The Final Storm Part 18

"Shut up! j.a.ps everywhere! Everybody's scared! Get over it, you piece of s.h.i.t!"

Adams said nothing, fought for control, the wind crushed out of him from Ferucci's pressure. The sergeant was breathing heavily, a low growl, "Sons of b.i.t.c.hes. They're everywhere! n.o.body's getting off this hill until nightfall. Anybody moves out into the open, they're chopped into meat! I'm not ready to be wrapped in this d.a.m.n poncho!"

"Sarge, where's the looey?"

"Why? You think he knows what the h.e.l.l we're supposed to do?"

"I just thought ..."

"Shut up. Your job is to kill j.a.ps, not think."

The words made an odd kind of sense, and Adams cleared his brain, focused on the sergeant's rifle, the grenades Adams could feel pressing against him. He whispered close to Ferucci's ear, "Right above us. That rock ledge. There's j.a.ps right there. Nambu."

Ferucci turned his face, inches from Adams's.

"I know that, you idiot. What the h.e.l.l are you doing about it? You got grenades?"

The question required no answer, and Ferucci pushed himself off Adams, backed away, into the open, the ledge, crouched low, looked up at the rocky spit above them. He yanked a grenade from his shirt, pulled the pin, backed up another step, Adams wanting to pull him back, new cracks of fire striking the rocks beside his feet. But Ferucci held his ground, reached one arm out, tossed the grenade up high, then collapsed back into Adams. The blast was m.u.f.fled by so many others, but the burst of smoke came now, blowing out above them.

"That's how it's done, you jacka.s.s! Now let's get up this d.a.m.n hill!"

Ferucci backed off him again, stared up, frantic eyes searching for a way to reach the larger rocks above. He crouched low, moved to one side, looked up again, and Adams saw the ball of steel, the grenade coming down, bouncing once, rolling right between Ferucci's feet. The sergeant saw it as well, reached down low, but the grenade exploded, blew against Adams as a punch of mud and splinters of rock. He cried out, animal sound, pain and terror, waited for the smoke to clear, felt nothing, no wounds, no pain. He pried himself out of the rocks, saw what remained of Ferucci, the man's legs gone completely, his crotch split open, a river of blood flowing down the rocks below. The man's face showed shock, his mouth open, and slowly the sergeant's torso rolled over, tumbled down the hill, disappeared, hidden suddenly by another blast, a mortar sh.e.l.l, that drove Adams back against the rocks. He covered his eyes, wiped at the dust, felt sick, tears, deafened, blinded by more smoke, shoved himself harder into the tight crack in the rocks. Another grenade suddenly appeared, dropping off the rock ledge, bouncing down, but away, below, into the burnt brush, and he lowered his head, the explosion adding to the dust and smoke. His chest was heaving, pain in his throat, a desperate need to cry out, the horror searing through him, changing now to anger. They killed the sarge! They killed him! The fury grew, exploding in his chest, raw red hatred, and he felt a sudden desperate need, an urgency to kill them, to kill anyone, to grab the enemy and tear the man in half. His brain froze for a brief second, a strange image in his mind, the ship, the lieutenant, ripping the steak into pieces, throwing it hard against the bulkhead. Adams stared into the smoke, new blasts around him, and he sobbed for a long minute, helpless again, yelled out, "Porter!"

It was stupid, and he knew it, no way the lieutenant should respond, if he was there at all. Adams fought to control the panic, the fury, heard a sound, right above him, like some twisted echo.

"Porter! Porter ... come out!"

He wasn't fooled, knew it was the j.a.panese. The voice made him focus, the enemy suddenly real, close, a target. The horror had turned into a sick game now, and he called back.

"You first!"

From below the BAR suddenly erupted, splattering the rock he lay against, the far side, and he was frozen, paralyzed, wanted to scream out, it's me, you d.a.m.n idiot ... but then the body fell, straight across in front of him, rolled down, through the pool of slop that was Ferucci's legs. The man was j.a.panese.

"Got him!"

The voice belonged to Gridley, and now a new voice came, from somewhere below.

"Let's go! We don't move up, they're coming down!"

It was Welty.

