Atonement for Iwo. Lester S. Taube

      First Lieutenant Keith Masters neared the edge of the cliff and raised his hand for the patrol to stop. The soldiers promptly sank to the ground with sighs of relief. There was a soft breeze flowing in from the sea, and the sun was bright. To the left were the sounds of machine guns. The marines were still reducing Japanese strong points. Mopping up an island was always a dirty and fatiguing job, especially when the holdouts knew it was a lost cause.

      Masters took off his helmet, wiped his sweaty forehead, squatted, and drew out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket sewn on the sleeve of his fatigue shirt. Behind him, in the distance, loomed the sharp peak of Mount Surabachi, Iwo Jima.

      “Where to now?” asked Sergeant Schneider, as he sat down beside the officer.

      Masters peered over the edge of the cliff down to the sands below, a narrow ribbon of white running between the precipice and the calm sea. “We’ll move along the beach,” he said, squinting into the harsh glare of the sun bouncing off the water. “We haven’t searched it for a few days now.”

      Sergeant Schneider frowned, his broad face drawing down into an expression of unease. “I don’t like that area,” he said, in his dull, Midwestern drawl. “Lieutenant Howard found a gang of duds out there the last time through.”

      “Tough shit,” said Masters. He did not care much for Schneider. The beefy sergeant was more suited for rear echelon duty than leading combat patrols. He wanted the glory without being handed the bill. But he had been assigned as a squad leader in his platoon, and Masters was not about to let him sit on his ass back in the perimeter. He threw away his half smoked cigarette and rose, a tense, wiry man of twenty five, medium height, with cropped brown hair and light blue eyes. “Let’s get going,” he called to the men.

      He led the way to a cut in the cliff and started downward, turning to hang from a projection before dropping to a ledge below. Slowly, carefully, he found the safest way down for the patrol. Soon the men had descended the fifty-foot cliff-face to the beach.

      “Single file,” he ordered, motioning for one of the squad to take the point position. The men moved forward cautiously along the forty yard wide strip of sand, their eyes glued upward at the cliff, searching for occupied caves.

      After about a hundred yards, Masters stopped to look closely at a small opening halfway up the steep rock. Without turning his head, he said to Schneider, who was directly behind, “There’s sure as hell a Nip in that hole. I bet that’s where the goddamn shot came from last time through.”

      Schneider focused his binoculars on the opening, which was about thirty feet up. “It’s pretty small,” he commented.

      “Those bastards don’t need a helluva lot to get in,” growled Masters. “And those holes open into caves big enough to hide a truck. Pass the word to Stapler in the rear to keep his eye on it as we go by. At the first sign of movement, start shooting.”

      He felt a chill run down his spine as he passed the opening. At each step or two he shifted quickly from one side to the other. During the last patrol through here, about four days ago, at this very point, a bullet had kicked up sand at his feet, fired from one of the dozen caves in the cliff face.

      The patrol continued its search to the northernmost tip of the island. Directly ahead, an arm of the cliff curved into the sea, bringing the ribbon of sand to an end. Masters halted the twelve man patrol for another break.

      The officer squatted and lit a cigarette. He watched Gorman, one of the recent replacements, walk up to the ocean’s edge to look for shells. Gorman stepped into the water to grab at one of them as the calm waves receded.

      Goddamn fool, thought Masters. He’ll ruin his boots sure as hell.

      Gorman waded to the end of the cliff, which projected twenty feet or so into the sea, and looked around it. Suddenly he stiffened, whirled about, and began rushing back to the beach. Masters straightened up.

      “Japs!” he shouted. “Just around the bend!” The safety locks of the soldiers’ weapons were pushed to the ‘fire’ position.

      Motioning to his men to wait, Masters waded out into the water. It was well up to his thighs when he reached the point. Slowly he edged his head around. The cliff fell back sharply to disclose a shallow cave at its base, its mouth barricaded by a two foot high wall of stone.

      Masters gripped his Thompson submachine gun more tightly as he stepped around the point.

      A Japanese soldier was squatting off to one side by the water’s edge, pants down to relieve himself, his eyes fastened on the sand. Two more soldiers were seated behind the stonewall speaking to each other.

      Masters took three slow steps forward. He tried desperately to remember how to say surrender in Japanese, but the words eluded him. At the same time, his brain registered the danger of being unable to see the hands of the enemy behind the wall.

      Suddenly, the squatting man looked up! His eyes opened wide in disbelief. Masters fired at once. Three bullets bored into the Japanese’s chest, driving him onto his back. His legs kicked violently in his death throes.

      The

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