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 shirtless 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.

"Even the Corps makes mistakes. Unless somebody tells us different, we spend the night right here. You're in charge from this point left. I'll go back to the right. My own squad is mostly gone. Maybe one or two still alive. Never seen anything like this one. No place to hide, nothing to use for cover. The d.a.m.n mortars ..." Mortensen seemed to catch himself, raised up, the sea of faces close by watching the conversation. "All of you ... you listen to this man! Until I say different, do what he says!"

The order was as short as it needed to be, no one objecting, except Welty.

"Sarge ..."

"You call me that again up here and I'll break your gla.s.ses and your teeth. Dark in an hour. n.o.body sleeps."

The sergeant looked at Adams now, studied his shirt, the blood crusted thick on Adams's sleeve.

"d.a.m.n, son, you okay?"

Welty seemed to notice the gory mess all over Adams now, said, "What the h.e.l.l happened to you? You wounded?"

"Just a knife fight."

"I bet you won. Good for you. You sure you're not wounded?"

Adams shook his head, and Welty said, "A few wounded made it up here, but I haven't seen any medical bags."

Mortensen glanced around, called out a single word as a question.

"Corpsman?"

Faces looked his way, but no one answered. Close by, Gridley was wiping down his BAR, said, "Saw two get hit. Ain't seen no more."

Mortensen shook his head.

"Too d.a.m.n easy a target for these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Anybody gets. .h.i.t up here, we'll have to make our own aid station." Mortensen stared beyond the trench, toward the crest of the hill. "The top, huh? Well, that's where they wanted us to be. I guess somebody back there will call this a victory."

Welty led Adams along the ridgeline, the crest of the hill not more than a few yards above them. The j.a.panese works had simply faded away, the hillside now cut up by deeper holes, some of them made by American artillery. The mud was as it had been all across the hill, thick black pools gathered in the low places, most of those places now occupied by Marines. Welty moved quickly, appraising the position, men looking up at him as though appreciating his authority, even though almost none of them had ever seen him before. They moved past a thicket of brush, more burned stubble, a deep pocket, sharp rocks that opened into a miniature valley that was cut several feet deep into the hillside. In the bottom was a cl.u.s.ter of Marines, a thirty caliber, metal ammo boxes scattered around them. The tripod of the machine gun was broken, one leg supported by a well-placed rock. Welty stopped, the men staring up at them with dull, tired eyes. Welty said, "You're not the thirty I sent down here. Where'd you boys come from?"

The men looked up at him with puzzled glances toward each other, and one man said, "We come from down the d.a.m.n hill. Where you come from? Mars?"

The smell of the men reached Adams now, sour, filthy, the wetness around them thick with the same horror that seemed to fill every low place. Adams nudged Welty, said, "They've been here awhile."

"Yeah, we've been here awhile. You think we can just go marching up and down this d.a.m.n place like we own it?"

Welty glanced toward the ridge above them, stepped down into the depression, and Adams followed, the smells growing, could see how the hole could hold these men in good protection. The machine gun was tilted to one side, the rock not quite level for the tripod, and Adams could see a carpet of spent sh.e.l.ls, spread all past the muddy bog the men seemed anch.o.r.ed to. Close beside him, Adams flinched, saw two corpses, men wrapped in ponchos, boots sticking out toward him. Marines. Welty said, "What's your unit?"

"You got the pa.s.sword, Captain Four-Eyes?"

"h.e.l.l no. Ain't had one for a couple days. How about *Lala palooza'?"

"Close enough. Zeke here's been waiting to stick somebody who can't get the l's right. Ran out of grenades last night. You got some you can spare?"

Welty fumbled through the baggy pockets on his jacket, Adams doing the same, each man pulling out a pair.

"Here. Take these. We got a few more. There's a few dozen of us up to the right, a j.a.p trench, or something like it."

The closest man took the grenades from Welty's hand, pa.s.sed them to the others, spoke for the first time, a low, hard whisper.

"These won't last long. Full dark, the rain will come. After that, they'll come for us. Not much we can do."

The man's voice was different, and even through the whisper, Adams could hear his words distinctly, clear, the telltale sound of an education. Welty focused on that man as well, said again, "What unit?"

"Doesn't matter now. We're Marines."

Welty glanced back at Adams, then said, "Twenty-ninth? You been up here for ..."

"Three days."

Adams stared at the well-spoken man, saw age, a glimmer of seriousness he had seen before. He moved closer, squatted, said in a whisper, "You're an officer."

The man stared at him, shook his head slowly.

"Nope. Not anymore. Lost my whole d.a.m.n company. My bars went with 'em. They followed me up here, and I got every man killed. Some of 'em got hauled off somewhere, an aid station maybe, but pretty sure they didn't make it. Mortars caught most of us. Too much blood, too many heads half blown off. I didn't get a scratch. I a.s.sumed somebody's trying to tell me something. So, I thought I'd better listen. I lead men, they die. So no more of that. I'm stuck up here with these two boys, and I a.s.sume somebody put me here for one reason, to fight. No more fancy uniforms." He looked at Welty, and Adams saw the dead calm in the man's eyes, a deep hint of madness. "So, how about you?"

