Since Hurricane Helene has stomped my area a new mud hole and I’m stuck at home waiting for work to get back up and running…. I’m pounding away at the keyboard working on these WWII books.
I’m hoping to get an immense amount of writing done during this time.
And hopefully not finding myself unemployed soon.
So, here. A very rough excerpt from the beginning of Trample the Weak.
***
1945
Yuehan Island
Pacific Ocean
“I’m sure you’ve heard this by now, but this little blip of an island is called Yeuhan. Which doesn’t mean shit to us filthy knuckle draggers. All that does matter is that it has got an airfield and a beach. And your job today is to take this portion of the beach.” Our Commanding Officer said as he smacked his long thin pointer against the map and dragged it along the black and white images of a jagged shore beneath a towering cliff face.
We were all cooking under the hot sun on the main deck of an LST that rocked slightly gently on the waves. I blinked sweat out of my eyes and tried to pay attention to what I’d already been briefed on.
“And men…” he took a drag of his cigarette before continuing, “you’ll have your work cut out for you. This is the only large enough beachfront property that we can land a force big enough to take the island. The Japs know it too. They’ve prepared for this day for months. And we aren’t going to keep them waiting.” He pointed at several of us standing near the rear. I did my best to look nonchalant for the men under my command. “Trust your Officers and NCOs. Keep your heads down and your rifle barrels hot.” He grinned evilly before flicking the cigarette stub over the side of the ship. “And live to fight another day.”
We were crammed on top of the landing ship, attempting to listen to our part of the plan to take the island from the Japs. The boat would rock violently to the starboard as the USS Johnny Reb rhythmically pounded the island with artillery barrages. Large waves from the destroyer would slam against us. But we didn’t mind. Hopefully those explosive rounds were sending whatever little yellow bastard that carried our names on his bullet to hell before he could pull the trigger.
The ship rocked again, and the CO swayed effortlessly along with it. Behind him, on both port and starboard sides, the crewmen of our LST began lowering the four Higgins boats that it carried. Those little treaded boats would be taking us ashore.
I felt a shiver run up my spine that I promptly ignored.
Damn things were like a tin can. And we were the sardines crammed inside it.
The CO brought another cigarette to his lips and let it dangle there, unlit, as he surveyed the young men gathered before him. “Most of us have been together a long time, Marines. And we ain’t done yet. But we’ll get to Tokyo soon enough. One dead Jap at a time.” He jerked his head downwards in a curt nod. “Now you sons of bitches got a job to do. Get to it.”
With a chorus of yells, the men stood and began picking up their gear. Being the first to hit the shore meant we didn’t have to worry about bringing much. Just weapons and explosives.
Lots of them.
Reverend bumped my arm with his elbow and gave me a grim nod. “Just another sunny day, Corporal.”
“Aye, Sergeant,” I told the former bible thumper turned Platoon Sergeant as he slung his Thompson over a shoulder and patted his pockets down to make sure he had plenty of grenades.
He was an optimistic sort. I wasn’t.
And with the deep-set frown etched on my face, I moved forward, stepping briskly towards where the portside Higgins boats hit the water with a large splash. The first one was marked NC1325. That’d be my platoons.
My fireteam flowed to me, the three other men moving in unison while shouldering weapons, cracking jokes and making boisterous small talk as we walked together through the couple hundred other uniformed men crammed on board the small personnel carrier.
We stopped at the ships edge as a pair of Navy sailors hurled a thick cargo netting over the side then struggled with a tangle halfway down. They looked frustrated and strained against the heavy ropes while trying to shake it out.
“C’mon pal, we haven’t all day,” Private Mack, my best friend and rifleman in my team, told the closest sailor with a smirk.
The sailor shook his head but continued to diligently fight the netting until it was secured to his, and hopefully our, standards. He stepped back, looking us over as the first of Third Platoon’s Marines began climbing over the side and into the Higgins boat below.
I stared at him.
