Dragged into Darkness (17 page)

Williams, not wise-cracking for once, nodded.  The Australian knew better than most.  He’d been with
Clelland
since the discovery.  “Puke now.  Mask later.”

Clelland
pulled out a scented rag and pressed it into the private’s hand.  “Use it when you’re done.”

Harris couldn’t speak.  Fear, anguish, whatever it was
Clelland
saw in those innocent eyes strangled the private’s vocal chords.  In a month’s time, those eyes would be hollow and darkness would be the only thing lurking behind them.  Nothing would ever disturb the private again. 
Clelland
knew.  He stared into those same eyes in the mirror every time he shaved.

The sapphire blue ocean changed to blood red.  Pink caps that should have been white rode the tops of the red waves as they crashed onto the decimated bodies of fallen soldiers.

“Brace
yourselves
boys,” the helmsman warned.

Clelland’s
team grasped handholds and waited for impact.  The boat ground to a halt on the beach.  The bow door dropped, digging into bloodstained sand and crushing dead bodies.  No one rushed off the boat, ready for action.  There were no
Japs
to take on.  No one left to kill. 
Clelland’s
men took their shovels and trudged onto the beach ignoring what they trod on.  As
Clelland
disembarked, he patted the vomiting Harris on the back.

The place was different but the story was the same.  The
Japs
had won at the expense of the British.  They’d been particularly ruthless on this occasion.  Besides the bullet-riddled and grenade-ravaged corpses, he recognized the hallmarks of ritual decapitation and disembowelment.  The battle over, they’d set about the wounded with their samurai swords. 

Blood from hundreds saturated the beach. 
Clelland
hadn’t realized until he became a Bucket Boy that blood had an odor.  It wasn’t unpleasant, just overpowering, suffocating, like being trapped in a room filled with stale air.

The soldiers had been dead some time.  Twelve to fourteen hours, by
Clelland’s
estimates.  The blazing sun had had a chance to cook the flesh.  What should have been pink had blanched and turned beige.  Instead of just the usual stench of shit and rotting flesh, a human barbecue was in progress.

Clelland
blew his whistle.  Soldiers disembarking the four other landing crafts turned to their commanding officer.  All of them were close enough to shout to. 
“Right, gentlemen.
  The routine is the same as it always is.  Take the dog tags, leave the weapons, no souvenirs and…”
Clelland’s
voice faltered, losing power.  “Let’s get these boys back on the boat.”   

“Poor bastards,” Williams said.

“I doubt they envy us, sergeant,”
Clelland
remarked.  “They don’t have to do this.”

The Australian mulled the thought over and nodded.  “I reckon we’re
gonna
have to come back for a second go.”

“Then we’ll come back, sergeant.” 
Clelland
was sharp with Williams.  He knew he was wrong to snap at the Australian.  The man was only making small talk.  And God knew they needed something to take their minds off their jobs.  He’d make it up to him, a beer in the mess hall tonight.  Another to go along with all the others he owed.  “Are you finished there, Harris?”

The private ran a hand across his mouth. 
“Yes, sir.”

“Well, let’s get stuck in.”

Clelland
didn’t have to get stuck in.  He had rank.  He could have overseen the operation without getting his feet wet like a good officer.  But he was compelled to be involved.  No man should have to do this and setting himself apart from his men didn’t sit well in his stomach.  Better he got in the thick of it.  His
complicitus
actions had caused this.  If he’d been half the man he should have been, then maybe they wouldn’t be here. 

They snagged dog tags, placing the ID plates in the satchels over their shoulders.  They shoveled up chunks of men and dropped the pieces into wheelbarrows, then emptied the barrows into the landing crafts. 

They were about half an hour in when Williams let loose with the jokes—right on time.  He had a never-ending stream of them.  Mainly bawdy stuff
Clelland
had heard in the not-so-classy music halls.  He couldn’t remember how many ops they’d been on together but he knew he’d never heard a joke repeated.  His gags weren’t just blue.  He launched into scathing attacks on the crew and the British in general.  It was all taken in good jest.  The men forgot they were shoveling human slops as they attacked Williams and Australia.  After the bullets, personal attacks strafed the battlefield.

“Alright there, Harris?”
  Williams called out.

The masked private nodded, his filter hose flapping.

“Harris, you look like a fucking monkey with that thing on,” Williams said.

“Yeah, one
wiv
an elephant’s trunk,” another soldier chipped in.

“You’re right, mate. 
A fucking monkey with an elephant’s trunk.”
  Williams started a chorus of laughter.  “You want to lose that thing, Harris.”

Clelland
knew it was the wrong time to pick on the private.  Williams’ ribbing would have consequences.  But some situations were best resolved between the men and not their senior officer. 

Harris blew.  He tore off his gas mask and threw it.  It struck the side of a landing craft and splashed in the surf.  A wave carried it back to shore.  The private stared daggers at Williams.

The Australian and the men froze, waiting for Harris’ next move.  He breathed heavily, as if he was building enough oxygen in his lungs to give Williams the tongue lashing of his life.