The Marines below Adams responded, a surge of motion, another burst of fire from the BAR, a j.a.panese soldier tumbling down out of the rocks just above him. The M-1s began to fire, upward, far above him, and he saw the men emerging from their cover. The rifle fire continued, answered by the Nambu gun, others, farther along the hill, and Adams pulled himself free from the tight squeeze, frustrated and furious, knelt low, some of the fire from the others striking the rocks dangerously close to him. He crawled forward, to the edge of the drop-off, saw the j.a.panese body, the smoke blending with a sour, rotten smell, the sergeant's blood on Adams's boot. He spun around, aiming his rifle at the craggy rock. But he was still too close, underneath it, remembered Ferucci's toss of the grenade, tried to reach a clumsy hand into his baggy pocket. But there was movement close beside him, from beyond his hiding place, and he jumped, surprised, saw a j.a.panese soldier, wide eyes staring into his. The man seemed not to know what to do, too close for his own weapon, too close for the M-1. A shot burst out from below Adams's feet, a crack against the rock close to the man's head. The man seemed confused, a brief second, the fatal pause Adams had seen before. He did as he had always done, the right hand coming hard in a flash of lightning against the man's jaw. The man fell backward, his helmet knocked away, tumbled upright into the crack where Adams had hidden. Adams's fists were still clenched, and he stepped toward the j.a.panese soldier, saw nothing in the man's eyes, out cold. Adams relaxed the fist, reached low, pulled out the K-bar knife from its sheath, waited. He wanted the man awake, wanted him to see, to feel it, but there was no time, the rifle fire growing, coming closer, the Marines below him rising up to the narrow ledge and beyond, voices. Adams ignored them, put the knife point against the man's throat, shoved it in hard, then made a twist, a slice, now jammed the knife harder, severing the man's spine, his head flopping forward, down, across Adams's chest, blood flowing out on Adams's hand.

19. PORTER.

SUGAR LOAF HILL, OKINAWA.

MAY 14, 1945.

The j.a.panese grenades rolled past him, most of them tossed from high above, beyond the crest of the hill. His own perch was a dangerous basket for any kind of projectile, a muddy bowl set back close to the rocks, hemmed in by burnt brush. He gasped for air, had reached the spot pursued by the cracking fire of a Nambu gun, somehow found the energy to climb what seemed to be a sheer cliff. His legs ached, a rip in one side of his boots, but there were no wounds, nothing to stop him from continuing the climb. But that thought had been erased quickly, the ground out to both sides wide open, flat rock, and just above him the j.a.panese seemed to target every open s.p.a.ce with perfect precision. You're not fighting a one-man war, he thought. You've got to get the rest of those boys up here, find a way to move higher still, silence as many of the enemy up there as we can. His breath was calming, and he glanced out, saw just below him, to one side, a crew working a thirty-caliber machine gun, firing almost straight up, the men straining to hold the gun in an awkward position so the gunner could draw some kind of bead on the enemy caves, which dotted the hillside close above. He watched them with pure admiration, knew that no one had been trained to fire a tripod-mounted piece anywhere but forward, but his admiration had been tempered by fear, the men and the precious gun constantly targeted by j.a.panese mortars. The blasts shook the rocks around him, the machine gunners still trying to make their weapon work, the same kind of desperation he could see from the others, some of the men in his own command, scampering from shallow cover across exposed rock where there was no cover at all. The j.a.panese grenades had come from no more than a few feet above him, men who probably had no idea exactly where he was. For now he had kept silent, no orders called out, no voice of authority, knew that if any j.a.panese soldier suspected he was an officer, someone would find a way to drop one right in his lap. He had used the carbine instead, the shots blending easily with the torrents of fire rolling up across the hill. An entire magazine had been emptied at the opening of the cave, far more from his own frustration than marksmanship. There had been hints of movement there, a brief glimpse of the barrel of the Nambu gun, but the angle was too severe, the cave facing out away from him. Even if his fire struck the rocks around the mouth of the cave, it did little to keep the j.a.panese from doing their job, taking aim at the men, his men, as they tried desperately to push up the hill. Not even the thirty caliber was effective from their position farther down, no one able to shove the j.a.panese back into their holes for more than seconds at a time. All along the hillside j.a.panese troops fired from what seemed to be every angle, heads popping up from narrow holes, rifle barrels appearing in shrubs. He had watched for that, frustrated and furious, as though playing a deadly carnival game, trying to aim his carbine with a quick jerk, seeking a single shot at a head, an arm, motion in the brush where the Nambu guns fired. But the longer he remained in his hiding place, the less fire he could offer. The belt around his chest held only three magazines, and he knew that with at least two more hours of daylight, there could be no more ammo, no supplies at all sent anywhere close to where he huddled with his men. He had a clear view of the beleaguered tanks out in the flat plain, watched as they withdrew, no choice but to abandon the Marines they had tried to support. Streaks of fire had poured out of the hill from a dozen Nambu guns, some of that coming out of rock faces and brush piles a few yards above him. He knew that there were others like him, higher up, scattered among the j.a.panese, had picked up the telltale pop of their M-1s or the distinct fire of a Thompson. There was another thirty caliber off to the left, and like him the Marines who had reached more than halfway up the hill were spread out in shallow cover, pressed into small gorges, all along the face of the hill. But there was one great difference between most of those men and him. The men closest below him were his to command, to gather and organize and complete the mission. He was supposed to lead. There were other officers across the hill, of course, most of them frontline lieutenants. But he knew that some of those men had gone down, had seen one in particular, Dawes, ripped apart by heavy fire from a machine gun as he led his platoon into a thicket just above the base of the hill. Porter had been stunned by the sight of that, had known Dawes since officer training, but there could be no stopping, no help, Dawes's own men continuing to scramble up, braving the j.a.panese guns to retrieve their commander. As Porter reached higher ground, he had been amazed that runners had found him, desperately scared men who had been sent from below, whose single mission was to find any officer. They brought urgent word that command was desperately needed in other places, to expand their commands to include men who had become leaderless. Word came that at least two captains were dead, and Porter thought of Bennett, had last seen him down close to the base of the hill, directing fire with a radio, calling back to gunners and observers for the larger guns that were supposed to be helping them out. So far those guns had been no help at all, no artillery officer wanting to risk killing Marines who struggled too close to the j.a.panese targets.

