The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [150]
Adams had stayed as close to Welty as he could, and the others in their squad, even the ever-hostile Yablonski, had accepted Welty’s authority as absolute. Others who had stayed higher on the hill had fought on as best they could manage, an extraordinary game of hot potato as grenades flew across the crest of the hill from men on both sides. But the Japanese had the advantage, greater number, and, apparently, greater supply of grenades, fed to them from the supply caves on the south side of the hill. With the grenade war becoming a lopsided affair, many of those Marines who could still move had done what Welty had done, obeyed the panicky instinct to pull back to some kind of safety, every man hearing the order in his brain, whether passed on to him by an officer or not. Get off the hill.
The flash of fire blinded him yet again, a cascade of broken rock and mud burying them, the smoke burning his lungs. Adams waited for it to clear, holding his breath as long as he could, kept his face straight down into the soft, putrid dirt. He raised his head, blinked through the blindness, the flecks in his eyes, knew that with each blast the enemy had come forward, low scampering shadows who waited for their own mortars to clear the way before launching themselves straight into wherever the Marines might be. He pointed the M-1, searched frantically for movement, did not fire. With no targets, a flash from his own rifle would just tell the closest enemy where he was, and it was a certainty that a grenade would follow. Welty was pulled up beside a small rock pile close to him, a makeshift barricade Welty had gathered in the first minute they had stopped. Adams kept himself flat in the muddy depression, desperate optimism that a wad of uprooted brush might protect him, still tried to dig himself in wherever it was soft. Behind them Adams knew there were others spread out in a low gash in the rock, some beyond, up the far side. In the lowest place wounded had been dragged, a gesture of desperation, no corpsmen or medical bags to be found. Those who were conscious had done an admirable job of keeping quiet, muffled cries from men whose limbs were shattered, whose chests had been battered by shrapnel from a grenade or ripped by the shards of steel from a mortar shell. Adams kept his stare on a bare rocky plane, sloping ground that led away into nooks and crevices he could not see. He glanced toward Welty, knew Welty was doing as he did, pointing the M-1 outward, would pour a clip of fire toward anything that could be Japanese. Adams gripped the K-bar knife in his left hand, clamped against the stock of the rifle. It was awkward, a clumsy way to shoot, but marksmanship meant very little now, and having the knife ready for immediate use was more of a priority now than it had ever been in a foxhole.
He let out a breath, good night vision, searched with stinging eyes for any flicker of motion. Without any warning another mortar round came down, a hard blast down behind him, the force jarring him off the ground, something hard striking his feet and legs. He yelped, pulled his feet up close, panic, rubbing one hand on his legs, wiping through mud and filth. But there was no pain, no sign that he had been struck by more than the debris tossed out of the deeper hole by the round. But then a new thought came, no, my God … and he jerked his head around, stared into smoky black dark, wiped his face, saw flickers of