Part 19 (1/2)

He tried to catch his breath, stared up in perfect horror, saw Welty squatting down, close to the body of the lieutenant. Others had stopped, too many men trying to help, nothing anyone could do. Adams moved closer, up the rocky hill, stared at the lieutenant's face, the eyes still open, empty stare, the skin already a pasty white.

”What happened?”

The question went beyond the idiotic, but no one responded, Welty upright again, a hard shout.

”Up the hill! Move it!”

More men were coming up through the defiles and muddy gaps, few stopping to see the body, who it might be. But Adams stood frozen, a long desperate moment, wanted to pull Porter up to his feet, to help the man, do something. The voice came from in front of him, the ugly sneer from Yablonski.

”He's meat. I got the j.a.p. Let's go.”

Welty was close to him now, pulling his sleeve.

”Clay! We gotta go. We're in the open. Let's make the ridgeline. The j.a.ps are in every d.a.m.n hole! Come on!”

Adams saw the men moving by him, heard the grunts, the scuffing of the boots. He looked at Porter once again, but there was nothing else to see, the oozing blood coming from the man's chest, staining the rocks beneath him. Porter was gone.

”A corpsman. We need to find ...”

”There ain't any corpsmen, Clay! They're all gone! Get your a.s.s up the hill!”

Welty jerked him hard, and Adams began to move, following, the flow of men rising up and over the jagged coral. He had no strength in his legs, but somehow he kept up, a slow plod. Welty was still in front of him, and Adams forced the words out, ”They got the sarge too. Right in front of me. A grenade.”

His harsh breathing stopped the words, and he heard a grunting response from Welty.

”Saw it.”

They climbed the sharper incline now, a ridge of coral, thick with mud and broken shards of rock that made any climb difficult. He tried to focus, to wipe the image of Porter from his mind, saw that some men were holding grenades, arms c.o.c.ked, and Adams felt for his, stumbled on the coral, lost his grip on the M-1. The rifle clattered against the rock, and he grabbed it quickly, urgent fear. The ridgeline was close above him, and he realized it was where the j.a.panese had been, where they had dropped their grenades down on him, the grenade that killed Ferucci. The others were going up and over the sharp ridge, and he followed, pulled himself up with one hand, noticed the thick crust on his skin, his sleeve soaked with the blood of the j.a.panese soldier. He swung his legs over, saw a narrow ditch, hand-tooled, not just the craters from American sh.e.l.lfire. The trench extended in a snaking curve, following the terrain, dipping lower far to the right, where the hill opened up with shallow ravines, narrow cuts. The trench was a perfectly constructed hiding place for sharpshooters, a perfect place to toss grenades down on men who struggled to reach the position. They pulled back, he thought. Where the h.e.l.l did they go? He looked up, beyond the trench, saw the rolling crest of the hill, the top, the place they were supposed to go. His mind focused on that, but there was too much activity around him, a dozen more Marines making their way into the narrow slit, as surprised as he was, every man grateful for the halt to their climb. They continued to come, some by themselves, staggering up to the trench, panting, exhausted, the s.h.i.+rtless glistening with sweat, others soaked in their clothes, some still in their ponchos. The faces searched the men already there, seeking a friend, or some authority, someone to tell them what to do. Up past the trench the hill was cut with crevices, sh.e.l.l holes, and blasted rock. But no one was moving up that far, the men close to him dropping to one knee or lying flat, all of them seeming to know that, for the moment, on this one small piece of Sugar Loaf Hill, the j.a.panese had abandoned the fight.

Adams knelt, tried to catch his breath. The rains had not come all day, and he glanced up, a gray shroud of clouds, thankful. He realized now the fighting all along the higher part of the hill had become more sporadic, brief bursts, single shots and mortar blasts, small firefights. Some of the sounds came far out beyond the hill, the flat muddy ground where the roads led to the city, Naha. But here, on this part of the ridge, the firing had stopped altogether, the thick wet air strangely quiet. Adams heard voices around him, Welty coming up close to him, saying aloud, ”We need to spread out, keep tight in this trench, hold our position here until someone tells us what to do.”

Several men seemed to hang on Welty's words, one man responding, ”Ain't that you?”

Welty shook his head.

”I'm just a private.”

”Well, h.e.l.l, Private, you seem to have more brains than anybody else on this hill. What you think we oughta do?”

Adams saw more faces turning toward Welty, knew the redhead was sensitive about the gla.s.ses, all the old insults from training, hey, Four Eyes. But Adams knew something about Welty's calm, his experience, thought, that man is probably right. Welty searched the faces, another cl.u.s.ter of men rolling up and over the craggy ridge, grateful for the shallow trench. Welty focused on one man, said, ”You! We need you!”

The face was familiar to Adams, the man moving closer, past the others, staring at Welty.

”For what?”

Welty lowered his voice.

”You're a d.a.m.n sergeant, right?”

”Yeah.”

”Well, until somebody says they outrank you, I guess you're in charge.”

Adams recognized the man now, another of the platoon's squad leaders, Sergeant Ballard. Ballard glanced around, said, ”Where's the looey?”

Welty seemed frustrated, made no effort to hide it.

”He's dead! He's on those rocks down there.”

Ballard nodded slowly, said, ”Wow. Who's your sergeant? He here?”

”Ferucci. He's dead too. Dammit, this ain't any time to take roll call.”

