The Final Storm Part 11

"Why?"

"Head."

"Make it quick."

Adams pulled himself up out of the foxhole, one hand already on the buckle of his belt. He waited for the silence to return, knew there were eyes in the dark, that he was probably a dull shadow to the men close by, every one of them nervous, their weapons ready for any kind of deception.

He crawled to the hole, knew it wasn't deep, but the urgency was getting worse, and he pulled at the belt, was startled by m.u.f.fled footsteps, saw a shadow in front of him, moving quickly. What the h.e.l.l? Somebody using this hole? Wait a d.a.m.n minute! The shadow had moved away from him, but then came the sound of a stumble, a startled cry in one of the foxholes. The shouts were loud, a scream cutting through the darkness. Adams stayed frozen, low on his knees, strained to see, heard a shot, a flash of fire coming from the next foxhole. He was blinded, but he knew that the shot would bring more, a lot more, and made a fast crawl, tumbled down onto Welty, who cried out as well.

"What? What's going on?"

The struggle continued nearby, and now another cry, shouts again, another shot from farther across the field, and then the chaos began, flashes of fire from every direction. Adams pulled hard on Welty's s.h.i.+rt, tried to right himself, Welty fighting him off, and then a hard whisper, "Pull your K-bar!"

The shooting stopped, shouts from the lieutenant, others, and Adams felt for the knife, unsheathed it, his heart exploding, held the knife close to his chest, stared up into the darkness, waiting for whatever was coming. Welty was crouched low, motionless, and Adams wanted to get to his own knees, but there was no room, and there could be no sound. After a long moment, a voice broke the silence, Porter.

"Whose foxhole?"

"Yablonski here! Son of a b.i.t.c.h fell in on us! We got him! Gridley's hurt!"

Adams heard a low curse from Porter, and the lieutenant said, "Bad?"

"No! Stuck me. I stuck him back!"

Adams knew Gridley's voice, deep, thunderous. Yablonski said, "Got a cloth on it. Shoulder! Can't see!"

"No lights. I'm coming up! Corpsman!"

"Here! Lollygag!"

Adams eased his head up, heard the scamper of boots, a shadow rus.h.i.+ng toward Yablonski's foxhole. There were low voices now, another shadow from behind them, and Adams thought, the corpsman. Around Gridley's foxhole the men lay flat, no profile. Adams heard a hard groan from the big man, the talk around them low, intense. There were whispers in every direction, every man up, focused, searching the dark. One man crawled away from Yablonski's hole, disappeared into the dark, and now the other man, a low slither to the front, and Adams knew it had to be Porter. The pa.s.swords came now, each man making his way back to his own place, no other sounds. Ferucci called out, several yards to Adams's right.

"How bad?"

The voice that responded was deep and furious, Gridley.

"Bayonet in my shoulder! Son of a b.i.t.c.h just dropped on us. He's lying out here, next to the hole! We stuck him good, both of us. Got his stinking blood all over me."

"Shut up! If there's one, there's more!"

"Quiet! Stay sharp!"

The streaks of fire came now, white tracers, scattered, a flurry high above, some lower, ripping into the ground. Adams had rolled to his knees, kept his head below ground level, saw a line of blue-white light directly overhead, fading quickly, and Welty said, "j.a.p tracers!"

No one spoke, the machine gun fire coming from far away, different from the woodp.e.c.k.e.r tapping. Adams knew from the briefings it had to be the heavier pieces, something close to the fifty caliber. Welty whispered, "This is good! No infiltrators now. They wouldn't fire if they had a squad of guys out here crawling around. As long as they keep this up, we can get some sleep."

Adams stared at him in the dark, saw faint reflections from the tracers, Welty pulling himself down into the corner of the foxhole. And then the firing stopped. There was no sound at all for a long minute, every man waiting for what might happen next. Adams had forgotten the problems in his gut, the cramped misery replaced by the sudden reality. That j.a.p was ... right here. He could have come into our hole ... probably would have. Stay alert, dammit! Welty was sitting again, a low whisper.

"d.a.m.n them anyway. I need some sleep."

