The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [98]
The sergeant laughed at his own joke, moved closer to the cliff, said something to the row of men seated there. Adams heard the sound of a jeep, looked toward the road that wound southward down the hill. All across the green hillsides, steam was rising from the great thickets of dense trees, and now he saw a fire, high above, black smoke in a heavy column, knew it had to be from one of the patrols. He thought of the flamethrower, thought, hell of a thing. Damn glad I don’t have to haul that around. Gotta make you a target for sure, if the Japs see you coming. The Japs gotta know what’s about to happen to ’em, and seems like most of the time they just sit tight till we burn ’em to death. I don’t care how much you wanna die, that ain’t the way to go.
His eyes turned back to the sea, the sun just now touching the horizon, seeming to melt like some fat wad of orange butter. He squinted, thought of Ferucci and his gal. He’s probably right. But damn if I’m coming anywhere out here for a vacation. I’ll settle for Albuquerque. Maybe that cute blonde, Loraine Lancaster. God, I’ve loved her since I was a kid. But now I’ve got this here uniform. “Hey, baby, how ’bout you and this big-time Marine hit the big city?” Oh yeah, you jackass, and she’ll look at you like she always did, like you ain’t even there. I always figured she had the hots for Jesse or some of his buddies. Any gal that special could get anybody she wanted, even the older guys. Now Jesse’s home, big war hero, tough-guy paratrooper. He’s probably already had her up on Lover’s Hill, in one of those little caves. Damn it to hell. She won’t even remember my name. That’s what I get for being the little brother. He’ll get the good-looking ones, and I’ll have to settle for some fat waitress who spits tobacco.
He heard a hum now, far behind the hill, the noise growing into a sharp roar. Men were turning to look, and the chatter came now, unmistakable, machine gun fire. They burst into view just above the hilltop, two planes locked in a twisting duel, one tight behind the other, and he could see the markings of the lead plane, the distinct red meatball on its wings.
Men were calling out now, “A Zero! And that’s a Hellcat! Get him!”
“Knock the bastard down!”
Adams saw a burst of fire, the Japanese plane nosing down, straight into the water. It impacted with a fiery splash, the men responding with raised fists, salutes for the Hellcat’s pilot. But now there were more planes, some much farther away. They seemed to drop down like a swarm of flies, dipping, turning, more flickers of fire as the American fighters moved among them. Adams watched in amazement, an enormous battle in the skies spreading out toward the north, past the cape. More planes came over the treetops on the hill, a new swarm, dozens, some pursued by the Americans. But many more were not, and they came down low, following the contour of the island, racing down toward the water’s surface, some of them dipping in a sharp roar right past the cliff. Some of the men scrambled to their foxholes, but there were no bombs, no strafing runs. The planes ignored them, moved out to sea, some of them dropping close to the water, like schools of airborne fish. Others were much higher, barely in view, but then they began to dive, some in great sweeping arcs. As the planes moved out past the island, the American fighters did not follow. They seemed to disappear, pulling away, leaving the Japanese pilots to a new fate. He saw it now, streaks and specks of fire rising from every ship, close and far away. The men around him were returning to the cliff, no danger on the ground, the great battle now unfolding between plane and ship. The sun was nearly gone, but the fading glow still reflected off the planes, a chaotic shower of specks, dancing, swirling, all moving toward the ships. Close offshore, a smaller frigate