John W. Dennehy

JURASSIC WAR

A Novel

This book is dedicated to my father who served on Guadalcanal during WWII.

Ashore the only indication of life came from the billowing flames of the gasoline fire.

— Lieutenant Colonel Evans Carlson on Leaving Makin Atoll.

One

Akinari Tanaka clutched his rifle tightly as he marched prisoners along a dirt road that parted the small atoll. A superior private, his collar was adorned with red patches and three gold stars. Four privates assisted him, carrying their rifles at port arms, boxing in the prisoners. The guards were called Hetai on the Japanese mainland, the Emperor’s foot soldiers.

Neither of the two naked men that dawdled along the muddy lane presented signs of a threat. They were simple people, local natives, and not prisoners of war.

Tanaka questioned to himself the reason for their capture, but he did not voice his concern. He took orders and was promoted faster than others due to his loyalty during recent combat service in Manchuria. When the Jun-i (warrant officer) had instructed Tanaka to assemble the armed guard and lead the prisoners from the makeshift stockade to the hill beyond the old Government House, Tanaka felt that three soldiers would be suitable. The Jun-i demanded otherwise; he wanted more soldiers on the working party. He commanded the garrison, and, as a warrant officer, served as its highest-ranking soldier.

Somehow, the captured natives held significant value. Escape was not acceptable. He selected his friend, Osamu, to complement the security detail. Osamu was loyal to him, the most senior of the four privates; pudgy, and like the others, he’d never experienced combat.

A light rain stippled Tanaka’s khaki uniform, and mud caked his boots and kicked up on his puttees, wrapped tightly around his lower legs in a crosshatch pattern to provide protection from the jungle environment. Two of the privates had bayonets affixed to their Sanpachi 38 (Arisaka) bolt-action rifles. Pushing the captives along with jabs to their shoulders, a few thrusts hit with force, drawing blood and cries of pain.

He told the soldiers to cease injuring the prisoners at once. The Jun-i had instructed Tanaka to deliver them without harm.

Everyone settled down and became more alert as they turned onto a narrow path.

Slowly ascending a hill, Tanaka scanned the dense foliage. Fetid odors of decayed vegetable matter wafted through the humid air from the jungle floor. Something moved within the canopy of tropical vegetation. It almost seemed to be trailing them.

A chill ran up his spine, despite the humidity. He halted and shouldered his rifle.

The remainder of the caravan moved ahead, while Tanaka discerned the situation. He doubted the Americans had landed, but they were fighting on islands nearby, so he couldn’t be sure. Tanaka had greater concerns about natives trying to rescue the prisoners.

Maybe they will try to free their tribesmen? He wondered.

A large palm frond ruffled, and a shadow moved through the dense brush. Smaller than the size of a man, Tanaka breathed a sigh of relief and started after the others.

Just a large lizard, he thought, picking up his pace. But it seemed very large.

The column crested the hill, and Tanaka lost his breath as he closed the distance. He topped the plateau and a great expanse of ocean came into view. Soldiers formed a semicircle in a clearing. The Jun-i stood in the center with a Gocho (corporal) beside him holding a samurai sword. His commander motioned to bring the prisoners into the center of the circle.

A lump grew in Tanaka’s throat. His pulse quickened, but he directed the captives as ordered. Two privates stepped forward and knocked the natives to their knees. Osamu glanced at Tanaka, askance. And then, the Jun-i waved the guards off, and Tanaka’s men stepped aside.

The Gocho advanced upon the kneeling captives. His corporal insignia had silver stars, which shimmered in the grey light reflecting off the blade of his sword.

Both prisoners knelt on the grassy knoll, as raindrops pelted their bare shoulders. Countenances frozen in helplessness met Tanaka’s eyes. Their grim faces were locked in a mixture of agony and disbelief.

With feet planted slightly more than a shoulder-width apart, the Gocho raised the samurai sword and swung with lightning speed. The blade sliced through the back of a prisoner’s neck and the victim’s head lopped off, falling to the ground with a thud. Blood spurted from the cleaved opening, dousing the damp grass.

A smell of copper drifted from the body. The remaining prisoner screamed in terror and tried to stand up, as his tribesman’s corpse teetered over to the ground, headless.

Privates shoved the recalcitrant prisoner back to his knees.

As he wailed in misery, the Gocho whirled the sword through the air in a skillful demonstration, then increased the arc and swung downward fast. The head dropped off so quickly the agonizing scream was immediately followed by a plop in the grass.

Within a moment of the decapitation, the ground rumbled. Then it trembled.

Soldiers broke for a path leading downhill toward the beaches on the northern side of the atoll. Tanaka wondered if the fallen natives had called upon their ancestors to avenge their deaths. He regretted leading them to their demise.

Another tremor on the ground, and Tanaka followed his comrades.

Descending the steep embankment, the ground above Tanaka shook violently. Then, the unmistakable sound of something massive treading upon the plateau came to a halt. Stillness was followed by a predatory roar.

And then, the menacing sound of chomping echoed from the sacrificial site. Clamor of snapping bone and tearing flesh drove Tanaka to run, until his lungs burned, and his legs wavered like rubber.

He only slowed when he was a safe distance away. Yet his pulse still raced with fear.

Down by the water’s edge, on the northern side of the small atoll, Tanaka caught his breath and settled his nerves. He questioned the practice of killing a prisoner, and he wondered about what kinds of creatures lived on the island.

Tanaka stood on the water’s edge, where the blue Pacific kissed the pristine sand of Butaritari Island, the largest of the Makin archipelago.

Two

On August 17, 1942 at 0300 hours, Private First Class Randell Dawson ambled single file down a narrow passageway aboard the submarine Nautilus. His unit reached the metal ladder and Dawson nervously awaited his turn to go topside. Fully loaded in sixty-five pounds of combat gear, the Marine Raiders were going to make headlines, with the first official special operations raid in United States military history.

He clamped a hand around the cool, steel crossbar, then placed a boot on the lower rung and began climbing toward the open hatch above. Mechanical fumes choked his breath.

Marines paused before scuttling onto the miniscule deck, holding up others on the ladder. When he finally popped his head out of the submarine, a deluge poured from the pitch-black sky. He breathed in the fresh, salty air. Large waves broke against the hull, and disorganization and turmoil were discernable on deck. A company of Raiders disembarked into rubber boats. Each craft held a ten-man unit, comprised of three rifle teams of three marines and a unit leader. Several marines battled miserable elements, slipping on the wet deck and struggling in the darkness from being cast overboard, while crews of sailors worked to line up the rubber boats.

Dawson hung close to his unit, making sure he didn’t get sidetracked in the fray. He worried the boat would launch without him.

Staff Sergeant Williams led the unit. He walked across the deck, surefooted, as though accustomed to ambulating over metal doused by rain and seawater. Then, he hopped down into a rubber assault boat and waved to the men. All three rifle squads were lined up in order.

Jenkins climbed into the boat and set up his Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) on the bow. A 7.62 mm cartridge, the rifle fired 500-650 rounds per minute. His team circled around him, with Private Knight toting a Thompson automatic machinegun, and Private First Class Miller holding an M1 Garand semi-automatic rifle. The next squads loaded into the boat carried similar weapons and lined up on either side of the assault craft. Dawson joined them, sitting in the back of the boat with his rifle gripped tightly against his chest.

His fire team fell in around him. Private Bishop toted the BAR, and Private Collins had the Thompson machinegun. Private First Class Wells tucked in beside Dawson’s team, with Private Anderson holding an M1 and his team member’s BAR. An African American, Wells had begun his training at Montford Point, rather than Parris Island. He’d excelled and earned a place in the prestigious Raider battalion.

Private James “Mudhole” Merrill started the 6hp Evinrude engine and steered the rubber boat toward an assembly area as waves washed over the bow. Mudhole got his nickname because he’d forgotten to fill his canteen before a forced march and drank out of a puddle to quench his thirst. A sergeant coined the term and it stuck.

The boat pitched in rough seas and the downpour hindered visibility. Camouflage selected for the mission also made it difficult to observe the task force of twenty boats. Almost ninety Raiders had sailed aboard the Nautilus, while slightly over a hundred marines, the remainder of fleet marine force, had traveled in the Argonaut.

Pulling further away from the Nautilus, Dawson could barely make out the silhouette of either submarine in the dark night.

Many of the Raiders wore black-dyed uniforms and affixed scraps of burlap to their helmets, disrupting the round outlines. The remainder wore standard issue olive-drab, planning to smear mud on themselves after hitting the beach. Fleet command hadn’t yet released the lightweight Frog Skin battledress camouflage planned for fighting in the Pacific theater. Still, Raiders were highly trained commandos with the best equipment and tactics in the United States military. The units were formed with the expectation to perform special operations and function like British commandos and Chinese guerillas.

A group of black rubber boats collected near each other. Rain glistened off the smooth surface, helping to spot the various boats. Dampness crept into Dawson’s sinus cavity. It was difficult to determine who was piloting each boat or differentiate Able Company from Bravo Company of the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion. The boats pitched aimlessly in the choppy waters of the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Ocean.

Approaching the flotilla, murmurs passed from boat to boat. Dawson huddled next to his rifle squad wondering if the mission would go according to plan. Private Bishop held the Browning automatic rifle ready to fire, and Private Collins gripped his Thompson machinegun tightly.

“This doesn’t look good,” Collins muttered.

Dawson couldn’t see his expression. “What do you think is happening?”

“Hard to tell. But there’s a lot of commotion coming from the brass.”

A few boats were clumped close together, undulating in the choppy waves. The commanding officer’s beak of a nose stood out in the occasional slivers of moonlight that cut between the rain clouds.

Lieutenant Colonel Erik Carson gesticulated toward the large Makin atoll.

And then, Dawson heard the pounding of breaking surf before he glimpsed the obstacle between them and the beachhead; enormous waves. He figured the harsh conditions might wreak havoc on their landing. The situation looked grim.

“Maybe they’re thinking about calling it off.” This from Private Collins.

“I don’t think so.” Dawson shook his head. “Likely they’re refining the plans.”

The pounding surf added to the commotion, making it difficult for him to hear anyone other than his squad. Dawson knew that calling it off was not a likely option. Allied forces had taken a beating in the Pacific theater and they desperately needed to win a battle to bolster morale and gain more support back home.

“Let’s just hit the beach and get on with it,” Bishop finally said.

“Can’t just rush in there.” Dawson swallowed. “Once we land and start taking fire, there won’t be time to revisit planning. Have to do it before we hit the breakwater.”

“Naw, that beach doesn’t seem all too dangerous.”

“Coming from a lead swan, a Missouri boy. The surf is mighty dangerous.”

“Dawson, you grew up in New England. What do you know about rough surf?”

He sat up, peeved. “Know more about the ocean than you.”

“Says who?” Bishop was hunkering for a fight, with anyone.

“Let’s just focus on the enemy… and not each other.”

Through the light reflecting off the water, Dawson spied a sullen look in Collins’ eyes. He wondered if the young lad was up to the operation. Many of the Raiders were fresh recruits, taken from outstanding candidates in the fleet Marine Corps divisions, but also the standouts in basic training. Collins hadn’t been tested in combat by any means.

And Bishop was so bloodthirsty for battle, it caused Dawson pause. He could see Collins freezing up under fire and getting someone killed, or envision Bishop making a brash move, and getting a bunch of people killed, unnecessarily. Dawson understood the risks when he signed up, but now thinking of his fiancée back home made him concerned about dying a senseless death from another’s mistake or failure to carry out his duty. For reassurance, he tapped the metal tin in his breast pocket, housing a letter to Mary back home.

“When we hit the beach,” Dawson finally said, “you two are going to do exactly like I tell you.”

“Why, because you outrank us?” Bishop sneered.

“Precisely. Because I outrank you both.”

“I’ve been in service almost as long as you.”

“When you get promoted, you’ll get your own squad. But for now, you report to me.”

As Bishop turned away, Mudhole hit the throttle and steered closer to the three boats pitching in the middle of the flotilla, where the brass had set up an expedient command post. He cut the engine when they got a couple of boat-lengths away and drifted toward the closest raft.

Staff Sergeant Williams nudged his way toward the bow. Then, he leaned over and grabbed hold of the next boat, speaking to the brass about next steps as voices carried off in the wind, indiscernible.

Raiders murmured in the cockpit, wondering about the new instructions. Bishop started in again. “I bet we head toward the lagoon.”

“Quiet!” Williams looked back and glared at them.

Bishop swallowed, and the other marines broke off. Then, the staff sergeant spoke to the commanding officer further. A discussion that sounded in a whisper and drifted off in broken segments, so Dawson couldn’t make any sense of it.

A moment later, Williams groped his way toward the center of the boat.

“Listen up!”

The boat undulated and pitched Williams to the side. He fell over, then straightened up and grabbed hold of the line that encircled the rubber boat. “There’s been a change of plans.”

“No kidding,” Bishop muttered under his breath.

“We’re going to land both companies at the same beach. Our beach. This is going to cause some distraction as two units with different objectives will land in the same spot, commingled on the beachhead.”

Dawson figured the change didn’t affect them much. They would land in the same place, then carry on with their assignment.

“We’re all going to land on the main beach. And before dawn breaks, we move forward with our objectives.”

And there he confirmed that it was only a slight change of plans. Everything would move ahead as anticipated, except both companies would land on the same beach. Dawson noted the various rubber boats bumping into one another. The rough seas and heavy downpour made communication difficult. Raiders were passing the revised orders on to each other, boat to boat. Now, they just needed the go ahead to move towards shore.

They waited in the boats, laden with marines, weapons, and ammunition, as the rain beat down on them. Rubber boats drifted on the current and the landing beach was no longer in direct view. Hurry up and wait, Dawson thought.

Finally, the command boat gave the go-ahead and Mudhole pulled the ripcord and the Evinrude spat back to life. He turned the throttle and the boat plugged ahead, with the pointed bow plying through thick waves. Ocean spray cast into the boat along with rainwater. The bottom of the raft puddled with water. All the Raiders were soaked to the bone, long before they’d alight from the assault boats.

Wilson’s unit motored through the middle of the armada. Dawson could see the boats on either flank. Every unit within view appeared focused on the beachhead, steering straight for the landing zone, with all Raiders watching the coastline.

Only a grim image of the atoll reflected in the darkness, with the spattering of sand and whitecaps at the breakwater, and an ominous silhouette of the jungle overhanging the beachhead.

Soon, the bow shot upward, and the boat twisted, almost knocking marines overboard. Fifteen-foot waves. Dawson snatched onto the line running around the boat with his right hand and held on for dear life. He squeezed the M1 Garand tightly to his chest with his free hand, making sure not to lose the rifle in the pitching, turbulent waters.

Another surge launched the raft into the air. When it came down, the boat raced ahead, accelerating along with the breaker, rushing toward shore faster than the little motor could propel the small craft. The situation felt out of control. It appeared to be one of fate with nature rather than poor seamanship.

Dawson understood the boat could capsize at any moment. They might lose their weapons and then be mowed down by an entrenched enemy. Marines could easily drown and become noncombatant casualties. The boats were too small to handle the surf and the engines weren’t powerful enough to plow through the breakers unfettered.

As the boat chugged up a steep wave, a few marines pulled out paddles and gave the craft further assistance. They muscled the boat over the crest and it plunged downward, speeding ahead. Dawson held on for dear life and the island came into view. An ominous sight with dark vegetation sprouting from the atoll, draping a canopy over the sandbar, like the hood of the grim reaper, personifying death to all who approached.

He gulped for breath as dread consumed him. Mudhole cut toward the left of the landing zone, and the boat cruised over choppy waves, missing the greater part of the breakers. A moment later, they were close to touching down. Then, a Raider disembarked from the boat. Plunging into the water, he grabbed the line and waded toward shore. He pulled the boat along with him.

The rubber bottom scraped on sand, and other members of the unit piled out. Dawson stood and lost his balance as the boat slid onto a small beach. He fell on his rear and scrambled to get upright, while scanning for muzzle flashes from the tree line.

No hostile fire came from the jungle. A stealth approach, they’d come in surprise.

The boat slid further onto shore and whapped against some vegetation. A member of another rifle squad, Private Knight, rose to his feet and placed a boot onto shore.

Suddenly, the Raider cried out in agony and flailed wildly.

Knight was on the ground. He squirmed and kicked.

Dawson peered around Knight and saw a lizard the size of a turkey biting the marine’s arm. Stepping onto the beach, he trained his rifle at a menacing yellow eye and squeezed off a round at close range.

The creature squealed. It dropped to the sand, kicked, and hissed, and then rolled onto its side.

After a series of convulsions, the lizard gave a final kick, and defecated. A horrendous stench permeated the damp air.

Then, Dawson knelt by the fallen marine and inspected the wound. A large tear in Knight’s upper sleeve revealed an alarming injury. Teeth marks encircled the entire arm, leaving deep punctures in the flesh. Surprised at the thought of lizards with teeth, Dawson inhaled and reached for his first-aid kit. He cleaned the jagged cuts.

“Hurts like hell,” Knight complained.

“Just hold on while I wrap it up.”

“My right arm, too.”

Dawson tightened a bandage around the arm and tucked it off. “This should take care of it. Continue on with your squad, but if you can’t carry out your charge, fall back and support the command post.”

Knight nodded and rose from the ground and ran after the others.

Stepping away from the boat, Dawson peered at the dead lizard on the ground. It stood about a foot tall and measured over three feet from nose to the tip of its tail. The creature had stout rear legs and puny appendages on the front, appearing more like a set of hands with claws. The thing clearly walked on its hind legs, and had a long tail and jutting snout, filled with sharp teeth. Its greenish skin reflected in the pale moonlight as rain beaded off the creature’s thick hide. A yellow eye stared at him, gleaming in the night. Locked in a state of death, the eye seemed to cast a sense of anger and intelligence.

Dawson had never seen a lizard with sharp teeth before. He’d been warned that the islands were inhabited by strange giant lizards, but command reported they were all harmless. Striking the hide with the butt of his rifle, it felt solid, like protective armor.

He realized it had been unfortunate to fire a shot and announce their arrival. Dawson considered how long it would take the enemy to mobilize. And he wondered how many more strange lizards were on the atoll.

A sinking feeling grew in the pit of his stomach as he pondered the forthcoming battle with tropical elements. They would fight more than the enemy on this uncharted island. He patted the metal tin that housed his letter home, shoved into the breast pocket of his utilities. Writing to his fiancée had always comforted him during training. He hoped to write more letters, but he penned the most recent one as though it would be his last.

Rain pelted his steel helmet. Then, he turned and spotted a massive calamity washing up on the beachhead.

Three

Randell Dawson’s first letter to his fiancée was written over a period of several days, during the initial weeks after he first reported to Marine Corps basic training. It was drafted on stationary embossed with the Marine Corps logo: an eagle, globe, and anchor. And it had the words United States Marine Corps written in the top right corner with Parris Island printed beneath. Postmarked from Savana, Georgia.

Mary,

This is the first chance that I’ve had the opportunity to write. Our drill instructors are very intense, and training takes place seven days a week, from hours before dawn to late at night. And that’s how it is right now. When we first got to the island, the receiving barracks during processing didn’t provide for any quiet time. Then we got placed into our training platoons and now we get an hour a night, but most of that time is spent preparing for the next day, cleaning boots, rifles, and ourselves. Upon arrival here, they shaved our heads completely bald and kept us up for a few days without sleep. Now, we get about 4-5 hours of sleep a night. But last night I had fire watch, so I only got 3 or 4 hours. Seems like I’m tired all the time.

Everything is done fast here. So, I just move fast and try to stay out of trouble. You’ve got to get dressed fast, and pretty much hustle during every waking hour. The Marines want to remain the nation’s elite fighting force. We get two second-hat drill instructors and a senior drill instructor. But in the first phase, they throw in two more. Five drill instructors. Ain’t like that in the Army. You have to do things correctly, and if you make a mistake, they make you do it again and again until you get it right. We even get punished when someone else makes a mistake. They yell a lot. But it doesn’t bother me too much, and I move fast without making too many mistakes, so I stay out of trouble for the most part.

Sometimes it feels like prison, only worse, because you can’t talk except for free time, even during meals. You can never scratch an itch. The DIs don’t let you move unless instructed to do so. You have to sit up straight and walk erect. We march all the time, drilling with rifles, over and over. My heels ache from pounding them into the pavement, the way they make us march, like shock troops. They seem to want to break you. And a few guys have dropped out already. I guess about only half the platoon will make it to graduation. Hope that I can hack it.

I’ve got about 70 days left here. My first physical training test is tomorrow. I should do okay because I ran track in high school. The food isn’t too bad. But we live in an open squad-bay, so there’s never any privacy. Even the bathroom toilets are open.

Hope you are doing okay. I hadn’t heard from you in weeks. But then we had mail call and I got 4 letters from you at once. Guess they held it back until we got situated in our training platoons. Please note the address that I put on the top of this letter. The old address that I gave you when I left won’t work anymore. You have to address me as Recruit and not Private. They won’t hand out mail if it is addressed with a rank. They say you have to earn the title of Marine before being addressed by a rank. Let my mother know, too.

Your letters were emotional. I almost cried. But didn’t. You can’t cry in a place like this. People would think you’re weak and not fit for combat. It’s taken me three days just to write back with this one letter, as we have so little time. We don’t get access to phones, either. I would very much like to talk to you, but they don’t allow it here. And I doubt that I’ll ever get to make a call. I’m sorry. So, this will be it, just letters.

I meant it when proposing to you before shipping out. We should get formally engaged when I come home before I go to my next duty station. Looking forward to getting through this so we can be together again. Even if it’s only for a short while before I head overseas.

Love,

Randell

****

The response letters came in waves, postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Sometimes two or three at a time, reflecting that they were written daily and got caught up in a mail processing center. This letter was a keeper.

Randell,

I just got your letter. I was hoping that you’d send one. All I wanted was to read at least two words from you. I started crying when I read it because I was so happy to finally have some kind of communication with you. I needed to know that you are okay. I miss you, too.

Every day I wonder what you’re doing and what you’re going through. Last night on the evening news they had a story on Marine Corps boot camp. It sounded very challenging to say the least. Hopefully, you’ll get time to tell me all about it. All I know is that you’ll give it everything you’ve got, and more. I know that you’ll make it through. I’m always thinking about you and wondering what you’re doing.

I can’t picture you without any hair! I try, but I can’t quite imagine it. Everything is so strange. You’re off doing something completely different from everything that goes on around here. I’m here doing the same old things. Just trying to finish up my last year of high school. I’ve got a part time job helping to sell war bonds. Just trying to do my part.

It’s pretty lonely without you, but I try to keep myself busy. My aunt and uncle came by and we all went over to my brother’s house to celebrate my sister’s birthday. That was a great time and my brother’s young daughter is soooo cute. I’m sure that you don’t want me thinking about babies right now. But she’s adorable.

Every time the phone rings, I think that it’s you. Then I remember that it’s not going to be you. They don’t let you make phone calls, right? But I get tricked for a moment, often. I really can’t wait to hear from you. Tell me what you’re doing. You don’t have to write a lot, I don’t care. Anything is great.

All my love,

Mary

Four

Tanaka woke at the sound of a rifle blast and sat up in his bunk. Others lay asleep or stirred groggily, uncomprehending of the threat. Rain danced on the thatch roof. He wondered if he’d heard it correctly. The sound continued to echo in his ears, and he figured a rifle had fired in the distance, so he hopped down to alert the troops.

“The Americans are here!” he bellowed, running from bunk to bunk, rattling the beds.

Foot soldiers sat up and looked around in disbelief. The island was wrapped in a blanket of silence. Many of them shook their heads and laid back down, while others perched up, waiting for instructions from a higher-ranking soldier.

“We have to move out, now!” Tanaka dressed quickly.

“You are on edge from Manchuria. No Americas here.” This from Hirano, another superior private, who clearly had not heard the shot.

“I awoke to a rifle blast. You slept through it.”

“You are hearing things.” Hirano waved Tanaka off and rolled over to sleep.

Tanaka pulled his boots on and grabbed his rifle.

Several fresh recruits looked bewildered. They respected Tanaka’s experience in battle, and, as soon as Osamu sprung from his bunk, many others followed. Every one of them dressed quickly and rushed to assemble outside the barracks.

Wind from a raging storm ruffled their uniforms and a deluge poured down on them.

All the commotion caused others to stir. The Gocho ran from his quarters holding a sword in one hand and a Nambu pistol in the other. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded of Tanaka, motioning with the pistol toward the assembled soldiers.

“The Americans have landed.”

A wide derisive grin spread across the Gocho’s face. “Not likely. Our forces have them pinned down on Guadalcanal. And we would know if ships approached here.”

“But I heard a shot.” Tanaka panted for breath.

The Gocho canted his head and looked at the others. “Is this true?”

All the soldiers stared back, dumfounded.

“Well, have any of you heard this shooting?” The Gocho turned serious.

They shook their heads in unison. Even Osamu couldn’t support the report.

“Seems you have woken us all for no reason.” Gocho laughed.

“But I did hear a shot.” Tanaka spread his hands, pleading.

The Gocho stared at Tanaka deprecatingly. “Your time in Manchuria has left you spooked. Let us get back to our beds.”

“Halt!”

Everyone turned to find the Jun-i rushing from his lodging. He wore trousers, boots, and an undershirt, while brandishing a pistol.

“We have a misunderstanding here,” the Gocho said. “Nothing more.”

“No. I heard the shot, too.” The Jun-i nodded. “Service in Manchuria has left him alert.”

Tanaka felt redeemed, but he didn’t smile because the situation couldn’t afford a moment of relief or pride. Instead, he gave a half bow toward the Jun-i.

“Where did the shot come from?” The Jun-i looked at Tanaka.

“There was just one shot. I believe it came from the beach near the lagoon.”

“Believe?” The Gocho rolled his eyes.

“Send a patrol down there to check it out.” The Jun-i told Gocho. He shook his head as if dismayed, then turned and headed back to his warrant officer quarters.

The Gocho approached Tanaka. “You lead the patrol and report to me with the result. Take a radio with you. It was probably just a native hunting in the night.”

“Understood.” Tanaka nodded.

Turning to the assembly of privates, the remaining foot soldiers hustled from the barracks, obviously having heard the Jun-i confirm that a shot had been fired.

All the senior infantrymen loaded into the back of the only transport truck. Tanaka climbed into the front passenger seat and a private slid behind the wheel. As the truck grumbled to life, the driver cut on the headlights. Some junior soldiers got onto bicycles and peddled down the muddy lane with rifles strapped across their backs.

The truck pulled out and headed toward the beach with the soldiers under protective covering from the elements. Grasping his rifle tightly, Tanaka didn’t believe they would encounter natives.

He readied himself for a deadly fight.

Five

First Lieutenant Peterson led a unit of Raiders onto shore exactly where they had planned from the get-go. His boat pilot and team had positioned on the far-right flank of the flotilla, ready to move into action. They hadn’t gotten the word for a change in plan, and focused on the rough seas, never discerning they were breaking off and going at it alone until touchdown.

Their rubber boat cut around to the right side of the island and escaped the worst of the breakers. It lunged into the air, rolling over a steep wave, then shot toward a beach in a small cove. His pilot cut the engine and the boat glided toward a pebbled shore. Rain pelted them.

Two marines hopped from the craft into knee-deep water and hauled the boat onto the beach. A shot rang out from the distance.

“Guess the others are under attack,” said Private Owens.

Peterson listened intently. “You’d expect heavy automatic weapons fire. We just heard an accidental discharge.”

“So, they’re not under attack?” Owens pressed, toting a Garand.

“Not just yet.” Peterson shook his head. “But now the element of surprise is gone.”

The marines piled out of the boat and pulled it fully onto shore.

Assembling into three-man squads, they inspected their weapons, wiping off the saltwater as best as possible. And then, they checked over their gear and spare ammunition and locked and loaded, ready for an attack.

Private First Class Tomko led the first squad, carrying a Thompson and plenty of magazines filled with .45 caliber rounds. Private Owens had the BAR, and Private Chandler had an M1 Garand.

The second fire team was led by Private First Class Goode, who always carried a Thompson. Bill Goode was known as a tough guy from down in Arkansas. He’d crashed a Model-T converted into a hotrod as a kid and had to have a skin graft below his right eye. The skin was taken from his chest and grew hair. Marines joshed him about shaving under his eye, until they got to know him better. Drinking beer and smoking cigars came as natural to the young man as waking in the morning. They avoided joking and teasing him, afraid of what he might do to them if set off. His team included Privates Davidson and Baker. He’d assigned the BAR to Baker and the M1 to Davidson, mostly because Davidson was a little chubby for a marine and quite fat for a Raider, the nation’s elite special operations unit.

Private First Class James led the third team. He followed after Goode and Tomko’s squads, carrying a Thompson. And Private Elliot carried the BAR, while Private Hall had an M1. James was a pretty boy with a couple years of college under his belt, so he worked harder than most to make up for all the jibbing directed his way.

Peterson scanned the tree line. He held a Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol. The jungle was denser than he’d anticipated, and so he searched intently for a path into the interior.

Given the small cove and calmer water, he expected the indigenous people would utilize it for fishing. But the night was dark and their approach by stealth did not afford the use of flashlights. “Come on,” Peterson said. “We need to get closer to the trees.”

“What if someone is waiting for us?” This from Private Chandler.

“They would already have mowed us down. Now, let’s get a move on.”

Private First Class Tomko took point and his rifle team followed behind him. Lieutenant Peterson stepped in behind the first squad to spy the way forward, and the other two teams fell in behind him, with James’s team bringing up the rear.

Lieutenant Colonel Carson favored the heavily armed three-man rifle teams over the four-man teams utilized by the 1st Marine Raider Battalion and standard Marine Corps infantry units. The Raider units were armed to the teeth for highly mobile operations, but they lacked the heavy firepower of regular infantry. Raiders were the amphibious counterparts to the Marine Parachute Regiments and were expected to complete reconnaissance and special operations by foot without the aid of tanks or trucks.

They moved across the open beach and a slight break in the foliage came into view.

“Hold up.” Peterson stepped from the column.

All his men froze with weapons shouldered and ready to fire.

Peterson spotted a path leading to the interior of the island. It reminded him of an old deer trail that hadn’t been used in some time, overgrown and barely visible. “This way,” he said, motioning for the unit to advance.

Stepping back into the column, he neared the jungle and something the size of a turkey whisked across the path. A mere silhouette in the shimmer of a moment, Peterson thought he’d glimpsed sharp claws protruding from its upper limbs.

He shook his head, befuddled. And then, he took a deep breath and advanced.

The unit moved into the jungle and the pungent stench of decomposing vegetable matter and foul excrement pierced Peterson’s nostrils. Rain drizzled through the jungle canopy.

He gripped his pistol tightly, growing more fearful of what might inhabit the secluded atoll other than natives and enemy soldiers.

Six

Dawson caught up with the rest of his unit and took point for his rifle team. They hadn’t incurred enemy resistance, but he hustled to assemble with the rest of their company. A shot fired on such a small island could be heard everywhere.

The entire Japanese garrison would soon be upon them.

When piloting their boat toward shore, Mudhole had advanced past the flotilla and steered left, where the unit encountered smaller breakers. They had crested a large wave and shot toward a patch of coastline near the lagoon. Now, the unit double-timed to the assembly area, and Dawson gleaned the havoc experienced by the rest of the landing party.

Several rubber assault boats were capsized and battering the shore. Raiders were doused in saltwater and rain as they scrambled onto the beach, collecting weapons and equipment. Others bobbed in the surf, fighting the riptide and pounding waves, and struggling to swim while weighed down with war-belts and weapons.

Approaching the catastrophe, Dawson spied a Boys anti-tank rifle washed up on shore. The thirty-five-pound weapon fired a .55 caliber round, capable of penetrating the armor-plating on a tank. He snagged hold of the barrel and hoisted the weapon onto shore beyond the reach of encroaching foamy surges. Then, he slung his rifle over a shoulder and waded into the water, grabbing hold of a marine struggling to right himself, coughing up lungs full of seawater.

Members of his unit pulled boats from the surf, and they helped get the afflicted onto the beachhead. He assisted the waterlogged marine onto shore and turned him over on his side. The young trooper coughed up seawater and gasped for breath, waving Dawson off, indicating he was fine.

Dawson plunged back into the surf and hauled another marine onto the beach.

Rubber boats plied through the breakers toward shore. The small Evinrude engines could not power through the steep waves. Marines had pulled out paddles and rowed up the breakers, then shot toward the beach, some flipping over, and others propelled onto shore. Dawson continued toting stragglers onto the landing zone.

Private First Class Miller led his fire team into the water, extracting marines and boats from the crashing waves. He was from Ohio and had run an auto repair shop before the war broke out. A little older than the others, he moved around the beach sure-footed and confident. Jenkins and Knight followed his lead without protest. Further down the beachhead, Private First Class Wells barked at Privates Mudhole and Anderson to pick up the pace. He stood on the edge of the water, waiting for his team members to get a boat on shore. Like Bishop in Dawson’s squad, Wells was not an able swimmer and seemed to be avoiding the water. He grew up in the piedmont area of North Carolina. Dawson had tremendous respect for the quiet man, who usually led by example. But when the time came for his marines to act, he wasn’t bashful about asserting himself. A drive to get the job done right surpassed any diffidence in his nature.

When the last of the boats hit shore, Dawson trucked across the beach, spotting his unit hunkered down near the command post. His rifle team stood out. They had opted not to don the burlap scraps of material on their helmets. Now, the round outlines of their steel pots appeared distinct in the night. He regretted merely smearing the green helmets with black dye. They stood out like a sore thumb, while the others blended with the foliage surrounding the landing zone.

“What’s the status?” Dawson said to Williams.

The staff sergeant shook his head. “Still waiting for the brass to tell us.”

“No sign of enemy troop activity?” Dawson was shocked at the lack of resistance.

“None yet. But that accidental discharge will have them on us soon.”

Dawson stared through the drizzle, uncertain whether he should speak. Even with the rain letting up, he remained soaked to the bone and uncomfortable. He wasn’t prepared to accept what he’d seen, never mind report it. Miller and Wells stood beside him, expectant like Williams.

“What is it?” Williams pressed.

“The shot wasn’t an accidental discharge.”

“Was it you?” Williams shifted closer. “Did you engage the enemy?”

“An animal of some sort bit Knight.”

Williams glanced around. His eyes locked on the young marine. “Is this true?”

Knight nodded and pointed to the dressing on his upper arm.

“What kind of animal did something like that on this tiny island?” Williams looked them over in disbelief. Not appearing to doubt their veracity, but more a reflection of the unknown conditions on the uncharted island.

Knight shrugged. “Some kind of angry lizard.”

“A lizard?” Staff Sergeant Williams looked bewildered.

“Maybe we landed close to its nest, or something,” Dawson offered.

Williams shook his head. “Command is going to ask for a casualty report… and I’m going to have to tell them about a vicious lizard.”

Afraid so, Dawson thought. He knew better than to speak further.

Then, Williams bustled over the sand toward the command post. A tight circle of officers had formed in the center of the landing party. Dawson heard murmurs from the brass, but he couldn’t discern anything specific.

Lieutenant Colonel Carson occasionally pointed toward the tree line. He clearly wanted the Raiders to penetrate the jungle and dismantle the Japanese garrison. They’d left with orders to defeat the enemy stationed on the island and destroy the infrastructure. Raiders went through vigorous training after being selected, including long forced marches, hand-to-hand combat training, knife fighting, and demolitions instruction.

Dawson grew tired of waiting. He wanted to engage the enemy and be done with it. The operation was planned to last less than two days. It would be a hit and destroy mission.

A moment later, Wilson returned with the news. “We’re going to sit tight a little longer. Some scouts will venture into the jungle, then Able Company will enter the interior, seeking out the enemy while on patrol to destroy structures and munitions dumps.”

“What about us?” Dawson didn’t like being pinned down on the open beachhead.

“Looks like Bravo Company will serve as a force in reserves. We’ll wait it out on the beach for a while, then maybe trail after Able Company.”

“Seems like Captain Roosevelt’s company will get all the action.” This from Private Bishop, all pent-up and ready to go.

“What do you expect when serving with the president’s son?” Williams shook his head and holstered his pistol. “It will be a while, but we’ll probably move inland and likely encounter the enemy, too.”

Dawson wondered what else lurking in the dark jungle awaited them.

Seven

A letter sent mid-way through boot camp reflected Dawson’s raised spirits about military training. His confidence grew and he began to appreciate his choice for the branch of service. Postmarked from Savana, Georgia.

Mary,

Hope this letter finds you well. Got your letters and they made my day. Hadn’t heard from you in a while, then three came at once. I’m glad that you feel the same way as I do. We can have a great life together. At times this place seems like the land that God forgot. Sometimes it feels like I am living in the doorway to hell. They seek to prepare us for the worst that can happen in combat. In doing so, they have made me disciplined, self-controlled, and highly motivated.

We will have means to be self-sufficient when the war is over. I know that we can be happy together and satisfied. It takes me days to write one letter because we have so little time. But you can write as much as you like. I will read every one of them.

You wanted to know what I do here, and I’ve avoided telling the details to keep you from worrying. We get up early every morning by means of the DIs yelling. We have to get dressed in less than ten seconds and make our racks in a blur. Failure to do so results in punishment. We march, drill with rifles, and march again. Failure to drill properly results in punishment. Then we eat and move on to training. Combat training, knives, hand grenades, machineguns. We also learn first-aid and about chemical warfare.

Everything here is mentioned in sea terms: the door is a hatch, the floor a deck, port side, starboard side, aye-aye sir. The quarterdeck is where they take you to get punished when in the squad-bay. Mostly pushups until you drop. DIs push recruits to their limits and then don’t let them rest. And push them some more. It’s where a number of recruits have snapped, had breakdowns, and were taken away. They will never become Marines. I just don’t quit.

They take the entire platoon to an area outside known as the “pit”. We get punished together. Pushups, sit ups, and mountain climbers, as well as jumping jacks and knee bends. We do all this, then start marching and drilling with rifles again. Your arms feel like rubber, but you keep going. The goal is to make us a cohesive unit. And the bugs here are horrendous.

I’ve made it through first phase, physical fitness testing, and swim qualifications. Recruits that can’t swim are called Lead Swans. Swim qual was easy for me because we grew up near lakes and the ocean. Now, we are in second phase with over a quarter of the guys already dropped out. Mostly the drill instructors stressed them by physical training and yelling. We’re out at the rifle range now and they are trying to weed us down further. Here, they make us roll in pricker bushes if we mess up. And they hit us with the butts of our rifles in the chest. Punch us and kick us. DIs dump our foot lockers and make recruits scramble to pick things up. You have to be tough to make it. The DIs are all tough sons-of-bitches.

I seem to be holding up, so you don’t have to worry. Moving fast and not making mistakes keeps me out of the line of fire. I’m in good shape and can shoot a rifle just fine. I don’t expect to get recycled. The book learning is fairly easy for me, too. Lack of sleep might be the hardest part. All part of training us for the fatigue and stress of protracted combat.

My thoughts are with you often and I know when this is through and the war is over, we can have the greatest life together, for us and our kids. As harsh as this place can be, they have an “Esprit de Corps”, an intangible spirit that lifts men up for the good of the group, and we have “Semper Fidelis” which means always faithful. So, I guess I have learned more about loyalty than I ever would have imagined. I will always be faithful to you.

Please don’t be sad about my being gone. This will end soon enough, and I’ll see you when I’m home on leave. We’ll win this war. Then we’ll get an apartment together and eventually a house and kids. You’re the one for me. And you’re the biggest thing in my life.

Love,

Randell

****

An encouraging letter came through with updates from home and support for Recruit Randall Dawson to graduate with his platoon. Postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Dear Randell,

I just got another letter from you and it sure made my day. I keep reading it over and over. It makes me happier and happier. All I can think about is how much I love you. You mean the world to me and you don’t have to worry about my breaking up with you during training, like some of the letters the other fellas get down there. I’ll wait as long as it takes for us to be together. One day this war will be over.

I have been very busy with school and working at my afternoon job selling bonds at the bank. Also, I have used the time while you’ve been away to get some organizing done around the house and to help my parents. They have been supportive about what you’re doing. Seems like everyone at school knows that you’ve gone off to the Marines. Everyone wishes you well, especially my family. I’ve spoken to your mother and it has been great, because we both have you in common. She was glad to hear from you and knows that you don’t have much free time to write. I am happy to fill her in. Someday she’ll be my mother-in-law.

One thing I really want to give you is a good life. We share the same goals and will make a fine couple. You mean soo much to me.

The first thing that I want to do when I see you is give you a great big hug and not let go for a while. Whenever I start to feel sad or lonely, I just read your letters and look at your pictures and it makes me happy.

I know that you’re doing this not only for yourself, but for both of us. And for your family and our country.

Love always,

Mary

P.S.: I was glad to hear that you’re doing well. And I’m glad that you’re determined to stick with it and give it all you’ve got. I know that you would never give up and I love and respect all your determination.

****

Randell stored all her letters in a safe place in his footlocker, which was kept padlocked shut at all times. He planned to cherish them forever. He wrote to her again further through training to update her on some favorable developments. Postmarked from Savana, Georgia.

Mary,

In the last few days, I’ve gotten a lot of mail from you. I am holding up much better now. Today we did PT all day long. We did circuit weight training, the obstacle course, a 5-mile run, and pushups till we dropped. This evening, my Senior DI came up to me and told me to put my utilities on. Then he asked for another volunteer, saying the he needed a motivated recruit. Another kid stood up and was told to get dressed like me.

We all marched out to the obstacle course to compete against other platoons in our series. The kid went first, and I was the anchor. The first group merely had to run through the course and touch the ropes. The second recruits through had to climb the ropes to the top. Easy to do when you’re fresh, but everyone was ragged from an exhausting day.

I waited and each first round of the other platoons tagged their anchor. My guy didn’t show. I waited and waited. He eventually came around with a busted thumb. So, I took off on the course, and when I came over the high wall, about halfway through, I noticed the others had already reached the ropes and had started to climb. I felt defeated and didn’t think there was a chance. I admit that I slowed down, thinking I couldn’t win.

My drill instructors screamed at me to never give up. Keep on fighting. I picked up speed and forged ahead. I reached the ropes quickly. I started to climb. Partway up, a guy slid down, giving up. This encouraged me. I climbed harder and faster. Another one dropped off. But I grew tired and stalled. My arms burning, lost in a death grip, I heard my Senior DI yelling. He was saying that I was the only one left. I looked around. Nobody was on the ropes but me. I strained and struggled to keep going up the rope. All I had to do now was reach the crossbeam and touch it. It was a race against myself at this point. And I didn’t plan to lose it. So, I kept going, inch by inch, everybody watching, intense. When I reached the top, I paused. And then I slowly slapped my hand on the beam for dramatic sake. My drill instructors were screaming with joy. The platoon went into a frenzy, cheering.

Later that night, my Senior DI told the platoon that I had perseverance. He said it was the hallmark of a great warrior. Not strength or speed, but the ability to persevere in horrible conditions against the odds.

We won the PT flag. Now, when we march, I carry the flag at the front of the platoon. Things are really going well and I’m fitting in with the guys. Feeling respected. Over halfway through and I can’t wait to see you. You shouldn’t be sad at my being gone. We’re coming down the home stretch. It is hard training here and I haven’t had the time to write as much as I’d like. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you or that my hopes for our future have changed.

You are all that I think about. My guiding light. I’ve gone to church a few Sundays here and there and pray that we can end this war and be together. Your letters make me happy and give me encouragement to press onward.

Love always,

Randell

Eight

Tanaka watched the soldiers on bicycles race down the desolate lane, as the troop transport barreled along at speed with headlights shining on the closest infantrymen.

Soldiers had rifles slung over their backs and would take a moment to move into action before they could fend off an American attack. Tanaka didn’t like the minor level of preparedness the Imperial Japanese Army had utilized on the atoll. Movement from the roadside disrupted his thoughts.

A stout creature bolted from the jungle and collided with a soldier on a bicycle.

The bike fell over and the private toppled to the ground, as the beast chomped madly at the soldier’s side with ferocious teeth. Horns protruded from above its eyes like a bull, and the creature stood about eight meters, resembling a Carnotaurus, which Tanaka had studied in grade school. It likely weighed over a ton and a half.

Wails of pain and fright echoed over the rumbling truck engine. The driver braked hard and swerved to the left in an attempt to avoid the creature. Tanaka braced for an impact, placing his hands on the dashboard.

The dinosaur spurred into a frenzy. It chomped at the exposed flesh on the soldier’s neck, tearing meat and feasting upon the raw corpse.

Wheeling to the side, the right front of the truck collided with the beast, and a large tire crushed the fallen soldier’s chest. The truck lurched to a stop, thrusting the occupants forward and back. Tanaka flew into the windshield, cracking the glass into a spiderweb, then he jostled back into the seat, landing askew with his rifle dropping to the floorboards.

Shaking off the impact, he reached for the Sanpachi 38, and opened the door.

The meat-eating bull rose from the ground and staggered, then regained its balance and turned towards the truck. Rain pelted off its green scales. Tanaka jumped down from the cab and landed in mud. He raised his Arisaka rifle, firing at the dinosaur’s massive hide. A bullet dug into its scales and caused the beast to pause, like reacting to a bee sting and nothing more.

Firing off another round, the bullet’s impact had a similar effect. A futile effort.

Impervious, the dinosaur charged like a stampeding bull. Rage fueled its pursuit. The creature’s heavy feet pounded into the muddy lane.

Left with few options, Tanaka dropped to the ground and rolled under the truck. Wet muck saturated his uniform. The Carnotaurus plowed into the passenger side door. A massive ding resounded down the lane, and the truck rocked up on two wheels, then dropped back into place, as the dinosaur bounced off the truck, stumbling backward from the blow.

Soldiers in the rear of the transport hollered in confusion. The dinosaur shook its head and let out a massive sneeze. It stepped back, as though contemplating the situation. Then, it sniffed the air and lowered its head, spying Tanaka under the truck.

Rolling further away, Tanaka sought to put some distance between himself and the creature. His pulse raced with dread.

A moment later, it sniffed the air again, as a cacophony emanated from the covered transport. Soldiers grumbled in confusion. Then, the distinct sound of an infantryman working the latch to the truck bed was followed by the clang of the gate dropping open. Boots slapped the muddy roadway as infantrymen alighted from the truck, ready to fight the enemy.

Tanaka rolled out from under the transport. “Get back in the truck!”

A volley of rifle fire erupted from Osamu and the other soldiers. The dinosaur winced, then stepped toward them. Tanaka ordered the infantrymen back into the transport. Rifle fire muffled his commands. It was already too late for the superior private closest to the creature.

The meat-eating bull pounced on him, tearing his guts loose; innards dropped to the ground like sausage links cast onto a butcher’s block table. Blood doused his khaki trousers and splattered on his boots.

The dinosaur feeding greedily was the only thing keeping the private standing.

Everyone froze in terror and confusion.

Tanaka ran toward the infantrymen, waving. “Back in the truck!”

A moment later, they piled into the transport and the truck rolled away from the scene. Tanaka ran along the driver’s side and hopped onto a running board. He looked back and saw the soldier lying prostrate while the Carnotaurus devoured him.

Tanaka scanned the roadside for more predators, as the truck rumbled closer toward the invaders along the coastline. He wondered what other monsters lurked in the jungle.

****

After the transport arrived at its destination near the lagoon, Tanaka ordered his troops to disembark from the truck. He trudged through the bush and spotted the Americans’ fortifying positions on the beachhead. Snipers quietly scaled the palm trees ready to fire upon the intruders. Then, he radioed the Gocho, and reported the situation.

Kneeling beside a machinegun set on a tripod, he helped the gunner by feeding an ammunition belt into the weapon. Two makeshift machinegun nests were situated along the tree line, where they could riddle the Americans with 7.7 mm rounds, fired from copies of the infamous Lewis machinegun used by the allies. Superior Private Sato oversaw a machinegun nest, and Superior Private Hirano commanded another.

