Free The Far Reaches by Homer Hickam Page B

foul.”
    â€œYes, sir. Most of the marines can’t keep it down and are running pretty dry. First priority ain’t to land bullets, Red Mike said, but water.”
    Josh tried to piece it all together. “How many days have we been on this atoll?”
    â€œTwo days and two nights, sir.”
    â€œSeems like two weeks.” Josh kept thinking. Likely, his bowels would be sliding that water through pretty quick. He just hoped his body would keep a little of it. When he next raised his head, he saw the sun rising, producing yet another spectacular gold and scarlet spectacle and lighting up a vast and terrible battlefield of dead men, ruined machines, shattered palm trees, sandy bomb craters, and a cracked concrete runway with heat waves already rising from its surface like wriggling, translucent worms. “I hate this place,” Josh said and wasn’t certain if he was talking about the atoll of Betio or the earth itself. At that moment, probably both were true.
    Josh realized he was bare chested except for bloody bandages wrapped across his torso. He saw his khaki trousers were in shreds and he’d lost one of his shoes and his Coast Guard cap. He felt at his waist and was gratified that at least the K-bar was still there. “I’d better put on some utilities,” he told Ready, “and some boots.”
    â€œI’ll get you some,” Ready said and went off, returning with two sets of utilities and a pair of boots, complete with socks. Ready pulled off his own bloody dungarees and drew on a camouflage uniform. Then he helped Josh put on utilities and socks and boots, all of which proved to be a fair fit. Ready allowed himself a moment of guilt, seeing as how he had stripped the clothing off dead marines.
    Josh asked, “Where’s Red Mike? I’d like to have a word with him.”
    â€œDon’t know, sir,” Ready answered as he finished tying the last knot on Josh’s boots. “Well, would you look at that! I just thought it was a big old sand dune last night.”
    Josh looked where Ready was looking and saw the sun had lit up a big pyramid of sand and palm logs not more than a hundred yards away. From it, Japanese were busily firing machine guns and rifles in a constant clatter. Dead marines were littered around it. A pair of corpsmen carrying a stretcher came racing past and then tossed down the stretcher and threw themselves into the crater beside Josh and Ready, a stitch of machine-gun fire following them from the fort. One of the corpsmen groaned and grabbed his leg, and the other one stared incredulously at his left hand, where a bloody bullet hole had appeared. Other medics came running and helped the wounded corpsmen up and took them away.
    â€œThat big sand fort’s got to go,” Josh observed and raised his head a little higher out of the crater to get a better look at it. For his trouble, a bullet whipped past his head. He ducked down. Then a few marines ran past, going toward the fort. “Ready,” Josh said, “let’s go see if we can help these boys take that pile of sand.”
    â€œSir, you’re awful banged up,” Ready objected. “You’ve broken out in a sweat, too. I think you’ve got fever coming on.”
    â€œBut I can still walk,” Josh answered.
    Ready looked at his skipper’s rough, whiskery face, the old broken nose, the livid scar on his chin, the sweat standing out on his grimy forehead. He looked a million years old, yet Ready knew Josh Thurlow was only thirty-three. “Let’s just rest awhile,” Ready suggested.
    â€œI can’t,” Josh replied. “I’ve got to do something about that fort.”
    â€œLet other men do it.”
    â€œIt’s not my way.”
    Ready saw that his captain was bound and determined. “I’ll help you up,” he said. And he did.

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    A big-boned Southern gentleman, that’s what he was. “Sandy