Welty shook his head, said only, "Private."

"Well, Private, welcome to our corner of the war. I'm guessing somebody sent you down here to check on us. Fine by me. You're in command. We heard your boys coming up on those rocks out there. Can't say it's a very good place to be, once the rain starts. There's a few more of us down farther, deep ground, like this. Caves everywhere, j.a.ps inside, waiting for dark. I hope you've got a h.e.l.l of a lot more grenades than what you gave us. The rain oughta start any time now."

Adams was baffled, glanced skyward, the darkness sifting over them, but the air was clear, no rain at all. He heard a sound, far up on the crest, a low voice, scuffing on the rocks. He put a hand against Welty's arm, the redhead looking that way as well. The three men didn't look up at all, slid back farther into their muddy grotto, pulling the thirty with them. The man they called Zeke said, "Half a box. All we got left."

The officer shrugged, said to Welty, "We'll hold out here as best we can. We can keep the infiltrators away for a little while. But once the rain starts, we're probably finished. You will be too, unless you get the h.e.l.l out of here. The entire j.a.panese army knows we're here."

The sounds above them were increasing, low voices, and Adams heard the dull thump, familiar, a grenade jammed on a helmet. There was another, more thumps on the rocks. Welty grabbed his arm, yanked him hard through the stinking mud, pulling him back into the deepest part of the hidden hole. The grenades came down now, tumbling, bouncing, one landing close to the corpses. They ignited in a scattering of blasts, and Adams pulled his knees up tight, the M-1 against his gut, the blasts blowing mud and dust into him, the ringing of shrapnel on the rocks around him. Above the position, the j.a.panese could be heard clearly, shouting out, single taunting words, names.

"John! Joe! Hey Doc!"

Another wave of grenades tumbled down, some farther away, the hillside erupting in bursts of fire, more mud and shrapnel, one of the gunners close to him grunting, a hard groan. Adams wanted to move, to help the man, but the grenades did not stop, continued to bounce and thump on the rocks out past the entrance to the odd hiding place. Adams held his knees as tightly as he could, his helmet tilted down toward the worst of the blasts, heard the sudden eruption from the thirty, the gunner firing a brief burst into nothing, a streak of red reaching far out into the dim light, the gun silent now.

"Come on down, you yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

"Time for me to go, boys."

The words came from the officer, and in the last glimpse of daylight Adams saw the man crawling forward with his carbine, wanted to shout at the man to keep back. The grenades came down farther away again, a carpet of blasts to the right, one sharp scream, a man crying out. The officer seemed oblivious, moved out beside the mangled corpses, leaned down, pulled the ripped ponchos over one man's body, straightening the legs. He stood now, climbed up from the low hole, stepped out onto the rocks. Adams stared in horror, no one saying anything, the officer a clear shadow, silhouetted by the blasts of fire down below. He aimed the carbine high, fired a burst, made a strange sound, calling out, not words, just a cheer, a mad hurrah. The grenades came now, a half dozen, bouncing around the man. Adams watched as he caught one in his hand, threw it hard back up the hill, the sound of a brief laugh, but the grenades were too many, and before the man could fire the carbine again, the ground around him erupted into a burst of fire. Adams ducked low, felt impacts against his legs, his helmet, heavy wet slop. All along the hill the grenades kept falling and the Marines answered by tossing up their own, up and over the hill, the two sides only yards apart, spread along opposite sides of the muddy ridgeline. There was almost no rifle fire, no targets for the M-1s, the enemies too close for mortars, too close for artillery. Some of the fights erupted face-to-face, knives and bayonets, but when the two sides kept their distance, there was no effective weapon except the handheld bombs. Throughout the long night, men on both sides surged up and out of their hiding places, seeking any glimpse of their enemy, but few were adventurous enough to leave the fragile safety of their own side of the hill. While the supply of grenades held out, they flew back and forth over the hilltop, coming down on their unseen targets like rain.