The conflict was about to erupt. And Tanaka braced himself for the engagement with the American invaders.

Nine

Dawson had just hunkered down with his squad when rifle fire erupted from the interior, a half mile away. He wondered if a unit of Raiders had penetrated the jungle and encountered the enemy. It wouldn’t be surprising to learn that a few assault boats didn’t get the change of plans. But the gunfire wasn’t accompanied by heavy automatic weapons.

Unsure of the situation, he expected a conflict to break out on the beach long before they entered the jungle. He watched Able Company entrench their fighting holes closest to the tree line. They were billeted to enter the interior and seek out the enemy first.

A light rain continued to fall, and the island remained cast in a blanket of darkness. With most of the landing party digging into the beachhead, the likelihood of Raiders chancing upon Japanese infantry inland appeared slim. The fight would come to them.

Dawson couldn’t explain the gunfire he’d heard, though.

“What’s got you on edge?” Collins said.

“Nothing in particular. Just need to be ready in case the Japanese arrive.”

“You’d expect them to run into Able Company before even reaching us.” Bishop shook his head and shoved a cigarette in his mouth.

“Hey, you can’t smoke out here,” Dawson said. “You’ll give our position away.”

“Not planning to light it until after the shit hits the fan.”

“Even then, it will make you a target. They’ll—”

A bullet dinged off the side of Bishop’s helmet, and everyone hit the deck. Another shot plinked off an ammo can and ricocheted into a marine. The injured man squealed in pain.

Dawson spotted the second muzzle blast. A sniper had climbed up a coconut tree and zeroed in on them. The Raiders burrowed into their fighting holes in the sand, but the fortifications were only designed to fend off a frontal attack.

Another shot rang out, echoing across the beach and nearby lagoon.

Someone else cried out in pain. Dawson moved into a seated position and slung his rifle around one arm, then tucked the butt tightly into his shoulder. He sighted his weapon. Then he squeezed off a round and the sniper dropped from the tree with a resounding thud.

Then, a shot resonated from another tree, and then another. Snipers had approached quietly and ascended the coconut trees. Dawson figured they’d trekked in by foot or bicycle. A truck grumbled in the distance. Headlights hadn’t shown through the dense foliage, so the driver must have cut the lights, but the sound of troops unloading from a transport carried across the beachhead. Minutes later a wave of machinegun fire erupted from the tree line, riddling the Raider’s positions.

And then, the marines returned fire with BARs and Thompson machineguns lighting up the beach. Immediately, snipers shot at the muzzle blasts and the Raiders took casualties.

Riflemen homed in on the snipers and managed to drop a few more from the trees. Their battalion was the only Marine Corps outfit that had been issued the new M1 Garand rifles. All the other marine units were still using the old M1903 Springfield bolt-action rifles. Lieutenant Colonel Carson had recruited President Roosevelt’s son and it had resulted in some favorable treatment in selection and acquisition of weapons and equipment.

A pause in the fighting allowed the Raiders time to reload, let their weapons cool, and to entrench further into the sand and dirt. Dawson peered over the berm of his fighting hole and waited for more machinegun fire.

Nothing else erupted from the tree line a hundred yards away.

Still, they waited for what the Japanese infantrymen planned next. Rain now sprinkled from an overcast sky and a sliver of moonlight shone on the battlefield. The surroundings appeared almost serene as waves splashed upon the shore and a tropical wind gust shook the leaves on various coconut and palm trees.

Machinegun fire ignited from the jungle, tearing up the sand, and boring into equipment strewn on the beach. And then sniper fire rained down on the Raiders dug into the sand, who were barely able to return fire.

The enemy launched a banzai attack. Lines of infantrymen charged across the open beach, firing rifles with fixed bayonets, and prepared to fight to the death.

Raiders returned fire, spraying lead from Thompson submachineguns at the swiftly encroaching infantrymen. Brass casings spit from the ejection ports, clinking spent rounds in the air, and muffling as they lobbed into the sand. Other marines blasted at the enemy machinegun stations with their Browning automatic rifles. The heavy rounds tore the enemy to shreds. And the riflemen carefully aimed their M1 Garands and took down charging soldiers one at a time. Spent gunpowder wafted in the drizzling early morning air.

Several marines tossed hand grenades at the approaching enemy troops. Explosions flared, and shrapnel tore Japanese soldiers to pieces. Shrieks of anguish flitted across the battlefield along with smoke and dust. Advancing infantrymen broke through the dissipating smoke unfazed and resounded their battle cry. “Banzai!”

Dawson squeezed off a few rounds, striking soldiers at center mass, hitting them in the chest with powerful bullets that stopped the charging infantrymen in their tracks. A shot impacted a soldier in the shoulder, spinning him around, and causing him to stumble.

Another soldier appeared from behind him, rushing madly at Dawson’s position, with bayonet fixed and shouting: “Banzai.”

Dawson aimed his rifle.

Pulled the trigger.

Click.

The magazine was empty, and the soldier was upon him, thrusting the bayonet towards Dawson’s chest. Dawson rolled to the left as the infantryman plowed into the fighting hole and speared the sand with the sharp blade.

Dawson reached for his stiletto fighting knife and grabbed the handle with the bottom of his fist against the hilt. He swung, outstretching his arm, and buried the blade deep into the soldier’s neck.

A slight moan was followed by a gurgling sound as the soldier keeled over. Removing the knife, blood spurted from the wound, pumping, until the moans and gushing streams ebbed, and finally abated altogether.

Reaching under the fallen soldier’s arms, Dawson heaved him out of the fighting hole and tossed him onto the sand, using the body for protection. He scanned for more hostiles, then ejected the clip and replaced it with a loaded magazine. Dawson raised the rifle and sighted in on an enemy soldier charging at marines positioned to his immediate right.

The shot struck the infantryman in the upper chest and hurled him backward, dropping him in the blood-soaked sand. Dawson spotted another soldier and shot him in the arm. Another round whistled from the left and slammed into the wounded man’s cheek.

A trembling hand reached for the wound as the soldier dropped to his knees. Then, a Raider with a Thompson machinegun riddled his chest, popping the soldier into a rhythmic death dance, until the man finally collapsed face first into the sand.

When the machinegun fire ceased, a lull fell over the battlefield; smoke dissipated, revealing the banzai charge as a failure. Dead enemy infantrymen were strewn everywhere in the sand. Raiders hooted and hollered all around Dawson’s position. He figured they hadn’t taken many serious casualties while putting down the attack. A feeling of encouragement slipped over him as confidence in the operation built with the successful stance.

Machinegun fire from the jungle ceased altogether. Foot soldiers retreated into the interior, and the marines occupied the beach alone.

A few minutes later, the tree line illuminated with penlights, beaming yellow orbs. Dawson gulped in anticipation of another wave of enemy attack. And then, a chill ran up his spine and dread constricted his lungs. Unable to breathe, he realized the enemy soldiers were gone.

Something else lingered on the edge of the jungle.

Ten

Tanaka had directed two waves of banzai charges at enemy positions. Both attacks ended horribly. Now, he questioned his superiors for insisting on such a futile tactic. Imperial foot soldiers had taken a lot of casualties without reinforcements arriving from the garrison. Their position along the tree line was not heavily fortified, and the Americans were dug in like ticks.

He’d decided to regroup at the garrison. They could establish a line of defense further inland, where his comrades would cut down advancing Americans under cover from the concealed canopy of the jungle.

“Let’s move out!” Tanaka had called to men on the left and the right.

“We should stay and fight.” A voice had responded from the end of the line.

“Now is the time to regroup. We are not retreating.”

Then, muffled voices sounded along the line, as troopers acquiesced and packed up their equipment. Soldiers slipped quietly away from the forward area. Moving swiftly down the pathways leading into the jungle, the Japanese infantrymen kept watch for an ambush from enemy scouts that may have pressed into the interior.

Tanaka slowed his pace to scan the dark jungle, worried about a covert attack. He didn’t see any sign of movement, though. And then, he stopped altogether and listened for the sound of advancing troops from the beach. Nothing.

All remained quiet except for the gentle pattering of drizzle falling on wet leaves.

Turning to continue down the path, he found the procession of soldiers had already moved ahead of him. He remained on the muddy trail alone. Something gave him the feeling of being watched, so he shouldered his rifle, and clicked off the safety.

Fear shuddered through his entire body. His pulse quickened.

He stood on the path staring into a set of vapid, yellow eyes. Heart racing at the dread of an unknown adversary, he sighted his weapon. Grasping his Arisaka rifle tightly, he stood ready to fire at the beast. Tanaka tried to find center mass, but he couldn’t discern the outline of the creature in the shadows.

And then, the transport backed around on the distant lane and rumbled away. He felt desperately alone. Footsteps plodded up the trail behind him, and caused the creature to move its head, peering over his shoulder.

Shots rang out from the beachhead. A straggling Imperial foot solider ran past him, then came to a halt in front of the creature. Rifle slung over his shoulder for a swift retreat, the infantryman registered the danger immediately and reached for his weapon. But his proximity to the beast made the movement futile, and the dinosaur leapt from the ground with a calculated effort. The rifle dropped into the mud with a thump.

Snarling teeth reflected in the moonlight as the dinosaur snapped wildly.

The soldier backpedaled, but the creature landed on the man’s chest, claws digging into the fabric and belts. It was about three feet long, stemming from snout to tail.

Moving closer to the fracas, Tanaka couldn’t get a clear shot.

The soldier wailed in pain and terror, as the dinosaur’s claws cleaved through his uniform and serrated flesh. Creeping upward, the dinosaur closed on the soldier’s throat. But the young Hetai stood frozen in trepidation, arms by his side, with his face locked in anguish.

Tanaka fired just as the beast clamped onto the man’s neck.

A bullet dug into the creature’s forehead, and the dinosaur reared its head, but didn’t let go of its victim. The shot merely startled the creature.

It lunged forward seeking another bite, with razor-sharp teeth cutting into the soldier’s throat. Blood spurted through gaps in the dinosaur’s jagged teeth. Its feeding jaws chomped and tore madly. The soldier spun around, and the dinosaur came into full view.

Both hind legs were planted in the soldier’s abdomen, tearing mercilessly at him. Lacerations split his midsection, and loops of intestines leaked from the opening, like links of sausage piled on the ground. Blood cascaded onto the jungle floor and mixed with rivulets of groundwater meandering along the path from the storm.

Only shock and terror kept the soldier standing upright.

Tanaka aimed and fired into the side of the creature, hoping to hit a lung. And the dinosaur yowled and dropped to the ground. Canting its head, the creature measured for its next attack, as the infantryman fell into the underbrush.

Working the bolt to his Sanpachi 38 rifle, Tanaka chambered another round and fired at the fleshy, white underbelly. A bullet tore into the creature, but it still pounced at him.

He lowered the rifle to his waist and squeezed the stock tightly. As the dinosaur descended upon him, Tanaka thrust his bayonet into the creature’s stomach, then jerked the barrel upward, cleaving the dinosaur open. Entrails shucked free of the beast’s viscera.

Tanaka dropped the dinosaur onto the trail and glanced at the fallen soldier. Boots kicked at the muddy path, then his wild death throes subsided as the infantryman passed away. His eyes glanced up at Tanaka, locked in a state of horror.

Shaking his head, there was nothing left that Tanaka could do for the soldier. He ran down the path and onto the muddy lane. He spotted a bicycle on the roadside.

Setting the bike up, he then slid his Arisaka rifle over a shoulder before getting on. Behind him, the beachhead erupted with machinegun fire. They must have mistaken my shots for another attack, he thought. Climbing onto the bike, he adjusted the rifle, then peddled down the road wondering what dangers lay ahead.

Eleven

Peterson’s unit moved through the darkness and stepped into the dense jungle. The scant lighting of the moon became even more obscured by flush vegetation overhead, but the immense leaves hampered the rain, so only a drizzle got through.

He heard gunfire from the primary landing zone. A distinct sound, the Thompson machinegun whistling, the final blasts reminded him of someone getting in the last word. He figured the Raiders had taken some casualties, but they’d repelled an attack and driven the enemy from the beach. Marines would soon be heading into the interior. And enemy reinforcements would break toward the conflict from every corner of the tiny atoll.

Japanese troops might happen across his unit, so they needed to remain alert.

The path inland was sandy as they hadn’t traversed much distance from shore. Peterson ordered the unit to halt, partly so he could listen to the battle wind down, and because he couldn’t readily hear his own footsteps over the commotion. And he didn’t want to walk right on top of an enemy position.

Silence once again crept over the island and he ordered the column to advance. Tomko led them further from shore and the path changed into a muddy trail, where at times the way was indiscernible with the jungle floor.

Tomko froze. And the two Raiders in his fire team stopped behind him. Peterson took a moment to comprehend the situation; he bumped into Chandler, the rifleman in front of him.

Beyond the procession of marines, Peterson spotted what caused the abrupt halt.

A set of menacing yellow eyes peered at them from a few yards down the path. The orbs hovered about four feet above the ground. Tomko slowly eased the butt of the machinegun into the nook of his shoulder, then he pointed the barrel at the target.

Just before he squeezed the trigger, a creature leapt from his right and pounded onto his chest, scraping its lower legs against his abdomen, and tearing at his throat with sharp, hooked claws. A scent of rotted meat accompanied the creature.

The marine fell to the ground, grasping the Velociraptor’s throat with one hand, and reaching for his fighting knife with the other. Private Owens stepped into the mix and leveled the BAR at the dinosaur’s round head.

But Tomko reeled in agony as the creature lacerated his gut, rolling to the side and making the shot more difficult. Then, another dinosaur rushed at Owens from the left, and he was down, wrestling with the beast like his compatriot. And the dinosaur that caused them all to stop on the trail ducked under foliage and reappeared a moment later.

It pounced on a rifleman, toppling Chandler to the ground. Flailing feet and scraping talons serrated his flesh. Wailing in agony, the fallen Raider’s screams sent the remaining marines into stock-still figurines, useless in repelling the attack.

Owens got free and stepped over to assist Chandler, knocking the creature off its prey. The beast pounded on him, while the other continued to torment Tomko. Struggling against the strength of the powerful creature, Owens stumbled and fell to the deck. He held up the Browning to fend off the dinosaur. The creature’s flailing knocked it away.

Peterson finally moved into action. He dove on the Velociraptor assaulting Tomko; he grabbed its throat, then pressed his Colt .45 against the dinosaur’s head and pulled the trigger.

A loud bang echoed through the jungle. The creature toppled over with a thud.

Now, the other melee caught Peterson’s attention. Owens lay on the ground with the Browning out of reach, feet kicking, as the creature ripped his guts apart. Blood spurted from his stomach and throat, as the dinosaur clawed and bit at the man. A slaughter.

Peterson lunged at the beast, but it turned and squawked and snapped at him. It bit his hand as he reached for its throat, then the damn thing sprung from the carcass and disappeared into the leafy surroundings with a scrap of flesh clamped in its jaws.

He glanced down as the marine quit flailing. Owens stopped breathing. The young private’s eyes glazed over, and the frigid state of death consumed a once active and vibrant body.

A moment later and the third dinosaur pounced on the wounded point man.

Tomko fought the creature by bending his knees to his chest, protecting his vital innards, and only allowed the creature to latch onto a forearm. Then, he thrust his Bowie knife into the Velociraptor’s underbelly and slashed the creature open from groin to neck.

The dinosaur yowled in pain and leapt off the Raider onto the pathway. It walked three steps, while the body convulsed and wavered, leaking its fluids onto the saturated jungle floor, then it stopped and keeled over onto its side.

Once again, the gentle pattering of raindrops made the only sound, as the jungle slipped into a serene quiet. Everything remained still, except for the tranquil vacillations of leaves being sprinkled with rain. Pungent aroma of decaying foliage was displaced by the damp scent of tropical rain. Now, rivulets along the trail meandered with crimson torrents back toward the small landing beach.

Peterson crouched by Tomko and checked his vital signs. The young man appeared alert and strong. He checked the private’s viscera and was surprised to find everything intact.

“How are you holding up?” Peterson looked into the young man’s eyes.

Tomko grinned. “I’m going to pull through this one.”

“Let’s get a good look at your neck.”

The Raider lifted his chin.

Several scratches had gouged the skin, and lacerations left striations in the flesh, but his major arteries remained uninjured. “This looks okay. It will need some cleaning up and a dressing.”

Tomko smiled. “See, I told you.”

“Now, let me take a better look at your midsection.”

Complying with the request, Tomko unclasped his war-belt and pulled up his shirt, enough to expose the pale skin beneath. Large gashes burrowed into his abdomen. But the injuries were superficial, and the cuts didn’t penetrate his insides.

Peterson grunted with relief. “Guess you’ll survive this one. Your shins must be ripped to shreds, though.”

Another young marine knelt by Tomko, and he began to apply first-aid treatment.

“What the hell were those things?” said Private Davidson.

“Raptors. Very dangerous.”

“Thought those things were as big as a mule, and extinct.”

“Raptors are only that big in the dime store comic books. But the blasted things sure know how to kill, and they sure as hell should be extinct. But clearly some have survived.”

“What’s next, sir?” Private Davidson said.

The question caught Peterson off guard, but he knew what the kid meant. A shot had given away their position, and the jungle was full of dangers far beyond enemy soldiers. He needed to come up with a plan.

He considered the fact that the commanding officer had changed plans and his unit wasn’t even required to be in this remote location. Everyone else had landed on the main beach. They were the only unit on this side of the island. He could lead them back to the boat, paddle along the coastline, and meet up with the others. He also considered the distinct advantage of a small special operations unit working under the cloak of darkness, far behind enemy lines. Such a tactic was consistent with the creation of the Marine Raider Battalions. But the thought of more dinosaurs gave him the dithers.

“Sir?” Davidson repeated.

“We’ll continue to move inland,” Peterson finally said.

“Right, sir.” The marine sounded meek.

An unsettling feeling crept over Peterson along with the brewing tropical storm. Something ominous awaited them in the jungle, and he could feel the dread in his dampened bones, a gut-wrenching fear of the fate that awaited them.

Twelve

Dawson watched the headlights of a transport cut through the jungle. The beams bobbed and darted into the distance, as though the vehicle backed away. A pause, then the truck jostled ahead, moving slowly over the desolate lane, and then the lights disappeared from view.

Ominous yellow orbs inched forward from the trees and shrubs, tilting from side to side as if inspecting the American defensive line.

Some marines rose to standing positions, stretching out their backs after a long battle in the cramped fighting holes. They seemed oblivious to a possible threat. Dawson wanted to call to them, warn of the danger, but he couldn’t think of what to say. He didn’t know what exactly lurked in the jungle.

Don’t they see the creatures? He wondered.

He’d told Staff Sergeant Williams about the lizard with the large teeth. Maybe he would alert them.

When the grinding from the truck engine dissipated, the creatures stepped from the leafy tree line onto the sandy beach. They stood a few feet tall, moving forward, birdlike, with heads twitching back and forth, and tails outstretched, frozen in position. Sharp fangs protruded from snarling muzzles.

Now, he recognized them from schoolbooks: Procompsognathus.

Dawson scanned for Staff Sergeant Williams. His superior leaned against a fighting hole, with his helmet off and neck resting on the berm, looking away from the encroaching creatures. Without any means for Williams to spot the beasts approaching from his rear, Dawson again considered calling out a warning.

Suddenly, the dinosaurs broke into a trot, making a move toward their prey.

All of them stood about three feet tall, and ran swiftly across the beachhead towards the Raiders, who focused on their weapons, unawares.

Dawson shook his head, unable to explain the threat. Instead, he raised his rifle and fired at the Procompsognathus in the lead. The dinosaur staggered but kept advancing. Aggressive. Simultaneously, a shot rang out from the jungle. A Sanpachi rifle blast.

Raiders moved into action. Everyone hunkered down in their fighting holes, as the chambering of rounds echoed across the dark beach. Dawson fired again, striking the same beast, then the wounded dinosaur lost its footing and fell, chin first into the sand.

A fusillade of automatic machinegun fire riddled the tree line. Grenades exploded, hurling sand and appendages into the air. The cacophony rung Dawson’s ears. Dinosaurs yowled in pain. Some dropped dead, and others writhed in the sand, while a wave of fierce beasts continued to mark their pursuit towards awaiting spoils.

Some marines focused their firing on the jungle, probably thinking the Japanese had returned to the fight. Approaching creatures were obscured by the darkness and smoke. Most of the rounds flew over the heads of charging dinosaurs, riddling leaves to no avail.

Dawson continued to target dinosaurs in the front, taking them down one at a time. But the creatures were fast and soon reached the forward positions. Marines screamed in fear and surprise. Small arms fire ignited the darkness. Now, pistol and rifle fire blasted in a sundry of directions, no longer trained at the tree line. A bullet whizzed past Dawson’s right ear.

Ferocious eyes and menacing teeth shone in the glimmering light. Snarling and tearing resounded from the front lines. And the omnipresent cries of pain and agony lent to confusion and hysteria among the troops. Everyone appeared slow to register the actual threat.

A dark streak gushed into the air as a dinosaur found purchase on a marine’s jugular vein. Dawson crawled from his hole, intent on joining the fray, with many already in hand-to-claw combat against the ravenous beasts. But something knocked him back into the foxhole. A set of menacing eyes peered down at him, and the thing twitched its foot, resting on the berm.

Massive claws protruded from its limbs, and the foot glimmered with sanguine fluid. Dawson’s chest ached from striations the creature had gouged through his shirt. The damn thing had trounced him back into the fighting hole with a swift kick. Now, it meant to tear him to shreds and feast upon the remains.

The dinosaur eyed him for a moment, as though sizing him up before lunging for a kill strike to the neck. Dawson’s rifle lay to his left, where it had fallen after the blow.

He contemplated the timing to reach for the Garand compared with the distance from the dinosaur. It would pounce as soon as he moved, and the creature would be upon him, making the rifle ineffective, except to ward off the beast by gripping the stock like a staff.

Sensing the fight instinct rising to the surface, the dinosaur bared its mouth, full of sharp teeth. Bits of bloodied uniform were stuck between them. It snarled. Dawson gulped and wondered how he could outmatch the creature that had already killed a fierce commando. He reached for his stiletto shaped fighting knife, crafted from a version used by the British marines.

The movement caused the dinosaur to leap into the fighting hole.

Its long muzzle shot towards his neck with lightning speed. Dawson shifted right, and the creature bit into his left shoulder. Tasting fabric, it reeled back and hissed, tongue oscillating.

He latched onto the handle of the fighting knife and yanked it from the sheath. The dinosaur lunged in attack. Dawson pressed his heels into the earth and slid upward.

The creature bit a scrap of flesh loose from his upper chest.

Dawson plunged the blade into its side. The dinosaur pulled back, screeched and snapped, then lunged at him.

He yanked the knife free and sent it home again.

Yowling, the creature wasn’t dismayed, and assailed him, ravenously chomping at his chest and arms. He sunk the knife into the thick hide, repeatedly to no avail, then drove his knee upward, shoving the creature from its offensive perch.

The effort exposed the dinosaur’s underbelly.

Dawson shoved the blade into its viscera, plunging it deep inside the creature, and his fist clutched the knife tightly and penetrated the intestinal cavity. Warm blood and body fluids encased his hand.

Caterwauling in misery, the dinosaur jumped back, and scrambled from the hole. It staggered, then turned back to set upon him again. Dawson instinctively reached for his rifle, slid it to his shoulder. He fired a round into the dinosaur’s throat.

A gurgle emitted from the hole as it tried to hiss and advance upon him.

He fired two more shots, digging into its chest. Another wail resounded from the dinosaur as it careened over the sandy berm toward him.

Dawson pulled the trigger. Click.

Tossing the rifle aside, he snatched up the knife and lunged from the hole, driving a shoulder under its chin, and embracing the creature in a bear hug. It toppled over and flailed with its hind legs, scratching and cleaving at his midsection.

He rolled off the dinosaur and rose to his knees. Reaching out with his left hand, Dawson grabbed it by the neck, squeezing with all his might. The creature thrashed in panic, with its body rippling over the sand. But the head remained still, pinned to the earth. He made a quick thrust into its eye, stabbing into the creature’s brain.

A single moan crept out with its last dying breath.

Dawson fell into the sand beside the slain beast and inhaled deeply, trying to regain his breath and recover from the conflict. He feared another Procompsognathus would happen upon the scene and make short work of him. Somehow, he couldn’t catch his breath, and could not budge from his position. All motor functioning was lost. Paralysis.

Sounds of gunfire blasted on the beach all around him, a muffled sound that no longer resonated as loud battlefield eruptions, but rather a surreal event unfolding in the landing zone.

Dawson drifted into a state of apoplexy. As he slipped into blackness, he contemplated whether the dinosaur had gotten the better of him, possibly inflicting a mortal wound.

****

An explosion brought Dawson to his senses. He sat up with ears ringing as flames wafted from the jungle. Dead bodies and dinosaur carcasses were strewn across the beach from the intense battle. Aerial machineguns strafed the tree line and tore into the underbrush.

The enemy command had called in air support, and likely reinforcements.

Another pass, and two Japanese zeros lit up the jungle with the same result. Bombs whistled into the underbrush and exploded, and enemy planes riddled the dense jungle to smithereens. Nothing in the vegetation could survive.

Dawson wondered if any marine scouts had ventured inland. He scanned the beachhead for members of Able Company and spotted a few marines he knew from the unit, and he figured the conflict with the dinosaurs had delayed plans to move into the interior. The planes flew off. He crept forward on hands and knees, trying to find Staff Sergeant Williams for an update.

“They’ve missed us altogether,” Mudhole said, grinning.

“Maybe they’re not trying to hit us.” Dawson took a seated position.

“You think there could be more of those… things?”

“We don’t know what’s on this island.” Dawson shrugged. “The British set up a remote outpost on the other side of the atoll years ago, but they didn’t spend much time here. Probably never explored the interior.”

“Well, the Japanese developed it more. They wouldn’t have done that if any more of those things were crawling around the island.”

Dawson considered the comment. Mudhole was trying to sound hopeful, but his tone didn’t reveal much conviction. He couldn’t be sure about anything. Looking around for the rest of his unit, he took a swig of water from his canteen.

He broke off in the middle of a sip, coughing uncontrollably.

Collins lay on the beach, torn apart, and barely recognizable. The sand was saturated in his blood, like oil had leaked from an old car.

A marine on the beach caught him glancing at the body. Bishop sat with his legs dangling in a fighting hole, checking over his Browning, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. He lifted his chin, acknowledging Dawson with a sullen look in his eyes.

Bishop shrugged, suggesting there was nothing that could have been done. The Raiders had taken a lot of casualties, just not from the enemy they’d expected to encounter.

Another buzz from airplane engines reverberated off the ocean.

The Raiders would be sitting ducks if they remained on the beachhead. Dawson spotted Staff Sergeant Williams huddled with the commanding officer. The situation looked grim. He figured if they headed into the interior, they would encounter the rest of the Japanese garrison and possibly more dinosaurs. And the rubber boats would be left for the planes to riddle with bullets, hampering any return to the submarines.

Remaining on the beachhead would make them vulnerable to aerial attack. But heading back into the water wouldn’t be much better. The boats couldn’t get past the heavy surf. Dawson figured the Raiders would move forward with the mission and head into the interior.

The buzz of approaching fighters grew louder. And it sounded like a squadron.

Dawson crept closer to the command post and picked up some of the planning. Lieutenant Colonel Carson’s voice boomed over the others. He solicited input from the officers, and the staff noncommissioned officers stood by ready to provide feedback. Carson mentioned surrender, while others felt aborting the mission as a better option. Captain Roosevelt commented that the black rubber boats would make difficult moving targets, as compared to sitting waiting to get attacked on the beachhead. Everyone else wanted to push into the interior, figuring the way forward to completing the mission was open.

Carson had grown up in New England, the son of a Congregational Church minister. He’d run away from home to join the Army and fight in the Great War, then later he switched over to the Marine Corps and earned a commission as an officer. After being assigned to China for several years, he returned stateside to develop the first United States special operations unit.

The Raiders were established as commandos to function like their British counterparts and the Chinese guerillas. He did away with officer and noncommission officer messes and had all the commandos eat together, and he allowed everyone from the top down with an opportunity to provide input. Partly a New England town hall method and part communist egalitarianism, some senior enlisted marines disfavored the approach. Now, the staff noncommissioned officers stood watching the decision-making process with apparent frowns on their faces. They clearly preferred the simpler approach of taking orders and following through with an assignment.

Dawson had been indoctrinated by the marines to always step forward, advance on the battlefield, and close-width and destroy the enemy. Surrender was not part of the Marine Corps creed, unless it was absolutely necessary. At this point, the enemy wasn’t anywhere in sight, and conditions upon surrender were not necessarily going to be favorable. There had already been rumors of the enemy violating the Geneva Convention regulations for prisoners of war. The thought of giving up was a dismal prospect.

Every available option left Dawson with an unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t want to surrender, and he hoped they would move into action soon. Anything was better than standing around waiting.

Thirteen

Further along in training, Dawson had written to his fiancée to report upon his progress and motivation, as boot camp graduation neared. Postmarked from Savana, Georgia.

Mary,

I hadn’t gotten any letters from you, then four came today like before. Things are going well, and I expect to graduate on time. The only way you don’t graduate as scheduled is if you get cut or recycled. If you get dropped, then you wait in a casual platoon and go home a civilian a month or two after your platoon graduates. And if you get recycled, then you are sent back to an earlier phase and get picked up by a new platoon. This happens if you fail to qualify at the rifle range, or fail a PT test, or don’t pass a mandatory exam.

The drill instructors hate pick-ups. We got one and I was in the barracks heading out when he came in doing the sea bag drag. Our drill instructor kicked him to the ground and when he got up, kicked him to the ground again. Then he called over to me and said: “Dawson, don’t let this low life pick-up even touch you!”

You don’t have to worry, though. Because I qualified as an Expert Marksman!

We’re done with second phase training and will march about 5 miles back to our regular barracks. Not only that but we had the pugil stick competition. You’re not going to believe how that went down. My platoon was tied in the series for the most wins. The combat instructor told the DIs to pick their champion to fight for the title. The other platoon selected a 6-foot 4 monster and he lumbered into the circle. Then my Senior DI picked me. The guys all booed. I’m not that big as you know. He said, “Now, all of you can watch what a motivated Marine can achieve. He can move mountains. And Dawson knows how to persevere.” Then he smiled and gave me a friendly nod, like he knew that I could do it.

So, I stepped into the ring thinking that I could win. The other recruit swung the pugil stick and smashed me in the head and sent me reeling. Then he pounded on me. I put my stick up to block his blows, and the guy smashed my hands. My fingers hurt so badly, I could barely hold onto my stick. He hit me over and over until my head spun. I figured I couldn’t beat the guy. And he just kept coming. But I kept at him, fending him off, wearing him down. Perseverance. Finally, he tired and stumbled, and I went at him like a crazed man, until he finally dropped a knee. I smashed him in the back, and he dropped into the sand. The combat instructor came over and grabbed my hand, raised it in the air - the victor.

Things are really going well. It has picked up for the better. Now, the drill instructors seem to leave me alone for the most part. They are focused on trying to break people they’re worried about in combat. They still harass me on occasion. One picked me up by the shoulders and almost lifted me from the ground. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch. But he has his favorites. Luckily, I’m not one of them. They get thrashed all the time.

Boy do I look forward to getting your letters. I keep them all in my footlocker in the order they’re dated. I haven’t written as much as I would like. It often takes me three or four days just to finish one letter. By the time I read yours and get ready for the next day, time has about run out. I look forward to when this is done, and the war is over. We can live in our own apartment. Be together. You get me. We can get a house and have kids. I don’t have much money, but we’ll do fine and have nice things.

I’m glad that you feel the same way as me and I trust you completely. Went to church recently and afterward I went to a “Marriage in the Military” class. The Chaplain talked about what it would be like and the temptations service members face overseas. No way! Not for me. The Marines teach you Semper Fi. Always faithful.

You can count on me to be faithful. He must be thinking about those Navy boys. I love you so much and thinking about you gets me through this. Not only that, but I think having your support has helped make me strive. A squad leader hurt his ankle and got pushed back, recycled. I’ve taken his place. Makes me think it’s because of you that they picked me to be his replacement. Pushing hard because you give me purpose.

Love,

Randell

****

Another few letters came in at once when he got back to his regular assigned barracks. Postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He liked this one the most.

Randell,

I’m glad to hear that you are doing so well. We are all so proud of you here. Seems like it has gotten a lot better. Maybe they just like to spend the first half of training weeding people out. You sound so positive. I’m sure that you’ll graduate on time. That reminds me to ask you what the weather will be like. I will definitely be coming down for your graduation, so I’ll need to know what to bring to wear. I’ve never been in the south before. Too bad you don’t get to leave the base during training to see what the town is like. I can’t wait to see you.

At first it was really hard, then I kept busy and time seemed to go by fast. But now almost every day here is like the day before. The same routine. And it gets harder and harder to write to you because I miss you so much. Now, I just can’t wait to see you. Since you’ve been gone, I’ve come to realize what a good influence you’ve been. I’ve gotten so much self-confidence and try to do my best at everything, too. You’ve helped me grow and to grow up into a young woman. You are such an incredible person. You’ve given me so much. I don’t know where to start to tell you all the things I love about you. I think you know, but if you don’t, then I’ll tell you all about it when I see you next.

The only thing new is that my cat Byron has a new trick. He likes to wake up at 4:30 in the morning and scratches at my door and meows until I let him in. Then he jumps on my bed and goes to sleep. He’s a pest because it’s hard to get back to sleep. Every time somebody even steps foot in the kitchen or opens the refrigerator door, he runs in and thinks somebody is going to feed him. He’s so cute though. I’ve put a paper grocery bag on the floor, like the time that you did it for him. He jumped in, but it wasn’t quite the same.

I really do miss you. But this is a big war that we’ve just got to win. You’ll do your part and with God willing, we can settle down and have a good life together.

Love always,

Mary

Fourteen

Peterson’s unit made slow progress through the dense foliage. He glanced ahead for the enemy, while keeping an eye on both flanks, and occasionally scanning the trees for snipers. Moving at a snail’s pace, he considered whether his marines made easy targets.

They had long since trudged past any sand on the path. Only the muddy jungle floor lay beneath their boots. Mud and gunk caked on the soles of the hiking boots that Carson had chosen for the unit. He dispensed with the military issue boots immediately, then tried out numerous options until he found some that met his objectives.

Carson had the men strap on the new boots and wade into a stream near the training camp at Jacques Farm in California. Once the boots were saturated, he had the young marines go for a short hike, breaking in the leather. Hikes were a favorite training exercise of the unconventional leader. Trekking for thirty-five miles on a day hike, and seventy-five miles on an overnight sojourn, he required them to wear full battle gear and maintain a 7-mile per hour pace.

Now, the slow movement seemed almost a standstill. But the lieutenant didn’t want to take any chances. Eventually, signs of a trail dissipated altogether, and they ventured through the jungle terrain by marking a course northward, using a compass and the position of the sliver of moon that had broken through the storm clouds.

Tomko held his submachine gun tightly in his hands, never letting down his guard, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. He forged his way up a slight berm, crested the top, then made a rapid descent, disappearing from view. Following the stout marine, other Raiders did the same, then Peterson scaled the incline and stared down at a fire team, moving across an open area.

He followed them. And the rest of the unit piled down after him.

A slight ridge surrounded them, circular. Peterson didn’t like the situation and felt vulnerable, so he called out: “Let’s pick up the pace.”

“Seems like an old bomb crater,” said Private Davidson.

“Yeah, but I don’t think anyone has attacked this island.” Peterson shook his head.

“Could have been a practice run,” Private Baker called out from the rear.

“Maybe.”

Peterson’s comment put an end to the discussion. He glanced at the fine earth beneath his feet and an unsettling feeling crept over him. The ground had a similar aspect to the nests that sunfish make in the bottom of a freshwater lake.

Those things could be nesting here, he thought. But it seemed too large.

Ascending the incline, they left the crater and headed back down into dense jungle. Tomko headed along the pathway, where trees were snapped, and ferns trampled. Something big had treaded through the foliage, tearing it up like a cyclone.

“What tore through here?” Davidson was still full of questions.

“Quiet,” Peterson snapped under his breath.

“Geez—”

Davidson’s comment cut off suddenly. The unmistakable sound of boots smacking the ground, coming to an abrupt halt, caught Peterson’s attention. Checking over his shoulder, he spotted Private Hall, standing at the end of the column with his jaw dropped open, staring wide-eyed into the jungle on the right. “Move it, Hall.”

But the marine remained frozen.

Peterson followed his gaze. Up high. Treetops.

Yellow eyes blinked. Large spheres.

The orbs peered through the leafy top of a coconut tree, about twenty feet above them. And the eyes were set about a foot and a half apart.

Maybe something had climbed the tree, he hoped. But the thought dissipated in a moment. Peterson noted the distance between the eyes, and he’d gaged the size of them. He traced the outline of the creature’s back, from the tree top all the way to the jungle floor. He registered the extent of the threat. The yellow eyes blinked.

A Tyrannosaurus Rex lurked in the shadows.

“Run!”

Tomko broke into the jungle and Chandler followed him. Peterson led the next fire team through a maze of trees, ducking under thick limbs, and trying to put obstacles in the path of the mighty beast. Another fire team broke, fanning the rifle squad in various directions.

A tremor resounded over the ground, shaking the earth beneath them.

Peterson glanced back as the dinosaur stepped from its protective covering. Its lips pulled back, revealing massive, sharp teeth. The creature let out a roar, then stalked towards its prey.

The ground shook and thundered with each colossal step. It began to run.

Fifteen

The decision was made for the marines. A squadron of enemy fighters dipped from the dark sky and zoomed toward their location. Dawson spotted a seaplane transport, trailing the zeros. Reinforcements would pile onto the island in support of the enemy soldiers.

Machinegun fire erupted from the decks of the allied submarines.

“Grab the equipment and head for the jungle!” Lieutenant Colonel Carson stood on the beach, motioning for the marines to head inland, and take shelter from the attack planes.

“Move out!” All the unit leaders called in unison.

Dawson slung his rifle over a shoulder and grabbed a Boys anti-tank rifle in one hand and an ammo can in the other. He dashed across the beachhead towards the jungle as fighters swooped in and let loose with aerial machineguns. Rounds strafed the beach and dug into the sand and riddled marines running for protective cover.

Raiders dropped as the 7.7 mm machinegun bullets tore into them. Blood spurted from each hit, like water balloons exploding on concrete.

The planes shot upward and circled for another pass. Deadly machines.

Finally reaching the interior, Dawson dropped the equipment and his rifle and ran back to the beach. He spotted a marine sprawled on the ground with a bullet hole in his thigh. Striding across the beach, marines groaned from their wounds.

He knelt and tore the young marine’s utilities open. A 7.7-millimeter round had cleaved the flesh open. Blood pumped from the entry hole, spurting onto the beach. The bullet had struck an artery.

Dawson removed the marine’s web-belt and wrapped it around the injured leg, fastening it above the wound. He cinched it tight. The leg would come off, but the man would live.

Then he grabbed the marine under the shoulders and dragged him from the beach. Several marines had set up a makeshift triage post along a pathway, approximately twenty feet into the jungle. Navy Corpsmen treated the casualties. Dawson left the fallen marine with them and returned to the beachhead.

Multitudes of Raiders worked in tandem, dragging wounded marines to the safety of the interior. Occasionally, a sole marine carried a comrade over his shoulders. Dawson spotted a marine squirming in the sand.

He ran to the injured man. Through the moonlight, he spied the marine grasping at his throat with both hands. Crouching by his side, Dawson reached for the marine’s hand, trying to pull it away and get a better look at the injury.

The marine shook his head frantically. A dire gleam shone from his eyes.

“I need to get a look at the wound, so we can treat it.”

“No.” A garbled reply.

Blood dribbled from the fallen Raider’s mouth, and crimson rivulets leaked through the man’s fingers, like cupping a hand around the nozzle of a bubbling hose. Dawson shook his head. This kid would never get back home. “Let me get you to the corpsmen.”

The marine shook his head. Understanding of the grim situation registered on his face.

“What do you want me to do?” Dawson pled.

The young Raider motioned with his chin towards his breast pocket.

“You’ve got a letter prepared for your girl?”

He nodded. A tear ran from the corner of his eye.

Retrieving the letter from the fallen marine’s pocket, Dawson then unbuttoned his breast pocket and slid the letter inside next to the tin that held his own. He patted the kid’s hand.

The marine watched the letter transferred from pocket to pocket. He smiled.

“What’s your name?”

“Frank.”

“Let me get you off the beach, Frank. Back with the others.”

The kid shook his head. Then he let go of his neck.

“No!” Dawson lunged toward him as blood gushed from the wound.

He wrapped his hands around Frank’s throat but couldn’t quite get a grip on the pressure point. A gurgling belch emitted from the wound. Blood cascaded through Dawson’s fingers and dowsed his hands. The marine smiled at him kindly. And then, life slipped away from him, and his eyes glazed over with the endless stare of death.

Dawson shoved his hands under the dead marine’s armpits, then dragged him from the landing zone, backpedaling through the sand. He dropped the marine with Navy corpsmen. Glancing at the casualties, men moaning in misery, he shook his head, and then ran back onto the beachhead in search of more injured marines.

Raiders scrambled all around, pulling and carrying the wounded toward the tree line.

A large seaplane touched down on the far side of the atoll, near the calmer waters that Dawson’s unit had traversed when avoiding the major breakers. Rotors spun and jockeyed the aircraft toward the lagoon.

Imperial troopers were packed in the plane, holding rifles at port arms, ready to fight.

Turning, he broke toward the trees and stumbled into Jenkins, who crouched over a fallen marine. “Come with me,” Dawson yelled.

“What for?”

Dawson grabbed the Boys anti-tank rifle. “Just get the ammo can! And follow me.”

Breaking toward the lagoon, Dawson raced toward the seaplane, while Jenkins stumbled after him, lugging the heavy container of .55 caliber rounds. He halted a hundred yards from the plane and dropped to the ground, as the propellers wound down and the passenger door opened.

Soldiers began exiting the plane, climbing down rungs, as Jenkins fed ammunition into the big gun. The Kawanishi H8K2-L Seiki seaplane held sixty-four soldiers, all eager to engage the American invaders.

“Ready!” Jenkins tapped Dawson on the helmet.

“Holy cow.” Dawson shook his head as reinforcements alighted from the craft.

Pulling the trigger, he riddled the plane with powerful rounds, digging holes into the fuselage. Infantrymen plodded through waist-deep water and fired back. Bullets tore into the sand around them.

Dawson fired again. The Boys heated up as bullets ripped into the plane.

He aimed for the engines, riddling holes in the wing near fuel lines. The big gun vibrated in his hands, and his pulse raced with anxiety, concerned that he couldn’t stop them. A flame wavered from the torn metal, then ignited, rising high, as the fuel tank caught fire. The wing glowed amber for a moment. And the conflagration wafted toward the treetops.

An explosion blew the wing and engine to bits. Scraps of metal cascaded onto the beach. Then another blast shot through the cabin. More explosions followed, blowing down the line, as the fuselage burst to pieces.

Raiders hustled toward the action and took up position alongside Dawson and Jenkins. They fired their Browning and Thompson machineguns, laying down heavy fire on the troops that had exited the plane. Moments later the last of the reinforcements were put down.

Dawson rolled over on the sand and caught his breath. Steam rose from the Boys anti-tank gun as the mist and tropical evening air drifted over the barrel.

“Some damn fine shooting,” Bishop said, dropping beside him.

“That was close. Another moment and they would have been on us.”

“Yeah. But they didn’t get the chance.”

And just like that the fear of the intense moment had slipped past Bishop, like he didn’t experience any aftershock. The type of guy that pulled near death stunts in a hotrod and broke into a grin as soon as the tires were back on the road.

Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out his pack of smokes. He slipped one into his mouth, then flicked back the top of a chrome lighter.

“You’re not really going to smoke that now?”

“Sure as shit.” Bishop shrugged. “The beachhead’s clear and everyone on this island damn well knows we’re here.”

“The snipers might still be in the trees. You’ll be the next target.”

Shaking his head, Bishop grinned in the moonlight. “The way I see it, this entire island is about to explode. And we’re not likely to get another break until we shove off.”

The comment caught Dawson off guard. Would they continue inland on the mission knowing that creatures lay in the underbrush? He looked at Bishop, who seemed to read his mind.

“What?” He laughed. “Do you think the brass will call it off… report what we just saw?”

“Maybe they’d say the defense is stronger than intelligence had reported.”

“We’ve got planes strafing us, and there’s more ground troops likely coming from the garrison. So, we best plan for a night of non-stop fighting. But until then, I’m going to enjoy my smoke.”

Dawson thought about how the brass had already contemplated surrender. He wasn’t sure if Bishop was right, but, somehow, he knew in his heart the fighting was long from over.

He rolled onto his stomach and got to his feet. Limbs feeling rubbery, he snatched up the Boys and the ammo can, then he plodded back to the makeshift command post. Staff Sergeant Wilson hunkered with the brass working out options.

Discussion points drifted through the night along with moans from casualties. Lieutenant Colonel Carson bickered with the other officers, while the staff noncommissioned officers stood by and frowned. The commanding officer finally decided upon a surrender, but he conceded that affirmative action needed to take place until a truce was reached. He ordered two privates to carry a note inland, offering a peaceful surrender to facilitate their capture and protection from the native creatures. At the same time, he instructed Staff Sergeant Wilson to lead a unit into the jungle and head off any attack that might close around the base camp.

Wilson ducked back toward a group of Raiders and waved for Dawson to join them. His number was up. Now, Dawson would head into the interior and face the enemy, and lord knew what else. Deeply inhaling to calm his nerves, he got up and ran to join the others.

Sixteen

After some great developments in boot camp, Dawson had some decisions to make about his military career. Postmarked from Savanah, Georgia.

Mary,

My apologies but I haven’t had much time to write lately. We are quite busy training and things are gearing up towards the end. I haven’t gotten mail from you in a few days, but I expect some letters will come all at once like always. I did receive the paper and pencils that you sent, along with more stamps. Thanks so much! We only get issued a bit of writing stationery.

I passed the third phase testing, with only 2 wrong out of 80. This means that I’m coming down the home stretch. I was acting guide (platoon leader) for a couple of weeks. There isn’t much chance of me not graduating on schedule, and so now I’m counting down the days.

Things have really picked up and I’m highly motivated. My Senior Drill Instructor called me into the duty hut the other day. He said that I’ve done so well at testing and physical fitness that I should consider changing my contract. All Marines are volunteers due to the nature of the mission. None of us were drafted. I enlisted to be in artillery. Mostly because I didn’t think that I was as tough as the guys that would end up on the front lines. Well, my drill instructors have shown me that mental toughness and perseverance are important in combat. And not street corner brawling. Anyway, he said that I should consider changing my contract from artillery to infantry. The decision is up to me, but he’ll push it through if I decide to make the change.

I’m writing to you about it because I’ve got to make the decision within the next week. This might come as a surprise to you, and it’s a much more dangerous role. I’ve come to realize that anything that you do in life that’s important, you have to dedicate your life to it. This is a bloody war and the infantry will be on the front lines. But I’m training with a great bunch of guys. And the infantry is the best of the best. I’m sure that I’ll be in good hands. The Marine Corps wants the most capable out there battling the enemy.

This means a sacrifice for you, too. You’ll worry a lot more, and my letters from the front lines will get held up. Let me know what you think.

Love,

Randell

P.S.: I won’t have much time to write in the next couple of weeks. We’ll have limited free time as the platoon moves into the final weeks.

