Wilson's knuckles turned white as he grasped hold of the 50 caliber machine gun handles and trained them on the closest rider. Adrenaline raced through his veins and his eyes squinted as he gazed through the crosshairs of the large weapon.
Simms arrived at the station and leaned close to Wilson.
"Hold tight, Wilson," he said in a calm voice. Wilson nodded, but continued to grip the weapon with white-knuckled fists.
A rock clattered at Calen's feet and then another hurtled through the air, straight at Calen's face. Ducking to his right, the rock narrowly missed him.
"Motherfucker!" Calen exclaimed loudly as he lowered the weapon and prepared to fire.
"Calen, don't!" Joe bellowed as he put a steadying hand on Calen's forearm. Before Calen could pull the trigger, however, an unexpected explosion of gunfire erupted from above them, startling all the crewmembers. It was Wilson.
"Oh, Christ!" Joe exclaimed as he looked from the 50 cal. station above them where brass shells rang along the decking like Christmas bells, to the sand dunes below. Joe saw a geyser of sand exploding upward near one of the riders. The horse reared in frenzy and a split-second later, its rider was viciously cut in half at the upper torso by the raw destructive power of the machine gun.
Chief Simms turned at the sounds of the explosions of the 50 caliber and his face drained of color as his eyes widened in dread.
"What the fuck are you doing, Wilson?" shouted Simms as he bolted in the machine gunner's direction. The gunfire was too loud and the Ohioan continued to sight his targets.
On the dunes, another rider and his horse were shredded by the 50 cal. as sand and blood erupted into the air.
Calen just barely made out a yell and when he looked, the lone rider had halted atop the dunes to the front and was barking orders. The riders at the banks grabbed Kalashnikov-47s and some ancient Sturmgewer-44s from their saddle holsters and began a dangerously rapid and constant confused assault upon the Leyte Gulf.
Ducking slightly, Calen swung the 25 mm. around toward the closest mounted gunman and began a rapid fire of his own. Joe continued to feed the weapon with ammo as casings rained down upon him, hot and stinging to the touch. Keeping his head low, Joe squinted as the gunfire all around him was deafening. Along the rails, sailors were letting loose with their M16s and even Simms above them at the 50 cal. station pulled out a 9 mm. and returned fire. The dunes were instantly transformed into killing fields; a sea of dark grey smoke, flying sand, blood, shredded clothing and flesh, and screams of pure agony.
Down toward the Ramage, they appeared to be defending themselves as well, most likely precipitated by Wilson's itchy trigger finger.
Upon the lower dunes, one of the horseman suddenly shouldered a crude rocket launcher and popped the casing caps.
Chief B. was seated near the operator of the remote-controlled MK-38 machine gun. A monitor sat in front of them and a small specialized joystick was held professionally in the operator's left hand.
"Target in range, Chief, three-hundred yards," the sailor said quickly.
"Light 'em up," the Chief replied as he saw the rider come to a clumsy stop at the water's edge.
Calen and Joe were momentarily distracted by the loud crack of thunder and watched the dunes in anticipation. A moment later, the mounted gunman with the rocket launcher was enveloped in a plume of red vapor and spraying sands, completely disappearing from sight.
"Holy shit," Joe said with his mouth slightly open. He had seen the MK-38 employed dozens of times in exercises, but had never seen it used on an actual, real live target.
A sudden spark ignited off the rail in front of them as a round ricocheted off into the air.
That wake-up call brought the pair back to their weapon and the 25 mm. was soon alive again, spitting out brass.
Calen continued to fire his weapon as Joe fed the ammo belt into the machine. Chancing a quick look up toward the dunes, he caught his breath in his throat and his heart skipped a beat as he saw the lone rider, rifle perfectly positioned in his hands and aligned directly toward their station.
"Calen –" but before he could get his friend's attention, the gunner jolted backward in his seat and twisted unnaturally away from the machine gun controls. Both of his hands were now away from the weapon and the sounds of the 50 cal. and M16s continued to fill the air.
"Cal?" Joe asked as he watched the gunner's face become suddenly serene. Joe's eyes widened as a spot of blood appeared halfway between his neck and his left shoulder.
