The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [83]
Welty said nothing, and Adams thought, if he could spare some, he would say so. There’s gotta be a water truck or some barrels around here somewhere close.
Welty put a thick cracker in his mouth, said, “The CP’s not too far behind us. Captain will make sure we get some water.”
To one side, a voice called out.
“Holy God! Would you look at that!”
Adams heard a hoot, another man, “I’ll be! Take a look at that! She come for breakfast?”
Adams peeked up, saw the woman now, walking across the open ground, a slow march closer to the foxholes. He could see her short black hair, could tell she was young, small and thin. But he could see clearly that she was not a child. She was naked.
Other hoots came now, her audience appreciative, curious, some of the comments vulgar, and now, one man was up, moving toward her, took off his helmet, made a mock bow. The girl kept walking, closer, and Adams could see more details, her face showing nothing, staring straight ahead, doing her best to ignore the calls of the stunned men around her. Another man rose, then his buddy, crawling up from their hole, and the man waved the others back, said with authority, “Back off. We’ll wrap her up in something.”
And now one more voice above the clamor, the lieutenant.
“Get the hell away from her! Get back in your—”
The shots came now, slow and precise, single pops in the distance, the dull crack of lead as the carefully aimed shots impacted each of the men. They dropped in perfect rhythm, one by one, tumbling clumsily, helmets rolling away, motionless, the voices gone, the vulgar hoots replaced by the sounds of horror in the men who watched, surprise and fury. The girl was still there, paralyzed, standing with her eyes closed, and then there was one more shot, and Adams saw the girl collapse. He felt a hand on his arm, a hard tug, Welty yanking him into the hole.
“Get down!”
He felt queasy shock, wanted to see, and Welty rose up, kept his hand on Adams’s shoulder, holding him down.
“Snipers! Nobody’s moving.”
The order came in a manic high pitch, the voice of the lieutenant.
“Goddammit, stay put! It came from those far trees!”
Adams heard Porter’s voice again, this time low in his foxhole, and Welty said, “He’s on the walkie-talkie. We need some help. Maybe some 75s, or some tin cans. Somebody needs to blow hell out of that tree line.” Welty paused. “God bless those damn fools.”
The tanks rolled close, a half-dozen machines, rising up off the road, spreading into formation. Adams could smell the exhaust fumes, smoke trailing each of the Shermans, and around him the men responded, the lieutenant pulling them up from their cover, advancing them toward the distant tree lines. The men were pulled into packs close behind the tanks, natural instinct, no one objecting. Behind them the officers had gathered briefly in a shallow gully, kneeling low. Adams was close to Welty, Ferucci guiding them into line, the sergeant staring back where the officers spoke, and Adams ignored that, looked across the open ground to the cluster of bodies, the four Marines now wrapped in ponchos, only their boots protruding. The girl was there too, a piece of cloth tossed across her, someone’s gesture of decency that seemed to contradict the obscenity of what she had been made to do. Adams had stepped past her, had seen the thin legs, the prettiness of her face only partly covered. He had focused more on the stain of blood on the cloth, thought, no one volunteers for that. She’s got to be an Okie. Behind him a man moved up to the bodies, stopped, and Adams hesitated, saw his face, older, sad eyes, the man making a brief sign of the cross. Adams knew him, the chaplain, nodded toward the man, got no response, the chaplain’s attention on the bodies.
“Get moving!”
Adams turned, saw Ferucci waving at him, moved away, thought, nothing I can say … the chappy knows his job. Didn’t even know he was out here.
The services had been conducted somewhere every Sunday, even on the Sunday two weeks before when they began the invasion. Then, the chaplain had been on the ship, administering