The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [168]
“Double-time it. Move up to the hill, spread out!”
The men obeyed instantly, and Adams scrambled after Welty, saw cuts in the earth, shell holes, debris scattered in every direction. As before, most of the vegetation was obliterated, some burned into rough stubble, some uprooted, blasted trees, the blobs of earth at their base making for good cover. The Nambu began again, still on the far side of the hill, and Adams followed Welty’s lead, dropped low, held the shotgun at the ready. But there was nothing to shoot at, no sign of activity, the churned-up ground showing swirls of dust from a light breeze.
Behind him there was a sudden rip of fire from a Nambu gun, a man’s scream, and now movement through a brush line, flickers of fire. The men fell flat but the Japanese fire was coming from every angle, holes in the ground suddenly revealing their occupants. Adams hugged the shotgun, the crack and whistle from the Japanese weapons close overhead, heard cries from all across the hill. The sound of thirties erupted behind them, a machine gun platoon coming up to the base of the ridge. But the targets were elusive, the men close to Adams keeping low, no one returning fire. A man ran past him, the quick scamper of footsteps, and he heard a single thunderous blast close by, Welty, the shotgun. Adams turned, frantic, saw the Japanese soldier tumbling down, Welty pumping a new shell into the shotgun’s breech, lying flat again.
“Got him! Dammit! These sons of bitches …”
The thirties kept up their sporadic fire, desperate machine gunners trying to find targets, the Japanese mingling in with the Marines. But more of the Marines were finding targets of their own, some suddenly caught in a hand-to-hand struggle. Welty fired the shotgun again, and Adams peered up, a burst of Nambu fire close over his head, driving him flat again.
“Jack! Nambu to the right!”
“I know! You want me to shake his hand? I can smell the damn powder!”
Adams felt his breathing in heavy gasps, red dust on his face, choking, rolled over, thin brush his only cover. He waited for the Nambu to go silent, thought, change belts, right? Reload … right now. He leaned up, sitting position, searched frantically, saw the barrel of the Nambu, movement behind a thick bush. He raised the shotgun, no time to aim, fired, the brush blown into pieces, leaves falling. He pumped the shotgun, fired again, the Nambu silent, the barrel suddenly rolling to the side. Welty was up, crawling quickly, moved to the gun, shotgun pointed in, fired, no sounds at all from the Japanese gunners. He waved back toward Adams, a shout, “Here!”
Adams crawled as well, a crack of rifle fire over his head, kept moving. He reached the brush, close to Welty, saw the gunners, four men, a heap of blood and shattered flesh, the Nambu on its side, one man lying across it, his face nearly gone.
“Good work!”
Welty slapped his arm, then crawled in among the gunners, settled low, said, “Here! Good cover. Bodies!”
Adams slid in beside him, shoved one man up on another, a small embankment of human flesh, felt the slick wetness, blood on his hands. A single thump impacted the body closest to him, sickening sound, the smell of the blood and the stinking Japanese bodies engulfing him. He was breathing heavily, his heart racing, said, “What now? What do we do?”
Welty peered up, cold fury in his eyes, placed the shotgun up on the bodies, a perfect perch, said, “Sit right here! Watch for Japs, anybody moves close, blow ’em to hell. Reload your shotgun, you fired twice.”
“No, just once.”
“You fired twice! Reload!”
Adams was ready for the argument,