He was a fresh-faced youngster. Probably seventeen. The faintest of stubble on his upper lip, and a bad sunburn on his nose. He hadn’t been here long. He caught my gaze, looked me in the eye for the briefest of moments, then looked away quickly.
I knew what he was seeing in return.
And it wasn’t pretty.
I’d been born ugly, and after my time in the Pacific, I was scarred up and burnt bronze from the sun like a good Marine ought to be.
The LST rocked as another wave from the USS Johnny Reb hit the starboard side. I heard a thud below and laughter from the men around me as someone below swore fluently.
Glancing over the side of the ship, I saw Dutch had fallen. Luckily, inside the Higgins instead of the ocean. The big man carried my teams heavy BAR, and the thin, squirrely kid helping him up was Henderson. Our Assistant Gunner. The ammo bearer.
I couldn’t afford to lose either of them. But it would have been an especially ill omen had we lost our BAR before we hit the beach.
And Dutch too, I supposed.
Reverend stepped beside me and watched the rest of our platoon load. “Just another island,” he said softly while slapping a Marine on the shoulder to urge him over the side and onto the rope faster. The poor bastard lowered the seventy-pound flame thrower he carried down the netting first, before swinging a leg over to climb down.
“And then the big one,” I told my Platoon Sergeant.
He nodded grimly. “Then the big one,” he repeated.
I pulled a faded, slightly crumpled picture out of my breast pocket. A beautiful girl from another time smiled at me. Her dark hair was draped loosely over her shoulders, and she was wearing the latest swimming suit, a two-piece that accented her features well. White with red flowers. Another flower, a purple orchid tucked behind an ear.
“Whatever it takes,” I whisper to her.
I slipped it back inside my pocket and looked up.
Reverend was staring at me, a frown on his usually happy face.
I ignore him, then grabbed the rope and climbed over the side. In a way, turning my back on him before he could say anything.
The thick intertwined ropes pricked my hands as I grabbed the laterals and placed my feet on the horizontals. It was the only way to keep your hands from being stepped on by the guy above you. They tell you that of course, but you never think about it until someone’s thick heeled boot smashes the joints of your favorite gun hand and scrapes a layer of flesh off right before a landing.
The net jerked and swayed like a bronco as dozens of men clambored down it around me. I did my part as well, trying to keep from falling into the boat, into the water, or worse, between the boats and getting crushed.
Helluva way to die in a war. But I’d seen it happen.
Dutch steadied me as I stepped off the tangles mess of rope and into the Higgins. “All aboard?” I asked him. He laughed, then slung his heavy Browning Automatic Rifle over his shoulder like it weighed as much as a hobo stick.
Water sloshed over the top from another wave as the boat loaded and sunk lower into the water from the burden of the men it was taking into its hull. A little splashed against my boot, and I looked down in disgust. Helluva way to fight in a war, with wet feet. But it always happened.
Private Mack nudged me with his elbow as we jostled and crammed ourselves into our positions on the small boat. “I’m scared Corporal, hold me,” he said loudly as was his pre-beach landing tradition. With a strong accent and the typical brash Yankee attitude, he was a tough kid from the Bronx that the Marine Corps gladly cultivated into a killer of men.
With a chuckle, I ignored him and tightened the cartridge belt around my waist. On my first beach landing, I was so nervous that I hadn’t cinched it well enough. Dang thing dropped around my ankles and tripped me as I was heading down the ramp.
Luckily there was no enemy fire that time.
But once I learned a lesson, I didn’t forget.
Glancing down at my forearm, I looked at the thin scars that covered my darkly tanned skin.
No.
I didn’t forget.
“Hold tight,” the driver warned. As if we had any opportunity to do so before we were thrust backwards in a tightly packed jumble as the tracked vehicle motored forward in the water. Diesel smoke billowed out from the engine, and I stifled a cough.
Dutch, my gunner rotated his head on his thick neck before glancing back at me with a sideways smile.
Shit, we were all trying to be brave.