Chief Simms gazed out as the gunfire appeared to be abating and he was startled by the appearance of yet another mounted gunman with a rocket launcher.
"Wilson…" he chanced.
"Go him, Chief," the young gunner assured as he let fly more rounds.
The gunman never stood a chance. As luck would have it, though, the doomed man managed to launch the rocket a microsecond before he and his mount were mercilessly mowed down. The slightly errant missile streaked forward and it appeared that the Leyte Gulf was about to suffer its first serious damage in this skirmish.
"Everybody down!" shouted the Chief in an octave higher than his normal range as the rocket roared toward the ship's tower. By good Providence, the missile skipped off the side of its wall with a metallic scraping sound and moments later, rocking the ship with heavy vibrations. The tower, however, appeared to have sustained minor damage only.
Calen looked slowly around, as if he wasn't sure where he was. He then glided his gaze in Joe's direction.
"Cal!" Joe implored. A round whistled close by his head and struck the wall of the ship behind their station and he ducked his head. Calen, however, didn't flinch.
Dizzily, he looked down at his shoulder and reached toward the blood spot with his right hand.
"The, uh – the fuckin' Snapple was…" he said, almost drunkenly. "Aw, fuck!"
"Cal, man, are you okay?"
"Aw, fuck!" Calen exclaimed again. Suddenly, all firing ceased and the lone rider called out a command. The remaining eight mounted gunmen retreated quickly over the dune and disappeared. Joe looked over his shoulder and saw the lone rider as he raised the rifle over his head with one hand and locked gazes with Joe before turning his animal and kicking him hard, leaving behind a ruffle of sand on the ground and a victory war cry. Gazing backward, the banks appeared as a graveyard, complete with the mangled bodies of men and horses, strewn about in random fashion.
When Joe turned back, Calen was fingering the small wound and sliding slowly from the seat. Joe saw a small stream of blood pouring off Calen's left wrist and spilling onto the deck, forming a rapidly growing pool.
"Corpsman!" Joe screamed as loudly as he could. He stood and approached his friend, but was horrified to see a gaping, gory hole in the rear of Calen's left shoulder, the sun's rays glittering over its sticky surface as a rivulet of thick red blood poured from the large wound. "Corpsman!" shouted Joe in a frenzied pitch.
Chief Simms squinted and peered down toward the deck below and saw the 25 millimeter gunner sprawled upon the deck, a large lake of blood pooling beneath him as Joe attended to his friend.
Angrily scowling, he turned toward Wilson and grabbed his chin, pulling the young sailor's face toward his.
"They were throwing rocks, you imbecile."
"Sir, I thought they were firing on us –"
"Fucking rocks!" Simms yelled. "At a billion-dollar warship!"
Sailors began to run by them. One of them addressed the Chief.
"Chief," he stated in a hurried voice, nervous and adrenaline-ridden. "Wakefield's down!"
Scowling once more in Wilson's direction, he turned to jog off toward the commotion. Wilson swabbed his neck and gazed down forlornly at the thousands of brass shell casings littering the deck at his feet.
"Hold on, buddy," Joe whispered to Calen as he held a brown towel to the wounded sailor's shoulder. Blood was everywhere.
"How many did I hit?" Calen said with a lazy tongue. His slurred speech was not
a good sign.
"You missed one, Cal," Joe answered with a very urgent, worried feeling in his stomach.
"I missed one?" Calen replied as he clenched his jaw through the shooting pain in his chest and neck. "Bet it was that fuckin' bitch who popped me."
Joe laughed despite the dread that slowly crept over him. His eyes began to well up in tears. Looking up, he could hear running feet, but was still all alone with Calen.
"Where're the fuckin' corpsmen?" Joe shouted as his voice broke and he began to cough on his own saliva.
"This ain't what I meant when I said I wanted out, Pigz," Calen offered in slurred words.
"I know, buddy," Joe responded as he patted his cheek. "Stop talking now, man. Save your energy. Okay?"
"What the hell'd you screw up now, Wakefield?" Chief Simms' voice suddenly came to them as two corpsmen followed.
