The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [52]
The sergeants spread out, moving back to their squads. Adams could see both ways, thick clusters of green, no one talking, a light breeze whispering through the brush behind them. Men still aimed their rifles, but others did as Adams was doing, sat with their backs against the hard, rocky sand. He felt something pressing painfully against his hip, rolled slightly, his hand finding his gas mask.
“Get rid of that stupid thing.” He saw Ferucci holding up his own gas mask, and the sergeant continued, “Ditch those gas masks. You’re carrying too much crap. Before this is over, you’ll wish you hadn’t grabbed all that ammo. Every damn one of you is carrying enough junk for a Boy Scout campout.” He glanced up, the sun well above the horizon. “Wait till that sun starts to bake your asses. Every bit of that junk will be left behind. Seen it every damn time.”
Adams looked at the gas mask, wasn’t completely convinced, but beside him Yablonski tossed his mask back into the brush, other men doing the same. Adams felt the belt of clips across his chest, thought, no, I’ll keep these. Yablonski seemed to read his mind, said, “They said take all the clips you can carry, and that’s what I’m doing. You wanna get caught out there with an empty weapon, you go right ahead. Every clip means eight dead Japs. All it costs me is sweat.”
Ferucci said nothing, tossed his own gas mask out in front of the depression. Adams lay back against the softness of his pack, glanced at the M-1 again, water beading on the oiled steel. Beside him Yablonski was moving the brush aside with the barrel of his rifle, still seeking a target, a low voice, more angry words.
“Where the hell are you, you yellow bastards. Stick your head up, just one time. Give me one clean shot, you sons of bitches …”
Adams said nothing, knew better than to interfere in the man’s angry monologue. He saw Ferucci watching Yablonski, a cold, uncertain stare, the sergeant not doing anything to break the man’s frightening concentration. Adams lay back again, Yablonski’s words fading, silent, and Adams took a long breath, tested himself, the fear not as bad as he expected. Welty was on his other side, and Adams turned, saw the glasses, Welty slowly peering up above the lip of the trench. Welty was the only man in the squad that Adams felt was his friend, and he was curious, had never seen Welty in any kind of dangerous situation. He wondered if Welty was as scared as he was, wanted to say something, reassuring them both, put a hand on Welty’s shoulder.
“We made it, Jack. On the beach. We got our beachhead.”
Welty didn’t respond, was in some other place, held his rifle up at his chest, staring away, his face sweating. Ferucci said, “Leave him be. He knows what’s about to happen. Never seen a man more in charge of himself, once the fighting starts. We’ll all be okay. So far, this is just … strange.”
Behind Ferucci, Gorman popped his head up, the older man calm as well, appraising the land around them.
“Hey Sarge, the tanks oughta hit the beaches right behind us. That’s usually the drill. That’ll make our job a whole hell of a lot easier.”
Ferucci pointed a thumb back over his shoulder toward Gorman, said to Adams, “Pops has done this more times than anybody. Listen to him, Private.” He turned. “Hey, Pops. You got Gridley’s stuff?”
Gorman didn’t smile.
“You have to ask? He can’t fire that damn Browning without me. I wouldn’t let him down.”
Gridley was farther down the line, the heavy BAR standing upright against the sandy embankment beside him. Gorman was Gridley’s ammo carrier, the older man somehow earning the right to go into combat with a carbine and heavy boxes of cartridges. Adams had yet to understand why any of that was a privilege.
The sergeant began to move, pulled himself up to his knees, anticipating the lieutenant’s order. After a long pause, it came, a sharp wave, the crisp shout, “Let’s go! Move! Spread out!”
The men surged forward out of the trench, following Porter in a crouching run across the uneven ground. Adams pushed through