The Final Storm (16 page)

Ferucci said nothing, tossed his own gas mask out in front of the depression. Adams lay back against the softness of his pack, glanced at the M-1 again, water beading on the oiled steel. Beside him Yablonski was moving the brush aside with the barrel of his rifle, still seeking a target, a low voice, more angry words.

“Where the hell are you, you yellow bastards. Stick your head up, just one time. Give me one clean shot, you sons of bitches …”

Adams said nothing, knew better than to interfere in the man’s angry monologue. He saw Ferucci watching Yablonski, a cold, uncertain stare, the sergeant not doing anything to break the man’s frightening concentration. Adams lay back again, Yablonski’s words fading, silent, and Adams
took a long breath, tested himself, the fear not as bad as he expected. Welty was on his other side, and Adams turned, saw the glasses, Welty slowly peering up above the lip of the trench. Welty was the only man in the squad that Adams felt was his friend, and he was curious, had never seen Welty in any kind of dangerous situation. He wondered if Welty was as scared as he was, wanted to say something, reassuring them both, put a hand on Welty’s shoulder.

“We made it, Jack. On the beach. We got our beachhead.”

Welty didn’t respond, was in some other place, held his rifle up at his chest, staring away, his face sweating. Ferucci said, “Leave him be. He knows what’s about to happen. Never seen a man more in charge of himself, once the fighting starts. We’ll all be okay. So far, this is just … strange.”

Behind Ferucci, Gorman popped his head up, the older man calm as well, appraising the land around them.

“Hey Sarge, the tanks oughta hit the beaches right behind us. That’s usually the drill. That’ll make our job a whole hell of a lot easier.”

Ferucci pointed a thumb back over his shoulder toward Gorman, said to Adams, “Pops has done this more times than anybody. Listen to him, Private.” He turned. “Hey, Pops. You got Gridley’s stuff?”

Gorman didn’t smile.

“You have to ask? He can’t fire that damn Browning without me. I wouldn’t let him down.”

Gridley was farther down the line, the heavy BAR standing upright against the sandy embankment beside him. Gorman was Gridley’s ammo carrier, the older man somehow earning the right to go into combat with a carbine and heavy boxes of cartridges. Adams had yet to understand why any of that was a privilege.

The sergeant began to move, pulled himself up to his knees, anticipating the lieutenant’s order. After a long pause, it came, a sharp wave, the crisp shout, “Let’s go! Move! Spread out!”

The men surged forward out of the trench, following Porter in a crouching run across the uneven ground. Adams pushed through a thicket of brush, stiff and thorny, scraping his legs. To both sides the men ran with him, Gorman moving close to Gridley, Yablonski beside them, Ferucci’s squad mostly together. There was sweat on every face, grim purpose, some ignoring the order to keep their distance. All around him the wave of green pressed forward, the only sound the boots on rock, hard breathing, and the
crunch of the brush. The dirt was reeking of the stink of explosives, craters and blasted rock, smoke from small fires, shattered trees still smoldering, wisps of smoke coming from low places. He tried to keep his eye on Porter, was uncertain where he was, no insignia on the man’s green jacket, all the men anonymous, running as one, scrambling, stumbling through the rocky field. Then a hand went up, familiar. The men responded, settled low, Adams down to his knees, jagged rocks, dirt and brush, more good cover. He rolled to one side, the weight from the ammo belts pulling him down, and he put his rifle at his shoulder, glanced across the rocks, saw men dropping low all around him, rifles ready, no one talking. Porter watched them come, still motioning to the slower men:
Down
.

Adams’s mind searched for sounds, the fear sharpening his senses. What the hell is happening? Where the hell are the Japs? His heartbeat was heavy in his ears, his breaths coming in short, hard gasps. He heard a whisper of breeze, smoke drifting past, and now a new sound, low at first, then coming fast, louder, a high-pitched screaming roar. The terrifying sounds became engines, and he saw the blue Corsair, then another, the planes racing low over the beach. Just as quickly they were gone, up and over the hills. From the rocks around him, men called out, cheers, but Porter shouted them down.

“Shut up! Do your job!”

Adams stared up at the puffs of white clouds, felt lost, confused, grateful for Porter, for anyone who knew what was going on. He had heard too many horror stories, men crossing beaches, ripped to bits before they reached any cover at all. What he hadn’t heard from the veterans he had imagined, and none of the fantasies was pleasant. No matter how he tried to fight that, the images were there, driven into him by the bloody bandages and missing limbs of the men he had seen in the hospital. Some never made it out of the water, some had been wounded while still in their landing craft. But we didn’t get it at all, he thought. They let us alone, gave us the beach. Did the officers expect that? The navy guns … all that bombing. It worked? So what do we do now?

