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Mitchell was safe. He brought his aircraft under control, cut back his afterburners, and headed northeast toward the Mediterranean. Worm soon returned to his place on his section leader’s wing. They hurried home.
* * *
—
Blackjack Section neared the fleet. The Lincoln’s arrester cables waited to catch the arriving Super Hornets. Mitchell aligned his aircraft for landing.
He’d never before had the briefest thought of ending his life. Yet in the crushing skies over Libya, with his death imminent, such a desire had sprung to the forefront without the slightest warning. He was clearly shaken by the close call. As he neared the welcoming deck, his response to the all-too-real dangers astonished him. His haunting questions and mounting self-doubts would be there for him to examine once he was safely on board the Lincoln.
34
3:21 A.M., OCTOBER 21
3RD PLATOON, BRAVO COMPANY, 2ND RECONNAISSANCE BATTALION, 2ND MARINE DIVISION
THE CAIRO–ALEXANDRIA HIGHWAY
Quite unexpectedly, the second fierce storm in a week blew in from the ebbing Mediterranean. There could be no denying the sparse rains were arriving early this year. And with more intensity than anyone could recall.
Ominous black clouds thundered across the broad seascape to hammer the North African coast with a fury rarely seen by mortal man. Huge waves pounded the beaches, tearing at the fragile sands and carrying them out to settle in the ocean’s depths. Over the coming millennia, new sands would form on the battered shoreline to replace those lost to heaven’s rage. With the passing of time, the mighty storm’s scars would be forever healed. By then, if man still existed on this insignificant planet, the promises of a twenty-first-century oracle would be long forgotten by the descendants of those who’d fought and died here.
For now, however, nature’s impressive power was there for all to witness.
Incessant lightning strikes stung the shadowy vistas with a frightful fireworks display that tore at its all-consuming veil for hours without end. One after another, unpredictable currents leaped from the flittering heavens to perform their dance of alarming inspiration. With each startling image, the night’s mantle was momentarily shattered. The eerie desert world became disjointed and surreal. Terrifying claps of rumbling thunder provided the orchestration for the electrifying performance. With every new chorus of the fearsome overture, it was as if the gods themselves were voicing their displeasure with mankind’s evil follies.
The winds howled and a sticky gray, smoke-tinged rain fell in stinging sheets upon the exposed Americans. In their foxholes, hidden beneath their sheltering ponchos, they futilely attempted to find protection from the raging storm’s power. Their efforts failed miserably. Yet there was a silver lining to their suffering. For the abominable conditions accomplished one wonderful thing. They halted the ruthless battles, and gave the Marines an opportunity to catch their breath for the first time in three days. Even Mourad’s followers had lost the will to fight in the deplorable conditions. Except for occasional sniper fire, there’d been no sign of them since early in the afternoon.
For twelve hours, to the relief of all, the killing was halted by the biting desert rains.
Within the American defenses, a nearby bolt illuminated a pair of hunched figures moving near the front lines.
“He’s over here, sir,” James Fife said, “in the foxhole next to the highway.”
“How bad is he?” Captain Richards asked.
“I think you’d better see for yourself.”
Richards gingerly stepped into Erickson’s hole. He lifted the thin poncho covering the platoon’s leader and stared at the distorted form lying in three inches of muddled rainwater. He placed his hand on the platoon leader’s chest. Much to his relief, Richards could feel the lieutenant’s labored breath rising and falling. He put his palm to Erickson’s forehead. It was impossible to miss the fever raging through the motionless Marine.
The company commander looked up at the platoon’s sergeant. “At least he’s breathing. How long’s he been like this?”
“Don’t know for sure, sir. I checked on him about an hour ago. He wasn’t doing very well then. I tried to get him to go back for medical attention. But he refused. Said after all that’s happened he wouldn’t leave what remained of the platoon until the 1st Division arrives. Claimed the men, those alive, and those who weren’t, deserved no less. To tell you the truth, he was pretty much out of his head. A lot of what he said didn’t make sense. A while later I heard him talking real crazy like. I swear, it sounded like he was having a conversation with those who died while taking the beach. Then I heard nothing from the lieutenant. So I thought I’d better come back and check. Found him like this a few minutes ago. That’s when I sent for you.”
“You did the right thing, Gunny. Let’s get him out of here. I’ll take him to the battalion aid station so one of the corpsmen can have a look.”
They pulled the inert figure from the murky hole and carried him to the company commander’s Humvee. As they did, a particularly impressive lightning strike flashed in the distance. A nasty refrain of threatening thunder soon followed.
Richards turned to Fife. “Doesn’t look like Lieutenant Erickson will be back anytime soon. For the time being, you’ve got command of 3rd Platoon.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best to hold things together until the reinforcements get here. Has there been further word on the 1st Division?”
“The rumors were true. They’re on the way from Naples. Last I heard, the lead elements are scheduled to land before sunrise. But the storm’s slowed them a bit. If the seas calm, we can expect them here early in the afternoon.”
“Let’s hope so, sir. Two days ago we had a pair of Marines in each of these foxholes. Now about a third of them don’t have anyone in them at all. We’ve got gaps in our lines so wide you could sail the Queen Mary through here without anyone noticing. We can probably stop a few modest attacks as long as the air support remains strong. But any major offensives and there won’t be anyone alive to hold off anything.”
“I know, Gunny. Hang tight. Help really will be here soon.”
“Yes, sir. Any idea what the higher-ups have planned for us?”
“Nothing definite. A cou
ple of days lying on the beach licking our wounds is the most likely scenario. Let the 1st Division slug it out with the Chosen One while we get reorganized.”
“Sounds good to me, sir.”
“All right, Gunnery Sergeant, 3rd Platoon’s yours.”
* * *
—
The corpsman laid Erickson on an examining table in the battalion aid station’s tent. With the lull in the fighting, for the first time in days the grave table wasn’t surrounded by a river of red.
Richards stood nearby, anxiously waiting for him to finish his examination. The medic spotted the discolored rip in the lieutenant’s sleeve and the faint signs of dried blood. He poked around long enough to be convinced he might have discovered the source of his latest patient’s perplexing problems.
“Captain, can you give me a hand? I need to get his shirt off to take a better look at his arm.”
Richards lifted the unconscious lieutenant and held him in a sitting position while the corpsman carefully removed Erickson’s rain-soaked fatigue shirt.
“Go ahead and lay him back down, sir.”
On his swollen left arm, a filthy bandage covered much of his biceps. From his elbow to his shoulder the arm was bright red and swollen twice its normal size. Discolored crimson streaks flashed across his chest. Others ran down the length of his arm. A few reached his blackened fingertips.
The corpsman carefully removed the old dressings. When the last fold of deteriorating cloth was gone, the source of Erickson’s condition was there for all to see. In the area where the shrapnel had penetrated the skin, thick puss oozed from an angry wound.
“How long’s he had this injury, sir?”
“Four days. Got hit while taking the beach. His corpsman tried to get the shrapnel out, but he failed.”
“Why didn’t you make him take care of it before now?”
“Because I didn’t realize it was even a problem. He hasn’t said anything about it to anyone.”
