The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [76]
Porter moved first, crawled up over the flat rock, dove into brush, and now Ferucci followed, a hard shout to the others.
“Move your ass!”
Adams was still spitting dirt and blood, coughed again, made a quick glance at the M-1, felt a quiver in his knees, the paralyzing fear again. But the others on both sides of him leapt up, crawling uphill, slipping into the thin patches of brush. He watched boots working frantically, one man driving up on his belly, moving away. Adams gripped the M-1, tried to stop the shaking in his chest. He heard another one of the sergeants farther along the road, pulling his men up onto the hillside, and behind him the muzzles of the rifles in the ditch were up, silent and still, ready for a target. His heart was pounding wildly, and he hesitated, but the others were moving on up the hill, and he shouted to himself, his own order, get moving! The springs uncoiled again, and he launched himself up and over the rock, stayed on his feet, running uphill, bent low, pushed past the brush, stepped over someone, saw a larger rock, no one there, dove headlong, hit the ground with a gut-busting grunt.
Up the hill there was no response, and Porter was close to Adams, hidden by a bush to one side, said in a low growl, “Where the hell is that bastard?”
The others responded, short calls.
“Nothing!”
“No sign of him!”
Adams felt pain in his chest, the impact against the ground, the hard breathing, saw the others spread out across the hillside, some in good cover, some protected by a wisp of brush. Porter was up suddenly, running farther up, boots kicking up dirt, and he went down again, more cover, looked back at his men, scanned the hillside with a manic jerk of his head. Adams saw the man’s eyes, furious, terror, and Porter shouted, “Dammit! Find the bastard!”
Adams pushed up with one arm, ran after the lieutenant, and from the trees above them came the sound again, the tap tap tap of the woodpecker, closer now. There was no cover in front of him, but he flattened out again, and now the response, down the hill, the heavy thumping of the BAR. The Nambu was silent again, and Adams saw the lieutenant rise, firing the carbine, then moving up again, another low rock, falling in a heap of dust. Adams’s legs reacted, following, and on both sides others were moving as well, short bursts of motion, then down. But there was little cover, the rocks small, the brush too scattered. They were close to the clump of trees, thin pines along the hilltop, and Adams hugged the ground, jerked his head to one side, looking for Porter, waiting, his chest heaving against the hard ground. There was a new burst of fire, from the right, pops from an M-1, then more, and now came shouts.
“Got him! Got him!”
Adams breathed the dirt, choked again, rose with Porter, who stayed down on one knee, still aiming the carbine. Adams mimicked him, pulled the M-1 up to his shoulder, scanned the trees, small spaces, and Adams saw movement, men in the trees, saw … green. Marines. Porter yelled out, “Hold your fire!”
The men in the trees were waving, but others had come up from the right, were swarming past them, cautious, taking position along the ridgeline, searching for more targets in the pine thickets. The lieutenant looked out to both sides, his own men spread out on the hill, said, “Easy! Keep low! Eyes on anything that moves!”
He rose up, stepping quickly, and Adams followed him to the trees, some of the others coming as well. The men from the other platoon were in position, and Porter moved close to one man, both of them on their knees. Adams knew the man, Sergeant Long, and Adams kept his distance, stayed down in line behind Porter, scanning the hillside. He looked back toward the road, saw the men there in good cover, dark spots of rifle barrels, the men there still aiming up the hill. Up beside Porter, the