The whining roar of the engines came again, three more Corsairs, the blue gull-winged planes flying along the beach, higher, wings dipping, the planes turning, going inland, like the others. He could see the bombs beneath their wings, felt a jab of excitement, yes! That’s why there are no Japs. What the navy’s guns didn’t get, the carrier planes have blasted all to hell! Only thing that makes sense.

The quiet returned, low talk from some of the men around him huddled in their rugged cover. For now there were only the soft sounds of the beach, a distant calling of birds, and beyond that, silence.

Silence
.

H
ANZA
V
ILLAGE
, O
KINAWA
A
PRIL
1, 1945, 11
A.M
.

They were walking, two rows of men in the shallow ditches that lined a narrow gravelly road. Adams kept his eyes on the low patches of brush speckled across wide rocky fields, taller hills beyond, rocks and trees. There were more roads that led away, intersections that led into a row of stone huts, straw roofs, some with sheets of tin. Marines were everywhere, more of the landing force moving inland along other roads, into the small villages near the beach. Porter’s men moved in silence, each man holding tight to his weapon, waiting for … something. Behind them Adams could hear the sounds of engines on the beach, the great invasion continuing, amphtracs and floating tanks driving up onto the narrow shoreline, the larger LSTs unloading their men and machinery all along the landing zone. The tanks were already there, and he knew from the briefings that the engineers and Seabees would come close behind them, more equipment, bulldozers, and tractors. Ultimately they would deal with the airfields, smoothing over the damage caused by the shelling and bombing from the American bombardments, or whatever destruction the Japanese still had in mind.

Adams couldn’t keep his heart from pounding, sweat thick in his shirt and short jacket, his backpack growing heavier with each step. The belts of clips for the M-1 draped heavily across his chest, thumping him as he walked, pressing into the grenades that hung from his shirt. Far up in front of him, Porter led the way, another squad behind him, Ferucci’s squad bringing up the rear. Every few minutes there were hard whispers from the sergeant.

“Five yards! Dammit, keep your distance!”

Adams focused on the backpack that bobbed along in front of him, Yablonski, the man holding his rifle up, keyed, alert, still a desperate search for a target. Adams could see across the road, an open field cut by a narrow road that led to a small village. Marines were there as well, slipping cautiously into the small buildings, pushing through, shouts of
all clear
.

The sweat stung his eyes, and he wiped them with his sleeve, saw a hand signal, then a low voice passed the word back from Porter.

“Take ten. Stay down in the ditch. No huddling up. Keep your distance.”

The men dropped like sacks of flour, and Adams did the same, his knees gratefully giving way, the pack breaking his fall. Welty was closest behind him, the march not seeming to affect the man at all. Welty removed the glasses, wiped them with a sleeve. Adams wanted to talk to him, but there was nothing to say, no answers to the questions. The mystery was complete, no sign of the great Japanese horde that was supposed to meet them, nothing to stop the Marines from moving inland. They had already passed their first day’s objective, spreading far beyond the beachhead. There had been
nothing
to slow them down.

As they had moved up the low hills, there had been a burst of fire, off to the south, and Adams had heard the different sound of the Japanese Nambu machine gun, the first clue that there might be anyone else here at all. But the firefight had been brief, a peppering of shots from a few M-1s, and then, nothing. Farther to the south had come a hard rumble, thumps from what sounded like mortars, but if there had been a fight at all, it had been over quickly. The farther they moved inland, the more frequent the exchanges had been. But all of that had been far away, no one firing at
them
.

“Drink some water.” Adams turned toward the voice, saw the sergeant holding up his canteen, pointing. “Do it. I’m not dragging your asses up this road because you fall out all dried up. You’re sweating like pigs, and I can smell every one of you back here. A barnyard would be a relief.”

Adams obeyed, the water in his canteen warm, and he washed away the crust and salt on his lips. He had another canteen, empty now, most of the men carrying two, another of those luxuries offered on board the transport ship. He slipped the tin back into its canvas holster, his mind drifting, the heat working on his brain. He looked skyward, thought of home,
a bluebird day
. Well, not quite like that here. There’s clouds. And I haven’t seen a bluebird either. Seagulls, and some other brown thing. He wiped sweat out of his eyes, looked toward the front of the column, saw Porter close to the walkie-talkie man, the antenna wobbling out to one side. Porter was talking in a low voice, raised his head, stared out down the road. Adams focused, watched, waited for Porter to tell them … something. The conference was quick, Porter now rising.

