The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [121]
“Sarge! A tank!”
“Shut up. I hear it. There’s a crack in that rock above us. Jap rifles there. If the tank can send one shot in there, we can rush it!”
Adams gripped the M-1, held it close to his chest, saw the men down the hill behind him, some curled into muddy depressions, shell holes, no one seeming to want to rush anything. He watched the tank coming closer, felt a surge of thankfulness, the Sherman keeping back from the base of the hill. Now another appeared, its turret rotating, seeking targets, both machines drawing closer, stopping, and above him, Adams heard the voice, Porter, “Come on, damn you! Put one up on this ridge! Son of a bitch, where’s the walkie-talkie?”
No one responded, the rifle fire from the Japanese above them continuing, the sudden chatter from a Nambu gun, somewhere close. Adams lay as flat as he could, heard the whining crack, a dull whump from a Japanese rifle, so many odd sounds, different kinds of weapons. He had no choice but to keep flat, sharp coral beneath him, his face turned to the side, dirt in his ear. The rifle fire seemed to increase, more Japanese joining the fight, some response from below, the rattle of a BAR, pops from the Marines who crouched along the base of the hill, waiting for their own lieutenant to order the advance. The Nambu gun kept up its fire, a spray that ricocheted across the coral just behind Adams, and he heard shouts, a short scream, “I’m hit! Doc!”
Ferucci did not move, shouted, “We’ve got wounded up here! Corpsman!”
Others took up the call, voices from behind, “Corpsman!”
“Get a doc up here!”
“Got him!”
Adams let out a breath, the rifle fire close again, a splatter on a rock beside him, and he pushed against Ferucci’s boot heel.
“We gotta move. They see us!”
Ferucci didn’t speak, crawled away up the trail, a short scramble, and Adams stayed close to him, the smell of powder rolling over them. From below a tank fired, the shell passing overhead with a sharp whistle, impacting against the hilltop. Adams felt the ground shake beneath him, turned toward the tank, could see smoke from the barrel of the tank’s 75. Yes! Again! Blow them to hell! He saw movement now, close to the tank, a man, another, emerging from some hidden place. They moved with quick steps, scurrying toward the tank. The uniforms were light, tan, and his heart leapt in his throat.
“Sarge!”
But there was no time, and two more Japanese soldiers appeared, the men running low toward both tanks, a mad crawl right under the belly, and now the blasts came, one quickly after the other, bursts of fire and black smoke. Adams stared in horror, swung around with his rifle, but there were no targets, the tanks engulfed in fire. He saw one hatch open, a man scrambling out, billowing smoke from inside the tank, but the Nambu guns were taking aim, the man falling, cut down by the Japanese fire. Another tanker emerged, bloody, bareheaded, staggering up out of the machine, was punched backward by the machine gun fire, fell in a heap to the muddy ground. Adams stared, sick, expected more men to emerge, the smoke coming out of both hatches in a thick plume. But there was only silence now, the fire curling up around each tank, a thump of a blast as a gas tank ignited, fire now spewing straight up through the open hatches.
“Sons of bitches! Satchel charges!” Adams looked at the voice, Welty, below him.
Adams said, “They just blew themselves