The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [146]
He froze, no words, and Adams probed the silence, heard voices, Japanese, straight down the hill, distant, out of the line of sight. Welty slid backward, the others doing the same, no need for orders. It was only a few yards back to the trench, but Welty stayed on his belly, the others mimicking him. In the trench again, more men gathered, and Adams saw a new wave of men coming up into the trench, saw another of the sergeants, Mortensen, men speaking to him with low urgency, hands pointing toward Welty. Mortensen was a lean, lanky man, older, a touch of gray hair, rough face and sharp blue eyes. He was breathing heavily, carried a Thompson on his shoulder, one of the few men in the company who preferred the weapon that was only practical at close range. Welty moved close to him, seemed dwarfed by the man, said quietly, “Lots of Japs down below. Looks like we drove them back.”
“We didn’t drive anybody anywhere. They gave us this ridgeline so they can cut us off. Pretty sure of that. There’s caves that probably go straight through this damn hill. They can hit us from anyplace they like. The caves we passed coming up here are still full of ’em, and we could be in a pile of shit up here. We found several narrow caves out to the right, and one of my men thought he’d check it out, and got blown to hell. Our grenades just chased the Japs in deeper. Unless somebody sends up some relief, we’re probably done for. I plan to go down fighting, if I have to kick hell out of every one of those yellow bastards with my boot heels.” He paused, and Adams saw nothing to suggest that Mortensen didn’t mean exactly what he said. Mortensen scanned the position, said, “What’s on our right flank?”
“Two thirties made it up this far, and I sent one down that way, where that brush begins. Looked like good cover. The other’s out to the left, but the rocks are smaller. There’s a passel of Japs right down below us on the far side. Lots of activity on the far hills too.”
Mortensen nodded toward Welty, said, “Good job.”
Welty hesitated, glanced around.
“Uh … Sergeant Ballard was here. Not sure where he went.”
Mortensen didn’t change his expression, said, “Doesn’t matter where he went. You seen Porter?”
“He’s dead.”
Mortensen lowered his head.
“Damn. At least four more looeys down to the right got it. Saw the stretcher bearers, and the Japs hammered them too, sons of bitches. The corpsmen ran out of stretchers down that way, and were using ponchos, but then we ran out of corpsmen. One colonel got it too, I heard. You heard from Bennett? You got a radio, anything?”
“Uh, no. Sarge, I’m only a private.”
Mortensen absorbed that, shook his head.
“Even the Corps makes mistakes. Unless somebody tells us different, we spend the night right here. You’re in charge from this point left. I’ll go back to the right. My own squad is mostly gone. Maybe one or two still alive. Never seen anything like this one. No place to hide, nothing to use for cover. The damn mortars …” Mortensen seemed to catch himself, raised up, the sea of faces close by watching the conversation. “All of you … you listen to this man! Until I say different, do what he says!”
The order was as short as it needed to be, no one objecting, except Welty.