The Nambu guns closest to him were aimed in a downward slant, ripping through the pockets of brush that still remained on the hill, or chipping away at the rocky crags that hid the Marines still trying to find their way to the top. He had tried to move out next to one of the hidden craggy s.p.a.ces, the mouth of what seemed to be a cave, had seen too much firing there for a single gun crew. The men close below him had taken a full hour of fire from that one opening in the rocks, and he knew what that meant, that the cave had to be part of a larger network, where carriers could move unimpeded, j.a.panese troops back in the hill supplying all the guns with ammo and replacement barrels, or maybe switching out the guns with fresh ones. Down below, some of his men had fired back, but those men who dared to reveal their position, to fire even a single round had been struck down in a shower of lead. He had watched with sickening helplessness as the wounded Marines were retrieved by men who seemed to ignore the danger. He knew that some of those were corpsmen, but others were simply doing the job, obeying their own conscience. But those men were not always lucky, and they had gone down as well. Some of the dead had been pulled back into cover, others still laid out on open rock, b.l.o.o.d.y wounds from mortar sh.e.l.ls and the Nambu guns that ripped open bodies, took away limbs. After dark, he thought. We'll get those men back down when it's safe. Somebody will. Somebody has to.

The training had been driven hard into all of them, no man left behind, no man, and he had seen the extraordinary effort even his own men had made to pull the casualties back down the hill. To the officers, the emotional lesson had come from a textbook, that the officers would inspire their men on their own if necessary, retrieving any man who went down. But there was nothing inspirational in watching his own men get shot to pieces. He had felt useless, angry, building a hate for the j.a.panese and for himself, the lieutenant who was supposed to take care of his boys. From his perch, he could monitor their progress, one of those duties spelled out in another textbook, but the Nambu gun in the cave was too close to him, too utterly infuriating, too dangerous and deadly, and was killing his men with casual ease.

The perch also gave him a perfect view of the fighting out to the side, someone else's men, more of the bare rocky places peppered with the bodies of Marines, mixed alongside dead j.a.panese, black bloated corpses that might have been there for days. The Marines would certainly retrieve their own, but he could see clearly now that the j.a.panese had no such priority. All up through the ragged hillside, bodies were laid out in grotesque shapes, some disguised by the mud so that a man wouldn't know what was there until he crawled across it. The rain had washed some of that away, but not in the low pits, the sh.e.l.l holes and flat places like the one that held him now. Beneath him the mud seemed to be more like stinking black oil, what was left of three j.a.panese machine gunners, the rags of their uniforms holding shattered bones close by in a cl.u.s.ter of burnt brushy stubble. He had tried to ignore them, knew that whatever artillery sh.e.l.l made the hole that gave him protection had probably been the same sh.e.l.l that killed the three men, and so they might have been there for a week or more. He pulled himself to the farthest corner of the muddy pool, but beyond was flat open rock. He had tried moving that way already, to escape the small piece of h.e.l.l, only to draw fire from another Nambu gun that seemed suspended in the rocks no more than twenty feet above him. From the mud hole he was just back at an angle the gun couldn't reach, and the enemy seemed to know that, and so, for now anyway, ignored him.

