The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [129]
“You’ve got plenty, you idiot. Your backpack’s full of K rations. I saw ’em. No time to eat now. We’ve gotta move. Somewhere, another hill. Light’s coming soon.”
The clarity seemed to flow through him, and he put a hand on a pocket of his jacket, felt a heavy wad of grenades. Good.
“You got a D ration?”
“Jesus, Clay. Been trying to feed you for days. Now you’re hungry? Hang on, I’ll grab one out of your pack. I know damn well you’ve got those too.”
Welty reached under the poncho, pulled something from Adams’s backpack, stuffed it in his hand. Adams ripped off the thin cardboard, stuffed it in his mouth. The chocolate bar was syrupy and delicious, and Adams felt an urgent need to eat a dozen more.
“Shut up! Space out!”
Adams knew Ferucci’s growl, savored the last thick taste of the chocolate, felt energized now, clamped his arm against the M-1 that hung from his shoulder. He raised his head, peered out past the hood of his poncho, saw the green glow of a distant flare, a clear image of the hill. But the sky was lightening, the first hint of sunrise, and he realized the rain had stopped. The men in front of him were visible now, shapes more clear, helmets and ponchos, rifle barrels, one man with a BAR slung up on his shoulder. More columns marched out beside them, a few yards away, and he saw a machine gun crew, three men, hauling the weapon, with the tripod and ammunition boxes. He looked out the other way, saw faces mostly looking down, the men spaced apart, more columns, all moving together, realized they were in the hundreds. The officer’s words came back to him, battalion. That’s us. Several companies. All going … where? A hill. He looked forward again, fog and mist, but the sounds were increasing, louder, the steady chatter of machine guns. He felt his heart beginning to race with a new energy, something he hadn’t felt before. He could see only glimpses of the hill, the fog thick, drifting. The machine gun fire opened up suddenly to the right, from some hidden place, some of it American, hard shocks from artillery shells coming down far into the fog. More of us, he thought. He shivered, the wetness still chilling him, but the excitement was growing as well. Across the rolling fields, in every direction, Marines were moving as he was, toward the same place, the fight that continued to spread out all across the ground he couldn’t see. He wanted to run, to jog, the aching stiffness in his legs gone, the energy building. It’s time, Clay. Look at these guys. And the Japs. They gotta know we’re coming. The fear was still there, the officer’s words coming back. So, this is very bad. We’re chewed up. They’re killing corpsmen, for God’s sake. Scrub the hill. He thought of a prayer, something he rarely did, but he couldn’t form the words, nothing meaningful. God doesn’t care, he thought. This is about men. Kill the bastards. We’ll tell God about it later.
The scream of an artillery shell came straight past him, coming down close behind. More came now, hints of red streaks in the dull light, coming toward them from far to the left. The calls went out, the men hurrying their pace, the impacts coming in closer, enemy gunners in far places finding the range. But there was no cover, no stopping, no orders to dig in. He saw Porter doing as others did, waving his men forward. Adams crossed a two-rut trail, a road thick with mud, the wreckage of a jeep, something else, black metal, destroyed, swallowed by the mud. Beyond the narrow road was open ground, and through black smoke he could see a round pit, nothing like a shell hole. It was wide and clear, and men were moving down into the natural cover. The edges were neatly formed, concrete in a circular arc. He had seen this before, in the north, one of the many tombs the Okinawan people had constructed for the interment of their ancestors. The C-shaped depressions were a natural defense for avoiding shrapnel, but as every lieutenant had pointed out, a direct hit would likely shred every man in the depressed