Adams eased his head up, trained his eyes on the terrain, tried to recall the familiar lumps and bulges of the low brush. Out in front of the foxhole, something seemed to move, a larger bulge, something new, and he reached for Welty's arm, missed, and out front came a sharp thump. He brought the rifle up, and now the darkness was blasted by a flash of fire, a thunderous explosion. All around them M-1s responded, and Adams closed his eyes, blinded, fired once, Welty doing the same, then Welty's hand on his arm, pulling him down again.

"j.a.p grenade! Stay down."

The streaks of fire came all across the field, more shouts, farther away.

"Got him! Got him!"

"Shut up! Cease fire!"

Again the firing died down, the panic pa.s.sing. Ferucci shouted, "Grenade! Anybody hit?"

"Just missed us here!"

Adams knew now what the thump had been, the one part of the briefings that the veterans had repeated often. j.a.panese grenades were primed by a hard knock straight against the fuse, j.a.panese soldiers usually knocking them against a rock, or their own helmets. He leaned close to Welty, said, "I heard it!"

Welty said nothing, and Adams felt the familiar s.h.i.+vering, spreading out from inside his gut, his hands gripping the M-1. He rose up again with Welty, stared hard into the darkness, his night vision coming back, could smell the explosives, the dust. Welty tugged on his arm again, startling him.

"I can hear your teeth chattering. Sit. Keep the K-bar out. There could be more of them. They jump in here, cut 'em hard and fast!"

Adams obeyed, felt a strange calm from Welty, the mild-mannered man now taking charge. He s.h.i.+fted himself against the bottom of the foxhole, heard voices, the sergeant, the lieutenant, communicating in single words.

"Hurt?"

"None."

"Morning."

Adams translated, thought, we'll see what the h.e.l.l happened in the morning. G.o.d, Gridley's hurt. We need his BAR. Somebody else will have to carry it. Maybe he's not too bad.

He gripped the K-bar knife hard in his left hand, kept it pointing upward, his right hand resting on the trigger guard of the M-1. The questions rolled through his brain. How many more? They gonna do this all night? Maybe we should shoot every now and then. What happens if they get the lieutenant? He stared ahead into black dark, glanced down toward Welty, could barely make out the shape of the man curled up beside him. He stared out again into the darkness, his brain working, feverish, every man in the platoon asking the same questions.

APRIL 13, 1945.

DAWN.

There had been no sleep for Adams, the night creeping past in an agonizing torrent of images, waking nightmares that skipped through his mind, scenes of blood and death, questions of what they would see in the light. The darkness had been alive with motion, his imagination playing terrifying games, dancing figures in the dark, small brush suddenly running away, then there again, unmoving. With the first hint of gray, he had cursed anxiously at the darkness to go away, felt desperate relief as the ground revealed itself. His vision increased by the minute and by the foot, finally to where Yablonski and Gridley lay, then farther, a dull shadow taking shape, more, until the images were no longer just in his mind. Beside Yablonski's foxhole lay the dead soldier, blood all through his uniform, Yablonski's manic work with the knife more efficient than it needed to be. In front of Adams lay another j.a.panese body, no more than twenty yards away. With more daylight the man's dark form took shape, and Adams could see that the man had no head, everything above his shoulders a b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.s of shredded cloth and skin. On both sides helmets were rising up, the rest of the platoon taking it in, the daylight erasing the nightmares. To the left, out in front of the next squad, he saw a third body, bareheaded, lying faceup, his arms twisted in some bizarre contortion, as though the man had tried to tie himself in a knot.

"n.o.body move. Stay down in your d.a.m.n holes! Remember those machine guns!"

The men to that side obeyed their sergeant's command, even the most curious settling back into the ground. The talk began now.

"We got 'em!"

"h.e.l.l, I got him! He was right in front of me!"

"One got himself!"

Adams settled back into the hole, sat, saw Welty doing the same, the redhead now digging into his backpack.

"Chocolate bar? I got plenty."

"No thanks. G.o.d, did you see the one right out front? What do you think happened?"