****

The change to infantry and the promise of battle on front lines came as a surprise. Many of Dawson’s letters had been focused on merely getting through basic training. She’d felt more comfortable with him further behind the lines in artillery. It was still dangerous, but somehow it didn’t seem as daunting. Postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Randell,

I got your letter today and knew that I had to write back right away. The prospect of you on the front lines is quite overwhelming. Scary actually. I’ll worry every day. But I’ve read your letter three or four times. And it seems like this is what you want to do. How can I stand in your way? Our country is at war, and we all have to do our part. Other young men go to the front lines. Some don’t come home alive. I’m not sure that we can ask such courage of them but seek to hold back our own loved ones. If you are being called to the front, then I must support you. You have to do what you think is best. We are all proud of you.

I’ll still plan to marry you. And I’ll wait for you, and I’ll write and someday this war will be over. You’ll be home with me. Our children will be blessed.

All my love and support.

Love you,

Mary

Seventeen

The bicycle tires got caked in mud and slowed Tanaka’s progress to the garrison. Swerving around puddles in the road from the rainstorm, he tried to avoid the sides of the lane as much as possible. He worried about what lurked in the jungle.

Eventually, he came upon the location where a giant beast had attacked the transport truck. The dinosaur had stood eight feet tall, but it extended about twenty-five feet in length. It had large, plate-like scales measuring about an inch wide, covering the entire hide. Muddy ruts remained where the truck had stopped. Now, the furrows were filled with water and being stippled by the light rain. A swath of disturbed brush led into the jungle where the Carnotaurus had dragged off its spoils.

Tanaka didn’t stop to inspect the scene long and found himself pedaling frantically. He knew the chance of a repeat attack in the exact same place was unlikely, but he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that predators typically roam the same geographic areas. He kept his eyes peeled on the foliage along the roadside, watching for any movement, but the only thing he glimpsed was beads of water dripping off the palm fronds.

Further along, he encountered movement on the lane. Tanaka stopped and reached for his rifle. A few natives ran up the road, heading for their huts to wait out the conflict. He allowed them to pass, then he continued on towards the Imperial stronghold.

Soon he reached the garrison and foot soldiers lingered outside. The Gocho and Jun-i were huddled with a few senior infantrymen, talking intently. Foot soldiers wandered in and out of the barracks, likely using the facilities and getting water after the conflict at the beach.

He rolled to a stop and leaned the bike against a wall.

The Jun-i waved him over. An impatient countenance registered on the warrant officer’s face, so Tanaka doubled-timed towards the leadership group. He stopped and huffed for breath.

“What took you so long to get back?” The Gocho shook his head.

“The truck left without me, while I was clearing the men from the beach.” Tanaka shrugged and pointed to the bicycle. “I had to pedal here. And I encountered resistance along the way. Then the beachhead exploded again with gunfire.”

“After your detail left?” The Jun-i pressed.

Tanaka nodded. “Yes.”

“What was the second engagement about?” The Jun-i addressed him.

“I cannot be sure.” Tanaka shook his head and motioned with his palms upward.

“That was very heavy gunfire.” The Gocho shook his head. “You didn’t see anything?”

Tanaka thought about the creature on the path. He didn’t dare say a word about it, afraid the warrant officer would think him insane. “I cleared our soldiers from the beach, planning to regroup for another attack slightly inland.”

The Jun-i nodded as if in agreement with the approach.

“A foot soldier ran up the path from behind me. The young Hetai disrupted a lizard, then the firing erupted from the beach. Perhaps the Americans saw the movement in the jungle and fired nervously.”

Staring at him intently, the Jun-i seemed to register something; diffidence. But he did not reveal his thoughts. He merely nodded. “Okay, you have done well. Now, go clean yourself up and get some water. There is plenty more fighting to be done before the night is over.”

Tanaka bowed and then trotted off toward the barracks.

When he stepped inside, his friend greeted him. Osamu had a worried look in his eyes and lingered by the doorway, as though he were unable to bring himself to step outside. Tanaka stopped and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “What has you concerned?”

Osamu shook his head, not wanting to speak. “Nothing.” He didn’t sound convincing.

“The fighting was harsh tonight, but they took us by surprise. We will do better the next time around, when we catch them moving through the underbrush.”

“My concern is not with the Americans…”

“The creatures?”

Osamu nodded.

“Well, I saw one and it is dead. And I expect the Americans killed others.”

“There are many more.” Osamu shook his head intently.

“I heard a big one yesterday, and saw two today, but I’ve never seen them before.” Tanaka considered the young man. “You wouldn’t think the Imperial Army would send us here if there were many more.”

“Tanaka, you have combat experience in Manchuria. But you have not been on this island for very long.”

“What are you saying?”

“There are many more of them. And there is a big one, bigger than the one that we saw today.” A sullen look crept over Osamu’s face. “We’ve been capturing the natives and sacrificing them to the large one, hoping to keep it from attacking us.”

“You cannot feed a wild creature like a pet,” Tanaka said, stepping away to fetch some water. “All they have done is provided it with a taste for human flesh.”

He walked past idle troops into the restroom and turned on a faucet. Splashing water on his face, it felt cool and refreshing. Tanaka glanced in the mirror. He looked haggard from waking in the middle of the night and drained from the battle. Grime circled his eyes.

Tanaka reached for the soap and lathered it up in his hands. As he washed his face, a bang resounded from the barracks, like a tank battering through a wall. Americans, he thought. But how could they get inland so fast?

Wiping himself off with a towel, he unslung his rifle and ran into the sleeping quarters, readying himself for gunfire.

Beds toppled over, and metal screeched the concrete floor. Soldiers fled in various directions. Tanaka expected a machinegun to open fire on them. He shouldered his rifle and scanned the wall for the opening and expected the nose of a tank to nudge forward with a mini-gun trained on them. But the green plates were not an allied weapon.

The Carnotaurus had poked its head through the broken wall, merely constructed of dried fronds and thatch. It snapped its mouth, flashing sharp teeth, and dripping with saliva. The aggressive movement had toppled the sleeping racks.

It seemed to be scanning the open squad bay for prey.

Soldiers ran in sundry directions, ducking for cover under beds and bolting for the door. Nobody stood their ground, despite carrying rifles. A few had even dropped their weapons.

Tanaka stepped into the fray, shouldering his rifle. He took aim at the creature. “Assemble. Prepare to fight!”

A couple of soldiers made it to the door and ran outside. Others stayed hidden under the bunkbeds. Tanaka shook his head and took aim at the creature’s left eye. He squeezed the trigger and the rifle let out a loud crack. It kicked hard into his shoulder.

The bullet pinged into the dinosaur’s cheek. It roared in pain and hostility. And then, it broke through the wall entirely. Standing before them, it lowered its head and let out another menacing roar. It flicked its tail and a set of steel beds crashed over.

It took two large steps, and lengthy claws crimped into the smooth concrete floor.

Tanaka readied himself for another shot, and a few infantrymen stood to face the creature. It meant to kill them and so fighting might be their only hope.

“Now!” Tanaka commanded.

Everyone fired at once. Rounds dug into the creature’s hide; its yellow eyes opened and shut rapidly. A primal ferocity emanated from its orbs. Spent gunpowder wafted through the room. Osamu struggled to work his bolt, trying desperately to chamber another round.

Another step into the barracks. Then the creature let out the fiercest roar of the night. It swung its head roundhouse into the nearest rack, sending it sliding across the room. Two soldiers were crunched on the floor into balls, exposed to the menacing beast. Faces cast in fright, they remained frozen, as if hoping the beast would turn its attention elsewhere.

The Carnotaurus leaned forward and sniffed near the closest soldier.

Pausing for a moment while the young man trembled with fear, the creature seemed to absorb the apprehension. It breathed in the scent of its prey, then lunged at the closest soldier. Latching on to the man’s back, it raised the solider into the air, then shook him violently.

As it whipped the soldier side to side, the man’s eyes bugged out, and he screamed in agony. Massive jaws clamped down on the soldier’s torso, muscles tensing around the creature’s massive head, until a brutal snap resounded throughout the barracks. Viscera oozed through cleaved flesh and jagged bones, and blood leaked onto the floor. The man’s bulging eyes suddenly cast into a state of death. And his screaming ceased abruptly.

The beast gave the carcass another shake for good measure. And then, it backed through the opening in the wall. Its dark hide slipped into the night as the pounding of primal feet marked its departure. A rhythmical egress trotted off with its spoils.

****

A moment later, soldiers rushed into the barracks dripping wet from recent precipitation. The Gocho tarried in after them. He glanced at the wall then looked at Tanaka. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“A creature from the jungle broke through. It took a private.”

The Gocho perused him for a moment, as though trying to determine the veracity of Tanaka’s comments. “This was not the Americans?” The corporal pointed at the broken wall. “Not an attack?”

“No. A wild beast from the island.”

Nodding, the Gocho appeared convinced, but continued: “Why the shooting?”

“We tried to kill the creature. It was quite large and dangerous.”

“Next time… aim better!”

Tanaka gave a slight bow in deference to the Gocho’s command position.

“Assemble in front of the barracks.” The Gocho adjusted his jacket, then turned to leave. “Move out. Now!”

Slinging his rifle over a shoulder, Tanaka ran for the door and hustled outside. A heavy downpour sent a deluge of rain over the atoll. His boots caked in mud up to the puttees. He expected the entire garrison would now mobilize to face the invaders.

****

Outside, the troops gathered in formation while the Jun-i and Gocho faced them. Rain beat down on their helmets and puddled in crevices forged into the mud by their combat boots. Tanaka stood at the end of the first line. Ranks of infantrymen ran five-deep. All the Hetai on the atoll were in the formation. They eagerly awaited instructions.

Tanaka wanted to get on with it, face the Americans and engage in an all-out battle. He worried more about the beasts than enemy bullets.

Standing in front of the barracks, they were easy prey for the large beast. It seemed impervious to their bullets and undaunted by the soldiers and their rifles. Tanaka considered the beast’s flight after each encounter. Watching the creature retreat into the jungle, he’d assumed that the rifles firing, and presence of troops had scared it away. Now, he realized the Carnotaurus had only fled once it had secured a victim. Perhaps it took off on instinct, merely to avoid sharing its spoils with others. The beast wasn’t frightened of them, but rather greedy over its booty. It wanted to feed.

When the last solider dawdled into formation, the Jun-i came to attention. The Gocho stood beside him, stern. “Listen,” the Jun-i said. “We have threats from all angles. Creatures abound on this island, and the recent battle has disturbed them. And we have the Americans who’ve landed on our shore.”

All the soldiers listened intently. Some appeared worried about their first time in combat, while others who had already been down at the beach with Tanaka seemed ready to get on with it. Those soldiers who had now faced battle and come out of it unscathed fidgeted with their rifles and occasionally glanced at the muddy ground. And the others stared at the warrant officer, locked at attention, without movement. Seldom blinking their eyes.

“Everyone will board the transport truck and we’ll meet the Americans who will venture onto the road. They are likely on a seek and destroy mission. Our fuel dumps are a key asset for the Imperial Army.” The Jun-i motioned past the barracks. “We must protect our resources at all costs. They will likely attempt to destroy our infrastructure, buildings and roads.”

A shot rang out from the far end of the island, away from the landing area.

“They have come ashore in two locations!” The Jun-i explained the shot. “We will divide our troops. The Gocho will take a squad to the far end of the atoll. And I will lead the rest of the garrison to meet the main landing party.”

As the Jun-i paused, the corporal scanned the troops. His eyes locked on Tanaka.

Tanaka began to step forward, motioning to members of his squad. But the Gocho waved him off with derision. He pointed to several less seasoned infantrymen and they moved into a separate assembly.

“Whoever cannot fit into the transport will grab a bicycle,” the Jun-i continued. “And if you cannot get onto either of them… you run!”

The Gocho addressed his squad. “We will all move on foot. No bicycles or trucks for you.” He sneered at them and then ran for the tree line. Moving swift and strong, he looked like he could run all day, carrying just a sword and Nambu pistol. His squad trudged after him, lugging canvas knapsacks (Hai-nou), Sanpachi 38 rifles, while their mess tins (hangou) and canteens clanged with each parting step. The soldiers’ helmets tilted from side to side with each lumbering stride.

As the Gocho’s squad plodded off, the Jun-i paced in front of the remaining soldiers. He looked them over while rain poured down on his cap, running over the visor, and dripping to the ground in rivulets. Streams of water cascaded from the warrant officer’s field hat, partially obscuring his dark, piercing eyes.

Tanaka could still feel them staring at him intently.

“Your men from the earlier attack will ride in the transport,” the Jun-i finally said.

Tanaka gave the warrant officer a slight bow.

“We will see how many others can fit into the truck. A few can ride on the sideboards. Everyone else will either ride a bicycle or run.” He paused to look them over. “Those of you traveling on foot can cut through the brush. You’ll head toward the big lagoon. But keep in mind the Americans are not likely on the beachhead. They will be headed inland towards our garrison, and likely on their way to the fuel tanks.”

“Should we have some men guard those positions?” This from a superior private.

“A good plan if we had enough soldiers.” The Jun-i smiled proudly. “No. We will throw everything we have at them, intercepting the Americans before they get there. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Everyone replied in unison.

“Good.” The Jun-i nodded, pleased. “If they get through our lines, then you soldiers riding on the truck will retreat to the fuel dumps. And the soldiers on foot and bicycle will fall back and protect the garrison.”

The formation fell into silence. Some fidgeted and appeared to have questions for the warrant officer, but they remained reticent, afraid to draw a harsh response.

“Some of you might be thinking about our comrade who got dragged off by the beast.”

Most of them nodded to affirm their concern. Tanaka noted fear in their eyes, as though they were more scared of the creatures than the Americans. Others registered sorrow for the soldier’s loss, and perhaps concern for his soul.

“When the battle is over, we will regroup and find his remains. So he can be honored with his ancestors. Every fallen solider will be treated accordingly.”

The warrant officer’s words resonated with the troops. Relief spread across their faces. Tanaka realized their fear did not concern death by the Americans or the dinosaurs, but rather apprehension of being dragged off and forgotten, with no way to flourish in the afterlife. The Jun-i’s comment reassured everyone that the Imperial Army would ensure their remains would be found and dignified, honored.

Then the Jun-i climbed into the scout car, an all-wheel drive Kurogane Type-95. He took the passenger seat and a solider slid behind the wheel. The Yonki raced off down the road.

Soldiers from Tanaka’s unit piled into the rear of the transport, taking up positions on bench seats running along both sides of the truck. When the men were packed into the truck, Osamu climbed inside and took the last spot near the tailgate.

Tanaka shut the gate and climbed into the front passenger seat. A soldier jumped on the running board by his door, and another slid behind the wheel.

The truck grumbled to life and pulled away from the garrison. Various infantrymen plodded along the muddy lane on bicycles with rifles strung across their backs. Others ran down the road carrying their Arisaka rifles at port arms. Rain danced on the canvass top covering the truck bed and pattered off the steel roof of the cab. The transport jostled over the desolate lane as it accelerated and shifted gears.

Tanaka gripped his rifle tightly, readying himself for the convergence with the opposing forces. Glancing out the windshield, he scanned the tree line for menacing yellow eyes, which might lurk among the palm fronds.

Eighteen

Peterson plied his way through the jungle, pushing into dense vegetation. He’d left the T-Rex behind him. A palm frond smacked his right leg, then he felt a sharp, jabbing pain. He looked down. Something greenish had latched onto him.

He shook his leg wildly, but he couldn’t shake it off.

Sharp claws lashed open his utilities and calf muscle. Peterson pointed his pistol at the creature’s head, but the damn thing flailed, so he couldn’t train a bead on it for long. Gritting through the pain, he pressed the barrel into the creature’s chest and pulled the trigger.

Bam! The semi-automatic Colt .45 blasted a round into the beast.

It dropped off Peterson and landed on the jungle floor with a thud. Blood and meat oozed from the gaping wound. The dinosaur stood only a foot tall and measured about three feet from head to tail. A hole bore into its chest and a large cavity appeared in its back. Goop from the creature’s insides had sprayed the foliage.

Peterson’s wounds were superficial. He brushed them off.

Scanning for the large predator, he sensed the atoll had grown still.

The quiet was eerie. Almost too silent.

A row of yellow eyes appeared about five feet away. They were close together and hovered a foot off the ground. More creatures like the one he’d just killed.

Frozen, they were poised to attack, but remained fixed in place, as if trying to decide whether or not to pounce. The creatures stared at him, motionless. Maybe they were looking beyond him.

Trepidation caused his pulse to quicken. Hair raised on the back of his neck.

Something had made the scavengers pause. He sensed another creature.

Peterson slowly turned to see what was behind him.

At first, he discerned nothing but green vegetation. Then, he noticed something large and stout, like a tree or mound of moss-covered earth. He traced the curve upward, until a large set of menacing eyes locked onto his gaze.

He froze like the tiny dinosaurs. Peterson breathed slowly through his nose, trying not to make a sound. Nothing moved. And not a sound emanated from the jungle, not even a bird or a rain drop. Only the sound of Peterson’s heartbeat kept him from slipping into absolute shock. And then, the beast canted its head, as if sniffing the air.

Something had caught its attention. Movement came from the left rear of the creature’s hide. A moment later, the silence was disrupted by pandemonium, as machinegun fire erupted, and bullets riddled the Tyrannosaurus Rex’s scaly backside.

Tomko let rip with his Thompson submachine gun, spitting .45 caliber rounds at the beast from close range. Bullets punched into the thick hide, and the dinosaur reared back its head and let out a menacing roar. Then it stepped toward the provocation, stalking towards its prey, but Tomko stood his ground and kept firing.

Other marines followed his lead, setting up a Browning Automatic Rifle and firing at the creature with their M1 Garand rifles. Peterson ran into the fray and took a position behind the BAR gunner. The heavier machinegun lit up, digging rounds into the creature’s ankles. It halted its pursuit of Tomko.

Meanwhile, infantrymen set up a thin perimeter with riflemen. They aimed at the creature’s eyes and fired carefully from less than 50 feet away.

Bullets plinked off the beast’s snout and aggravated it.

Peterson motioned to the riflemen to fan out. He wanted them to set the perimeter further back. Trained marksmen, they could shoot accurately from 300 to 500 yards, but the jungle would not accommodate such distant shots. Still, he wanted them further away to prevent the creature from killing one of his men. And he wanted to intersperse the Thompson machine gunners among the riflemen to throw down more lead and keep the beast from charging. Their assignment was a seek and destroy mission against the Imperial Army, and not a hunting expedition against a wild, previously thought extinct species.

“Get back!” Peterson yelled, waving his pistol.

Privates Chandler and Davidson caught his command and nodded an affirmative. They called to the others around them, and marines eased back while continuing to lay down fire. Bullets ripped through the jungle, slicing through vegetation.

Leaves were serrated. Small limbs crashed to the ground. But the T-Rex didn’t run from them. It stood its ground, and it considered the situation. Intelligent. Thinking.

A marine did not get the signal to move back. Private Baker stood at the end of the line, firing his Browning until the weapon ran empty. He quickly worked to reload.

The BAR had ceased firing. Peterson waved to the nearest fire team. Another BAR let loose as Private First Class James brought his fire team to the fight.

Suddenly, the dinosaur made its move. It lunged toward Baker reloading. Two swift, massive steps and the T-Rex’s head was above him.

Baker looked up, and its colossal jaws opened wide. Saliva dripped from enormous fangs. As the marine turned to run, the dinosaur’s head whipped downward in a flash and snatched him from the ground. It shook its head back and forth.

Baker’s arms and legs thrashed madly. And then, the dinosaur set its jaws tight, and a fierce crack emanated over the ruckus of the firefight.

All firing ceased for a moment as the creature paused to eye them. Standing there with its spoils held in a gargantuan maw, the dinosaur looked upon them with ancient wisdom in its large, yellow eyes. Imposing, the creature reflected an air of conquest. Then, it turned and broke through the brush, snapping trees like twigs, and disappearing before its body could have moved completely out of sight, camouflaged by the tropical brush and obscured by the heavy mist.

Peterson stared at the pathway the dinosaur had just created, as if doing so might somehow bring the young marine back to life. The thought of a creature so large being concealed until you were directly upon it was unsettling. A clap of thunder, and a deluge followed. Rain moved across the island and doused them on the eastern side of the atoll.

“What next?” Tomko stood by him expectantly.

Others gathered around, waiting quietly for instructions.

“We’ve got to continue inland and complete our mission.”

“Doesn’t that thing change our plans?” This from Private Davidson, who glanced at Peterson, almost pleading with him.

Peterson shook his head, and Davidson looked at the ground. “Afraid not.”

The lieutenant considered their options. Running from the Tyrannosaurus Rex had taken them off course. They’d strayed from the animal trail that led from the small lagoon into the interior.

Now they’d lost their bearing, and the dark sky prevented him from ascertaining their location. Peterson reached into a pocket and pulled out his compass. He’d never expected to use it on such a small land mass during a simple mission.

Before he could get the sighting-cover flipped open, a volley of shots echoed from the distance. Raiders had met the enemy inland. He charted a course northwest.

“Got the direction?” said Tomko.

“Sure do. This way.” And Peterson pointed to the path the T-Rex had cleared through the jungle.

“You have to be kidding me?” Tomko shrugged.

“Nope.”

Tomko shook his head. A tough guy, he’d go ahead with the mission without complaint, but he seemed leery about another encounter with the massive creature.

Peterson wondered how many more prowled the tiny island. “Let’s move out.”

Everyone reloaded, then they followed the blood-stained trail heading further inland. Tomko took point again. All the marines were tense, on edge, readying themselves for an encounter with man or beast. The path taken by the Tyrannosaurus Rex led directly toward the garrison, and Peterson feared they’d confront it again.

Nineteen

Staff Sergeant Wilson grabbed a stick and traced an outline of the island in the dirt. He marked off an area showing the big lagoon. “We’re here,” he said, pointing.

The crude map looked similar to the one Lieutenant Colonel Carson had used to explain the mission before they left their training camp at Jacques Farm. Dawson had always pictured the island as a tiny strip of land. Something a marine could traverse in an hour. But it seemed larger in real life and the atoll was overgrown with dense foliage. Raiders would have a rough go of it heading into the interior, trudging through the heavy vegetation.

“We’ve got a change of plans.” Wilson grinned.

“Change one thousand,” Mudhole added, referring to the enlisted marine phase used to mock the brass and their ever-changing orders.

“Exactly.” Staff Sergeant Wilson laughed. Then he traced a smaller lagoon at the other end of the island. A recent downpour had settled into a drizzle.

Dawson recognized it as the landing zone for another squad in the initial plans.

“Seems a boat or two might not have gotten word that we were converging on one beach.” Wilson tilted his helmet back. “They’re out there and have already engaged the enemy. Shooting was pretty heavy a moment ago.”

“How do you know it’s the enemy?” Bishop pressed.

“All that shooting.” Wilson shrugged.

“Yeah. But that didn’t sound like Jap gunfire.”

Wilson looked at Bishop quizzically, as though he hadn’t picked up on it.

“Sounded like our firearms. And ours only.”

Dawson considered the comment. They had spent so much time training at Jacques Farm that he could tell when a Thompson was being fired compared to a Browning. Yet, the fusillade of gunfire had erupted so suddenly that he couldn’t discern exactly what he’d heard. But he suspected that Bishop was right. The kid seemed pretty sure.

“What could they be targeting with so much firepower?” said Wilson.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Bishop frowned. “The freaking wildlife around here.”

“That was a lot of shooting. But you’d expect the garrison to be heading this way.”

“Our fire fight with the creatures was quite heavy,” Dawson offered.

Wilson seemed to consider the comment. “Suppose you’re right. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.” He turned to the sketch on the ground when another burst of gunfire broke out. Only this time it seemed a lot closer.

“What the hell is that?” Mudhole shouldered his weapon.

“Relax.” Wilson motioned for him to rejoin the group. The firing died off quickly.

“The other landing party couldn’t have moved that fast inland.” Bishop bit on his cigarette. “All the heavy machinegun fire came from the eastern part of the island. That shooting just now was a lot closer to us.”

Staff Sergeant Wilson stood up. He looked them all over. “Those shots came from the center of the island. Our commanding officer has concerns about our ability to get past the breakers when we retreat. And he is worried about the aerial assault…”

“And?” Bishop pressed.

“He dispatched two privates to deliver a note to the other side.”

“A note?”

“A message that we would surrender.”

“What the heck?” Bishop stammered and couldn’t say any more.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Bishop pulled out a chrome lighter and flicked the flint-wheel. He lit the cigarette in his mouth and took a long drag. The end burned an amber glow in the dark night, and the smoke wafted through the jungle with a redolent scent, masking the pungent stench of decaying vegetation and fungus.

“Listen, not all the Staff NCOs are on board with it. But I doubt it matters anyway.”

“Why not?” said Dawson.

“We’ve got our orders to move into the interior on the seek and destroy mission. Ain’t very likely that we’ll get word of a surrender once we move out. And besides…”

“What?” Bishop snapped.

“And besides… those boys with the note are likely dead by now.”

Wilson’s comments slipped over Dawson like a suffocating blanket. He could hardly breathe and inhaled deeply to catch his wind. Despite the carnage he’d witnessed on the beach, the thought of moving inland and getting killed just walking along unsettled him.

Everyone seemed taken aback by the comment. Bishop’s eyes narrowed behind the orange ashes at the nub of his cigarette butt. “Maybe the Japs didn’t get them.”

Dawson thought about it. “No. Those were Sanpachi rifles we heard.”

“Yeah. So, either the enemy shot at them, or something ambushed the enemy.”

Something ambushed the enemy, Dawson thought. For some reason, he’d only considered the dinosaurs attacking the Raiders, as if the native inhabitants and the Imperial Army would be spared from the creatures. After all, they lived on the atoll with them. But now he understood the commotion on the beach had likely upset a delicate balance in the tropical ecosystem. Everyone on the island was potential prey to the creatures. He wondered how many lingered in the jungle, and how big they grew.

“Whatever the case, we need to move out now.” Staff Sergeant Wilson stood erect. He pointed to Bishop. “Take point.”

Bishop grinned. Then he took a long drag from his butt, inhaling deeply. He savored the smoke for a moment and then exhaled. “Yes, sir,” he said, moving to the front, as a column formed behind him.

Tossing the remainder of his cigarette onto the wet ground, it smoldered and went out. He assumed the point position.

Dawson fell in a few marines back from Bishop. Private First Class Miller’s team were in between him and the point man, with Jenkins toting a BAR and Knight carrying a Garand. Dawson was followed by Wilson, who clutched his Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol. Two fire teams from Staff Sergeant Kane’s rifle squad were added to the mix. Private First Class Simmons, a stout marine, hefted a Thompson, and led a fire team. The next team was led by Private First Class Alverez, who opted for an M1 Garand. Bringing up the rear was the fire team led by Private First Class Wells, who carried a Thompson submachine gun. Mudhole had the BAR, and Anderson held an M1 Garand.

A capable rifle squad, Dawson was surrounded by able marines. He felt reassured that the Raiders had ample firepower to take down whatever enemy they encountered, beast or foe. Yet, something kept nagging at him, and a chill ran up his spine despite the humidity. Something ambushed the enemy. We haven’t seen the worst of it yet, he thought. Not even close.

Twenty

Randall Dawson was excited to send Mary the news about developments at boot camp. He wrote to her with further updates in a letter postmarked from Savanah, Georgia.

Mary,

I was happy to get your recent letter and appreciate your support for my decision to change over to infantry. Things have gone quite well here. It started out so tough that I wondered if I had the mettle to get through it. Most of the guys were tough. Very tough. But the Marines aren’t just tough physically. There is a mental fortitude they possess. Perseverance is a key trait. You must have the ability to live in discomfort, to live with pain, and withstand strenuous and harsh physical conditions for a protracted period of time. Somehow, I adapted and rose to the challenge. I’ve excelled here and have been forged into a man.

My request for infantry was approved. But there’s more. The company commander called me into his office and told me that they were forming a new outfit. Commandos would be trained from the finest Marines in the fleet and the top recruits in boot camp to engage in special operations in the Pacific theater. One or two battalions will be formed and specially trained beyond the elite training Marines already receive. They will likely be the first to engage the Japanese. I’ve been asked to join.

They demanded immediate responses. An invitation to join is seen as the highest privilege. Anyone who doesn’t jump at the opportunity is not worthy of the position. One must be fully committed to become a commando. You are always in my heart and I wish that I could have run this by you first. But I already gave them my answer. I’m going to be a Marine Raider.

Love,

Randall

****

The response came right away. Merely a brief letter scrawled quickly to convey her thoughts about the development. Sent from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Randall,

I got your letter today and had to write back right away. The news came as a surprise. I’m both shocked (frightened) and proud. We all knew that you could make it through Marine Corps boot camp, even when you doubted yourself. Your progress and outstanding contributions were not unexpected. The drill instructor’s suggestion of your changing over to infantry was a surprise, but only because I did not know they made those sorts of changes.

This recent change is totally amazing. We have read about the new Raider units in the paper. I can’t believe that you were selected out of all the possible candidates! It is quite an accomplishment. My only concern is whether it is too dangerous. Raiders are expected to make advance landings. Won’t they be vulnerable if cut off from the allied forces?

You have all my love and support.

Love always,

Mary

PS: I’ll see you in a couple of weeks. Looking forward to coming down for your graduation. It is very nice of your parents to pay for the trip.

Twenty-One

Tanaka heard rifles blasting and the transport came to a halt. A soldier jumped from the running board. Tanaka opened the door and climbed down, stumbling to the ground. Mud broke his fall. He scrambled to his feet. Breaking around the hood of the truck towards the commotion, he looked up and a slaughter came into view.

A bicycle lay on the ground and the Carnotaurus had a soldier’s head in its mouth, with the man’s body hanging limp, like a rag doll. Another infantryman was splayed out on the lane, cleaved open at the waist. He wailed in pain.

The creature shook its prey, then a loud crack resonated across the roadway.

Snapping bone and gunshots resounded, almost in unison. Blood gushed from the open neck wound and spilled onto the ground before the creature’s immense feet. More rifles fired as Tanaka took up position alongside his comrades. But the Carnotaurus continued to shake the body, as though it sought to exsanguinate the corpse.

They needed to repel the beast. It had gotten a taste for human flesh and would menace them unless it suffered harm. Steadying his aim, Tanaka fired at an eye.

The bullet dug into thinner skin below the left socket. Dropping the solider, it shook its head and roared in agony. Soldiers piled out of the back of the truck and joined the fray. And then, the creature plodded towards the line of soldiers firing at it.

Lowering its head, the beast charged like a bull, whipping its head back and forth, as it hurled soldiers from side to side, piercing a few with its deadly horns.

It stampeded down the line and reached Tanaka in a moment. Eyes burning with rage, it stopped before him. The heat of its breath emanating from its muzzle, and the moisture of saliva dripping from enormous fangs, caused Tanaka to stand rooted in place. The dinosaur meant to slaughter him.

A blood smeared maw, it opened its mouth preparing for another kill.

Tanaka backpedaled as the beast treaded closer. It closed in on him. A gunshot disrupted the silence. The Carnotaurus glanced back at the assailant, Osamu, then it lowered its head and charged into Tanaka, simultaneously colliding into him while jerking its head to the side. It pitched Tanaka to the far edge of the road, then turned and trotted towards it spoils.

Grasping the torso of the severed infantryman and a leg of the corpse with the crushed skull, the creature broke into the underbrush and disappeared into the jungle.

Tanaka lay on the ground with pain flaring from his side. He’d recognized the shot as a Nambu pistol. A moment later, the Jun-i crouched by him looking concerned. “How are you?” he said, trying to assess the harm.

“Think it broke my ribs, but I’ll be okay.”

“Broken ribs can be serious. You could head back to the garrison and wait this one out.” The Jun-i paused. “No dishonor in it. We need you for the balance of the war. You are a prospect for Gocho one day.”

Tanaka rose up on his elbows. “I cannot leave my comrades.”

“You can guard the garrison. No dishonor.”

“I can fight, so I will.” Tanaka caught his breath and rose from the ground.

The Jun-i met his eyes and smiled proudly. “Let’s go.”

When they got back to the truck, the soldiers that had been knocked over by the Carnotaurus were on their feet. Some got onto bicycles and others began to run down the lane toward the next battle. A few soldiers that had alighted from the truck were climbing into the rear of the transport.

The lower torso of a fallen soldier lay on the roadside. Pointing to the hunk of carcass, Tanaka said, “What about him?”

The Jun-i considered the comment, then shook his head. “We cannot spare any able men right now. He will have to wait until the battle is over. Then we will collect the remains of the fallen.”

“Suppose another creature takes it. We will lose the opportunity to honor his sacrifice and may upset his ancestors.”

The Jun-i nodded. “Grab him then.”

“Yes, sir.” Tanaka ran toward the severed limbs, keeping an eye on the tree line for predators.

Approaching, he latched onto a pant leg and dragged the remains to the truck. He stowed them in a cargo box located under the bed. Then, he stepped on the running board and climbed into the passenger seat, as the truck grumbled to life.

The driver shifted into gear and headed down the muddy road following the Jun-i’s scout car. Grasping his rifle with his left hand, Tanaka prepared himself to open the door and jump from his perch and fire at the enemy or beast in a moment’s notice.

Headlights cut down the lane and shined along the tree line. Somehow, the jungle seemed darker and more ominous than before.

He’d now seen the Carnotaurus three times and it had killed four soldiers without suffering much harm. It had romped into the brush unscathed. Fearless.

The creature seemed intelligent, Tanaka thought. He’d come face to face with it.

If the creature connected the sounds of gunfire with the prospect of a hearty fare, Tanaka figured it might be drawn to the skirmish with American invaders. Similar creatures might react the same way. He breathed heavily with apprehension.

****

The Gocho heard a firefight from the easterly side of the atoll. He took point and swiftly moved through the jungle, keeping to animal paths and areas with lower density underbrush. Behind him, the ad hoc unit struggled to keep pace.

He knew the swifter they encountered the enemy, the less prepared the Americans would be for an engagement.

Grinning, he pictured them slogging through heavy jungle, making their way slowly towards the garrison. They wouldn’t likely expect a conflict until closing in on the targeted areas. Even if they moved cautiously, the Americans would not anticipate the Imperial Army to be upon them soon after landing.

Soldiers panted behind him, struggling to keep up.

“Move it,” he commanded.

“We’re doing the best we can.” This from Sato, a superior private.

Gocho shook his head, dismayed. “You’re not fit enough for combat. We’ve been too lax in training and conditioning you. Not enough discipline.”

“But we are weighted down with equipment.”

He stopped abruptly. “Good point. Take it off and stow the heavy items by that tree. Helmets, packs, and mess tins. All of you.”

“Yes, sir,” they replied in unison and began unloading gear.

“All you need is your rifle, ammunition and water.”

Some of them nodded, while others eagerly sought to jettison equipment. Privates Ito and Harada unloaded quickly, while Sato and Private Matsuda struggled with their packs.

“You should use this break to drink. We’ve got plenty of ground to—”

The Gocho’s words were cut short by a shadow moving among nearby trees. Everyone froze at the realization that something had caught his attention. He slowly came around to square off against the predator. Waving a hand, he motioned for the troops to shoulder their rifles.

A palm frond shook, and the creature came into view.

The beast stood about six feet tall and was slightly over eight feet long. It was stout and likely weighed close to a couple tons. Sniffing, it sensed the soldier’s presence.

A Metriacanthosaurus, it had a brownish hide covered with darker brown stripes. Gocho had studied the creatures in school and recalled this one to have been a fierce meat eater. But something made it hesitant to approach. It stood on the edge of a tree line, allowing for an easy retreat, where it would quickly become camouflaged by the jungle.

He thought about shooting at the beast, but its hide seemed thick and armored. Instead, he decided to try and scare it away. Perhaps this monster has encountered gunfire before, he thought hopefully.

The Gocho raised his pistol and pointed to the left of the creature’s head. Then he squeezed off a round.

His bullet tore through the leafy vegetation, and the crack from the Nambu pistol only caused the dinosaur to shake its large head. It didn’t run.

Rather the creature shook its head again, as if agitated. Then it stepped from the trees, pounding the ground several times with its massive feet, advancing a few yards. It stopped, canted its head, and stared the Gocho in the eyes. The dinosaur seemed to know who fired the gun. Sniffing the air, it raised the sides of both upper lips. Large fangs bared, releasing saliva that had pooled in the pockets of its large mouth.

Now, the drool ran towards the ground in streams. It planned to feed.

Raising the pistol at the creature, the Gocho prepared the unit to fight. “Ready!”

As the men aimed their rifles, the Metriacanthosaurus took another step forward, lowered its head, and let out a deep, fierce roar. The sound was deafening. It charged.

“Fire!” The Gocho pulled the trigger on his Nambu pistol, repeatedly.

Rifles cracked as the infantrymen blasted a volley of rounds at the approaching beast.

The dinosaur kept coming as bullets dug into its dense skull, unable to penetrate the thick bone. It closed the distance fast. Galloping.

Gocho emptied his magazine. He holstered the pistol. Reaching around for the sword on his back, he grabbed the Tsuka (handle) and unsheathed the weapon. The dinosaur swiftly approached, marking its prey. Primal ferocity radiated from its eyes. Ravenous.

Assuming the warrior stance, the Gocho prepared to take his final stand, placing himself between the rushing beast and his men.

The dinosaur glared at the sword, then broke to the right and plowed into the men behind the Gocho. It snatched onto Harada and tore violently at his midsection. The prostrate infantryman screamed in misery and thrashed the jungle floor with his combat boots. Flesh and uniform alike were ripped open.

Gocho spun to engage the beast. Plunging the sword into its side, he sliced between two ribs, and the creature bellowed in agony. The Metriacanthosaurus’s body quivered. Turning as it munched on its kill, the dinosaur’s movement jerked the sword, and knocked the Gocho over. He lost hold of the weapon. Massive feet with sharp claws sidestepped toward him as he lay strewn on the ground, helpless.

Gocho rolled to avoid being trampled to death. He reloaded the pistol.

Soldiers continued to fire their Sanpachi rifles. Bullets dug into the ground near the Gocho. The creature’s feeding frenzy had turned the situation into undisciplined panic.

The Gocho rose and raced toward the creature. He leapt onto its back. Then, he grabbed the sword to steady himself, as the beast tried to shake him loose. A moment later, the dinosaur returned to its fare.

Straining, the Gocho pulled on the sword, trying to yank it free. The weapon held tight. It had lodged into dense armor and cartilage. Silence fell over the scene as the infantrymen ceased firing. Everyone watched in awe as the Gocho fought to release the weapon. As he wiggled the sword to detach it from the gristle, the beast moaned in torment.

The animal was vulnerable to attack! And the Gocho’s efforts redoubled at the realization that he just might defeat the monster.

He planted his feet and lunged upright, pulling on the sword while flexing his legs. It released from the hide, and he flew backward onto the ground. The fall knocked the wind out of him. Catching his breath, he prepared himself for another assault.

The beast continued to feed on Harada, the fallen soldier. His corpse was torn into pieces. Bits of flesh, broken bone, and scraps of uniform littered the ground. Detritus of gore and death sent a coppery smell wafting over the fray. The soldier’s blood doused the green vegetation. And then, the remaining infantrymen fired another barrage of rounds at the beast.

It roared and hissed at them, more annoyed than harmed. The closest man stood within pouncing range. A single leap and the beast would devour him.

Gocho scrambled to his feet and ran up the side of the beast. Precariously perched on the creature’s back, he raised the sword and prepared to plunge the blade down into the nape of its neck. Vital nerves and arteries would be severed. But the dinosaur bucked and threw the Gocho to the earth.

“Get back!” He yelled to the troops, rising to his feet.

They moved away as commanded. And the dinosaur eyed them greedily, as though trying to decide which one to eat next. It moved swiftly and charged Matsuda, the heaviest soldier in the squad. A moment later, it had the man on the ground, screaming in misery.

Moving swiftly, the Gocho wasted no time. The creature had its head lowered to the soldier’s viscera, preoccupied. He leapt onto its back.

The creature gave a mild thrash, attempting to kick off the assailant. But it kept at the disemboweled intestines, strung across the grass like bloody sausage links.

Once again, the Gocho sprung onto the dinosaur’s back.

It paused from its feeding craze. A moment was all it took. The Gocho raised the sword and thrusted it downward with all his might. The blade impaled the creature’s neck.

The dinosaur lopped its head upward, wailing in pain. Its eyes bulged. And then, it took a step forward, stumbling on faltering legs.

Wavering, the unsteady gait caused the Gocho to lose his balance.

Another yowl of pain, trickling into a low moan, and then, the dinosaur lost its balance. It careened over, falling to the side. The Gocho saw the large creature dropping fast; it would land directly on top of him. He rolled swiftly, but he remained under the shadow of the massive beast.

The Metriacanthosaurus’s enormous body landed with a heavy thud alongside the Gocho. He breathed a sigh of relief. Then, the dinosaur’s head pitched onto his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for breath.

Everything appeared surreal, as though he were lying on a soft bed of vegetation, not feeling any pain. And then, he drifted into blackness.

Twenty-Two

Dawson followed the second fire team through the jungle. Firefights had broken out around the island. Shots echoed from every direction. He couldn’t imagine Raiders having encountered the enemy that many times. The creatures are restless, he thought.

The battles on the beachhead and the aerial attack had stirred them. He kept watch for the enemy and creatures alike.

Bishop plodded through the dense jungle, leading them on instinct down into lower terrain. They pushed through palm fronds and thick underbrush, forging their way inland. Dawson felt like they had been marching for hours. And now the command post seemed miles away. Soon, the ground became soggy, as they traversed along the edge of marshland.

A swamp lay in the center of the lowlands. Moonlight cast upon the water. Rain had let up. Still, the marines’ pace slowed from the wet soil. Many grumbled about the conditions, and a few worried that Bishop might lead them straight into the bog.

“Should have kept to the ridge,” said Staff Sergeant Wilson.

Bishop shook his head. “This was the way to go. We’ll hit that road soon enough.”

“How can Bishop be so sure?” Wilson mumbled to nobody in particular.

“Just is.” Mudhole piped in.

A deep groan caught their attention and silenced the marines. Dawson glanced around and didn’t see enemy troops or predators. This didn’t make him at ease. He looked again and understood why he’d missed it the first time. A massive creature stood in the water, docile, eating leaves from a tall tree. Its round back resembled a hillside. Dawson missed it at first because he thought that he’d glimpsed a slope.

The Apatosaurus measured seventy feet long and stood forty feet high. It seemed to eye them but didn’t take a break from munching leaves. “This one’s not a meat eater,” Dawson reassured the others. Some had already pointed their weapons at the dinosaur.

“You sure?” a private muttered.

“Save your ammo.”

“Just eating leaves,” Mudhole added.

“You fellas are going to announce to the Japanese army that we’re on our way.” Wilson griped and shook his head. “Let’s keep the chatter to a minimum.”

“I just didn’t want guys shooting at it needlessly.”

“Not you Dawson. I ain’t getting after you.”

Dawson took a deep breath and trekked onward, sloshing through the mucky lowlands. It reminded him of the long hikes Lieutenant Colonel Carson made them take during training. The time the colonel made them walk into a stream with their new combat boots also came to mind. Now, he was thankful that the training had prepared them for this mission.

Somehow, they skirted around the swamp and began an ascent. An open stretch lay before them, clear of trees. Bishop had found a shortcut to the road. Things were looking better, but they were not alone. A few dinosaurs lingered by the edge of the water.

A Stegosaurus casually drank from the edge of the marsh where water collected, and reeds protruded from the surface. The dinosaur stood twelve feet tall and measured about twenty-five feet long. Armored plates lined its back. The creature stretched its neck and pulled on vegetation near the shore. An herbivore; it didn’t pay them any mind, either.

Near the Stegosaurus, a couple of odd-looking creatures fed on grasses and moss. They were about twenty feet long, from the end of their snouts to the tips of their tails. Both dinosaurs stood only five feet tall, and they were less than five feet wide.

Ankylosaurus, Dawson thought. He noted the spiky backs and club tails.

Remembering his school days, he recalled the creatures being referred to as the Army tank of the dinosaur world. The creatures moved lazily along the edge of the marsh, picking at grasses and reeds. Another herbivorous dinosaur. Dawson figured the creatures wouldn’t pose a threat, unless cornered or attacked by humans.

As the Ankylosaurus closest to them ambled forward to sip water, it sunk both front legs into the bog and something came into view on the ground near its tail. A Raider lay in the dirt, injured or dead.

Dawson signaled to the others and broke towards the prostrate body.

Staff Sergeant Wilson tried to stop him, but Dawson threw caution to the wind and ran hunched over with his rifle at port arms. A sniper could have easily put him down.

Reaching the fallen marine, Dawson found the man’s gut ripped open. Entrails looped along the ground, bitten off at one end. A lower leg had been cleaved from the body. Dawson glanced at the man’s feet. Both were intact.

Another casualty had been mauled, chewed, mutilated, and dragged off. The ground was disturbed, as though creatures had fought for the prize. Why leave this one alone? Dawson looked at the remains of the marine left behind and considered the dilemma. Something was clutched in the marine’s hand. A scrap of paper.

Dawson uncurled the fist and looked it over. The surrender note that Lieutenant Colonel Carson had scribed for the enemy. It would never reach their adversaries.

Still, he couldn’t understand why the creatures would leave the corpse. A scuffle on the bank caught his attention. His unit had approached to investigate the situation. The club tail nearest to him let out a groan and stomped its right, front leg. A warning to keep away.

“What’s this?” said Mudhole, looking over Dawson’s shoulder.

“The surrender note we heard about.” Dawson handed it to Wilson.

He merely perused it and shoved it into his pocket.

“Do we have to take it on to the enemy?” Dawson considered whether the obligation now fell to them.

“Heck no.” Wilson shook his head.

“Are you sure?” This from Jenkins, who immediately drooped his head.

“Shut your mouth.” Wilson stood with a Colt .45 in one hand and the other was placed on his hip. He didn’t appear to be in the mood for answering to subordinates.

The young marines turned quiet, afraid to set him off further.

“Our mission is a seek and destroy. We are headed inland to blow those fuel dumps and demolish any infrastructure we come across.” Wilson paused to look them over. “The surrender directive was never tasked to us. Besides, I wasn’t in favor of it to begin with. I’d rather take my chances fighting whoever and whatever is lurking on this island than risk being captured by the Japanese. There’s already been rumors of torture and horrible conditions.”

“Understood, Staff Sergeant Wilson,” said Dawson.

Others nodded in agreement. Marines tightened the grips on their weapons, hands turning white in the dark night. They were ready to engage the enemy.

“We should get a move—” Wilson’s words were cut short.

A scout car and transport truck rumbled up the dirt road, with headlights cutting into the dense jungle. Soldiers were hunkered down on benches in the truck bed and others trailed behind it riding bicycles. And still others followed them on foot.

“Get down,” whispered Wilson.

The Raiders crouched behind palm fronds and waited for the truck to pass. With the mission being a seek and destroy, they did not have to meet the enemy unless necessary. They could head inland and target the fuel dumps. Dawson figured if the truck continued past them, the marines would encounter little resistance.

But a foot soldier stopped at the edge of the lane and called out to his comrades. He pointed at the marines and sounded the alarm. A few others came to his side.

Fortunately, the truck continued down the roadway unawares. Dawson and the other marines would only have to face a few infantrymen. Then the soldier who spotted them raised his rifle and fired at them. A bullet tore through the vegetation over their heads.

He lowered his barrel slightly, adjusting his aim.

The shot caused the transport to halt. Reinforcements would soon be upon them.

Bishop let loose with his Browning Automatic Rifle. The BAR ripped up the jungle and the enemy soldiers alike. Infantrymen flailed in a death dance, as Bishop’s rounds punched into them, blasting them in sundry directions. His bullets seemed to keep them on their feet longer than possible on their own.