But I could still smell the stench of urine puddling beneath my boots from those who hadn’t learned to empty their bladder and guts before going ashore.
I glanced down at my Garand. My knuckles were holding onto the wood stock loosely now. But I knew the moment the first round zipped by overhead; they’d go white with an iron grip.
LST NC1325 began pushing through the waves towards shore, joining dozens of other small boats like it. Packed full of good men intent on ill will.
I cinched my helmet on tight.
The closer we moved ashore, the closer the war came to us.
This was no naval battle; no Jap ships surrounded us with fire and damnation.
No, this was a bombardment of a tiny island that we were going to turn into rubble.
But that didn’t mean the enemy didn’t fight back.
There were still Jap planes in the sky, dog fighting against our own. Occasionally one would go down into the water in flames. Or worse, into one of the ships in a desperate attempt to take more of our lives.
Heavy shore-based artillery was firing back at our ships. From what we’d seen before, hidden behind thick closable doors to conceal and protect when not firing. They rained Jap hate on our distant ships.
And we all knew, the closer we got, the sooner the smaller batteries would target us.
From where we men stood, holding onto each other in a vain attempt to steady ourselves, we couldn’t see shit around us. But we could hear it and occasionally something large would slam against the hull, letting us know that we were moving through fields of debris and flotsam.
Then we reached mortar distance.
We could hear the explosions around us. Some close enough that water sprayed into the air and into our boats. Men inside cried out to God, or their mothers, or loved ones, while pissing their utilities and boots full.
The terror was all too real.
And I wasn’t hardened against it. My hands began to ache, and I saw my knuckles had gone white.
Once again, the war was approaching. Once again, into the fight. Once again, to deal death.
Overhead one of our planes burst into flames and dropped out of sight.
I glanced around, squinting at the burning sun.
No parachutes.
Reverend straightened from his position at the front of the boat. His neck craning with the rest of us to see if there were any pilot survivors. With a frown, he looked back at us then grinned suddenly, crookedly. “Listen up boys! You heard the CO. Killin’ Japs. That’s how we win. And remember, what we suffer through life, is rewarded in eternity! Remember your training. Take the beach. And stay alive.”
A mortar shell exploded to our right, narrowly missing us and sending water spraying in every direction. I dipped my helmet as salty sea water sloshed off it.
Now my M1 rifle was wet.
Bullets began slamming against the hull of the LST. Others, sounding like angry hornets, zip past overhead.
We were getting close to the sand now.
Another shell explodes. This time to the far left, hitting a boat full of men and sending body parts into the air in a splash of blood and fire high enough for us inside the Higgins to see. Those poor bastards never had a chance.
I can’t help it. I duck down more. We all are crammed in here like sardines in a can. And we all know that ducking won’t save us from a direct hit.
Nothing will.
Dense smoke begins billowing out of the motor of our boat. It took a round or shrapnel or something. Glancing back, I can see the driver’s mouth moving as he says obscenities, but there’s nothing to hear except the battle and chaos all around us.
Except for Reverend. He has his cross in his left hand, Thompson held in his right and is shouting a prayer for our survival and usefulness in the Lord’s service.
“Whatever it takes,” I mutter again to myself and remember the purple orchid tucked behind a pretty girl’s ear.
A mortar splashes again in explosion, this time from behind us. Hopefully, indicating that we’ve made it past that defense line.
The boat lurches as we hit sand beneath the water, the tracks spin for a moment before catching and we lurch again as it speeds ashore as fast as NC1325 will take us.
Overhead the buzz and zips of bullets flying past makes you wonder how you’ll survive once out of the meager protection of the boat.
Before we have a chance to even think about what to do, the ramp drops.
We see our first glimpse into hell as training takes over and Marines charge forwards through the hailstorm of bullets.
Pushing against each other, we rush out of the boat that’s become a death trap.
Mack is shouting obscenities in Japanese as we run down the metal ramp.
My boots touch beautiful white sand, digging deep under my weight.
