The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [113]
The flashes of artillery fire still came toward them, but there was no precision, the patterns brief, scattered. It was like before, and Adams had heard enough to know that the bigger guns were probably firing in single shots, then disappearing back into their hiding places. The shells that came down within sight were mostly ineffective, the mud and driving rain keeping the artillery from igniting any fires, the thunder from the impacts mostly muffled. But no one slowed to watch, the entire company moving up as quickly as they could into this new cover, the ravines and rocks, men spreading out, guided by more men in ponchos, no one showing a face. Adams began to climb, put one hand on a fat wet rock, pushed himself up a steep slick path. Men were closing in behind him, no one paying attention to the order to keep their distance, the five-yard rule forgotten, at least for now. The rocks were the first real cover they had seen since the trucks had pulled away, every man searching for his own bit of safety.
He glanced upward toward the crest of the hill, a mistake, rain and sweat in his eyes, a small flood washing down his neck. But he had seen men up there, faceless helmets staring down at them, dug into the rocks and thickets of brush. Close in front he saw one man pointing out to the side, a glimpse of the man’s face. Porter.
“Move out that way! Find some cover. Use your shelter halves, or dig in if you can!”
Adams slipped up close to an embankment, the ledge above jutting out over his head, sat, cradling his rifle across his knees. Others were moving close against the same rock face, sitting, some moving farther on, dragged by someone else’s order. He saw Welty moving down into a low place in the rocks, heard a shout coming up from the crevice.
“Find your own damn hole!”
Adams knew the voice, Yablonski, and Adams watched as Welty backed away, stared into the low place with a look that spoke of pure exhaustion, and no patience at all. Adams called out, “Over here! Good spot!”
Welty seemed to hesitate, and Adams started to call again, but a shock jolted him, rocks showering down, a deafening blast that raised him off the ground. He stared toward Welty with wide-eyed horror, crawled out toward him, the smoke clearing quickly, driven away by the rain. He saw Welty still standing, staring back at him. Others were calling out now, Ferucci, “Get your ass down!”
Welty staggered forward, seemed to see Adams for the first time, scampered quickly now, dropped down hard against the rock face. Adams grabbed him, said, “You okay? God, I thought you were blown to hell!”
Welty nodded furiously.
“Me too.” He held up both his arms, seemed to do an examination, flexed his fingers, slapped both his legs, put one hand on his crotch. “Son of a bitch. They missed me.”
“Not by much! Good God, that shell hit right above you!”
“Yeah. I heard it. Guess this was my lucky day.”
Porter was there now, wet and furious.
“Shut up! I need ten men! Where’s Ferucci?”
“Here!”
“Gather up your squad. Bennett’s up above us, needs a little firepower to go along. Where’s a BAR?”
“Here!”
Gridley rose up from Yablonski’s hole, Gorman beside him, and Adams could see the tension in Porter’s face, a manic flow of words.
“Good. Ferucci, get your men together, and follow me up that path to the right. Bennett’s up there. No talking, keep your damn heads down. The Japs know we’re here. The First has had boys up here for two days, and they’re pulling out, leaving this hill to us. But the Japs only know that we’ve got people all over this place, and they’re not happy about it. We’re watching them just like they’re watching us. First man in this platoon gets his brains blown out gets a kick in