Welcome to my online World War Two novel -- The First Shall Be Last. The novel has received great reviews from readers, reviewers, and other authors. It is currently for sale at a discounted price of $14.35 at Amazon.com.It is both a love story and a realistic portrayal of the brutality of war.
If you enjoy this first chapter, please post a comment. When five or more comments have been posted, I will upload the next chapter for your reading pleasure.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Joe C. Ellis
Chapter 1
The bodies rotted for two days in the tropical heat. Judd Stone swiped sweat from his eyes. From the top of his shell hole he gazed across Horseshoe Valley. Coral ridges and mesas loomed on all sides. The stench sickened him. He could never get used to the smell of death. Twenty Marines lay scattered across the field, swarms of fat blowflies buzzing above the bloated corpses. The wild palms that once covered the hillsides were now splintered stumps, peels of white bark drooping from their trunks.
Stone’s good buddy, Private Emery Snowfield, lay between two black stretcher-bearers, his exposed viscera crawling with maggots. Sonovabitch. Stone shook his head. Thievin’ sonovabitch.
Glancing down, Stone spotted his canteen next to three empty ammunition cans. He snatched the container and shook it. Not even a gulp left. After screwing off the top, he drained the last drops into his mouth, tried to swallow, gagged, and coughed.
A slight movement to his left startled him and he dropped the canteen. In an instant he whipped his M-1 to his shoulder and panned the barrel across the draw.
Eyes wide and ears attuned, he inspected the carnage for an infiltrating Jap. His heart thumped in his throat. When Josiah Jackson, one of the black stretcher-bearers, rolled over, Stone almost fired. Jackson opened his eyes and lifted his chin.
“What the hell?” Stone whispered.
The lanky Negro reached his hand toward him, his large brown eyes pleading.
“You’re dead!” Stone yelled. “You thievin’ sonovabitch. You’re dead!”
Jackson stumbled to his feet, but before he could take a step, small arms fire erupted from the hillsides, the bullets snapping and popping into the coral around him. He staggered towards Stone, hands outstretched. Bullets ripped through his already tattered dungarees. One caught the side of his helmet, flipping it off his head. It clanked on the ground in front of Jackson, and he kicked it toward Stone.
Stone’s eyes narrowed as he watched the bullets ripping through Jackson, tearing off chunks of flesh. “Go down,” Stone said. “Go down, you bastard.”
Five feet away Jackson tripped and crumpled onto the sharp coral. The firing stopped. He lay motionless. Stone took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. Jackson raised his head. “Help me, Stone,” he groaned.
The dead can’t talk. You can’t be alive. No way.
Half of Jackson’s left ear had been shot off. When the black man lifted his hand, Stone could see two fingers missing. Stone surveyed the hillsides, expecting more enemy fire to finish Jackson off. Instead he heard the agonizing scuffling of the wounded man inching across razor-edged coral. Their gazes met—Jackson’ eyes glistening. Maggots infested the open wounds on his face.
“I’m going crazy,” Stone said. “This can’t be happening.”
Jackson’s words were barely audible: “I’s got . . .” He crawled closer. “ . . . a three-year-old son.” His shoulders rose as he thrust with his legs and edged forward on his flayed forearms. “Why did you . . . why did . . .” Within two feet of Stone, Jackson collapsed, air hissing from his lungs like a tire going flat.
Stone swallowed and released his breath, his ribcage quivering. He dropped his rifle and leaned on the side of the crater. “Jackson,” he whispered. “Jackson.” He reached over the rim of the shell hole and touched Jackson’s hand—the one with the gold watch. “Why’d you do it, Jackson?” Stone slid his fingers around the face of the watch and tugged until the band slid over the bloody hand. Stone drew it near his mouth and blew the coral dust from the glass cover. He turned the watch over and read the inscription: First Marine Division Middle Weight Champion.
Jackson’s hands shot toward Stone as if propelled by rockets. They clamped around Stone’s neck. His airway shut off, Stone dropped the watch and gripped Jackson’s wrists but couldn’t dislodge the chokehold. Blackness swallowed Stone’s vision of Jackson’s grimace. Twitching and jerking, Stone gave one last yank, ripping the hands away. He gulped air. Something to his right beeped rapidly. When he opened his eyes, he saw the heart monitor next to his bed, the digital readout flashing 155 bpm.
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