But he didn’t.

He sang.

Harris possessed an astounding choral voice.  He sang a hymn. 
Clelland
didn’t know which one, not being much of a church man.  But it was beautiful.

The men remained silent.  Williams nodded his approval to the private and got back to work.  The other men followed his lead.

Harris’ voice soared and could be heard across the beach.  The men joined in with the private when he came to a hymn they all knew, adding to the heartwarming sound. 

Clelland
was amazed at man’s ability to cope.  He couldn’t believe that beauty could exist in such a place.  Why was it when man was at his absolute worst, it inspired others to create their absolute best? 
Clelland
didn’t know the answer to his question.  He wasn’t one of those men whose enlightenment raised them above the situation.

As soon as Harris sang,
Clelland
knew the private would survive his time on the HMS Vulture.  Some hadn’t, but he would.  He had his singing, like Williams had his corrosive humor.  All his men had their outlet, something to put between them and the horror. 

Except him.
  He had an officer’s burden that came with command.  He could never distance himself from the job.  Oracle made sure of that.  He was just a cog in the machine; integral to the monstrous acts committed in the name of war.  If he was granted an outlet, it would be to take Oracle’s life.

Williams was right.  They had needed more boats.  The landing crafts made two runs each to clear the beach.  By the time his men returned to the landing crafts not a scrap of soldier remained.  But they couldn’t do anything with the tainted sand. 
Clelland
didn’t like to think how long it would be before the crimson tide washed the crimson beach clean.

His men looked like savages, ancient warriors returning from a successful raid.  Their khaki uniforms were as red as the gore that doused the inside of the boat.  It was as if they’d bathed in blood. 
Clelland
knew his soul had.  It was drenched with the stuff.

Reaching the HMS Vulture,
Clelland’s
men stripped off, tossing their clothes overboard.  No one wanted to bring their part of the mission back to the ship with them.  Hoisted aboard, they turned hoses on themselves and let the day’s toil run into the bilge.

HMS Vulture was a converted salvage ship, kitted out with armor plating and 50mm cannons.  The last of the landing crafts filled with Britain’s fallen was raised into the air.  It swayed above the open cargo hatch that was large enough to hold what fifty landing crafts had to offer.  The bow was tilted and the landing craft’s contents spilled into the hold.  The suspended boat was rocked to make sure nothing remained.

Lieutenant Rodgers threw
Clelland
a towel.  The young officer was Navy and ran the ship with a small detachment of sailors.  But the Army had authority.  It was their operation. 

“Is that the last one?”
Clelland
asked, nodding at the dangling boat.

“Yes, sir.
  The other boats are moored on the starboard side.”

Damned mariner-speak,
Clelland
thought.  He had to remind himself which side was starboard.  No more port left was the mnemonic.  So, port was left, which made starboard right.

“We’ll slop out the boats in the morning,” Rodgers continued.

Clelland
shook his head.  “I want those boats slopped out tonight.  I don’t want their stench to contend with in the morning.”

“Very well, sir.  I’ll make arrangements.”  Rodgers turned to leave,
then
stopped.  “Will you be talking to Oracle tonight?”

Williams, Harris and several others waited for
Clelland’s
answer.  

“Yes.  Is Oracle eating?”

Rodgers nodded.

Clelland
didn’t need to ask.  He knew Oracle was eating, because the son of a bitch wasn’t screaming his name.  The bastard didn’t complain as long as it was fed. 
Some aide to Allied forces.

“I’ll speak to our guest after I’ve had a drink.  I think these men deserve one.”

“At least one,” Williams chipped in.  “Today’s been a bastard.”

***

The Vulture’s chugging engine reverberated off the hull, sounding like a beating heart.  The ship was on a new course with another rendezvous with synchronized slaughter the day after tomorrow.  Would Oracle have anything for him that might save some lives?

Entering the cargo hold, it was as dark as the night sky on deck.  Feeble lighting came from a daisy chain of bulbs suspended by their own wiring.   Oracle preferred the dark and
Clelland
was more than happy not to see his guest.

British forces had pulled off a few coups during the war.  One had been the capture of the German’s cipher generator, Enigma.   The other had been
Clelland’s
battalion discovering Oracle in Papua New Guinea.  No one knew about Oracle, not even the Yanks.  Oracle’s information was shared with the Allies but the source was unknown.  Oracle was too significant to share.

Clelland
had been a corporal when they found Oracle a year ago, but because he was the only one who understood what Oracle said, he was elevated to captain and given the unholy task of working with it.

The hold stank.  Oracle stank. 
Even though they slopped out the hold on a regular basis.
  The creature’s filth clung to the ship and its natural odor didn’t help either.  Its perfume was rancid at best.  It wasn’t the best way to make friends and influence people, but luckily for Oracle, its talents lay elsewhere.  People were willing forgive a lot of things if you had something to offer.

Oracle sensed
Clelland’s
presence before he opened the cargo hold door. 
Clelland
felt it traipsing through his mind in spiked boots.  After tonight’s encounter, he would have a headache that would last their journey to the next island.