The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [134]
Ferucci turned his face, inches from Adams’s.
“I know that, you idiot. What the hell are you doing about it? You got grenades?”
The question required no answer, and Ferucci pushed himself off Adams, backed away, into the open, the ledge, crouched low, looked up at the rocky spit above them. He yanked a grenade from his shirt, pulled the pin, backed up another step, Adams wanting to pull him back, new cracks of fire striking the rocks beside his feet. But Ferucci held his ground, reached one arm out, tossed the grenade up high, then collapsed back into Adams. The blast was muffled by so many others, but the burst of smoke came now, blowing out above them.
“That’s how it’s done, you jackass! Now let’s get up this damn hill!”
Ferucci backed off him again, stared up, frantic eyes searching for a way to reach the larger rocks above. He crouched low, moved to one side, looked up again, and Adams saw the ball of steel, the grenade coming down, bouncing once, rolling right between Ferucci’s feet. The sergeant saw it as well, reached down low, but the grenade exploded, blew against Adams as a punch of mud and splinters of rock. He cried out, animal sound, pain and terror, waited for the smoke to clear, felt nothing, no wounds, no pain. He pried himself out of the rocks, saw what remained of Ferucci, the man’s legs gone completely, his crotch split open, a river of blood flowing down the rocks below. The man’s face showed shock, his mouth open, and slowly the sergeant’s torso rolled over, tumbled down the hill, disappeared, hidden suddenly by another blast, a mortar shell, that drove Adams back against the rocks. He covered his eyes, wiped at the dust, felt sick, tears, deafened, blinded by more smoke, shoved himself harder into the tight crack in the rocks. Another grenade suddenly appeared, dropping off the rock ledge, bouncing down, but away, below, into the burnt brush, and he lowered his head, the explosion adding to the dust and smoke. His chest was heaving, pain in his throat, a desperate need to cry out, the horror searing through him, changing now to anger. They killed the sarge! They killed him! The fury grew, exploding in his chest, raw red hatred, and he felt a sudden desperate need, an urgency to kill them, to kill anyone, to grab the enemy and tear the man in half. His brain froze for a brief second, a strange image in his mind, the ship, the lieutenant, ripping the steak into pieces, throwing it hard against the bulkhead. Adams stared into the smoke, new blasts around him, and he sobbed for a long minute, helpless again, yelled out, “Porter!”
It was stupid, and he knew it, no way the lieutenant should respond, if he was there at all. Adams fought to control the panic, the fury, heard a sound, right above him, like some twisted echo.
“Porter! Porter … come out!”
He wasn’t fooled, knew it was the Japanese. The voice made him focus, the enemy suddenly real, close, a target. The horror had turned into a sick game now, and he called back.
“You first!”
From below the BAR suddenly erupted, splattering the rock he lay against, the far side, and he was frozen, paralyzed, wanted to scream out, it’s me, you damn idiot … but then the body fell, straight across in front of him, rolled down, through the pool of slop that was Ferucci’s legs. The man was Japanese.
“Got him!”
The voice belonged to Gridley, and now a new voice came, from somewhere below.
“Let’s go! We don’t move up, they’re coming down!”
It was Welty.
The Marines below Adams responded, a surge of motion, another burst of fire from the BAR, a Japanese soldier tumbling down out of the rocks just above him. The M-1s began to fire, upward, far above him, and he saw the men emerging from their cover. The rifle fire continued, answered by the Nambu gun, others, farther along the hill, and Adams pulled himself free from the tight squeeze, frustrated and furious, knelt low, some of the fire from the others striking the rocks dangerously close to him. He crawled forward, to the edge of the drop-off, saw the Japanese body, the smoke