Welty looked at him, and Adams could see the man's face, just enough light to show the reflection of his gla.s.ses. Welty said, "Seen it before. j.a.p goes to throw his grenade and the fuse goes off too soon. Blew his d.a.m.n head off. Their grenades must be c.r.a.p."

"Wonder where he was throwing it?"

"Don't. Doesn't matter."

"I saw three dead ones. Think there were more?"

"Yep."

Welty ripped open the cardboard of the K ration box, scattered the contents beside him. He poked, appraising, said, "G.o.d, I could use some coffee."

Adams felt grit in his mouth, his tongue like cotton.

"I need water. My canteens are empty."

Welty said nothing, and Adams thought, if he could spare some, he would say so. There's gotta be a water truck or some barrels around here somewhere close.

Welty put a thick cracker in his mouth, said, "The CP's not too far behind us. Captain will make sure we get some water."

To one side, a voice called out.

"Holy G.o.d! Would you look at that!"

Adams heard a hoot, another man, "I'll be! Take a look at that! She come for breakfast?"

Adams peeked up, saw the woman now, walking across the open ground, a slow march closer to the foxholes. He could see her short black hair, could tell she was young, small and thin. But he could see clearly that she was not a child. She was naked.

Other hoots came now, her audience appreciative, curious, some of the comments vulgar, and now, one man was up, moving toward her, took off his helmet, made a mock bow. The girl kept walking, closer, and Adams could see more details, her face showing nothing, staring straight ahead, doing her best to ignore the calls of the stunned men around her. Another man rose, then his buddy, crawling up from their hole, and the man waved the others back, said with authority, "Back off. We'll wrap her up in something."

And now one more voice above the clamor, the lieutenant.

"Get the h.e.l.l away from her! Get back in your-"

The shots came now, slow and precise, single pops in the distance, the dull crack of lead as the carefully aimed shots impacted each of the men. They dropped in perfect rhythm, one by one, tumbling clumsily, helmets rolling away, motionless, the voices gone, the vulgar hoots replaced by the sounds of horror in the men who watched, surprise and fury. The girl was still there, paralyzed, standing with her eyes closed, and then there was one more shot, and Adams saw the girl collapse. He felt a hand on his arm, a hard tug, Welty yanking him into the hole.

"Get down!"

He felt queasy shock, wanted to see, and Welty rose up, kept his hand on Adams's shoulder, holding him down.

"Snipers! n.o.body's moving."

The order came in a manic high pitch, the voice of the lieutenant.

"G.o.ddammit, stay put! It came from those far trees!"

Adams heard Porter's voice again, this time low in his foxhole, and Welty said, "He's on the walkie-talkie. We need some help. Maybe some 75s, or some tin cans. Somebody needs to blow h.e.l.l out of that tree line." Welty paused. "G.o.d bless those d.a.m.n fools."

The tanks rolled close, a half-dozen machines, rising up off the road, spreading into formation. Adams could smell the exhaust fumes, smoke trailing each of the Shermans, and around him the men responded, the lieutenant pulling them up from their cover, advancing them toward the distant tree lines. The men were pulled into packs close behind the tanks, natural instinct, no one objecting. Behind them the officers had gathered briefly in a shallow gully, kneeling low. Adams was close to Welty, Ferucci guiding them into line, the sergeant staring back where the officers spoke, and Adams ignored that, looked across the open ground to the cl.u.s.ter of bodies, the four Marines now wrapped in ponchos, only their boots protruding. The girl was there too, a piece of cloth tossed across her, someone's gesture of decency that seemed to contradict the obscenity of what she had been made to do. Adams had stepped past her, had seen the thin legs, the prettiness of her face only partly covered. He had focused more on the stain of blood on the cloth, thought, no one volunteers for that. She's got to be an Okie. Behind him a man moved up to the bodies, stopped, and Adams hesitated, saw his face, older, sad eyes, the man making a brief sign of the cross. Adams knew him, the chaplain, nodded toward the man, got no response, the chaplain's attention on the bodies.

"Get moving!"

Adams turned, saw Ferucci waving at him, moved away, thought, nothing I can say ... the chappy knows his job. Didn't even know he was out here.

