The Old Breed

Chapter 30

Bloody Nose Ridge, Peleliu

September 19th, 1944

I hit the deck automatically, coral and dirt raining down around me, the explosions shaking the earth, roaring in my ears. Bullets were whistling by so close I could hear them over the mortar fire, prompting me to bury my face as deep into the ground as possible. I felt terribly exposed, raw terror building up inside. I was helpless to the deadly chorus of shells that rained down around me, bits of metal and coral clunking as it hit my helmet, more coming down on my sprawled out body. I opened my mouth and screamed, anything to try and balance out the din echoing through my brain, but I could barely hear myself. I knew I was going to die. Any second a shell would land on me, blowing me to smithereens. There probably wouldn't even be enough of me to bury. I made a desperate prayer to Jen, wished terribly that I could hear her voice one more time. I'm sorry. I promised you I'd come home. I'm sorry.

I could hear screams around me, terror stricken voices, pain-filled shrieks, someone trying to shout orders. I couldn't hear them over the explosions and even if I could've, I wouldn't have followed them, any movement too dangerous now. More bullets from the machine guns whistled directly overhead. I tried dig myself deeper into the ground.

One mortar landed so close I was physically lifted off the ground a few inches, hot stinging as tiny pieces of metal and coral cut into me. I landed hard, bit my tongue, a new wave of pain.

And suddenly the barrage was settling, ending as fast as it had started. Some mortar shells were still landing, although now few and far between. My ears were ringing badly, everything dulled and muted, the shouts around me like distant echoes. I tried to blink, my eyelids frozen for a moment, a result of the terror-induced paralysis that had overcome me during the barrage. Once my muscles relaxed slightly, I began blinking rapidly, everything off-focused, a small blur. I tried to roll myself onto my back, the movement exhausting. I gave up after only a few seconds. I gave myself a minute to regain my senses, my eyes focusing better, the ringing in my ears quieting slightly. I was able to make out individual voices now, although it still sounded like they were coming from the opposite end of a tunnel.

"Casualties?" someone was shouting, a commanding voice, Faherty's it sounded like. I could hear a large number of groans, curses, a few men screaming, knew the answer would be too many.

"Jesus, I can't count 'em, Sarge," another Marine called out. "There's too Goddamn many of 'em!"

"No one fucking moves," another voice, Egelhoff's, ordered. "Nips got machine guns trained over this whole ridge. No one else goes down, y'hear me?"

There were a few acknowledgements, mostly drowned out by the shouts of the wounded.

"Son of a bitch," the lieutenant continued. "Where the hell's the doc? And someone find me McGinn. I need that radio pronto."

I stuck my head up slightly, the flat ridge top, more like a plateau here, barren of movement except for the curling smoke and coral dust that floated up from the freshly made craters. I could see helmets and several prone Marines in shallow furrows and behind coral rocks, much too exposed. There was a low rise in front of me, just barely keeping me out of view of the ridges to our front. There was a Marine face down on it, his upper body bent down slightly towards me from the slope of the rise. He was curled slightly to one side, his arms both outstretched in the same direction. One arm was a bloody mess, more blood down his chest. His helmet was partially off his head, resting far to the back, exposing his full face and his hairline. I felt sick, recognized the young Marine. Private Cook. The replacement who had barely begun to make his debut as a combat Marine. He should've been behind the lines, safer, at this time would probably be cleaning up from a sloppy lunch for the Marines there. Now he dead from a mortar, a lucky hit for the Japs, unlucky for the young replacement. I tried to imagine the kid with an apron on, holding a big steaming pot, could only see his bloody dungarees now, the almost serene expression on the kid's face that contrasted so sharply with his bloody demise. I'm sorry, Cook. I'm sorry.