Looking over his temple at the approaching supervisor, Calen smiled and choked on some laughter. The corpsmen pushed Joe aside and began to tend to Calen.
"I missed one, Chief…" Calen managed before losing consciousness.
Joe lurched forward as his buddy's body became limp.
"Let me through –" he urged, but Simms put a reassuring strong hand on his shoulder to restrain him.
"Let these boys do their job, Pignataro."
Joe looked down at his friend and swallowed hard.
"The leader…" Joe murmured.
Chief Simms looked over at Joe.
"What's that, son?"
Joe sniffed and wiped some tears from his cheeks as one corpsman injected Calen's arm with something and the other repeatedly packed gauze into the back shoulder wound.
"The leader of the horsemen…" Joe reiterated. "The guy who shot his own man." Simms continued to stare at Joe.
"Yes?"
Joe met the Chief's gaze squarely.
"He shot Calen," he stated firmly. "He shot Calen."
Simms' eyes widened slightly, but then softened as he patted the sailor on his shoulder. One of the corpsmen looked up and smiled.
"He'll be okay," he consoled.
Looking down at his friend once again, Joe was relieved to hear that news. Taking a deep breath and letting it out, he gazed aft toward the Ramage, noticing a large billowing smoke cloud rising from the ship.
Toni sat on the edge of the bed rocking Liam as he slept soundly in her arms. The light of the lamp on the nightstand was barely throwing enough luminescence across the room for her to be able to see anything clearly. As she looked out, she could just barely make out the wedding picture they had framed upon the wall near the door. She couldn't really see the details, but knew every single hair and wrinkle line in her husband's face.
She had not been sleeping well for more than a week. The longer Joe was away from home, the more she felt the imminent threat to his life. He had told her on the phone about the recurring nightmare he had about his rescue in the water, but assured her that there was no way that he would ever be put in such a situation. In fact, he had promised her that he would defer from volunteering for any extraneous duty outside of his own normal job description.
Outwardly, Toni let him know that she was relieved to hear him say that. Inwardly, she knew that, when push came to shove, and Joe was offered the chance to do something dangerous, he would not hesitate to raise his hand and gear up for anything.
This wasn't the first…or the last time…that she would have this thought. And now, with the nightmares of her and Liam out at sea, floating near an enormous, intimidating warship, unable to hold on to a lifeline, and Joe above them, professing his love as they drifted away, was almost more than she could bear.
A week had gone by since the incident in the canal and the crew of the Gulf began to slowly recover from the stress of what proved to be the very first combat most of them had ever seen. Despite the fact that the crusty old veterans aboard insisted that the Suez Canal skirmish was a non-incident, Joe knew that this minor engagement was somehow a prelude to an upcoming major event in his life.
Calen had recuperated from his wound, and when he was well enough, he was taken by medevac to a U.S. base in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Joe wasn't exactly sure when, and if, he was going to see Calen again, but knew somehow that this war wound was going to go a long way toward reeling him in dates for at least a couple of years. Knowing Calen, the story would be so over-embellished that, by the time he told it Stateside, the two dozen gunmen on horseback would become two hundred scimitar-wielding Arabs on stampeding war elephants.
The helo deck was just getting dark as dusk was upon them. It was Christmas Eve and the sailors packed the deck in lounge chairs, sipping eggnogs, and watching Full Metal Jacket as it was projected on the side of one of the hangars.
Joe was stretched out next to Dominic, Sexton, Hahn, and Schmidt, the latter two arguing over whether Gomer Pyle was a Navy recruit or a Marine.
Dominic stared down through slitted eyes at a postcard, the photograph on the opposite side showing the regal Great Pyramid at Cheops.
"Who's that from?" Joe inquired curiously.
"What…this?" Dominic asked suddenly as he waved the card. Joe nodded. "Um, actually, this isn't even mine."
"What?"
"It's, uh –" Dominic stammered as a large grin crossed his face. "It's actually – yours!" With that, he passed it quickly to Sexton.
