Kingdom of Monsters by John Schneider (microsoft ebook reader .TXT) 📗

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