As the soldiers teetered over, the truck backed down the road and the tailgate dropped open. Fresh troops alighted from the truck and took up positions along the side of the lane. They began to fire at the marines.

“Don’t just sit there,” Wilson commanded. “Move out.”

He broke towards the left and the Raiders followed him. They grouped downslope from the front of the truck, moving behind rocks, trees, and brush, trying to avoid direct enemy fire from a higher elevation.

Dawson grabbed Bishop’s shoulder. “Wait.”

“What do you mean?”

“You guys come with me,” Dawson said to Simmons’s fire team.

“What are you planning to do?” Bishop didn’t want to listen.

“Come on,” Dawson said, running to the right. “We’re going to outflank them.”

His troopers followed him. While breaking past the club tail dinosaurs, the one closest to them hissed and meandered up the hillside.

“Let’s go.” Dawson waved to the others and ran after the dinosaur.

Trailing behind the club tail reluctantly, the marines kept a safe distance from Dawson and the creature. He caught up to it and leaned a shoulder into its hulking side. The Ankylosaurus snorted and growled, but it kept trucking along.

“Get in behind me,” Dawson instructed them.

“Are you crazy?” This from Bishop. “I’m not going near that thing.”

“We’ll use it for cover like an armored tank.”

A few enemy soldiers had already picked up on their assault. Infantrymen had set a perimeter and the men on the left flank worked to assemble a Lewis-type machinegun. Within a moment, lead would be flying at them.

“Now!”

The fire team assembled behind Dawson just as the machinegun rattled away. Bullets dinged off the sides of helmets and bored into the creature’s hide. It grunted and picked up speed, trotting toward the menacing weapon. Angered. Dawson hustled to match pace with the beast. He ran, trying to keep his head down and wasn’t looking at the ground.

His right foot landed on uneven ground and he tumbled into a depression. The others cleared the edge of the small ditch. He scrambled to his feet and returned fire.

The Ankylosaurus’s tail whisked by him, swinging from side to side. Dawson bolted out of the hole to avoid being struck by the spiked appendage. As he ascended the depression, he realized the soil was crimped at the end of circular dimples; he’d fallen into an enormous footprint with claws.

Twenty-Three

Tanaka had jumped from the truck as soon as the transport came to a halt. He ran around to the back of the vehicle and removed pegs and let the gate down. Soldiers piled out and moved into action. Osamu trundled past with a dire look in his eyes.

He told them to line up along the edge of the road, forming a perimeter and using the berm along the lane for cover. Soon the Jun-i was on the scene barking orders.

Imperial foot soldiers assembled the imitation Lewis machineguns at three tactical locations: the end of each flank and the center-point of the perimeter. A gas operated weapon, the Lewis guns fired a Japanese version of the British .303 cartridge. It utilized a circular magazine that held approximately 100 rounds. Osamu joined the center unit.

The Americas split into two groups. A larger contingency broke toward the center and flank near the parked transport. And the other group, much smaller, headed past the farthest flank, utilizing a beast for cover.

“Tanaka!” Jun-i spoke harshly.

“Yes, sir.” He faced the warrant officer and noted concern.

“They are better trained than we anticipated. Dividing troops and immediately moving to outflank us was a decisive tactical move.”

“We have the machineguns ready to fire.”

“Yes, but they avoided the crossfire from two guns at a time by breaking to either side, and they kept us from concentrating our attack by dividing into groups.”

“We will put up a brave fight.”

The Jun-i considered him for a moment. “I know that you will represent the honor of the Empire. Now, I want you to take command of the flank where the smaller force is headed. You must prevent them from coming around our line.”

“I will get to it right away, sir.”

“Our perimeter is a semi-circle. If they make headway, you fold your flank inward, tightening our circle.”

Tanaka nodded, understanding. He ran to his post.

A few soldiers had the Lewis gun set up and were firing at the Americans. The enemy hid behind a gigantic turtlelike creature with a long, spiked tail. Tanaka noted a marine rising from the ground. He shouldered his Arisaka rifle and pointed it at the marine.

The Lewis machinegun rattled off round after round, ricocheting off the creature’s armored shell, and boring into the more vulnerable scales on its legs.

And then, the marine was stable on his feet, ducking for cover behind the beast. Tanaka couldn’t get a bead on him before the commando slipped out of sight. The machine gunner let up on the Lewis gun, while the battle raged to his right.

Surveying the assault along the far flank, Tanaka understood they meant to use the creature for protection and pass by him and attack from the rear, where the Hetai didn’t have a fortified position. But how long could they expect to steer the beast in keeping with their strategy. He needed to repel the dinosaur being used for cover.

“Keep firing!” Tanaka pointed. “Hit the beast in the legs. Send it into the jungle.”

The machinegun blazed, lighting up the night. Bullets dug into the creature’s legs and exposed underside. It cleared the edge of the roadway and stomped onto the muddy lane. Round helmets bobbed on the other side of its shell.

“They’re going to outflank us!” Tanaka broke to the end of the line.

He ran past the dinosaur then planted his feet and prepared to fire.

Aiming at the creature’s face, he meant to redirect it. He planned to send it into the brush on the far side of the road, defeating the Americans’ goal of circling around their rear, and leaving them exposed to attack.

The Lewis gun shook violently as the troopers blasted away.

Other soldiers rushed over from the center position and laid down heavy fire at the encroaching marines. Tanaka stood fast, waiting for the creature to get closer. Steady. I’m going to stop it, he thought.

It closed the distance fast. Kaboom! Tanaka’s bullet tore into the flesh beneath the creature’s left eye. The dinosaur roared and shook its head.

Then, it grunted and changed course. It spun toward the machinegun nest, rather than bolting into the jungle. Loping around, it broke into a swift trot and charged into the Hetai. The dinosaur barreled through them, knocking soldiers to the ground, and then swung its deadly tail from side to side, clobbering the infantrymen with powerful blows.

Bones cracked, and soldiers bellowed in pain. A man was spiked in the thigh and got dragged along the ground as the beast trucked over the berm. It ran downhill towards the safety of the marshland.

The Americans were left standing exposed, without cover. Vulnerable.

Responding to the sudden change, they shouldered their weapons and took advantage of the calamity. Marines laid down heavy fire with automatic machineguns. The intruder who had fallen and then stumbled out of Tanaka’s line of fire, now turned to him.

Tanaka raised his rifle.

But the marine was quicker.

He fired first.

A bullet struck Tanaka in the shoulder and spun him to the ground. The impact seemed almost simultaneous with the muzzle blast.

Lying in the mud, he watched the marine wave to his squad and charge headlong into Tanaka’s flank. Machineguns and rifles lit up the night as Tanaka struggled for life. A burning sensation radiated in his chest, then he slipped into blackness.

Twenty-Four

Dawson caught up with his troopers. He trotted near the end of the line, left oblique to the machine gunners.

Private Fuller advanced with the Browning Automatic Rifle, then Bishop with his BAR, followed by Private First Class Simmons with a Thompson, spitting .45 caliber shells. Private Meserve, a rifleman, targeted enemy soldiers while under cover of heavy fire from his comrades.

The enemy soldiers manning the Lewis gun couldn’t swing it around in time. Bishop charged, firing non-stop. Japanese soldiers were riddled all over. Bullets struck them in the chest, shoulders, and thighs.

Everyone handling the deadly machinegun now lay on the ground, writhing in agony.

Sighting the M1 on soldiers down the line, Dawson pecked off the enemy one at a time, sharpshooting with deadly aim. Kill shots dropped them to the ground.

The flank had broken. Now, the small marine unit advanced toward the center machinegun nest. And the larger contingency led by Staff Sergeant Wilson pressed on the other flank and center position.

Gunfire erupted from the marines dug into the downhill slope. Heavy automatic weapons riddled the enemy position. Both remaining Lewis guns directed return fire at Staff Sergeant Wilson’s position. A warrant officer supervised one machine gunner and a chubby private led the other. Neither side took many casualties and the oppenents did not advance on each other. A stalemate.

Dawson pressed ahead of his troopers, continuing to make each shot count. Bishop followed at left oblique, while Fuller took up a position on his right, advancing in a wedge formation. Other members of the unit fanned out from the machine gunners.

“Move ahead!” Dawson screamed over the cacophony of firearms.

The Japanese troops were caught in a crossfire. And then, the center Lewis gun spun around to face them. The entire fire team would be taken down. Swift movement bringing the gun around twisted the belt. The gunner got off a few rounds and the deadly weapon jammed.

A marine on the outside of the formation dropped from a wild shot to his thigh.

“Get down!” screamed Dawson.

Everyone hit the dirt. Dawson dove onto his stomach, landing with his rifle in front so he could quickly shoulder the M1. He took a deep breath, aimed, and fired.

The enemy machine gunner fell with blood gushing from his neck. He expelled his last breath, kicking. Another enemy soldier took his place at the Lewis gun, while an assistant gunner finished straightening the ammunition belt.

A hopeless situation. Dawson thought of Mary and tapped the metal tin in his breast pocket, housing his final letter to her.

The battle scene darkened as storm clouds drifted in front of the moon. A clap of thunder. Then a deluge poured from the sky. Heavy rain puddled the lane and quickly saturated the ground, making it too muddy for sudden movements. Combatants on both sides slipped and lost their balance; some fell into the sludge and floundered to stay in the fight.

Just as the Lewis gun was set to go, thrashing emanated from the far side of the road. Trees and shrubbery shook violently. A limb snapped.

A moment later, a stout dinosaur emerged from the jungle. It had thick horns above its eyes, and the beast measured about eight yards from nose to tip of its tail. It weighed over a ton. But the creature was swift. It ran into the road and plied toward the center of the enemy defense.

The Lewis gun spun and rattled off rounds at the approaching dinosaur. It roared and picked up its pace.

Dawson got to his feet, waving his men to break further to the left and close upon the vulnerable enemy center position. The machine gunner continued to fire away at the beast, with the hand grips vibrating, and the barrel jouncing up and down.

Bullets seemed to ping off the thick hide without consequence.

Approaching the machinegun nest, the dinosaur lowered its head and charged into the soldiers, knocking them over like bowling pins. It reached the berm and spun around. The creature’s tail swatted three infantrymen and sent them hurling. They were tossed downhill toward the marines who opened fire on them.

The Carnotaurus snapped at a soldier trying to get away. Arms flailing as the man slipped on mud, the beast stretched out its neck and latched onto the man. With a shake of the head and slight tug, the man’s arm tore off his body. Blood pumped from the cleaved opening and spurted into the air. He screamed in torment, as the cascading rain and blood doused his face, like anointing him to rid the soldier of the dangerous creature. But the beast was spurred on by the exsanguination.

It took a step closer to the teetering man. The ground trembled. Vibrations reverberated down the lane. Ratcheting its head around, the Carnotaurus glanced back toward the opening in the brush where it had entered the roadway, as if looking for something. And then, it reached down and snatched the wounded man from the ground. Latching onto the soldier, the creature made a break down the muddy lane, moving hastily around the back of the transport.

Something enormous burst from the jungle and stomped onto the roadway. A massive dinosaur roared, sounding its presence. Rain cascaded over its thick green hide, standing twelve feet tall at the hips and measuring forty feet from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail. A piece of cloth was wedged between two front teeth. The olive drab scrap of Raider uniform. Dawson realized the unit landing on the eastern side of the island had not encountered Imperial troops, but rather met the creature standing before them. It had traversed the island swiftly.

The Tyrannosaurus ran after the smaller dinosaur, chasing it down the lane. It closed the distance in a few massive strides. By the time the Carnotaurus reached the truck’s front end, the larger beast had caught up to its prey.

Fleeing with its spoils, the Carnotaurus seemed to be protecting the carcass from the larger predator. It ducked its head low, placing its neck and body between the corpse and the larger dinosaur. Dawson understood the T-Rex meant to have the lesser beast and wasn’t concerned with the tasty morsel clamped in its maw.

It lowered its massive head and bucked into the side of the Carnotaurus. The blow sent the smaller dinosaur reeling into the transport. The truck teetered up on its left wheels, then jostled back down with a thump. Mud sprayed everywhere.

Then, the Tyrannosaurus repeated the same tactic, knocking the smaller dinosaur into the truck again and again. Without losing its hold on the soldier, the Carnotaurus struggled to its feet and squirmed along the transport, desperately trying to escape. Another blow missed the Carnotaurus and jolted the truck high into the air.

Clanking steel resounded from the undercarriage. It dropped heavily to the ground and the suspension gave a metallic creak. The vehicle sunk into the mud. Lewis guns rattled bullets at the dinosaurs and riddled the truck. A rear tire exploded, and the truck sat askew in the gunk.

The Carnotaurus didn’t flee from its attacker. Instead, the bull wormed loose and turned to face the hulking carnivore. Never taking its eyes off the T-Rex, it flung the booty to the side to collect later. And then, it scraped the earth with a massive rear claw and snorted a warning. The bull lowered its head and charged the gigantic meat-eater.

Its head collided with the Tyrannosaurus and knocked it back a few feet, sending it reeling into the battered truck. The bull had gotten underneath the larger dinosaur and kept pushing it off balance. Stumbling back with a foot off the ground, the T-Rex leaned forward and bit into the bull’s back. Enormous teeth dug into the Carnotaurus’s hide, tearing into thick skin, peeling off layers of glistening meat. The bull yowled in pain.

Agony and rage incited the smaller beast. It pushed harder, driving the Tyrannosaurus upright, then tumbling it over onto its side. The massive creature landed on the roadway with a tenacious wallop. It squirmed to right itself, but the bull was at its underbelly.

The Carnotaurus bit into the softer flesh and violently jerked its head, cleaving an opening in the king of the jungle. Flailing madly to right itself, the T-Rex only served to tear the wound open wider.

Caterwauling pierced the night as the soldiers watched in awe. Firearms shooting had ceased, replaced by the screeching cries of the vanquished. The Carnotaurus latched onto entrails and backpedaled, sealing the assailant’s doom. As the bull disemboweled the fierce predator, the release of tension on the fallen creature’s underside allowed it to scramble onto its feet. The T-Rex stumbled.

An unsteady gait made pursuit difficult. It roared in fury.

Still, it towered over the other dinosaur. The Carnotaurus backed away, holding links of the larger beast’s viscera clamped tightly in its mouth. Gnashing its teeth caused the intestines to sever. Entrails split; a horrid stench permeated the damp air, and excreta slopped to the ground. But the cord was cut, and the Tyrannosaurus had broken loose.

It made two swift strides and bit the Carnotaurus on the back of the neck.

The bull shook to free itself of the Tyrannosaurus’s hold, but the larger creature locked its grip even tighter, clamping on the thick neck, while compressing its jaws. A squeal belched from the bull, nothing more. Clenching the bull’s neck, the Tyrannosaurus squeezed with all its might, until a loud snap resounded from the carnage. And then, the Carnotaurus went limp, dropping to the ground with a heavy thud.

The victor roared with its nose pointed to the sky. Rain poured over the creature and puddled in the roadway. It leaned over and tore a bite of flesh from the dead bull. Eating ravenously, the T-Rex fed like it was its last meal. Death lurked over the desolate lane.

Soldiers fired the Lewis guns, attempting to drive the beast away.

Efforts to send the beast into flight all failed miserably.

The creature lifted its head from the hefty carcass and sniffed. Its nostrils picked up a scent, almost as though it were remembering the smell. An odor of humankind.

It turned to face the volley of bullets and stomped toward the center Lewis gun.

Bullets dug into the dinosaur’s thick hide. It roared with fury and kept advancing toward the deadly gun. Soldiers scattered, but the machine gunner kept firing away. The T-Rex opened its massive jaws and snapped them onto the lone soldier. His screams were muffled by the brute’s muzzle.

Picking the man from the machinegun nest, the Tyrannosaurus wheeled around, while latching a tighter grip onto his prize.

The soldier kicked and squirmed to free himself from the creature’s grasp. It squeezed, and cracking emitted from its jaws. Blood oozed from its mouth. The thrashing lessened until the man’s legs dangled, limp from the predator’s maw.

Dawson gasped at the awful demise.

The T-Rex tilted its head back and gobbled the soldier down its gullet. Rain danced over the colossal skull and pelted its eyes. Shaking its head, the beast seemed to gather itself.

And something else; it appeared satisfied, as if savoring the fare.

Sniffing the air, the Tyrannosaurus picked up a pleasant aroma. Its mouth cracked open, like a sinister smile. The creature whetted its appetite, tasting the scent of its next delicacy.

The T-Rex snapped its head to the left and locked onto its next victim.

Twenty-Five

Tanaka awoke to a deluge pouring over his face. Rainwater washed into his mouth and choked him. Intense pain spiked in his shoulder. Another throbbing ache radiated from his arm, and his ribs hurt when he breathed. Sitting up, he spit water from his mouth, coughed, and caught his breath.

Something resisted his upward movement, tugging at his arm.

He looked over. A small dinosaur gnawed at his deltoid. Rips in his uniform revealed exposed meat, cleaved open by sharp teeth.

Rising to his feet, he swatted the creature and knocked it to the ground. The dinosaur was similar in size to a very large bird, but it appeared daunting. He reached for his rifle and the vicious scavenger hissed at him. It took a step closer, baring its teeth.

Tanaka stepped back, unnerved by its aggressiveness.

It sensed his fear and ran at him. Springing from the ground, the Compsognathus ran up his leg, digging its claws into his flesh. He shrieked in misery.

The creature took occasional bites as it moved up his body, nipping him, sampling for a vulnerable place to find purchase. His neck would be the fertile ground for it to rest upon. He dropped his rifle. Tanaka grabbed the creature’s neck and tried to pull it off him.

But it resisted. The creature’s eyes grew fierce. Obstinate, the rear claws tightened, crimping into his stomach. Pain from his injuries hindered the effort.

He grabbed its neck and squeezed with all his might.

The Compsognathus ratcheted its head and bit into his forearm. Razor sharp teeth cut through his uniform and dug into his skin. Still, he managed to hold on, clutching the dinosaur for dear life. It gasped for air and weakened its hold.

Tanaka yanked the creature from his torso and flung it to the ground. Then, he snatched up his rifle and performed a lateral butt stroke, smacking the creature in the head.

It reeled over, flopping on the ground. Tanaka maneuvered the rifle to his shoulder and shot the thing in its chest. Greenish fluid spurted from the wound, as the dinosaur flailed in agony, shrieking in pain.

Turning, a scene of havoc came into view. Miniscule scavengers had infested the battle. Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs fed upon Imperial soldiers pinned to the ground, gnawing at their flesh, picking the meat clean from the bone. Weak and bleeding, the fallen soldiers resisted in futility. Screaming and kicking, they writhed on the ground until succumbing to death.

And the T-Rex wasn’t finished with them yet. It stomped towards its prey.

Making swift, long strides, the Tyrannosaurus closed in on a chubby soldier, who stood frozen, unable to bring himself to flee.

“Osamu!” Tanaka called. “Run. Run!”

Standing amidst the dismantled machinegun nest, Osamu finally registered the warning. He nodded and broke to escape.

But his flight came too late. The carnivore stepped within striking distance.

Osamu got just six feet when the T-Rex made its move. Canting its head, the creature swiped to the left and latched onto the soldier’s midsection. Then, it lifted the man into the air, kicking and screaming. The battle scene fell silent as Osamu waved his arms and wailed in misery.

Eyeing the people on the ground, the Tyrannosaur checked for a threat.

Tanaka stood helpless watching his friend suffer unimaginable torment. He didn’t know what to do. Osamu’s end was certain.

A crack disrupted the calm. The bullet struck Osamu in the forehead, and his suffering terminated. Rotating toward the gun blast, Tanaka faced the American sharpshooter who’d led the smaller contingency. A mercy shot. He was thankful of the invader’s kindness.

The T-Rex didn’t remain steadfast for long. It scanned the closest line, as though considering adding another soldier to its booty.

“Attack!” the Jun-i cried, standing alongside the remaining Lewis gun.

The beast stalked towards him, dragging its entrails, and crimping its massive claws into the mud for balance. It wasn’t long for this world.

Bullets dug into the cleaved open underbelly. The dinosaur yowled in pain.

Rifles cracked from both factions, working in unison to drive the creature away. It gave a massive roar, then stomped on the machinegun nest, dismantling the threat. Soldiers were crushed and impaled by giant claws. Jun-i was knocked to the dirt. And then, the carnivore broke for the jungle, trotting weakly towards safety with its final meal.

Once the Tyrannosaurus entered the brush across the street, the Compys scampered to the large carcass lying near the transport. Pouncing upon the bull, they teared at its flesh and snapped at each other, greedy for the meat.

The truck sat in the mud, askew. It was rendered useless by the battle with the beasts. The Yonki remained parked up the road, unscathed by the skirmish.

Soldiers lay about, groaning from their wounds, with some being picked over by Compys. A lull in the fighting permitted Tanaka to gather himself. He checked his injuries and applied a bandage to the wound in his upper chest. The bullet had entered the pectoral muscle, struck his clavicle, and exited through the upper trapezius.

Once he patched himself up and ebbed the bleeding, Tanaka ran to the fallen warrant officer. The Jun-i lay on the ground, breathing heavily.

“Are you all right?” Tanaka knelt by him.

“Fall back and reassemble the troops…” The Jun-i gasped.

“Let me help you to the Yonki.”

Jun-i shook his head. “It crushed my ribs. My insides are hemorrhaging. My time here is coming to an end.”

The words cut through Tanaka like a knife. “I’ll take you back to the garrison.”

“You must lead the troops.” He smiled benignly. “Leave me here.”

Gunfire disrupted the silence. The Americans had revived the battle.

“You must act swiftly,” Jun-i said, exasperated. “Take the Yonki and defend the fuel dumps and garrison.”

Tanaka shook his head, disapproving. Even as he considered dragging the warrant officer to the scout car, a glazed look crossed the leader’s face. Jun-i slipped into the midst of death. Now, the role of leadership fell to Tanaka.

He looked up and saw the decimated Imperial troops. “Fall back!”

Soldiers looked at him askance. A cowardly move. They intended to fight the invaders and honor their ancestors. Riflemen regrouped along the berm, returning fire downhill at the Americans, who were dug in like long-horned Asian ticks.

He ran toward the line, crouched over, trying to avoid getting shot.

Tapping a superior private on the shoulder, he got the man’s attention. “We need to fall back and protect the infrastructure,” Tanaka yelled over the gunfire.

Shrugging, the infantryman continued to fire at the Americans.

“Move out, now!” Tanaka cracked the soldier on the helmet with his rifle butt.

The younger man cringed at him. “Coward.”

“Jun-i ordered it.” He grabbed the man’s coat. “Fall back.”

Nodding, the superior private tapped soldiers in his unit. Tanaka told them to protect the garrison. They broke across the road for the protected covering of the jungle, and Tanaka wondered if they would fare better sticking to the road.

Bullets whizzed past him, and one dinged off his helmet.

“Fall back!” Tanaka yelled, waving his arms.

The rest of the contingency ran for the brush and slipped out of sight.

A straggler brought up the rear and Tanaka ran after him. He grabbed the soldier’s arm. “Come with me,” he said to Private Miura, breaking for the scout car.

Tanaka slid behind the wheel and Miura climbed into the passenger seat. Starting the engine, he revved it up. A round pinged off the rear quarter panel. Then, he shifted into drive and sped down the muddy road. Rain doused the windshield and obscured the way.

Flicking on the wipers, the lane came into view. The headlights swept along the desolate roadway, and he kept an eye out for predators.

He took a deep breath and sighed with the moment of safety. It wouldn’t last, though.

Twenty-Six

Dawson slung his rifle over a shoulder. Watching the Japanese soldiers retreat into the jungle and run off down the road, he breathed a sigh of relief. The scout car ripped up clay from the roadway and tore after infantrymen on foot.

A raucous battle scene drifted into silence. Combat boots padding on the muddy lane made the only sound. He glanced at the hole the dinosaur made in the vegetation.

Compys fed on entrails that had snagged on a fallen tree.

Shaking his head in disgust, he turned to face the marines behind him. A similar grotesque scene came into view. Gaggles of Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs feasted upon corpses and wounded soldiers. A few Imperial troopers groaned in agony.

Raiders kicked at the scavengers and poked them with bayonets.

The dinosaurs snapped at the marines, scampered from the wounded and the dead, then pounced upon the carcasses in waves as soon as the marines stepped away. Some marines turned back to the fracas, wielding their bayonets, stabbing and cutting into the scroungers. The larger Procompsognathus dinosaurs advanced upon the marines, ready to fight over their spoils.

One jumped on Private Knight and clawed its way up his chest. The dinosaur swiftly advanced to the marine’s neck and latched on. Knight grabbed its head and tried to pull the dinosaur loose, but it held on with a death grip.

Dawson swung his rifle into action. He inhaled and took aim.

Knight twirled around in a death dance, as blood gurgled from puncture wounds in his neck. Churning its hind legs, ragged claws sliced into his abdomen. All the spinning around prevented Dawson from getting a bead on the dinosaur.

Raiders standing behind the victim fell in and out of view.

Dawson finally got a clear shot.

He pulled the trigger.

A bullet dug into the beast. It yowled in pain. Dropping to the ground with a thud, the Procompsognathus squirmed and kicked in the throes of death. A final scratch at the earth, then the creature lay in the mud, lifeless.

Knight dropped to his knees while grabbing his throat with both hands.

Crimson streaks trickled through his fingers as life blood seeped from his body. A gurgle emanated from his throat. Knight gasped.

Then, he wavered and teetered into the mud, disoriented and horror-struck.

Rushing to his side, Dawson crouched beside Knight. He checked the marine’s injured neck. Scraps of flesh were torn away.

An artery was severed open, pulsating blood, gushing from the wound.

Knight’s face turned pale; blood wasn’t getting to his heart.

Without a place to attach a tourniquet, the marine would bleed to death. Dawson couldn’t tie off the open artery without choking Knight. And he couldn’t determine any other means to help, except to apply a gauze and compress the wound to help diminish blood loss.

“Corpsman!” Dawson scanned for a Navy medic.

A hand clasped his shoulder. “There’s nothing left you can do.”

“We need to try.” Dawson shook his head.

“He’s gone, son.”

Dawson looked up. Staff Sergeant Wilson had a dire expression.

Gurgling emitted from Knight’s throat and mouth.

“Hang on. Corpsman!” Dawson pressed the wound tightly.

The young marine coughed, then he belched up blood. A copper scent wafted from Knight and mixed with pungent smells from the jungle, moisture and decaying vegetation. Odors of death whisked into Dawson’s head as poignant and distinct as stepping onto a beach at low tide or walking past a swamp while hunting in the New Hampshire woods.

An ashen hue replaced the pallor of Knight’s skin. He lay still and didn’t take another breath. Knight passed, almost peacefully. Slipping calmly into the midst of death, the young marine never uttered his final words.

“Go ahead,” Wilson encouraged, as though reading Dawson’s mind.

“Knight didn’t ask me to do anything, though.” Dawson shook his head. “Feels like an intrusion.”

“He didn’t have to say it. You’re looking out for him.”

Dawson nodded, understanding.

“Go ahead.”

“Sure.”

Reaching into Knight’s breast pocket, he fished out a letter. The paper was folded over and fit snug between the tin holding his own letter and the one he’d already taken off Frank. He stood up. “All set.”

“You did great work earlier. Using that beast as cover was ingenious.”

Dawson nodded, appreciating the comment.

“Just let me know in advance before you pull a stunt like that… we can’t have everyone running off in their own direction.”

“Sorry. The thought came to mind and I acted without orders.”

“You saved our ass. I’m not chewing your butt over it. Hell, I expect to put you in for a promotion.” Wilson tilted his helmet back considering his next comment. “Let’s divide the troops into two prongs. One will go after the fuel dumps and the other will take out the garrison and docks.”

“Understood.” Dawson waited for the detailed instructions.

Staff Sergeant Wilson glanced him over.

“Which contingency do you want me to join?”

Wilson shook his head and grinned. “You’re not getting my drift, son. I’ll lead one force inward and you’re going to lead the other.”

Dawson gulped for breath. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Let’s plan to break this off, so I take two thirds of the men.” Wilson placed his hands on his hips. “You get the rest and head for the fuel dumps. We’ll go after the garrison and docks and any bridges we come across.”

“My fire team is down to me and Bishop.”

“You take the team we got from Staff Sergeant Kane… Simmons and them.”

“Got it.”

“Figure the fuel dumps is a straight-forward seek and destroy mission, so you’re better suited to lead that one.” Wilson paused and contemplated his next statement.

“What?”

“The fuel dumps might be more heavily defended, though.”

A vision of Japanese troops, dug into the earth and blasting away with Lewis guns, came to mind. Dawson pictured marines getting riddled by enemy gunfire.

“Start thinking about losing a battle before it begins, and you’ve pretty much given the enemy an upper hand.” Wilson flashed a kind grin. “From what I saw at the beach with the Boys anti-tank gun and the stunt you pulled here, you’ll do just fine.”

“Guess we should get moving.” Dawson started to wipe down his rifle.

“Let’s move out!” Wilson called to the troops.

Raiders gathered their equipment and fell into two columns without further instruction. A number of them were marked for Dawson’s contingency. He raised a hand. “Bishop and Simmons’s fire team, come with me.”

They glanced at him, askance. Simmons began to question the direction.

“Shut your piehole.” Wilson shook his head. “You’re going with Dawson. And do exactly what he says. He’s in charge.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.” Simmons waved to his team.

Dawson watched the larger force march down the muddy lane. Glancing at the road and looking towards the swath cut through the jungle, he considered the options. The lane headed in a northeasterly direction, but the fuel dumps were on the opposite side of the road towards the north. A path through the bush was the most direct route.

“You’re not thinking of taking us through there?” Bishop pointed at the broken limbs.

Dawson nodded. “Likely the fastest way to the fuel dumps.”

“What about those creatures? Likely to be more of them in there.”

“I thought of that. But I’m thinking the huge beast running through there might have scared the smaller ones away.” Dawson released his magazine and reloaded. “We could get a clear pass through the jungle or risk the road and something jumping out at us.”

“At least Wilson’s unit would be nearby.”

“Not for long.” Dawson trotted to the path. “Let’s go. We’re losing time.”

“Don’t like the feel of this,” Bishop muttered, plodding after him.

Simmons caught up, as Dawson stepped into the undergrowth. Private Fuller followed him carrying a BAR, while Private Meserve pulled up the rear with an M1 Garand. They ended up with rifles on point and at the tail end of the column, and BARs next to each rifleman. Simmons was dead center in the procession toting a .45 caliber Thompson submachine gun.

Drizzle trickled from the jungle canopy and the palm fronds were sopping wet. Mud caked on Dawson’s boots, applying resistance to the march. He muscled through each step. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, he pondered.

Trekking through the jungle, he thought back to his training. Boot camp had seemed like a thrust into a different world. Shock set in immediately. Arriving at Parris Island in the middle of a rainy night, the recruits were kept up for days. The Marines Corps shaved their heads bald. Recruits were belittled, stressed, and physically challenged. Sleep deprivation continued, often with only four to five hours rest a night. Rising early and training seven days a week, the process was meant to weed out the weak and leave the remaining few.

Marching became a way of life. They marched to chow, and out to the rifle range. Drilled on the parade deck in the sun, wind, rain, and cold. Drilling in the barracks with the racks moved aside late at night. Initially, he had trouble adjusting to the marching, walking in cadence. To the rear march, forward march, right oblique march.

Eventually they threw in the rifles. Port arms march. Right shoulder march. Dropping the rifles into position, checking the chamber, lowering it to an at ease stance with the butt resting on the deck.

As punishment for not performing in unison, the drill instructors would make them hold the rifles by the end of the barrels, with arm extended. They would hold it and hold it, until eventually muscles in the shoulder would tire. Lowering the rifle out of position without a command to do so resulted in further punishment. Dawson made this mistake once and was rewarded by the senior drill instructor snatching his rifle and bashing him in the sternum. The blow was so hard, it knocked the wind out of him and pushed him out of formation. Falling out of formation earned him another blow of the rifle butt in the back of his head. Knocked into a dizzy spell, he suffered for hours, barely keeping it together the rest of the day.

Progress was slow, impeded by the mud and their soaked uniforms. A pungent scent of decayed vegetable matter wafted through the air. Then, the ground became dense.

“This is god-awful going,” Bishop griped. “We’re not making headway.”

“Gets better further in.” Dawson plied through the brush.

Eventually, the way became less discernible and he realized the dinosaur had broken off a path that animals used to get to the lagoon and forged its own route. The ground was solid, but the way forward became obscured, a dismal situation.

He paused to get a bearing. Something moaned, almost a wailing tenor that drifted over the underbrush from nearby.

As first, he didn’t see anything. Then, a mound became apparent, rising from the ground like a slight hillside. Dawson faced the back of the Tyrannosaurus, fallen in the jungle after decimating the smaller bull and laying waste to numerous enemy troops.

Such a gentle lament of suffering, he almost felt sorry for the creature.

Glimpsing into the dense jungle behind the dying T-Rex, he searched for a way forward. The muddy lane couldn’t be much further inland.

Something moved on the other side of the Tyrannosaurus. Distinctive black stripes covered the reddish hide of the creature gorging itself on the T-Rex’s innards. The beast froze, then slowly raised its head and peered over the back of the fallen predator.

Bull horns protruded from the top of its head. It rose up from a stooped feeding position. A massive Carnotaurus stared at him, unblinking.

“You sure did pick a terrible route,” Bishop yammered. “At least there aren’t any Japs—”

“Quiet.” Dawson shushed him, waving a hand intently.

“What?” Bishop reached into a pocket and pulled out his smokes.

Dawson turned to him, cringing. “Keep it down.”

The jarhead didn’t catch on. Slipping a cigarette into his mouth, he shook his head in dismay. “Many of you guys have too much respect for the enemy. Getting all fussy over what we call them.”

Simmons tapped the squawker on the shoulder and pointed.

Bishop finally registered the Carnotaurus and the butt dropped to the ground. Mouth agape, he fumbled to bring the Browning around. Then, he shouldered the weapon. Locking onto the beast, he was prepared to shoot, when Dawson stepped into the line of fire.

Waving for the private to lower his machinegun, Dawson didn’t want to engage the creature and advertise their approach to the Imperial troops.

“Just settle down a moment,” he said to the entire team.

Bishop stared at him, puzzled.

“It might not attack…”

“Huh?”

“The creature has a much larger meal than us,” Dawson whispered. “And it’s still warm. It probably will only attack us if we provoke it.”

“Or if it thinks we’re going to steal it’s food.” This from Simmons.

While they discussed the situation, the Carnotaurus merely eyeballed them, as though trying to make up its mind whether to feast upon its spoils or pursue another kill.

Dawson told them to hush. A silence fell over the jungle, except for the occasional sprinkles landing upon palm fronds. The scent of blood drifted from the carcass. Remaining steadfast, they watched the beast glare back at them. Both the marines and beast were locked in a stare down, with either side ready to engage in a moment’s notice.

“Let’s ease back,” Dawson said. “Maybe it will relax, seeing we’re not after its prize.”

“Good idea.” Bishop was the first to move. “Make it think we’re leaving.”

Dawson backpedaled, keeping an eye on the dinosaur.

A branch snapped behind him. Bishop.

The beast canted its head and snorted. It stepped away from viscera of the fallen dinosaur, stomping the ground with enormous feet and crimping decayed vegetation with sharp claws. Sniffing the air, it appeared to savor the fresh meat.

“Run!” Dawson commanded and turned to bolt.

Chasing after them, the dinosaur stretched its massive legs and was among the marines in a few strides. It lowered its head and knocked Meserve to the ground.

Then, it rushed after Bishop and swung its horns into his back, sending him hurling through the air. He impacted with a tree and slid into leafy underbrush. Rotating around, the Carnotaurus watched the rest of the marines fleeing in various directions. It snorted and pounded the ground with its right foot. A warning that meant it didn’t mean to pursue them.

Dawson slowed to a walk. He waited for the dinosaur to return to its fare.

Another threatening snort, and the large bull turned away. Its massive tail extended from a gargantuan rump, and it swung from side to side, decimating the foliage. When it reached the Tyrannosaurus, it growled a final warning, then plunged into the split abdomen and culled the remaining entrails from the vanquished beast.

The bull glanced up. Its crimson maw chomped a section of intestine. Feasting upon the king of the jungle, the spoils were more than it could ingest. An overindulgence, the Carnotaurus didn’t show any signs of letting up, and it did not mean to share.

When it ducked into the hide again, Dawson checked on his team. Meserve was on his feet but Bishop hadn’t recovered from the blow.

Dawson marked the tree and jogged over to the clump of palm fronds.

Spotting the marine lying face down, he crouched beside him and looked for any signs of a puncture wound. The jungle was full of broken branches. Dawson feared the Raider had suffered a mortal injury from being flounced about.

Bishop’s helmet lay on the deck. Checking him over, the forehead was unhurt, so Dawson felt the scalp. Nothing. He rolled the marine onto his side and pressed on his chest. A cough, then Bishop opened his eyes. “What the hell are you doing to me?”

“Trying to see what’s wrong with you.”

“Just got the wind knocked out of me. No need for all of that caressing.”

“You good to go?” Dawson stood up.

Bishop moved into a seated position and reached for his canteen.

“We’ve got to move out of here, now.”

Shaking off the blow, Bishop took a long drink and looked over at the bull. Its head was completely submerged in the open cavity. Moist chomping and slurpy munches at organs emanated from the remains. “That thing ain’t chasing after us anytime soon.”

“Can’t take the chance.”

“Well it hasn’t gotten to the good meat on the drumstick yet.” Bishop shook his head. “And it’s too bloated with stuffing itself to run.”

“Get to your feet.” Dawson held out a hand and pulled him up.

Bishop cracked his neck, then he took another drink before returning the canteen to his belt. “What’s the rush? They’ll be dug in by now.”

Taking a peek at the Carnotaurus, Dawson shook his head. “I’d like to face the enemy and get off this damn island as quickly as possible.”

“Roger that.” And Bishop fell in pace behind Simmons’s team.

Making the comment brought his dread of the creatures to the surface. Dawson wondered about their chances for survival. He patted the tin in his breast pocket holding the last letter to his fiancée. And then, he tightened his grip on the rifle and moved ahead with resolve.

He wanted to get home. Planned to see her again.

Twenty-Seven

A gap in time passed between their letters. Dawson finished training on Parris Island and Mary attended graduation along with his family. He accompanied her and his family home on leave before going to his next duty station.

Randell and Mary got engaged with a simple proposal by a stream that ran near his back yard. The ring was modest, and he got down on one knee. She turned red and smiled widely, even though she’d expected it. Mary immediately accepted.

They spent the time on leave together almost every day. Visiting old haunts and checking out a few new places, they went out to eat, saw a couple of movies, and had a picnic near a stream, where Randell tried to teach her how to cast with a fly rod. They didn’t do anything exciting, but they were carefree in spending time on recreational activities. Randell had received a few months of pay, all saved up because training in boot camp was seven days a week without release for leave or liberty.

After taking two weeks off, he headed to infantry training in North Carolina, then shipped out west to a small Marine Raider training ground near Camp Pendleton in California.

Jacques Farm was acquired by the U.S. Marines and put to use for training a battalion of commandos. Another similar training location was set up on the east coast at New River, North Carolina, near Camp Lejeune. The east coast Raider battalion was commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Everson, who took a more conventional approach to preparing his marines for special operations in the Pacific theater. Everson issued the bolt action Springfield rifles provided to regular infantry. And he retained the four-man fire teams. Dawson’s letters from Jacques Farm reflected that Lieutenant Colonel Carson took commando training in a much less conventional direction.

Letters Dawson sent from Jacques Farm were postmarked from San Diego, California and were sent out weekly at most.

Mary,

I am sorry that I cannot write to you more often. Things here are even more taxing than boot camp or the school of infantry. We rise early and go to bed late, and unlike boot camp, we do not get personal time every day. Lieutenant Colonel Carson says that we have to make the most of our time here, because once we get into the action, there won’t be much time for training. Still, the thoughts of failure and mental challenges are diminished here. It’s as though the training on Parris Island is a mental battle and completing it makes you more confident. This here is more of a physical challenge and I feel up to the task.

Lt. Col. Carson has a lot of ideas to prepare us for unconventional warfare. He spent time with the Chinese guerrillas and studied the tactics of British commandos. We eat in one mess hall, with enlisted and officers sharing the same tables. And he uses a committee leadership style, where any Raider can provide input to the planning process. There’s still a chain of command, but he understands that we come from all walks of life and might have some valuable input. He began his career as an enlisted man. The days are long, and training can be brutal.

We learn hand-to-hand combat, knife fighting. And every Raider gets a commando rope, which is a length of rope with a toggle on one end, and a loop at the other. They can be fastened together to make a long rope for a squad to climb down a steep rockface. Lt. Col. Carson likes to condition us with forced marches, hikes through the hilly terrain around the base, often 10-12 miles and sometimes as much as 24 miles. His goal is to condition us for combat, so we do not grow weary during battle. I think it is working. Even though I was in great physical shape after boot camp, the training there was dogged and unbearable at times. Now, I feel that I can march all day and not get tired. This is important because Raiders aren’t going to be supported by tanks and trucks. Our missions will be amphibious landings in rubber boats, and then head inland on foot.

Sorry that I have not had time to write. It was great to see you while on leave. And I am as excited as ever to be getting married. I hope you were happy that we made it official while I was home, with a ring and all. Don’t worry. This war will eventually end, and we’ll have a life together. When I get a better understanding of our rotation, I’ll know when I will get back to the states. Then we can set a date for our wedding.

Love,

Randell

****

The letter came at a time when Mary wasn’t sure why she hadn’t heard from him. She’d wondered if he’d been injured while training, but she figured the Marine Corps would have called his parents. They hadn’t gotten news of an injury, and his parents hadn’t gotten a letter. Mary was delighted to finally hear from him. Her response was sent out the very next day, postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Randell,

I was very pleased to get your letter. We had been worried that maybe you’d gotten hurt in training. It’s great to hear that you are doing well. Everyone has heard about the new Raider battalions. The newspaper and the radio have reported about them a few times. You’re supposed to be elite forces that will strike back at the Japanese for attacking us at Pearl Harbor.

This makes me both very proud and extremely worried about you. It seems like a much more dangerous role than an artillery position. My only hopes are that we win this war and you come back alive. I’m sure you will do your best.

It was great seeing you during the two weeks when you came home on leave. We made memories that I will cherish forever. The ring you gave me is simply gorgeous. Although I wish you hadn’t spent so much money on it, I am proud and show it to all my friends and relatives. I do wish we knew when you will get to come home again. Waiting is hard, but during boot camp I was able to count out the days. Now, I must wait and wait without knowing when exactly I’ll see you again. Some boys stay overseas for long periods, even years. I hope it’s sooner for us.

But I will wait as long as it takes. Always faithfully yours.

Love,

Mary

PS: The youngest Watson boy, Doug, was killed in action in Europe. The fighting is bad over there. I think you were about his age. Most everyone in town is devastated. I figured you’d want to know and say a prayer for him and his family.

Twenty-Eight

Tanaka drove at speed down the muddy lane and kept an eye out for dinosaurs. He wasn’t sure whether the bull the T-Rex had killed was the same one he’d encountered before.

Glancing at the roadside vegetation, he watched for movement, fearing a Carnotaurus might rush from the jungle and charge into the scout vehicle. It would topple the small roadster and lead to certain death.

A light drizzle speckled the windshield and the wipers squeaked back and forth.

Rain danced on the soft top as he considered the perimeter they’d established at the fuel dumps. Moisture eased through the opening above the half-door, dampening his uniform and beading up on his uniform. The dark jungle appeared still; nothing moved within the orbs of his headlights. Tanaka relaxed a bit. Fate would meet him in battle with the Americans, not en route with another creature from the island.

A foot soldier appeared in the dim light far down the road. He ran with his rifle at port arms. The infantryman was double-timing back toward the garrison and seemed to bob in the headlights for a moment.

Vibrations shook the windshield. Tanaka slowed and the huge, knobby tires of the scout car dug into the muddy road and kept the vehicle steady.

More reverberations made the windshield tremble. The steering wheel juddered, and Tanaka braked, thinking the engine might malfunction. Decelerating, the Yonki came to a halt in the middle of the lane.

Everything turned quiet again. The soldier continued running down the roadway. Tanaka listened to the idling engine. It revved smoothly.

He stepped on the gas. The roadster jutted forward, and the engine compartment remained steady.

“Must have been a bumpy stretch,” said Tanaka.

Private Miura didn’t respond to the comment and sat mute in the passenger seat.

“What?” Tanaka looked over at the private.

A terrified look crossed the young soldier’s face.

Following the private’s line of vision, Tanaka spied a massive tree, rooted to the side of the road, with a trunk that rose up into the canopy of smaller trees. Over the adjacent trees, a menacing yellow eye blinked at him.

An enormous snout protruded from the leafy fronds of the palm trees.

The muzzle split open, revealing gigantic teeth. Rows of fangs dripped with saliva. Dread consumed the superior private.

Closing the distance to the dinosaur, Tanaka instinctively mashed on the brake, and suddenly brought the scout car to a stop. Miura flew into the dashboard and cracked his head on the windshield. The roadster grumbled and cast a faint glow over the soldier dashing from the beast lurking along the roadside.

The Tyrannosaurus Rex stood at the edge of the jungle and stared at the scout car. Footsteps sloshing through the mud resounded over the V-twin 2-cylinder engine. Canting its head, the dinosaur focused on the man running down the lane.

A predator, it broke after the fleeing soldier. Thunderous steps pounded over the earth.

Tremors shook the roadster and pitched the infantryman into the mud.

“Go!” Miura cried.

Tanaka registered the opportunity the distraction provided them. He hit the gas pedal, tires spinning, ripping up mud, and tore down the lane.

As the T-Rex snatched up its prey, the scout car whizzed around massive feet, with talons crimping the muddy soil. Crunching reverberated through the open window, as the beast snapped the infantryman’s bones. Blood sprayed the roadster.

A severed arm bounced off the hood, rolled up the windshield, ligaments flapping against the glass, then tumbled onto the roof. It jounced around, then skittered off and landed in the road. Tanaka checked the rearview mirror. Feasting on the soldier, the dinosaur didn’t pause until the limb rolled to a stop near its massive claws.

The movement caught its attention. It traced the path the arm had taken and finally locked its eyes on the scout car racing away.

Suddenly, the stout dinosaur gobbled up the rest of its fare, then broke after the speeding car. Tanaka looked back to the road ahead and accelerated. His body jerked back. Tightening his grip on the wheel, the little car picked up speed. Soon, the trees and shrubs along the road were just a blur, as the roadster sped along.

The steering wheel began to vibrate as the beast closed the distance.

Drifting from side to side, the car swayed with the undulating earth. He inhaled. Checking the dinosaur’s progress, it had stalked within thirty feet of them.

“Watch out!” Miura braced his hands on the dashboard.

Looking back to the road, they’d encountered a curve, and the left tires dipped into the shoulder. Palm fronds whapped into the open window, slapping Tanaka’s face with wet leaves. Tanaka steered to the right. And the car pulled from the gutter; it shot towards the opposite side of the road, headed at a large tree.

Tanaka cut the wheel to the left and the roadster veered towards the other side of the road; this time, they went hurtling in the direction of a culvert.

A channel of stormwater runoff flowed into a pipe running under the road.

Powerless to further adjust their direction, Tanaka pressed the pedal to the floor and increased speed. The car shot ahead.

“What are you doing?” Miura screamed.

“Hold on,” Tanaka replied, gripping the wheel tighter.

Miura clutched the dash. “You’re going to get us killed!”

Tanaka grinned as the roadster shot through the air. It landed in the soggy rivulet feeding the culvert. Churning tires spun, while the vehicle hung in place. Now, his stomach dropped in fear of not being able to escape.

“You’ve done it!” Miura chastened him.

“Just hold on.”