Ballard seemed to gather himself, still scanned the men in the trench. Adams felt a new burst of gloom, thought, he doesn't have the first idea what to do. He moved closer to Welty, perfect earshot of Ballard, said, ”Maybe you should take charge, Jack.”

Ballard looked at Welty, seemed to agree with Adams's suggestion. Welty seemed ready to explode, said to Ballard, ”Look, you're in charge. We should spread out, down both flanks of this trench. There's two thirties that have made it up so far, we should put one on each flank.” He scanned the others, and Adams saw Gridley, huffing over the rocks, still carrying the BAR. Behind him came Gorman, the older man helmetless, sweating, breathing heavily. Welty pointed, said, ”BAR! Right here! Watch that ridgeline! Everybody, pa.s.s the word. Stay down along this line. Good cover. Watch for snipers, n.o.body get careless! They could still be down behind us!”

Gridley seemed puzzled, glanced at the others, said, ”If you say so, Redhead. Where's the j.a.ps at?”

Welty looked again at Ballard, who had clearly abdicated any authority. Welty wiped his gla.s.ses with a filthy sleeve, hooked them back over his ears, said, ”They skedaddled out of here. But it'll be dark soon, and they'll be coming, sure as h.e.l.l. For now they gave us this cover, so we oughta use it. Keep low, but keep ready. This is a h.e.l.l of a good place for somebody to toss a grenade. You see one, try to toss it back.”

Adams stared at Ballard, who nodded, said, ”Yeah. Good idea.”

Welty was ignoring the sergeant now, said, ”I'm going up there, take a peek at the ridge, maybe get a look at the other side. Somebody come with me.” He turned to Adams, then looked past him. ”Clay ... and you two.”

Welty climbed up past the trench, stayed on his knees, then slipped to his belly. Adams moved out with him, the other two Welty had chosen, and Adams saw the exhausted fear in both of them, mixed with curiosity. Good question, he thought. What's on the other side? Welty pushed himself farther up what seemed to be the last bit of incline. The mud was deeper, sh.e.l.l holes full of thick brown water, rocks tumbled about, the remnants from a handful of artillery barrages. Welty stopped, motionless, and Adams eased up close, could see far beyond the hill, a vast sea of mud, and in the distance, less than a quarter mile away, the other two hills in the arrowhead. Their shape was far from distinct, and he realized now that the other two were less of a single hill than Sugar Loaf, more spread out, far more uneven, dips and creases and rough remains of timber. But both hills were alive with activity, men in motion, some scampering away from Sugar Loaf, j.a.panese troops out in the open s.p.a.ces, some emerging from hidden places Adams couldn't hope to see. Beside him, Welty whispered, ”The bra.s.s wants us to take those hills too? This is the stupidest attack I've ever seen. Some d.a.m.n general drew this up without having any idea what this place ...”

He froze, no words, and Adams probed the silence, heard voices, j.a.panese, straight down the hill, distant, out of the line of sight. Welty slid backward, the others doing the same, no need for orders. It was only a few yards back to the trench, but Welty stayed on his belly, the others mimicking him. In the trench again, more men gathered, and Adams saw a new wave of men coming up into the trench, saw another of the sergeants, Mortensen, men speaking to him with low urgency, hands pointing toward Welty. Mortensen was a lean, lanky man, older, a touch of gray hair, rough face and sharp blue eyes. He was breathing heavily, carried a Thompson on his shoulder, one of the few men in the company who preferred the weapon that was only practical at close range. Welty moved close to him, seemed dwarfed by the man, said quietly, ”Lots of j.a.ps down below. Looks like we drove them back.”

”We didn't drive anybody anywhere. They gave us this ridgeline so they can cut us off. Pretty sure of that. There's caves that probably go straight through this d.a.m.n hill. They can hit us from anyplace they like. The caves we pa.s.sed coming up here are still full of 'em, and we could be in a pile of s.h.i.+t up here. We found several narrow caves out to the right, and one of my men thought he'd check it out, and got blown to h.e.l.l. Our grenades just chased the j.a.ps in deeper. Unless somebody sends up some relief, we're probably done for. I plan to go down fighting, if I have to kick h.e.l.l out of every one of those yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds with my boot heels.” He paused, and Adams saw nothing to suggest that Mortensen didn't mean exactly what he said. Mortensen scanned the position, said, ”What's on our right flank?”

”Two thirties made it up this far, and I sent one down that way, where that brush begins. Looked like good cover. The other's out to the left, but the rocks are smaller. There's a pa.s.sel of j.a.ps right down below us on the far side. Lots of activity on the far hills too.”

Mortensen nodded toward Welty, said, ”Good job.”

Welty hesitated, glanced around.

”Uh ... Sergeant Ballard was here. Not sure where he went.”

Mortensen didn't change his expression, said, ”Doesn't matter where he went. You seen Porter?”

”He's dead.”

Mortensen lowered his head.

”d.a.m.n. At least four more looeys down to the right got it. Saw the stretcher bearers, and the j.a.ps hammered them too, sons of b.i.t.c.hes. The corpsmen ran out of stretchers down that way, and were using ponchos, but then we ran out of corpsmen. One colonel got it too, I heard. You heard from Bennett? You got a radio, anything?”

”Uh, no. Sarge, I'm only a private.”

Mortensen absorbed that, shook his head.