Okinawa, December 21, 1944
A quartet of Marine Corsairs pulled up after they strafed and rocketed a cluster of Japanese infantrymen who were re-organizing themselves for another attack on the AmeriTim's lines. The attack had started two hours before dawn. Half a dozen light tankettes and over a thousand men tried to infiltrate along a small draw that was the boundary between the Massachusetts and Illinois National Guard regiments. Someone had tripped on a wire that was linked to a flare that bathed the creeping attack in bright red light. Machine guns had started to open up seconds after the flare exploded. Within a minute, the Japanese tanks were firing back and another minute later, American artillery and mortars were firing defensive, linear sheafs.
The first attack had broken less than thirty feet from the main defensive positions held by two infantry companies. Their outpost lines had been overrun. A few men sold their lives dearly as the fighting there had devolved quickly into knife, clubs, and teeth after grenades . Most of the men in the listening and observation posts were ground under tank treads or destroyed by a dozen grenades exploding in a few breaths. But the attackers failed as bodies began to stack in front of the kill zones. Riflemen fired at strange shadows and dark masses and odd noises. Machine gunners sent three, four and occasionally five round bursts down pre-set lanes. 75mm artillery was being called onto the wire while the heavier guns churned up the ground and kept Japanese reserves from flowing to the spots that were bending and almost breaking in the American lines.
Patrick's platoon had been pulled into battalion reserve just thirty hours ago. They were not far from the front line, but the luxury of hot food, hot water and the ability to stand up straight without worrying about snipers had been incredible. The previous afternoon half a dozen men had been released from the field aid stations to replace some of the casualties. A favorite squad leader had returned. Three men from another company had been added to the platoon. Their names were worth remembering for they had survived this long. They would not be replacements who were more dangerous to themselves and their squad; instead they were veterans who could keep themselves and their comrades alive. And then the platoon went to sleep with only half a dozen men acting as pickets as they were in reserve. When the artillery started up, Patrick woke up and had the platoon getting ready for movement fifteen minutes before the orders to counter-attack had come down from on high.
By the time that they had restored the line, dawn was breaking. Two men were wounded. One was likely to survive as he was loaded onto a jeep to take him to an aid station. The rest of the men were digging in or placing new land mines ahead of the position. Four minutes after dawn, the first Marine Corsair started their napalm run. A quartet would arrive every five to ten minutes. Bombs, napalm, rockets and slugs bought Patrick and his platoon time to dig in deeper. They would need it as the Japanese launched a viciously futile attack an hour later.