Part 23 (1/2)
A voice came from the sloping hillside beyond the cave's opening, one man waving, pointing downward.
”Here! Air shaft!”
Bennett called up, ”You have phosphorus?”
”No. All out!”
The captain pointed to Adams, surprising him, said, ”Take a phosphorus grenade up there. Drop it in.”
Adams scrambled to obey, climbed up along the rough ground, toward the Marine who had made the find, saw now it was Gorman, the older man. Gorman was excited, pointed his M-1 down toward a round hole, a piece of pipe, just barely above the level of the ground.
”I love this. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.ds think we're blind or something. People wonder how these sons of b.i.t.c.hes live in caves. Here's how, kid.” Adams saw the pipe, no more than four inches across, hidden by a small clump of brush. Adams pulled the grenade from his jacket pocket, felt an odd shaking in his hands, had not used the brutal weapon yet. Gorman said, ”Phosphorus? Good! Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have it!”
Others were gathering and Gorman seemed jumpy, giddy, unusual. Gorman pointed into the hole.
”Listen! You can hear 'em! They know we're up here! Hurry up. They might blow this whole d.a.m.n hill! They could have a ton of explosives down there. Listen to 'em. Chatterin' like birds.”
Another man moved close, said, ”Dead birds.”
Adams knew the man, another of Bennett's sergeants, and he looked at Adams, saw the grenade. ”Do it, kid.”
Adams leaned close to the pipe, could hear the voices plainly, men and women, some crying, angry shouts. He glanced down toward Bennett, saw more men moving around the mouth of the cave, rifles aimed, Mortensen backing them off. Welty was holding the shotgun at his waist, staring up at him. Adams knew what Welty was watching for, thought, this is a d.a.m.n test. He's wondering if I'll do this. Adams held the grenade over the hole, pulled the pin, still gripped it, felt a s.h.i.+vering hesitation. He stared into the hole, the voices coming up in a chorus of sound, arguments, orders, more crying, and he waited another second, Gorman standing above him.
”Go on, son. Do it.”
Adams dropped the grenade.
He jumped back, waited, and the explosion rumbled beneath them, the mouth of the cave boiling with white smoke. The voices were screams now, but not many, and Adams backed away, wouldn't hear them, the other Marines moving up, taking his place, cheering for the white smoke that spewed up through the pipe, a hot flume coming up through the narrow chimney. Men were cheering, M-1s in the air, saluting him, and Adams moved back down toward Welty, the others still aiming the rifles at the cave. To one side, Bennett glanced at him.
”Good job.”
”Thanks.”
He looked at Welty, saw cold eyes, a slight nod. Adams caught the smell of the phosphorus, moved farther away, upwind, but the smoke was already in his clothes, his hair, on his skin. Fire had erupted near the mouth of the cave, white phosphorus igniting brush, the men reacting by wisely backing away. The cave was spewing smoke, and nothing else, no one emerging. There was another rumble, a sudden burst of fire from deep inside the cave, something combustible igniting. Adams still walked, his hands shaking, and Welty was there beside him, said, ”Now dammit, Clay, don't go all Asian on me again.”
Adams held up his hand, still shaking, and Welty said, ”Whoa, what the h.e.l.l's with you? You okay?”
”I did it, Jack. Wiped 'em out. They never had a chance.”
”I know. That was the idea. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds won't come out, we sure as h.e.l.l ain't going in there to get 'em. You saw what they did, using those d.a.m.n Okies like b.o.o.by traps. They got no reason to live, none at all.”
Adams was breathing heavily, sweating in the hot dusty air, the shaking rolling all through him. But it wasn't fear, nothing about the grenade, the smoke, the screams, and the death that bothered him at all. The shaking wasn't fear. It was excitement.
”Over here!”
Adams turned, saw a cl.u.s.ter of men waving from a crevice in a brushy hillside, and Bennett motioned for his men to advance, leaving a small party behind to keep tabs on the smoking hole. Welty began to move, said, ”Look! They're coming out. Let's get there quick!”
Adams could see civilians emerging from the cave, another group of women in filthy dresses, some breaking into a run, escaping as quickly as they could. The captain was on the radio set, an angry demand for more aid workers, for interpreters and prison guards. Another interpreter was there, moving up quickly toward Bennett, no one bothering him with details of what had happened to the last man. Mortensen moved up within fifty yards of the new cave, held the shotgun high above his head, holding his men a distance from the cave's mouth.
”Give 'em room. They keep coming, let 'em come.”
To one side Adams saw a pair of Marines moving up, a flamethrower team, the weight of the tank of napalm on their backs a hindrance as they staggered quickly through the rocks. Mortensen's squad was gathering near their sergeant, and Adams moved into place, focused on the man hauling the long spout of the flamethrower. This ought to be something, he thought. Ringside seat. Close by, Yablonski was watching him, said, ”Hey Nut Case! Don't let these Okie ladies scare you!”
Welty moved past Adams, toward Yablonski, and Adams could see Yablonski's response, both men bowing up. Welty slung his shotgun on his shoulder, said, ”I've heard about all I wanna hear outta your big d.a.m.n mouth!”
”What you gonna do, Four Eyes, kick me in the s.h.i.+ns?”
