The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [128]
The column in front of Adams slowed, halted, the men dropping down, no instructions necessary. Adams did as the others did, knees in the mud, the poncho serving as a small makeshift tent. He tried to see anything at all, caught only shadows in the rain, realized that a man was moving up close to him, hard whispers.
“Check your weapons. Grab every grenade you can carry. Moving out in five minutes.”
Adams saw more figures, heard the splashing thud of a heavy crate. He caught a new, oily smell, suddenly realized there was a tank a few yards in front of them, a silent, hulking mass, men climbing up, boxes unloaded. The men around him began to move, and he followed, mindless, his legs stiff, cold, achingly sore. The grenades were uncrated, the men dipping down, filling their hands, pockets, shirts, anyplace they could be stashed. Adams did the same, gave it no other thought, the order logical, the obedience automatic. The voices around him were low, serious, none of the cursing banter of the men. Near the tank he caught a low conversation, stepped that way, knew the sound of officers, perked up, curious, heard Porter, others, and now, Captain Bennett.
“No more than a third of them are left up there. The Twenty-ninth is shot for now, and we’ve got to move in to replace them. The colonel says to get to the top, hold on for everything we can. At dawn the navy will help, unless we can make it all the way up there first.”
“How the hell is the navy supposed to know that? You want me to stand up and wave?”
The question rolled through Adams’s brain in sleepy logic. He stepped closer, had to hear the response, expected some kind of punch line, like a bad Bob Hope joke, nonsensical lunacy. Wavy at the navy.
“Just get your people up that hill as quick as you can. The colonel is watching from his CP, and I’ll have a radio. There’s probably a bunch of wounded up there. Nobody really knows. That’s why you have to get there quick. Do whatever you can to scrub those Jap bastards off that hill. Dawn should come in a half hour. Now, move out.”
The men began to separate and Adams felt a strange disappointment, nothing funny at all in the officer’s instructions. But the nonsense of it all still rolled through him, and he tried to form a picture, his brain dancing strangely. Scrub a hill? This whole damn place needs scrubbing. This rain keeps up, the whole place might wash into the sea. The new image flickered through his brain, soldiers suddenly caught in some giant whirlpool, a flow through the great drain of a sewer, sliding down a long chute of mud, the entire island, airfields, straw huts, rats, snakes, and people, all washed out to sea. Wavy at the navy.
“Now!”
The word punched him, close to his ear, and he seemed to wake, blinked through rain in his eyes.
“What?”
“Move out, Private. You waiting for a taxi?”
It was Ferucci, and Adams realized others were close beside him, the familiar smell of Welty, distinct now, a low voice, “Got him, Sarge. Let’s move out.”
Adams felt his feet in motion, tried to blink through the fog in his brain, heard Welty beside him.
“You going crackers, sport? What’s so funny?”
Adams tried to sort out his friend’s words, said, “What? Nothing.”
“You were laughing like hell, couldn’t get you to stop. The looey was about to call for the doc to check you out.”
Adams felt his head clearing, the march awakening him, the thumping weight of the grenades throbbing against him with each step. He had a surge of panic, thought of the crack-ups. No, God no. Not now. Can’t leave these guys. He sorted through the officer’s words, a hill to take, our guys up there. Wounded. That’s bad. Gotta help ’em out.
“I’m okay. Just fell asleep I guess.”
“Here. Eat this.”
Adams took the cracker, softened by the rain, felt a different rumbling in his gut, healthier. It was actual