The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [114]
Adams saw no hint of a smile from Porter, the odd joke nonsensical, spoken by a man who was anxious, as nervous as Adams had ever seen him. Afraid. Porter watched as the men moved closer, said, “Ballard! Your squad hold back, give us fifty yards, then follow. Mortensen! Follow Ballard. Fifty yards. Got it?”
Adams didn’t know where the other sergeants were, knew only that close to him the ragged hillside was alive with men, every rock, every nook now in motion. Farther back, out in the muddy flat ground, he could see more men, some digging in, a squad of tanks plowing through the deep mud. Trucks were there as well, some struggling to move on what was left of the road, others buried up beyond their axles.
“We’re way the hell up.”
His words came out unexpectedly, and beside him, Welty said, “Yeah. Great view of hell. You bring a picnic? Good vacation spot.”
“Shut up, you morons! Let’s go!”
Adams followed the sergeant, saw Porter already moving up ahead through the rocks. The trail was no trail at all, just a slick wet gap that wound in a snaking path toward the top of the ridge. Adams did as the others in front of him, stayed low, tried to keep his head below the tops of the rocks. There were open gaps along the way, and he caught the stink of explosives, saw patches of gray and black, rocks splintered into small shards. He climbed up past another black smear in the rock, a flat dishlike depression, his eyes caught by something new, something that didn’t belong. It was a helmet, one side smashed, a hole ripped through the top. He forced himself not to stare at it, knew it was American, put a hand on his own helmet, pressing it down, foolish instinct. Some of the men had thrown their helmets away, ridding themselves of one more encumbrance, along with the gas masks and snake leggings. Stupid, he thought. Stupid as hell. But … well, that one didn’t work too well. Not getting rid of mine though. Never.
The path began to spread out, the larger rocks behind him, the hill cresting into a narrow plain, thick grass, deep cuts, bare ground washed white by the rain. Porter was squatting, moving them out to one side with a wave, motioning them to lie flat. Another man moved past, ignored the lieutenant’s signal, and Adams saw the poncho, glistening wet, no smears of mud, no dirt at all. He moved right past the lieutenant, seemed to ignore him completely. New man, Adams thought. Or an officer. Brass. Adams found a small depression in the thick grass, hard rocky ground, no puddle, lay down. But he kept his head where he could see the officer, saw more men gathering, a low table-like rock. He could see the faces now, Captain Bennett, the new man, older, another coming up quickly, another clean poncho. Porter and the other lieutenants seemed to hold back, keeping their distance, but Bennett spoke to them all, his voice audible in the hiss of the rain.
“There it is, boys. Right below us. What do you think, sir?”
Adams cringed at the word, sir, but the men were on top of an enormous flat-topped hill, and he glanced around, thought, unlikely as hell any Japs can hear him. I guess the orders don’t apply to captains. The older officer pulled a pair of binoculars from his jacket, moved forward on his stomach, shoved his way through thick grass, glasses downward. He turned back toward the others, slid closer through the grass, said, “We sent foot patrols out last night. They found what I expected, that the bridge is mostly blown to hell, and the river along that span is about four or five feet deep, soft silt, but fordable. The span will never support a tank, and likely not even a supply truck. They’re hoping we’ll try to use it, and you can bet every gun on that far hill is trained on it. So we’ll build another one, just downstream. We won’t need more than a footbridge for now, to get some of your men across, and they can wade if the Japs make it hot. After dark my men will slip down there and do our part of the job. I’ll call for a covering force to keep an eye on us, in case the Japs decide to go night hunting. By early tomorrow