The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [139]
It seemed odd at first, that no matter how normal it was supposed to be, he had never become quite used to every enlisted man saluting him, calling him sir. But not out here, not in the battle zones, that order given to the men before any other. On Guam he had seen the mistakes, a careless reflex, a salute followed almost immediately by the snapping crack of a man’s head. The Japanese snipers had been amazingly accurate on both Guam and Saipan, and no matter the constant patrolling by the Marines, they seemed to be everywhere, doing their damage and then vanishing into thin air. The binoculars could be deadly as well, another agonizing lesson. The new lieutenants were the worst, straight-backed men right out of training, who thought leadership meant that in every confrontation with the enemy they should stand out like some statue on a battlefield, glassing the countryside. The image stayed with him even now, one statue in particular, blackened bronze, so distinctive at Gettysburg. The officer candidates had been hauled there on a field trip, training on the ground of the country’s bloodiest battle, lectured about the bad tactics of the Confederates. He had noticed what most hadn’t, what even the instructors ignored, that out there on Little Round Top, General Gouverneur K. Warren stood in perfect repose, out in the wide open, holding his binoculars, gazing out with what Porter had felt was stuffed-shirted pomposity, as though daring the Confederates to come up on his hill. Even then Porter knew the obvious, that if he became an officer, and joined the fighting, the tactics at Gettysburg involved muskets, not the weapons they would likely face from the Japanese. And yet in every battle, every island, he had seen the same pose, fresh-faced officers leading men for the first time, one distinct memory from Saipan, a green lieutenant rushing ashore, eager to find that good vantage point, scampering up that first piece of high ground to strike that pose. If those men were unlucky enough to be anywhere close to a Japanese sniper, they went down so quickly, their own platoon never even learned their name.
He knew those men had long gone, that any officers on this hill now were veterans. But we’re being chewed to pieces, he thought. They’ll be sending us help, damn sure of that. Replacements coming in all the time. But if they keep trying to climb this thing in broad daylight, none of those boys will survive long enough to find out what it’s like to do this … to watch your own men die while you sit in a pool of someone’s guts.
He thought of calling out, giving the loud order they would hear. But there was a shout below him, someone else giving an order of his own, and he saw a burst of activity, a flurry of M-1 fire aimed toward the cave, splats on the rocks above him. Men were in motion, a quick run across the open patch of rocky ground. They jumped down, tumbling into brush, and the Nambu gun responded, but too late, and now the M-1 fire slackened, the mission accomplished. But the Nambu kept up its fire, ripping across the rock, then into the brush, and he pictured what was happening in the cave, the Japanese gun crew, one more belt of ammo consumed. The cries came, the only words he had heard for some minutes, the cry he had heard before, in every place he had pushed through, all the way up the hill.
“Corpsman!”
“Corpsman!”
He pounded one fist against his leg, furious, aimed the carbine, fired one round across the opening of the cave, useless. His anger was aimed as much at himself as the enemy in their hole. Damn it all, do something! At least let the boys know you’re here, that you know what’s going on! Oh, yeah, then what? You gonna holler at them to keep their heads down? Yeah, a real leader. Be careful boys, you might get hurt. They’re your responsibility for God’s sake. He glanced back at what remained of the Japanese corpses,