"What? Mine?" Joe asked as he looked at the postcard in Sexton's hand. "Is that really my card?" he requested of Sexton as the freckle-faced recruit stared at it.
"Yeah," the young sailor confirmed.
"Well, what the fuck?" Joe shouted as he laughed and lunged for the piece of mail. Sexton held the card in the air away from Joe, who wrestled with him to retrieve it.
"Sexton, c'mon…just give it to him," complained Hahn as he craned his neck around them to see the movie.
"Yeah, c'mon, Sexton," Schmidt put in, "…it's not like you can read it anyway."
The others laughed as Sexton shot a glaring look at Schmidt.
Joe grabbed the card and sat back down into his seat.
"Holy shit, it's from Calen!" Joe exclaimed with glee. "Guys, it's from Calen."
"Dear Huggy-Bunny!" joked Dominic in a high-pitched voice, drawing some general giggles.
"Holy shit, Calen," said Joe again.
"Yeah, we know who it's from, Pigz," Hahn commented dryly as he chewed on a Twix bar. "We read it already."
Joe stared at the others as they laughed.
"You all read it?" he replied. They nodded as they watched the screen. "You're all a bunch of dick-wads, you know that?" Joe began to read the postcard to himself.
Suddenly, Sexton excused himself to use the bathroom and the others began chuckling. The "me-love-you-long-time" Asian hooker scene was beginning and Dominic took the opportunity to chide his partner.
"Sexton, man, it's okay," he yelled after the departing sailor. "It's completely natural, dude! Don't be ashamed! Everybody does it, man!" Sexton was annoyed and quickly left the hangar area.
"Damn," Joe cut in as he stared at the postcard. "Must be nice." Looking over at Dominic and Hahn, he went on. "Take a fuckin' bullet, and then go on extended vacation to Egypt. What a fuckin' life."
"Yeah, man," Dominic agreed. "I wanna see the pyramids, too, but if I gotta get my shoulder blown to shit to do it, screw that."
"Hey, somebody go to the head and see if Sexton is spankin' it," Schmidt put in with a chuckle. Hahn shook his head and pointed to the screen.
"Do you mind?" he hollered. "I can't hear anything they're saying."
Joe turned the card over and re-read the message, smiling as he did so.
At 1700 hours, the Combat Information Center was quiet. Two RADAR operators were sitting before the equipment, monitoring the night skies through the range monitor. The large sailor, Slider, nudged the other smaller sailor, Crowley, with his elbow, nearly causing him to crash to the surface of the table.
"Wake up, asshole," Slider said to the other.
"It'd be an improvement," commented Slider with a chuckle. "I'm hungry."
"Whaddaya want me to do about it?"
"Let's go ask lieutenant if we can go get something to eat." The smaller sailor looked doubtful. "C'mon, it's Christmas, for Christ's sakes! Nothin's goin' on."
"Yeah, whatever."
The two rose from their consoles and walked across the office to the Tactical Actions Officer, Lieutenant Emerson.
"Sir," Slider started, "there's absolutely nothin' goin' on. Could we take a quick break and grab something to eat from the mess decks?"
The officer looked at his wristwatch and consulted the time briefly before looking up and nodding.
"Make it quick, please."
"Roger that," came the answer as the RADAR twins deftly and rapidly departed the office and then made their way casually down to the mess, fully intent on grabbing a few smokes along the way.
Joe tapped Dominic on the arm and pointed to the screen.
"I love this part. It's so bad-ass."
"Yeah, Kubrick does that a lot: gets you laughing at weird shit, then does a complete one-eighty on your ass. All of a sudden, you're not laughing anymore."
"Listen to Gene fuckin' Siskell over here," Joe said as he cocked a thumb in Dominic's direction.
"I can't believe I'm watching war movies on a warship in the middle of a war zone –" Hahn began, but Schmidt continued.
"…during wartime...without war games…"
"…for Christmas," Hahn finished his original point. "Some crazy shit, huh?"
"The only thing better than this would be if we could times this by eight," Dominic added. The others looked puzzled.
A SEA STORY: THE UNTOLD STORY OF THE U.S. NAVY RESPONSE TO 9/11. Page 11