Show of Force by Charles D. Taylor Page B

time the British army had fled the coast of France. His little whaleboat played much the same part twenty years later as it edged toward shore to try to save some of the men who had landed only hours earlier.
    There was a sputtering in the water around the boat. Machine-gun bullets etched a pattern in front of them. Palmer, seeing the fifty-caliber gun that had been set up at the edge of the palms, again reversed his rudder away from a group of men they had almost reached. The splashing bullets paused for a moment among the swimmers.
    Palmer's engineman had now picked up a BAR from the supply of weapons that had been lowered to them before they had pulled away from the Bagley. He handed another to the signalman crouched beside him. They ripped open the bag containing clips for the weapons, pouring them on the deck.
    “Turn in again,” David shouted to Palmer, pointing in the direction of the Cuban machine gun. The boat again heeled as Palmer sent it directly toward the gun firing at them, making the whaleboat a smaller target. David picked up another BAR, grabbing some clips in the same motion. Together, the three of them concentrated their fire at the machine gun. They had already passed many of the swimmers in their rush for the shore.
    David vaguely noticed the water turning lighter, and then realized they were only forty or fifty yards from the beach. The water was probably only waist deep. He was looking down at Cuban sand. Palmer brought the whaleboat parallel to the beach, allowing his gunners an easy shot at their target for just a moment. The water around them was alive with bullets, some cracking into the side of the boat and others passing over their heads. They were now too close to shore for the artillery fire, which was hitting the water a hundred yards behind the whale-boat. First, it was the man beside the machine gun who half rose and began to turn before he fell. Even before he hit the sand the pressure on the trigger had stopped as his gunner fell backward.
    Before David realized that his last clip was empty and that he was squeezing an unresponsive trigger, Palmer had turned the boat back to the sea. They were attracting too much attention and now sporadic rifle fire was coming in their direction.
    They came upon the first two men in the water. The engine was throttled down as arms reached out to pull them in. One man almost pulled a sailor into the water as he grabbed the arm reaching down to him. The other was too badly injured to help himself and the boat had to come to a stop for a few precious seconds. Again, rifle fire began to concentrate on them.
    “Don't stop next time,” David shouted. “If they can't get in themselves, go on to the next ones.” He was shocked at his own callousness.
    Two more were picked up, but three others who were severely wounded were given a wide berth as the boat edged back into artillery range again. The big shells were coming more steadily and too close. David knew many of those in the water wouldn't survive the explosions anyway.
    And then he saw Jorge Melendez's head bobbing just thirty yards away as they pulled in almost the last man they had room for into the boat. Jorge waved an arm.
    Palmer didn't need to be told as he swung the boat in the swimmer's direction, motioning to throttle down the engine as they came close. Not fifteen yards away, a shell landed in the water, exploding in a deafening roar. As the spout subsided, David saw his friend's face twisted in pain. The boat ran alongside the man, and David reached out to grab his hand.
    “Take my arm,” he yelled to the man in the water. Jorge just looked back at him and shook his head. “Goddamn it, Jorge, grab me.”
    Melendez again shook his head, this time in more agony. “Now, David,” he cried, “Where is your U.S. Navy?” His head bobbed beneath the surface for a moment, then rose. “Where is your Navy?”
    Then he sank below the surface, not slowly, but as a dead weight. Another shell