Battle Cry - Leon Uris [207]
The sun was as blistering as Huxley’s pace but we necessarily slowed down at any signs of Jap life. First we hit an abandoned fuel dump holding several thousand gallons of high octane gas and oil that the Jap commander had wisely dispersed from Betio to prevent conflagration. Now and then an empty thatched hut cropped into view, deserted and eerie. From bits of information that came in we concluded that these islands had been used as an officers’ country club.
The passage from island to island was easy now as the tide completely dried the lagoon to a shelf of glistening moist sand covered with millions of shells and shiny “cats’ eyes.” The devilish heat soon stirred up a string of bitching down the column. Why the hell, out of the whole goddam Second Division, did the Second Battalion have to get this deal? Destiny, sheer destiny for the Hiking Whores.
In late afternoon we found the first concrete evidence of Japs. When crossing from one island to another, we ran into a Jap truck bogged in the soft sand.
“Don’t touch it. It’s probably booby trapped.” Huxley hurried the pace. We were traveling by then on Karen Island, a long one, running some six miles. As dusk fell it seemed as if we were getting nowhere fast in finding the fleeing remnants of the enemy garrison. The size of their force remained a complete mystery. At any rate, they were running like hell. This gave us little comfort, for the last island on the atoll was still a good twenty-five miles away. It held a leper colony.
We were heading east next day on Karen, the outermost island in that direction, when the middle of the island took an elbow swing northwest. It was here that we ran head on into an abandoned village. From this tip of Karen there was a sweeping view of the ocean. Towers made it obvious that the camp was used for observation. George Company moved past the village and set up a guard line as the rest of us moved in to shake the place down.
We split into parties after a cautioning against booby traps and moved from hut to hut digging for clues. The village lay in a clearing surrounded by palm trees. It showed plenty of signs of a hasty retreat.
The huts were nothing more than long slanting roofs reaching nearly to the ground and supported by short stout poles. They were open on all sides but pitched so low we had to stoop to enter. There were no doors or windows, of course, and the decks were covered with woven mats and small pillows, probably the work of the natives. There was little of intelligence value to us. The stripping had been complete. Here and there were Japanese pin-ups and to our surprise several pictures of Hollywood actresses. It appeared that the Imperial Marines had the same attraction to Betty Grable that we had.
A few moldy pieces of leather, a stray helmet smelling of mustiness—little else was left. An artesian well had been dug into the coral in the center of the village but we were warned to draw no water until Doc Kyser tested it for poison. Spanish Joe discovered a pair of women’s silk pajamas, indicating that a ranking officer had commanded the place and had kept a mistress there. We counted the huts to get an estimate of enemy strength and we didn’t like the count. It added up to several hundred.
As we swung north on Karen it began turning dark. George Company set up guard and we pulled to a tired stop. As soon as we got into communication with the Jasco squad and the alligator bringing our supplies, we headed down to the ocean for a dip. The lagoon would have been preferable but the tide had taken all the water from it. Swimming was treacherous in the pounding surf and cutting coral. It was icy cold but revived us.
Shivering and blue, we ran around naked to dry off. The alligator pulled into the bivouac and unloaded and rations were doled out. My boys gathered around the radio for chow.
“I’ll be a sonofabitch. We got K-rations.”
“They must have got us mixed up with the Army on Makin.”
“Heah, heah.”
“Three boxes. Look at the label