, Bosun Ready O'Neal appeared. “Captain Thurlow, you're alive!” Ready cried and
made almost as if to hug Josh although he stopped short, such a display of affection between men not allowed even on that awful beach.

Ready plunked himself down in the sand beside Josh and rattled off everything that had happened until that very moment, except he gave all the credit to Major Reed for blowing up the Japanese officers. Josh and Colonel Shoup gaped at him. “I bet those officers included the admiral in charge,” Shoup mused. “That's why we got through the night. By God, I'll see that Major Reed gets one hell of a big medal. Killed, you say?”

“Dead as a hammer, sir,” Ready answered sorrowfully.

“Jap is one helluva fighting man,” Josh said, “but when he loses his officers, he tends to get confused, even fold. It's a weakness.”

Shoup grinned, then said, “Well, look there now! Ain't that a welcome sight!”

Shoup was referring to a typical gaudy Pacific morning that was busily being produced on the eastern horizon, a huge scarlet orb bobbing up from the sea, all the while tossing out yellowish-red streaks of the purest light anyone could imagine. Josh studied the reef in the morning light and saw that it was now submerged, the tide well in. “We should have invaded today. Man figures and studies, but God don't have to,” he said and shook his head.

There came from inland a frightful big bang, and Shoup's radio soon crackled. He listened to whoever was on the other end and said, “Well, knock it out. Who've you got there to do it?” He looked around. “I need a runner to carry a radio and some batteries to Red Beach Three.” Shoup's eyes lit on Ready. “Bosun, how about it? Could you put on some boots and make a run for me?”

“I guess so, Colonel,” Ready answered and took the radio and a pouch of batteries from a radioman. Another marine handed him some boots. There was no shortage of them.

“Hold on, Bosun,” Josh said. “Your mama's probably not ever going to forgive me for bringing you out here, but if I get you killed for a radio and some batteries, I'd never be able to go back to Killakeet. I'll go with you.”

“But you're shot all to hell!” Ready protested.

“Just little holes,” Josh said, though when he smacked his hand against the patch on his ribs to show how healthy he was, he nearly passed out from the pain. But he was a big man, and strong despite the loss of blood, and it wasn't long before he and Ready were heading down the beach toward Red Beach Three, a radio on Ready's back, a bag of batteries over Josh's shoulder.

Since the Japanese were no longer keeping up a steady fire, Josh and
Ready made good progress, although the stink of the corpses on the beach was nearly enough to knock them down. “So many men,” Josh said.

“Americans will never forget this place!” Ready cried in a burst of misplaced patriotism.

“Yes, they will,” Josh answered while feeling the hot sun burning against his cheek. It was going to be another scorcher. “Most folks will forget it by next month or the next island, whichever comes first. Oh, the families of the dead boys will recall for a while, but this spit of sand's too far away for Americans to bother with for long. Anyways, worse battles are yet to come.”

Although he was always inclined to defer to his captain, Ready chose to argue. “There can't be any worse battles than this one, Skipper! The people won't stand for it!”

“Oh, they'll stand for it because they don't have much choice. You see, Ready, we're in the show now, us and Jap, and only one of us is going to be on our feet after it's all over. A lot of men will have to die or wish they were dead before it's done.” Josh went on a few more steps. “But I hope you're right about there being no worse battles than this one.”

A sudden storm of bullets flew in front of their faces, and Josh and Ready hit the sand, then looked out to sea when they heard the growl of engines. A line of Higgins boats was pushing straight at them, aiming for an opening between the dozens of empty boats still hung on the reef. Though the reef was underwater, it still snagged the boats, and seconds later, three of the landing craft were burning, one had sunk, and the rest were being pounded by big, unseen shore guns. Marines climbed out of the boats onto the reef, where they stood in waist-deep water, holding their rifles over their heads. “Get ashore!” Josh yelled, but snipers picked them off, and fresh bodies began to float alongside the ones from the day before. Only a few marines made it to shore, splashing in without packs or rifles and throwing themselves against the seawall. Josh and Ready looked at two of the marines who lay there gasping, their eyes wide with horror. “You boys got any water?” Josh asked, politely.

One of them, his eyes huge beneath his helmet, silently handed over his canteen, and Josh and Ready took a drink from it. “Still full of oil,” Josh said, though he swallowed it anyway. He looked at the marine. “Are you Second Marines or Sixth?”

“Second, sir.”

“Where's the Sixth?”

“I don't know, sir. I don't even know where
I
am.”

Josh smiled and handed the man's canteen back. “You're on Tarawa, son.”

“What should I do, sir?” the marine asked.

“Pick up a rifle,” Josh said. “Then go one way or the other along the beach, it don't much matter. Find some marines. Join up, get into the war.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” he said and crawled off with his buddies, disappearing into the shimmering heat waves coming off the sun-drenched sand. Josh and Ready went on, trying not to look at the bloated dead floating in the lagoon. “I keep expecting them to raise their heads and take a breath,” Ready said.

Then a big Japanese artillery shell fell short, striking the beach instead of the Higgins boat it was aimed at. The blow sent them both, senseless of thought or feeling, cartwheeling through the air.

Josh climbed back from wherever the artillery round had sent him. Apparently, the day had passed. It was dark, and there were screams and the terrible sounds of struggle—deep grunts, guttural swearing, random rifle shots, puking, gasping, and choking death rattles. Then a boot stomped his hand.

Josh was at least relieved to see, by the light of a flare, that the boot belonged to Ready O'Neal, who was too busy to notice, mainly because he was receiving a lunging Japanese soldier equipped with a long bayonet on a longer rifle. As Josh watched with interest, the two men fell away, and then there was a muffled sob followed by another muffled sob, the last from Ready, who was crying because he had been forced to kill a man.

