The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [54]
Adams couldn’t keep his heart from pounding, sweat thick in his shirt and short jacket, his backpack growing heavier with each step. The belts of clips for the M-1 draped heavily across his chest, thumping him as he walked, pressing into the grenades that hung from his shirt. Far up in front of him, Porter led the way, another squad behind him, Ferucci’s squad bringing up the rear. Every few minutes there were hard whispers from the sergeant.
“Five yards! Dammit, keep your distance!”
Adams focused on the backpack that bobbed along in front of him, Yablonski, the man holding his rifle up, keyed, alert, still a desperate search for a target. Adams could see across the road, an open field cut by a narrow road that led to a small village. Marines were there as well, slipping cautiously into the small buildings, pushing through, shouts of all clear.
The sweat stung his eyes, and he wiped them with his sleeve, saw a hand signal, then a low voice passed the word back from Porter.
“Take ten. Stay down in the ditch. No huddling up. Keep your distance.”
The men dropped like sacks of flour, and Adams did the same, his knees gratefully giving way, the pack breaking his fall. Welty was closest behind him, the march not seeming to affect the man at all. Welty removed the glasses, wiped them with a sleeve. Adams wanted to talk to him, but there was nothing to say, no answers to the questions. The mystery was complete, no sign of the great Japanese horde that was supposed to meet them, nothing to stop the Marines from moving inland. They had already passed their first day’s objective, spreading far beyond the beachhead. There had been nothing to slow them down.
As they had moved up the low hills, there had been a burst of fire, off to the south, and Adams had heard the different sound of the Japanese Nambu machine gun, the first clue that there might be anyone else here at all. But the firefight had been brief, a peppering of shots from a few M-1s, and then, nothing. Farther to the south had come a hard rumble, thumps from what sounded like mortars, but if there had been a fight at all, it had been over quickly. The farther they moved inland, the more frequent the exchanges had been. But all of that had been far away, no one firing at them.
“Drink some water.” Adams turned toward the voice, saw the sergeant holding up his canteen, pointing. “Do it. I’m not dragging your asses up this road because you fall out all dried up. You’re sweating like pigs, and I can smell every one of you back here. A barnyard would be a relief.”
Adams obeyed, the water in his canteen warm, and he washed away the crust and salt on his lips. He had another canteen, empty now, most of the men carrying two, another of those luxuries offered on board the transport ship. He slipped the tin back into its canvas holster, his mind drifting, the heat working on his brain. He looked skyward, thought of home, a bluebird day. Well, not quite like that here. There’s clouds. And I haven’t seen a bluebird either. Seagulls, and some other brown thing. He wiped sweat out of his eyes, looked toward the front of the column, saw Porter close to the walkie-talkie man, the antenna wobbling out to one side. Porter was talking in a low voice, raised his head, stared out down the road. Adams focused, watched, waited for Porter to tell them … something. The conference was quick, Porter now rising.
“Saddle up, ladies.”
They rose, some struggling under the weight of the cargo they carried, and Adams was surprised to see ammo belts coming off, tossed into the ditch. He put a hand against his chest, thought, no, not me. In front of him, Yablonski bent low, retrieved one belt, slung it over his shoulder, said, “Thank you, boys. Keep ’em coming. You weak assholes can’t hack this, you shoulda stayed home. There