The Old Breed

Chapter 58

Near Wana Draw, Okinawa

May 27th, 1945

"Fuck! I need covering fire!"

The wooden log in front of me pulsed as it took in bullets, bullets all around, forcing us to keep our heads down. I was lying in a shallow pit, too shallow to conceal me, a fallen tree doing that. The branches shivered and snapped as the bullets whizzed between and into them. I wanted to do nothing more than continue digging in, stuff my face down into the mud until everything around me faded away. But I had a job to do, and one I intended to carry out. The Marines around me did as I ordered, rifles, BARs, Thompsons, even Brownings opening up. I waited a second, listened for the sounds of bullets in the tree, heard nothing. I quickly scrambled up onto a knee. I scanned the deep, rugged cut ahead, the sides steep and rocky. Halfway up the side to the right, mostly concealed behind a pile of rocks, there was a small concrete structure, a bunker. It had a narrow, wide, black slit, where a machine gun was placed, the one that had been keeping our heads down. That and the bunker on the other side, both guarding the cut with preset overlapping fire. It was a deadly set up, and if the gunner hadn't accidentally fired too early, missing the point man by less than two feet, we might have all been wiped out.

Overlooking the cut to the left, a small wooden farmhouse sat abandoned, the front half caved in by artillery. I couldn't tell if there was an enemy position set up in there, but it seemed like a likely target, so I took note of it.

The machine gunner must have gotten his senses back together, began firing again. I dropped to the ground in time, bullets thudding into the log. I curled up, pulling my rifle to my chest. The bullets whizzed by barely inches above my head.

"Private! I need targets!"

I glanced backwards. In a shell hole barely fifteen feet back from me, a helmet was poking up, Lieutenant McCorkle.

"Bunkers! Two of 'em! Eleven and one o'clock, two hundred meters forward! Farmhouse, eleven o'clock high, two hundred and fifty meters!"

Lieutenant McCorkle flashed a thumbs up, disappearing back into the crater. I heard a sudden, "Where the hell did Hanley go!?" from the lieutenant. To my left, a Marine raised his hand slightly, making sure to keep it behind cover. He had one of the large boxy radios on his back, the wire poking up from behind the rock he was crouched behind. "Here, lieutenant!"

"Get your ass over here!"

He nodded, began getting up. He stepped out from cover. Another Marine grabbed his pack and yanked him back into cover as bullets spiraled past him. "Shit!"

"Suppressing fire!"

I poked my rifle out over the log, fired aimlessly, not willing to risk sticking my head out. I looked over to Hanley, who had again stepped out of cover. He didn't hesitate and sprinted towards the lieutenant, physically throwing himself down into the crater.

"This is Alpha 1-6 to Haymaker 0-4! Requesting fire mission. I need artillery fire on targets ahead. We have a farmhouse, ten o'clock high, two hundred and fifty yards out. Grid 096541. Send one willy peter. Will adjust, over!"

The shell took a few seconds to reach us, shrieking over our heads, exploding a good thirty yards past the farmhouse. It sprayed up a cloud of white burning gas.

"Drop thirty, over!"

The shell came in again, this time straight through the remainder of the porch, punching a hole through the roof before exploding. The wooden deck splintered, fragments flying into the air.

"Fire for effect!"

More shells came in, punching through the roof into the main part of the house, the walls shattering, the roof caving in, chunks of shrapnel arcing high into the air and into the cut. The entire farmhouse collapsed as the willy peter instantaneously burst the wood into flames, the fire bursting into the air, the cackle audible from this distance.