Slowing the engine down, Tanaka shifted into a lower gear and gently pressed the accelerator. The tires to the world’s first four-wheel drive all-terrain vehicle spun.

Vegetable matter and mud spat from the big rubber tires.

The T-Rex’s booming advance suddenly halted; a serene lull in its pursuit caused a shiver of terror to dart up Tanaka’s spine. The beast is upon us, he thought.

Pressing the gas pedal to the floor, the wheels reeled in the muck until one finally grabbed hold of a rock or firm clod of earth. Then, the little Yonki shot down the narrow ditch, covered with overgrowth.

Leaves batted the windshield and smacked both sides of the car. The vehicle jostled over the makeshift road, bouncing Tanaka and Miura out of their seats.

A giant roar blasted through the air from behind them.

Silence followed the outburst, and Tanaka hoped it wouldn’t chase the Yonki down the overgrown lane. Trepidation pricked at him like needles of heavy rain. The dinosaur stomped the ground, frustrated. And then, a mammoth thud resounded from the culvert, and a tremor undulated down the gullet, rippling the water away from the scout car.

“It’s after us!” Miura cried out.

Tanaka checked the rearview. “Not yet.”

Standing in the ditch, the Tyrannosaur eyed them fleeing towards the northly side of the island. It canted its head as though listening to something.

“Must be another soldier running down the lane. Caught its attention.”

“It might chase after him instead of us.” Miura sounded hopeful.

“Don’t count on it.” Tanaka pressed on the gas.

And the creature made its decision. It broke into a trot, running down the gulley, with legs outstretched, lumbering along.

The head poked back and forth, birdlike, as it chased them. Nose wrinkled viciously, the T-Rex’s lips curled up, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. Saliva dripped from its maw. Something about the Yonki had whet its appetite.

Tanaka squeezed the steering wheel and focused on the way ahead.

“Faster!” Miura called, looking over his shoulder.

“Can’t accelerate any more. We might lose control in here.”

“Well, it’s closing in on us!”

Glancing in the mirror, Tanaka couldn’t believe how fast it had approached the scout car. The predator was twenty feet away and gaining fast.

He sped up.

Whipped past brush.

Everything a blur.

Now, he couldn’t recognize the path ahead, as rain doused the windshield and leaves smacked against the glass. Opaque, like running through a thick fog, the drainage gulch was utterly indiscernible.

The Yonki veered up an embankment, with the right front tire shooting into the air.

Jerking the wheel, it hurtled downward, then the car careened up the other side. Struggling for control of the scout car, the T-Rex reached them.

It swung its head low and bumped its chin on the spare tire.

The front end sprung into the air.

Landing with a thud, the forward tires gripped the soggy ground and pulled the car away from the beast. It plodded after them.

Tanaka fought to control the roadster from cresting the berm. He kept them from crashing into the trees but lost speed in the process. A moment later, the dinosaur snapped at the spare tire mounted to the trunk.

Back-end punching down into the soil, the front wheels popped into the air.

Fear pulsated through Tanaka’s arms. Everything went numb from his shoulders to his hands. He couldn’t feel his grip on the wheel. It would bite through the soft top next.

Tanaka mashed the pedal to the floor. All the tires spun.

Engine racing, steam and smoke billowed from under the hood. And then, the car broke free of the creature’s grasp. The Yonki rocketed ahead, leaving the Tyrannosaur in its muddy tracks. Dazed and bewildered, the carnivore watched its quarry flitter down the trench.

“We did it,” Tanaka said, staring in the rearview.

Miura took a deep breath. “Not sure we are out of this yet.”

“The thing is just standing there. And we are pulling further away.”

Voicing the comment caused Tanaka a sigh of relief. He checked the mirror again; the dinosaur remained standing in the rain, dumbfounded. He looked ahead and a massive downpour cascaded on the hood. Slowing the vehicle to get a better view of the gulley, a vociferous roar grumbled down the narrow lane.

The beast broke into pursuit; thunderous steps shook the ground.

“It’s coming again!” Miura screeched, pounding the dashboard for them to speed up.

“We can’t have much further to go.” Tanaka accelerated.

Barreling after them, it stretched out its stride and thumped the sod with each footfall. Its gait was swift and firm. The dinosaur snarled. Ferocious teeth snapped at them.

The pounding grew closer. And still closer.

“We’ll never live through this,” Miura screamed in anguish.

Rounding a bend, the ditch straightened out. Tanaka gunned it.

The car snapped ahead, then the roadster shook violently, and abruptly halted. All forward movement ceased; the car appeared hung up on something.

Glancing out the window, Tanaka peered at the ground, expecting to find a fallen log. But he didn’t see anything. Yet the scout car appeared to be hovering over the ground. Fear pumped through his veins and his stomach churned in terror. It has us, he concluded.

Then, the car shook violently from side to side, with the T-Rex biting it, like a predator tearing at the meat of a recent kill. Extreme shaking caused Tanaka’s head to rattle.

And everything blurred. Rain, trauma, and shock befuddled him.

Certain death was upon them. Tanaka braced himself with a hand on the door, and the other clutching the steering wheel. He released all sensations of the physical world and accepted fate. A moment of reflection for his ancestors, and he was prepared to pass into the next life. Fright and anxiety dissipated. A calm beset him. Everything slowed down.

Time for me to die, Tanaka thought.

Miura screamed in fright as the vehicle lifted from the ground. The dinosaur shook it violently. Suspended twenty feet above the earth, the car brushed against the palm fronds atop nearby trees.

The Tyrannosaur lost its grip and the Yonki dropped toward the ground, rushing past vegetation, heading for a whopping crash. Windshield and hood tilted down.

Surreal movement, everything in the car appeared blurred, and the screaming became faint, distant. Outside, the locomotion drove the surroundings rapidly by them. A static obscured compartment, encased in a whirlwind, headed towards a certain demise; the situation appeared quite grim. And then, the scout car abruptly snagged in midair.

The beast caught them; it began shaking the car again.

Now, they were just five feet above the ground. Tanaka considered opening a door and tumbling out. A loud snap resounded from the trunk of the car.

Dropping fast, the Yonki smashed onto the ground, metal creaking, and mud sprayed everywhere. A crack ran up the windshield and the scout car sat askew.

No longer bandied about, the roadster had broken loose.

Tanaka pressed on the gas and the scout car flitted down the gulley.

Checking the rearview mirror, the dinosaur had the spare tire clutched in its jaws, viciously shaking the thing like a prize kill.

While they escaped down the trench, the predator remained occupied with the tire. The distance between them widened, and Tanaka relaxed his grip on the wheel. Dodging a calamity didn’t provide much relief; a major battle loomed ahead, and soldiers versus beasts were part of the equation. The calm wouldn’t last long.

Twenty-Nine

Peterson peered over the shoulders of the marines in the column ahead of him. Scanning for any sign of trouble, he focused on the way forward. Rain doused them again.

A snap from a brittle twig resonated from the right.

He knew instinctively that he’d let his guard down. Pivoting, he raised his pistol and peered through the downpour. Something slithered through the bush. A pungent stench of decaying meat wafted through the jungle.

“Right!” He stepped out of formation.

The rest of the marines fell into a wedge formation, with oblique lines running from each side of the lieutenant. Marines shouldered their weapons and tried to discern and gauge the danger. He traced the creature’s movement with the barrel of his pistol.

“Where is it?” This from Private First Class Goode.

“Back in the underbrush.” Peterson shook the Colt. “About ten paces from me.”

“Still can’t see it.” Goode took a step forward.

And the comment registered with Peterson. The dinosaur lingered in the shadows, trying not to be detected, but lying in wait, as if seeking the opportune moment to pounce. A low forehead and long jawline ended with an upturned snout. Its greenish hide was covered in horizontal black stripes. Camouflaged in the jungle, it sized them up for a kill.

“Everyone stay put,” Peterson commanded.

“I see it now.” Goode took another step closer.

“Hold on—”

As the words slipped from his mouth, all hell broke loose. Someone screeched from behind. Rotating towards the commotion, Peterson realized they were being stalked by another dinosaur.

Private Hall stood at the end of the line with a Velociraptor latched on his right arm.

The predator churned its legs into the stomach of the marine, and a massive sickle-shaped claw, attached to each foot, ripped into his viscera, spilling his guts onto the soggy ground. Steam drifted from the organs as he screamed in agony.

Hall’s rifle discharged and caused the dinosaur to pause. It glanced around in confusion.

A moment was all Private Elliot needed to spin around and train his 7.62 millimeter Browning Automatic Rifle on the carnivore. Hall’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the deck. Letting rip with the Browning, rounds dug into the Raptor. It wailed and writhed.

The Velociraptor released its prey and alighted to the saturated pathway.

Staggering to keep balance, the dinosaur lurched towards Elliot, as blood oozed from the bullet holes in its hide.

Another wail of pain echoed from Peterson’s right; a third Raptor was on Goode.

They hunt in packs, Peterson concluded. His realization came too late.

Rapid footsteps approached from behind him. Spinning, he came around just in time to face the Velociraptor from the bush, running headlong into him.

Peterson was knocked to the deck.

The meat eater sprung on him. Jaws snapping and devilish eyes, the threat lay at the end of its feet. A claw dug into his thigh. Peterson raised his pistol and fired three times. Bullets penetrated the Raptor’s fleshy neck. It reeled back and yowled in pain.

Crimson streaks ran down its neck. The dinosaur hissed and flailed about, trying desperately to shake off the pain. It coughed, unable to breathe.

He sat forward with the Colt .45 gripped tightly in both hands. Contracting his abdominal muscles to steady himself, Peterson squeezed off two more rounds. One struck the Raptor in the chest, and the other whizzed by its head, tearing into the leafy jungle.

The Velociraptor scraped the ground with its left claw. It snorted.

Approaching the prostrate marine, the beast meant to hop on his belly and tear him open. It coughed and breathed in deeply, taking in air. Eyes blinking in a frenzy, the Raptor made its move. The creature leapt and jutted its head forward, so it could bite into Peterson’s neck when it landed, and it churned its rear claws, planning to eviscerate his stomach.

Volleys of gunfire knocked the dinosaur back, as marines unloaded and advanced upon the predator. They closed on the Raptor and blasted away with automatic weapons and high-powered rifles. Bullets drilled the Velociraptor’s hide.

Rearing its head back, the dinosaur stepped away from the supine marine. Spent casings spewed from the machineguns and danced on the ground around the lieutenant. The cacophony of gunfire deafened him. He couldn’t discern the situation and what had transpired from the multiple prong attack the Raptors had employed on the unsuspecting unit.

A moment later, the Velociraptor dropped in its tracks. Mud splattered Peterson.

He maneuvered to a kneeling position with one leg on the ground, and he scanned the area for other threats. Pistol trained along his line of vision, a grisly scene came into view.

Private Hall lay on the deck disemboweled, eyes frozen in death, locked in fright. Rain poured over the carcass, a dismal reprieve to its mutilation. Carnivores and scavengers would eventually pick the bones clean.

Scanning to the right, he registered the next casualty. Private Frist Class Goode was strewn on the ground with a large portion of his neck severed from his body. A scrap of meat lay a few feet away from him. The rest of the booty had been gobbled down or taken by the victor. Peterson imaged a Velociraptor prancing off into the bush with a prize latched in its jaws.

He’d wondered why so much firepower had been laid down on his behalf when the assault came from three sides. Even as the Raiders had blasted away at the dinosaur, Peterson had wondered if he was getting special attention because of his rank.

“What scared this one off?” Peterson pointed toward Goode.

“He shot the blasted thing’s privates off.” Davidson indicated to Tomko.

A trail of blood glistened in the rain, leading from Goode into the jungle. The creature fled because it had a serious injury. Guess it didn’t sashay away, Peterson thought.

“And this one?” Peterson shook his pistol at Hall’s guts.

Everyone shrugged, unsure. Confusion during the firefight left some questions. The attack had unfolded quickly. Hall was the first to get it, but everyone had turned when Goode screamed. Then, a dinosaur came after Peterson, turning his attention away from everyone else. When Tomko inflicted a serious wound into the Raptor on top of Goode, the unit instinctively began firing at the one going after Peterson. So, what made this one flee?

Peterson walked over to Hall and crouched to inspect the situation.

“What does it matter?” Private First Class James stepped beside him.

“Something made this one run off. Would help to know what makes them vulnerable.”

“Maybe it was just Elliot laying down some lead at close range?”

Peterson looked up at Elliot. “And?”

Elliot shook his head. “Don’t have a clue.”

“What in tarnation happened?”

Elliot shrugged.

“Walk me through it.”

“The creature bolted out of nowhere and jumped on him. He pointed at Hall. I let go with the BAR and riddled the damn thing with high-caliber bullets.” Elliot shook his head, dismayed. “All the shooting seemed to have little effect on the beast. Don’t get me wrong, rounds penetrated its hide, but the creature didn’t have any sign of being taken down.”

“Guess we’re not going to know,” James scoffed.

“Something made it take off,” Peterson snapped. “What did you do when the second one appeared?”

“Kept shooting at the one on him.” He pointed at the open viscera.

“And?” Peterson grew more frustrated.

“The blasted thing up and ran off. I turned my attention to the one on you.”

“What was it doing before it ran away?”

“Nibbling at his guts.”

“Something scared it off,” Peterson concluded. “What could possibly have done that when a fresh kill was at its feet?”

They stood by dumbfounded, ready to move ahead and continue the fight. Raiders were highly trained warriors. Sleuthing around remains wasn’t in their makeup. Peterson was ready to let the issue drop and move on.

Standing up, he felt lightheaded. Vertigo caught him off balance; he staggered.

Peterson caught a few of the men staring at him in awe. “I’ll be all right. Must have bumped my noggin in the fight.”

They didn’t seem convinced. He leaned his head back and started unstrapping his helmet to see if there was a bump under his scalp. Elliot’s eyes widened.

And then a tremor reverberated under the lieutenant’s feet. The Tyrannosaur had circled back due to the fire fight. It’s associating the sound of gunfire with supper, he thought. Peterson knelt and placed a hand on the ground and listened intently.

A minute later, another tremor vibrated across the ground. And then another.

Snapping of trees echoed from the easterly side of the island. The quaking ground seemed to emanate from that direction as well.

“I don’t think it’s the same one as before,” said Peterson.

“What makes you so sure?” James didn’t want to believe there were more.

“Just a hunch.” Peterson shrugged. “But I think this one is bigger.”

“Bigger?”

“Sure, the one that had plowed a pathway through the jungle was large, but the gait seemed different. This one is heavier.” Another tremor shook the ground violently. The T-Rex roared, and more trees cracked. “Must be thick bush through there.”

“How far away?” James stepped towards the noise.

“About half a click.”

“What now?”

“We move ahead and collect them on the way back to the boats.” Peterson pointed to the fallen marines. “We’ll all end up dead if we try to tote them with that thing on our ass.”

Everyone moved into a column with Tomoko in the lead again. They headed down the makeshift trail, stretching out the pace. A beast had stomped through the jungle ahead of them. Another made its way through dense overgrowth on their right flank, and the island seemed to be covered in smaller creatures that were just as deadly. Surrounded by vicious beasts, and they hadn’t even happened upon the enemy yet.

This is about the most damned place on Earth, Peterson muttered half aloud.

Making progress towards the garrison, the next crashing tree resonated from a similar distance of a half mile. They were keeping pace with the carnivore and maintaining a buffer. But the dinosaur wouldn’t tolerate an escape. Sensing their movement through the jungle, it let out a ferocious roar, resounding frustration.

The bellowing from the right was met by a predatory growl from ahead; another apex killer meant to fend for its territory. And the marines were in the middle of them.

****

The Gocho awoke to the sound of heavy gunfire and rain pelting his face. Sitting up on his elbows, the ghastly scene brought his memory back. A vicious dinosaur lay dead by his side. His unit was whittled down to three men.

Sounds of the distant firefight revealed a large opposing force, approximately three times the size of his unit. He needed to think tactically. Victory would not rest on his prowess alone.

Rising to gather his weapons, he considered the situation. The Gocho reloaded his pistol and sheathed the fighting sword. All shooting had ceased, followed by a period of calm. He placed the battle midpoint between the southeastern cove and the garrison. His unit stood between the invaders and valuable infrastructure.

His unit assembled, then he led them towards the skirmish. A vehement focus, he meant to win at all costs. Death in halting the intruders was honorable.

After traveling a short distance, the tranquility abated by snapping tree trunks and the roars of fierce predators. The Americans had disturbed a balance with nature, which might lead to dire consequences. Now, he would contend with multiple foes.

The Gocho crouched near the base of a palm tree. Fetching a stick from the jungle floor, he called the troopers over and sketched the situation in the muck.

“We’re here,” he said, drawing an X on the ground.

Superior Private Sato nodded, understanding. Private Ito listened with razor-sharp focus.

“The garrison is here. And the enemy is over this way.”

“How do we know where they are for certain?” Sato leaned closer.

“You can trust my sense of distance from the gunfire.” He grinned proudly. “We likely have a large dinosaur tracking them from the east, and another headed from a northerly direction not far from us.”

“We’ll get caught in the middle of them,” Sato responded.

The Gocho smiled. “That’s precisely my plan.”

With both soldiers aghast, he took the time to explain the strategy. They appeared relieved afterward; but he knew it would be difficult to pull off without a hitch.

Thirty

Dawson broke through dense brush and stepped onto the muddy roadway. The rain let up to a drizzle. He glanced to the right down a desolate road. Turning left, silhouettes of infantrymen came into view. Moving at a swift pace, he recognized Staff Sergeant Wilson’s contingency.

“Looks like our trek into the jungle beat them to the point.” He smiled at Bishop.

“Just goes to show that we could have taken the easy way.” Bishop grimaced. “Could’ve used the road. Look at them. Not a mark on the whole bunch.”

“We need to get a move on. No time for pleasantries with them.”

A rumbling sound emanated from the right, then a small vehicle shot out of the vegetation and zipped across the lane. Windshield wipers swished the rain off the glass. The Imperial scout car had dents and scrapes all over the rear. Exhaust fumes and smoke from under the hood choked Dawson’s men standing nearest to the scout car as it raced by them.

Barreling down a utility pathway, it disappeared from sight. Rattles echoed from the bumpy trail. The billowing smoke dissipated.

“Double time it,” said Dawson, bolting across the lane.

Footsteps pattered after him, smacking the mud.

“This is one gunky island,” Bishop griped, slipping on the roadway. “Can’t wait until we’re done here.”

“Won’t be much longer. Just blow this dump and head back to the boats.”

Just as they reached the end of the lane, a firefight sounded from the northeast. Staff Sergeant Wilson’s unit had already engaged the enemy at the garrison before Dawson even reached the fuel dumps. The targets were closer together than he’d imagined.

A clearing spread in front of them, leading to three massive fuel storage tanks, and a wharf extended into the ocean beyond them. The scout car was parked between two steel tanks.

Soldiers hustled around in front of the fuel tanks, setting up a perimeter. The man Dawson had shot in the shoulder barked orders. Lewis guns were set on tripods. A few of them had small shovels and dug into the earth. Heavy machine guns, entrenched soldiers, and the clearing would give the enemy a huge advantage.

Dawson turned to his fire team and hunkered down in the reeds. “The situation doesn’t look good.”

“You can say that again.” Bishop shook his head.

“What are we going to do?” This from Private First Class Simmons.

“Our mission is to blow those fuel dumps. We’re not here to take down the enemy.”

“How do you suppose we’re gonna’ do one without the other?” Bishop carped.

Peering over the brush, Dawson surveyed the situation. The enemy was digging in, planning for the fight to come to them from the front. And the marines had approached them as expected. He considered alternate means to reach the objective.

“Meserve, get over here,” Dawson finally said.

“Sure.” The private crawled through the grassy terrain using his elbows.

“Give it to me.” Dawson pointed to the pack on Meserve’s back.

The marine wriggled out of the haversack. “Here you go,” Meserve said, handing it over to Dawson.

“Thanks.” Dawson took the pack and slid it on.

“So, what are we going to do?” Simmons needed to know.

“We have five marines.” Dawson looked them over. “Let’s set up a perimeter with Fuller and Bishop located at two flanks, angling heavy fire with their Brownings. Simmons will hunker in the center laying down rapid fire with his Thompson. And we’ll put Meserve out past the end of the right flank. He’ll take a position beyond Fuller and sharpshoot the enemy with his M1.”

“What about you?” Bishop seemed confused.

“My plan is to slip far around your flank, crawl towards the water.” Dawson caught their enthusiasm and grinned. “I’m going to sneak up behind them. Then, I’ll place the majority of explosives on the tank closest to the pier.”

“Let her blow and the other tanks will catch on fire.” Bishop smirked. “Brilliant.”

Dawson tapped him on the shoulder, then peered over to watch the enemy’s progress. They scurried around, fortifying their positions. Standing upright, they weren’t ready for a conflict. A sniper could whittle them down.

“Move into your assigned positions.” Dawson looked them over. “And when Meserve gets set up, he should take the first shot. Make it count.”

He stretched onto his belly and slid the end of his rifle sling, near the muzzle, around his thumb. Then he began crawling along a line parallel to the enemy forces. Moving away from the scene, Bishop trailed behind him, shaking branches and getting his rifle caught up in the undergrowth. Dawson worried the brash marine would grow agitated and stand up, blasting away at the enemy before reaching his assigned flank, and possibly giving away his position.

Checking the enemy, the Imperial troops were settling down. They would certainly detect movement in the underbrush. He paused and signaled Bishop to halt.

Dawson planned to slow their progress and allow Meserve to get the drop on the enemy soldiers. Attracted to an offensive, the Japanese would focus on their left flank and allow him to slip ahead on the right. Hopefully, Private Fuller would have the sense to immediately follow up Meserve’s sharpshooting with heavy fire from the Browning.

A moment later, a crack resounded from the far end of the perimeter. The shot struck an assistant gunner crouched beside a Lewis gun. He keeled over, then the machinegun opened up on Meserve. Flames erupted from the end of the barrel and bullets riddled the brush.

Fuller lit up with his Browning machinegun. Rounds dug into sandbags and dinged off the fuel storage tanks. A volley of gunfire ensued, directed at the two marines.

They did it, Dawson told himself.

He glanced back at Bishop. “Don’t fire until you’re in position, and I’m halfway to the shoreline.”

“They need help for Pete’s sake.” Bishop lay in the bush, shaking his head.

“Simmons will join the fray when needed. Do as you’re told, so the mission succeeds.”

“Got it.” Bishop didn’t sound convinced, but he seemed placated.

Dawson crawled at a swifter pace. He paused to check on the Japanese infantrymen. They remained preoccupied with the two marines.

Meserve appeared to be set up behind a log, but he was taking heavy fire and could only return so many shots. The enemy seemed content to remain dug into their positions. Fending off an attack and protecting the fuel dumps would be an accomplishment for them.

The superior private in charge of the defense scanned the entire area composing the American perimeter. He searched for other marines. Apparently, he wasn’t convinced the attack would only come from the right. He was smart enough to consider a multipronged offensive. Still, the Imperial troops continued to lay down fire at the marines on the right, blasting away at the underbrush and giving the Raiders little chance of returning fire.

Dawson froze, hoping the enemy wouldn’t spot him. He checked on Bishop, who thankfully remained still. Another effort needed to distract them.

Simmons opened up with his Thompson, riddling the enemy with .45 caliber rounds. Bullets strafed the loose dirt and blasted into a couple of soldiers. A wounded infantryman spun in a death dance, squeezing the trigger of his Sanpachi rifle. The wild shot hit his comrade, who screamed in agony.

Enemy guns swung toward the center position and lit up the night.

Fuller and Meserve began firing on the Imperial soldiers. Now, the Japanese infantrymen were caught in a semi-crossfire. Some returned fire at Fuller and his 7.62-millimeter machinegun, set up on a bipod. He presented the biggest threat to them. Rounds from the Browning penetrated the fuel tanks, spilling diesel and gas on the ground.

Perfect, Dawson thought, crawling swiftly. Light rain sprinkled on his neck.

He prayed Bishop would hold off until he was part-way to the water’s edge. A hasty move might draw attention to Dawson and foil the plan.

Volleys of gunfire exchanged between the adversaries. Muzzle flashes revealed the positions of the marines engaged with the Japanese. Dawson wondered if they could hold out long enough for him to get across the plain. Only crabgrass standing a couple feet high concealed his position. He paused to avoid detection.

The superior private surveyed the edge of the jungle. He pointed at Bishop.

Another automatic rifle entered the fray, as Bishop tore into them with his Browning. Muzzle blasts flared in the night battle. The relentless fusillade of rounds barraged the enemy position, causing soldiers to duck for cover.

Bishop kept at them, as steam rose from his barrel and the gun vibrated incessantly.

Rounds plinked into the vast storage drums looming over the enemy position. Any flames wafting in that direction would engulf the fuel dumps into a conflagration that could be seen from the submarines in the ocean. The allied forces needed a victory in the Pacific campaign, and Dawson figured they were a few hours away from a triumph.

The salvo from the left flank suddenly halted; Bishop ran out of ammunition.

While he exchanged magazines, the other three Raiders renewed the fight. The enemy took the bait and swung back to the center and right. Dawson squirmed ahead.

He moved faster than before. Dawson reached a thicket stretching to the water. Adjusting into a crouched position, he dashed through the brush, while keeping an eye on the Imperial troops. They were preoccupied with Fuller and Simmons laying down heavy fire. Even the superior private concerned himself with the attack at hand, never wavering his attention from the known American positions.

Bishop rejoined the fracas, and Dawson moved into an all out run for the shoreline.

Still keeping a lookout on the Japanese troops, confirming that he hadn’t been detected, he failed to watch every step.

Dawson tripped and fell, landing face down in the wet moss.

Pain spiked into his ribcage. A fallen tree with a broken branch poked into his side. Rolling onto his stomach, he pushed up with his arms. The twinge exasperated; a fractured rib.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a row of yellow orbs glaring at him.

“Damnit!” He cursed, rising to his feet.

Then, glancing back to the enemy fortification, he ensured that the fall hadn’t brought any attention. Gunfire continued to rage a cacophony of blasts. Spent powder and drizzle obscured the battle scene.

He stood almost out of the enemy’s line of vision. Fuel tanks now blocked the view to the extent he couldn’t even see Meserve.

Starting for the beach, a small dinosaur hopped on his leg. It bit into his thigh. Pain stabbed into his flesh, as the creature cut through his pantleg, and its razorlike teeth cleaved into the meat. Dawson refrained from bellowing in agony. Reaching for his stiletto fighting knife, he grabbed the handle. With the blade projecting from his clenched hand, he thrust it under the Procompsognathus’s chin.

The knife found purchase. Dawson grabbed its neck with his free hand and drove the steel deeper into the creature’s throat. It yelped.

Squealing, the dinosaur dropped to the ground, writhing in misery.

All the commotion sent the line of dinosaurs into a frenzy. Dawson broke for the water and a pack of Procompsognathus dinosaurs ran after him. The rest charged over the plain. Some headed for Bishop, while others ran towards the open clearing.

He hit the choppy surf and plunged forward, almost stumbling face first into the ocean. Regaining his footing, he steadied himself, then waded out until he stood in water over his waist. Splashing waves bobbed against the haversack. He worried the explosives might get wet. They had wrapped TNT sticks in plastic to avoid getting them saturated during the landing in small boats. Such a method was also used in anticipation of fighting in the rain. But with all the tumultuous activity, he feared the plastic might have been disrupted.

Plodding through the rippling current wasn’t the best option. Yet, he came to think of it as their only alternative. They couldn’t expect to advance upon the fortified position and complete the mission successfully. Raiders were meant to improvise, adapt, and overcome. The training put them on equal footing with British commandos and Chinese guerrillas. Such an unconventional approach by stealth from behind the enemy lines was just the sort of tactic the Marine Corps hoped would result from the training back at Jacques Farm.

The gaggle of dinosaurs that chased him into the water stood at the edge. Yapping and cawing at him in frustration, they didn’t enter the surf. A few followed him, moving along the shoreline as he waded towards the pier.

Dawson had planned to approach by shore. Now, he made an impromptu passage through the murky waters of the bay. Waves broke fifty yards offshore at a coral reef. Pounding breakers and the constant eruption of gunfire bolstered his confidence of an unfettered approach to the fuel dumps. He waded over to a piling under the wharf and peered around it.

A few dinosaurs had tracked his route. They yammered on shore, cawing and squawking in his direction. Occasional nipping at each other served as the only reprieve in their antics.

Waiting for the opportunity to approach the fuel dumps gave him a break from the conflict. He thought about the training leading up to this mission. Dawson wondered how he’d gotten selected for the Raider battalions when so many topnotch candidates joined the Marine Corps. He chastised himself for even thinking about the term ‘join’. Nobody joins the U.S. Marines. Given the unique mission, the Marine Corps is strictly a volunteer force. No draftees. A candidate for the marines is a recruit until earning the title of a U.S. Marine at graduation. The title is hard to obtain, with almost half the recruits washing out. Only a few make it.

Many higher-ranking officers felt the Raider battalions were misplaced. Any able-bodied marine could fill the role, many generals had sneered. Dawson tended to agree. So, he wondered how the brass came to choose Raider candidates. And how he got selected over so many able marines. Now, he was leading a unit of Raiders and wondered how it all had come about.

Perseverance, he concluded. His senior drill instructor had singled him out in boot camp as defining the trait. An ability to endure discomfort and his drive to succeed were his greatest attributes. Success in the field centered on his country upbringing. Accustomed to hunting, camping, and spending time in the woods, he’d learned tactical means to flush out quail and track game. Those skills were coming into play as much as his military training.

More squabbling from shore. He feared the scavengers would give him away. Even if the clamor from battle and crashing waves masked the commotion of the dinosaurs, the hooting and scampering movements might garner attention. The time to move was upon him.

Dawson reasoned that any attempt to fend off the scrounging pests could potentially reveal his position. He’d have to carry out the mission with them clamping on his limbs. Taking a moment to gather his wits, he felt a tremor reverberate the sand under his feet. The water rippled away from shore.

An earthquake, he postulated. But the sensation repeated itself too soon for a seismic event. And then, he felt another vibration, and another.

Something extremely large was headed their way. A deadly beast more ferocious than anything they had encountered on the island thus far. The approaching creature posed a lethal threat to his comrades, but it could also provide a diversion for his operation.

Thirty-One

Tanaka directed a Lewis gun at the Americans situated to his left and the other one at the heavy fire coming from the madman on the right. He didn’t have a counter for the sporadic firing coming down the middle. Scooting behind the makeshift bunker, he assembled two riflemen and ordered them to focus all their attention on the submachine gun in the center.

A moment later, he scanned the enemy lines and was not comforted by the standoff. They are not trying to advance, he thought.

Bullets dinged into the fuel tanks and scout car behind him. Tanaka wondered if they meant to hit them, leak fuel, and then, somehow, ignite the storage containers from a distance. Then he wondered if the entire assault were merely some ploy.

Scanning the field in front of him, Tanaka perused the opposition for a ruse. He looked for enemy troops maneuvering in the distance. He saw a tree snap about the same time the ground trembled. Something massive plodded their way. This battle would prove to be against the invaders and the local beasts.

He checked the ammunition on the Lewis guns. Plenty of rounds, but he wanted to preserve them. “Cease fire!” He tapped the closest gunner on the helmet.

The machinegun let up. “What?” His gunner looked up, amazed.

“We have a bigger problem,” said Tanaka.

A vibration shook the ground beneath them.

“We have company,” the gunner said.

“Why are we stopping?” a rifleman questioned.

Others broke off the assault and listened intently; the Americans did the same.

Everyone waited, fixed in position. It was as though a pause in the firefight might somehow redirect the predator’s attention elsewhere. They waited expectantly. More lumbering steps shook the ground.

Silence and tension hung over the battlefield, like a knife about to cut into the jugular vein. Trepidation percolated through the drizzle.

More vibrations sent a chill down Tanaka’s spine. His mouth went dry.

A tree snapped, then the mammoth creature lingered above them. Tanaka gulped for breath. Standing just beyond the American perimeter, the gigantic Tyrannosaurus sniffed the air, as though picking up the scent of human flesh.

Gunfire rang from the garrison in the distance.

The T-Rex canted its head toward the commotion. Its lips split, revealing huge, sharp teeth. An explosion resounded from the other battle at the garrison; a grenade.

More automatic weapons fired in the distance with rifles cracking return volleys.

Stepping away from the nearby invaders on the ground, the Tyrannosaurus began to slouch towards the upheaval. It’s moving away, Tanaka thought hopefully.

And then, an American screamed from the right perimeter, and a machinegun lit up the night, blasting away at the nearby wood line. Tanaka expected to see Japanese reinforcements, but instead a small wave of scavenger dinosaurs broke towards the enemy line.

The marine swung the butt of his weapon at a menacing Procompsognathus. Smacking the dinosaur in the head, the creature reeled backward and fell, writhing on the ground.

A few more rushed the marine and he shot at them. Bullets riddled the small creatures.

Flailing in agony, the wounded Procompsognathus dinosaurs staggered and snapped at the air, biting in futility, as life drained from them. Blood oozed from the bullet holes. They began dropping like flies.

The T-Rex halted its departure. It turned to the gunfire and tilted its head, as if trying to reconcile the sounds from the distance with the nearby shooting.

Stepping into the clearing, the Tyrannosaurus sniffed the air and gazed upon the marine in the point position. A rifleman anchored the right flank near a machine gunner. Everyone remained frozen except the madman on the other flank.

Amazed the dinosaur had spotted him, the American rifleman remained paralyzed. He seemed to hope something else would catch the predator’s attention.

The world became frozen in time. Even the machinegun blasts at the scavengers appeared like snapshots, clicking in sequence. Japanese troopers clenched their weapons, ready to unload on the carnivore and the American invaders, alike.

“Easy.” Tanaka didn’t want to attract the beast.

No one responded, but they seemed to lessen the holds on their weapons.

“We don’t want to bring it to us. Maybe it will grab an American and leave.”

The thought was hopeful. He doubted it, even as the words came from his mouth. And then, a calamity broke loose on their battlefield.

It made its move.

The T-Rex took a couple of swift steps and snatched the marine rifleman on their left from the ground. Legs and feet dangling from the creature’s maw, the marine kicked frantically.

A snap resounded through the field of fire. Blood gushed down the marine’s trousers and spilled onto the ground. His legs gave a last jiggle, then his exposed torso hung limp. The tableau of death caused the Hetai to gasp in awe.

The dinosaur lingered near the Japanese line, staring with a massive yellow eye.

Everything froze during a horrific moment, while the Tyrannosaurus considered them. Its yellow orb blinked, and blood dripped from the carcass in its mouth. Tanaka wondered if the creature registered them. He hoped it would run off with its spoils. The crazy American had ceased firing his machinegun. All remained quiet, like the calm before a storm.

More gunfire boomed in the distance as the adversaries faced off at the garrison. The dinosaur canted its head, as if contemplating the noise.

Abruptly, the Tyrannosaur flexed its jaws and snapped the marine’s spine. A crackle echoed through the clearing. It bared its teeth, biting down on the corpse. Shredding thick utilities and flesh alike, the body severed in two pieces.

The lower torso fell to the ground with a resounding thud.

A soldier down the line screamed in horror.

Leaning its head back, the T-Rex gulped the upper body down. Then, it stomped on a twisted leg and bent over, tearing a limb off the remains. Feeding ravenously, the dinosaur chewed the meat and bone with large molars in the back of its mouth. Slurping emitted from its maw, and groans of pleasure emanated from its gullet.

A mixture of spent gunpowder, decayed vegetation, fuel, and a hint of copper wafted through the Imperial defensive line. Pungent odors blended with the dampness. The scents and anxiety constricted Tanaka’s breathing to the point he was forced to stifle a cough.

The dinosaur chomped down the scraps of the American.

Unsure of its next prey, the T-Rex stood listening to the cacophony of battle raging from the garrison.

Volleys of machinegun fire, rifle shots, and occasional explosions carried through the air with muffled booms, as the distance lessened the severity of blasts. At closer range, a soldier’s ears will rattle from eruptions and they often experience loss of hearing and short-term deafness.

The sounds didn’t bother Tanaka, resembling fireworks Manchurians used during Chinese New Year festivities. Such commotion seemed to affect the Tyrannosaurus. It tilted its head and bared its teeth. The T-Rex stepped towards the Japanese line, stamping in the grime as rain trickled over its hide.

Sounds from the vociferous combat provoked discomfort in the dinosaur. A creature that managed to survive for millions of years, while most of its species was wiped out, might develop keen senses of smell and hearing, especially for tracking prey on such a tiny secluded island. Tanaka figured the Tyrannosaurus had to adapt to living on such a tiny atoll. Such a tiny island could only support one of them, yet the creatures had bred and continued a lineage for eons.

Another blast resounded from the distance. The explosion indicated a bazooka or anti-tank gun. Such weaponry afforded the Americans with certain advantages. He wanted to get on with the firefight and secure the fuel dumps.

The dinosaur turned its head, drawn to the commotion.

It’s thinking about leaving, Tanaka told himself.

Another blast and the T-Rex stepped away from their defensive line.

Someone tapped his shoulder and pointed to the edge of the clearing just beyond the madman. Tanaka shook his head in disbelief. A row of menacing yellow eyes hovered a couple of feet above the ground, and in the distance, three sets of ferocious orbs stood near the height of a man. All of them inched towards the clearing and the crazy American seemed poised to fire.

Tanaka shook his head in dismay. “Don’t do it,” he muttered.

As he mumbled the words, the scavengers broke onto the plain. They didn’t mean to wait for the large predator’s scraps. Dinosaurs yelped and squealed, approaching the American offensive line.

Larger Raptors thrashed in the brush, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce.

And the madman let the hammer down, riddling a wave of yapping beasts.

Gunfire rang out from Tanaka’s right, as jumpy soldiers fired at the American. Barrel ablaze as countless rounds spit from the American’s machinegun, the bullets tore up the wet earth and dug into the small creatures’ hides.

“Cease fire!” Tanaka waved to his troops.

Soon only the American was firing a weapon. But the fracas caught the T-Rex’s attention, making it stop in its tracks. The massive carnivore glanced over at the American, then it peered down at the Japanese soldiers. Everyone around Tanaka waited, awestricken.

The Tyrannosaurus split its mouth open, revealing enormous teeth. Someone gasped, but the infantrymen remained motionless.

Machinegun fire raged across the field and a multitude of Compsognathus dinosaurs broke for the Japanese line. Shrieks resounded from the right, as scavengers assailed the makeshift fortification. Quillon bayonets reflected in the pale night, as Imperial soldiers wielded them to fend off the attacking scroungers.

A Sanpachi rifle discharged. The T-Rex stamped its foot and roared at them.

The massive beast stepped over the berm and crushed a Lewis gun, along with a soldier. Screams resonated from under the dinosaur’s foot, while claws dug into the sandbags and mushy earth; crimping into the man’s neck, abruptly silencing his wails of torment.

Soldiers fired at the T-Rex, registering the beast was among them. Paralysis would not send the creature away and could only lead to certain death.

It leaned over and snatched Private Nakano from the ground. Shaking its prey, the carnivore tasted the morsel before chomping the man into bits. Bullets dinged off its hide from rifles firing at close range.

A few more bites. Rain drizzled over the Tyrannosaurus’s snout and ran down its hide, dripping off prodigious haunches. It tilted its head back and swallowed the man whole. A bulge appeared in its neck as the soldier went down the gullet.

Now, the marines opened fire, while the soldiers were vulnerable, standing erect as they parried the beast. Bullets dinged off their Kabuto helmets and drilled into the tropical wear tunics. A couple of soldiers were lethally wounded and crumpled to the ground.

Taking fire and fending off the dinosaur, the Imperial troops were in a hopeless situation. A cataclysm had arrived on their shore.

Thirty-Two

Dawson spied his opportunity. The battle scene had erupted into chaos, and nobody was paying attention to the rear flank. Japanese lines were overrun. Wading out of the water, he touched shore and the Compsognathus dinosaurs were upon him.

One latched onto his calf. Another jumped up his leg and bit into a thigh. Razor sharp teeth serrated his flesh. He wanted to scream.

He broke into a sprint, hauling scavenger dinosaurs with him.

Rushing up to a fuel storage tank, he slipped out of sight from the soldiers fighting in front of the next two tanks. Dawson unsheathed his stiletto fighting knife and thrust it into the Compy locked on his thigh. The thing bit his forearm, clamping on it with fierce determination, while others hopped around him, biting and clawing at his legs.

He stuck the blade deeper into its abdomen and pressed down on the hilt, cleaving the beast open. The Compsognathus flailed and dug its talons into his leg. Pain burned in his thigh. Innards bulged from the dinosaur’s open cavity.

Dawson reached for the creature’s guts and yanked them, uncoiling the viscera onto the soggy earth. The Compy dropped to the ground and wailed in agony.

He kicked it, sending the beast hurling to the water’s edge.

Other scroungers hopped on him. Dawson swiped at them with his knife, and he smacked them with a free hand. Knocking the dinosaurs away before they clasped onto him, they hit the ground and bounced to their feet, then pounced on him again.

A futile effort; he’d knock them off and they were right back. Pertinacity.

He counted five of them.

Kicking two of them away, he sent them hurtling towards the squealing Compy, bleeding on the shoreline. Hysteria drove it to snap at the new arrivals. They set upon it, biting and tearing voraciously at the displaced entrails. It yowled in pain.

Now, he faced off with two Compsognathus dinosaurs. Savage yellow eyes glared at him. Razor-sharp teeth chattered, while their tongues darted in and out, hissing. Dawson gulped. They were irate and meant business. He considered options. And the scavengers perceived his reluctance; they both pounced at the same time.

Sidestepping the one on the right, he dodged the creature and met headlong with the Compy on the left. Dawson sunk his knife into its gut as it lunged through the air. Finding purchase, his fist sunk deep into its innards.

The knife pierced the creature’s backside. A crimson blade split the hide.

Blood spurted from the wound, and the dinosaur yowled in pain. Shucking the Compsognathus aside, it landed with a thud and writhed on the ground.

The Compy he’d dodged had recovered. It set upon him.

Fortunately, the dinosaur sprung on his back and started chewing on the haversack. Wheeling around, he couldn’t get a bearing on the damn thing. Dawson unstrapped the pack. It dropped to the ground. The dinosaur went with it. Striking the earth, the creature kept gnawing on the backpack, tearing off scraps of canvas.

He swung his rifle from his shoulder, took aim, and fired. A bullet smacked into the Compsognathus’s head. It keeled over and thumped into the dirt, giving a single kick before dying. A glazed eye stared into the rain.

The shot attracted the other two scavengers. Scampering up the beach, they fixated on him. Fangs bared and saliva dripping from a whetted appetite, the creatures closed the distance fast. Dawson only had a second to respond. Another shot might draw attention from Imperial forces, so he had to quickly set the explosives and run.

He took aim and dropped the dinosaur in the lead. Before he could turn to the other, it was already upon him.

The frenzied creature hopped in the air and scrambled up his utilities.

Dawson dropped the rifle and reached for his fighting knife. At the same time, he grabbed for the dinosaur and latched onto a rear leg.

It perched on his chest and snapped at his neck.

He yanked the leg with all his might. Teeth scraped his flesh, inflicting a superficial wound; it strained for another attack.

Roundhouse thrusting with his knife, he plunged the blade into the creature’s side. It yelped, then struck for his neck again. Dawson turned the knife, pressed hard into the beast, then used the weapon to push the Compsognathus away from him.

Its head and torso reared back, but the hind claws seized his utilities, clutching him with a death grip. Talons serrated his abdomen. And the creature assailed him again. Lunging forward, the beast nipped at his neck, rending off pieces of flesh. Blood leaked from the wounds, but the Compy failed to strike a major artery.

The assault sunk the knife deeper into the creature. Still, it continued striking at his neck, disregarding the mortal wound being inflicted upon it.

It meant to kill him, and it was more than willing to die trying.

Reaching with his free hand, Dawson grabbed the Compy’s neck and squeezed its throat. He kept pressing the knife into the creature’s side, wriggling the blade, seeking to disrupt an organ, artery, or nerve.

The Compsognathus hissed, then it coughed. Gasping for air, the dinosaur flogged in a crazed frenzy. Breathing was interrupted.

Dawson pushed the knife upward, aiming for a lung.

The claws released; strength left the beast.

It croaked a muffled whoop. The dinosaur coughed and wheezed, grappling for breath. Excitement from the attack and injury to its lung, winded the creature to the point it couldn’t fight anymore.

He flung the scrounger to the ground, then peered around the fuel tank. Beyond the scout car, a battle enraged. A T-Rex stomped and roared at the Japanese line, while infantrymen shot at the massive creature. Extending its neck, the carnivore plucked a soldier from behind the sandbags and chewed him up, gobbling down the fare.

All the while, marines from across the field riddled the Imperial troops with lead. Nobody seemed to have noticed his shots behind enemy lines.

Dawson snatched the haversack off the ground and broke for the nearest fuel tank. Crouching near the base of the huge drum, he dug at the earth with both hands. He created a depression to direct the blast inward, then grabbed the TNT from his bag.

He positioned the dynamite and attached the fuse.

The line was twelve feet long. It provided enough time to safely clear the area, but he had a concern the enemy might happen upon it and defuse the explosives. Dawson cut it in half.

Reaching into a pocket, he pulled out a chrome lighter with the Marine Corps logo on the front. He lit the fuse. It sparkled and rapidly burned, moving towards the explosives like a serpent.

He grabbed his rifle and broke toward the water. Glancing back, the fuse had burned through most of the line. The enemy in the distance wouldn’t know what hit them.

Dawson headed for a piling to protect himself from the blast, hoping to make it in time.

Thirty-Three

Tanaka spied movement among the fuel tanks. He sighted his rifle on the American flittering around in the distance.

Running towards the water, the invader bobbed in and out of sight. The scout car inhibited a shot as well. He recognized the lanky American as the one who had fired the mercy shot at Osamu. Unable or unwilling to get a bead on him, Tanaka considered the prospect of a lone marine behind Imperial lines.

He turned to the front and took in the carnage. Men wailed as the American fusillade of machinegun fire riddled them. And the Tyrannosaurus continued to prey upon Imperial soldiers.

The fuel dumps were lost.

“Run!” He waved and screamed for the troops to retreat.

A few men looked at him askance.

“Fall back and defend the garrison!” He pointed toward a trail leading into the bush. It began a few yards beyond their left flank.

Some men laid down heavy fire, while others hustled single file to the path.

Bullets assailed them. A few soldiers took hits in the shoulders and chest, and a couple of them spun and fell to the ground, hollering in pain.

The predator leaned over and snatched Private Kondo off the ground. It lifted the man, kicking and screaming, over the defensive berm. A few rounds dug into the dinosaur’s hide. Maddened from the wounds, the T-Rex shook its prey violently.

Its massive head whipped back and forth. Clutching Kondo’s torso in its jaws, the soldier’s head protruded from the giant maw.

Eyes bulging, Kondo’s face was locked in a perpetual state of horror. His incessant screams fueled a continued wrenching of the carnivore’s neck. The distraction gave the infantryman time to clear out.

While his troopers fired at the Americans and attempted a retreat, Tanaka broke for the Yonki. Only moments after seeing the American near the storage tanks, it somehow felt like an eternity. He spied the invader’s mug, sticking out from behind a piling, and within that millisecond, he realized what the man had done.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started the scout car. The small engine sputtered to life, then he mashed the pedal to the floor and raced down the pathway between the first two storage tanks.

Approaching the shoreline, he turned and headed towards the garrison. Tanaka cut around the fuel tank on the right front, and an explosion blasted his ears and sent the Yonki hurling ahead. He almost lost control of the vehicle. Correcting the steering, he immediately knew the tank closest to the water had blown.