Mortensen shouted, ”Knock it off, both of you! There's a boatload of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in this hole! Stand ready!”
The flamethrower crew moved closer, the man with the nozzle looking at Mortensen, waiting for the word to fire. The sergeant shook his head, kept his eyes on the cave, said, ”Not yet. Let 'em come.”
The women continued to flow up out of the cave, more than two dozen, and now men appeared, ratty uniforms, hands on tops of heads. Mortensen yelled out, ”Watch 'em! Any bundles at their waist, shoot 'em! Anybody drops his hands, shoot him!”
Adams wanted to move closer, better effect with the shotgun, heard Yablonski saying something to Welty, some stupid vulgarity, Welty ignoring him. One woman emerged from the cave, men flanking her, close, as though making sure she didn't run, and Adams realized there was something different, the dress not as dirty, a shawl over her head. She looked up, eyes calm, scanning the men, focusing on the men with the flamethrower. Adams couldn't look away, something in her eyes, watched her, wanted to say something, what? There was something wrong, and now he understood. It wasn't a woman at all.
”Hey ...”
She seemed to trip, falling forward, and Adams could see the Nambu gun strapped to her back. Behind another man dropped down, carefully planned, the machine gun beginning to fire, flashes of light, the distinct chatter. The Marines dropped low, some returning fire, but the Nambu had spread its deadly fire in a wide spray, finding its mark, the men with the napalm tanks down, others going down. The M-1s responded, peppering the machine gunner, the Nambu silent now. Adams rushed forward, Mortensen pus.h.i.+ng ahead of him, one blast from the sergeant's shotgun, the body of the gunner jumping from the impact. The other j.a.panese soldiers had withdrawn, scrambling back into the cave, and Adams caught a last glimpse of them, faces, some near the cave's mouth, huddled low, firing still. He shouted out a warning and Mortensen dropped low, fired the shotgun into the cave, backed away, others firing as well, the heavy rumble of the BAR, shouts and chaos all around him. Adams saw Yablonski running to the fallen flamethrower, Yablonski shouting out something, curses. He ripped at the straps of the napalm tanks, freed them from the dead Marine, slung the tanks up on his back, yelled out, ”Move aside! These stinking b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ...”
He raised the snout of the flamethrower, fumbled with the mechanism, and behind him, Mortensen yelled, ”No ...”
But the liquid flowed out, straight into the mouth of the cave, then up, higher, Yablonski losing control, the nozzle rising, pus.h.i.+ng Yablonski back, the man tripping, falling backward. The napalm still spewed out, a fountain straight overhead. It ignited now, a thick burst of fire, seemed to hang airborne for a long second, then fell, coming down on Yablonski, around him, the man screaming, the fire enveloping him. Adams stood frozen, nothing to do, Mortensen shouting out, ”No you stupid ... no!”
The j.a.panese troops in the cave had disappeared, and more of the Marines moved up, no one talking, the men trying not to see the horror, Yablonski's charred body still wrapped in fire, the gra.s.s and rocks around him smeared with burning jelly. Adams saw the second flamethrower crewman, wounded, his shoulder covered in blood, moving up on his knees to his buddy, dropping down. The man with the nozzle had been ripped apart by the Nambu, his buddy curling up with grief, a corpsman there now, working to treat the man's wounds. Adams felt drawn to the flames, moved up toward the dying fire, stared at all that remained of Yablonski, black twisted flesh, saw Mortensen still eyeing the cave, and the sergeant said, ”Can't just shoot the thing like a rifle. It kicks like a mule. You gotta be prepared for the kick. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d.”
Men were coming to life again, focusing on the job at hand, gathering in a wide arc around the cave's opening, some moving up higher, searching for any ventilation hole. More men were moving up, another flamethrower crew, and Adams heard orders from Captain Bennett, the second flamethrower moving up close. The Marines stood back, all of them staying clear of the dying flames around Yablonski. The flamethrower operator aimed the nozzle, braced himself with one leg behind, the nozzle spewing a thick stream right into the mouth of the cave, then igniting, the men doing the job the way it should be done. The Marines kept back, some cheering, but the energy was gone, most of them just staring at the flames, knowing that if the men inside did not die by fire, seared lungs, they would die by suffocation, the flames sucking the air out completely. Adams watched alongside the others, rolling the words through his brain. Roast you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Roast.
”Private!”
He held his stare toward the cave's mouth, raised the shotgun, searched for any movement, but nothing came from the cave but black smoke, brush burning around the opening.
”Private!”
He backed away, turned toward the voice, saw Mortensen down on one knee. Adams saw that the hillside near the dead flamethrower was littered with bodies, the effects of the Nambu gun. Some of them were wounded, corpsmen moving up quickly, Captain Bennett moving among them, guiding the medical men to the ones who could be helped. Mortensen called out again, ”Private! Here!”
Adams realized the sergeant was calling him, and he moved that way, Mortensen staring at him with thick tired eyes.
”Your buddy.”
He saw now, the red hair, the gla.s.ses askew, Welty's helmet off, lying in the gra.s.s. Adams dropped to both knees, shock stabbing him, and Mortensen said softly, ”Sorry. He was a good man. Those dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.”