The Corps 03 - Counterattack

by W. E. B Griffin

  Macklin felt sure service as a company commander would get him his long-overdue promotion.

  "Company commanders are captains, Macklin," Williams replied.

  "Company ‘C is commanded by a lieutenant," Macklin politely argued, "one who is junior in rank to me."

  "I’m not going to turn over a company to you at this late date. They’re a team now, and I don’t intend to screw that up by throwing in a new quarterback just before the kickoff," Williams said. "Sorry."

  Not only was what they were about to do not a football game, Macklin fumed privately, but refusing to give him the command was a clear violation of regulations, which clearly stated that the senior officer present for duty was entitled to command.

  Williams seemed to be one of those officers who obeyed only those orders it was convenient to obey. In this regard he had obviously been influenced by the Army paratroopers with whom he had trained. Macklin had seen enough of that collection of clowns to know that any resemblance between Army paratroop officers and professional officers was purely coincidental.

  They thought the war was a football game, and acted like it. Macklin had actually witnessed Army paratroop officers drinking, and probably whoring, if the truth were known, with their enlisted men in Phoenix City, Alabama, across the river from Fort Benning. If the Army’s 82ndAirborne Division was ever sent into combat, there was no question in Macklin’s mind that it would fail, miserably, to accomplish its mission. Discipline was the key to military success, and Army paratroop discipline was a disgrace.

  But insisting on his legal rights would not have been wise, Macklin concluded. There was no doubt in his mind that if he appealed to the proper authorities, Williams would be ordered to place him in command of "C" Company. But if he did that, Major Williams would from that moment just be looking for an excuse to relieve him. And being relieved of command was worse than not being given a command at all.

  So here he was, in a landing craft, about to assault an enemy-held beach, having been officially designated a "supernumerary officer." Supernumerary was a euphemism for "replacement"- an officer with no duties, waiting to replace someone wounded or killed.

  Meanwhile, the First Parachute Battalion, the "Chutes," was obviously being improperly employed, that is to say as regular infantry. The rationale for that was that there were no aircraft to drop them.

  Macklin personally doubted that. He had seen ships in San Diego loaded with partially disassembled R4Ds, for instance. Perhaps they were Air Corps C-47s, destined for China or Australia, as he had been told; but the planes were identical, only the nomenclature was different. If the senior officers had wanted to use Para-Marines, they could have gotten the aircraft somewhere.

  And if aircraft were truly not available, then the obvious thing to do was not commit the Para-Marines. It made no military sense to waste superbly trained men, the elite of the elite, as common infantry, sacrificing them in assaulting a beach on an island that had no real military importance that Macklin could see. It was only five hundred yards long and half that wide!

  What they should have done, if they really thought the island was a threat, was to shell or bomb it level. Not send Marines to throw away their lives and all their superb training to occupy it. All the Japanese were using it for was a seaplane base. By definition, seaplanes could be used anywhere there was enough water for them to land and take off.

  Probably the whole thing was regarded by the brass as a live-fire exercise, to give the Para-Marines a blooding and Naval Aviation some practice. Navy SBD dive-bombers had attacked Gavutu for forty minutes, starting at 1145.

  Ten minutes after the dive-bombers started their attack, the Navy started shelling the island, a barrage that lasted five minutes, causing huge clouds of smoke and dust to rise from Gavutu.

  Macklin reminded himself of what he knew of the explosive force of one-hundred-pound bombs and Naval artillery. It was awesome. It was reasonable to assume that, on an island only five hundred yards long, very few Japanese soldiers, much less their armament, could survive forty minutes of dive-bombing and an intense five-minute Naval barrage.

  Macklin was close enough in the landing barge to hear the Coxswain when he muttered, with concern and resignation, "Oh, shit!"

  "What’s the matter?"

  The Coxswain took his hand from his wheel long enough to point ahead, at the beach. Macklin was reluctant to raise his head high enough over the bow to look-doing so would make his head a target-but curiosity, after a moment, got the best of him. He raised his head, kept it up long enough to look around, and then ducked again.

  Either bombs from the dive-bombers or shells from the Naval artillery, or maybe some of each, had struck the concrete landing ramps used by the Japanese to get their seaplanes in and out of the water. Huge blocks of concrete had been displaced.

  The Operations Order called for this landing craft and the landing craft to each side to run aground on-the concrete ramps. But that would not be possible.

  Aware that his heart was beating rapidly and that his mouth was dry, Macklin considered the alternatives. The Coxswain could continue on his prescribed course until the landing craft ran into one of the huge blocks of concrete and had to stop. There was no telling how deep the water would be at that point; it was even possible they would be in water over their heads when they went over the side of the landing craft. If he had to jump into water over his head with all the equipment he was carrying, he would drown.

  There was a concrete pier extending maybe two hundred yards from shore. The Coxswain could run the landing craft against that, and the Marines could then climb onto the pier and run down the pier to shore.