The trench had been no trench at all, not in the way any Marine had hoped. Welty kept them in place, but less than an hour after full darkness, the mortar sh.e.l.ls had come. They were carefully aimed, unusual, but the j.a.panese clearly had the range on this particular part of the hill. The mortars came down on both sides of the snaking trench, and then, dead center, men shredded and cut apart, Welty immediately pulling the survivors back down the hill. From the right flank Mortensen had sent word that the j.a.panese had come up from behind, a hidden tunnel the Marines still couldn't locate. Adams had heard the thirty caliber offer bursts of fire for long seconds at a time, and then silence, only the pops of the rifles, the dull eruptions from grenades from both sides. The thirty caliber machine gun Welty had sent to the left had never been heard from again, and there was no time to investigate that, no hope of finding anyone in the dark. It had to be bad, no one optimistic that any gunner who suddenly stopped firing had done so by his own choice. The chaos was absolute, any Marine who could was waging his own war, seeking targets from bursts of fire, or emptying magazines and tossing grenades in a desperate hope that the enemy was there. The wounded were many and loud, the voices drawing more fire, grenades mostly, from j.a.panese troops who had slipped in among the American positions. With Welty forced to bring the men down, Mortensen did the same, and in the muddy defiles and ragged rocky heights, men began to slide and tumble and scamper back down through the places they had climbed the day before. Some did not stop until they made the bottom of the hill, and even then, the fire from j.a.panese guns on the far hills took aim at landmarks already established in daylight. As the Americans pulled down and off Sugar Loaf yet again, the vicious fire from what remained of the enemy's artillery spread flashes of light over the mud and wreckage of the bare landscape, and showed the retreat for what it was, a desperate escape for the Marines.

On the hill, men still hunkered low, lost, digging into softer dirt, wallowing in the filthy mud, the smells of the corpses not nearly as pungent as the smells from the explosives and the smoke that surrounded them. Some of those men tended wounded, would not leave them behind, strangers offering whatever help they could give, help that more often was a ripped shirt or a syrette of morphine. The dead offered one last gift, ammunition, men forced to tear through the horrifying remains, stiff or b.l.o.o.d.y corpses that might still be holding ammo belts and grenades. Throughout the night the fight continued, the Marines who remained on the hill engulfed in a blind war with an enemy who seemed to l.u.s.t for death, as long as that death took Americans along for the ride. The j.a.panese made no secret of their tactics, loud shouts, often in English, taunting the Marines with name-calling and threats, the j.a.panese seeming to know they had the Marines exactly where they wanted them. As more grenades rolled down into shallow cover, the casualty count continued to grow. From distant officers word filtered up the hill that a general withdrawal had been ordered, but most of the men who sat terrified in their holes had no way of hearing that, and most of those had no will to do anything but sit in one place and wait for the dawn.

Adams had stayed as close to Welty as he could, and the others in their squad, even the ever-hostile Yablonski, had accepted Welty's authority as absolute. Others who had stayed higher on the hill had fought on as best they could manage, an extraordinary game of hot potato as grenades flew across the crest of the hill from men on both sides. But the j.a.panese had the advantage, greater number, and, apparently, greater supply of grenades, fed to them from the supply caves on the south side of the hill. With the grenade war becoming a lopsided affair, many of those Marines who could still move had done what Welty had done, obeyed the panicky instinct to pull back to some kind of safety, every man hearing the order in his brain, whether pa.s.sed on to him by an officer or not. Get off the hill.

The flash of fire blinded him yet again, a cascade of broken rock and mud burying them, the smoke burning his lungs. Adams waited for it to clear, holding his breath as long as he could, kept his face straight down into the soft, putrid dirt. He raised his head, blinked through the blindness, the flecks in his eyes, knew that with each blast the enemy had come forward, low scampering shadows who waited for their own mortars to clear the way before launching themselves straight into wherever the Marines might be. He pointed the M-1, searched frantically for movement, did not fire. With no targets, a flash from his own rifle would just tell the closest enemy where he was, and it was a certainty that a grenade would follow. Welty was pulled up beside a small rock pile close to him, a makeshift barricade Welty had gathered in the first minute they had stopped. Adams kept himself flat in the muddy depression, desperate optimism that a wad of uprooted brush might protect him, still tried to dig himself in wherever it was soft. Behind them Adams knew there were others spread out in a low gash in the rock, some beyond, up the far side. In the lowest place wounded had been dragged, a gesture of desperation, no corpsmen or medical bags to be found. Those who were conscious had done an admirable job of keeping quiet, m.u.f.fled cries from men whose limbs were shattered, whose chests had been battered by shrapnel from a grenade or ripped by the shards of steel from a mortar sh.e.l.l. Adams kept his stare on a bare rocky plane, sloping ground that led away into nooks and crevices he could not see. He glanced toward Welty, knew Welty was doing as he did, pointing the M-1 outward, would pour a clip of fire toward anything that could be j.a.panese. Adams gripped the K-bar knife in his left hand, clamped against the stock of the rifle. It was awkward, a clumsy way to shoot, but marksmanship meant very little now, and having the knife ready for immediate use was more of a priority now than it had ever been in a foxhole.

He let out a breath, good night vision, searched with stinging eyes for any flicker of motion. Without any warning another mortar round came down, a hard blast down behind him, the force jarring him off the ground, something hard striking his feet and legs. He yelped, pulled his feet up close, panic, rubbing one hand on his legs, wiping through mud and filth. But there was no pain, no sign that he had been struck by more than the debris tossed out of the deeper hole by the round. But then a new thought came, no, my G.o.d ... and he jerked his head around, stared into smoky black dark, wiped his face, saw flickers of flame on the already burned brush. The scream came now, too loud, the sound piercing the dark.