The Nambu in the cave sprayed out fire again, and he thought of the nickname someone had come up with to describe the sound, the chatter of a woodp.e.c.k.e.r. Doesn't sound anything like that from here, he thought. Sounds like something I need to blow to h.e.l.l. He had kept his attention mostly on that one place, expected that the j.a.panese who occupied the cave might still try to erase him with a grenade. Until more of his men could make their way closer, there was nothing else he could do but wait, and so, with his ammo running low, he had made that one Nambu his single purpose. The carbine rested on one knee, its muzzle barely above the stubble, waiting for anyone at the cave mouth to show himself. Instead they kept their fire on the men down the hill, who still struggled to push upward inches at a time.

He rose up slightly, looked below, Marines in every corner of every gap, some firing upward, some just hunkered down. Dammit, he thought, sure as h.e.l.l some of 'em are waiting for me. They need something, someone to get them moving. The longer they sit, the worse it's going to get. The mortars will find them, even after dark. He raised his head a few inches higher, saw farther below, more men along the base of the hill. They were just reaching the incline, the j.a.panese greeting them with waves of fire, the first scattering of rocks seeming to burst into pieces around them, mortar blasts dropping down in random patterns, men going down, some just ... gone, obliterated by j.a.panese artillery fire that rolled across from distant positions. Farther out, on the wide-open ground, more men were moving up toward the hill, the scampering march into what had become, pure and simple, a meat grinder. He clenched his jaw, watched them falling, no cover at all. More dead lieutenants, he thought. The j.a.ps know that, and those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are the first target. He had seen too much of that in every fight. So often, in the wide-open s.p.a.ces, the j.a.panese had an uncanny knack for dropping the officers first.

For a long minute he kept his stare out to the open ground, watched those men slogging forward, pushing past plumes of mud and fire, the impact of mortar and artillery fire. He had no idea who they were, who their officers might be, Bennett not telling him any more than he needed to know. They continued to come, emerging out of each blast of smoke, but some were chopped down in the mud, the wounded still moving, some crawling, the sound of their agony erased by the steady roar of the sh.e.l.ling. He couldn't look away, the surge of men pushing to the edge of the hill, another part of the battalion moving up into the ragged crags. As they climbed, many were hidden by the same gaps and slices in the coral that had protected him, and he knew they were filling every s.p.a.ce, slipping into holes and muddy hollows, sliding in behind rocks. Some men were better at hiding than others, and he was helpless to change that, saw boots dangling out from rocky perches, drawing the fire of the sharpshooters and Nambu guns. A mortar sh.e.l.l came down close now, just below him, jarring impact into a thick brushy hole. He was knocked back, hit the rock behind him hard, knocking his breath away, gasped for air, curled up tightly, angry at himself. No time for sightseeing. From the brush below there were screams, then another blast, straight into the same hole, the screams gone. His breath came back, and he struggled to lean forward, nothing to see, the hole just a rolling cloud of dust and smoke. Too many of his men had already tumbled off the hill, victims of the grenades, the mortar fire, some picked off by j.a.panese sharpshooters, a weapon that seemed to him more dangerous than any other. The single crack and ping had come past him several times, aimed somewhere below, and once he had reached the muddy bowl, so close to the tall rocks, he felt safe from that. But the men hidden down below were completely vulnerable, and the careless man who peered up would probably never hear the well-aimed round that struck the helmet, the helmet that was supposed to protect them. The snipers scared him more than the mortar rounds, something he had learned from the fights he had gone through before. The training had drilled that into him, of course, that any officer who revealed his ident.i.ty by the careless slip of a show of authority could be the first man to die. They died on Guam, he thought. They're dying here. The stupid go first. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be.

He sat back against the rock, no way to keep his legs out of the stinking black mire, pulled the carbine to his chest, thoughts racing through his brain, what he should do, what orders to give. He had felt this kind of fear before, knew it was never acceptable, that he had to find the iron inside of him, make the move, put himself out there, do whatever it took to draw the rest of the men farther up the hill. Dammit, it's time to be ... what? In charge? Those boys are waiting for me, and no matter how many of them are left, they can't do this on their own. Some will try, some have already tried, the brave and the stupid, no idea how deadly the j.a.p fire can be. Some of those are the replacements, believing the ridiculous propaganda that the j.a.ps are half blind and subhuman, that all we have to do is shoot at them and the battle is won. No, they need someone to show them just what the h.e.l.l we're doing up here. And that's you. He still held the carbine tight against him, stared again at the opening of the cave a few yards away, his useless vigil. Figure this out, Lieutenant. Figure it out right now.

