Chapter 3
There is a faint drizzle and the pulsating lagoon seems
to be puppeted from above by thin wires of wetness.
A flippant breeze dances along the gunwale, finding casual amusement
in splitting each moment open and daintily quaffing its kernel
and tossing the shell in your face with light contempt.
At rendezvous points columns of boats swerve in wide arcs
aimed at the outlying tentacles of the sprawling enemy octopus,
intending to paralyze with simultaneous hatchet blows in many places.
Some are diversionary in character, while others have special missions
like severing communication lines or capturing airstrips
mmmor demolishing installations.
Your craft is in the third echelon approaching Beach Red.
You can see the island now — a weird, looming blotch
shaking with violent epilepsy in the tremulous haze of dawn.
There is sickeningly green water beating itself in frothing desperation,
trying to escape the restraining ministration of free and sandbar,
and lurching in giddy drunkenness and vomiting on its clothes.
There is the rich, resonant cough of the Navy's guns,
as trim cruisers and destroyers clear their throats and spit,
streaming their shattering saliva into the turbulent cuspidor
mmmcurving ahead.
There are carrier-based divebombers screeching like
mmmhordes of dishonored women,
bloodstreaking their ravishers with outraged claws of machinegun strafing,
and biting with explosive teeth and wielding lashes of flame.
You pass the control boat where the commanding brigadier general
supervises the formation, composition, direction and space
mmmbetween assault waves.
His staff, in bobbing amphtracks, diligently blueprint the
mmmapproaching battle,
convinced that God is on the side having weightier papers.
The boat turns on the edge of your heightening suspense
and knifes into the scarred back of a rolling billow.
Your head is low, fixed stiffly on your drawn shoulders,
and you are afraid to raise it because it might
fly off like a hairspring when the pressure is released.
Your mouth is a vacuum and speech is remote and
any sound from it would be a turgid groan. Your
mind looks at itself and it shrinks away and wonders
whether or not to stand bravely or run and hide.
Feelings, senses and physical motion are faint and far off,
and all existence is a rushing wind in your ear.
The Navy coxswain in the bow splinters the brittle atmosphere
and turns to yell for the men to keep down.
They swear hoarsely but crouch lower, grateful for the interruption
and a chance to ease the tremendous activity of waiting.
Simmons cracks, "All we need now is a travel agent
distributing literature about South Sea Cruises!"
mmmThere is loosening laughter
and a tugging, stretching pincers lets go of your nerves.
Whitney is encouraged to wonder where the local U.S.O. is,
and Private Lloyd says that hulahula hostesses with ballbearing hips
will meet us on the beach with doughnuts and coffee.
Ivey hopes to hell they don't have grass skirts on.
"Me with my hay fever". . .and your know those words
will never appear in weekly magazines, but you're Goddamn proud.
The bottom of the Higgins boat crunches into firm coral
and heaves to a standstill. It's footwork from here in.
The steel armor plate splashes outward to form a ramp
and the men mass forward in a lump of courage.
You are only about forty yards from the beach line
and you can see the white nakedness of the sand
exposed here and there under its negligee of lacy smoke.
Sergeant Lindstrom is the first to leap into the surf,
riding the breakers on the crest of a cocky smile.
"All right, boys. Leave us look good in the newsreels!"
