by J. F. Holmes
Takeshi coughed weakly, but as John listened, he realized his enemy wasn’t just coughing; he was laughing. Takeshi raised his head, only it wasn’t Takeshi’s face anymore. “Stupid… gaijin…” said the man, the rictus of a smile on his face. He took one final, rattling breath and slumped to the ground. John froze, a look of disbelief on his face as his world came crashing down around him.
“John.” Sam’s voice was urgent.
John motioned him away, desperately searching the body for some clue, some indication that this really was his target.
“John!” It was a hoarse yell, pitched low. John looked over at Sam. “The shooting outside; it’s stopped.” And then something growled from the front of the house, the eerie sounded echoing down the hallway.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” whispered Ham, painfully scrambling to shift his body so he could aim down the hallway. Sam slid to one side to give the other man a clear shot, and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. John looked desperately around the room for his trench gun.
A large shape limped into view at the far end of the hallway. It was taller than the door frame, and it had to bend slightly to get through. It growled again and took a step forward. Which was enough for Ham and Sam.
They both fired in earnest, emptying their weapons in a matter of seconds. The large shape at the end of the hall swayed, took another step, and then crashed to the floor, shattering several boards as it did so.
And the window behind John shattered as a body came flying through it.
It struck him full on, sending him crashing to the ground. He was pinned underneath it, and he struggled to get free. Another form leapt through the window gracefully, landing lightly on her feet in the room. She was barely over five feet tall, but her skin was red in the moonlight streaming through the window, and small horns grew from her forehead. Her eyes glowed a bright red, and a tattered and torn kimono hung about her.
Ham fumbled in his pocket, attempting to pull a fresh magazine out. Sam was rapidly thumbing shells into his shotgun, and John struggled to move the dead weight of the body off of him. She stalked forward to Sam and snatched the gun out of his hands with such speed and force that the friction burns on his hands made him cry out. Raising the shotgun, she broke it over her knee as if it were nothing more than a twig.
As John rolled the Marine’s body off of himself—he had belatedly recognized the poor private as he was struggling out from underneath him—she kicked the BAR from Ham’s grasp, sending it tumbling back down the hallway. He cried out in pain, cradling his right wrist in his left hand.
Struggling to his feet, he looked up to find the demon woman facing him. Her heart-shaped face, despite the horns and red skin, was still beautiful, with delicate lines and high cheekbones. Her long, black hair was in disarray around her, and seemed to wave about as if in a slight wind, despite the fact there was none. She stared him straight in the eye, smiled sweetly, and raised an empty hand toward him. He controlled a flinch, but then his eyes widened as she gently blew on the empty palm. A cloud of fine gray mist sailed forth to envelop his head.
Immediately the room faded away. Or rather, the room he was in faded, and was replaced by his own bedroom back in North Carolina. And he wasn’t facing the strange Japanese witch, but instead his wife, Anna.
His dead wife Anna.
She stood there, face still human, not the monstrous creature she had turned into, but a broken table leg still protruded from her chest, and blood spread across the front of her blouse. She was smiling sadly at him.
“John, why did you have to kill me?”
His mouth gaped open. He had no words for her. Just seeing her again, even like this. It wasn’t like his dreams, all terror and confused violence. Her face, whole again, human again. He involuntarily took a step toward her.
She nodded and held out her hand. “Yes, come to me, my darling. We’ll be together again, like before. Nothing will ever separate us again.”
Something in the back of his head was screaming at him, telling him that Anna was dead and this was a trick. Not real Not real Not real, his mind rattled at him, but his heart was breaking all over again. It made him yearn for her touch, to feel her skin, her lips on his…
He took another step. The pistol dropped from nerveless fingers, and his right hand started up, fingers stretching out to hers.
“You’ll have me again, John. No more nightmares. No more drinks. Just the two of—,” her voice broke off as the side of her head exploded outward, blood spraying into the air.