It seemed odd at first, that no matter how normal it was supposed to be, he had never become quite used to every enlisted man saluting him, calling him sir. But not out here, not in the battle zones, that order given to the men before any other. On Guam he had seen the mistakes, a careless reflex, a salute followed almost immediately by the snapping crack of a man's head. The j.a.panese snipers had been amazingly accurate on both Guam and Saipan, and no matter the constant patrolling by the Marines, they seemed to be everywhere, doing their damage and then vanishing into thin air. The binoculars could be deadly as well, another agonizing lesson. The new lieutenants were the worst, straight-backed men right out of training, who thought leadership meant that in every confrontation with the enemy they should stand out like some statue on a battlefield, gla.s.sing the countryside. The image stayed with him even now, one statue in particular, blackened bronze, so distinctive at Gettysburg. The officer candidates had been hauled there on a field trip, training on the ground of the country's bloodiest battle, lectured about the bad tactics of the Confederates. He had noticed what most hadn't, what even the instructors ignored, that out there on Little Round Top, General Gouverneur K. Warren stood in perfect repose, out in the wide open, holding his binoculars, gazing out with what Porter had felt was stuffed-shirted pomposity, as though daring the Confederates to come up on his hill. Even then Porter knew the obvious, that if he became an officer, and joined the fighting, the tactics at Gettysburg involved muskets, not the weapons they would likely face from the j.a.panese. And yet in every battle, every island, he had seen the same pose, fresh-faced officers leading men for the first time, one distinct memory from Saipan, a green lieutenant rushing ash.o.r.e, eager to find that good vantage point, scampering up that first piece of high ground to strike that pose. If those men were unlucky enough to be anywhere close to a j.a.panese sniper, they went down so quickly, their own platoon never even learned their name.

He knew those men had long gone, that any officers on this hill now were veterans. But we're being chewed to pieces, he thought. They'll be sending us help, d.a.m.n sure of that. Replacements coming in all the time. But if they keep trying to climb this thing in broad daylight, none of those boys will survive long enough to find out what it's like to do this ... to watch your own men die while you sit in a pool of someone's guts.

He thought of calling out, giving the loud order they would hear. But there was a shout below him, someone else giving an order of his own, and he saw a burst of activity, a flurry of M-1 fire aimed toward the cave, splats on the rocks above him. Men were in motion, a quick run across the open patch of rocky ground. They jumped down, tumbling into brush, and the Nambu gun responded, but too late, and now the M-1 fire slackened, the mission accomplished. But the Nambu kept up its fire, ripping across the rock, then into the brush, and he pictured what was happening in the cave, the j.a.panese gun crew, one more belt of ammo consumed. The cries came, the only words he had heard for some minutes, the cry he had heard before, in every place he had pushed through, all the way up the hill.

"Corpsman!"

"Corpsman!"

He pounded one fist against his leg, furious, aimed the carbine, fired one round across the opening of the cave, useless. His anger was aimed as much at himself as the enemy in their hole. d.a.m.n it all, do something! At least let the boys know you're here, that you know what's going on! Oh, yeah, then what? You gonna holler at them to keep their heads down? Yeah, a real leader. Be careful boys, you might get hurt. They're your responsibility for G.o.d's sake. He glanced back at what remained of the j.a.panese corpses, felt overwhelmed by the stinking ooze that coated his legs, his boots. Enough of this.

The thirty caliber opened fire again, below him and to the left, and Porter eased his head forward, saw a frustrated glimpse in his direction from one of the men. It answered a mystery. Okay, yeah, they know I'm here. But they're in no place to do any good. None of us are. To his right the Nambu gun opened again, and Porter slid that way, to the edge of his cover. The rock just above him splintered, a hard crack, and he dropped low, his face in the mud, his helmet jarred to the side. He cursed himself, thought, somebody else knows I'm here too. But that sounded like M-1 fire. If I get killed by one of my own boys ... Okay, then don't. He pulled his helmet straight, spit the filthy mud from his mouth, clamped down on the gag rising in his throat. He punched his arm in the air, a quick short wave with the carbine. See? It's one of us, you idiot. In front of him the Nambu fired again, the wisps of smoke drifting out of the cave's opening, and he stared that way, thought, that son of a b.i.t.c.h is right there, perched for all the world on his rocky little hole, thinking no one can get to him. He scanned the hill above the gun, no place to go, no footholds but open rock, putting him in the wide open, knew the j.a.panese up higher would see anything he tried to do. Dammit! The grenades in his pocket jabbed against his leg, and he felt a sudden spark, a burst of an idea. The grenade was in his hand now, and he gripped it hard, the idea growing, leaping through his brain. He laughed, manic tension, thought, well, how about a little slow-pitch softball? He glanced back at the narrow pool of black water, his shallow pit of cover, thought, this might work. It might kill you in the process, but if you're any good at this, it could take that b.a.s.t.a.r.d out. He held tight to the grenade, pulled the pin, took a breath, counted in his head, practiced the rhythm of seconds, one ... two ... three ... okay, that's about right. Play ball.

