Firebolt: A World War II Novel (Sgt. Hawk Book 5) by Patrick Clay

Author:Patrick Clay [Clay, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rough Edges Press
Published: 2022-08-23T00:00:00+00:00

Taniguchi crawled on the cold stone. The dark leaves shielded him. He looked around the American camp. Several of the tall enemy Marines walked about. Where was his? Perhaps, he had killed him. Taniguchi had to be sure. It did not have to be a glorious kill. A shot in the back would do fine. Kreski walked toward the Japanese observer. The watcher shrank into the foliage. They were no more than ten feet apart. Kreski stopped and stood over him. After a while, the American turned and walked away.

Taniguchi decided to leave. He would know one way or the other if Hawk lived, tomorrow. When the chase began, Hawk would be there, if he lived. Taniguchi had learned something else of importance to his mission: the Americans were quite easy to infiltrate. His scout, Kirishima, was even more stealthy than Taniguchi, and he could make good use of this knowledge.

At daylight, Joe Canlon found Hawk cooking in his helmet.

“What’s that?”

“Poke salad and toadstools.”

“Yum. Are you out of your mind?”

“No, hungry.”

“We’re getting rations today.”

“Nope. They’re already back from the lighthouse. No rations, shit-for-brains. They did drop us thirty-eight field jackets, though.” Hawk turned sideways, displaying his new jacket. “Sharp, hunh?”

“Field jackets? Where is the stuff to eat?”

“A fighter plane ran them off. One of our planes made it through. He was the one with the jackets.”

“The goddam Japs. They got ten planes left in the world and have to send one of them here to stop our ration drop.” Joe sat down and cracked his knuckles. “What is this shit? Is it any good?”

“Damn right.”

“Ain’t toadstools poisonous?”

“Some is. Some ain’t. That’s just the seasoning.”

“How do you know which is and which ain’t?”

“You eat ‘em.”

Joe rubbed his big nose. Insects flew around Hawk’s face. He swooped a hand at them, caught some, and threw them into the smoking helmet. “These dog-ass gnats are out even in the dead of winter.”

Joe took an anguished look around the camp. “All right, shit. I gotta eat something. It don’t smell bad. My mother used to make something like that. Cabbage or some goddam thing.” Joe pulled out his spoon and reached for the greenish soup.

“Hey! Don’t put your nasty spoon in my pot.”

“What do you mean? You had it on your nasty head all day. My spoon ain’t no dirtier than your head. And by the way, that’s my damn helmet.”

Hawk looked thoughtful. “Well, it ain’t sanitary, but I guess you can have some. Better than you sitting here bitching like a bastard all day.”

“Sanitary. Shit. Thank you, General MacArthur.” Joe dipped his spoon in and pulled out a boiled weed. He sneered and lowered it into his mouth. “Hot,” he said, as he tucked it through his reaching lips. The hot part was good. He munched slowly and then spat it out. “Godamighty!”

“Shit, you didn’t even taste it.”

“Godamighty.” Joe spat again. “Tastes like grass…or something. Some kind of chemical is in it.”

“Good, huh?”

“Not too bad. I guess cabbage tastes like shit, too. Let me go get my mess kit.

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