May's find

I have been looking for stories worth publishing for a while now. This seems to have a proper ending, but it is spread out over different pieces of paper, so it has been impossbile to puzzle them together properly to see if there is an ending to the potentially quite exciting story. It makes quite a difference from stories that have been published thus far. Like most stories I have found it is written in ink. It is marked P.1951, probably set somewhere in the PTO during World War Two. It was found in a statistics handbook in Peoria Public Library, Peoria, IL. The fascinating thing is that we may never know whether this was actually based on a true story. It might well be, considering the slightly odd conversation in the beginning and the confusing nature of it all. I am fairly sure this is the real beginning of the story though.

"I know Captain, I was there, remember?"
"Captain?"
"You heard me...ain't nothing funny about this!"
"Well, I..."
"What? You just dropped it in the water and expected me to say nothing?"
"Listen, I ain't got time to stand here listening to..."
"Yeah. You know what we do, I say we wade to the shore - mind those goddamn pointy things - and find some place in the grove over there to sit around for a few minutes."
"Listen, I ain't got..."
"You damn well do! Now listen and come with me."
"I'll do as you say as long as you don't tell me what to do! Clear?"
"Sure. Now, come on, we ain't got much time!"

The tepid water went up to their waists and the Captain stepped carefully so as not to step on any sharp rocks hidden in the sand. They had about 80 yards left to the beach and stopped next to a coral rock which rose imposingly over the two men and cast a long shadow out towards the boat.

"Now which way?"
"Just keep on going to the mouth of the river, see that sandy ridge there? Ain't noone that can see us from the jungle as long as we keep our heads low. Now come on!
"This goddamn rifle butt keeps digging into my back...and the friggin' heat! You know, there ain't..."
"Quiet!"

They instinctively crouched behind the rock in a patch of shallow water.

"What?"
"That buzzing sound...y'hear it?"
"Goddamn it!"
"What?"
"It's a goddamn plane!"
"Oh, great..."
"Just keep still...don't move..."
"Damn it! Just..."
"It's going west...we're clear!"
"Go!"

A few quick leaps and they were sat behind the ridge overlooking a coconut grove some twenty yards left of their position. Some canisters and straps were scattered over the packed sand. From what they could make out in the moonshine, the sand was colored light red.

"I don't like this...too friggin' quiet."
"Now where do we start looking?"
"I'm pretty sure I lost it in the grove over there."

He nodded to the left.

"Let's go then, but quiet!"

They headed out, crouching, towards the grove. Palm leaves were scattered along the jungle floor and the surf was starting to whip them out to sea in a menacing manner. The foliage was dense and everywhere they stepped they seemed to kick up a centipedes' nest.

"Thank God, there it is!"

They picked up the drab olive colored bag and crouched behind a wall of palm trees.

"It's all here. Now what do we do?"
"Goddamn it, damn it to hell!"

They lay down simultaneously and didn't dare to move. A stream of voices was coming closer.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
"Shh..."

The surf calmed down. All that could be heard was the rustling of leaves and whispering voices. The clanking of a bayonet. The clack of a weapon reloaded. The men were completely still, on their stomachs in an uncomfortable position. Beetles, centipedes and ants hurried over their backs and necks. The voices quietened down. They were soon heard again, moving away from the grove towards the mouth of the river.

"That was close, damnit!"
"I bet they're crawling all over the friggin dee-zee."
"Come on, let's get moving...if nothing else we'll flank them...not far 'til high ground I reckon."
"What's the hill?"
"Three-six-two I reckon."
"We outta plant an em-gee up there and..."
"Let's get off the friggin' beach first...we should find the bivouac before it's pitch black."
"Where's the map?"
"I've got it, but don't worry, been here before, remember? That goddamn lieutenant..."
"His friggin' fault in the first place!"
"Yeah, what you gonna do about it then eh? Let's just get the job done and get the hell outta here!"
"I'm requesting leave on a goddamn flattop to sit out the rest of this mess."
"Good for you."
"What the...!"

They threw themselves to the ground. They were a few metres from the beach, but the spray from the waves of the racing PT boat still made their uniforms wet. They grasped their rifles. The grenades on their chests clanked against a volcanic stony patch on the ground.

"Shh!"

The boat slowed down and made a quick turn towards the island.

"Not ours are they?"
"Don't reckon they are...hang on!"
"Oh goddamn it, they're definitely not ours! Get [ink stain, probably 'moving]" P.1951