The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [172]
“Right here. One of the boys saw somebody drop down into this mess. Give it a shout.”
The interpreter moved closer, obviously skittish, shouted, “De-te-koi! De-te-koi! Shimpachina!”
Adams stood close beside Bennett, Mortensen on the other side, both with their shotguns aimed at the hole, and Mortensen asked the question that rolled through Adams’s mind.
“What’s he saying?”
Bennett responded, “ ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ Or something close.”
Mortensen said, “He should try, ‘Come out or we’ll blow you to hell.’ ”
The interpreter was still nervous, looked back at Bennett, said, “Again, Captain?”
Bennett gave the man a scathing stare, said in a low voice, “You call me captain again and I’m going to have every man in this company fall in, call you general, and give you a big salute. You know what a sniper is, you jackass?”
“Uh … yes … sorry.”
Noises came from the cave now, a woman’s voice, fast jabbering. Adams gripped the shotgun with cold, anxious fingers, felt the stab in his chest. No, please God, not a woman. She appeared now, a filthy billowing dress, bowed several times, terror in her eyes. She dropped to her knees, crying fitfully, the interpreter moving up close, low talk, something comforting.
Bennett said, “Get back away from her, you stupid—”
The blast erupted into both of them, the woman’s dress flying into shreds, a bloody mass, knocking the interpreter backward. Bennett shouted, “Grenade! Son of a bitch! Corpsman! Get a corpsman up here!”
Adams stared, shocked, helpless, Mortensen watching beside him as a corpsman rushed forward, leaning low over the man. Another moved up close and Bennett said, “Stay back! Just need one. Too damn dangerous. Could be more grenades on that bitch.”
The interpreter was screaming, and Adams saw bloody rips across his chest, one leg ripped open, a huge empty gash in his gut. Bennett turned to Mortensen, said, “Spread your men out around this hole. Those bastards are still in there. They just sent this one out for laughs. You got phosphorus?”
“Yep.”
“Use it.”
A voice came from the sloping hillside beyond the cave’s opening, one man waving, pointing downward.
“Here! Air shaft!”
Bennett called up, “You have phosphorus?”
“No. All out!”
The captain pointed to Adams, surprising him, said, “Take a phosphorus grenade up there. Drop it in.”
Adams scrambled to obey, climbed up along the rough ground, toward the Marine who had made the find, saw now it was Gorman, the older man. Gorman was excited, pointed his M-1 down toward a round hole, a piece of pipe, just barely above the level of the ground.
“I love this. Stupid bastards think we’re blind or something. People wonder how these sons of bitches live in caves. Here’s how, kid.” Adams saw the pipe, no more than four inches across, hidden by a small clump of brush. Adams pulled the grenade from his jacket pocket, felt an odd shaking in his hands, had not used the brutal weapon yet. Gorman said, “Phosphorus? Good! Let the bastards have it!”
Others were gathering and Gorman seemed jumpy, giddy, unusual. Gorman pointed into the hole.
“Listen! You can hear ’em! They know we’re up here! Hurry up. They might blow this whole damn hill! They could have a ton of explosives down there. Listen to ’em. Chatterin’ like birds.”
Another man moved close, said, “Dead birds.”
Adams knew the man, another of Bennett’s sergeants, and he looked at Adams, saw the grenade. “Do it, kid.”
Adams leaned close to the pipe, could hear the voices plainly, men and women, some crying, angry shouts. He glanced down toward Bennett, saw more men moving around the mouth of the cave, rifles aimed, Mortensen backing them off. Welty was holding the shotgun at his waist, staring up at him. Adams knew what Welty was watching for, thought, this is a damn test. He’s wondering if I’ll do this. Adams held the grenade over the hole, pulled the pin, still gripped it, felt a shivering hesitation. He stared into the hole, the voices coming up in a chorus of sound, arguments, orders, more crying, and he waited another second, Gorman standing