I push forward while ignoring the screams of wounded and dying from the first men who came out of the boat. There’s no helping them.
Not for me.
That’s for the Corpsmen.
My job is to kill.
I half run, half trudge up the beach in a bent over crouch.
Bullets stitch the ground around me. Men fall, some screaming, others silently. Mortars detonate as they impact, flinging sand and body parts in the air.
The sound. My God, the sound of battle is overwhelming. I can’t even hear my own heavy, labored breathing.
But I can feel it as I push forward.
Unable to go any further, I drop to a knee behind a clump of rocks, my lungs gasping for air.
Looking backwards, I see that I’ve only run twenty-five yards. NC1325 has already begun returning to the get more men for the next wave. The damaged engine is still belching thick smoke, and I wonder if it will even make it back to the boat. There are bodies everywhere. I wonder how many of our men made it off alive.
Mack slams against the largest rock with an ooof and drops beside me. His eyes are open almost impossibly wide. I know I see in them the same horror and scared shitlessness that he sees in mine. He’s covered in white sand somehow.
“You’re late,” I growl. My voice is gravelly and my tongue thick like molasses.
“I tripped,” he admits, before grinning. “Still alive.”
“Still alive,” I mutter back as a bullet sends fragments of rock pattering off my helmet.
I squirm deeper in the sand.
Glancing down at my M1, I see splattering’s of shiny white sand sticking to it. If I survive today, I’ll have to clean it tonight.
Damn the luck.
Gritting my teeth, I push my helmeted head around the side of the gray and black pock marked rocks and see the cliff ahead of us. Amongst the wind and sea battered rocks tufted with chunks of grass and broken palm trees are machine guns, hidden and protected.
That’s our target.
Take the cliff. Clear the beach for more men to land. Kill the Japs.
A line of bullets stitch across the sand toward me. I jerk back as several lead slugs slam into the rocks, sending shards of rock flying like shrapnel.
Blinking stinging sweat from my eyes; I swear fluently. There’s barbwire ahead of us, which means trenches on the other side. Which means Japs.
“Are we where we are supposed to be?” Mack asks as he tries to clear the iron sight of his Thompson with an equally sand covered sleeve.
“Shit if I know,” I confirm bluntly while looking at the beach behind us. Weapons, gear, and bodies lay strewn all over the mortar pock marked ground. Fresh men are still rushing ashore, as boat after boat delivered its load of men and returned to the ships for more. As I watched a Marine is nearly cut in half by machine gun fire while rising from a shell crater to run. This beach was a death trap, we had to get off it.
Mack popped up, spraying at least half a stick magazine towards the cliffs as he takes a quick peek.
Snorting, I ask, “Hit anything?”
“No. They didn’t even duck.” He chuckles darkly. “Made me feel better though.”
“That’s what will win this war. Feelings.”
A BAR opens up from a sandy hole in the beach a dozen feet away. All I see is the top of a helmet and a little face behind a rifle stock, but I know it’s Dutch and Henderson getting into the fight.
It has to be.
Further down the cliff face a massive burst of flame rises from the ground and consumes the bottom portion of the rock face. Likely to low to hit the pillboxes chiseled into the rocks, but enough to make them worried I bet.
Rolling over, I draw my knees towards me and dig the toes of my boots into the sand.
“Make ‘em duck,” I tell Mack.
With a snort, he obliges and begins emptying another stick magazine of .45 rounds at the cliff opening shooting down at us.
I rush.
I trip from something in the sand.
I drop to a knee and swear and cuss and force myself to keep moving even though every ounce of my body is absolutely terrified.
Whatever it takes.
Without thinking, I leap over the barbwire and slam against the far side of the trench wall. Rough sawn boards and bamboo keep the five-foot-deep defensive position from falling in on itself.
A Jap stands before me. An Arisaka rifle in one hand and a clip of bullets in the other. He was reloading.
I jerk the Garand to my shoulder and shoot him.
