The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [151]
“Oh God! Oh God! Doc! I need a doc!”
Welty slid back away from his small rock pile, down into the hole, right into the thickest smoke from the blast. Adams whispered, “You okay?”
“Do your job!”
There was no other response, and Adams was frantic now, turned back, searched the ground in front of him for any sign of movement, still trying to hear through the ringing in his ears, wanted to call out, to ask how bad it was, but there could be no sound. He wasn’t sure how many men had been down in the deeper hole, had pulled one of the wounded down there himself, helped by another man, anonymous in the darkness. Adams tried to breathe, to clear the misery of smoke and burning powder from his lungs, heard the man cry again, softer, could hear a flurry of muffled motion, and now, one more word, a faint, gentle sound.
“Mama …”
No one spoke, a long second, and then a familiar voice, from beyond the low place, the growl Adams knew well: Yablonski.
“We gotta shut him up!”
Welty responded, an angry whisper.
“Shut you up! He’s done!”
Adams looked that way, felt swallowed by the smells from the low ground, the explosives blending with the awful soup of what remained of the men. He knew the deep place had been crowded, the wounded laid together, thought of the men who had tried to help them, no one he knew. He heard more scuffling, a low curse from Welty. Out the other way, along the hillside, Adams heard a soft rustle, and now, a few feet away, a low voice.
“He want mama? You want mama?”
Adams jerked around, nothing, darkness, but the accent was too clear and he yanked the M-1 that way, groped for the trigger, felt the grenade drop onto him, a dull thunk that jarred his helmet. Adams made a shout, desperate fear, felt the grenade with his hand, flung it out toward the voice, dropped his face to the mud, the blast immediate, close, splinters of steel ripping the soft ground around him, a punch striking his arm. He yelped again, pulled the arm in tightly, heard another cry, could see movement in the darkness, the Japanese soldier stumbling, a noisy stagger, falling away, groaning. Adams felt his heart exploding in his chest, fired the M-1, the flashes blinding him. The clip popped out of the rifle, and he rolled, tried to reach the cartridge belt, realized his arm was burning, sharp pain. His fear turned again to panic and he heard a sharp whisper, close beside him.
“You hit? Get back here!”
Welty was there now, pulling Adams by the pant leg, lower into the hole, and Adams hooked the unhurt arm through the strap of the M-1, grabbed the wound with his free hand, was shaking, the panic unyielding.
“I’m hit! My arm! Jap was right there!”
“Shut up! Get down here.”
Adams let Welty pull him down, hit level ground, his feet sliding hard into another man, no protest.
“Sorry …”
“Shut up. Nobody alive here. Just sit tight. Might have to use the bodies for cover. Some of ’em are fresh. It’ll be different tomorrow.”
The smell of the bodies was overwhelming him, combining with the fear, the sweet sickly smell of blood and insides, a powerful odor of excrement. Adams held the arm tight against him, tried to ease his feet off the body, waves of sickness rolling through him. Welty pulled on his arm, Adams resisting, but relaxing now, Welty wrapping something on the wound, a soft whisper, “Best we can do for bandages. It’s not bad, doesn’t feel like you’re bleeding much. You need morphine?”
“No … don’t think so.”
An M-1 popped twice from out beyond the low place, where Yablonski had been, and now the thunderous clap from the BAR rolled across, streaks cutting across the hillside. The sounds jarred him, some kind of cheer from Yablonski, and Adams tried to grip the rifle, the wound in his arm like a stabbing torch, his feet now pressed hard into the soft pieces of the man just below him. He stared up into the darkness, skyward, nothing at all, hints of shadows from the rocks, the rolling rattle of shellfire from the fight that still spread across