The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [57]
“Shut up, and keep digging. You heard the looey. That’s all you need to know. I’ve gotta dig my own damn hole, and spend the night with that smelly bastard Hunley and his damn walkie-talkie. Don’t give me your beefs. Some Jap up in those hills decides to throw some artillery fire at us, where’d you rather be? Up here on the nice flat ground, or in a deep-assed hole? Get to work. No more stupid questions.”
The chopping, hacking, and cursing continued, but gradually the foxholes grew deeper, the men testing them by sitting upright, squeezed together, facing each other with legs side by side. Adams sat down in the bottom of the hole, the shade welcome. He looked up at Welty, who had his small shovel on his shoulder, and Welty had a look of tired satisfaction.
“Looks good, Clay. I think we’re safe.”
“Safe from what? I’m with Gridley. There isn’t a damn Jap anywhere around this place.”
“You heard that firing. I can hear it now, down that way. Something’s happening. There’s gotta be Japs …”
“Or our own guys shooting at rabbits.”
Welty clearly was not convinced, dropped down into the hole, kept his stare toward the distant rumbling. Adams had tried to avoid the sounds, had convinced himself it was still naval gunfire, distorted over the great distance.
“We’re still shelling the island down there in front of those ground pounders. They’re probably jumpy as hell. I’ll bet most of those army guys have never been through this before.”
“Not like you, eh, Hardtack?”
Ferucci was standing above the hole, no smile with his question. Adams felt suddenly very stupid, said, “Uh, no, Sarge.”
“Listen, you lamebrain, a bunch of those ground pounders are veterans too, fought under MacArthur, some damn place like New Guinea. Cannibals, boys. How’d you like to spend your night in a foxhole wondering if the next bastard you hear might be wanting to eat your ass? The looey says the ground pounders are running into some resistance down south. That’s not fireworks, it’s artillery, and if you paid attention, you’d know that none of that sounds like our stuff. Seems we had the easy time of it. But down there, the Japs aren’t just sitting back. Maybe they figured out who we are, and decided they’d rather stand up to ground pounders. Now settle in and eat something. The brass wants us up and moving north at dawn. The looey says there’s supposed to be Jap positions up that way, and recon says they’re just waiting for us to wander by. So, you think we’re here to shoot rabbits, don’t come bitching to me when some Jap sniper takes your head off.”
The absurdity of the sergeant’s words made Adams drop his head, hiding the smile. He made a slow nod.
“Aye, Sarge.”
Ferucci was gone now, curses directed at another of the foxholes. Welty sat across from him, their backpacks wedged close beside them.
“Don’t think he likes you too much, Clay.”
Adams thought of the boxing matches, Ferucci treating him like a star.
“He’s not supposed to like anybody out here. Just like the looey. Hell, you’re not even supposed to like me. Nobody’s supposed to be buddies. Buddies get killed, and it makes you a crappy Marine. That’s what I was told, anyway.”
Welty seemed to ponder the thought, shrugged.
“I learned a lot of that kind of stuff in training. Don’t see how that makes me a better Marine. I know what to do when the enemy attacks. Kill the bastards. That’s what we’re supposed to do, right?”
There was no fire in Welty’s words, Adams unconvinced that Welty could really kill anybody. He would never forget boot camp, thought charging sandbags with bayonets was easy. Hell, he thought, it was fun. Scream your brains out, curse the sandbag’s momma, all so the sergeants would think you were getting tougher. Now we’re tougher. Okay, what now?
There was a shout and Adams grabbed the M-1, popped his head up above the rim of the foxhole, heard the sound of an engine, searched the fading daylight. Men were pointing, Welty’s words loud in his ear.
“It’s a plane! He’s coming in!”
Adams stared, mystified, said, “He’ll have