The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [170]
“Shut up! You see one, you blow him to hell!”
Welty’s words calmed him, the jerkiness easing, and Adams remembered the soldier he had killed, reload, slid a shell from the cartridge belt, slipped it into the shotgun’s magazine. Welty suddenly fired, shouted, “Duck!”
Adams obeyed, the grenade blast coming a few feet away, a shattering of rock that blew over him, punching and slicing into his side. He rolled that way, ran a hand down his arm, his side, his jacket ripped, shreds of cloth.
“Ah … I’m hit!”
Welty was there, on top of him, rolling him over, feeling, said, “No you’re not! Just tore up your fancy new duds.”
“You sure?”
“No blood, you idiot. You feel dead?”
Adams felt the rips in the jacket, dry, pieces of gravel against his skin, not quite hard enough to blow into him, to … shatter his arm. He stared at his hand, saw only the dried crust of blood from the Japanese soldier, thought, damn, that was lucky as hell.
“Thanks!”
Welty rolled away, said, “Yeah, I get a medal ’cause you got lucky. Just keep your eyes open. We won’t be staying here long. The brass will want us to keep going.”
“No, not now.”
The voice came from below Adams’s feet and he saw Gibson, the new lieutenant crawling on his knees and elbows, the carbine cradled in his arms. “Stay right here! They’re sending up another unit to go past us.” He raised up, shouted out. “Everybody, you all stay where you’re at. We’re supposed to hold this crest—”
The man’s helmet popped off and he slumped suddenly, facedown in the rocks. Adams stared, frozen, and Welty shouted, “Corpsman!”
“Here!”
The corpsman scrambled up the hill, and Adams caught sight of the medical bag, could see it was brand-new, the man staring at him with sweating terror. Adams pointed, said, “There, they hit the looey!”
“The what?”
“Right there! The man that’s down!”
“Yeah! Okay! What do I do?”
Welty scrambled past Adams, below his feet, jerked the bag from the man’s hand, shouted into his face, “How long you been out here?”
“Don’t know. Just got here!”
Welty didn’t respond, rolled the lieutenant over, turned away quickly, said, “Never mind.” He handed the frightened corpsman his bag, said, “Keep your ass down, right here! We’ll need that damn bag!”
Welty moved back up beside Adams, and Adams saw the furious glare, Welty mumbling, “What the hell’s going on back there? They send us children to play doctor?”
Adams stared at Gibson’s body, the feeling too familiar now, sickening helplessness. Welty said, “Right between the eyes. He never felt a thing. Let go of it. Do your job!”
“Yeah … sure.”
Adams looked back down the hill, could see a new wave of Marines coming up, men carrying thirties, mortar crews. The ridge was still peppered by firing, but most of the Japanese troops had either pulled away or were among the scattered dead. Already stretcher bearers were coming up, gathering up the wounded, the sounds of the fight replaced more by the sound of men, the voices, sharp screams, curses. Beside him Welty said, “Hey, Clay. Your new boots look like hell.”
23. ADAMS
MEZADO RIDGE, SOUTHERN OKINAWA
JUNE 18, 1945
The company had stayed on the ridge, the fortunate men sleeping in foxholes. The others made do with shelter halves, some with ponchos for pillows. They had stayed alert, the two-man buddy system again, but if there were Japanese there at all, they had mostly seemed content to stay in their holes. By dawn, another wave of Marines had passed through their position, a new attack on the next ridge, a place someone called Kawanga. The ridges ran like fingers out across