He glanced back and the tank was ablaze. Flames wafted upward, like a fire in a barrel with a hole near the bottom that had fed the initial blast. Stepping on the gas, he hoped his troops would clear out before another tank blew.

Thirty-Four

A wave of flames and heat rushed towards Dawson. The explosion blew towards the bottom of the storage tank, and blasted through the metal, catching the fuel on fire.

The blowback flurried in his direction, sending heat and flames at him.

He dove under the water and opened his eyes. Flames whipped over the water and spread around the pilings. The blaze shot up and caught the pier on fire. After a minute, he poked his head out of the water to breathe, and the flames from the blast had receded, except for the planks on the wharf that had caught fire.

Wading onto shore, he checked his rifle as the scout car disappeared into the brush. Only the storage tank closest to the water burned. Paint on the others percolated from the heat. Dawson realized they would blow any moment.

He needed to clear the other Raiders from the area.

Dawson considered running up the passageway between the storage tanks, but he didn’t like the odds of getting through without suffering an explosion. Instead, he sprinted around the tank on fire and circled past the wood line.

Running into the field, he found a wave of scavenger dinosaurs pressing upon Bishop’s position. The marine laid down heavy fire, bursting the creatures with 7.62-millimeter rounds from his Browning. Simmons had stepped over to lend support with his Thompson. Meserve was missing, likely dead, eaten by the Tyrannosaurus, which left Fuller alone somewhere.

He scanned the plain. Another wave of Compsognathus dinosaurs chased after the retreating Imperial troops. Machinegun blasts raged from the opposite American flank. Fuller shot madly in various directions.

Dawson couldn’t follow the attack. Random shooting without targeting the enemy sent bullets in every direction. A glazed look and wild eyes appeared on Fuller’s mug.

Swift movement from Fuller’s right caught Dawson’s attention.

A dinosaur slightly larger than a man closed in on him. Others were upon the marine, from his left and front. The creatures had green hides with dark stripes, camouflaging them from view while they stood in the brush. Only brisk movement gave them away.

Firing with a high-powered machinegun, Fuller kept the two approaching from frontal positions at bay. He couldn’t see the one coming up from the right rear.

Dawson dropped to one knee. He shouldered his rifle and took careful aim.

Taking a deep breath, he inhaled, held the air in his lungs, steady, then slowly squeezed the trigger. A crack resounded throughout the field from his shot.

His bullet sailed through the air and struck the Velociraptor in the eye.

It danced around and yowled in pain.

Fuller turned to the commotion and the other two Raptors were upon him. The mistake registered in his horror-stricken eyes. He screamed.

The one closest to him raised its hind leg and lashed out with a sharp, hooked claw. It tore into the marine’s abdomen and spilled his guts onto the deck. Fuller’s face turned white and he stopped fighting the beasts. Shock had caused a paralysis.

Dawson didn’t give up hope. He fired at the Raptor that had issued the death blow.

Rounds dug into the creature’s backside without slowing it down. It struck the marine again and knocked him to the ground. And then, the carnivore leaned its head forward and began to feed upon the fallen marine’s innards. Chomping ravenously at the man’s guts, the Raptor moved about in a frenzy.

Another Velociraptor approached the spoils, and the one feasting upon Fuller snapped at it, a warning nip. The creature meant to feed on the kill and bit the other Raptor on the neck.

It howled in pain. Then it stepped back and charged into the newcomer.

Both dinosaurs toppled and rolled on the ground, snapping and biting at each other. The Raptor with the head wound stammered in the brush. It couldn’t keep balance.

Dawson realized that more than a head shot had foiled the creature.

The ground trembled. Vibrations shook Dawson.

He glanced toward the enemy line and spied the Tyrannosaurus slouching his way. Standing just fifty feet away, the dinosaur would close the gap with a few prodigious strides. Dawson could never outrun the beast.

An explosion knocked him to the ground. He landed face first in the wet dirt.

Glancing up, he found the next fuel tank ablaze. Metal had blasted open from the side of the storage container and doused the T-Rex with ignited petroleum. A conflagration covered the predator and spread across the field at its feet.

The creature roared, enraged. A yowl of agony followed.

Flames spread across the ground and sailed down from the tank above. Imperial soldiers were caught in the blaze. Uniforms on fire, they screamed and rolled in the soggy earth. A few extinguished the fires on their burning clothes.

One soldier was not as fortunate. While he rolled in the grassy field, a blast of flames shot over the ground and engulfed him.

His skin caught fire. Charred flesh and percolating blisters reflected in the pale evening night, as a light mist drizzled over the battlefield; a miniscule dousing was inadequate to squelch the blaze consuming his flesh.

The burning dinosaur stepped to the man on fire. A vibration knocked Dawson to the ground, as the Tyrannosaurus plodded towards its next meal. It leaned forward and scooped the infantryman from the ground. Standing erect, it tilted its head back, rolling the soldier into its mouth, like a burning shish kebab.

A clap of thunder and a deluge of rain cascaded over the scene.

Burning fuel had doused the T-Rex’s hide and continued to waft flames into the air, despite the rain pouring over it. Saliva quenched the fire in its mouth, except for the burning head and feet protruding from its jaws.

Muffled roars followed this acquisition. Squawks of pain and aggravation.

And then, the Tyrannosaurus broke for the jungle, treading across the field with heavy footsteps that shook the ground. It headed directly towards Dawson.

The ground trembled beneath him.

Panic raced through his body, quickening his pulse.

Any contact from the massive feet would certainly crush him. Dawson considered springing upright and making a break for it. The way toward Bishop was clear. But he thought better of it. The dinosaur was coming at him like a locomotive.

Flipping onto his back, he glanced upward and waited to see if fate would ensnare him into a horrific death. Time seemed to freeze.

Dread consumed him.

A gigantic foot pounded into the earth, slightly in front of him and to the right. Massive claws crimped the ground. Staring upward, he glimpsed the other foot coming down. It was directly above him.

The creature would crush him for sure.

Dawson rolled to the left, tumbling over and over.

Spanning an immense distance, he hadn’t cleared its path; a talon meant to impale him.

Out of breath, he needed to make a last-ditch effort. He inhaled and wound his body around in another corkscrewing motion, seeking desperately to escape impending death. Dawson wasn’t quick enough.

The gargantuan foot compressed the ground beside him, rolling him back towards the creature. A talon pierced his thigh and squished him into the soggy earth.

He cried out in pain, but the bellowing was drowned out by the cacophony of explosions from the burning fuel tanks and raging battle from the garrison.

The T-Rex didn’t lose pace. It kept running.

Upward movement of the creature’s foot took Dawson along with it.

Skewered by the claw, he rose into the air, dangling from a talon. Dawson hung limp like a ragdoll. The creature’s swift movement caused him to spin under a toe. He’d be crushed on the next impact with the soil.

Dawson still clutched his rifle. He smacked the claw with the butt of his Garand; the jolt broke him loose from the impingement with the claw.

He fell and sailed through the air.

Landing with a heavy thud, he bounced up, then hit the saturated ground again.

He lay face down in the mire, numb from shock.

The predator kept tramping to the jungle, a blaze wafting from its backside.

Dawson breathed a sigh of relief.

And the T-Rex’s tail whipped around and knocked him across the plain. Everything became a mixture of black and orange, as the raging fire lit up the night sky directly above him. Flames shot from the burning storage tanks and landed all around him.

Any moment and he’d suffer the same fate as several Imperial soldiers. Burning alive was a grisly way to die.

Thirty-Five

The level of danger the Raiders would face during their operations became abundantly clear as training progressed. Dawson wrote to his fiancée about recent developments. His letter was postmarked from San Diego, California.

Mary,

I am sorry that I have not written you much since coming to the west coast. We train almost around the clock and liberty is an afterthought. Your letters are encouraging, and I read them when I am able to steal away some time late at night. That’s also when I try to get some words down on my stationery for letters to you and occasionally my mother. There simply isn’t time to communicate with anyone else. I hope my friends and family understand.

Never thought that active duty would be so demanding. Our training for the Raiders is even more time consuming than boot camp. The only difference is that boot camp builds a mental toughness that can’t be displaced.

We are sill doing tons of forced marches. But now Lt. Col. Carson has us mixing in double-time along with the marching. All the guys work up quite a sweat. We still work on hand-to-hand combat and get to the rifle range at Camp Pendleton occasionally. The latest development is that I’ve actually gotten aboard ship. We’ve boarded destroyers and headed up towards Los Angeles. Our unit has done a fair amount of rubber boat work, with practice landings on San Clemente Island. It is basically a Navy base with a fair amount of open space and beaches on all sides.

The rubber boat exercises have gone well, but they make me a little nervous. We will be using the boats in the Pacific theater and they are not as stable as I had thought. The boats work fine when the weather is right. But weather is unpredictable, and the flat-bottomed boats do not handle heavy surf well. We’ve capsized a number of times. Guys flounder in the water. Our gear gets soaked in salt and clogged with sand. And we’ve lost gear that we couldn’t recover. Ammunition cans have been lost. A few guys even let go of their weapons, only to have them swept away by the current.

The missions will be to land by stealth in the rubber boats and head inland to encounter the enemy. Many times, the Japanese will be dug into fortified positions. Other times we’ll be fighting our way through dense jungle. Without truck and tank support, we have to rely on the gear that we carry. So, we can’t afford to lose anything during a landing hazard.

Lt. Col. Carson says we’ll get better at it, but I just don’t know. I do not mean to worry you with this. I’m sure it won’t put me in more danger. Just will make the operations a pain to carry out at times. Anyway, I am holding up well and really hope that you are doing all right.

Love,

Randell

****

The response to this letter came fairly quick. Supportive as always, Mary expected him to rise to any challenge. Postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Randell,

I got your most recent letter. The new Raider units have been featured in the press, but they did not mention the use of rubber boats. Maybe our government doesn’t want that publicized. It came as a surprise to me, but I guess I hadn’t thought about how you would carry out your missions.

We all have a lot of faith in you, the government, and your leaders. If the Lt. Col. feels that you will get better at it, then I expect that you will. You’re a strong swimmer and are familiar with boats. This isn’t what you should be worried about. I hope that when you do see action, you’ll keep your eyes open and head down and not get shot.

Things are going well here, and I am done with school. I graduated with honors. My diploma reads that I focused on the classical curriculum. But I am glad that you told me to take the accounting class, because they hired me full-time at the bank! I’m so happy. I hope you’re proud of me. I am still working with war bonds. Part of my role at the bank is helping customers buy them. I also volunteer with the USO and help out on Saturdays.

I am keeping busy to help pass the time. We go to church on Sundays and the minister always has a kind word to say for our troops. He mentions the local men and women serving every week. I miss you a lot, even though I try to stay busy. You are always in my heart and I can’t wait to see you again.

Love,

Mary

Thirty-Six

The heavy rain obscured Peterson’s view of the way forward. He could hardly see the leafy jungle beyond the column of marines.

Explosions and machinegun fire echoed in the distance. Intermittent cracks of rifles resounded the weapons of enemy soldiers and his comrades. Tremors approaching from the north had reversed direction. A full-scale battle was enraging at the infrastructure targets, drawing the predator away from Peterson’s unit.

His squad moved swiftly through the brush, trying to join the fray.

An unsettled feeling crept over Peterson. Something didn’t seem right. Enemy soldiers would surely fall back to defend the key military base installation structures. Nobody would be lying in wait along a makeshift trail in the middle of the island. Yet he couldn’t let go of his concerns.

“Tomko, slow it down.”

“Our boys need reinforcements.”

“We might just walk into—”

A bullet dinged off a marine’s helmet.

Everyone in the squad hit the deck. Tomko unloaded with his submachine gun.

Marines laid down heavy fire. They wriggled into formation on the ground, and fanned the area ahead of them, shooting up the jungle.

Another round dug into the soil near Peterson. Dirt kicked up, revealing the shot had come from the left. Ambushed.

Peterson tapped Chandler on the helmet and pointed to the left flank.

Chandler pivoted and opened fire. The Browning he’d acquired from a fallen marine tore up the overgrowth, snapping limbs and drilling holes in the palm fronds.

With that countermeasure, demonstrating the marines ascertained an enemy position, rifles erupted from both flanks and their rear. Kaboom! Kaboom!

Lieutenant Peterson fired back with his pistol. Davidson rattled off at them.

Raiders in front continued to fire into the bush ahead of them. They can’t hear the rifles from the flanks, Peterson concluded. A fiendish bushwhack.

Davidson providing cover gave Peterson an opportunity to squirm ahead.

He grabbed Elliot’s trousers just above the combat boot and yanked hard. The kid looked back in awe, ready to turn his weapon on the assailant. A calm shown on his face when he registered the lieutenant.

Peterson pointed to the right. A muzzle blast lit up in the jungle.

Elliot spun into position and fired. Bullets homed on the enemy position, tearing the jungle apart and everything with it. Nothing could survive the assault.

Yet a moment later, the muzzle flashed again. Someone hollered in pain. A hit.

“They’re dug in like ticks!” Peterson cringed in frustration.

“Sure, as I’m getting drenched.” This from Chandler down the line.

A round struck Peterson in the left shoulder. He winced from the burning sensation. The shot had come from behind them.

“Chandler turn around and defend the rear!” Peterson ordered.

“Aye, sir,” Chandler replied, scooting around in the muck.

A moment later and the Browning was lighting up from the rearward position.

Peterson couldn’t believe the tactical elements at play. An enemy soldier had plotted the ambush well. More surprisingly, it had been devised with little advance notice and without concrete reconnaissance. They couldn’t have known for certain his unit would head through the area. He wondered how they even knew about the squad, then realized the firefights with dinosaurs had given them away.

The squad attacking the Raiders had been dispatched to intercept them. And the Japanese soldier in command was formidable and ambitious.

Cut off the head of a snake and the body will die, Peterson contemplated.

He figured the leader was firing at them from the rear. But then he remembered where the first shot had come from. A leader like this would not leave the timing for the onset of an attack to a subordinate.

Peterson spun around and called to the marine lying near Chandler. “Davidson! Get into the brush with your rifle and take out the shooter to our left.”

A moment of silence, then came the response. “Yes, sir!”

The young rifleman wormed his way toward the jungle, while Chandler laid down heavy fire to distract the solider attacking them from behind. Raiders engaged in combat strewn in the pathway concealed Davidson from the shooter on their right.

He only needed to clear the trigger-happy commander of the Japanese unit.

Davidson made it halfway to the dense underbrush when a round dug into the soil close to his helmet. Reacting on instinct, he expected a moment of clear advance while the enemy soldier chambered another round with the Model 38, Arisaka bolt-action rifle.

He rose to his hands and knees and swiftly crawled ahead.

“No!!” Peterson tried to issue a warning, but it came too late.

Another muzzle flash from the jungle and a loud crack as the commander’s semi-automatic pistol fired a round into Davidson’s side. It wasn’t a bolt-action rifle, Peterson realized.

He dropped into the dirt and writhed in agony. The bullet had struck a vital organ.

Waiting a moment for psychological effect, the soldier allowed the Americans to feel for their comrade, then he fired another shot at the wounded marine. The bullet found purchase in the man’s thigh. Still, he fired again, and this time hit the knee.

Davidson screamed bloody murder at the last gunshot. A crack accompanied the hit, signaling a broken patella. The kneecap had shattered.

A moment later and the Nambu pistol fired again. This time it hit the neck.

Blood gushed from the wound, spraying over the leafy ground. Raising a frantic hand, Davidson clamped it over the bullet hole.

“Corpsman!” A marine yelled on instinct.

“We don’t have one.” Peterson shook his head.

He wanted to wriggle over the earth and help the man.

Davidson met his eyes, hopeless.

“I’ll come over,” Peterson said. “Cover me!”

“No.” Davidson shook his head.

“We have to try.”

Elliot and Chandler trained on the left flank, put down heavy fire with their Browning machineguns. Tearing the jungle to shreds, the shooter would be forced to duck for cover. Peterson made his move and wormed across the ground to Davidson.

He slid a hand under the injured marine’s armpit and dragged him into the bush.

The rest of the squad engaged the enemy on all three fronts. Machineguns blasted at the Japanese troops. Yet rifles and pistols kept returning fire.

Even the commander on the left continued shooting.

Must have dug under some thick fallen trees, Peterson thought.

He looked at Davidson’s neck. Blood pumped from the entry hole, and he couldn’t find an exit wound. Lying on the ground, the bullet had likely hit the neck from the front and bore into the flesh, halting at a bone in the shoulders.

A serious wound, he didn’t think a major artery had been hit. “We need to tie that off and get you some help.”

“No way I’m going to make it.” Davidson frowned.

“I’m not so sure about that. The bullet didn’t hit an artery.”

“What about the others?”

“You won’t die immediately from any of those.”

Davidson nodded, encouraged.

Reaching into a cargo pocket, Peterson grabbed a first-aid kit. He cleaned the neck wound and wrapped gauze around the hole. It stopped the bleeding.

He next worked on the upper body wound, then patched up the knee and thigh.

“I won’t be able to walk out of here.”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“You gonna have to leave me behind?”

Peterson hesitated before giving a response. They could set him in a secure location and give him a canteen, then sweep back through the area when the mission was complete. But he thought about all the creatures on the island and decided against it.

“No,” Peterson said. “We’re taking you with us.”

Then a bullet dinged off the lieutenant’s helmet. He flatted on the ground and checked for the source. Another bullet pinged on his steel pot.

Neither shot was a direct hit and didn’t penetrate the steel.

Elliot was reloading. The shot had come from the enemy soldier on the right. Peterson aimed at the man with his Colt .45, M1911 pistol.

The gun cracked and the kick knocked his hand up.

And the next shot hit the back of his hand, causing him to drop the weapon.

Peterson scrambled back for deeper cover and fished around for bandages to treat the wound. The bullet had smacked the back of his hand and traveled through the flesh, exiting from his palm. It then struck the Colt’s pistol grip, and it ricocheted into the dirt.

A straight through-and-through, he’d definitely survive, but wouldn’t be much use.

With the enemy hunkered down behind protective cover, and the Raiders keeping low, the skirmish unfolded into a standoff. The combatants exchanged gunfire without exacting any further casualties.

Eventually, the battle fell quiet as the marines reloaded and the Japanese soldiers ceased firing. Peterson lifted his head and scanned the area. Sure enough, the enemy was making a move. A palm frond whapped back and forth, signaling encroachment from the shooter on their right flank. He was closing in to finish them off, but the marines were ready for an advance.

Tomko unleashed a fury of machinegun fire into the bush.

Wavering palm fronds were riddled with holes. A cry resounded from the jungle, then a thud reverberated off the ground. Someone had taken a hit.

Elliot and Chandler shifted into a stepped-echelon position, and they used the opportunity to direct the firepower at the rear. The remaining marines shot at the Imperial commander’s position. But he didn’t shoot back.

They continued to receive fire from the back door.

Peterson didn’t like the stillness from the left, an enemy position, which now lay not far away from him. The enemy commander was devious and on the move.

The enemy soldier from the rear was the only one returning fire. And his shooting became erratic, having been overwhelmed by the 7.62 caliber Browning automatic rifles. Elliot and Chandler rose into crouched positions to further thwart the soldier.

A crack sounded from beside Peterson’s head. His right ear rang, and his hearing became muffled. The bullet punched into Elliot’s back and he keeled over. Another shot struck Chandler’s shoulder. He spun to return fire.

But he couldn’t shoot.

The enemy soldier used Peterson for cover.

A moment’s hesitation was too much.

The Browning that offered so much firepower couldn’t be used to sharp shoot in a delicate situation. Chandler frowned at the disadvantage.

Crack!

And a bullet struck Chandler’s chest.

He collapsed, possibly dead.

Peterson used the opportunity to spring to his feet. His legs were fine, and he’d regained his wind while resting under cover.

The movement caught the enemy non-commissioned officer by surprise.

Unable to get a shot off, the soldier holstered the pistol and contemplated his options.

Peterson was upon him, both hands finding purchase on the corporal’s throat. The soldier gasped for breath, and the two men wrestled with vigor.

The lieutenant’s right hand throbbed in pain, but he managed to press his thumb into the soldier’s windpipe. Peterson used his left hand to squeeze the man’s throat.

A thickly muscled individual, the choking didn’t have the desired effect.

The corporal struggled with Peterson, grabbing both forearms, trying to break loose of the death knell. He seemed surprised at the lanky officer’s grip.

He coughed and gasped for air.

Strength began to slacken, and his legs wobbled.

The corporal couldn’t breathe.

Peterson continued to strangle the man, who writhed in panic, unable to break the hold on his neck. And then, a calm registered in the corporal’s eyes, and he completely let go of Peterson’s arms, as though accepting that he’d succumb to death.

This didn’t cause Peterson to let up. He continued to choke the man.

Serenity registered in the corporal, like he was honoring his ancestors, welcoming a death that his nation would respect, a true warrior. But that wasn’t the case.

The realization of his mistake came with movement down the corporal’s right side.

He was reaching for his pistol.

Peterson gasped and the corporal flashed a sardonic grin.

A moment was all it took, and the gunmetal reflected in the dim light. Rain danced over the barrel, as the weapon moved upward.

The lieutenant let go of the man’s neck.

He took a moment to inhale.

The corporal grimaced from the pain in his throat, but he kept raising the gun.

Peterson dove to the right as the pistol reached firing position.

A crack resonated from the weapon, and a bullet whizzed by his cheek, like a bug flying through the air at breakneck speed.

He hit the deck and rolled, keeping an eye on the shooter.

The enemy commander trained the gun on him, as he rolled on the ground in futility. Another crack and a bullet struck Peterson’s rib cage. He winced in pain, but he didn’t lose his breath. The round hadn’t punctured a lung or hit a vital organ.

Despite some burning pain, he didn’t suffer much; it wasn’t a mortal wound.

The next shot would finish him off.

Peterson lay with his back on the deck, facing the corporal, who had his weapon aimed directly at the lieutenant’s heart. “Help!”

A cacophony of gunfire erupted from behind him.

Peterson expected the commander to take a hit, but he stood in place and stared in amazement, focused on the source of the commotion.

Japanese reinforcements, Peterson concluded.

The lieutenant turned his head and found a melee unfolding, but it wasn’t Imperial troops that had barged onto the scene. He registered the stench of rotten meat about the same time he spotted Tomko wrestling with a dinosaur.

A Velociraptor had the stout marine pinned to the ground, while he held up the Thompson for protection, gripping the barrel and the stock with each hand. The Raptor bit into the machinegun repeatedly, then snorted in frustration. It bared its fangs, demonstrating a fierce intent to kill. Saliva dripped onto the marine’s face and chest.

Confusion prevented the beast from ripping Tomko’s guts open with its sickle-shaped rear claw. Both hind feet were rooted to the ground, while the dinosaur straddled the marine, snapping and biting repeatedly at a metal weapon. Tomko wouldn’t be able to fend the creature off for much longer. He’d grow tired and the thing would tear into his neck.

Peterson felt helpless. He didn’t have a weapon.

More chaos broke out alongside the struggle between man and beast. Elliot rose and trained his Browning towards the tree line not far from where Tomko vied for his life.

Something moved through the brush with agility.

Another Raptor meant to prey upon them. But the one attacking Tomko was the immediate threat. “Shoot at the other one!” Peterson commanded.

Elliot didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear the lieutenant over the commotion.

The private continued shooting into the jungle, lighting it up with heavy automatic machinegun fire. Everything was blasted to shreds, with bullets riddling holes in the leafy overgrowth and snapping branches, which dangled or broke loose from trees.

Finally, he came around enough to pick up the fracas between marine and beast. Elliot let off the trigger and took a step towards the Raptor. Steam rose from the barrel of the big weapon and rain danced over his helmet. He released a magazine. It dropped to the ground and he reloaded with a new one. A pause was all he took, drinking in the moment, allowing his muscles to invigorate.

The clash remained in a stalemate, with Tomko finding the tenacity to keep shielding himself from the beast. He wasn’t in immediate peril.

Elliot took a deep breath, then he fired at the Velociraptor.

A fusillade of bullets dug into the creature’s hide.

The Raptor let go of Tomko’s weapon and reared its head back. It grunted and hissed, perturbed. Swinging around to face its attacker, the carnivore bared its fangs. Yellow eyes blinked a predatory intelligence.

It suddenly made its move.

The creature raced toward Elliot.

Closed the distance fast.

Elliot laid down heavy fire. He directed his shots to the creature’s pale underbelly. Rounds found purchase in the dinosaur’s vulnerable stomach.

Holes appeared with crimson streaks, yet the Raptor kept coming at him like a locomotive. The fifteen-foot distance between them was cut in half, then cut in half again. Within a couple of seconds, the predator was less than four feet away.

The marine frantically squeezed the trigger, filling the beast with lead, until the machinegun resonated empty. Elliot stood there, defenseless.

A silence fell over the battle scene. Nothing but the pitter-patter of rain and the sound of the Raptor’s footfalls could be heard. Almost a serene tableau before the horror. Spent gunpowder wafted through the air.

A scream broke the silence. The Raptor lunged into the air and pounced on the young marine. He fell to the deck. And the beast ripped his guts out, viciously churning both claws into his abdomen. It cleaved the man’s viscera open, spilling intestines and organs onto the soggy ground.

Steam rose from the innards, like it had from the rifle barrel.

The Raptor gobbled up the stomach and liver ravenously.

It tore off hunks of flesh, then lifted its head, savoring the meat, while a light rain drizzled over the creature’s munching snout.

Tomko rose from the ground with his Thompson and circled around to get a clear shot. He emptied his .45 caliber rounds into the dinosaur’s underbelly. James trained his machinegun on the Raptor and opened fire. The creature yowled, then snatched the loops of intestines from the ground and broke for the jungle.

Another break in the clamor fell over the battle scene.

Peterson glanced around, surprised to find Private James kneeling on the ground with a hole in his arm. An enemy marksman had targeted the marine while everyone had watched the skirmish with the dinosaur.

Behind him, the Japanese solider had advanced during the turmoil and disarmed Chandler, ensuring he couldn’t rise and defend against the Imperial soldier. Peterson was unarmed and Tomko had run out of ammunition. Davidson lay on the ground, wailing from his injuries. The corporal approached from the brush wielding his Nambu pistol. He pointed it at James’s head. The Thompson dropped to the ground. A moment later, the remaining Japanese infantrymen stepped from cover.

Surrounded and outgunned, Tomko tossed his empty machinegun in the dirt.

The Imperial soldiers rounded up the survivors. Marching towards the garrison, Peterson glanced back upon the mortally wounded. Before they cleared the area, a pack of Velociraptors rushed on the scene and fed upon the carcasses.

One of them wasn’t dead yet. Davidson screamed bloody murder as a Raptor disemboweled him alive.

Thirty-Seven

Dawson awoke to his body jouncing about. He found himself slung over someone’s back in a fireman’s carry. A scent of cigarette smoke wafted in his direction. Bishop had managed to haul him off the battlefield.

The sound of waves lapping across the sandy beach made him realize they were approaching from the rear of the garrison. Someone had thought to put the Imperial troops in a crossfire. He figured Bishop had come up with the strategy, taking a page out of Dawson’s playbook. An old hunting ploy, he hadn’t even learned to do it as a lowly rifleman in the Marine Corps.

He loved the Marines for this very reason. The improvise, adapt, and overcome creed was fully embraced by enlisted jarheads. Coming from all walks of life, everyone had something to add to the mix, a contribution, and they often encountered unanticipated situations. Such a small branch of the military, without the resources for an expansive officer corps, enlisted Marines often found themselves in the field without the brass instructing them what to do. They simply had to improvise to get a mission accomplished, whether in combat or completing routine training and maintenance tasks stateside.

Waves gently slapping the beach and combat boots trudging through the sand were serene compared to the explosions and shooting they’d left behind. Muffled gunshots resounded through the bush, a harbinger of what lay ahead.

Dawson spied the gas flames rising from the fuel tanks, soaring above the treetops. The sight reminded him of the bout with death he’d had with the dinosaur. It had trampled into the jungle ablaze. A multitude of scavengers and carnivores had chased after the Japanese troops. Many of them had run down a path stretching parallel to the beach.

He gulped. Where are the creatures now?

Glancing around, he considered if any of them might be lying in wait. But he didn’t see the yellow orbs, and nothing lunged at them from the brush.

Bishop’s footsteps were heavy from the weight of his load.

Dawson’s leg throbbed; the pain was unbearable.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he said after a moment.

“Look who’s with us again.” Bishop chuckled.

“Finally came around,” Simmons added.

Then, Bishop halted. He crouched, allowing Dawson to scoot to the ground, while Simmons stood by, anxious. A fierce battle enraged in the distance.

Settling on the beach, Dawson inspected his leg for the first time. A rough impalement had torn his utilities open and cleaved back the flesh. Loose scraps of muscle were shredded along with his ripped trousers. The meat oozed with fresh blood, but nothing gushed forth.

A web-belt was cinched around his thigh above the wound, serving as a tourniquet to cut off blood flow. He loosened the buckle.

“What are you doing?” Bishop said, alarmed.

“Just checking to see how bad it is.”

“That’s a good way to end up dead.”

Dawson shook his head. “We need to know if the femoral artery is damaged.”

“What for?” Bishop sounded peeved.

Ignoring the jarhead, Dawson glanced at the wound and was relieved to find that blood wasn’t flowing out. “We’re in business,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The claw ripped my leg to shreds, but it didn’t cut through a major artery. I’ll be able to give you a hand when we reach the garrison.”

Bishop frowned in the pale moonlight. “Not a chance. You’ve done enough for this mission. I plan to get you home to your girl.”

“But I can help.”

“We are going to set you down somewhere safe.”

Dawson shook his head, disagreeing.

“Put you somewhere safe, then come back to collect you.”

“I’m better off joining the fight. What if something happens to you?”

Bishop thought about the comment. “Good point. But Captain Roosevelt is supposed to sweep the area with his unit, taking a second pass to collect the casualties.”

“We’ll settle this later. Give me your canteen.”

“The matter’s settled,” Bishop said, handing over the canteen.

Dawson took a long swig. The water was warm, but it went down smooth. His throat was parched and needed the liquid. “The smoke must have been worse than I thought.”

“No kidding. You’ve been talking with a gravelly voice.”

“We’ve already polished off most of the water,” Simmons cut in.

Pouring water over the wound, Dawson winced in pain. He’d meant to wash out any dirt, but the simplest contact aggravated the injury.

“Hurts, don’t it.” Bishop chuckled.

“It’s not funny.”

“Well, it’s a little bit funny now that we know you’re not gonna die.”

Dawson inhaled and poured more water over the serrated flesh. Pain spiked through his thigh. He flinched. The moment passed and he dug out his first-aid kit. “You did a hell of a job bandaging this thing up.”

“Hey, I was just trying to stop the blood flow and clear out of there.”

Simmons stepped over and looked at the wound. “We planned to patch you up better once we got to a safe location.”

“What took you so long?” Dawson grinned.

“Didn’t want to disturb you,” Bishop griped. “Thought you could use the rest.”

“Yeah,” Simmons added. “Like when your body shuts down to heal.”

Dawson handed the canteen back to Bishop. “I’m just giving you a hard time.”

Then, he tore his utilities further open, treated the wound, and gingerly placed the scraps of flesh back into place. He bandaged it up. Pulling the gauze tight, he had Bishop tighten the dressing so it wouldn’t come loose.

“You going to put the tourniquet back on?” Bishop pointed at the dressing.

Dawson handed the belt to his comrade. “You take it. Might come in handy… keeping your pants on during the next firefight.”

Simmons laughed at the joke made at the jarhead’s expense.

A frown crossed Bishop’s face, then he laughed and took the belt. He put it on and checked over his Browning, making sure the magazine was full. He cleared dirt and debris from all working mechanisms to ensure it wouldn’t jam during combat.

“Guess it’s time to join the fray,” Dawson said, rising to his feet.

“Let me carry you the rest of the way,” Bishop said.

“You need to save your strength.” Dawson shook his head. “I can lean on my rifle, or use your shoulder if necessary.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve worn yourself out enough.”

Simmons stepped over. “I’ll carry you for a bit.”

He had a Browning slung over his shoulder and carried a Thompson. Various ammo belts and equipment dangled from his shoulders and war-belt.

“You’re weighed down enough.”

Simmons shrugged. “Can always handle more.”

“Spoken like a true Marine.” Dawson started down the beach, using his rifle for support. He’d grabbed it by the barrel and pressed the butt into the sand, walking like an invalid with a cane.

“Guess that settles it,” Bishop concluded, starting after him.

Pain radiated up and down the injured leg, as Dawson trekked from the beach through underbrush towards the commotion. The limb functioned, though. He figured they’d put down the enemy quickly and be headed back to the beachhead within a few hours.

The sounds of a chaotic battle grew louder, as they drew nearer to the target.

Stepping from the edge of the jungle, at the rear of the garrison, the clearing in front of the building came into view. A calamity like nothing he’d ever seen or anticipated lay before them.

Thirty-Eight

Tanaka had positioned himself behind the scout car, using the hood for cover. He’d come upon the scene and directed his troops to form a perimeter around the garrison. Some Imperial soldiers were inside shooting from the windows. A bamboo and thatch building, the structure didn’t provide much protection from the invaders.

Marines were spread out in front of the garrison, laying down heavy fire from behind rocks and fallen trees. Japanese troops were situated all around the building, so Tanaka couldn’t observe all of them from his vantage point. Some held positions under the scout car, while others shot from windows in the garrison. Many of the Imperial forces were in prone shooting positions on the ground with little cover.

He had taken a forward location that didn’t afford him a full command of the battlefield. Jumping hastily into the fray to take up the fight, he’d made a major tactical misstep that could potentially cost him the battle.

The Americans were well equipped, firing high-caliber machineguns from various angles. Imperial infantrymen had rifles and pistols, relying heavily upon their imitation Lewis guns to repel a landing party. The hasty retreat had not allowed for set up with the deadly tripod machineguns.

A surprise attack, he wondered how a force of such magnitude had gotten through the Japanese surveillance planes.

During the battle at the beachhead, he’d estimated approximately two hundred marines. Rubber boats were pulled onto shore, but he hadn’t spied any ships in the distance. He thought back to the retreat and considered the Japanese aerial attack. Guns had blasted from the deck of a naval vessel offshore. It wasn’t a destroyer or a battleship. The silhouette appeared as a barge offshore, similar to those he’d seen performing industrial work in Tokyo bay.

Submarines, he finally muttered to himself. They surprised us by approaching underwater. A stealth attack. He wondered if the marines blasting away at them were specially trained commandos.

Thwack! A bullet struck the door of the scout car with a resounding ding.

It traveled through the vehicle, then blasted out the other door and swished into the garrison wall. A soldier screamed from inside. Someone was firing a powerful weapon at them. Tanaka knew it could cut them to shreds.

He regretted being pinned down behind the Yonki more than ever.

Tanaka preferred to be further back, with his troops spread out around him, so he could make command decisions and fortify their defense. Without the Lewis guns to thwart the attack, he didn’t think they had a chance. There hadn’t been enough time to break into the storage locker.

That’s it, he thought. The storage locker.

A ding sounded off his helmet; a bullet had ricocheted off the metal of his Kabuto, pot-shaped, steel helmet. It was a glancing blow that didn’t penetrate the protective cover.

Japanese troops had a star painted on the front for Army and an anchor for Marines serving aboard ship. His troops were stationed on the island with the Army, so their helmets bore stars. The helmets were painted khaki-brown, matching their tunics. A few soldiers were positioned about the garrison defense with tropical helmets made of cork, which didn’t provide much protection from shrapnel and bullets.

The thought of Imperial troops wearing the wrong headgear seemed to escalate the attack. A blast resounded to his right, cascading dirt and metal fragments in his direction. Bits of shrapnel pelted him, but he was far enough away, so the wounds were superficial. Hot jagged pieces of the hand grenade had torn through his uniform and burned his skin, cleaving open small cuts, while sticking to the serrated exposed meat.

He turned to Superior Private Hirano and told him to take command. Then, he ducked behind the Yonki and crawled toward the barracks. Slipping through the thatch wall, he wormed across the floor and entered the building.

A few soldiers were shooting out the windows. They had stacked footlockers beneath the windows and used them for cover due to the thin walls. Firing at the invaders, the garrison was a cacophony of firearms exploding, and the Americans shot back at them. Bullets whizzed through the thatch walls and dinged off the metal rails of the bunks.

One soldier noticed Tanaka and looked at him confused.

“Follow me!” Tanaka yelled over the din, waving to the young private.

The soldier reluctantly left his post at the window.

Running through the barracks, Tanaka moved in haste because time was essential, but he also feared getting shot by a stray bullet. The private kept pace. His uniform was clean. He was fresh and hadn’t been battling the Americans much that night, not like the soldiers who’d accompanied Tanaka to the fuel dumps.

They made their way past the lavatory and entered a closet space in the rear of the building. Boxes of munitions and weapons were stacked on the floor. Covered in dust with rusted hinges, the cache hadn’t been used in combat or even for training. The Imperial soldiers had spent most of their time on the island maintaining the infrastructure and standing post, watching for ships and complacently never expecting an invasion.

Brushing off the tops of a few boxes and crates, Tanaka found what he was looking for in the jumble of weapons. He’d located two boxes of mortar tubes and a crate of shells.

“We need another man to carry this out,” Tanaka said.

The private nodded and ran out of the storage closet. A moment later he returned with another soldier carrying his rifle at port arms. He was older than the young private and had pock marks on his round cheeks.

“Sling that over your shoulder.” Tanaka pointed to the rifle.

“Yes, sir.” And he did so.

“Grab the other ends of these two boxes,” Tanaka said, bending over and latching on to the rope handles protruding from the mortar tube crates.

The new arrival did the same at the other end, then they stood and lifted the boxes from the floor. Although the cargo wasn’t too heavy, it proved to be awkward. Tanaka was forced to walk backward as he eased from the storage room.

“You take the crate of mortar shells,” he said, nodding to the box on the floor.

The young private hiked the box off the floor and trailed after them.

A firefight erupted in front of the building; Tanaka decided to head out the back and circle around to the left side of the building. He led them over to a back exit.

Outside, he found the noise behind the building less intense. Tanaka lowered the boxes and the soldier at the other end did the same. Then he motioned for the other private to put his box down. Shaking out his hands, Tanaka briefed them on his plans.

“We’re going to pick these up, run around the left side of the building and set up a mortar line at the corner of the building.” He paused to see if they were following his explanation. “Each mortar tube has to be set for the shortest distance possible.”

“Shouldn’t we estimate the distance first?” the older soldier enquired.

“Not enough time.” Tanaka shook his head. “You set it up close, and if the shells fall short, they explode and disrupt their vision. Then you make adjustments, moving the range out slightly, until you are dropping the rounds on their heads.”

Both soldiers nodded, understanding.

“Okay, let’s go.”

Tanaka reached for the crates and heaved them off the ground, then he quickly backpedaled. His counterpart followed suit. The other trotted to keep up.

Rounding the back corner of the building, they traversed the side of the building and found themselves at their destination. Tanaka dropped the boxes and crouched to retrieve a mortar tube. He set the baseplate and extended the bipod legs of the Type 90, 81-millimeter mortar. Then, he snapped on the barrel, serving as the firing tube.

The elevation tube was already in the lowest position. Checking the target, he made a slight change and felt the initial salvo might be accurate. He grabbed another mortar and repeated the actions. Then, he held out his hand, seeking a third mortar. It didn’t come.

Waving his hand, he expected the mortar to be handed off instinctively. Still, it didn’t happen.

Tanaka looked back. Both soldiers knelt by the mortar boxes, but they were motionless, as though paralyzed with fear. They stared at the tree line.

Glancing at what caught their attention, Tanaka spied yellow orbs, lined along the underbrush. Rows of dinosaurs had come to feast and stood on the edge of the jungle ready to wade into battle. They appeared like medieval warriors before a clash on an open battlefield.

Dread choked the breath out of him. Then, he felt an all too familiar tremor, resonating slightly in the distance. Another mild vibration marked a path toward the garrison.

Thirty-Nine

Dawson couldn’t believe the sight before him. More alarming than the military factions, confronting each other in a major face-to-face conflict at fairly close range, was the sight of an impending assault from the tree line near Dawson on the right side of the garrison.

A chill ran down his spine at the sight of the looming battle: marines verse soldiers and humans against beasts.

Yellow orbs glowed in the underbrush. An entire wave of scavenger dinosaurs waited for the right moment to pounce. The ranks ran three deep and spread from the edge of the Japanese line to beyond the American positions. Everyone on the battlefield was so focused on their targets, they clearly didn’t see the imminent doom from the creatures on their flank.

Dawson wanted to fire a warning shot and alert the marines to the danger. But he also didn’t want to give away his team’s position. He wondered if a similar situation was developing on the left side of the building, out of his view.

Glancing around in an attempt to assess the conditions and formulate a plan, he realized the situation was more dire than he’d understood. Worse than the scavengers lined up in the brush, a pack of carnivores, standing taller than a man, moved about behind the line of smaller dinosaurs. The bigger dinosaurs pranced about in a frenzy, anxious to attack their prey.

They’re not used to waiting this long, Dawson thought. He got the feeling that they would normally stalk their quarry and pounce at the right opportunity.

Something held them back. The Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs might have been waiting for the combatants to kill each other, so they could move in and feed upon the soils. Scavengers accustomed to waiting through the battles between larger dinosaurs, they had reason to lurk in the shadows. But the man-sized dinosaurs had quickly acclimated to the threat of human weapons, which meant they possessed a higher level of intelligence than he first imagined.

Thoughts of such vicious creatures, having the cognitive ability to restrain their ingrained predatory instincts, based upon a few chance encounters with machineguns, frightened Dawson to no end. Some of the dinosaurs lingering in the underbrush weren’t present during the skirmish at the fuel storage tanks. They were now more plentiful. He’d only seen a handful of them before.

Somehow, the dinosaurs were able to pass the knowledge of danger onto each other, communicating like a pack of wolves. Occasional chirps and growls emanated from down the line. A leader was instructing the others, holding them back.

Dawson gulped. His pulse quickened.

A tenacious dread wrapped around him, stifling his breathing.

He inhaled, trying to get air.

A massacre loomed over the battlefield, like a portent of death. He finally decided to fire a warning shot and shouldered his rifle. It was time to join the fray. He aimed at a soldier near the corner of the garrison.

The rifle cracked and a shot whizzed past the target and dinged into the scout car. Checking the advancing Raiders for a sign they’d caught the warning signal, he didn’t sense the marines had registered the effort. Dawson’s shot had gone off unnoticed as the battle enraged and both sides put down heavy fire.

Bishop tired of waiting and took Dawson’s shot as a cue to join the fight. He let rip with his Browning, blasting round after round into the Japanese right flank. Then Simmons stepped alongside him and weighed in with the other Browning he’d commandeered from Fuller.

Bodies writhed on the ground from the surprise rear echelon attack. Soldiers moaned and reached desperately for their wounds.

Suddenly, the front line of scavenger dinosaurs became active, shifting and bobbing their heads, birdlike. Anticipation of feasting on the dead and wounded nearby had whet their appetites.

A carnivore squawked from the third row, chirping an instruction to the others. Then several Raptors pushed past the scavengers and stepped onto the battlefield. One scraped its hind leg into the dirt, cleaving the soil open with a sickle-shaped claw. A light rain danced off its thick hide, covered with dark stripes.

The bloody clash between the Imperial soldiers and marines continued, unawares. Machinegun fire erupted throughout the scene. Cracks of intermittent rifle shots and the occasional blast of a hand grenade added to the commotion.

A coppery scent wafted through the air and drove the meat eaters into a frenzy.

The leader chirped another command and the pack set upon their prey. Raptors ran onto the battlefield and feasted upon the fallen soldiers, tearing off hunks of flesh and snapping at each other, vying for position.

Some futile gunshots resounded from the melee, but the bullets didn’t slow the dinosaurs and only served to spur them on. Dominant carnivores pounced on the offenders and bit at the soldiers’ throats. Blood streamed from the wounds, spurting into the pale moonlight reflecting through the clouds. It looked almost black in the overcast night.

The pack leaders were doused in sanguine liquid, with blood smeared over their snouts, across their faces, and covering their chests. A crude appearance, the messy condition didn’t slacken their desire, but rather served as a catalyst for more.

Now, the Raptors buffeted each other, no longer satisfied with the meaty appendages. Each carnivore challenged the position of the others, snapping and biting, pushing with their rumps, until an opening emerged in the throng. Then a dinosaur poked its nose through the others and bit into a soldier’s viscera. Screaming and flailing senselessly, the victim could not abate his impending blight.

Coils of intestines were ripped from his abdomen, and then strewn on the ground like sausage links covered in blood. While a Raptor chewed on the spoils, others latched onto the booty and pulled until the organ snapped apart. Another dinosaur wormed into the open cavity in search of a rewarding fare.

Scavengers along the sidelines could no longer contain themselves. They burst onto the field and gobbled up scraps of discarded meat.

Hysteria engulfed the scene. The larger meat eaters thrashed the Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs, beating them away from the carcasses, sending them to fend for themselves, and hunt for their own pickings.

The scavengers spread like waves across the battlefield and pounced upon the Imperial soldiers and American marines alike.

****

Eventually, Dawson shouldered his rifle but understood vast numbers of dinosaurs had taken the field. Attempting to sharpshoot them was an exercise in futility. The larger carnivores needed to be killed and the smaller, pesky creatures beaten back.

He moved up the tree line and got into a kneeling position slightly past the front corner of the house. Enemy soldiers were trounced by the Raptors.

Other soldiers hid behind the scout car, exposed to his line of fire.

Beyond them he spied a group of Imperial soldiers setting up mortars near the other front corner of the building. The young enlisted leader was among them, pointing to his troops and adjusting the elevation tubes.

Simmons and Bishop sidled up to Dawson. He pointed toward the mortars.

“We need to take them out before they lay waste to our troops.”

Bishop nodded understanding. “Should we go around back?”

“No time.” Dawson shook his head.

“What, then?”

Dawson grinned. “We’re going to blast our way to the scout car. Then we’ll lay down some heavy fire on the mortars from there.”

Bishop grinned, but Simmons seemed concerned.

“What?” Dawson said, but he didn’t want to listen to a dispute. No time.

“Just that we’ll be pinned down behind the car.” Simmons gulped. “We’ll take fire from our own troops. Soldiers in the building will shoot at us…”

“And?”

“Well, we have to get past those.” He pointed at the dinosaurs tearing soldiers to bits near the corner of the building.

They would have to run past the Raptors and likely face off with one or two of them before getting behind the scout car.

Dawson nodded, agreeing with the assessment. “We have to do it anyway. Our boys are going to be blown to bits if we don’t.”

Simmons didn’t seem convinced. “If those things get us, we won’t be any use to our troops. Let’s just go around back and surprise them. We’ll have a better chance of pulling off the attack. Better a few mortars go off than risk all of them.”

He had a point. The lieutenant colonel’s group input took up time, but it helped execute a mission with precision. “You go around back and the two of us will blast through them.”

Both marines smiled at Dawson’s plan, then Simmons jogged around back.

“Come on,” Dawson said to Bishop. “Let’s go.”

They broke towards the scout car with weapons shouldered and pointed at the Raptors feeding upon enemy soldiers. Dawson limped along. As he’d suspected, the beasts were focused on tearing the carcasses to shreds and didn’t pursue them. Their hunting had terminated and now it was time to feast upon the spoils.

Rounding the corner of the building, a small Raptor was bumped away from the remains of a fallen solider. It nipped a larger dinosaur on the neck.

The stronger brute smacked its haunch into the yippy creature, knocking it unsteady, then it sunk its teeth into a hind quarter for good measure. The smaller Raptor reeled from the feeding frenzy and turned and faced new prey.

With just a few steps, it pressed after the American commandos, rushing at them like a locomotive. Dawson saw the beast coming at them.