The services had been conducted somewhere every Sunday, even on the Sunday two weeks before when they began the invasion. Then, the chaplain had been on the s.h.i.+p, administering a ritual to anyone who cared for it. There had been many that day, many more than usual, and Adams had a.s.sumed that a chaplain shouldn't cross the beach until it was secure. But the man was there now, doing his job. Adams had a curiosity about the girl, wondered if the chaplain would say something for her. Well, yeah, we're all G.o.d's children, all of that. She ended up as bait. Wonder what G.o.d thinks of that?

Adams saw Welty waiting for him, the tanks slowly moving away, and Adams pushed himself forward, realized the lieutenant was up beside him, moving fast, taking himself to the front of his platoon. Adams was swallowed by the exhaust, the agony in his stomach only worse, worse still by what had happened to the four Marines. He fought through the sights and sounds, the girl, the utter shock of that, felt more angry at the men who died than the enemy. We did just what the j.a.ps thought we'd do. We'd either ogle her and be jacka.s.ses, or we'd try to help her. Either way, we'd let down, for just a second. Who can just pretend there's not a naked girl walking by? Smart sons of b.i.t.c.hes. And then they were done with her. She was just ... another weapon.

There had been no more from the j.a.panese since the Marines were killed, since the sun had risen completely. The Marines had poured out their own anger in a storm of fire from the M-1s and BARs, a machine gun battery moving up as well, a half-dozen thirty calibers peppering anyplace where the j.a.panese might be. No one knew if there had been any effect from that, but the firing had released the anger, and when word came quickly that the Shermans were coming, the men had responded with cheers.

A gust of wind took the exhaust smoke away, and Adams could see the ground in front of them clearly now, the pine trees and low squat palms. One of the Shermans erupted in machine gun fire, blasting a cl.u.s.ter of palms. The men on foot gathered closer, no one sure what to do, no targets. The Sherman closest to Adams suddenly accelerated, the turret s.h.i.+fting to one side, its cannon cutting loose. The explosion burst into a clump of short trees, fire, smoke, and then three more tanks began to fire, ripping away at the strand of woods. The Marines were being left back, and no one ran to keep up, the tanks suddenly taking full command, turning, maneuvering, one crus.h.i.+ng right through the palms, more machine gun fire, all of it from the Shermans.

Adams felt a hand on his shoulder, startled, turned, saw Ferucci, pointing back. He saw now, behind them, a row of amphtracs moving up, the vehicles that had carried some of them in from the s.h.i.+ps. Now they were rolling on land, each one equipped with a heavy machine gun, a fifty caliber, the crews inside protected by the steel bulkheads. The first amphtrac rolled by, men looking out at the Marines, fists pumping the air, any cheers silenced by the belching roars of the engines. The amphibious machines moved up closer to the tanks, and around him the Marines were called forward as well, the lieutenants continuing the advance. But the M-1s were silent. The larger machines were doing the work. The battle seemed to spread out farther, the tanks fanning outward. Around him the Marines continued their advance through the trees, wood and gra.s.s fires boiling up around them, the stink of explosives, and beyond, the tree lines gave way to upsloping ground, the larger hills. But the tree line had been cleared and the tanks stopped their advance, curled around, came together in a formation, keeping a safe distance between them, poised in a soft chugging of their engines, the amphtracs doing the same. Adams saw Porter waving him forward, heard pops of rifle fire, men shooting straight down into holes in the ground. He searched frantically, the words etched into his brain, the lieutenant's description, spider holes. Close to one side an amphtrac had halted, lowered the wide steel door, six men pouring out, keeping together in pairs. Adams saw the fat tanks on the men's backs, the strange weapon they carried, like a thin rifle, but it was no rifle at all. It was a flamethrower.