He seemed to come back to his own body as if from very far away. His bedroom fell away as if pulled from his vision, and the dingy living room in the Manila suburb reappeared. Corporal Oxborough, his face scratched up and with one eye a bloody mess, hung in the window, rifle braced on the sill. He smiled grimly, and it was a gruesome sight.
John looked back at the woman. She swayed in place and seemed to have difficulty focusing her eyes. He stepped forward and caught her as her knees collapsed, lowering her to the floor more gently than he would have thought. Thick, black blood continued to ooze from the head wound, and he could see pink and black brain matter through the exit hole.
“Where is Takeshi?” he asked with a quiet urgency, his voice hoarse.
Her smile was fading and her eyes unfocused, but at his voice she weakly turned her head in his direction. Her voice came out as a soft whisper. “She was very, very lucky. Not all of us are that lucky.”
He could feel tears on his cheeks now, and wondered how long they’d been there. One drop splashed onto her cheek, and he asked again, “Where…is Takeshi?”
“Men…always betray…and leave us. Always.” There was bitterness, even though her voice was soft and weak. Her eyes stared off into the distance, and the blood ceased oozing from the wound.
4
Manila, Philippine Islands, 8 December 1941
The cleanup of the scene took several hours, what with the injuries and deaths. Corporal Oxborough was the only surviving member of his squad. His eye was still intact underneath all the gore, just swollen and bruised. He would have a beautiful shiner for the next few weeks. Ham had a broken wrist and bruised right knee, and Sam’s hands looked like they’d sat out in the sun for hours.
On the advice of John and Sam, they burned the bodies of the Japanese agents and the two creatures. After the aerial bombings started later that morning, they figured one more smoke column wouldn’t be unusual. The Marines were loaded into the truck they had come in, and the rest of the bodies were left where they fell. Hopefully, with all the destruction the creatures had wrought, people would figure the house had been bombed or strafed.
Exiting the base hospital, the three officers watched the frantic damage control and repair efforts. “Welp, it’s finally kicked off.” Sam carefully placed his pilot’s cap on his head with bandaged hands.
Ham balanced next to him on a crutch. “Shit’s gonna be dicey here now. Ain’t too many who think we can hold off the Japs.”
John shook his head and said, “Not our problem now. We have to get back and make our report to the director. Especially since Takeshi got away.”
“Yeah, but he didn’t complete his mission, did he?”
Looking around at the burning wreckage and the smoke columns on the horizon, John mused, “Didn’t he? Doesn’t really matter, though. We got his spook. He can’t have too many on the payroll, can he?”
Slapping Ham lightly on the shoulder, he said, “By the way, sailor, pack your bags. You’re coming back to DC with us to give your part of the report. And join a new unit.”
Ham looked down at his leg and then around at the destruction the Japanese aerial attack had caused. “I dunno. Might be I’m safer here.”
Sam shook his head. “Stuck between heaven and hell, sailor boy. Better choose one.”
Michael Morton is a retired United States Air Force major, having served for 20 years and worked as am ICBM launch officer and in space operations. He currently works as an A
ir Force civilian at Air Force Space Command on the next generation of space command and control systems. He started writing fanfiction with friends and recently took the leap to publishing his work. His work can be found here on Amazon.
Devil Dogs
Chris Bast
The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the SILVER STAR MEDAL to
LANCE CORPORAL JONATHAN B. LAKE
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
For service as set forth in the following
CITATION:
“For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action against the enemy while serving as a rifleman, 3rd Platoon, Company C, First Battalion, Seventh Marines, Regimental Combat Team 6, FIRST Marine Division (Forward), I Marine Expeditionary Force (Forward), in support of Operation ENDURING FREEDOM from 13th July 2009. Lance Corporal Lake was the driver for the lead vehicle when they were struck by an Improvised Explosive Device which flipped the vehicle onto its side. Lance Corporal Lake began administering first aid to their turret gunner who was wounded by resulting shrapnel from the IED. During this time Taliban opened fire on the convoy and the stricken vehicle with overwhelming small arms fire and rocket propelled grenades. Immediately, another Marine was wounded, and Lance Corporal Lake again rendered aid. While stuck in the kill zone of the ambush, Taliban forces began maneuvering and closing in on the stricken vehicle and the pinned down Marines. Lance Corporal Lake, in complete disregard of his own safety, dismounted and employed the M240 machinegun from the disabled turret. By use of machinegun, hand grenades, and rifle, Lance Corporal Lake repelled the Taliban assault, resulting in seven enemy killed and three enemy wounded. By his bold initiative, undaunted courage, and complete dedication to duty, Lance Corporal Jonathan Lake reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.
