The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [169]
Across the sloping ground, Marines kept up their push, some firing point blank into spider holes, Japanese soldiers still rising up, some throwing grenades, shot down almost immediately. The thirties were still seeking targets, one burst splitting the air close above Adams, and he ducked low, his face close to the Japanese uniform, filth and blood. He wanted to back away, the smells sour, gut turning, thought, good cover. Welty stays, you stay.
There were voices across the hill now, the lieutenants pulling their men up from whatever cover they had found. Adams peered up carefully, and Welty said, “Time to go. Damn, I liked this place.”
Welty jumped up, and Adams followed, stepped up and over the stack of bodies, his boot pushing down into soft slop. He ran, following Welty, saw more Marines all out across the ridge, some firing toward Japanese soldiers on the ridgeline, some throwing grenades, fire in both directions. The brush thinned toward the top, the Japanese mostly in the open, some running, some ripped down by the fire from the Marines, some from the thirties down the hill. The grenades arced over from the crest of the hill, the same tactic the Japanese had used so many times before. Closer to the ridgeline, the Marines tossed over their own, the deadly, ridiculous game. Welty still ran, Adams desperate to keep up, the rocks difficult, clawing at his boots, a body underfoot, a Marine, and Adams flinched, tried not to step on the man, was past now, movements to his right, close beside Welty, a Japanese soldier rising up, a bayonet, Welty unaware. Adams shouted, but there was too much noise, no time, and he leveled the shotgun at his hip, fired into the man from a few feet away. The soldier collapsed, folded over, the blast ripping his gut. Welty glanced that way but didn’t slow down. Adams ignored the man he had killed, too many Japanese troops rising up from their cover, some tossing grenades. He aimed the shotgun, sighted down the barrel, scanning, waiting, and one man rose up suddenly, half visible behind a bush, the grenade in his hand, thumping it on his own helmet. Adams fired straight into the man’s face, the helmet blown away, the Japanese soldier collapsing in a heap, the grenade going off right where the body had fallen. The dust and smoke was rolling past, thicker toward the ridgeline, no visibility at all, choking stink of powder. The machine gun fire from behind had stopped, the Marine gunners seeing too many of their own on the hill. From beyond the crest the mortars came, more grenades, one arcing toward him, bounding on the rocks, right to Adams’s feet. He kicked at it, panic, shouted out, but the grenade just smoked, no explosion, a dud, and Welty grabbed his arm, said, “Hit those rocks up there! Get ready … there’s Japs right over the top!”
Welty threw himself forward, flattened, and Adams did the same, could see Marines lining up along the best cover, rugged coral rocks, whatever brush they could find. To one side Adams saw Mortensen, the tall man curling his legs in tight, one small boulder protecting him, saw Gridley, the BAR, the squad somehow keeping close through all the chaos. The firing was mostly one-sided now, Marines finding targets down the far side of the ridge, the Japanese scrambling away, some dropping down into holes, the mouths of caves, mostly hidden.
Mortensen called out, “Watch behind us! Those bastards might still be in those holes!”
Adams glanced back down the hill, many more Marines spreading