“Saddle up, ladies.”

They rose, some struggling under the weight of the cargo they carried,
and Adams was surprised to see ammo belts coming off, tossed into the ditch. He put a hand against his chest, thought, no, not me. In front of him, Yablonski bent low, retrieved one belt, slung it over his shoulder, said, “Thank you, boys. Keep ’em coming. You weak assholes can’t hack this, you shoulda stayed home. There’s Japs in these hills, I can smell ’em. Don’t come running to me when you run outta clips.”

Ferucci responded from behind Adams.

“Shut up. You want to haul those belts, fine. The rest of you … well, I told you to drop that crap back at the beach.”

Porter was already moving ahead, watched the scene with weary annoyance, and another of the sergeants passed the order back to the last squad.

“Move it. Five-yard intervals. The looey says we got someplace to be.”

The march continued, the wetness in Adams’s boots less noticeable, his legs aching, moving in a slow, plodding rhythm, keeping the five-yard gap from Yablonski. They crested a low hill, Porter slowing them, cautious, but the far side of the hill was different, a cultivated field, waist high and green, and Yablonski said, “Sugarcane. The bastards could be hiding in here.”

Adams had never seen sugarcane before, took Yablonski’s word for it, followed as Porter waved them up out of the ditch. They moved out in a wide formation, stepping through the soft green stalks, the men separated by at least three neatly planted rows. Adams was focused on the sea of leafy green spreading out for a hundred yards, up and over a rise. The ground beneath his feet was clear, the half-grown stalks a foot apart. To his right, Welty made a sound, a high short whine, and Adams flinched, but Welty was walking slowly, deliberately, staring straight down, his rifle prodding the greenery as he moved. Beyond him, Ferucci said, “Eyes front, Private. Good hiding place for the Japs. Keep sharp. The shooting starts, hit the deck.”

Welty seemed lost in his own fear, and Adams remembered now, the briefing, the captain telling the entire company about the snakes on Okinawa, the place famous for the most poisonous snakes on earth. Welty had been one of those who seemed sickened by the fear of that, and Adams had laughed at them, thought, city boys. In New Mexico there were rattlesnakes as big as a man’s leg, and even as a boy he had learned to step through rocks and brush with one eye glancing down at each footstep. The thorny brush on Okinawa had brought that back to him, not that different from the hostility of the land near his home. The snakes were different,
he thought, but a snake’s a snake. As long as you don’t step on them, they leave you alone. The others hadn’t been nearly as calm about that, some of the men more anxious about snakes than they were about the Japanese. Now, in the sugarcane, the fear had magnified, the progress slow as the men kept their gaze downward, M-1s pointing low. Even on the road, as several of the men had dropped out of line for an urgent call of nature, every one of them had stayed in the wide-open spaces, any embarrassment erased by the fear of what might be waiting in the clusters of brush. Adams was more curious about what the snakes looked like, had yet to see one, a mild disappointment. On board the ship, the captain had spoken of vast numbers of them, as though Okinawa was one great snake pit, no place safe enough to step. That was just bull, Adams thought. They’re just keeping us on our toes, keeping these city boys from wandering off into God knows where. I don’t want to be lost out in this stuff, for sure. He thought of Yablonski, the man’s grim certainty. Yep, he’s probably right. There’s gotta be Japs out here someplace. I don’t want to be the guy who finds them.

They crested the hill, and the lieutenant signaled them to slow down, crouched low himself. They did the same, fifty men in a wide row. Adams glanced back and saw fifty more, the next platoon coming up behind, could see the road they had left, more men there, waiting to join them. Up ahead the sugarcane abruptly ended, giving way to a wide, flat field. The lieutenant glanced back to the second platoon, held up his hand,
careful
, now waved to his own men.
Let’s go
. Adams moved at the lieutenant’s pace, quick glances down between the greenery, the edge of the field blessedly close. They stepped clear of the cane and Porter stopped them again, the man seeming uncertain, a look of confusion. The lieutenant dropped low, the cane to his back, the others following his lead. Adams dropped to one knee, questions rolling through his head, a stab of fear. What? All I see is a big damn field. He stared out at the hills beyond, saw clusters of trees. To his right, Ferucci said in a low voice, “There’s more of our boys. There’s some buildings.”