FOR THE PRESIDENT,
Raymond Mabus
Secretary of the Navy
PART ONE
So yeah, that was my Silver Star citation. So many dry words that can never tell a story, but you get a reputation. That was before all this, though, before things got weird.
I’d deployed to Afghanistan before, back in 2009. That deployment had also been relatively quiet. We had a few incidents with IEDs and sniper fire; York even got a Purple Heart for taking a round in his bicep. We had one major firefight following a roadside bomb, and I thought I was as good as dead. I’d accepted death in that moment and figured it was the time to simply fight until something killed me. That second deployment was different though, and I’d have done anything to do my first one over again.
My name is Jonathan Lake, and at the time I was a twenty-one-year-old corporal of Marines who’d probably gotten promoted earlier than I should have. I had little experience as a squad leader, or even leading, for that matter. But when you’re given a Silver Star, officers think better of you. There were more suitable Marines for the job who should have been given the position. Instead, they made me a non-commissioned officer, then gave me twelve Marines to lead into combat. When I objected, my platoon leader and company commander dutifully laughed and attempted to encourage me about my abilities.
So what did I do? I took the position and immediately took a big bite of humble pie. I went to the team leaders and sergeants who had led me before, and I asked for guidance. Whatever words of wisdom they poured, I drank in mouthfuls. I must have filled an entire notepad with knowledge and expertise. When I tried to put those things into practice, there were successes and failures. I asked my Marines and my leadership how I’d messed up and how I could improve. It was hard work. Sometimes I failed miserably and got an ass chewing; other times, we shined, and I silently basked in the praise, knowing I’d tried my best and won. Soon, my Marines began to trust and respect me, not because I had the medal, but for my capabilities. For how I treated and led them. The squad became my family, and my weapon.
I managed the squad through the fire team leaders, and they in turn oversaw their individual Marines. I didn’t micro-manage; if a fire-team or a Marine messed up, I went to the responsible team leader. That gave the team leaders more freedom and responsibilities. It was a system based on trust and respect, and for us it worked. Lance Corporal Reid commanded the first fire team, Lance Corporal Evans the second, and Lance Corporal Petty had third. These three Marines were my counsel and spear. When I commanded, they pushed for mission accomplishment. When they brought me concerns, I listened and heeded their advice. This mutual respect became the foundation to our friendship and lethality.
Reid was always a joker. No matter what the environment or situation, Reid could crack a joke and make everyone laugh. He was a little younger than I was, and he’d also been with me at the ambush where I’d earned my Silver Star. We were close friends then, and he was always quick to call me on my bullshit or mistakes. It wasn’t out of spite or malice, simply because he cared. I’m certain if Reid hadn’t set the example, our squad wouldn’t have had the dynamic it did.
Evans was the oldest in our squad, twenty-four. He’d enlisted after working as a deliveryman for UPS. The job had kept him in his local area, but he knew there was more to the world. Evans was always level-headed and calm; he was probably a little more mature than the rest of us.
Petty was a character in his own right. He was a gambling man and self-proclaimed entrepreneur. Every matter of disagreement Petty would try to settle in a bet, and every week was a new business venture that was never fulfilled. Sometimes the behavior was an annoyance, and the phrase “wanna bet?” would make our eyes roll. But admittedly, Petty was a good Marine, and dependable.
