Free The Far Reaches by Homer Hickam Page A

bodies began to float alongside the ones from the day before. Only a few marines made it to shore, splashing in without packs or rifles and throwing themselves against the seawall. Josh and Ready looked at two of the marines who lay there gasping, their eyes wide with horror. “You boys got any water?” Josh asked, politely.
    One of them, his eyes huge beneath his helmet, silently handed over his canteen, and Josh and Ready took a drink from it. “Still full of oil,” Josh said, though he swallowed it anyway. He looked at the marine. “Are you Second Marines or Sixth?”
    â€œSecond, sir.”
    â€œWhere’s the Sixth?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir. I don’t even know where
I
am.”
    Josh smiled and handed the man’s canteen back. “You’re on Tarawa, son.”
    â€œWhat should I do, sir?” the marine asked.
    â€œPick up a rifle,” Josh said. “Then go one way or the other along the beach, it don’t much matter. Find some marines. Join up, get into the war.”
    â€œAye, aye, sir,” he said and crawled off with his buddies, disappearing into the shimmering heat waves coming off the sun-drenched sand. Josh and Ready went on, trying not to look at the bloated dead floating in the lagoon. “I keep expecting them to raise their heads and take a breath,” Ready said.
    Then a big Japanese artillery shell fell short, striking the beach instead of the Higgins boat it was aimed at. The blow sent them both, senseless of thought or feeling, cartwheeling through the air.

10
    Josh climbed back from wherever the artillery round had sent him. Apparently, the day had passed. It was dark, and there were screams and the terrible sounds of struggle—deep grunts, guttural swearing, random rifle shots, puking, gasping, and choking death rattles. Then a boot stomped his hand.
    Josh was at least relieved to see, by the light of a flare, that the boot belonged to Ready O’Neal, who was too busy to notice, mainly because he was receiving a lunging Japanese soldier equipped with a long bayonet on a longer rifle. As Josh watched with interest, the two men fell away, and then there was a muffled sob followed by another muffled sob, the last from Ready, who was crying because he had been forced to kill a man.
    â€œDon’t feel bad, Bosun,” Josh said from what seemed like a deep hole he’d fallen into. “You had to do it.”
    Ready abruptly stopped his sobbing. “You awake, sir?”
    Josh tried to focus on one thing, to help him understand where he was. “Is it night or am I going blind?”
    â€œNight, Skipper. They’ve been coming at us since the sun went down. Usually, the boys in the foxholes up front stop them, but now and again one or two slip through. Like this poor youngster I just murdered.”
    Josh absorbed the information, pausing long enough for a cogent thought to present itself. “You didn’t murder him,” he said at length. “You just killed him. It’s war.” He paused again. “Thanks for taking care of me while I was out.”
    â€œI wouldn’t leave you, sir. You know that.”
    â€œWhere are we?”
    â€œNear the runway. At an aid station some corpsmen set up.”
    â€œAre we losing?”
    â€œNo. I heard Colonel Edson say we were winning.”
    â€œRed Mike’s ashore? Thank God. Did you tell him about Green Beach?” “Yeah, Skipper. Sixth Marines came ashore on Green Beach this afternoon.”
    While Ready was talking, Josh was silently allowing his mind to search his body. It ached like hell, pretty much like it did before he got knocked out, but at least he could move his fingers and toes, both good signs. Then a harsh thirst overcame him. “I need some water,” he said. Ready silently handed him a canteen. Josh polished it off and, running his tongue through the oily residue left in his mouth, said, “Still