The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [141]
They came out of their cover and he waited, watched them, saw that most of the ponchos were gone, some of the men shirtless, their skin shining like white torches in the black rock. But there was no time to chew anyone out, the thought flashing through his brain: It’s going to rain again, you idiots. Then what? We’ll stop the war so you can get a raincoat? Morons. You can’t all be my boys. But, right now … get your asses up this hill.
He watched them through the smoke, saw faces, eyes peering under helmets, staring up, the men moving closer. More men were coming from farther down, across the open rocks, and he wanted to halt that, stop them, but there was no time, the men following each other automatically. The distant Nambu gun found them now, shots in quick succession, more rifle fire from above. Some of the Marines reached the brushy holes, but others simply fell, some rolling away, two men lying where they dropped. He closed his eyes, cursed loudly, glanced toward the cave, no sign of anyone new, shouted out, “Up here! Brush along the rock to the right! Climb like hell!”
He had sent them in the direction of the thirty’s crew, knew only that the cluster of cover there seemed to hide those men for a longer time than he had been in his own perch. Whether they heard his order or not, men were moving up that way, and he saw a handful of men reaching the brush, sliding forward, some right into the machine gunners’ laps. The mortar shells came again, the Japanese far above reacting to the new surge of movement, and the blasts ripped all across the hillside, but mostly farther down, into the fresher men who had just begun their climb. He watched the men closer to him coming up, the distant Nambu gun ripping into them, more men collapsing, some just hitting the deck, taking cover where there was no cover, no other place to hide. Another mortar shell impacted, closer up the hill, blowing dust and rock skyward, and he dropped down again, splashing the watery filth. The cries came again, wounded men, hopeless requests for a corpsman. The shock of the blast drifted away, and the fury returned, different now, thoughts of generals and their plans. This is bullshit! This isn’t a plan, it’s raw perfect stupidity. He recalled Bennett’s words, passed along from the colonel. Get to the top. Straight up. Sure, any other time this hill is a hefty jog, a good training run. Did somebody back in those tents forget there’s a million damn Japs up here? He had long understood why enlisted men seemed to hate officers, some hiding it better than others. Well, right now, I’m with you boys.
He heard a scrape on the rocks, was surprised to see faces appear, three men, filthy, wide-eyed, clambering up the rocks toward his watery crater. They saw him now, gasping relief, tumbled forward, splashing close to him. They seemed oblivious to the stench, low breathless voices, one man familiar, and Porter knew it was the loudmouthed jerk, Yablonski.
“There’s Japs right above us! Saw ’em. They just sat up there and watched us come.” Yablonski seemed to realize who Porter was now, but his expression didn’t change. The man had carried an angry stare with him for the eighteen months Porter had him in his platoon. “So, looey, what you want us to do now?”
Porter looked at the others, one man unfamiliar, the other, the redhead, smudged glasses, the name coming to him. Private Welty.
“Well, we can’t stay here, that’s for sure. They probably watched you so they know where you were gonna end up. Grenades will be next.” Porter paused, stared up, thought of leaving the precious nest, gave out a long breath. “The cave, over there. We make a dash for that. Each of you, pull a grenade, have it ready. Hell, pull the pin in case we come face-to-face with those bastards. One thing, they’ll be surprised. Might be the only advantage we