He eased up to his knees, the grenade handle still gripped tightly, then he opened his fingers, the handle popping out, igniting the fuse, and he counted out loud, "One ... two ..."

He lobbed the grenade in a high arc, underhanded, like a softball, the slow pitch, then rolled back into the mud, pulled himself as low as he could. The blast came in midair, out in front of the rocks, and he raised his head, stared through the smoke, grabbed another grenade, ready for the same trick. But there was a new sound, a grunting cry, and suddenly a man rolled forward, straight out of the rocky face of the hill. The man tumbled down, gathering rocks as he went, slid to a stop in a patch of th.o.r.n.y stubble. A cheer came from below, but Porter kept his head down, heard cheers close by as well, the crew of the thirty. I'll be d.a.m.ned, he thought. It worked. Slow-pitch softball. They don't call it that in training, of course. Proximity blast. That's how it's done. He knew that the one silenced gun wouldn't give them relief for long, stood now, letting the men below see him clearly. The men responded, no sounds, just movement, some of them climbing up from hidden holes and cracks, scampering upward, toward him. Immediately the blast of a mortar erupted down to one side, then another, another Nambu gun, farther along the slope, another grenade tumbling down from above him. The Marines responded with fire of their own, another thirty, farther down, M-1 fire, and he waited for the smoke to thin out, thought, at least it's something. They found new targets. Just keep those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds above me in their holes, just for a few seconds ... let me get to that cave. Sure as h.e.l.l, there are more j.a.ps in that cave moving up to take that gun crew's place. He kept a low crouch, saw men still in motion, using the smoke for cover, moving past fresh bodies, wounded men, rifle fire coming down from above. The M-1s answered, and now another thirty caliber, farther away, the rocks overhead pinging, shattering, a body suddenly rolling down right in front of him, past his perch, crashing on hard rocks below. He raised his fist, a salute, stupid gesture, but the good shooting of the machine gunner was energizing, would inspire his men as well. The thirty kept up its fire, the cover they needed, and he shouted, "Move up! Go!"

They came out of their cover and he waited, watched them, saw that most of the ponchos were gone, some of the men shirtless, their skin shining like white torches in the black rock. But there was no time to chew anyone out, the thought flashing through his brain: It's going to rain again, you idiots. Then what? We'll stop the war so you can get a raincoat? Morons. You can't all be my boys. But, right now ... get your a.s.ses up this hill.

He watched them through the smoke, saw faces, eyes peering under helmets, staring up, the men moving closer. More men were coming from farther down, across the open rocks, and he wanted to halt that, stop them, but there was no time, the men following each other automatically. The distant Nambu gun found them now, shots in quick succession, more rifle fire from above. Some of the Marines reached the brushy holes, but others simply fell, some rolling away, two men lying where they dropped. He closed his eyes, cursed loudly, glanced toward the cave, no sign of anyone new, shouted out, "Up here! Brush along the rock to the right! Climb like h.e.l.l!"

He had sent them in the direction of the thirty's crew, knew only that the cl.u.s.ter of cover there seemed to hide those men for a longer time than he had been in his own perch. Whether they heard his order or not, men were moving up that way, and he saw a handful of men reaching the brush, sliding forward, some right into the machine gunners' laps. The mortar sh.e.l.ls came again, the j.a.panese far above reacting to the new surge of movement, and the blasts ripped all across the hillside, but mostly farther down, into the fresher men who had just begun their climb. He watched the men closer to him coming up, the distant Nambu gun ripping into them, more men collapsing, some just hitting the deck, taking cover where there was no cover, no other place to hide. Another mortar sh.e.l.l impacted, closer up the hill, blowing dust and rock skyward, and he dropped down again, splashing the watery filth. The cries came again, wounded men, hopeless requests for a corpsman. The shock of the blast drifted away, and the fury returned, different now, thoughts of generals and their plans. This is bulls.h.i.t! This isn't a plan, it's raw perfect stupidity. He recalled Bennett's words, pa.s.sed along from the colonel. Get to the top. Straight up. Sure, any other time this hill is a hefty jog, a good training run. Did somebody back in those tents forget there's a million d.a.m.n j.a.ps up here? He had long understood why enlisted men seemed to hate officers, some hiding it better than others. Well, right now, I'm with you boys.