  But, he realized with alarm, if the Naval artillery had hit the concrete ramps, it probably had hit the concrete pier as well. There was a good possibility that at least a portion of the pier was destroyed, and that it would be impossible to run all the way ashore.

  And in the moment it occurred to him that even if the pier was intact, anyone running down its length would be like a target in a shooting gallery for riflemen and machine-gunners defending the beach, the Coxswain throttled back his engine. A moment later, the landing craft grated against the concrete pier.

  Now it was quiet enough for the Coxswain to shout to the senior officer in the boat, the Captain commanding Able Company, "There’s debris in the water by the landing ramps; this is as close as I can take you!"

  Macklin could tell by the look on the Captain’s face what he thought of this news.

  "Everybody out of the boat!" the Captain shouted. "Follow me! Let’s go! Get the lead out!"

  He clambered up onto the side of the landing craft and from there onto the concrete pier, and vanished from sight.

  Lieutenant Macklin decided that in the absence of orders to do something specific (his orders had been, "Macklin, you go in with Boat Nine.") it behooved him to remain aboard the landing craft to make sure that everyone else got off.

  He did so.

  Then he climbed onto the pier, on his stomach, with his Thompson submachine gun at the ready. He heard the engine of the landing craft rev, and knew that the boat was backing away from the pier to return to the transport for the second wave.

  When he looked down the pier, the last of the Marines reached the end of it, turned to the left, and disappeared.

  There was the sound of small-arms fire, but it was, as far as Macklin could tell, the familiar crack of .30-06 rifles and the deeper-pitched boom of .45-caliber submachine-gun and pistol ammo. He had been told that the sound of the smaller-caliber Japanese small arms would be different. That means we’re not under fire!

  He got to his feet and began to trot down the pier toward the shore. Once erect, he could see Marines on the beach, moving inland through the vegetation and around the burned and shattered buildings of the Japanese seaplane base. He started to run, to catch up.

  Near the shore, he saw that his initial assessment of probable damage from the bombing and shellfire had been correct. A b
omb, or a shell, had struck the pier about fifteen yards from shore, taking out all but a narrow strip of concrete no more than three feet wide.

  As he made his way carefully across this narrow strip, he felt as if, in the same moment, someone had struck his leg with a baseball bat and slapped him, very hard, in the face.

  And then he felt himself flying through the air. There was a splash, and he went under water. There was a moment of abject terror, and then his flailing hand encountered a barnacle-encrusted piling. He clung to it desperately, to keep himself from slipping off and drowning.

  Then he became aware that his foot was touching bottom. He straightened his bent leg, and found that he was in water about chest-deep.

  Where the hell is my weapon?

  I dropped it It’s in the water. I’ll never be able to find it. Now what the hell am I going to do?

  What the hell did I fall over? I must have slipped. No. I was struck by something/

  He put his hand to his face. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

  My God, I’ve been shot in the face! I’ll be disfigured for life!

  And then he remembered the blow to his leg. He felt faint and nauseous, but finally gathered the courage to try to find some damage to his leg. He became aware of a stinging sensation. Salt water, he realized, was making an open sore-a wound! -sting.

  He couldn’t bend far enough over to reach the sting without putting his face into the water. Gingerly, he raised the stinging leg. He couldn’t feel anything at first, and only after a moment detected a swelling in the calf.

  But then he saw a faint cloud of red oozing out of his trouser leg-

  I’ve been shot in the leg! But why doesn‘t it hurt?

  Shock! It doesn’t hurt because I’m in shock!

  I’m going to pass out and then drown!

  A glob of blood dropped off his cheek into the water and began to dissolve as it sank.

  I’m going to bleed to death!

  Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed by Thy Name . . .

  What the hell is the rest of it?

  Dear God, please don’t let me die!

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . ..

  "Move your ass! Run!Run!Run!Run!Run!Run!"

  It’s the second wave!

  Now there was small-arms fire, single shots and automatic, and it didn’t sound like .3O-O6s or Thompsons, and then there was a whistling sound followed by a crump and then a dull explosion, and he felt a shock wave and then another and another in the water.

  "Get your dumb ass up and off the pier, or die here, you dumb sonofabitch!"

  He saw, vaguely, figures running across the pier above him.

  He found his voice.

  "Medic! Medic! Medic!"

  There was no response, and there didn’t seem to be any more movement on the pier above him. The strange-sounding-the Japanese -smalls-arms fire continued, and there were more mortar rounds landing in the water.

  "Medic! Medic! For Christ’s sake, somebody help me!"

  Now the leg started to ache, and his cheek. He put his hand to his face again, and the fingers came away this time with a clot of blood.

  "For the love of Christ, will somebody help me? Medic! Medic!"

  There was splashing in the water from the direction of the shore.

  It’s a Jap! It has to be a Jap! The invasion failed, and now I’m going to die here under this fucking pier!

