The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [140]
The thirty caliber opened fire again, below him and to the left, and Porter eased his head forward, saw a frustrated glimpse in his direction from one of the men. It answered a mystery. Okay, yeah, they know I’m here. But they’re in no place to do any good. None of us are. To his right the Nambu gun opened again, and Porter slid that way, to the edge of his cover. The rock just above him splintered, a hard crack, and he dropped low, his face in the mud, his helmet jarred to the side. He cursed himself, thought, somebody else knows I’m here too. But that sounded like M-1 fire. If I get killed by one of my own boys … Okay, then don’t. He pulled his helmet straight, spit the filthy mud from his mouth, clamped down on the gag rising in his throat. He punched his arm in the air, a quick short wave with the carbine. See? It’s one of us, you idiot. In front of him the Nambu fired again, the wisps of smoke drifting out of the cave’s opening, and he stared that way, thought, that son of a bitch is right there, perched for all the world on his rocky little hole, thinking no one can get to him. He scanned the hill above the gun, no place to go, no footholds but open rock, putting him in the wide open, knew the Japanese up higher would see anything he tried to do. Dammit! The grenades in his pocket jabbed against his leg, and he felt a sudden spark, a burst of an idea. The grenade was in his hand now, and he gripped it hard, the idea growing, leaping through his brain. He laughed, manic tension, thought, well, how about a little slow-pitch softball? He glanced back at the narrow pool of black water, his shallow pit of cover, thought, this might work. It might kill you in the process, but if you’re any good at this, it could take that bastard out. He held tight to the grenade, pulled the pin, took a breath, counted in his head, practiced the rhythm of seconds, one … two … three … okay, that’s about right. Play ball.
He eased up to his knees, the grenade handle still gripped tightly, then he opened his fingers, the handle popping out, igniting the fuse, and he counted out loud, “One … two …”
He lobbed the grenade in a high arc, underhanded, like a softball, the slow pitch, then rolled back into the mud, pulled himself as low as he could. The blast came in midair, out in front of the rocks, and he raised his head, stared through the smoke, grabbed another grenade, ready for the same trick. But there was a new sound, a grunting cry, and suddenly a man rolled forward, straight out of the rocky face of the hill. The man tumbled down, gathering rocks as he went, slid to a stop in a patch of thorny stubble. A cheer came from below, but Porter kept his head down, heard cheers close by as well, the crew of the thirty. I’ll be damned, he thought. It worked. Slow-pitch softball. They don’t call it that in training, of course. Proximity blast. That’s how it’s done. He knew that the one silenced gun wouldn’t give them relief for long, stood now, letting the men below see him clearly. The men responded, no sounds, just movement, some of them climbing up from hidden holes and cracks, scampering upward, toward him. Immediately the blast of a mortar erupted down to one side, then another, another Nambu gun, farther along the slope, another grenade tumbling down from above him. The Marines responded with fire of their own, another thirty, farther down, M-1 fire, and he waited for the smoke to thin out, thought, at least it’s something. They found new targets. Just keep those bastards above me in their holes, just for a few seconds … let me get to that cave. Sure as hell, there are more Japs in that cave moving up to take that gun crew’s place. He kept a low crouch, saw men still in motion, using the smoke for cover, moving past fresh bodies, wounded men, rifle fire coming down from above. The M-1s answered, and now another thirty caliber, farther away, the rocks overhead pinging, shattering, a body suddenly rolling down right in front of him, past his perch, crashing