He heard a sc.r.a.pe on the rocks, was surprised to see faces appear, three men, filthy, wide-eyed, clambering up the rocks toward his watery crater. They saw him now, gasping relief, tumbled forward, splashing close to him. They seemed oblivious to the stench, low breathless voices, one man familiar, and Porter knew it was the loudmouthed jerk, Yablonski.

"There's j.a.ps right above us! Saw 'em. They just sat up there and watched us come." Yablonski seemed to realize who Porter was now, but his expression didn't change. The man had carried an angry stare with him for the eighteen months Porter had him in his platoon. "So, looey, what you want us to do now?"

Porter looked at the others, one man unfamiliar, the other, the redhead, smudged gla.s.ses, the name coming to him. Private Welty.

"Well, we can't stay here, that's for sure. They probably watched you so they know where you were gonna end up. Grenades will be next." Porter paused, stared up, thought of leaving the precious nest, gave out a long breath. "The cave, over there. We make a dash for that. Each of you, pull a grenade, have it ready. h.e.l.l, pull the pin in case we come face-to-face with those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. One thing, they'll be surprised. Might be the only advantage we have."

"Pull the pin?"

The third man stared at him as though the lieutenant were completely insane.

"Yes! Pull the pin. Hold tight to the d.a.m.n thing. It won't hurt you, son, until you release the handle. You did this in training a thousand times."

"No, sir, I didn't. I'm a cook."

The others looked at him, and Porter said in a hard whisper, "Don't ever call me sir! What the h.e.l.l are you doing up here?"

The cook glanced at the other two, who seemed as baffled as Porter.

"We couldn't get the kitchen truck up close enough last night, the mud and all. Captain Lomaz told us to grab a rifle and come up here, try to help you out."

Porter realized the man had no weapon at all.

"What rifle?"

He saw tears now, running down the man's filthy face, could tell he was very young and very scared.

"Dropped it. Stepped on somebody ... dead. Couldn't see ..."

"How the h.e.l.l did you get up this far? Yeah, okay, shut up. War is h.e.l.l. You got a forty-five?"

"You mean a pistol?"

Yablonski had said nothing, but rose up now in front of the man, knelt facing him, and Porter saw the fist go out, a hard punch across the younger man's jaw. The cook fell to the side, his face splashing into the mud, an audible cry. Porter grabbed Yablonski by the shoulder, didn't know what to say, and Yablonski turned to him.

"He'll get us killed. Best we leave him here. He's ... injured."

Yablonski didn't wait for any more instructions, moved out past the lieutenant to the edge of the brushy perch, and Porter knew there was nothing he could do about any of this, not here. But, he thought, I'm still in charge of this lunatic. Porter moved up close beside him, said, "Wait for me to get out on the rocks. I'll rush the cave opening. You come in right behind me. Use the grenades, toss 'em hard, back into the cave. If they haven't killed us by then, we should wipe out anybody who's still there."

Yablonski looked at him, still no change in the furious glare.

"If you say so."

"Right. One day you can play general, but not today."

He glanced at Welty, who said, "I'm ready."

Porter saw the calm on the redhead's face, the opposite of Yablonski. Another day at the office. Strange little b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

Porter focused on the chorus of firing across the hill, unceasing, the M-1s and the thirty still peppering the j.a.p position above. Down below the thumping rhythm came from a half-dozen j.a.panese mortars, blasting the rocks and the men who sought cover there. The smoke was rising again, and Porter thought, good time to move. He took a long breath, let it out, leapt out of the cover, muddy boots slipping on the rock, the slope flattening out, a narrow ledge. He ran hard that way and above him, the hill came alive with fire, another Nambu gun, answered by fire from below, M-1s, the thirty, Marines in position to see the three-man attack. Smoke still seeped from the cave mouth, and he hesitated, a brief second, then heaved the grenade around the edge. The seconds pa.s.sed, eternity, and the cave erupted in a billowing fountain of smoke and debris. He didn't wait, rolled into the narrow opening, tried to hold his breath, impossible, the fumes choking him. There were loud voices farther back in the cave, and he clawed his way past the shattered remnants of the Nambu. The cave was no more than four feet across, and not much taller, but the smoke hid the depth. Yablonski was there now, pushed past him, the cave still a fog of dust, and Yablonski threw the grenade, then fired his M-1 in a quick burst, emptying the clip. All three men dropped flat, the blast much farther back, more dust flowing past them. Porter raised his head, stared at the smoke, saw now, the cave fell downward, a steep slope, said, "Grenade! Throw it hard!"

