The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [100]
Adams looked up, the sergeant’s face framed by the piercing glare from the sun.
“We going south?”
Ferucci straightened, hands on his hips.
“We’re not going north, you moron. Unless you wanna drive a truck off that cliff.”
Welty worked the action of his rifle, said, “Guam, I bet. They’re sending us back to the beach we came in on.”
Others were nearby, the word Guam attracting attention. Yablonski came closer, the big man, Gridley behind him. Both were shirtless, and Gridley carried the BAR across his shoulder, wore the bandoliers across his bare chest, the wound from the Japanese infiltrator hidden beneath a small white bandage on his shoulder. Yablonski said, “Guam. That’s what I heard too. We done the job. So they’re sending us back to do some more training. Pain in the ass. Hardly saw an anthill of Japs up here, and they think we oughta rest up.”
Ferucci said, “So complain to your damn congressman. Next time we’ll stick you in the hottest place we can find. That make you feel better?”
“Yeah, it does. I didn’t sign up to go on a Boy Scout camping trip. I still got clips they gave me on the damn transport ship. My damn piece ain’t even been warmed up yet. If I don’t heave a grenade at some Jap’s belly, I may heave one at these two idiots. You clean that damn piece good enough, redhead?”
Welty replaced the butt of his rifle, the cleaning kit put away, looked up at Yablonski.
“You better aim that grenade where it’ll do some good. Before it goes off, I’ll sling this bayonet right into your damn big mouth.”
“Shut the hell up, both of you!” Ferucci turned away, suddenly distracted. “What the hell? Now what?”
Adams heard the sound of a jeep, peered up over the edge of the foxhole, and Ferucci said, “That’s the colonel. And Bennett.”
Adams kept his eye more on Yablonski, had developed a healthy fear of the man. Yablonski moved off, back toward his foxhole, Gridley following like some oversized pet. Welty stood, watched the officers gathering, and Adams looked that way, saw three of the lieutenants joining them, Porter among them. Ferucci said, “I knew it. We’re not going to Guam. They’re talking about our next mission, and it ain’t a camping trip. Nobody’s smiling. Look, the colonel’s flunky’s got a map. I been thinking about this. I bet they’re laying out the next assault, another island. Maybe Japan itself. We cleaned out the Japs pretty good here, and the high brass knows we didn’t get chewed up too bad. They’re gonna send us to Japan. I knew it!”
Welty was up now, curious, stood close beside Adams as they watched the officers, the map unrolling onto the hood of the colonel’s jeep. Adams said, “Japan? You think so?”
Ferucci seemed completely sure of himself, arms folded across his chest.
“Damn right. Time to take this fight right into the Jap living room. I been waiting for this, hoped like hell I’d be a part of it. All that bitching about how we missed out, well, we’re not gonna miss out now. You just wait.”
Adams heard the rumble, far down the road, a cloud of red dust rising up. The trucks came into view now, a long line of deuce-and-a-halfs. The meeting of officers broke up, the colonel climbing into his jeep, moving away into the dust cloud, and the others fanned out quickly, Porter coming up the hill toward his own platoon. Adams felt a strange dread, examined the rifle with a quick glance, saw more of the fine red film on the barrel, a new layer of coral dust already sticking to the oily sheen. Dammit! Porter stopped, scanned the foxholes, said aloud, “Gather up! Keep to those rocks, but get where you can hear me! Don’t bunch up. There’s still some Japs in these hills, and this is no time for stupid casualties.”
Adams obeyed, the others as well, some of them emerging from foxholes, some already holding backpacks, prepared for the move. Porter dropped to one knee, waited for them to gather, some squatting, sitting, finding low places that might serve as