1944
Mariana Bay, Saipan
By the first light of dawn, the firing had stopped. Bodies were scattered all over the red-stained terrain. His jaw ached from being clenched. He was hotter than usual, and his sweat smelled sour.
“You’re a poor excuse, Garrison. I just finally got relieved from the line and where’ve you been? Relaxing in the sun all day? Getting some grub?” Sergeant Barker yelled at Joe as he left the field kitchen unable to eat. “Didn’t think a clumsy man like you would survive. Why don’t you go pick up the ammo you dropped so that you get nailed instead of all the men the platoon lost yesterday? Their blood is on your hands.”
As Barker continued to berate him in front of the other Marines, every muscle in Garrison’s body tightened. He didn’t want to let this hothead get to him. Garrison had never liked Barker as a squad leader because of the cruel way he treated his men.
“Hey, Garrison, I’m talking to you.” Barker’s spittle sprayed onto Joe’s face. “All the gunfire make you deaf as well as dumb?”
That was all Garrison could take. He’d never mentioned that Esther Detweiler said that his own daughter was a deaf-mute, but the dig from Barker was too personal. He inhaled, and after his fist hit Barker in the temple, the man fell and Garrison kicked him in the gut. Before Barker could defend himself, their platoon sergeant came over.
“Garrison!” Jacobs’s voice forced Garrison’s second fist to pause in midair.
He knew instantly that he’d gone too far. They’d all given one another backhanded insults from time to time, but sucker punching crossed the line. “That’s going to cost you a stripe.”
Within twenty-four hours, Garrison’s sergeant stripes went to Fielding. The young corporal had completed Garrison’s ammo distribution in the midst of a firefight. Fielding’s corporal stripes went to Garrison. His demotion cost him his rank and his squad. He was moved to a supply tent away from the line. He’d failed.