W.E.B. Griffin - The Corps IV - Battleground

For another, as they moved through sand and jungle and up hills carrying heavy loads of rifles, machine guns, mortars and the ammunition for them, Guadalcanal's temperature and high humidity quickly sapped the strength they had left.

And there was not enough water. Although Medical Officers had strongly insisted that each man be provided with two canteens (two quarts) of drinking water, there were not enough canteens in the Pacific to issue a second canteen to each man.

The Navy was asked to provide beach labor details of sailors to assist in unloading the supplies coming ashore from the Landing Craft, and then to move the supplies off the beach to make room for more supplies. The Navy refused to do this.

Marines exhausted by the very act of going ashore were thus pressed into service unloading supplies from Landing Craft.

But first there were no trucks to move the supplies off the beach, and then when the "one-ton" trucks finally began to come ashore, these proved incapable of negotiating the sand and roads chewed up by amphibious tractors.

The result was a mess. Landing Craft loaded with supplies were stacked up off the beach. They were unable even to reach the beach, much less rapidly discharge their cargoes.

Meanwhile, starting at 1145, Navy SBD dive-bombers attacked Gavutu across the channel. Ten minutes later, the Navy started a five minute barrage of the island, creating huge clouds of smoke and dust.

By 1500, both Tulagi and Gavutu were "secured."

On Guadalcanal itself, the main invasion force spent the rest of the afternoon and the night trying-with little success-to clear up the mess on the beach itself, and to set up a perimeter defense around the beach and the six hundred yards the Marines had moved inshore.

There was no question that the Japanese would try to throw the Marines back into the sea. The only question was when.

(Three)

BUKA, SOLOMON ISLANDS

0745 HOURS 8 AUGUST 1942

"I rather think that's more than one, wouldn't you agree?" Sub-Lieutenant Jacob Reeves, Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve, said, turning to Miss Patience Witherspoon and nodding vaguely toward the far off sound of aircraft engines to the North.

Reeves was a bit old-forty-one-to be a Sub-Lieutenant, the lowest commissioned rank in the Royal Australian Navy; and his uniform fell far below the standards usually expected of an officer on duty. He was wearing a battered and torn, brimmed uniform cap; an equally soiled khaki uniform tunic with cut off sleeves; and khaki shorts and shoes whose uppers were spotted with green mold. His hair tumbled down his neck; and he was wearing a beard. A 9mm Sten submachine gun and a large pair of Ernst Leitz Wetzlar binoculars hung from his neck on web straps.

He and Miss Witherspoon were standing beneath an enormous tree, down from which hung a knotted rope.

"Oh, yes, Sir," Miss Witherspoon replied. "That's certainly more than one. A great many, I wouldn't be surprised."

"Well, then, I suppose I'd better go have a look, and you had better wake up the sodding Yanks, don't you think?"

"Yes, of course," Miss Witherspoon said. "I'll fetch them."

Lieutenant Reeves reached for the knotted rope. And then hanging onto it, he agilely climbed the trunk of the enormous tree, disappearing in a moment into the foliage.

Miss Witherspoon, who was eighteen, ran quickly and gracefully to Sergeant Stephen M. Koffler's hut down a narrow dirt path cut through lush vegetation. She ducked through the low entrance and knelt by his bed.

She giggled. Sergeant Koffler was also eighteen, and Miss Witherspoon was more than a little attracted to him. He was on his back, asleep. He was wearing only his U.S. Marine Corps issue skivvie shorts. The anatomical symbol of his gender, gloriously erect, poked through the flap in his skivvie shorts.

Miss Witherspoon, tittering, put one hand to her mouth, and with the other gave Sergeant Koffler's erection a friendly little pat. Sergeant Koffler gave a pleasant little grunt. Miss Witherspoon patted him again, just a little harder, but enough to waken him. He reached down and caught her wrist.

"Goddamn it, Patience!" Sergeant Koffler said, sounding more exasperated than angry.

"Lieutenant Reeves sent me to fetch you," Miss Witherspoon said, pronouncing the rank title in the British manner-Lef-ten-ant. "There's a large number of aircraft."

"Be right there," Koffler said. "Make sure Lieutenant Howard is up."

"Right you are," Miss Patience Witherspoon said cheerfully. Smiling, she backed out of the hut.

Steve sat on the edge of his bed. Miss Patience Witherspoon herself had constructed it of narrow tree trunks driven into the ground; a sort of "spring" of woven strips of bark supported a thin mattress. The mattress was covered with a surprisingly clean white sheet. The mattress and the sheet had also been made by Miss Witherspoon, who also washed them regularly.

Sergeant Koffler pulled on a pair of shorts that had once been a pair of "Trousers, Utility, Summer Service"; and then a pair of socks. He jammed his feet into his just-about-rotted through ankle high shoes, once a pair of "Shoes, Service, Dress." When he graduated from Parris Island these had worn a shine he could actually see his reflection in. Last he picked up his weapon where it lay under his bed.

The truly astonishing thing about Miss Patience Witherspoon, Sergeant Koffler thought for perhaps the hundredth time, was not her teeth, which were stained blue-black and filed into points; or even her breasts, which she made no effort to conceal, and which were elaborately decorated with scar tissue; or even that she lusted absolutely shamelessly after him. The truly astonishing thing about her was the way she talked.

Miss Witherspoon sounded almost exactly like Miss Daphne Farnsworth, who was the only other female subject of his Most Britannic Majesty Steve Koffler had come to know intimately. Miss (actually Yeoman, Royal Australian Navy Volunteer Reserve) Farnsworth had neat, pure white, intact teeth, and her breasts, which she modestly concealed virtually all of the time, were not only unscarred, but in Steve's opinion, they were an absolute work of art.

Without really being aware that he was doing it, Steve removed the magazine from his Thompson.45 ACP caliber submachine gun, worked the action, and then replaced the magazine. If necessary, it would fire.

The moment he ducked through the entrance to his hut, he heard the sound of aircraft engines. The hut was constructed of narrow tree trunks, covered with a thatch of enormous leaves. The sound had not penetrated the thick leaves of the hut.

He started to trot toward the Tree House, slinging the Thompson over his shoulder on its web strap as he ran. A hundred yards up the path, he encountered First Lieutenant Joseph L. Howard, USMCR, commanding the Marine Garrison on Buka Island.

Sergeant Koffler saluted crisply, and his salute was as impeccably returned.

"Good morning, Sergeant," Lieutenant Howard said. "You are to be commended on your shipshape appearance."

"Thank you, Sir. I try to set an example for the men."

Lieutenant Howard was dressed and shaved and coiffured exactly as Sergeant Koffler was. That is to say, he was wearing rotting shoes; cut off utility pants; and no shirt. A Thompson was slung over his shoulder. The last time either of them had a haircut or a shave was two months before in Australia, on June 6, the night before they jumped into Buka. And there were in fact no other men to set an example for. What was carried on the books as "Detachment A of USMC Special Detachment 14" consisted of Lieutenant Howard and Sergeant Koffler.

But at least once a day, they went through a little routine like this one. It was ostensibly a joke, but there was more to it than that. It reminded them that they were in fact Marines, part of a fellowship greater than two individuals living in the jungle on an island neither of them had heard of three months before; dodging the Japs; and with chances of getting home alive ranging from slim to none.