  "What happened to you, Mac?"

  "I’ve been wounded, you ignorant sonofabitch! And it’s ‘Lieutenant’!"

  Fingers probed his face.

  "That’s not bad," the medic said, professionally. "Another half an inch and you would have lost your teeth, maybe worse. But you just got grazed. Is that all that’s wrong with you?"

  "My leg, I’ve been wounded in the leg."

  Fingers probed his leg.

  "That hurts, goddamn you!"

  "I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get you ashore. Let go of that piling and wrap your arms around my neck."

  "Ashore?"

  "Lieutenant, I’ve got badly wounded people ashore. Please don’t give me any trouble."

  "I’mbadly wounded," Macklin said indignantly.

  "No, you’re not. Your leg ain’t broke. You got one of them half-million-dollar wounds. Some muscle damage. Keep you out of the war for maybe three months. In ten days you’ll be in the hospital in Melbourne, looking up nurses’ dresses. Now come on, put your arms around me and I’ll get you ashore, and somebody will be along in a while to take you back to the ship."

  Lieutenant Macklin did as he was told. The medic carried him on his back to the shore, and a few yards inland. Then he lowered him gently onto the sand, cut his trouser leg open, and applied a compress bandage.

  "My leg," Macklin said, with as much dignity as he could muster, "is beginning to cause me a great deal of pain."

  "Well, we have just the thing for that," the medic said, taking out a morphine hypodermic. "Next stop, Cloud Nine."

  Macklin felt a prick in his buttocks, and then a sensation of cold.

  "I gotta go," the medic said, patting him comfortably on the shoulder. "You’re going to be all right, Lieutenant. Believe me."

  A warm sensation began to ooze through Macklin’s body.

  I’m going to be all right,he thought. I’m going to live. They’re going to send me to the hospital in Melbourne. It will probably take longer than three months for my leg to heal I will receive the Purple Heart. Two Purple Hearts, one for the leg and one for the face. There will probably be a small scar on my face. People will ask about that. "Lieutenant Macklin was wounded while attacking Gavutu -twice wounded when assaulting the beach at Gavutu with the first wave of the Para-Marines."

  I’ll be a captain for sure, now. And for the rest of my Marine Corps career, the scar on my face will be there to remind people of my combat service.

  (Six)

  Command Post, Tulagi Force

  1530 Hours 8 August 1942

  The headquarters of Brigadier General Lewis T. Harris, Commanding General of the Tulagi/Gavutu/Tanambogo Force, were now in the somewhat seedy white frame building that had before the war housed the Colonial Administrator of Tulagi, and was somewhat grandly known as "the Residence."

  Thirty minutes before, the building had been the forward command post of Lieutenant Colonel "Red Mike" Edson, commanding the 1stRaider Battalion. When the Commanding Officer, 2ndBattalion, 5th Marines, drove up to attend a commanders’ conference called by General Harris, the small detachment of Raiders charged with protecting the Raider command post were still in place, close to but not actually manning their weapons (rifles, BARs, and light .30-caliber machine guns).

  Thirty minutes before, the island of Tulagi had been officially reported "secure."

  There was a moment’s hesitation before a sergeant called, "Atten-hut!" and saluted the 2ndBattalion Commander. For one thing, he was hatless, riding a captured Japanese motorcycle, and was carrying a rifle slung over his back, which was not the sort of thing the Raiders expected of a Marine major.

  But the salute was enthusiastic and respectful. The reputation of the 2ndBattalion Commander had preceded him. It had been reliably reported that during the mopping-up phase of the invasion, the 2ndBattalion Commander had been seen standing in the open, shooting a particularly determined Japanese sniper who had until then been firing with impunity through a one-foot-square hole in his coral bunker. The Commanding Officer of the 2ndBattalion had fired at him twice; and when they pulled his body from the cave, they learned the sniper had taken two hits in the head.

  The story had been of particular interest, and thus had quickly spread, both because that wasn’t usually the sort of thing majors and battalion commanders did personally, and also because he had done it with an M-l Garand rifle. The Garand was supposed to be the new standard rifle, although none had yet been issued to the Marine Corps; and it was supposed to be a piece of shit, incapable of hi
tting a barn door at fifty yards.

  But there was no denying the story. A dozen people had seen Major Jack NMI Stecker stand up, as calmly as if had been on the rifle range at Parris Island or ‘Diego, and let off two shots and put both of them, so to speak, in the X-ring.

  There was also scuttlebutt going around that Major Stecker had won the Big One, the Medal of Honor, as a buck sergeant in the First World War in France. No one could remember ever having seen a real, honest-to-Christ hero like that. And as Major Stecker walked up the shallow steps to the Residence, two dozen sets of eyes watched him with something close to awe.

  General Harris was in his office, the Sergeant Major told Major Stecker, and he was to go right in.