The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [79]
He realized he was nearly shouting, Welty backing away, his response coming in a low voice.
“Well, yeah. He coulda killed a bunch of us, but he didn’t. Seen a lot of that happen before. Saipan.”
Adams was surprised, had never heard Welty mention anything about Saipan. He waited for more, the redhead silent now, dropping back, had said all he wanted to say.
They reached the intersection, and Porter held them up, a low rise in front of them, one fork of the road dipping away to the left. Adams still felt the wetness in his pants. Damn you, anyway. You a coward? You gonna piss on yourself every time you see the enemy? He thought of the sergeant, Long, casual hatred, the man utterly immune to the death of the Japanese soldier. He wanted to be the one who killed him. He was proud. God, I need to be like that. I need to be the tough son of a bitch. He glanced at his right hand, made a fist. Yeah, they think you already are. Hey, put boxing gloves on him and he beats the crap out of everybody. Must be a really tough guy.
Up ahead the men were following Porter to the left. Adams looked down, the stain on his pants. Yeah, you asshole, there’s a good story to tell your brother. Hey, Jesse, a Jap shot at me and I pissed my pants. Pretty impressive, huh? He stared ahead, focused on the distance between him and Ferucci. It happens to everybody, right? Everybody’s scared. You saw it in the looey’s eyes. Maybe that sergeant, before that Jap was killed, maybe he pissed his pants too. Adams looked across the road again, the others spread out in line, no one looking his way. Damn you, he thought, you better not be a coward, not out here, not when everyone will know. You better find a Jap and blow him to hell, and maybe make one of those necklaces that sergeant bragged about. He thought of the Japanese soldier, the blood and the stink, could not hide from that. That sergeant was proud, he thought. He liked it. That’s what I need to do. That’s what a Marine’s supposed to be. Dammit, you better get good at this.
12. ADAMS
NORTHWESTERN COAST, OKINAWA
APRIL 12, 1945, 8 P.M.
The darkness was already oppressive, more of the same routine, one man in each foxhole standing watch while the other tried to sleep. Adams stared out, the ground more flat than the rocky hills, but far out to the east he could see the taller ridgeline, thickets of pine trees. He held the M-1 close, ready, obeying the harsh instructions from the lieutenant, as though no one had done this before. Porter had seemed rattled after the experience with the Japanese machine gunner, and whether anyone else paid attention or not, Adams had seen something he didn’t want to see. Porter was a veteran, like so many of the others, had done all of this before, Saipan mostly, or Guam. Like Welty, the lieutenant didn’t seem interested in telling his stories, that loudmouth baloney Adams had heard from that other sergeant, Long. Adams had paid much more attention to the eyes, both Welty and the lieutenant showing hints of that odd stare that the men in the hospital had talked about. Not sure what that’s about, he thought. I know a little about Saipan, I guess, stuff I heard in the hospital. He stared into darkness, thinking about Welty, yeah, he’d know how much of the newsreel stuff was crap, and how much wasn’t. But I can’t ask him about it. I just can’t. That’s what the new recruits do, happy stupidity, gee, Buddy, what’s it like? How many Japs did you kill? Well, we killed one today. Doesn’t seem like something to tell the grandkids about. I know damn well Sergeant Long will tell somebody about that, part of his big adventure. Some of these guys … that’s just how they are, and that’s what the recruits want to hear. But if the lead starts flying, I’d rather be close to the lieutenant, or even Welty. If one of them grabs his ass and