“Don't feel bad, Bosun,” Josh said from what seemed like a deep hole he'd fallen into. “You had to do it.”

Ready abruptly stopped his sobbing. “You awake, sir?”

Josh tried to focus on one thing, to help him understand where he was. “Is it night or am I going blind?”

“Night, Skipper. They've been coming at us since the sun went down. Usually, the boys in the foxholes up front stop them, but now and again one or two slip through. Like this poor youngster I just murdered.”

Josh absorbed the information, pausing long enough for a cogent thought to present itself. “You didn't murder him,” he said at length. “You just killed him. It's war.” He paused again. “Thanks for taking care of me while I was out.”

“I wouldn't leave you, sir. You know that.”

“Where are we?”

“Near the runway. At an aid station some corpsmen set up.”

“Are we losing?”

“No. I heard Colonel Edson say we were winning.”

“Red Mike's ashore? Thank God. Did you tell him about Green Beach?” “Yeah, Skipper. Sixth Marines came ashore on Green Beach this afternoon.”

While Ready was talking, Josh was silently allowing his mind to search his body. It ached like hell, pretty much like it did before he got knocked out, but at least he could move his fingers and toes, both good signs. Then a harsh thirst overcame him. “I need some water,” he said. Ready silently handed him a canteen. Josh polished it off and, running his tongue through the oily residue left in his mouth, said, “Still foul.”

“Yes, sir. Most of the marines can't keep it down and are running pretty dry. First priority ain't to land bullets, Red Mike said, but water.”

Josh tried to piece it all together. “How many days have we been on this atoll?”

“Two days and two nights, sir.”

“Seems like two weeks.” Josh kept thinking. Likely, his bowels would be sliding that water through pretty quick. He just hoped his body would keep a little of it. When he next raised his head, he saw the sun rising, producing yet another spectacular gold and scarlet spectacle and lighting up a vast and terrible battlefield of dead men, ruined machines, shattered palm trees, sandy bomb craters, and a cracked concrete runway with heat waves already rising from its surface like wriggling, translucent worms. “I hate this place,” Josh said and wasn't certain if he was talking about the atoll of Betio or the earth itself. At that moment, probably both were true.

Josh realized he was bare chested except for bloody bandages wrapped across his torso. He saw his khaki trousers were in shreds and he'd lost one of his shoes and his Coast Guard cap. He felt at his waist and was gratified that at least the K-bar was still there. “I'd better put on some utilities,” he told Ready, “and some boots.”

“I'll get you some,” Ready said and went off, returning with two sets of utilities and a pair of boots, complete with socks. Ready pulled off his own bloody dungarees and drew on a camouflage uniform. Then he helped Josh put on utilities and socks and boots, all of which proved to be a fair fit. Ready allowed himself a moment of guilt, seeing as how he had stripped the clothing off dead marines.

Josh asked, “Where's Red Mike? I'd like to have a word with him.”

“Don't know, sir,” Ready answered as he finished tying the last knot on Josh's boots. “Well, would you look at that! I just thought it was a big old sand dune last night.”

Josh looked where Ready was looking and saw the sun had lit up a big pyramid of sand and palm logs not more than a hundred yards away. From it, Japanese were busily firing machine guns and rifles in a constant clatter. Dead marines were littered around it. A pair of corpsmen carrying a stretcher came racing past and then tossed down the stretcher and threw themselves into the crater beside Josh and Ready, a stitch of machine-gun fire following them from the fort. One of the corpsmen groaned and grabbed his leg, and the other one stared incredulously at his left hand, where a bloody bullet hole had appeared. Other medics came running and helped the wounded corpsmen up and took them away.

“That big sand fort's got to go,” Josh observed and raised his head a little higher out of the crater to get a better look at it. For his trouble, a bullet whipped past his head. He ducked down. Then a few marines ran past, going toward the fort. “Ready,” Josh said, “let's go see if we can help these boys take that pile of sand.”

“Sir, you're awful banged up,” Ready objected. “You've broken out in a sweat, too. I think you've got fever coming on.”

“But I can still walk,” Josh answered.

Ready looked at his skipper's rough, whiskery face, the old broken nose, the livid scar on his chin, the sweat standing out on his grimy forehead. He looked a million years old, yet Ready knew Josh Thurlow was only thirty-three. “Let's just rest awhile,” Ready suggested.

“I can't,” Josh replied. “I've got to do something about that fort.”

“Let other men do it.”

“It's not my way.”

Ready saw that his captain was bound and determined. “I'll help you up,” he said. And he did.

A big-boned Southern gentleman, that's what he was. “Sandy Bonnyman,” he introduced himself to Josh. Josh had found him lying on the shattered remnants of a palm log bunker, intently studying the Japanese fort.

Josh lay beside him and also studied the pyramid of sand and palm logs. It had several protruding pipes that were probably air vents. Sandbagged machine-gun positions were on its top and along its sides. There was also a wall of sandbags on both ends that probably masked entries. Josh identified himself, adding, “I'm just an observer.”

Bonnyman laughed after noting Josh's wounds. “Observing ain't healthy the way you do it, Captain,” he said.

“What's your take on that fort, Sandy?”

“You ever hear of a Forlorn Hope?”

“The British used that term in the Napoleonic wars. A direct frontal assault against a fortified position requiring major casualties.”

“You're well read, sir. They used to hand out promotions and bonuses to any soldiers willing to join in. Of course, not many of them survived to collect.”

“You think that fort requires a Forlorn Hope?”

“Yep. Bombs won't touch that thing, and neither will artillery. All that sand just absorbs the energy of the detonations. But I think I see a weakness in its design.”

“Are you an engineer?” Josh asked.

Bonnyman grinned. “I'm a supply officer, but since supplies have been kind of pinched, I thought I'd come up here to see what I could do to help.”