The battle had been brief and mostly one-sided. The Marines had found targets, but not many, and the work had been done mostly by the tankers and the flamethrowers, few j.a.panese soldiers willing to come up to the surface to fight on terms the fresher recruits had expected. For many there was little to do but wait and pick out targets as they emerged from the caves. Some came out as prisoners, but not many. The j.a.panese who emerged with their weapons did not live long enough to aim them, some holding grenades they never had a chance to throw. But those had been few as well. There was no way to know how many of the enemy were in the ground around them, and how many might still be alive. But Adams had watched with horrified fascination as the liquid flames shot deep into the small cavelike tunnels, and the one-man spider holes were either empty or held the body of a j.a.panese soldier too stubborn to run away.

With the fight drawing to a close, the artillery batteries had been brought closer, the distant hills now splattered in a cascade of fire, aided by the good work of the dive-bombers from the carriers offsh.o.r.e. The Marines were pulled back, Captain Bennett's company regrouping on the flat ground above the beach, ground that was too familiar. To everyone's relief, the bodies of the four Marines had been removed, and one of the foxholes had been filled in, marked by a trail of stained brown dirt that Adams had to guess was all that remained of the girl. Before the darkness came again, there were more officers, jeeps and amphtracs, command posts set up, aid stations for those few who had been wounded in the attack on the j.a.panese positions. As the men settled back into their makes.h.i.+ft encampment, there had been a shocking surprise, which not even the officers expected. Along the beaches, small patrol boats moved in close, some of the Marines not even noticing them until the voices came, broadcast on loudspeakers. The men who worked at their foxholes were brought to a halt, no sergeants griping, no orders from the lieutenants. The loudspeakers carried a message, a solemn announcement that no one could ignore. Franklin Delano Roosevelt had died.

Like most of those around him, Adams knew little of the man beyond what he had heard on the radio, or what the newsreels showed, a president who was more like a kindly grandfather than their commander in chief. After Pearl Harbor, it had been Roosevelt's words that inspired Adams to join the Marines, inspiration shared by hundreds of thousands of young men across the country, including many of those who shared the foxholes above the beach. The announcement threw a strange cloud over the men, some of them reacting by not reacting at all, others invigorated to work harder, to dig the foxhole deeper, better. Some just sat and cried, as though they had truly lost a member of their family. No one interrupted that, there was no teasing, no embarra.s.sment to anyone who had grown up knowing no other name who meant so much to the nation. After a time the emotions pa.s.sed, replaced by a silent gloom, and there were few conversations, almost no one thinking about the new man in charge, most not even knowing that his name was Truman. With the fading daylight the Marines climbed down into their holes, awaiting the darkness again, staring at shadows, keeping watch against the infiltrators, fighting the panic and the nightmares that rolled through them all night long.

And the next night, they would do it all again.

13. NIMITZ.

For the next several days, the fights rolled northward, the j.a.panese making their stands in a way that only invited defeat. Rather than attack the Americans with guile and sound tactics, the j.a.panese mostly held their ground, and were overwhelmed by the crus.h.i.+ng superiority of the Marine tanks, artillery, and naval aircraft. Each night the infiltrators would come, small-scale strikes against the dug-in Marines, rattling the nerves and trigger fingers of the men who were suffering mostly from heat and the lack of sleep. But the j.a.panese seemed content to wage a piecemeal war, rather than the ma.s.sed horror of the banzai a.s.saults, the chaotic slaughter that so many of the veterans had seen before.

As the j.a.panese withdrew or were crushed by sheer strength of arms, the Marines continued to exceed their own timetables, pus.h.i.+ng toward the northern tip of Okinawa far ahead of schedule. To the Marine commanders, who had feared the kind of casualty counts that had come on Iwo Jima, the lack of a stout j.a.panese effort was welcome.

On the Motobu Peninsula the job for the Fourth and Twenty-ninth Marine regiments had been costly. The enemy had seemed far more willing to offer a sharp struggle on a piece of land that was subject to ongoing bombardments from air and sea, as well as the relentless push by the Marines. The casualty counts had been somewhat severe, but by April 20 the peninsula was declared secure. The combat units who had taken punishment were allowed some rest and refitting, while the remainder of the Sixth Division and the bulk of the First continued driving north. Up the spine of the island, the Marines did their job, made a relentless push into whatever enemy they could find, or whatever resistance was thrown up in their paths.