Welty obeyed, the grenade flying past Yablonski, bouncing, tumbling away, all three men collapsing again against the rocks. The blast came, much farther back, and now Yablonski threw another one, slow seconds, one more blast. Porter grabbed his leg, "Enough!"

Yablonski didn't turn, kept his stare into the billowing smoke, slapped a clip into his M-1.

"Let's go!"

The command came from Yablonski, and Porter blew through the stink of the explosives, the smell of something horribly rotten, said, "No! Stay here!"

Yablonski turned now, animal fury, said, "This cave might go right into the center of this hill. We can take out the whole d.a.m.n thing, wipe out a flock of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

Yablonski turned away, seemed ready to carry out his own idea, and Porter kept his grip on the man's leg.

"With what? There's three of us, Private! As narrow as this cave is ... we're easy pickings for one j.a.p back there with a pop gun. We're backing out of here! Let's keep moving. The idea is to get to the top, remember? Both of you ... you get out into the open, start climbing, find cover anywhere you can. The boys down below see us, they'll cover us, and I'll try to signal them to come up too."

Yablonski seemed to calm from Porter's unyielding grip on his leg. He turned again and Porter saw the disgust, knew Yablonski had only one way of thinking, that this cave might go all the way to Tokyo. Behind the lieutenant, Welty said, "We need to get more men up here. Those j.a.ps above us know we're here. Right now we're just stuck in a hole."

Yablonski seemed resigned to his lost opportunity to end the war, slid backward, knelt in the narrow gap.

"Okay, boss, what now?"

Porter moved back close to the mouth of the cave, desperate for fresh air. He waved the carbine outside, hoped it would attract the right kind of attention.

"Saddle up. We're climbing."

He stepped out of the cave, navigated the sharp drop immediately in front of the opening, slipped quickly to one side, making room for the other two. Below, the men were responding as he had hoped, rapidly making their way up through the mora.s.s of uneven hillside. Yes, dammit! Let's go! He crouched, spun toward the crest of the hill, scanned quickly, searching for the j.a.panese, saw nothing but the jagged ridgeline. Where are you, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds? He kept the carbine at his shoulder, ready to put out any covering fire his men might need, felt Yablonski beside him, doing the same. Yablonski had the same questions, said, "They're up there! I saw them!"

"Stay on 'em. Anything moves, blow h.e.l.l out of it."

Welty was there as well, a third muzzle aimed upward, and Porter could hear the sound of the men coming up from behind, said, "Time to climb. Let's get to that ridge."

He rose from his knees, still in a crouch, the carbine pointed forward from his waist. He stepped up past a muddy hole, a lump of rock, the footing slippery, uncertain, kept his eyes sharp on the ridgeline. The sounds of the fight still rolled over the hill, an echo he had grown used to. The roar seemed to grow, closer, machine guns, rifle fire, men screaming, but he tried to ignore that, kept his eyes on one place, where the j.a.panese had been, where they would certainly be again. Behind him the others were gathering quickly, following him, a surge of two dozen men, led by the man in charge, the man who knew what to do. The ridgeline was less than ten feet above him, the flatter ground now rising in a sharp incline, and he dropped his eyes, searched for a foothold, his boots kicking into soft rock. There was a flicker of movement to one side and he glanced that way, a cut in the rocks, a narrow crevice he hadn't seen before. He started to turn that way, the carbine swinging around, caught the glimpse of a rifle, saw the muzzle, a small black eye pointing toward him. The shot struck him in the chest, tearing through him, a punch knocking him back. He staggered, fell to one knee, and now new sounds came, a sudden burst of rifle fire, close by, the response from the men beside him. His eyes tried to stay on the crack in the rocks, the rifle barrel gone, and he tried to stand, but there was nothing there, no strength, no feeling at all. He took a breath, choked away, reached down with his hands, steadying himself, but his face came down hard on the rocks, no pain, just the hard choking twist in his throat. The shots were growing dull, the roar in his ears fading, a soft silence, and he struggled to breathe, to move, thought of the men, the orders, the crest of the hill. There was no feeling at all now, a glimmer of sight, a last frantic search, a glimpse of blood, flowing away, adding to the pool of black mud.

20. ADAMS.