The Naked and the Dead - Norman Mailer [258]
BEE-YOWWWWWW! Rock fragments and powder settled on his neck, itched slightly. The gunfire was spiteful, malevolent. It seemed directed at him, and he winced unconsciously every time a bullet passed. All the water in his body had rushed to the surface. Perspiration dripped steadily, automatically, from his chin, the tip of his nose, from his brow into his eyes. The skirmish was only fifteen or twenty seconds old, and he was completely wet. A steel band wrenched at his clavicle, choked his throat. His heart pounded like a fist beating against a wall. For ten seconds he concentrated only on knitting his sphincter, roused to a pitch of revulsion by the thought of soiling himself. "NO! NO!" The bullets whirred past with an ineffable delicate sound.
He had to get them out of here! But his arms cushioned his head, and he flinched each time a bullet ricocheted off a rock. Back of him he heard the men bawling to each other, shouting words back and forth incoherently. Why this fear? He had to shake it. What had happened to him? This was unbelievable. Before him for an instant, in shame and fear, was the touch of Cummings's cigarette as he had stooped to pick it up. He felt as though he could hear everything, the scattered men breathing hoarsely behind their rocks, the Japanese in the grove calling to each other, even the rustling of the grass and the tense humming sounds of the crickets in the valley. Behind him, Croft's squad was still firing. He ducked behind the rock, scrounging his body as a volley of Japanese fire ricocheted off it. The stone and dust stung the back of his neck.
Why didn't Croft do something? And abruptly he realized that he had been waiting here for Croft to take over, waiting for the sharp voice of command that would lead him out of this. It roused a vivid rage. He slid his carbine around the side of the rock, started to squeeze the trigger.
But the gun wouldn't fire; the safety catch was still on. This mistake infuriated him. Not quite conscious of what he was doing, he stood up, pressed the safety and fired a volley of three or four shots into the grove.
"GET BACK, GET BACK," he roared. "COME ON, GET UP, GET UP!. . . BACK!" Numbly he heard himself shouting, his voice shrill and furious. "COME ON, GET UP AND RUN!" There were bullets whipping past him, but standing on his feet they seemed insignificant. "GET BACK TO THE OTHER SQUAD!" he roared again, running from rock to rock, his voice bellowing like something apart from himself. He turned and fired again, five shots as quickly as he could squeeze them off, and waited dumb, motionless. "GET UP AND FIRE. GIVE THEM A VOLLEY!"
A few of the men in the squad stood up and fired. Awed, confused, the grove was silent for a few seconds. "COME ON, RUN!" The men straggled to their feet, looked mutely at him, and began to race toward the ledge from which they had started. They faced the grove, fired a few shots, and ran back for twenty yards, stopped to fire again, retreating pell-mell, sobbing like animals in anger and fear. The Japanese in the grove were firing once more, but they paid no attention. All of them were frantic. In motion, they wanted only one thing -- to reach the safety of the ledge.
One by one, gasping, panting angrily, they climbed the last shelf of rock and dropped behind its bank, their bodies pungent with sweat. Hearn was one of the last. He rolled over on the ground, came to his knees. Brown and Stanley and Roth, Minerta and Polack were still firing, and Croft helped him to stand. They crouched behind the rock. "We all get back?" Hearn panted.
Croft looked about quickly. "Looks like all of us." He spat. "C'mon, Lootenant, we got to get out of here, they'll be circling around soon."
"Everybody here?" Red shouted. He had a long abrasion on his cheek, powdered with embedded dirt. His sweat etched through it like tears on a dirty face. The men were clambering behind the shelter of the rock, shouting angrily and nervously at each other.
"IS THERE ANYBODY THE FUG