Battle Cry - Leon Uris [193]
The grizzled Marines lifted themselves over the side of the destroyer Vandervort. Their week aboard the troopship made them a sharp contrast to the clean sailors in appearance. They were smelly in their stained dungarees. From them hung implements of death: carbines, ammo, assorted knives, and other tools of their trade. The sailors took a step back at the awesome sight of their bearded guests. The Marines looked vicious. At arm’s length the sailors engaged them in conversation and showed them through the ship, explaining the complicated mechanisms of gunfire that their messages from the beach would set in motion. The Vandervort headed for open sea for gunfire practice. The Marines paraded about the deck like conquering pirates, making no effort to hold their contempt for the Navy’s role in the operation.
As the destroyer hit the drink and opened speed, she began a slow roll. As the Vandervort rolled, the Marines turned from cocky to green. The awe the sailors held for the nation’s finest took a deep dip. They stood by, flabbergasted, as the wicked-looking Marines lined the rail in unison and upchucked into the ocean.
We sailed from Port Efate, an anxious division. It was the most tremendous sight I had ever seen, overpowering. Around the gray transports rode the mightiest armada of ships ever assembled. The Mary, proudly to the fore, was our flagship. About her, ten thousand guns of the Fifth Fleet moved steadily north, filling the horizon from one end to the other. Ships everywhere, gray merchants of death inching closer to the defensive outer crust of the Japanese Empire.
Headquarters Company filed into the officers’ wardroom for briefing. At last we could get confirmation that we were returning to Wake Island.
Sweaty, dungaree clad, we seated ourselves about the floor, scratching at the raw saltwater shaves demanded daily by Huxley. Major Wellman entered, ordered us at ease, and tacked a large map on one of the walls. We settled back.
“The smoking lamp is lit,” he said loading up his pipe. With a bayonet he pointed to the map. My heart sank. It wasn’t Wake. Instead I saw a weird-shaped island, somewhat like a seahorse. Above it, in code word: HELEN. A second and larger map showed a string of islands ranging from several square yards to several miles in length. I could count nearly forty of them. Each island bore the name of a girl: SARAH, NELLIE, AMY, BETTY, KAREN, down to the last one, CORA. It was an atoll. Most of us knew little about the atolls of the Central Pacific and were puzzled by the legend on the map which indicated that Helen was merely two miles long and several hundred yards wide. What kind of an objective was that for an entire division of men?
“O.K., men,” Wellman said, “everybody comfortable?…don’t answer that.” (Laughter.) “This sexy-looking broad is known as Helen. Don’t let her size throw you. We are entering Micronesia, the Central Pacific. This island is a coral atoll. Geologists tell us that these islands were formed by depressions in the ocean. Larger islands have sunk and left these hard-shelled little coral ones above the surface.”
“Sir,” he was interrupted, “I see that this atoll is just like a circle chain. How deep is the water between the islands?”
“You can wade from island to island when the tide is in. When it is out you can cross without even getting your feet wet. From the lagoon side, that is. Now, there is a barrier reef fringing the entire atoll.” Wellman relit his pipe and laid down the bayonet. “The Japs have five thousand hand-picked troops on Helen, or Betio, as it is really called. The Micronesian atolls run in several groups—the Ellice Islands, the Gilberts, and farther north, the Marshalls. As you know, we seized the Ellice group without opposition and our next step up is the Gilberts. The Gilberts will be the springboard to the Marshalls.”
He crossed the room, stepping gingerly over several