Anger registered in its eyes after being rebuked by its rival. Opening its jaws, drool streamed from its fangs. It hadn’t been able to feed like the others. The creature had stood by a massive feast without being able to participate. Madness registered in its eyes.

The Raptor closed on Bishop, who ran along unawares.

It opened its mouth even wider. The jaws snapped shut like the metal coils releasing on a bear trap. Dawson expected to see blood. Instead, the bite caused Bishop to stop in his tracks, and then he was jerked backward off his feet.

With a tremendous yank of the Raptor’s neck, a tug and tear predatory movement, Bishop got whipped around like a rag doll. The dinosaur had him by the Haversack.

Bishop wailed, disoriented and unsure what was happening to him.

Dawson trained his rifle on the creature, but it just kept shaking its prey. He couldn’t align a shot without potentially hitting the marine.

Reaching for his bayonet, he affixed it to his rifle, then stepped into the fray.

Fierce yellow eyes locked on him. The Raptor dropped Bishop with a thud and stepped forward to face off with Dawson. Its hind leg flexed, crimping the ground with immense claws. A large sickle-shaped claw protruded from the lower portion of its leg. The creature meant to rip his guts out with it.

The dinosaur pounced. It came at Dawson hard and fast, a bull rush.

He advanced into the fight, stepping forward, then planting his feet, securing the butt of the rifle into his good thigh. Dawson pointed the bayonet low.

It charged headlong into him. The blade pierced the creature’s abdomen, causing the Raptor to yowl in pain. Still, the beast’s momentum kept it coming at Dawson, and the bayonet sunk deeper into the dinosaur’s viscera. Blood gushed from the wound, but the carnage only served to fuel the creature’s ire.

Force from the Raptor’s assault knocked Dawson to the ground. Grasping his weapon tightly, the bayonet and rifle barrel pierced the creature’s gut, skewering him, until the blade punched through its backside.

An intense caterwauling followed the act, while the dinosaur squirmed on the apparatus impaling its bowels. It desperately fought to reach Dawson and tear out his throat.

Blood spewed from the creature’s abdomen. The twisting and turning only served to cause the weapon to entangle its entrails and cleave his midsection further. It wailed and snapped in pain and fury.

Soon, the beast wormed down the rifle, and its guts spilled warm innards and blood over Dawson’s hands. The Raptor snapped at his neck, which remained slightly out of the reach of its deadly maw.

The sickle-shaped claw motored around, striking the dirt, ripping his utilities, and cleaving his thigh open. Dawson couldn’t fend the beast off much longer.

He closed his eyes and thought of Mary.

A sudden slacking of pressure caused him to open them again.

The creature reared back to gain momentum for another strike. Dawson wriggled his rifle loose and pressed the barrel against a solid object within the dinosaur’s innards. He pulled the trigger. A round exploded into the Raptor’s spine. It screeched in agony.

Bone fragments, gristle, and meat blew out the back of the predator.

Arching its back, the creature froze, then lost control over its lower muscular functions, and teetered forward, collapsing on top of Dawson.

The upper torso writhed as the creature wailed and screeched in pain and confusion. Its jaws snapped open and shut, but the head lay pressed into the ground. And then, the hulking beast rolled off him.

Dawson looked up and found Bishop leaning over him. The jarhead grinned and reached out with a hand. Assisting him to his feet with one strong tug, Bishop laughed. “That was something else. Expected you were going to be its next meal.”

“You could have stepped up and helped out.”

“Happened too fast.” Bishop spoke in his matter-of-fact tone.

“Well, a semblance of reinforcement would have been nice.” Dawson adjusted his gear behind the scout car. “Got to move ahead with the plan, now.”

“Count me in.” Then Bishop raised the Browning and unloaded into the thatch building. Rounds tore into the garrison, riddling enemy soldiers, who’d taken up position at a nearby window. Brass cartridges spit from the ejection port. Muscles in his face vibrated along with the rhythmic bursts of the weapon.

An enemy soldier fell out the window opening, with his chest ripped apart from the high caliber bullets. Others inside wailed in pain. Even the ground seemed to shake under Dawson’s feet as the crazed marine tore the place to shreds.

Soldiers crawled out from under the scout car, and Dawson shot them. Their eyes glazed over in an eerie state of death. Up close, the fighting unnerved him for a moment. The dead looked so real. He couldn’t bring himself to loathe such young men, sent to their ends without having any choice in the matter.

The chaotic gunfire ceased, as Bishop powered down.

****

A tremor carried across the ground, and Dawson knew the vibrations hadn’t come from Bishop’s attack. Something large was stalking its way towards the commotion.

He sighted his rifle at the soldiers erecting mortars. The Japanese foot soldier he’d encountered before led the infantrymen in the task. Every one of them worked frantically, assisting him. And he seemed to be adjusting the mortars, as though increasing the line of trajectory.

The young enlisted man’s eyes were opened wide. He seemed fixated on something in the distance. Dawson turned to see what had the Japanese soldier terrified.

Glancing over the hood of the scout car, he observed the American offensive line. They were dug in behind fallen trees, stumps, and had dug fighting holes. Most were armed with rifles, sharpshooting the enemy. A few held Browning automatic rifles, and still others wielded Thompson submachine guns.

Marines with the heavier firepower riddled the Japanese positions. Some were careless about their shooting. Bullets dinged off the scout car, even though they had to know marines were fighting behind enemy lines. Scavenger dinosaurs had spread over the battlefield, taking bites of soldiers and marines, and kicking up a commotion. Defending against them involved kicking, punching, knife thrusts, and occasional shots. The latter method sent wild rounds through the battle zone.

Another vibration, and the ground trembled again. Beyond the Americans something massive lurched their way, and it was closing in on the battle scene. It wasn’t in view yet, which caused Dawson to consider what the Japanese soldier had been staring at earlier. He looked around and caught a glimpse of a large dinosaur standing among a thicket of trees.

The massive creature stood motionless, observing the commotion. It was ginormous and weighed at least 8 tons, and it spanned 55 feet from snout to the tip of its tail. The muzzle was long and narrow, like a crocodile. Sharp and jagged teeth protruded from its lips. A large fin rose from its back, resembling an old-fashioned hand-fan. Its feet crimped the earth with large claws, but the space between the talons was webbed like a duck or a river otter.

Dawson figured the dinosaur was a Spinosaurus, a meat eater that lived on land and in the water. Remains of one had recently been found in North Africa and featured in Life Magazine. The Spinosaurus must live in a boggy area near a lagoon.

It seemed reluctant to press into the fray, as though it didn’t usually venture far into the interior of the atoll for prey. The creature’s nostrils wrinkled, likely picking up the scent of blood from the Raptors mauling soldiers and tearing them to bits. At some point, the dinosaur meant to charge into the battlefront and feast upon the combatants. Most of them didn’t even know the creature lingered in the shadows.

Shouldering his rifle, Dawson meant to shoot at the beast and put things into motion, thinking his comrades were better off learning about the creature before it could surprise them. Raiders were positioned closer to the Spinosaurus, so they’d be its first victims.

Just as Dawson was about to squeeze the trigger, a few trees snapped, and the colossal T-Rex stepped into the mix. Flames continued to waft from its hide in a conflagration of burning fuel and charred meat. It carped in pain and misery, then the predator sized up the scene, lowered its head and let loose a ferocious roar.

An abrupt silence marked its entrance. The adversaries stopped firing at each other, and the Raptors paused from ransacking corpses, and glanced up at the newcomer. Even the scavenger dinosaurs halted their pillaging to observe the king of the island.

The Tyrannosaurus looked them over, then a few Procompsognathus dinosaurs moved about. Stomping a foot, the T-Rex let out another fierce roar.

Everyone became still and waited, as if letting the monster choose its prey. And they all hoped it would be someone else. The dinosaurs instinctively froze, waiting to flee after the T-Rex set upon another. Soldiers and marines remained idle, expecting a human to be the first target. A calm before the storm, calamity would erupt as soon as it made its move.

****

Flames wafted from the creature and the pungent scent of charred flesh drifted over the battle zone. Dawson considered whether the damaged tissue might weaken the creature or drive it into uncontrollable rage.

The T-Rex roared again. It took a step forward, hesitated, looking around, then it charged towards a marine laying behind a fallen three.

Realizing he was the target, the marine scrambled to his feet and ran towards the Japanese defensive line. The Tyrannosaurus chased him, swiftly motoring its massive legs, closing the distance in a few colossal steps.

Dawson anticipated a shot to crack from the enemy line, but everyone remained frozen, awestruck, watching the futile escape.

The T-Rex reached the fleeing marine; it shot its massive head downward and snatched the man from the ground. He screamed and kicked in vain. Its maw engulfed the marine’s upper torso and clamped down on his abdomen with sharp teeth. Legs dangled, kicking, from the dinosaur’s mouth, reminiscent of a cat holding a live mouse. Blood oozed from the puncture wounds, like juice running from a rare steak.

Cries of pain emitted from the cavernous mouth, tempered by the creature’s hold, but the muffled screams were even more ominous.

Death couldn’t terminate the Raider’s suffering fast enough.

The carnivore shook its prey like a rag doll, and the fleeting screams for help abated. Pausing in the middle of the combat zone, the Tyrannosaurus chomped on its victim, savoring the fare. Grinding its molars, the creature meant to crush the man’s bones and swallow him whole. It sucked part of the man down, and the limp lower torso followed. Soon, only a leg hung from the creature’s mouth. The T-Rex tilted its head back. Another swallow, and the remainder of the man disappeared, while a bulge moved down the creature’s throat.

The carnivore glanced around the battlefield with predatory eyes. Its yellow orbs seemed to be searching for the next victim. But the process was more than mere selection of a meal. Scanning the options, the predator seemed to be gauging which person was most likely to run. The beast enjoyed the hunt, savored the pursuit of its prey.

Another quarry presented itself soon enough. The eyes locked on a target.

****

The Japanese defensive line lay before the creature, and a soldier was crouched behind a barrel in a forward position. He rose and broke towards the side of the garrison where the Raptors had fed upon a few of his comrades.

Within a moment, the Tyrannosaurus was in pursuit. It stalked after the soldier with lumbering steps, almost giving the man a slight lead before delivering the death knell.

The soldier bolted past the scout car. And Dawson froze while the T-Rex ran by his position, focused on the enemy soldier. Frightened into panic, the soldier’s eyes were opened wide, registering terror. He trundled along emitting an indiscernible plea, like a baby running home to his mother.

Approaching the gaggle of Raptors, the break in tranquility abruptly ended.

Running headlong towards the carnivores, the soldier upset the balance. He halted. The closest Raptor sprung on him, as the thundering steps of the Tyrannosaurus shook the pack hunters off balance.

The smaller dinosaur knocked the soldier to the ground. It wielded its sickle-shaped claws and cranked a rear leg into the man’s abdomen. Flesh tore open, and the scent of blood floated through the air. The creature fed ravenously on the soldier’s intestines, as he screamed in bloody agony. Other pack hunters vied for space near the open viscera, while a few settled for the meaty appendages.

Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs plied between the Raptors and fed upon the soldier’s remains, tearing off scraps of meat and nipping at each other.

The wild feeding frenzy kept the dinosaurs from noticing that the ground had ceased trembling. While they feasted upon the carcass, the Tyrannosaurus peered down at them, almost mystified by the absurdity.

It reared its head back, then let out a fierce roar. A bellow of warning and contempt, it thrust its head downward and sounded off in the creatures’ faces.

A Raptor looked up with blood smeared on its maw. It sneered at the Tyrannosaur, as flames whisked into the dull night sky from the creature’s enormous back. The Raptor had a poised stance, as though it meant for the pack to take the king down.

The others looked up at the towering beast. And the leader clicked an instruction to the others, and they spread out, flanking the Tyrannosaurus like trained soldiers.

Scraping the ground with sharp claws, the Raptors signaled a return warning to the Tyrannosaurus, offering it a chance to depart. The T-Rex eyed them, scanning from side to side, as though measuring their resolve and sizing up the pack’s advantage.

While the T-Rex glanced to the right, a Raptor on the left darted at the creature’s haunch. It ran up the meaty leg and propped itself on the large dinosaur’s rib section, digging its claws into the thick hide. Flames wavered through the Raptor’s hind legs and swooshed around its tail. Biting savagely into the creature’s neck, the Raptor thumped its tail, attempting to douse the fire spreading onto its skin.

The Tyrannosaur spun around, trying to shake the Raptor from its back. It careened its head, stretching its neck in futility to reach the aggressor on its back.

More clicking from the central Raptor, and others charged the mighty predator. Jumping at the T-Rex from both sides, and piling on from the rear, the pack assailed the creature. They bit and chomped madly at its hide, tearing off strips of protective skin. Some of the bands of meat were singed and peeled off like pork simmering in a slow cooker.

Straining, the Tyrannosaur managed to get a grip on a Raptor. It locked the smaller dinosaur in its jaws, clamping them tight, until the creature’s neck snapped. Then, it hurled the smaller dinosaur through the air. It sailed limply from the fracas, unable to breathe or fight its massive adversary.

The Raptor crashed into the garrison and plowed through the thatch wall. Pieces of split bamboo and clumps of thatch swung back and forth, then the side of the building settled into the stillness of a black hole.

Vanquished, the Raptor didn’t arise to fight again. It died miserably but not in vain.

****

Others elevated their resolve to tackle the beast, rather than shy away from the conflict. Raptors assaulted the Tyrannosaurus in unison. A couple latched onto the massive tail, sinking their jaws into the dense hide. The tail swung back and forth, as the behemoth sought to shake them loose. Still, they hung on and continued biting the massive appendage.

Some Raptors continued to assail the creature’s back, scaling the haunches and expansive midsection, and clawing and biting to stay on the dinosaur. The T-Rex bucked and writhed to shake them loose, but to no avail.

As soon as one dropped off, two more climbed on and took their place. The fire abated on the Tyrannosaurus’s back, and the Raptors picked madly at its charred flesh.

Wailing in misery and frustration, the T-Rex spun around and shook like a dog climbing out of a lake. A few Raptors spilled to the ground. The Tyrannosaurus pounded on one as it squirmed to upright itself.

It placed a massive claw on the Raptor’s midsection, then pressed tons of weight into the smaller creature. The Raptor flailed to dislodge its carriage from beneath the impending doom, but it couldn’t budge the colossal predator. Other dinosaurs assailed the Tyrannosaurus, but it didn’t pay them any mind. It withstood the assault and continued squeezing the life out of its attacker.

Eventually, the Raptor lost its breath, as a vise-grip hold torqued on its lungs. The floundering subsided; it laid still in defeat, taking short, rhythmic gasps of breath.

A final thrust to free itself was taken utterly in vain.

Collapsed in defeat, the smaller creature stared off into the gulf between life and death. Its rear legs gave a few sudden kicks, then the forsaken beast defecated, and its yellow eye glazed over into the state of death.

The massive beast bent over. It bit the Raptor’s head off with a single tearing yank of its jaws. Whipping its head in the opposite direction, the T-Rex tossed it at the feet of the pack leader. And then, the T-Rex reared its head back and let loose a visceral roar.

A warning that hell was unleashed, the Tyrannosaurus then breathed deeply, savoring the aroma of blood pulsating from the decapitated creature.

Crimson gushed onto the wet soil and mixed with drizzle, running in streams towards Raptors standing around the king of the jungle. The primal display had caused a pause in the attack. Suddenly, the dinosaurs that previously attacked without any indication of fear or consequences now appeared impotent.

****

The Tyrannosaurus flexed its muscles and let go another vicious roar. Without further warning, it charged the nearest Raptor.

Darting to the side, the smaller dinosaur appeared to avert harm, but it would not escape unscathed. The T-Rex whipped its head around, and the ginormous size of the creature brought a gaping mouth to the underbelly of the Raptor.

Jaws closing on the smaller creature, it shrieked in pain and called for its pack. Raptors watched, antsy, desirous to join the fight. They looked to the leader for a command to close upon the Tyrannosaur. But the clicking command did not resonate; the leader watched the slaughter closely, as if weighing the prospect of revenge against further casualties. Cutting their losses and turning away from the carnage might prove the best option. Other sources of nourishment were abound.

Finally, the leader clicked instructions to the others. They looked confused, even disappointed, but the dinosaurs obeyed. Breaking from the standoff, they spread into the battlefield. A few trotted past Dawson, who tucked behind the scout car. Soon the combatants on both sides were screaming in fear and agony. Wild shots zinged around the combat zone.

The T-Rex sunk its teeth into the squirming dinosaur. It yowled as blood oozed from the puncture wounds. Lifting the Raptor off the ground, the Tyrannosaurus shook the thing in its mouth like a ragdoll.

A moment later, it had the carcass pinned to the earth, while it ripped meat from the fallen creature’s hide. The T-Rex fed greedily upon the fresh meat, as the fire on its own backside dwindled to a smoldering mist, extinguished. Fuel had burned off and the nighttime rain cascaded water over its dense skin.

Pain and torment leant to a voracious appetite. It plucked the Raptor clean.

Then, the Tyrannosaurus whipped around and plodded onto the battlefield, scanning the prospects for its next victim. It locked eyes with a young marine, who grew fearful and ran. A chase is exactly what inspired the gigantic predator. The T-Rex thundered in pursuit.

Bullets whizzed past Dawson’s head and all hell broke loose, as the battle erupted into chaos, with U.S. Marines fighting Imperial soldiers and both sides clashing with dinosaurs.

He’d refocused on the task at hand, when the T-Rex plundered his way. Rotating towards the mortars, he slid his rifle butt into the nook of his shoulder and trained the iron sights on the soldier leading the mortar team.

The versatile young leader had the tubes aligned and was ready to fire upon the most heavily entrenched American line. It would spell disaster.

Dawson waited for the soldier to come to a stationery position.

When the Japanese soldier moved into a hunched position, with his hands on his knees, leaning over a mortarman, like an umpire encroaching upon a catcher, he became a static target. Dawson had the shot. He slowly began to squeeze the trigger.

Forty

Dawson wrapped up his training at Jacques Farm and traveled with the 2nd Raider Battalion to Hawaii. His letter home was postmarked from Somoa, Hawaii.

Mary,

Sorry that I have not written in a few weeks. We have been terribly busy, preparing to leave stateside. Then we were getting settled here in Hawaii, and preparing for our first mission. I’ve received your letters and find time to read them. They keep me motivated.

We got liberty and I went out with some of the guys, then used the remainder of the time to write this. Hawaii is just like a postcard, with tall palm trees, sandy beaches, and crystal blue water. We spent most of our time down on the beach, walking around, running into the surf. The water is a lot warmer than the Atlantic that we have in New England. It sure is beautiful. I’m glad to experience it, but it’s not the same without you. Wish you were with me.

I hope things are going well there. I’m glad that your school finished up with such a great result, and I’m happy you found work at the bank. I wish I could have been at your graduation. I’m sure you will do well at the new job. You’re good with numbers and attention to detail.

We’ve been working with the rubber boats more. They have us go out into rough surf, capsize the boat, then work as a team to get it right-sided. We’ve gotten better at using the rope and our body weight to flip the boat back into position. Everyone has gotten stronger and better at rowing, too. I feel a lot better about the boats now. But it is a vast and powerful ocean and the boats are quite small. Lt. Col. Carson continues with the fitness regimen. He had us up at 4:00 a.m. the first day we got here. We did a six-mile run in combat boots along the water. It sure is harder to run in sand than I’d ever imagined.

We’ll be here for a little bit longer, then our unit will move into the action. I’m sure that I’ll get some down time to write, and I will continue to get your letters. The military is good about moving mail through the combat zone. It’s one of the priorities the brass put on the rear echelon. Keep the mail coming to keep the spirits up of the folks fighting on the front lines.

I’ll be in touch again soon.

Love,

Randell

****

The letter written in response came with a few others at the same time. Postmarked from Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Randell,

I got your most recent letter and I’m thrilled that you finally got to go on liberty like so many of our servicemen and women. Try to make the best of your free time and don’t waste the opportunity for relaxation by spending it getting sorrowful about me. We’ll have plenty of time to make great memories together. It’s fine for you to enjoy a new and special place on your own without me. I’m happy to hear about your new experiences.

Things are pretty much the same here. But I don’t mind it. I prefer to have a steady routine. I get up and go into work every day, then I either go home and help my parents, or I help out with the war bonds. On the nights that I do not volunteer, we have dinner together and then we all watch the evening news. The war in Europe is disastrous. Cities are being destroyed and they have to fight the elements in the winter. Soldiers have come home with frostbite. Then we hear about the Pacific. The jungles, bugs, and heat. I don’t know which is worse.

I think about you every day. When I go to bed, I read your latest letter, and when I don’t get a new letter, I read the old ones over and over. It makes me feel better. I know that I’ve told you this before, but my life here is very routine. I also say a prayer for you and for our troops. My cat Byron now basically sleeps in my bed at night. He’s with me now as I write this.

I love you and miss you, but I’m content to wait until the war is over and we can truly be together. You are the only one for me. I’m so glad that we are going to be married.

All my love,

Mary

Forty-One

A feeling of vulnerability consumed Tanaka. He spotted the quick-witted, tactical young marine training a bead on him. The intruder meant to shoot him and halt the mortar attack.

Tanaka shook his head and pointed across the battlefield.

Rather than continue squeezing the trigger, the marine slid his finger outside of the trigger guard, then looked where Tanaka pointed. A realization crossed the marine’s face, as he registered the massive dinosaur on the edge of the combat zone. The invading marines were not the target of the mortars.

Tanaka made the final adjustments, then shoved a mortar round into a tube. A moment later, the round struck the firing pin and ignited the propellant charge. Combustion spawned gas that created pressure and launched the mortar round from the tube. It sailed high into the air, then lobbed downward, towards the Spinosaurus just behind the American line.

The mortar round impacted the earth a few yards from the dinosaur’s tail, bursting shrapnel and dirt into the air.

Frightened by the explosion, the Spinosaurus bolted away from the blast.

“Fire!” Tanaka commanded his troops.

Dropping mortar rounds into the other tubes, a couple more ignited and flew into the air. The rounds cruised through the night sky in tandem, and then trajected downward sooner than the first one.

A round struck the ground several feet in front of the dinosaur, while the other hit the dirt next to the beast. Explosions sent debris flying into the creature’s chest and side. It reared up on its hind legs, then rocked forward and pounded its front legs on the ground. The Spinosaurus roared and snarled in anger and frustration. And then, it proceeded to charge headlong onto the battlefield, stampeding over marines and scavenger dinosaurs.

Meanwhile, a fracas had broken out in the midst of the battle, with a melee proceeding between men from both sides, fighting the marauding dinosaurs, and marines shooting at Imperial soldiers, while continuing to seek their objective in the midst of a calamity.

“They still advance upon the garrison,” Tanaka said to his comrades.

“Look!” The older private indicated to a group of marines advancing through the clash between man and beast, wearing bulging knapsacks.

“Must be explosives,” Tanaka concluded. “Let’s fall out and—”

A thunk resounded from the private, then a round burst from his chest.

The stout private dropped to his knees with an awestruck look on his pockmarked face. His head turned to Tanaka, as though questioning what had happened. Another round plinked off Tanaka’s helmet.

Marines have circled around the garrison, he thought.

Shouldering his rifle as he spun to face the invader, Tanaka dropped to a knee and a bullet whizzed over his head. He sighted on the American and pulled the trigger.

His rifle butt kicked into his deltoid and the muzzle flared.

The bullet struck the marine in the chest, as Tanaka heard the sound of his own rifle.

Falling to his knees, the American clutched at the wound in futility. Blood coursed through his fingers. The bullet had penetrated his heart. He teetered forward and tumbled face-first into the soggy ground. More blood gushed from the wound and quickly formed a crimson pool around the fallen man.

Tanaka turned to his wounded private and found him lying prostrate, with both eyes glazed over in the frozen state of death. A smaller pool of blood had spilled out around him, mixing with rain and surface water.

He surveyed the battlefield and found the same circumstances. Everywhere combatants and dinosaurs sloshed through rivulets of crimson ground water, running over the earth.

A scent of copper and pungent damp air hung over the morbid scene.

Turning to the remaining private, he motioned for the soldier to join him in intercepting the marines loaded with explosives. Averting the utter destruction of Imperial infrastructure was a critical objective.

He pressed into the strife with the private trailing a couple feet behind him.

Tanaka focused on cutting off the American demolitions teams and didn’t see the stout leg of the Tyrannosaurus until he almost ran smack dab into it.

Forty-Two

Dawson watched the mortars strike the ground, stirring the Spinosaurus into action. The blasts injured the dinosaur, but the rounds hadn’t fatally wounded it.

The behemoth charged into the combat zone, trampling marines in the process. At least five men were seriously wounded by the creature. A couple of marines lay dead. Raiders screamed in agony, as the colossal predator stomped on their legs, arms and chests. Each bludgeoning had caused fractured bones, compound fractures that pierced flesh and utilities alike. Jagged bone and roughhewn meat protruded from shredded trousers. Some of the men cried out in horror, as much from the awful sights of damaged legs as the unbearable pain.

Now, the Spinosaurus came to a standstill in the middle of the battlefield. A standoff with the Tyrannosaur had left Dawson concerned. The Raiders merely needed to blow up the building, and then head back to the beachhead.

Raptors and scavenger dinosaurs had many of the marines occupied. The demolitions teams were not being supported; they were further stymied by the mammoth predators facing off in front of the garrison. He needed to assist them into the building. Dawson also watched the Japanese infantryman lead the remaining mortarman into the fray. The guile young Imperial soldier meant to impede the demolitions teams.

Stepping around the scout car, Dawson moved into the open and flagged a Raider toting a Thompson submachine gun. He waved to the demolitions team, instructing them to venture towards the protective cover of the reconnaissance car. The Raider indicated he understood the directive. Another team was already headed towards the car from the right flank.

The second team was led by a marine carrying a Garand. He ran towards the corner of the building with the rifle at port arms. Two marines followed him in a wedge formation.

As the first team moved closer to the scout car, the large dinosaurs finished sizing one another up. The Spinosaurus charged with its head down, while the Tyrannosaurus Rex sidestepped the beast and struck at the back of its neck. It latched onto the exposed area in front of the protective, spiky fin. The larger beast stumbled, then regained its balance and pushed a shoulder into the attacking Tyrannosaurus.

Dawson scanned for the assertive Japanese soldier. The superior private and his mortarman raced towards the demolitions team on the right flank. Weapons raised as they ran, the Japanese soldiers had the drop on the marines. A mortar tube was strapped to the young private’s back and he held a round in his hand.

The demolitions team focused on the garrison and dinosaurs clashing in front of the scout car to their left, so they didn’t seem to notice the enemy soldiers closing in on them from their far right. Moving swiftly past shrubs and trees, the Imperial soldiers made difficult targets. Dawson shouldered his rifle and tried to get a bead on the lead soldier.

Uneven terrain caused the soldier’s upper torso to bob up and down as he ran. But the area at center mass remained fairly steady. Dawson led him a bit, giving consideration for the moving target. The soldier ran past a tree.

Dawson inhaled.

He squeezed the trigger.

The rifle fired.

A moment later, the soldier’s left shoulder jerked backward, spinning him to the ground. He was hit, but the shot wasn’t fatal.

Dawson considered the mortarman, swinging his rifle to aim on the other soldier. But the man dropped out of sight, kneeling to assist his comrade. Dawson watched to see if they remained out of commission. The mortarman dragged the fallen soldier behind cover.

Everything was obscured by the underbrush. Dawson couldn’t assess the situation.

****

A moment later, shots rang out from the bramble and two marines dropped, leaving just one headed towards the garrison. Dawson fired into the scrubbrush, hoping to get a lucky hit. Unable to secure a target, he merely provided cover for the fallen marines.

They scrambled to get on their feet. Righting themselves, the marines rose up on hands and knees.

Maybe the shots were through and through, Dawson hoped.

Just as the marines rose upward, packs of scavenger dinosaurs swarmed over them. Nipping and biting at their arms, legs, and necks, the scroungers disoriented the marines and caused them to lose balance. Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs jumped on their backs and pressed them to the ground, while biting and tearing at flesh through uniforms.

Once the scavengers got a taste of meat, they grew into a frenzy. They ripped off scraps of muscle, gobbling the fare down, then rapidly went for more. All the while, the men screamed in agony, helpless to fend off the packs.

Dawson tried shooting at the scavengers in futility. He hit a few, only to have a swarm of others fill the void. A couple of mercy shots rang out from the underbrush. Both marines quit squirming after taking kill shots to the head. This reminded Dawson of the similar effort he’d undertaken back on the roadside. The opposing squad leader had repaid the debt.

The other demolitions team halted behind a fallen tree, waiting for the battle of colossal beasts to clear out of the way. Vibrations ran across the ground from stomping feet and pounding of mammoth creatures into each other. All three marines seemed to waver in the midst of the clashing predators. Drizzle changed over to heavy rain, pouring in sheets, and further obscured them from view. The demolitions team was located approximately a hundred feet away, but it seemed like a mile. And they stood out like a sore thumb, vulnerable to attack from the Japanese soldiers hunkered down in the brush slightly to their rear.

Dawson began to doubt the success of the mission. He also worried about the fate of the demolitions team. Then, the Spinosaurus leveraged its bulk, and drove a shoulder hard into the Tyrannosaurus. It kept pushing.

The momentum caused the T-Rex to rock backward on one leg. A heavy snort from the attacking behemoth, then the king of dinosaurs tumbled over.

Pandemonium broke out across the battle zone, as the thunderous fall sent dinosaurs into a furor. A clicking emanated from the left, then Raptors converged on their foe. Scavengers followed the aggressive pack hunters.

****

The surviving leader of the other demolitions team used the opportunity to make a break for it. He ran head down towards the corner of the building. Closing the distance fast, he managed to steer clear of the bloodshed occurring in front of the scout car. Dawson figured the marine didn’t know about the enemy team set up in the underbrush.

A bullet dinged off the demolition man’s helmet. He staggered but kept running.

More bullets dug into the soggy ground, yet the marine continued pressing ahead, as though he understood the success of the mission could rest entirely upon him.

Dawson dropped to a kneeling position and fired into the underbrush. The muzzle flashes ceased as the Imperial soldiers tucked behind cover, trying to avoid his shots. He kept shooting until his weapon ran out of bullets.

The marine made it to the corner of the garrison and drove his head into the building. He plied between the thatch and disappeared inside.

Releasing the empty magazine, Dawson reached for another.

Bullets tore into the ground in front of him and other shots whizzed by his head. He didn’t expect to make it. But a calm slipped over him, knowing that he’d cleared the way for the demolition man to enter the garrison. And then, shots blasted away from the demolitions team hunkered behind the fallen tree.

The team had picked up on the skirmish and laid down fire on the Japanese position. With the team leader rattling away with a Thompson submachine gun and a team member blasting at the enemy with his Browning, the Imperial two-man unit was pinned down.

****

Machinegun blasts echoed around the battlefield. The rifleman used the diversion to move ahead with a bundle of explosives strapped on his back.

He bolted toward the colossal dinosaurs, heading for the scout car. The marine ran past the Spinosaurus’s massive rear leg, ducking under the upper portion of its tail. Just as he got past the appendage, the Tyrannosaurus squirmed on the ground, kicking its foe in the side and chest. The tactic caused the Spinosaurus to backpedal, and a stout leg the size of a large tree stepped towards the unsuspecting marine.

Dawson pointed toward the danger. It wasn’t the right move.

The demolitions man paused to ascertain the problem. A short pause was all it took for the dinosaur’s leg to sweep toward the marine. It battered him. Like a wrecking ball striking a cinderblock wall, the marine went crashing down into the wet earth. Dazed from the blow, he tried to shake it off and regain his composure.

With the Raider laying prostrate on the ground, he was vulnerable to being crushed by the mammoth beasts or preyed upon by the marauding dinosaurs.

Dawson ran to his fallen comrade. He wobbled on a weak leg but covered the distance quickly. The marine began to rise, shaking his head, signaling Dawson to fall back. Almost to his feet, the Spinosaurus made an aggressive move. It took another step back, then barreled into the Tyrannosaurs.

The move knocked the flailing predator back to the ground, but the ploy also landed a gargantuan foot on the lower torso of the marine. He screamed in pain; the weight of the fourteen-ton creature snapped bones in his legs. The man would be disabled for life, if he lived through the remainder of the battling giants.

Dawson resumed his rescue mission. He raced to the scene.

****

The beast circled around its foe, moving away from them, while trying to get better leverage on its adversary. Dawson found the Raider lying with his upper torso on level ground, while the marine’s lower extremities were sunk into a two-foot depression in the soggy earth. The imprint of a colossal foot. A rush of panic and dread raced through him, as he observed the graphic sight.

His comrade wailed in pain. Then he gasped, “How bad is it?”

Dawson looked him over and shook his head. He didn’t want to lie. “I’m not sure.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” the marine whimpered.

Then, Dawson noticed an unnatural bend in the marine’s back, curving downward along with the contour of the massive footprint. “I think—”

“Yeah.”

“I think—”

“Spit it out man. I’ve got to know.”

“I think… Well, I think that it broke your back.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The kid looked grim, but he didn’t cry. He managed to hold on to his pride and stoically took the news. “Take the Haversack,” the Raider finally said.

“Let me pull you over to the scout car. Get you out of the way.”

The marine shook his head. “No.”

“Can’t take the chance of leaving you here. These monsters aren’t done fighting yet.”

“Leave me here,” he insisted. “I’ll wait for Bravo Company to sweep through the area looking for wounded marines.”

“You could get trampled by those two dinosaurs. Maybe eaten by the others.”

“Just take the knapsack and blow the garrison.”

Dawson shook his head, dismayed. He didn’t like leaving a man behind, exposed to numerous threats. Slipping the Haversack off the Raider’s back, he then clapped the young man on a shoulder. “You’re a tough guy.”

“Go on and get the job done, so we can all get out of here.”

****

Dawson hustled towards the scout car, expecting a bullet to strike him in the back. Pain spiked in his injured thigh.

Rounding the front end of the reconnaissance car, he ducked down and peered over the hood. The two demolitions men had climbed over the fallen tree and continued to lay down heavy fire at the determined Japanese infantrymen, who were still dug in and fighting back.

A bullet dinged off the hood of the scout car, then another struck the windshield, shattering the glass into spiderweb cracks. Dawson crouched behind the oversized front tire with a large metal rim. He peered around the headlight and grille. Shots continued to blast away from the Japanese position in the underbrush. Only the infantrymen weren’t shooting back at the demolitions team; they were training all their efforts on Dawson.

He surveyed the battlefield before breaking for the garrison. The Spinosaurus had the smaller Tyrannosaurus Rex pinned to the ground. It tried going for a kill strike at the neck, but the ferocious opponent kept its chin down and snapped frantically in an effort to stay alive.

The Tyrannosaurs flailed and shook its massive body, with its tail swinging wildly back and forth. Raptors circled the scuffle, trying to find an entry point to join the fray.

A swing of the tail and a few pack hunters went tumbling. Others put caution to the wind and pounced onto the thrashing beast. They bit into the T-Rex and ripped off scraps of flesh. Blood and the scent of raw meant sent the scavenger dinosaurs into a frenzy. Compsognathus and Procompsognathus dinosaurs jumped on the Tyrannosaurus and fed with razor sharp teeth, cutting through the king of dinosaur’s thick hide.

It rolled and crushed several scavenger dinosaurs. The initial yowling was cut short by the Tyrannosaurus’s weighty haunches. A few of the pack hunters were shaken loose. Jolted by falls to the ground, they shook their heads to regain composure, then the predators mounted the behemoth again, snarling and biting ravenously at mounds of rippling flesh.

The king of dinosaurs appeared doomed, yet it continued to put up a fight.

Dawson figured the meat of the great beast was a delicacy to the pack hunters. He scanned the rest of the combat zone. The battle had evolved into a small arms conflict and hand-to-hand combat. Men battled each other and dinosaurs alike.

Pools of crimson ran across the saturated ground. It was time to bring the conflict to a closure. He turned and ducked through the thatch wall of the garrison.

****

Inside, he hit the deck and rolled towards a bunk, as a bullet whizzed by his head. The din of the combat zone was muffled, even in the tropical building. Dawson came to rest under a bed with his rifle shouldered and ready to fire. Scanning the open squad bay, he searched for the shooter. Dead bodies were strewn about from Bishop’s earlier assault.

He locked on the subject and heard an apology as he discerned the figure.

“Sorry,” the demolitions man repeated.

“No problem.” Dawson crawled out from beneath the bunkbed and surveyed the room. An open area lined with beds on either side of the room. There was a doorway leading outside, and two doors at the far end of the building.

“I’ve scoped it out.” The demolitions man pointed to the two doors.

“What’s in there?”

“A head is in the one near the front.”

“Figures.” Dawson nodded at the other door. “What’s in there?”

The marine smiled. “You’ll love this… an ordnance dump.”

Dawson grinned from ear to ear. “Makes our job simple.”

“You bet.” The demolitions man crouched and began unloading his knapsack, placing explosives on the floor.

“What’s your name?” Dawson dropped his pack.

“Mike,” he said, without looking up. “And you?”

“Just call me Dawson.”

“All right.” He laughed. “Dawson. Let’s roll this out with dynamite set up in six locations around the room. One in each corner, and we’ll put one in the center back and one center right. Wire them together and have a line running to a bundle placed in the ammo dump.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dawson said, unloading the rest of his pack.

They worked in unison, setting the explosives up in various locations, with Dawson taking the spots along the front wall. Mike handled the areas on the back wall. He also checked the lines, making sure fuses ran uninterrupted between each package of explosives.

An occasional bullet ripped through the thatch wall and zinged across the squad bay. Most of the wild rounds tore into the back wall and exited the garrison. But a few shots dinged off the metal bunkbeds and ricocheted around the room. One bullet struck a bed, then hit the floor, and managed to graze Dawson’s leg before lodging into a footlocker.

Once the main portion of the building was secure, they ran a line into the ordnance room. Mike placed a large bundle of TNT onto a box of mortar rounds, then he attached the fuse. With the demolitions set, they stepped from the ordnance room into the squad bay.

A Japanese soldier stood on the far side of the room near the entrance. He’d shouldered his Sanpachi rifle. Aiming the weapon at Dawson’s chest, he began to squeeze the trigger.

The ground trembled outside the garrison, causing the soldier to turn his attention to the forward wall adjacent to the battlefield. Another tremor reverberated across the floor, then a massive roar resounded from outside.

Creaking metal followed, then the crashing sound of the scout car being tossed aside. A moment later, the T-Rex shoved its head through the thatch wall. It peeled its lips back, revealing sharp jagged teeth. The beast sniffed the air, and almost grinned at the aroma of human flesh. And then, the king of dinosaurs pushed its shoulders through the wall and rapidly extended its neck towards the Imperial soldier.

Screaming in fear, the infantryman was too stunned to flee. His paralysis led to his demise. Massive jaws opened, then closed around him. It plucked the soldier from the ground and backed away from the building. A cacophony of battle noise emanated through the opening.

Dawson heard the victim’s snapping bones, as he pushed Mike through the back wall.

****

Outside, they ran the fuse out six feet from the building. “That’s it,” Mike said, pointing at the end of the line.

“Wish it were longer. Only runs to the building, then another ten feet inside.”

“Hope you can run fast.” Mike grinned, then lit the fuse and bolted for the tree line.

“Holy cow!” Dawson screamed and followed him.

Mike ran into the brush, then ducked behind the largest tree in the vicinity. It wasn’t very big. About eight inches in diameter, the trunk of the palm tree barely provided cover for Mike. His shoulders jutted into view.

Dawson stopped in his tracks, realizing there wasn’t enough cover for both of them.

Scanning the area, he was cognizant the garrison was about to blow. And a room full of ordnance would go along with it. There wasn’t much time.

He ran into the jungle and tripped about ten feet into the brush. Dawson fell on his face, with palm fronds slapping his cheeks. Lying there for only a moment, his shin throbbed, and he understood that he’d tripped over a fallen tree. He squirmed along the ground and sidled up to the trunk for cover. Pain registered sharply in his injured thigh.

Just as he got situated, the first blast of TNT went off, followed by an immense explosion from the ordnance room. The initial detonations were loud, but the weapons cache erupting was deafening. Dawson’s ears rung, then everything became muffled. Almost silent.

Deafness made him feel alone, disconnected from the fighting.

Multiple blasts resounded from the ordnance room, as various weapons blew. They sounded like explosions happening miles away.

Shrapnel tore through the jungle, ripping the vegetation apart. Mike’s screams were faint from Dawson’s hearing loss. He couldn’t discern whether the blasts had scared the young marine, or whether the kid had taken a hit.

Further explosions worked around the garrison as the remaining TNT bundles ignited by the winding fuse line. Each detonation sent a blast through the roof of the building, causing the thatch structure to quickly become engulfed with flames.

Additional salvos of TNT caused roof and wall supports to crumble. The garrison imploded and dropped to the ground in a blaze of rubble.

Through billowing smoke and fiery debris, the battlefield came into view. Dawson did a hasty scan for the best route to American lines. The Spinosaurus and T-Rex were wrestling near the right corner of the building where Raptors had initially set upon Japanese soldiers. A blazing inferno prevented him from heading through the destroyed garrison. The only viable route would be to trace around the other side of the garrison.

He rose to his feet and trotted over to the demolitions man hunkered behind a tree. Mike sat with his back against the trunk, holding his hands over his ears, trembling. Both shoulders were torn open from shrapnel, and blood trickled from his wounds.

Shell shocked, Dawson thought.

Reaching for the young man’s wrist, he pulled Mike to his feet. He wrapped the marine’s arm around a shoulder, and he helped him walk toward the American line. They rounded the end of the smoldering building and came across Simmons’s prostrate body. Lying in the mud with his eyes locked in a morbid state of death, the grim scene reminded Dawson of the horrors of battle.

He looked away and picked up the pace. Mike grew more oriented as blood circulated through his system; adrenaline helped fuel them along. They moved alongside the burning garrison. Chaos lay before them.

****

Marines and soldiers continued to fight in hand-to-hand combat. Rifle butts were swung at the heads of adversaries, and bayonets shined in the dim light of rising dawn. They’d fought through the night. Crimson dulled the glimmer of many blades.

Bodies strewn across the battlefield were picked at by scavenger dinosaurs. Many were dead, but others moaned in pain. Some fought the little beasts, punching and kicking them away. Others were mortally wounded or too weak to defend themselves. Rounding the corner of the flaming garrison, the demolitions man who turned over his Haversack to Dawson lay on the ground fending off Compys in futility.

“Can you stand on your own?” Dawson asked Mike.

“I’m intact. Go help him.”

Dawson let go of the marine’s arm. Mike staggered but regained his balance. After ensuring that Mike could walk on his own, Dawson bolted towards the fallen marine.

He reached the demolitions man, then kicked a couple of Compys off the wounded man. The dinosaurs hissed and jumped back on the injured marine. Dawson repeated his efforts.

“The hell with you!” He kicked them. Adrenaline masked his pain, but his injured thigh kept him unsteady.

The demolitions marine shook his head. He waved Dawson off. “Get out of here.”

Dawson couldn’t leave the man like this. His efforts had helped blow the garrison and made the mission a success. The press would report a victory in striking on Japanese controlled soil, with the destruction of infrastructure. He’s a hero, Dawson considered.

The marine shook his head.

“I can’t leave you like this,” Dawson insisted.

“Only a matter of time and Bravo Company will be here.”

Dawson considered the comment. “Why are you so sure?”

The demolitions man grinned. “Once they see that garrison blown, they’ll head this way to sweep the area for dead and wounded and to provide reinforcements.”

“I’ll wait with you.” Dawson smiled, then a bullet zinged by his helmet.

“Too dangerous. You’re a target.”

Another shot buzzed past him. Dawson felt vulnerable.

****

The T-Rex was on the Spinosaurus. It had a rear foot pressed into the assailant’s midsection. Sharp claws had cleaved into its hide.

The Spinosaurus writhed to free itself. Its efforts were futile.

Rearing its massive head back, the Tyrannosaurus poised for a kill strike. Its prey gave a final attempt to flounder loose, kicking and bucking its head off the soggy earth. Then, it lay flat on the ground, pinned to the deck, chest breathing in and out, prepared for the death knell.

And the T-Rex struck hard and fast, biting into the underside of the Spinosaurus’s meaty neck. The larger dinosaur yowled and kicked madly.

Ripping a chunk of flesh from the massive beast, the T-Rex shook it and munched the fare down ravenously. Blood spewed from the gaping wound. The kicking subsided. And then, the Spinosaurus lay dead, vanquished.

Scavengers moved towards the carcass, drawn by the scent of fresh blood. The Tyrannosaurs Rex eyed them and stomped a warning. It snorted, impatiently.

Raptors encroached upon the kill, and the T-Rex bared its gigantic teeth and roared.

Then, it set upon the closest one, sweeping the smaller creature off the ground with a tenacious bite.

Trouncing the Raptor into the muck, the king of dinosaurs returned to its feeding, tearing off strips of meat like a practiced butcher. Other Raptors retreated, snagging fallen combatants and dinosaurs. They dragged the booty towards the jungle.

Dawson figured the Tyrannosaurus had sent them away. Then he noticed a band of Raiders headed towards the decimated combat zone. Captain Roosevelt and Bravo Company had arrived. They’d push the remaining Japanese troops into the interior. A feeling of reassurance comforted him.

For a moment, he considered the mission a success and he would live to tell about it.

A bullet dinged off his helmet. Dawson crouched and shouldered his rifle.

He trained his line of vision towards the trajectory of the shot. This inevitably led him to the scrub brush where his nemesis had taken position.

Dawson gulped, realizing he couldn’t react fast enough to a deadly threat.

Forty-Three

The final letter was not postmarked from a naval base. Dawson carried it in a tin container, stuffed into his breast pocket with the Marine Corps logo emblazed on the front and USMC printed above the eagle, globe and anchor.

Mary,

If you are reading this letter, then you’ve probably gotten news that I won’t be coming home. I’m sorry that you have to go through the challenging time ahead. Sorrowful that you have to face it alone. I wish that I could be there to help you through it. It pains me to think of you hearing the news, reading this letter… the empty hollow feeling inside. My only comfort in passing is the thought that the Marine Corps gave us a way to speak our final words to loved ones.

Tell my parents that I love them with all my heart. I know there were a few difficult times growing up, but they were proud of me. And I want them both to know that I’m as proud of them as they are of me, even more. They are good people. My brother and sisters are in my heart.

Although we did not get to spend the quiet years together after the war like we’d hoped, I am confident the war will end, and the allied forces will prevail. The time that we had together is the most meaningful part of my life. As important and gratifying my successes with the Marine Corps have been, it all pales in comparison to my relationship with you.

You have been the most meaningful thing in my life. I consider the strength of our relationship as the greatest achievement one could possibly have. And we reached that point at a tender age. Much of it is attributable to you. You’re a kind, caring, and thoughtful person. A positive influence in my life and good-natured. You’re beautiful and tender, and my inspiration. Everything I’ve become is because of you.

I know that I mean the world to you, too. So, this next part is not easy to say. I love you more than words can express. But I do not expect you to go on forever alone. When you are ready, and the time is right, you should still try to have a family. I love you that much, that I want you to be happy and have a life. You’re young with a lot to live for.

Wish things could be different, but this is how it turned out. I knew what I was getting into when I signed up. Marines live a dangerous life. It is a brotherhood and a new family. Others also paid the sacrifice, and I hope you think of them in your prayers too.

All my love,

Randall

Forty-Four

The initial small arms fire had set the Gocho into action. He’d heard major fighting and was eager to join the fray. But he had valuable currency in the prisoners they had captured, including an officer.

When the flames wafted above the jungle canopy from the fuel storage tanks, he’d known the Imperial soldiers were getting the worse end of the battle.

“We need to join the fight!” He yelled and stomped his foot.

“Our orders were to intercept this unit and take prisoners,” said Superior Private Sato.