These three Marines helped me keep my sanity on that deployment. It was now the spring of 2011. The second tour had been much like the first so far. Our area of operation was quiet and peaceful. IED threats were few and far between. We had an occasional spotter with binoculars and a radio, but it wasn’t enough per our rules of engagement for us to fire on. Patrols became known as nature hikes. Instead of hunting the Taliban, we conducted census patrols among the Afghan locals. When we asked them if they’d seen any Taliban, they simply shook their heads no. The activity around us indicated that as well. It was beginning to look like the end of the fighting in Afghanistan.
We trained the Afghan National Police, or ANP, so they could take over when we left. That was a nightmare. Most of them had absolutely no training or qualifications to begin with, not even a screening to ensure they were mentality or morally capable. Getting them to patrol with their weapons in both hands and not accidentally pointed at us was an accomplishment in itself.
As Marines, we hated this. I’ll admit it, I wasn’t itching for another gunfight. I’d seen and felt what that could be like. But I also wasn’t against it; that was why I’d enlisted into the Marines and became a rifleman. I wanted to fight. And so did my Marines.
Instead, we conducted more nature hikes into the villages, helped build a bazaar, talked to the elders, and handed candy to the kids. We once patrolled with rifles at a low ready and ever vigilant. But after three and a half months of nothing, complacency set in. I still trusted my Marines, we still acted and looked like professionals, but our rifles hung a little lower. Our minds wandered more while outside the wire. Sometimes we’d have open conversations and debates while in formation. Who had better chicken, Popeye’s or KFC? What console was better, Xbox or PlayStation?
When we weren’t on patrols, we lived in a tiny Tactical Checkpoint, or TCP. Made from a combination of an abandoned mud hut, HESCO barriers, sandbags, and wood planks of two-by-fours. TCP 2 lodged not only my Second Squad, but also our First Squad, as well a small contingent of ANP. Just enough Marines to keep out on patrols and post security at the TCP. Why we were numbered “Two” I’m not sure; the rest of our platoon was at TCP 4 a few kilometers away. There was no TCP 1 or 3, and the rest of our company was at a combat outpost even further away. We were pretty remote, standing alone and unafraid against our worst enemy,
boredom.
TCP 2 was planted firmly along one of the major roads of the area. However, for Helmand Province, Afghanistan, the standard for major road was relatively low. It wasn’t paved, just a hard-packed dirt strip, and just barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other as long as they veered to the banks. Our TCP’s main entry was adjacent to the road, surrounded by a mazework of spiraling concertina wire. The ANP manned the road and searched everyone coming up and down it.
Our Post One stood towering over the street and covered the area with a M240 medium machinegun. The post was wide and thick, with the protective barrier of HESCOs, sandbags, and cami netting. A second post, creatively named Post Two, was only fifty feet behind it in similar form. Its machinegun pointed in the opposite direction. Around the posts were built fighting positions that were used more for smoke pits and satellite phone conversations. Open farmlands surrounded us, and fifty meters away was the local bazaar we’d helped construct for the Afghans.
It wasn’t much, but it was home. When we weren’t on patrol or standing security, we smoked cigarettes, played board games or cards, watched movies on laptops, or slept. Our platoon sergeant, Gunny Alvarez, was with us and served as the TCP’s commanding officer. That allowed us to slacken some of our discipline. We didn’t shave constantly or worry about haircuts. We rolled our sleeves and never bloused our boots. In a twisted way, this was a haven from the rigid Marine Corps.
But we were still bored out of our minds. The only real danger we felt came from something the Taliban hadn’t laid for us. The dogs. The Afghan dogs were massive, territorial, and aggressive. The locals cut their ears and tails so they couldn’t be bitten or used against them in a fight. The Afghans called them Kuchi; we called them bears because of their size. If you came anywhere near one, they took up that tense stance dogs do and started barking and howling. We couldn’t turn our attention away from them—if we did and they charged, the dog could easily knock us off our feet. Then there was the risk of rabies or infection. I used to love dogs, but these things were just mean. Sure, they were great and protective of their Afghan family, but us they saw as the enemy.