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By Root 1566 0

Sugar Loaf Hill was hardly a solid chunk of rock. The Marines were assaulted from a network of caves and tunnels that made the hill more like a great fat honeycomb, hollow in ways the Marines were just figuring out. For most of the day they had no choice but to lie flat, seeking cover while trying to fight an enemy who might be anywhere at all. Some who had managed to reach the ragged rocks higher up the slope soon found rifle fire coming at them from behind, Japanese troops firing through narrow slits and spider holes that a man could step right over. Out in the open fields, American tanks attempted to drive close, but other than scattered shots at fleeting glimpses of targets, the gunners had little to do. The Marines were spreading out right in the midst of their enemy, and any shellfire would just as likely kill friend as foe. Worse for the tanks, the Marine riflemen who had been ordered to stay close, protecting the armor from suicidal Japanese soldiers, found that the tanks offered no protection at all from the impact of mortar shells. The tanks themselves were immediately vulnerable to a new threat, expertly aimed anti-tank weapons, fired, like everything else, from carefully disguised positions. Realizing their chaotic predicament, the tanks that were not quickly destroyed were forced to withdraw, seeking shelter far back from the network of hills. Most of the Marines were too occupied with survival and raw combat to notice that the tanks had left them to fight on alone. But any Marines who remained out on the open ground, or who attempted to reach the base of the hill, suffered the worst. With nowhere to hide, many of them were simply swept away in a storm of fire.

The rain came again, but only a brief shower, muddying the already wet soil beneath him. Adams had squeezed himself between two sharp rocks, filling a gap no more than the width of his chest, the ledge beneath his feet less than a yard wide. Around him men were firing in every direction, some lying flat in shallow remnants of burned brush, others rolling over in the mud, then rolling again, trying desperately to avoid the enemy fire as they fought in the wide open. Adams had reached the narrow ledge by climbing up past several of the other men, no one paying any attention, each man fighting his own war. He had given himself a single minute of rest, trying to catch his breath, to gather his senses, the roar of shellfire and weapons around him relentless. After a painful moment he loosened himself from the tight squeeze, struggled to pull a clip from the belt across his chest, rammed it into the M-1, stared straight up, a craggy rock jutting out a few feet over his head. There had been a stream of fire coming from above the rock, and he was close enough to hear hints of shouting in Japanese. Already Adams had tried to warn anyone who drew close, but his own shouts were useless, drowned out by the noise, the men below him mostly beyond his sight, focused solely on avoiding the steady storms of machine gun fire. A fresh cloud of smoke flowed along the face of the hill, settling into low pockets in the rough rock, and he struggled to breathe, the smoke offering momentary cover to the men most vulnerable. He saw flickers of motion, some of the Marines below him trying to move up, to advance away from the flatter depressions, several climbing up where he could see them. There were familiar faces, all of them plastered with dirt and sweat, staring up and out with wide-eyed terror. To one side, beyond the rock that jammed against him, he knew Yablonski was there, and close below him, Gridley had the BAR. Adams caught a glimpse of the big man’s helmet, had seen Pop Gorman’s face, a brief glimpse of the man who fed the BAR, more fear than Adams wanted to see. Within his limited field of vision, Adams caught sight of rifle barrels, heard the close rattle of a thirty-caliber machine gun, a crew somehow hauling their weapon up through the rocks. In the moments of calm, brief seconds of silence, Yablonski’s curses came from the left side of him, a chorus of furious