Gocho glared at him. “We’re not going to stand by and do nothing while the Americans take out valuable resources.”

“What should we do?” Sato muttered sheepishly.

“We’re not going to do anything.” Gocho shook his head. “Round these men by a tree and tie them up with vines.”

“Vines, sir?”

“Yes,” Gocho said. “The vines won’t hold them, alone. But they’ll impede the prisoners from getting the drop on the two of you.”

“The two of us, sir?”

“You and Ito will remain here and stand guard.”

“And you, Gocho?”

“I will go ahead and confront the Americans.”

They circled the prisoners around the largest tree in the area, then bound them with strips of vine. Both privates worked at tying up hands and legs, and then they tied the captives to the tree, wrapping thick vines around their chests. Left alone, the makeshift restraints would not hold the prisoners, but they would serve as a hinderance to any attempted escape.

Running through the jungle, the Gocho felt winded and his muscles were tired from fighting enemy combatants and the dinosaurs. Explosions in the distance made his heart pound and pulse race. He feared being disgraced with the first major loss of the war.

The angst of being defeated in battle spurred him on. Approaching the battlefield, a calamity fell into view. Flames hurled skyward from the fuel tanks, and the garrison had been reduced to a smoldering pile of debris. Rain could not extinguish the flames and they rose from the collapsed building like a harbinger of failure.

A Tyrannosaurus Rex stood near the detritus, with its hide charred, bloody and burned. It picked at a vanquished beast. The fallen dinosaur was much larger than the creature feeding upon it. Gocho imagined a fierce battle had been undertaken on the soil where he’d casually reprimanded soldiers for uniform violations. Scattered about the battle zone, he witnessed bloodied combatants, strewn on the wet ground, wailing in pain as scavengers nibbled at the dead and suffering. A few fought back aimlessly, while others groaned in agony.

Gocho ran to an Imperial position that encroached what remained of the American line. He found Tanaka and a younger private hunkered down. Tanaka had his rifle trained on an American, but he didn’t pull the trigger.

The American was looking at a wounded marine.

“Fire!” Gocho commanded.

Tanaka shook his head. “It’s too late. All is lost.”

“You fire,” Gocho said to the other private.

A couple shots whizzed past the American, but neither resulted in a hit. Gocho shook his head, dismayed at the poor marksmanship.

The American seemed mesmerized, taking in the grim scene.

Gocho grabbed the private’s rifle. He kneeled.

And he took a steady aim.

Squeezing the trigger, the American’s meek eyes met his, just as the Gocho fired the rifle. A bullet sailed through the air and struck the American’s upper left chest.

The shot pitched the marine backward.

His knees buckled, then he dropped onto his left side in the mire.

Smoke and drizzling rain obscured the target from view. Soot wafted through the air and burned Gocho’s eyes. He blinked and checked to see if the American was moving. Nothing. The marine appeared dead, but the Gocho couldn’t be sure.

Gocho pulled back the bolt and chambered another round. He readied to fire another shot to ensure the kill. The American did not move.

“He’s dead,” Tanaka said. “You’ve killed a worthy adversary.”

“Let’s make sure.” Gocho aimed for the man’s chest.

Something dark eclipsed the target from the Gocho’s view. He lifted his head from the weapon and blinked, trying to focus his eyes. The smoke from the burning infrastructure was bothering him, obscuring his vision.

The dark blotch suddenly pounced at him. Gocho’s senses cleared as he discerned the danger. Sharp fangs and menacing claws shimmered in the pale dawn light.

He registered the sheer power of the creature, muscles rippling and a steady gait as it marked him as its prey. The Raptor closed the distance fast. Its eyes revealed madness. A one-track mind, it meant to devour him. Gocho had never known such fear.

Standing frozen in place, he couldn’t even summon the thought to shoot at it.

Gocho heard a loud thunk. Then, someone yanked his arm, knocking him into the dirt, while screaming, “Get down!”

A whoosh shot from the underbrush and something impacted the creature’s chest.

The stout round exploded, blowing the dinosaur to bits.

Wet goo splattered over the Gocho’s face, slathering him with the Raptor’s innards. Everything went black for a moment, then the Gocho wiped his face and checked on his attacker. Nothing remained of the beast, except a trace of body parts, spread outward from the point of explosion. The mortar round had blown the thing literally to pieces.

Tanaka lay beside him and the private was hunched behind the mortar that had taken out the aggressive dinosaur. Gocho took a moment to catch his breath. He couldn’t believe how close he’d come to dying. And at the clutches of a vile beast.

Scanning the area for the American, the Gocho found him on the ground, motionless, lying in the same place he’d fallen after being shot. “Got him,” he said.

He stepped from the scrub brush intent on fighting the Americans.

A round whizzed by his head, then another sliced along his left shoulder. Merely a flesh wound, it tore his uniform and burned, but the bullet continued into the jungle. Gocho immediately homed in on the enemy shooter.

The marine had taken a position behind a fallen log and was sharpshooting at Japanese soldiers. A fresh unit of Americans had arrived at the scene, ready to decimate the remaining Imperial troops.

“Fall back!” Gocho yelled.

“Yes, sir,” Tanaka and the mortarman said in unison.

Other soldiers nodded and began a retreat.

“Grab the wounded as you go.” The Gocho pointed at the men on the battlefield.

Japanese soldiers scooped up the dead and wounded and trundled from the combat zone. Everyone headed towards the easterly side of the combat zone, where the Gocho stood and waved them on. Americans let off their attack, content to let the Imperial soldiers collect their wounded and dead. They would soon take the field and declare the battle a victory.

The infrastructure blazed all around and the Gocho was enraged by the defeat. He stepped onto the soggy and bloodied ground and pulled his Nambu pistol from its holster. Eyeing the fresh reinforcements, he fired at the Americans until the little magazine was empty.

A few bullets zipped past his head, and one ripped through the other shoulder of his tunic, cutting into the flesh before tearing into the jungle.

He grinned at the superficial wound, then he turned and followed his men. The Imperial forces would regroup and live to fight another day.

****

Tanaka stood on the edge of the jungle, leaning against a tree, and provided cover for the Gocho and retreating Imperial soldiers. He fired at the American reinforcements.

When the battle reached its climax, and then, shifted to the Japanese falling back, Tanaka did not flee into the brush. He stayed and fought. The role he filled was one of the warrior taking up arms against intruders. Other soldiers had garnered the wounded and the dead; they needed someone to fend the enemy off, while they cleared the battlefield.

The Americans scaled down their offensive as soon as the Japanese soldiers absconded from the scene. None of them shot at soldiers assisting the wounded and clearing the deceased from the field. They honored the dead.

Only rifle shots were being fired by the Americans now. Controlled marksmanship at combatants who continued to fight. These adversaries had principles.

A bullet dug into the tree next to Tanaka. He slung his rifle over a shoulder and waited for the Gocho to egress the battle zone. Last to leave the field, the Gocho trotted casually into the brush. His wild eyes did not reveal fear of being shot.

The Gocho must have realized the Americans would not shoot a soldier in the back while fleeing the field. But there was something more to the crazed look in his eyes. A madness.

He grunted at Tanaka as he ran past, staring at him disapprovingly.

Gocho must have discerned that the Jun-i had fallen. And he likely blamed Tanaka for the defeat. As the senior man on the battlefield, Tanaka would be responsible for the loss.

A sinking feeling churned in the pit of his stomach as he ran through the jungle.

Forty-Five

Dawson awoke to a Navy corpsman kneeling by his side. The young man grinned and shook his head with an amazed look on his face. “You sure got lucky,” the corpsman said.

“What?” Dawson felt addled from the ordeal.

The corpsman raised a hand. “This saved your life.”

Glancing at the tin box that housed his letter to Mary, Dawson understood his meaning, but the corpsman felt like explaining it anyway.

“See, the bullet hit this metal box here, ricocheted into your shoulder.” He smiled again.

Dawson looked at his bandaged shoulder. “Why the hell did I blackout?”

“Well, you flew backwards, and your head smacked that rock.” He pointed.

Dawson glanced at the rock, then felt for his head. His hand slapped the steel pot the Marine Corps issued to all recruits. “I don’t understand.”

“Man, you must’ve hit that rock with some force. Your head pounded around inside that helmet like the clapper gonging around inside a church bell.”

The corpsman looked so cheerful; Dawson couldn’t understand how a man getting shot and his head wrung could make someone happy. We won the battle, he finally realized. He sat up and glanced around.

“Easy there,” the corpsman said.

Dawson didn’t listen. He looked upon the scene in awe.

“Quite a mess,” the corpsman said.

The comment was an understatement. All around him, bodies were strewn on the soggy ground, picked apart, with bone, gristle, and scraps of meat protruding through shredded uniforms. The cleaved flesh glistened in the pale light of dawn.

Death didn’t discriminate; the battlefield was covered with casualties from both sides.

It had stopped raining. But droplets of blood fell into puddles around the battlefield, sounding like a leaky kitchen facet. Somehow, the grisly scene brought with it a calmness, and relief.

Danger dissipated along with the downpours. The Japanese had left the battlefield, along with the Raptors and most of the scavengers. Several fallen dinosaurs lay among the dead and wounded combatants. A few Compys remained, trying to feed upon the fallen, while marines from Bravo Company kicked them away.

The Tyrannosaurus Rex had left the battle zone, but its vanquished foe lay near the razed garrison. A heap of mutilated flesh, the carcass was torn open. Massive hunks of meat had been cleaved from its midsection, leaving exposed ribs and a visceral cavity that could house a Volkswagen. Scavenger dinosaurs fed ravenously upon the entrails that spilled from the beast’s open gut. Flies buzzed around the hide as other scroungers fed on the remains.

Early morning sun had already begun to spoil the remaining meat. A putrid stench wafted across the battlefield and nauseated Dawson. He wanted to vomit.

Reaching back, Dawson attempted to sit upright. The corpsman placed a hand on Dawson’s chest, and eased him back to the ground.

“We’ve got a stretcher coming for you.” The corpsman smiled kindly.

“Use it for the others. I’m bandaged and can walk on my own.”

The corpsman shook his head. “Afraid not.”

“Why?” Dawson grimaced. “You’ve got Marines worse off than me.”

“You’re lucky to be alive. But that doesn’t mean you’re set to walk out of here.” The corpsman admonished him. “You’ve likely suffered a concussion from hitting your noggin on that rock. And your shoulder is pretty messed up.”

“Seem fine.” Dawson felt embarrassed.

Two marines dropped a stretcher by his side. Slipping their hands under his shoulders and around his calves, they carefully hoisted him over. A pang shot through his shoulder.

“See, I told you that shoulder took a hit.”

Dawson frowned. “I’ll be all right walking.”

“Look, your injury is worse than you think.” The corpsman shook his head, then pointed at his own shoulder, demonstrating. “The bullet bounced off your chest and struck you here. It hit a bone, then turned south and exited at the top of your bicep.”

“So?” The response made Dawson more compelled to get off the litter.

“We think the bullet clipped your brachial artery. There was major blood loss.”

“But it’s okay now, right?” Dawson felt his stomach turn.

“Sure, we clamped it off. But you start moving around and it’s likely to open.” The corpsman exhaled. “I hate to be the one telling you this, but that wound could affect your arm. You’ll be heading back to the states. And there’s no telling whether you’ll ever get back into this war. Sorry my friend.”

Those last words hung in the air like a church bell tolling for him.

“Don’t worry,” the corpsman said, patting Dawson’s leg. “Folks around here are saying that you were the main person that caused this operation to be a success.”

Dawson didn’t agree. “Takes a unit.”

“Well, they’re likely to pin a few metals on you.” He handed over the tin. “Go back home and take care of that gal. My guess is that she’s something special.”

The corpsman winked, then nodded to the stretcher bearers. As thy lifted Dawson from the ground, the sailor ran to the next fallen man.

“We’ll get you aboard the submarine soon.”  The private grasping the stretcher near Dawson’s head grinned. He marched along without expressing any signs of carrying the burden of an extra hundred pounds on his end.

****

A caravan of marines departed from the battlefield and headed down the muddy lane towards the big lagoon, where the rubber boats awaited them on the sandy shore.

Dawson joined with a throng of marines toting wounded Raiders on litters. Most of the casualties moaned from the jostling that aggravated their injuries. A few glanced from the canvass gurneys with distant eyes. Their pale skin caused Dawson to wonder whether they’d make it. He took a deep breath and looked away.

Scanning the dense jungle, Dawson hoped they would get to the lagoon without being ambushed by Japanese soldiers. He also worried about another dinosaur attack.

“Hope the Japs don’t bushwhack us,” the marine said, looking down at Dawson.

Frowning at the lack of respect for worthy adversaries, Dawson ignored the derogatory term and replied to the statement. “I was just thinking that the Imperial troops might decide to regroup and come at us.”

“Saw you looking at the roadside. Figured you were thinking something along those lines.”

“Yeah, well I was also considering that we’re not out of the woods yet.”

The marine shifted his grip on the stretcher poles. “Meaning…”

Dawson looked up and the young man’s eyes were bugged out. “I mean those creatures are all over this island. And the fighting stirred them up.”

The marine gulped. “Hope we get off this damn place soon.”

Won’t be soon enough, Dawson thought.

A moment later, something broke from the jungle and raced towards the column. Dawson sat up on the cot. Everyone gawked. The clamor of weapons being readied echoed down the line. The Carnotaurus pounded across the muddy road and homed in on a solitary marine.

Plucking the marine from the ground, the dinosaur continued through the column, knocking over Raiders. The marine screamed in fear. But the assault happened too fast for anyone to get off a shot. And then, the beast protected itself by darting among the marines.

It barreled through them; the beast pounced into the boscage on the opposite side of the roadway.

One rifle shot sent a crack reverberating across the island. A moment later, the dinosaur and its prey were gone. Silence fell over the reserve company, until a staff sergeant told them all to get a move on.

“That dinosaur was fleeing from something,” Dawson said.

“How could you be sure?” The marine sounded doubtful.

“Guess I’ve been around them now. Seems like a lifetime of fending them off, but it’s only been a matter of one day.”

“Just won’t relax until we’re aboard the boat, right?”

“Yup.” He grinned. “I’m Dawson.”

“Just call me Chuck.”

A number of small dinosaurs raced across the road, coming from the same direction as the Carnotaurus. They ran between the marines and bolted into the jungle, following the same route as the aggressive meat eater.

Then, the ground trembled, signaling that something massive was coming their way.

“See?” Dawson muttered the point.

Palm trees snapped and large shrubs were crushed to bits, as the Tyrannosaurus stepped from the brush into the roadway. It moved sluggishly.

Dawson figured that it had overfed on its last kill. “Tell them all to freeze.”

“Raiders!” Chuck cupped both hands around his mouth. “Listen up. Dawson says to freeze. Don’t move. And don’t go for your weapon.”

Dawson grinned. “Nice work.”

Everyone stood fast, waiting to see who’d become the next victim. The T-Rex stalked down the lane, sniffing the marines. It lurched along the roadway but didn’t seize anyone.

The Tyrannosaurus eventually made it to Dawson. It leaned over and sniffed him from combat boots to helmet, then it reared its head back. Staring at the body on the stretcher, the carnivore appeared excited by the scent of blood.

Dawson braced himself for a death knell. He expected the dinosaur to roar, then lash forward and rip him off the litter. Instead, the T-Rex canted its head, as if confused, then it stalked away. The Tyrannosaur headed down the lane a piece, then stepped into the brush and disappeared into the verdure.

Chuck looked down at Dawson. “How did you know that would work?”

“Didn’t,” he said. “But I figured a predator like that would prefer to chase its prey. At least, that’s how it played out when it first stepped into the battle zone.”

“What it if didn’t work?”

“Nothing would have stopped it from grabbing someone.”

“We could have shot at it.”

“More marines would have died fighting it. Besides, the creature was already full and looked sluggish. Wild animals only kill when they need to eat.”

Chuck smiled and shook his head. “Sure glad I haven’t gotten close enough to these creatures to actually start to understand them.”

Dawson grinned. “I’ll be glad to put them behind me.”

“What makes you so sure there aren’t any more on other atolls?”

The comment made Dawson gulp. He didn’t have a response and the thought of fighting more battles like this daunted him. “Let’s hope not,” he finally said.

****

Later, the sound of crashing surf stirred him from a slumber. Dawson looked up and exhaled a sigh of relief. The placid beachhead calmed his nerves. Sun broke through the clouds and cast rays over the shimmering water and sandy beach.

“We’re here,” Chuck announced.

Dawson grinned. “Looks like we made it.”

“We’re just going to load you on the stretcher right into a boat.”

“Maybe I should sit up,” Dawson offered. “Give the critically wounded the room.”

“Nah, we’ll be making plenty of trips back and forth.”

When they reached a boat, the marines lowered Dawson into the bottom. His stretcher was sandwiched between the side of the raft and another wounded marine.

The litter bearers who’d carried Dawson to the beachhead began pushing the rubber boat towards the water. Dawson felt the bumpy sand, then the pebbled shore. And then, the craft eased over the water. He experienced a buoyed sensation, with the boat jostling in the current.

Both marines straddled the tubular sides of the boat, then they began paddling out to sea.

“Don’t worry,” Chuck said to Dawson. “The breakers are unusually calm this morning. We’ll get right out there with just the two of us going at it.”

“You’re headed over towards the lagoon, then out straight to avoid the breakers.”

“Yeah. How did you know, lying down there?”

Dawson shrugged. “That’s how we came in. Landed in one piece.”

“The rest of us went straight through the breakers and capsized.” The marine chuckled and dug his paddle deeper into the water.

Dawson felt the rubber boat undulating over the waves. They rose up and down quickly, then the troughs were spaced further apart as the boat grew more distant from shore. Eventually, the craft rippled across minor swells.

A fetid stench encompassed the bottom compartment of the rubber boat. The hot sun scorched Dawson’s face and made the fetor worse. He glanced at the next man and met eyes glazed over in death. The marine’s face was gaunt and pale from blood loss. Looking him over, Dawson noticed a crimson-soaked bandage wrapped tightly around the man’s midsection. The bandage held the marine’s guts in.

“Some weren’t as lucky as you,” Chuck said, paddling hard against the current.

“I was just thinking the same thing.” Dawson shook his head. “Wish this operation turned out better.”

“You blew up their entire infrastructure. The island is worthless to them now.”

“They can rebuild.” Dawson felt it was a minor win, but something to get into the press. A victory in the Pacific theater. “Maybe lost some lives for nothing.”

“Don’t say that. These men are heroes. And the fuel station is gone for the rest of the war.” The marine grinned. “They’ll be talking about your unit all over the nation. You’ll probably be highly decorated for your contribution. Heck, this is one great day for Marine Raiders. I’m proud to serve with you.”

Dawson considered the man’s words. “You really think so… I mean about success for the Raiders?”

He grinned. “Damn straight. First use of U.S. special operations in history. Some doubted the Raider battalions. Your unit just proved them all wrong.”

With that comment, Dawson let the discussion fall into silence. He hoped the man was right. His shoulder ached, but his leg throbbed. Dawson wondered which injury was worse.

Stench emanated from the dead marine’s viscera. The flesh had already begun to rot in the sunlight. And Dawson figured the man had defecated in his trousers before passing away. Dawson shifted on his elbows to stick his head above the edge of the craft.

He breathed in the salty air and saw the Nautilus in the distance. She sat in the water, appearing solid and imposing, as choppy waves splashed against the hull.

“Almost there,” Chuck announced.

Dawson exhaled. “Sure is a beautiful sight.”

“Bet you didn’t think that when you first climbed on board.”

“No, sir.” Dawson laughed. “I did not.”

The rubber boat jounced against the port side of the boat. Sailors stood on deck, ready to help load the casualties on board. They threw down ropes, and the marines stowed the paddles in the craft, then began the arduous process of transferring the precious cargo from raft to submarine.

Marines in the rubber boat wrapped a rope around Dawson’s chest, then the sailors on deck hoisted him up the side of the Nautilus. His back smacked the hull of the vessel and the sun hurt his eyes.

A flotilla of wounded Raiders headed towards the submarines. Beyond the breakers lay the sandy beach, followed by the canopy of flush palm trees.

The atoll appeared still, with no sign of life.

Only the glowing flames of the gasoline fires raging from the fuel storage tanks revealed any sign of human existence on the island. Black smoke billowed in the air and wafted northward, away from them.

The sight filled him with sorrow and joy. Many marines had fought bravely, and the mission was a success. But some were seriously injured, and several were dead.

Sailors heaved Dawson onto the deck and the scene fell out of view.

****

They lowered Dawson through the hatch into the hold and everything became pitch-black until his eyes adjusted. A couple of sailors carried him on the stretcher down the same narrow passageway he’d waited in prior to the battle. Lined with pipes and cables, the bulkhead resembled a high school mechanical room.

Eventually, they reached the enlisted quarters and transferred him into a rack. The shifting caused him to wince from pain.

“A corpsman will be along to check on you in a bit.” The sailor smiled kindly.

“Thanks.” Dawson shrugged. “But I’d expect them to treat the marines with serious injuries first. Get to me later.”

“They’ll tend to the critically wounded. Then someone will check you out.”

Dawson got the feeling he was a priority. “Why me?”

“Aren’t you Dawson?” The sailor kept grinning.

“Sure.”

“Well, there you have it.” The man beamed, like he’d explained it all.

“Sorry, but I don’t understand. Maybe it’s all the explosions that rocked my head.”

“Man, you’re the hero of this operation.” The sailor put his hands on his hips. “Everyone’s talking about the young marine who took out the transport plane and used a dinosaur as a tank. Led a unit to blow the fuel dumps, then participated in the demolition of the garrison.”

Dawson rolled his eyes. “This was a unit operation.”

“And that’s probably the reason someone will stop by shortly.”

“Why?”

“You’re humble.” The sailor was a few years older, likely enlisted in his early to mid-twenties. He seemed mature and understood how things played out at home. Dawson pictured him hunkered over in the galley reading a newspaper.

Dawson nodded. “Humble heroes help sell war bonds?”

“You’ve got it. You’re the All-American boy.”

The sailor beamed and laughed gently. “You take care.” He turned and left, hustling down the passageway to continue with his duties.

Dawson lay on the top bunk and stared at the flaky grey paint. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the tin and flipped through the letters housed inside. They wouldn’t have to send his on to Mary, but the others would be met with crushing sadness.

A feeling of relief and guilt washed over him, like the waves that had pummeled marines landing on the beachhead.

Forty-Six

A few months later, Dawson sat in a chair by the window of his room in the Naval hospital located in San Francisco. The Navy had treated him on board the Nautilus, then brought him to a hospital at Pearl Harbor for surgery. He tolerated the operations well. A couple of weeks after surgery, the Marine Corps sent him stateside to convalesce.

His room was located on an upper floor of the hospital. It smelled antiseptic. He longed for the outdoors and could see the shimmer of San Francisco Bay in the distance. The sun reflecting on the water reminded him of the moment when sailors heaved him up the side of the submarine. Reminiscing about the ragtag flotilla heading towards the submarines made him long for the camaraderie of the Raider battalion.

Dawson also thought about the men left behind. The brass hadn’t realized that a unit had kept to the original plan. When Lieutenant Peterson’s unit veered off to the right, nobody had seen it in the dark. No one understood the implications. Even the shooting from around the island could have been attributed to combatants fighting with the indigenous dinosaurs. The evacuation from the atoll had been haphazard. Raiders had piled into rubber boats and were taken to the most expedient submarines. Men traveling to the island on the Nautilus were taken aboard the Argonaut for the return trip and vice versa. Nobody realized men were missing until they had gotten to Pearl Harbor.

Mary stood near the big window several feet away. She remained quiet after a lull in the conversation. Dawson glanced at her while she gazed out the window.

Somehow, she had aged in the last year, maturing into a woman. Mary fingered her engagement ring. She sighed. Continuing to stare out the window, she didn’t contribute anything further to the conversation.

“You’re upset with me,” Dawson finally said.

“Why on earth would I be upset with you?” Mary turned to face him.

He looked into her eyes. “You seem down. Is it the wedding?”

“The wedding?” She furrowed her brow, confused.

“Are you having doubts about the wedding?”

“Doubts about the wedding?” She canted her head. “No! Of course not.”

“What’s wrong, then?” He forced a smile.

Mary shook her head and paced back and forth. “You signed up to defend our country, volunteered for the Marines. And then you volunteered for an elite unit.”

“And?”

“And you served on the front lines, helping to win a major victory.”

“Well, aren’t those all good things…”

“Yes.” Mary stopped a couple of feet from his chair.

“But there’s something else, right?”

“They promoted you to corporal. You’ve been in the press.” She started to cry. “People are calling you a hero. All over the country.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m saying…” Mary sobbed. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Dawson considered her comment. This all began with him disclosing to her that he’d prefer returning back to his unit after his shoulder and leg healed. “I’m a United States Marine. And they want me to sell war bonds.”

“What’s wrong with that?” She sniffed. “I do that.”

He stood and took her hand. “I don’t mean to dismiss your efforts, or the contributions of others. The bonds are necessary to winning this war. But—”

“You don’t want to be the one advertising them.”

“It’s not like that.” Dawson broke away. Gathering himself, he turned to face her. “Look, I’m not a poster boy… just a country boy from New Hampshire. Parading around like some kind of hero? Well, it doesn’t sit right with me. Heck, the entire mythos of the Marine Corps, and even especially more so for the Raider battalions, is the belief the unit operates as one. I’m no hero. I did what any Marine would do under the same circumstances.”

“But you’re the one who did it,” Mary said, shaking her head.

He shrugged. There’s no come back to absolute truth. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Did you ever think that being a country boy is part of why you were able to succeed?” Mary smiled kindly. She stepped closer to him. “Maybe you think differently from others.”

“I don’t know. Haven’t thought about it much.”

“Sure, sure you have.” She took his hand. “You led those boys.”

“Someone had to take charge. And I was just there at the right time.”

Mary shook her head, calmly, but disapprovingly.

“I don’t want to fight about this. Can’t we just take it one step at a time?”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded. “Let’s get you recovered first.”

Dawson couldn’t bring himself to let it go. “You say that because you think there’s a good chance they won’t even let me go back to my unit. I love you. However, my spirit belongs with the Raiders, not behind the lines.”

“Randell, that spirit is why I love you. But you have a couple of serious injuries.” She inhaled. “There’s a chance that your role in the fighting is over. And it might not be up to you.”

“Well, it’s only been three months. I’m feeling a lot better.”

“But will they let you, even if you recover?”

“I could write to my congressman…”

Mary took him into her arms. “Let’s just handle this one step at a time. You need to heal and at least make some effort for the war bonds. They’re counting on you after all the favorable press.”

Dawson knew she was right. “I’ll carry out my charge. And we’ll see what happens.”

She leaned back, smiled at him. Then they kissed.

Glancing back out the window, he thought of their upcoming wedding. Then, the glistening waves of the bay took him back to the vast Pacific, where he longed to return.

Forty-Seven

Tanaka led a contingency of privates over to the stockade. A chain and lock secured the prison door. Sitting low to the ground, an Imperial solider crouched to work the padlock open.

A bamboo cage, the bars were meshed together with twine. The door swung out and the lower bamboo rung dug into the earth before it could open all the way. Men huddled in the rectangular sweat box.

Pointing to the officer and the stout one, Tanaka ordered the soldiers to oust the two prisoners from the makeshift jail. The officer was thin and gaunt, but he led the captives in solidarity. And the stout marine had the capability to fight the hardest. Despite the efforts of Tanaka’s men, the Americans resisted, sensing that greater danger lay outside of the bamboo cage. They might have even felt safety in numbers, which would diminish upon the leader and strongest fighter being plucked from the hold.

“Move out, now!” Tanaka ordered the two prisoners in perfect English.

The officer shook his head, refusing. And the stout marine latched onto the bamboo bars.

When they paused, Tanaka pointed at his soldiers, and then, he motioned to the cage. The Hetai stepped forward. One smashed his rifle butt into the stout American’s fingers. The marine screamed and released his hold, shaking out his hand and sucking on the digits to relieve the pain. The other two soldiers jabbed at them with bayonets through the bars.

Both marines yowled in pain. Yet, they still resisted.

Tanaka kicked the cage door further open. He handed his rifle to a private standing nearby. And then, he got on his hands and knees and crawled into the cage.

Grabbing hold of the officer, he yanked the man towards the door. The prisoner continued to resist. He grabbed at the bars. Soldiers cracked his fingers with their rifles. The officer let go and Tanaka pulled him towards the door. Other captives latched onto his legs and tried to haul the man deeper into the cage.

“Strike them!” Tanaka commanded.

Then soldiers jabbed the prisoners assisting with the resistance.

When they let go of the officer, Tanaka wrenched the prisoner free and dragged him, kicking and screaming from the hold. Once they pulled the officer from the cage, the stout marine climbed out willingly. He must not have wanted to risk leaving the officer alone.

Tanaka grabbed his rifle, then directed a soldier to bandage the puncture wounds caused from the bayonets. A fresh recruit, the soldier frowned; he seemed to question why they would treat the superficial wounds. Tanaka did not bother with explanations. His patience since the defeat had grown short.

“Now!” He raised his rifle and smote the soldier in the helmet, as good measure for the insolence. “You do not question me.”

The younger soldier glanced back at him askance. Many of the Hetai on the island had begun to question him. Despite his best efforts, they viewed Tanaka as a failure. Still, the soldier understood his lower station and bandaged the wounds.

Once the injuries were dressed, Tanaka led the soldiers on a familiar procession to higher ground. They marched in a procession, with rifles at port arms, surrounding the prisoners. Pulling up the rear, Tanaka watched the captives as they lagged up the trail, watching for any signs of an attempted escape.

He also kept his eyes peeled on the jungle, scanning for carnivores that might attack them. The going was slow as they meandered down the pathway in the hot sun.

Eventually, the contingency made it to the clearing at the top of the hill. Tanaka marched the prisoners to the awaiting Jun-i and Gocho, who stood at the front of a semicircle of armed men. His former Gocho cracked a sardonic smile at him, brushing a hand across his fresh Jun-i insignia. Arrogance and power consumed his countenance.

Beside him, the new Gocho appeared diffident, nervous.

Recalling the decision to promote Superior Private Sato to Gocho instead of him, Tanaka had considered the soldier less experienced and meek. Sato was not a decisive soldier. He wasn’t a decision maker.

The new Gocho eyed him. An embarrassed look on his face.

Even though everyone now questioned Tanaka, the younger soldiers sensed that Sato wasn’t up to the task. Tanaka had responded to the situation by growing harder, less compassionate. He barked for his working party to clear out, then he pushed the prisoners to their knees.

Tanaka stepped back.

He watched the Jun-i step towards the American officer. A wild gleam filled his crazed eyes.

“We have rules of war,” the marine officer barked.

The Jun-i shook his head, disappointed. Americans displayed weakness.

“You must obey the Geneva Conventions.”

Jun-i grinned, derisively.

“Please…”

With a swift movement, the Jun-i unsheathed his sword, twirled it around, and swung it upward. The weapon spun to the crest of an arc, then it whooshed downward. A blazing gleam of metal reflecting in the sunlight.

The blade sliced through the officer’s neck. Blood spurted from the stump, as the head cleaved away from the body and thumped on the grass. It rolled towards the Gocho.

Another thud followed, as the officer’s body fell to the ground.

“No!” The stout marine cried, rising from the ground to fight, unafraid.

Tanaka rushed forward and kicked him in the back of the leg. Soldiers rushed to his side and pushed the American to his knees.

Struggling to free himself, the soldiers fought to keep the American in place.

“Get on with it!” Tanaka yelled to the Jun-i.

The Jun-i grinned and seemed to relish the situation. He took his time.

“What are you waiting for?” Tanaka grappled to restrain the powerful man.

“You dare order me?” The Jun-i smiled.

Tanaka did not like the tone. “No, sir!”

“What is it then?”

“Just trying to contain the situation,” he gasped.

“Too much for you?”

Tanaka shook his head. He’d had enough debate.

A lull broke up the discussion. Tanaka held the prisoner with an arm pressed up behind the man’s back. Other soldiers pinned down the legs, and another grasped the other arm, extended. Still, the marine was nearly impossible to hold in one place.

He thrashed, pulling Tanaka forward.

The sword twirled again, then rose high out of Tanaka’s sight. He braced for impact, expecting it might come down on him.

Instead, the blade split the marine’s neck open, severed his head. It lopped onto the ground; crimson streaks poured from the dissevered body. Blood spewed into Tanaka’s face and across his tunic.

He dropped the body, disgusted. But relieved it wasn’t him.

The Jun-i grinned in triumph.

As he wiped his blade clean on the uniform of the fallen, a vibration traveled across the ground. The tread of heavy footsteps followed, marking the scent of human blood.

“Run!” The Jun-i advised, then he headed for the pathway down to the ocean.

All the men scattered from the plateau, running for their lives.

Tanaka followed them. The creature stalked upon the scene as Tanaka reached the narrow path. It stopped to feast upon the sacrificed. Scrambling downhill, Tanaka wondered how much longer they could expect to contain a wild predator before it started coming after them.

THE END

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Robert Leckie, PFC, USMC, Helmet for my Pillow: From Parris Island to the Pacific, New York, Bantam Books, 1957.

Tripp Wiles, Forgotten Raiders of ’42: The Fate of the Marines Left Behind on Makin, Washington, D.C., Potomac Books, 2007.

Jon T. Hoffman, Maj., USMCR, From Makin to Bougainville: Marine Raiders in the Pacific War, Columbia, S.C., Didactic Press, 2013.

Duane Schultz, Evans Carlson, Marine Raider: The Man Who Commanded America’s First Special Forces, Yardley, PA, Westholme Publishing, 2014.

John Wukovits, American Commando: Evans Carlson, Hiss WWII Marine Raiders, and America’s First Special Forces Mission, New York, NAL Caliber, 2009.

Marlin Groft, Bloody Ridge and Beyond: A World War II Marine’s Memoir of Edson’s Raiders in the Pacific, New York, Berkley Caliber, 2014.

Joseph H. Alexander, Edson’s Raiders: The 1st Marine Raider Battalion in World War II, Annapolis, MD, Naval Institute Press, 2001.

John W. Dennehy, LCpl, USMC, Selected Letters to and from Parris Island, Unpublished, 1987.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John W. Dennehy is the author of the thrillers Pacific Rising and Clockwork Universe. After graduating from Pinkerton Academy, he enlisted in the U.S. Marines. He studied Creative Writing at UNC Wilmington. John is a member of International Thriller Writers. He lives in New Hampshire, and can be found at his website: http://johnwdennehy.com/

Read on for a free sample of Prehistoric WWII

Chapter 1

May 4th 1945. The USS Sutton, a Cannon-class Destroyer of the US Navy, cruised the blue waters of the Bermuda operation area for her shakedown. Once proven battle-worthy, it was full speed ahead to end the “Good War” in Europe.

Captain T.W. Brazo held the 7X50 powered binoculars above his well-groomed chevron mustache as he scanned the rolling North Atlantic Ocean. Because the war had resources limited, the binoculars were part of a national program asking citizens, Will You Supply Eyes for the Navy? A tag indicated the charitable owner’s name and address. The Navy wasn’t authorized to accept gifts, so a single dollar was paid as a token of appreciation. Still, the president promised the return, if possible, of all the binoculars once the war ended. Brazo had read over fifty thousand citizens responded.

The war in Europe brought many hardships to the American people. As bad as the depression had hit, bringing the country to an all-time low, Americans didn’t lose faith in freedom when faced with the rise of the Axis powers. The United States was founded on the stance of, Give me liberty or give me death. Those were just words, though. The proof came in the actions of hundreds of thousands of men and women who sacrificed their lives in pursuit of liberty. Not just for the United States, but for all freedom loving people of the world.

The wind blew calmly, caressing his cheeks. The smell of the salty ocean spray carried all the way up to the observation deck. A crewman busily worked on an assigned task on deck.

Brazo loved everything about the ocean. His earliest memory was cooling his heels in Cocoa Beach with his mom holding one hand and his dad the other. Most of his friends liked playing with toy trucks or cowboys and Indians. Not him. He preferred dressing up as a pirate and becoming a scourge of the Seven Seas. His favorite toys were miniature ships and boats. A long stick for a sword and a rag tied over one eye transformed him into the infamous Captain Black Brazo. The Jolly Roger hung proudly above his bed, threatening any monsters who crept into his room during the night that it would be they who be the victim.

The Executive Officer, Captain Alan Slick, referred to as XO so as to not confuse his rank with the commander of the ship, stepped from the top of the ladder to the observation deck. “Captain,” he said, stiffening to attention for a moment.

“Slick, come up to the crow’s nest for some fresh air? Can’t blame you. Those beans served at lunch may be Hitler’s latest secret weapon. Imagine, asphyxiating nearly three-hundred men by their own farts, and not a shot fired.”

“I wouldn’t put anything past the Nazis, sir. But the way the war is going for them, I suspect they’d eat the beans to do themselves in.”

“They might at that,” Brazo said, continuing to scan the horizon.

Slick turned his attention toward the ocean, lifted his cap, and ran his fingers through his coarse black hair. “Do you believe the reports are true? That Hitler committed suicide? I know that news is something I want to believe.”

“Hard to say,” Brazo said, gazing toward the XO. “There’s the rumor that his body was cremated, too. Without any hard evidence, we can’t be sure. This is no time for us to let our guard down. We’re making progress, but if the Nazis get that so-called atomic bomb before we do, it won’t matter if Hitler’s running the show or not.”

“If there’s a God, that won’t happen.”

“If there’s a God, the damned war wouldn’t have happened,” Brazo said, his tone filled with his disgust for the inhuman atrocities the Nazis subjected innocent people to. He understood war, even perpetrated from crazed dictators who wanted to dominate the world. What he didn’t understand was genocide, or torturing people and treating them worse than animals. Cracks in the Nazi propaganda revealed the Jews not being cared for in the detention camps as portrayed on short films. No children’s opera or clean, comfortable living quarters. No abundance of tasty and nutritious food. The reality was far darker than the fantasy. The detainees actually had been transformed into something almost not recognizable as human. Starvation created near-walking skeletons. Eyes stared death-like from blackened, sunken sockets. Pure instinct the only power driving the day-to-day survival.

“I’m not trying to debate the existence of God, again,” Slick said. “I just know I have to believe a greater power will come to the side of good when the consequences are so great.”

“It’s a matter of wills. Human wills. But, I’ll at least grant you I do believe the power of good is stronger than the power of evil. The human spirit is the hardest fire to extinguish. The will to live…to be free, is stronger than all the Gods combined,” Brazo said, not wanting the philosophical discussion to grow any further. “How’s the shakedown going? The aft engines seem to be running smoother today.”

“They are. The electricians adjusted the cycle on one of the diesel engines to sync with the electric drive. The major problems were corrected a week ago. The way it looks now, I think we’ll be heading across the ocean before the end of the month.” Slick paused a moment, and said, “Uh, there’re couple of things, though. The radio, we can receive but can’t transmit. The problem reared its head around the same time some interference on the radar screen showed up. Probably bad tubes.”

“What kind of interference?”

“A huge blob of green started darkening the screen in one corner.”

“What direction?”

“To the southwest.”

Brazo spun and walked over to the other side of the observation deck. The bright blue sky was slowly encroached by billowing clouds strange in color. He lifted the binoculars and focused. “Hmm.”

“What, sir?” Slick asked, stepping up behind him.

“Those aren’t ordinary clouds out there. They hang from the sky all the way down to the water and…and they’re green.”

“I’ve seen green clouds before. Right before a tornado touched down on our farm. But I have to admit, nothing like those over there.”

The captain of a ship knows to respect weather. Even the mightiest of vessels can be tossed about and crushed under Neptune’s tantrums. Thunderstorms he could handle, especially knowing he was only twenty miles from base. But for some reason this cloud formation had his gut feeling twisting his insides. Brazo had learned to trust his instincts. Why spit into the wind if you don’t have to? “I think it would be in our best interest if we headed back to base. I realize that there’s zero chance we’ll be attacked out here from the air. But what if it’s not just a tube affecting the radar? There might be a larger electrical problem growing. Let’s avoid the bad weather and head back to the base.”

“Yes, sir. You’re the captain,” Slick said. The man turned to leave when the observation deck radio squawked.

“Captain? Over,” the voice of Jim Stone said.

Brazo strode over and grabbed the mic. “Brazo. Go ahead, over.”

“Radar’s picked up a bogy two miles starboard. We suspect it’s a periscope.”

“Are you sure? XO Slick tells me the radar is on the blink,” Brazo said.

“The radar screen not affected by the interference appears to be one hundred percent functional. Something’s definitely out there.”

“U-boat, sir?” Slick asked. “We’ve been whopping the hell out of them over the last several months. Wouldn’t expect to find a straggler out here outside of a major shipping lane.”

“Intel says influential Nazis are fleeing like rats to South America. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the bloodiest Krauts to ever goosestep were aboard that can.” Brazo narrowed his gaze. His fingers turned white as he squeezed the binoculars hanging by his chest. “I can’t let my emotions get in the way of the safety of this ship or my men. You’re my XO. This ship is not officially commissioned to engage the enemy. But give me one reason why we shouldn’t go after it.”

Slick’s stoic expression hid any emotion as he paused to calculate the risks. “I can’t, sir. All weapons are operational.”

“And the storm to the southwest? The U-boat is heading straight for it.”

“Let’s make it the Jerry’s last voyage. It always rains at funerals, and it never rains in Hell.”

A slight grin curled from the left side of Brazo’s mouth. “Let’s put some fun in this funeral.” He pushed the mic’s button. “This is Captain Brazo. Battle stations!”

Chapter 2

Lieutenant Commander Christoph Neuzetser pressed his face against the U-boat periscope’s eye shield as he struggled to focus on the approaching Destroyer. It greatly annoyed him that age had degraded the fine-tuned machine he once was and threatened to put him on an equal level of his inferior enemies. He was only forty-five years old. Growing up, his father never told him how a man’s body changed as he aged. He might understand if he were in his sixties, certainly in his seventies. But forty-five?

Perhaps it was stress. Something a member of the Nazi SS was sure to live with but never allowed to admit. The doctor had suggested stress affected the eyes’ performance and issued him eyeglasses; something he would use only to read with—and mostly when he wasn’t in view of others. He was the commander, a representative of the feared Kriegsmarine, not a cripple. Christoph would lead without curved glass filtering the fire of his ice-blue eyes.

The twin diesel engines growled incessantly as U-616 cruised beneath the waters of the North Atlantic. Faint aromatic petrol fumes permeated the air. Everything in the submarine’s compartments had a slightly oily feel. Shaving and showers were land luxuries not afforded to submariners.

“Destroyer… Cannon class. Three kilos… one point abaft starboard beam,” Christoph said.

“Alone?” Lt. Gunter Bach asked. Though ten years younger than Christoph, the gray peppering his dark beard made him look older.

“Yes. Definitely alone.”

“A Cannon class should be escorting merchant ships, not roaming the ocean.”

“We are not far from a shipyard. Perhaps this one is on its maiden voyage and will present us no harm.” Christoph had both wrists resting on the periscope’s turn handles. He stepped a slow 360° while straining to focus across the endless waters. No other vessels in sight. “We are heading straight for a storm.”

“The storm is interfering with the radar. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Ensign Otto Faulk said, seated at his station.

Problems with the radar was something they didn’t need right now. His left foot stepped in something wet. His boot smeared a swatch of grime across the floor. Christoph looked over in the corner of the command room. His son, Erik, held his head low, sulking.

Part of Christoph wanted to grab Erik by the shoulders, give him a good shake, and slap him back into reality, saying, The German youth fights for the Führer and the people. The war with the Allies was sure to be lost, but the war Germans fought every day of their life, to be a proud and superior race, would go on. World War I threatened Germany’s survival. Even though they had lost The Great War, the Aryan race, mainly through the leadership of the Führer, rose from the ashes to near world domination. One, all it takes is one person to change the course of history, he had often told Erik. Christoph wanted only the best for his son and for him to be head and shoulders above the elite.

The other part of Christoph wanted to hug his son tightly and let Erik know he understood the severe grief he felt. Allied bombing had killed Gerda, Erik’s mother, only three weeks before. Losing his wife had been tough on Christoph too, but in a different way. A very different way. The war had separated them for years. Even before the war, their relationship had become strained. Learning of her death brought great sadness. Not so much for losing their future together, but for losing what should have been but never was from the beginning.

It was much harder for a fifteen-year-old boy to lose his mother than a man estranged from his wife.

“Erik,” Christoph said, authority in his voice, waiting for his son to look his way. His call passed through the room with no effect. “Son, fetch a tool bag from the engine room. A flange from a ballast tank is leaking.”

A round-faced officer from the SS Security Service, with a fine chiseled nose and strong chin, stepped just to the entrance of the airlock into the command room. He hesitated entering farther, not calling attention to himself. The officer was either being polite or was spying. SS officers weren’t known for politeness. His hand dropped alongside his chest, a glowing cigarette between his fingers.

Erik slowly lifted his gaze through drooping eyelids. His expression hid whether he hadn’t understood the request or if it was a task he had decided not to do.

Christoph stepped away from the periscope. He motioned his head to the side, signaling Bach to take his place. “If you are in my command room you must make yourself useful. We don’t need bodies taking space. Get some tools and tighten the flange, or leave and help the cook in the galley. You earned a ribbon shooting targets with a Mauser in Youth Camp. I am sure you are skilled enough to peel a potato.” Christoph regretted his condescending words as soon as they left his lips. He didn’t want to embarrass the boy, only inspire him. It certainly didn’t come out that way.

Erik slowly shook his head, the spark of life dim in his eyes. “If I leave or stay doesn’t matter to me. Wherever I go, life is the same. I am still in a boat. I am no longer in the Fatherland. My home is gone. My leader is dead. My mother is dead. My country has lost the war.” His bottom lip rose and quivered. “My country is dead.”

“Hold your tongue!” Christoph said. His hand was forced, now was the time. He had to set his son on a path that would save or utterly destroy him. With a raised finger, Christoph pointed, face reddening, and a growing snarl curling his lips. Before he could release Armageddon, Bach interrupted.

“Commander, the Destroyer is turning on an interception course. We are discovered.”

Emotions had distracted Christoph from his duties as commander. A US Destroyer, designed specifically for submarine warfare, threatened his final mission. The most important mission in his life. The U-616 carried drawings, arms, medical supplies, instruments, lead, mercury, caffeine, steels, optical glass, and brass. There was secret cargo too. Two short tonnes of uranium oxide designated for the nuclear project hid away. But the most precious cargo, the primary purpose of this mission, was getting a select few out of Germany, out of the hands of the Allies, and brought safely to Brazil.

Christoph looked at the man who shadowed the airlock’s entrance, Klaus Barbie. A member of the Gestapo, he had earned the nickname of The Butcher of Lyon. The commander didn’t know how much truth was in the rumors concerning the cruelty of this man, but he could feel the coldness of his presence between them. “Captain Barbie, please inform the other guests and our two patients of the situation.”

The glowing tip of Barbie’s cigarette smoldered.

Christoph wasn’t a fan of tobacco, but he was thankful others were. The smell of cigarettes was more desirable than the body odors, mildew funk, and battery and machinery fumes ever present in a U-boat.

“Erik, go with the captain and make yourself useful. Make sure the patients are comfortable,” Christoph said.

Barbie mashed the fading glow of his smoke on a callused palm. He left without saying a word. He didn’t need to speak; the commander knew what was at stake.

“Even if we surface, we can’t outrun them,” Christoph said. “This is our final mission. Our duty is to ensure it is the Destroyer’s last mission too.”

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Copyright

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Copyright 2019 by John W. Dennehy

Content

John W. Dennehy
JURASSIC WAR
A Novel

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

BIBLIOGRAPHY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Read on for a free sample of Prehistoric WWII

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Copyright