He drops screaming and clutching at his side.
Another Jap is charging towards me. This one swinging a sword.
Throwing myself backwards, I pulled the trigger twice. The first-round hits him in the throat, ripping a large slash across his right side of his neck. A gaping wound that sprays blood as an artery is severed.
The second round buries itself somewhere in the trench wall opposite me.
Dropping his sword, the soldier clutches his neck. Blood squirts from between his small fingers.
I’m down to five bullets in my Garand, so I kick him in the chest and knock him down to shoot at the next soldier peeking around the tunnel corner.
A miss.
I steady my heavy, wooden stocked weapon. It’s an extension of my body. A projection of my will.
I fire and hit as the Jap slides his rifle around the corner. The gun falls to the sandy floor.
A sound, something barely noticeable, but there… behind me. Spinning I jerk my rifle around, preparing to butt stroke whatever Jap was trying to stab me in the back.
Mack is there. He landed in a crouch, more gracefully than I.
Then Dutch.
Then Henderson.
My Gunner and Assistant Gunner look flushed in the face. Their eyes are wider than shit, taking in every little thing to keep them alive.
It’s amazing how the body tries to keep us that way.
I look down at the Jap holding his neck. He’s dead. But the other, the one I shot in the side. He’s trying to crawl away from us.
Mack stitches several bullets across his back to finish him off.
I swallow hard.
Whatever it takes.
“We can’t get to that damned bunker. It’s too protected and tearing our men up,” Dutch was saying.
I glance at Henderson. Little skinny kid. Good arms for throwing. “Can you put a grenade in there?”
“Sheet. You get me a good sight on it, and maybes,” he drawls in his Texas accent. “But from here? Hells no.”
“Dutch, Henderson. Go left. Mack, with me. We’ll take right. Look for a way that leads into that bunker. Kill anything not us.”
It was such a cluster that separating wouldn’t mean much. Men were scattered all over the damn beach, dead and alive. The fact that my team was intact and together was a testimony to their skill and luck.
Garand gripped tight with my finger beside the trigger; I began moving forward with Mack beside me.
We killed a couple more unlucky enemy combatants before more Marines started pouring over into the trenches.
Reaching an end of the trench, it turned into the cliff face in an ominous shadowed opening surrounded by more razor wire on each side and a few crates of ammunition pushed to the side.
Bursts of gunfire erupted from the darkness, slamming into the sand and bamboo trying in vain to hold the shell hit side of the trench back.
Dropping behind a corner, I reloaded quickly, shoving an eight round En-bloc clip into the chamber of the Garand and smashing the shit out of my thumb in the process. My senses were so on fire that I scarcely noticed the black and blue nail being hammered by the bolt slamming home.
Pulling a grenade from my pocket, I flipped off the thumb clip, pulled the pin, and threw it around the corner and into the black opening.
Mack ducked and I turned away as the metal sphere of death exploded inside the tunnel.
Screams of pain echoed from inside.
My rifleman peeked around the corner. No shots were fired.
Nodding at me, he rushed forward with his Thompson at the ready. I followed him into the darkness.
***
Mack empties half a stick mag into the opening as we crossed the dozen paces into the tunnel.
His bullets hit, because as we entered the darkness, we weren’t killed.
Pressed against opposing sides of the shored up tunnel, we waited a moment as our eyes adjusted. Outside the sounds of battle were still extremely loud, but in here it seemed like we could communicate without shouting.
“Do we wait for the rest of the team?” Mack asked as another burst of heavy weapons fired from above us onto the men still storming the beach.
I make the decision.
“No time. We go.”
My rifleman drops the stick mag from the Thompson and inserts a fresh one.
Stepping over the fresh pair of Jap corpses, we move down the tunnel. It slopes steeply upwards, deeper into the cliff face.
There’s Jap signs everywhere. Discarded trash all over the floor, a couple of clips full of unfired bullets, small overlapping boot tracks, and still lit candles jammed into small hooks on the rock walls.
