W.e.b. Griffin - The Corps II - CALL TO ARMS

McCoy chuckled.

"I'm going to blow some Jap general a new asshole," Tommy said confidently. "A big new asshole."

McCoy looked up at the sky. It was lighter than it had been; dawn was obviously breaking, but it was still dark. Too dark, he decided, to order Zimmerman to go look for his officers and find out where he was supposed to be. That would just add Zimmerman and his bunch to those already milling around in the dark.

"Stay here," McCoy said, and crawled back to the beach. Then he stood up, because he couldn't see lying down.

The force had been loaded into eighteen rubber boats. And they had planned to land at several points along the seaside shore of Butaritari Island. But at the last minute (when, in McCoy's private opinion, Colonel Carlson had seen how fucked up the offloading from the subs into the boats had gone), Carlson had the word passed that everybody was to land at Beach "Z," which was across the island from Government House.

What everybody called "Makin Island" was correctly "Makin Atoll," a collection of tiny islands forming a small hollow triangle around a deep-water lagoon. The base of the triangle, shaped like a long, low-sided "U," was Butaritari Island, the largest of the islands. Off its northern point was Little Makin Island. When they had finished here, the Raiders were scheduled to attack and to destroy what personnel and materiel might be found there.

What civilization there was on Butaritari Island was all on the lagoon side-wharves running out from warehouses and buildings to the deep water of the lagoon. To the north of the built-up area were Government Wharf and Government House, now the Japanese headquarters. That was where the vast bulk of the Japanese forces were supposed to be.

McCoy counted rubber boats. He counted fifteen; that meant three were missing.

On the beach somewhere out of sight? Or swamped?

A trio of Raiders came running down the beach in a crouch, their weapons (Thompsons and Garands) at the ready.

"Whoa!" McCoy ordered.

Somewhat sheepishly they stopped, stood erect, and looked at him. Privately hoping it would set an example, McCoy had elected to arm himself with a Garand rather man with any of the array of gung ho automatic weapons in the arms room. He thought that the planned operation called for rifles… and not submachine guns that most people couldn't shoot well anyway, or carbines, whose effectiveness as a substitute for a rifle he questioned.

Their faces were streaked with black grease, and they were wearing what looked like, and in fact were, khaki uniforms that had been dyed black. There was no more India ink in the drafting offices at Camp Catlin, but the Raiders had the black uniforms Carlson couldn't find in quartermaster warehouses anywhere.

"We've been looking for you, Lieutenant," the corporal said, somewhat defensively.

"Where are you?" McCoy asked, clearly meaning the rest of the platoon.

The corporal gestured down the beach behind him. "About a hundred yards, sir."

"You run into anybody from Able Company?" McCoy asked.

"Yes, sir, there's a bunch of them down there, sir," the corporal said.

"You two stay here," McCoy ordered the two Raiders. Then he pointed at the corporal. "You go get the others," he said, and pointed inland. "I'm about fifteen yards in there."

"Aye, aye, sir," the corporal said, and started down the beach.

Colonel Carlson appeared, coming up the beach.

McCoy Saluted.

"Oh, ifs you, McCoy," Carlson said. "Getting your people sorted out?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "I've got at least a platoon of Able Company with me. I'm about to send them down the beach."

"Good," Carlson said. "But despite the confusion, so far so good."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

The unmistakable crack of a.30-06 cartridge broke the stillness, clearly audible above the hiss of the surf.

"Oh, shit!" McCoy said, bitterly.

There was no following sound of gunfire. Just the one shot.

"What was that?" one of the Raiders asked, when neither Colonel Carlson nor McCoy spoke.

"That was some dumb sonofabitch walking around with his finger on the trigger," McCoy said furiously. "He might as well have blown a fucking bugle."

"I think this might be a good time for you to join your men, McCoy," Colonel Carlson said, conversationally, and then walked back down the beach.

(One)

Butaritari Island, Makin Atoll

0700 Hours, 17 August 1942

At a quarter to six, a runner from Lieutenant Plumley's Able Company had reported to Colonel Carlson that his point (that is, the leading elements of Plumley's troops) was at Government Wharf and that he had captured Government House without resistance. Carlson sent the runner back with orders for Plumley to move down the island in the direction of the other installations, that is to say, southeast, or to the left.

Carlson had expected the bulk of Japanese forces to be in the vicinity of Government House, and had made his plans accordingly. Now it seemed clear to him that the Japanese were in fact centered around On Chong's Wharf, about two miles away. If he had known that, he could have ordered Plumley to move quickly down the island, so that he could get as far as possible before he encountered resistance.

But once the presence of the Raiders on Butaritari became known to the Japanese-and the goddamned fool who had fired his Garand had taken care of that-the situation would change rapidly. If he were the Japanese commander, Carlson reasoned, he would move up Butaritari's one road as fast as he could, until he ran into the enemy.

Carlson's prediction was quickly confirmed. Another runner appeared, saluted, and, still heaving from the exertion of his run, announced, "We got Japs, Colonel."

Carlson extended his map.

"Show me where, son," he said, calmly.

When the runner pointed to the Native Hospital, Carlson nodded. His professional judgment was that the Japanese commander had established his line at the best possible place; the island was only about eleven hundred feet wide at that point.

He turned to his radio operator and told him to try to raise either of the submarines. So far Carlson's radio communication with the submarines had been just about a complete failure, but his time, he was lucky.

"I got the Argonaut, sir," the radio operator reported.

Carlson snatched the microphone and requested Naval gunfire on both the island (to shell Japanese reinforcement routes) and the lagoon, where two small ships were at anchor.

"We do not, repeat not," the Argonaut replied, "have contact with our spotter."

"Then fire without him," Carlson snapped, and tossed the microphone to the radio operator.

There came almost immediately the boom of the cannon firing, and then the whistle of the projectile in the air. Then there was the sound of a shell landing on the island, and almost simultaneously an enormous plume of water in the lagoon.

"Get them again, if you can," Carlson ordered the radio operator. "Tell them to keep it up."

Without thinking about it, without realizing he was doing it, Carlson counted the rounds fired by the cannon on the submarines, just as a competitive pistol shooter teaches you to habitually count shots. When the booming stopped, he was up to sixty-five, and both of the ships in the lagoon were in flames.

And then the Nautilus called him, and before the voice faded, Carlson heard that the Japanese-language linguist aboard the Nautilus had heard the Japanese send a message in the clear reporting the Raider attack and asking for reinforcements. Carlson asked if there had been a reply, but the radio was out again.

That made Carlson think of McCoy, and to wonder if it would not have been smarter to leave him aboard the Nautilus or not even bring him along at all. Japanese-speaking Americans were in short supply.