John Dennehy - Jurassic War

Akinari Tanaka clutched his rifle tightly as he marched prisoners along a dirt road that parted the small atoll. A superior private, his collar was adorned with red patches and three gold stars. Four privates assisted him, carrying their rifles at port arms, boxing in the prisoners. The guards were called Hetai on the Japanese mainland, the Emperor’s foot soldiers.

Neither of the two naked men that dawdled along the muddy lane presented signs of a threat. They were simple people, local natives, and not prisoners of war.

Tanaka questioned to himself the reason for their capture, but he did not voice his concern. He took orders and was promoted faster than others due to his loyalty during recent combat service in Manchuria. When the Jun-i (warrant officer) had instructed Tanaka to assemble the armed guard and lead the prisoners from the makeshift stockade to the hill beyond the old Government House, Tanaka felt that three soldiers would be suitable. The Jun-i demanded otherwise; he wanted more soldiers on the working party. He commanded the garrison, and, as a warrant officer, served as its highest-ranking soldier.

Somehow, the captured natives held significant value. Escape was not acceptable. He selected his friend, Osamu, to complement the security detail. Osamu was loyal to him, the most senior of the four privates; pudgy, and like the others, he’d never experienced combat.

A light rain stippled Tanaka’s khaki uniform, and mud caked his boots and kicked up on his puttees, wrapped tightly around his lower legs in a crosshatch pattern to provide protection from the jungle environment. Two of the privates had bayonets affixed to their Sanpachi 38 (Arisaka) bolt-action rifles. Pushing the captives along with jabs to their shoulders, a few thrusts hit with force, drawing blood and cries of pain.

He told the soldiers to cease injuring the prisoners at once. The Jun-i had instructed Tanaka to deliver them without harm.

Everyone settled down and became more alert as they turned onto a narrow path.

Slowly ascending a hill, Tanaka scanned the dense foliage. Fetid odors of decayed vegetable matter wafted through the humid air from the jungle floor. Something moved within the canopy of tropical vegetation. It almost seemed to be trailing them.

A chill ran up his spine, despite the humidity. He halted and shouldered his rifle.

The remainder of the caravan moved ahead, while Tanaka discerned the situation. He doubted the Americans had landed, but they were fighting on islands nearby, so he couldn’t be sure. Tanaka had greater concerns about natives trying to rescue the prisoners.

Maybe they will try to free their tribesmen ? He wondered.

A large palm frond ruffled, and a shadow moved through the dense brush. Smaller than the size of a man, Tanaka breathed a sigh of relief and started after the others.

Just a large lizard , he thought, picking up his pace. But it seemed very large.

The column crested the hill, and Tanaka lost his breath as he closed the distance. He topped the plateau and a great expanse of ocean came into view. Soldiers formed a semicircle in a clearing. The Jun-i stood in the center with a Gocho (corporal) beside him holding a samurai sword. His commander motioned to bring the prisoners into the center of the circle.

A lump grew in Tanaka’s throat. His pulse quickened, but he directed the captives as ordered. Two privates stepped forward and knocked the natives to their knees. Osamu glanced at Tanaka, askance. And then, the Jun-i waved the guards off, and Tanaka’s men stepped aside.

The Gocho advanced upon the kneeling captives. His corporal insignia had silver stars, which shimmered in the grey light reflecting off the blade of his sword.

Both prisoners knelt on the grassy knoll, as raindrops pelted their bare shoulders. Countenances frozen in helplessness met Tanaka’s eyes. Their grim faces were locked in a mixture of agony and disbelief.

With feet planted slightly more than a shoulder-width apart, the Gocho raised the samurai sword and swung with lightning speed. The blade sliced through the back of a prisoner’s neck and the victim’s head lopped off, falling to the ground with a thud. Blood spurted from the cleaved opening, dousing the damp grass.

A smell of copper drifted from the body. The remaining prisoner screamed in terror and tried to stand up, as his tribesman’s corpse teetered over to the ground, headless.

Privates shoved the recalcitrant prisoner back to his knees.

As he wailed in misery, the Gocho whirled the sword through the air in a skillful demonstration, then increased the arc and swung downward fast. The head dropped off so quickly the agonizing scream was immediately followed by a plop in the grass.

Within a moment of the decapitation, the ground rumbled. Then it trembled.

Soldiers broke for a path leading downhill toward the beaches on the northern side of the atoll. Tanaka wondered if the fallen natives had called upon their ancestors to avenge their deaths. He regretted leading them to their demise.

Another tremor on the ground, and Tanaka followed his comrades.

Descending the steep embankment, the ground above Tanaka shook violently. Then, the unmistakable sound of something massive treading upon the plateau came to a halt. Stillness was followed by a predatory roar.

And then, the menacing sound of chomping echoed from the sacrificial site. Clamor of snapping bone and tearing flesh drove Tanaka to run, until his lungs burned, and his legs wavered like rubber.

He only slowed when he was a safe distance away. Yet his pulse still raced with fear.

Down by the water’s edge, on the northern side of the small atoll, Tanaka caught his breath and settled his nerves. He questioned the practice of killing a prisoner, and he wondered about what kinds of creatures lived on the island.

Tanaka stood on the water’s edge, where the blue Pacific kissed the pristine sand of Butaritari Island, the largest of the Makin archipelago.

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.