1944
Mariana Bay, Saipan
It was the squad leader’s job to do an ammo check and distribution just before dusk. Sergeant Joe Garrison grabbed an ammo can and slung an M1 rifle over his shoulders, and Corporal Fielding and Private Crane both did the same. Garrison sent up a silent prayer that they wouldn’t have to use them as they ran from foxhole to foxhole. Not that he expected God to listen to a word he said.
The dry, sandy terrain was tough to walk on, with uprooted trees, holes, and earthly wounds from gunfire and mortar rounds. The distant sunset was teasing to come early. Scraggly tree carcasses split the coming orange and purples. It could almost be pretty.
Garrison looked at his men. “You ready?”
Fielding always had the look of fear in his eyes. It was a flaw, in Garrison’s mind. Crane, on the other hand, was a beefy hothead.
The three men crouched as they ran, and they made it to the first and second foxholes without issue. They continued to the third, and just before they reached it, Joe sensed the whir of a nearby bullet. As he hit the ground with a loud grunt, the ammo from the unlocked can he was carrying scattered everywhere.
Garrison had only enough time to get up from the ground before the bullets rained down. He jumped into the nearest foxhole, and the first thought on his mind was that he should have locked up the ammo can. This kind of mistake would cost lives if they ran out of ammo before getting to the other side of the secured area.
“You’d think a sergeant would know how to square away an ammo can,” Sergeant Barker said from across the foxhole. The only thing more impressive than Barker’s ability to fire fatal shots at the enemy was his capacity to lob numerous cuss words at Garrison for his mistakes. As they continued suppressive fire, Barker took a moment between shots to glare at Garrison. “Not only did you draw their fire, but Marines are going to die without that ammo.”