The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [111]
“Dig in!”
Porter dropped down, obeying his own order, his walkie-talkie man cutting into the mud with the small shovel. Adams saw Welty, already working at the soft goo at their feet, and Welty said, “Here! Come on! Dig!”
Another crack split the air, two more to one side, shells striking the hillside behind them, near the trucks. Adams ducked, useless instinct, and Ferucci was there, moving past, his own shovel in his hand.
“Dig! No cover up here! They’re looking at us, you jackass!”
Adams swung his shovel down like a pickax, but the angled blade just sank into the mud, nothing like the rugged coral they had chopped through before.
“Straighten it out! Dig!”
Welty seemed furious, and Adams felt immensely stupid, fumbled with the shovel’s head, loosening the clamp, straightening the blade, the shovel now … a shovel. He began to scoop the mud, tossing it to one side, another scoop, the slop filling the hole as quickly as he could clear it away. Welty was doing the same, manic motion, another shell coming down fifty yards in front of them, the hillside erupting into a bright flash, a wall of brown goo coming down around them. Adams felt his heart screaming in his chest, worked the shovel, gradually the hole deepening, the softer ground hardening the deeper they went. The hole began to take shape, deepening further, Welty now down inside, punching the ground with the small blade, Adams kneeling on one knee, the poncho billowing out in a gust of wind, no protection at all, the rain blowing hard into his face. There were more shells coming in, some bursting high above, flashes of fire in the dark rain. Others came down straight into the mire, throwing up more curtains of mud. Welty yelled at him, “Get down here! Help me!”
Adams dropped down, the bottom of the foxhole already filling with water, softening, easier to dig. Adams tried to find room for his own shovel, worked in rhythm with Welty, digging while Welty tossed away the dirt. The hole was almost waist deep, both men struggling, the mud seeping in, but not as quickly as they tossed it out. Adams worked as rapidly as Welty’s movements allowed, let himself be guided by the redhead’s speed, and soon the hole was more than belly deep. Deep enough.
Welty jerked at his backpack, shouted at him, “Shelter half! Try to spread it out over the hole! Come on, you know how to do this!”
Adams pulled his slab of canvas from his pack, unrolled it, felt water running down his neck and back. He did as Welty did, anchored the corners of the shelter half on either side of the hole, saw a rock lodged in the mud, reached out, pulled it onto one corner of the canvas, searched frantically for another. But the ground had hidden anything on the surface, and he mimicked Welty, the man scooping a mound of mud onto the other corner of the shelter, the best they could do. The canvas was across the hole now, overlapping in the center, and Adams knew it wouldn’t hold, that the rain would simply flow right into the sagging center.
“We need a tent pole, anything.”
“You see any damn tent poles?”
Adams felt stupid again, glanced at his rifle, useless, too short, and he didn’t want the barrel in the mud, or filling up with water. Welty sat at one end of the rectangular hole and Adams dropped down, facing him, both men exhausted. Adams fought for his breath, tried to slide the poncho beneath him, some protection from the muddy bottom, but he was already soaked, his dungarees thick with the filthy water. Above them the shelter halves were sagging low, water pouring through in steady streams. Adams shifted his position, tried to avoid a rivulet that came down on his legs, splattering against his boots. He looked at Welty, hoped to see a smile, the man’s calm humor reassuring. But Welty had his head down, his eyes hidden by his helmet,