Ninety seconds after that, there was a faint suggestion of something-some things-flying through the air in high arcs. And a moment after that, there were two almost simultaneous flashes of light, and then a moment later, a third.
And then something like a swung baseball bat hit Sergeant John Marston Moore twice, once in the calf of his left leg and once high, almost at the hip joint of his right leg.
This was followed immediately by a loud roar, and the sensation of flying through the air. He landed on his back, and the wind was knocked out of him.
After a moment, while he was still trying to figure out what was happening, he became aware of people running out from the woods onto the beach. Two of them had rifles, and the third a pistol.
He rose on his elbow for a closer look.
He saw that the Corporal and the PFC who had been sent with them were down on the beach, crumpled up, and that the technical sergeant was trying, without much success, to get to his feet.
Moore rolled over onto his stomach and took the.45 Colt automatic from where it had been bruising his buttocks raw and sore and worked the action and held it in two hands and shot at the three men running onto the beach. He shot until two of them fell, and until the slide locked in the rear position indicating that the last of the seven rounds in the magazine had been expended.
He searched desperately for a spare magazine.
There was a short, staccato burst of.45 fire, accompanied by orange flashes of light, and then another. The technical sergeant had gotten the Thompson into action.
By the time Moore found a fresh magazine, ejected the empty magazine, inserted the fresh magazine, let the slide slam forward, and then looked for a target, there was none.
What he saw was the technical sergeant, bleeding profusely from cuts or wounds on the neck and face, crawling over to him.
"You all right?" the technical sergeant said.
"I think I broke both legs."
"It'll be all right. They probably heard the fire, they'll send somebody back for us."
"Bullshit," Sergeant John Marston Moore said.
"Yeah, probably," the technical sergeant said. "But maybe when it gets light in the morning, they will."
One of the two Marines who had been sent with them- Moore couldn't tell which-moaned and then began to whimper.
They will find my body on this fucking beach in the morning, Sergeant John Marston Moore thought, unless the tide comes in and washes it out to sea for the sharks to eat.
Two minutes after that, there was the unmistakable sound of a Jeep in four-wheel drive making its way through soft sand.
When the Corpsmen loaded Sergeant John Marston Moore onto the litter, he screamed with pain.
They loaded the technical sergeant in the other litter. And then, because they didn't know what else to do with them, they laid the bodies of the PFC and the Corporal on the Jeep hood. The PFC's body started whimpering again.
"Jesus," Moore heard one of the Corpsmen say, "I thought he was dead."
(Seven)
W.E.B. Griffin
"The Doc tells me you took grenade fragments in your legs," Major Jack NMI Stecker said to Sergeant John Marston Moore. "That's better than getting shot."
"What?" Moore asked incredulously. His legs were now one great sea of dull aching pain, with crashing wavelets of intense, flashing, toothache-like agony.
"There's often less tissue damage; and they can repair a jagged wound easier than a smooth one. The worst is a slice."
"I hurt," Moore said. "Why won't they give me something for the pain?"
"I told them not to, until I could get here and talk to you," Stecker confessed. "I want to hear more about Ichiki Butai."
"You sonofabitch!" Moore flared. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realized with horror what he had said. Marine Sergeants do not call Marine Second Lieutenants, much less Marine Majors, sonsofbitches. Moore realized that he was horror stricken, but not repentant. Under the circumstances, if Jesus Christ himself was responsible for the withholding of pain killers, he would have questioned the parentage of the Son of God.
Major Jack NMI Stecker did not seem to take offense.
"Yeah," he said. "Are they or aren't they?"
"They were all Ichiki Butai," Moore said. "I think it was a headquarters team or something. I saw two lieutenant colonels, three majors, five or six captains. A bunch of senior NCOs."
"OK, Sergeant. I've got what linguists I could scrounge up working on those documents."
"How did you know about Ichiki Butai?" Moore asked.
"I've seen the Order of Battle," Stecker said. "What interests me is how you knew what you told Captain Feincamp."
"I want something for this fucking pain!"
"Son," a vaguely familiar voice asked. "Does the word MAGIC mean anything to you?"
"I hurt! Goddamn it, doesn't anybody care?"
"I'm General Vandergrift, Son. You can tell me. Do you know what MAGIC means?"
"Yes, Sir, General, I know what MAGIC is."
"All right, Doctor. Do what you can for this boy," General Vandergrift said.
Moore felt a surprisingly cool rubber mask being clamped over his mouth. Then there was a rush of cool air. It felt good He took a deep breath.
"Well done Lad" he heard General Vandergrift say. Well do..."
Chapter Nineteen
(One)
HENDERSON HELD GUADALCANAL,
SOLOMON ISLANDS
1715 HOURS 20 AUGUST 1942