Creeping, we move on.
Just the pair of us in here.
But we had to silence the machine gun emplacement above us somehow.
A dozen feet further, and the tunnel splits. To the right, an abrupt turn that hides anything from that direction from us. To the left, small, chiseled handholds in the rock leading upwards like a crappy ladder.
I peer upwards, knowing that’s likely where we have to go. Passing off the heavy Garand to Mack, I open the flap holster on my belt and draw my 1911.
“Stay here, watch the tunnel,” I whisper to him before beginning to climb upwards.
It’s slow going, one hand and two feet. My right hand firmly gripping my pistol and keeping it pointed upwards into the dimly lit darkness.
It’s not far, but agonizingly slow going as I know Marines are getting chewed up on the shore still. The sounds of battle are dim inside the tunnel, but still echoes of madness from the outside.
There’s a trapdoor at the top. I can see thin cracks of light peeking through the boards.
On the other side, I can hear the heavy machine gun firing and Japs shouting whatever it is they shout when they are trying to kill us.
A fired casing rolls across the top of the trapdoor and slips between one of the cracks, dropping onto my shoulder than bouncing off.
Shifting myself, I press a shoulder against the door and lightly test it. It shifts upwards slightly, as though unsecured for some mind-numbing reason.
I try to guess how many of the enemy are on the other side. It sounds like a lot. More than I’m willing to take on with just myself and a pistol hanging on a rock wall.
Whatever it takes.
I make the decision and drop the pistol into its holster. Grabbing the heavy satchel charge that’s dangled off my body since the LST, I pull it over my shoulder. With one hand, there’s not much I can do with it. Not in the means of reducing the size of the charge inside. It’s all or nothing at this point.
I grab the ignitor and shove upwards with all my strength.
Too hard.
The trapdoor flies open, and a half dozen Japs surrounding a heavy machine gun are looking at me. The gunner isn’t though, he’s hammering away at the beaches still.
I don’t have time to even swear. I simply hurl the charge into the room and let go of the carved rock ladder.
The door falls on top of me as someone gets a shot off. It passes through one of the boards, smashes splinters of rock and zips off into the darkness below.
I fall.
Not far, but far enough to land on my back beside Mack.
“Run!” I shout while scrambling to my feet.
But he’s already firing his Thompson upwards. Splinters of wood are falling about us.
Grabbing him, I run, half dragging Mack with me and out of the blast area.
We make it several steps into the tunnel before the satchel charge blows in the gun emplacement above.
The explosion knocks us off our feet, sending the pair of us slamming against the carved rock walls and to the ground.
I blink.
There’s all sorts of dust in the air, and the acrid stench of explosives… and the smell of blood.
Coughing and hacking, I push myself upright into a sitting position.
Mack is already on his knees, one hand holding firmly onto his Thompson while he retches onto the ground. Bloody spit and sand hand from his mouth.
“Still alive,” he mutters as he looks over at me. “But bit the shit out of my tongue.”
“Where’s my rifle?” I ask, looking around and not seeing it. I draw the 1911 back out of its holster.
He points with his gun back towards the makeshift ladder.
With my free hand, I wave dust and smoke from my face and peer through the cloud.
There it is. Smashed under the remains of the trap door and what looks like the lower torso of a man. The barrel is even bent. It’s worthless now.
“Corporal!” I hear vaguely from behind us.
It’s Dutch and Henderson, running through the tunnel. The big Gunner is hunched over, his tall frame unable to stand in the Jap tunnel.
There’s blood splattered on Henderson’s face. But he doesn’t act like it’s his.
“We’ve taken the beach,” Dutch grumbles. Or at least I think that’s what he says, my hearing is all messed up.
“More Japs coming,” Mack shouts as he peers around the tunnel corner. He fires a small burst.
I pull a grenade from a pocket. The baseball shaped explosive feels good in my hand.
“Let’s kill them all.”
***
Gunpowder and Ink! 