The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [133]
He leaned slightly away from the rocks, the rifle ready, no one in sight but glimpses of Marines. He realized he hadn’t seen Ferucci since the climb had started, or Welty, had no time to pay attention to faces and names as he scrambled up into cover. Above him there had been a steady mix of Nambu fire and the distinct pop of a carbine, plus scattered rounds coming from M-1s in places Adams had not yet seen. He thought of Porter, hadn’t seen him either, felt the usual stab of panic, thought, if he’s dead … what do we do? How in hell does anybody give orders up here? His brain fought with itself, forcing his panic away. Just do what he said. Climb. Get to the top. Kill Japs. He repeated that to himself. Kill Japs. But you’re safe here. Right here. Maybe. The bastards are everywhere. But so are we. This is stupid as hell! Is this what we’re supposed to do? Porter would know. Welty knows. He’s done this before. Where the hell is he? He can’t be dead. Can’t be. Dammit, I can’t just stay here.
From his wedged-in position, Adams could see nothing but smoke, movement out to one side, in one low depression, the thirty-caliber, the men changing position, one man holding two ammo boxes. Good. Ammo. Use it! The man suddenly crumpled, as though the boxes were too heavy, dragging him down at the knees, but Adams shook his head, one word, “No!”
The others in the crew pulled the man into someplace Adams couldn’t see, and he pressed himself back into the craggy gap, closed his eyes. I can’t just watch this. That man was shot. Dead maybe. What the hell do I do? He felt like crying, the fear draining everything away, and he tried to keep the shivering away, furious at himself. Coward! Do something! His best view was straight up, the rock, the Japanese voices, and the Nambu gun began to fire again, the woodpecker chatter close above him. He stared at the rock, black, thick, ugly, caught movement at his feet just below the ledge, and he jerked the M-1 that way, terrified surprise. He saw the helmet, the poncho, a hand on the ledge, gripping rocks, one leg swinging up on the ledge, the man rolling close to Adams’s wedge in the rocks. The man was on his knees, low on the narrow strip of flat rock, and the face turned up toward Adams, a shock for both of them. He saw white circles around the man’s eyes, his face blackened with mud and ash and a smear of blood. It was Ferucci.
“Sarge!”
Ferucci stared at him with pure frozen hate, said nothing at all, seemed confused, but then came clarity, recognition, and the sergeant nodded toward him, still silent. Behind him, below the ledge, a mortar shell suddenly erupted, showering both men with muddy ash, Ferucci down flat on the narrow slab of rock. Adams blew the dust away, blinked through the smoke.
“Sarge!”
Ferucci rose to his knees again, didn’t seem to be hit, and Adams was crying now, didn’t know what else to do. Ferucci stood suddenly, fell hard against Adams, pushing himself into the narrow crack, jamming Adams back even harder in the rock, hissed sharply into Adams’s ear.
“Shut up! Japs everywhere! Everybody’s scared! Get over it, you piece of shit!”
Adams said nothing, fought for control, the wind crushed out of him from Ferucci’s pressure. The sergeant was breathing heavily, a low growl, “Sons of bitches. They’re everywhere! Nobody’s getting off this hill until nightfall. Anybody moves out into the open, they’re chopped into meat! I’m not ready to be wrapped in this damn poncho!”
“Sarge, where’s the looey?”
“Why? You think he knows what the hell we’re supposed to do?”
“I just thought …”
“Shut up. Your job is to kill Japs, not think.”
The words made an odd kind of sense, and Adams cleared his brain, focused on the sergeant’s rifle, the grenades Adams could feel pressing against him. He whispered close to Ferucci’s ear, “Right above us. That rock ledge.