The Final Storm (22 page)

With the doctors and corpsmen came interpreters, and to make matters easier, many of the Okinawans spoke English. The debriefings were useful, some of the Okinawans explaining where their rabid fear had come from. Japanese officers had taken great pains to portray the approaching Americans as savages of the worst kind, rapists and cannibals. The American cause had not been helped, of course, by the weeklong bombardment of the island, which caused significant numbers of civilian casualties. It was then that terrified Okinawan civilians had learned that the Japanese caves were mainly for use by the Japanese. Many of the Okinawans had to endure incoming shellfire by taking cover where there was no cover at all, hunkering down in their homes, or in the concrete burial tombs that spread around nearly every village. The tombs were a uniquely Okinawan tradition, crescent-shaped mausoleums where the remains of their ancestors would remain close to the families who revered them. During the bombardment, the concrete had become revered for another reason. It had been the best available protection for thousands of Okinawan civilians. It was not difficult for the American chaplains to understand that what some had expected to be the primitive heathenism of the Okinawan faith had actually proven powerfully accurate. Their ancestors had indeed protected them.

The conversations with the Okinawans also revealed how the Japanese
treated these people, long regarded as second-class Japanese citizens. The intelligence officers learned of the brutality, so many of the villagers made to dig in the hillsides, hauling dirt and rock for the Japanese tunnel system. The Americans had heard these kinds of stories before. The lack of young women among the refugees was testament to the particular usefulness that kept them hidden away alongside the Japanese troops. The young men were mostly gone as well, and the Americans were told that although the Okinawans might not want to take up arms against the Americans, with Japanese officers leading the way, and Japanese bayonets at their backs, they might have no choice.

N
ORTHERN
O
KINAWA
A
PRIL
12, 1945

“Hit the deck!”

Adams didn’t need the instructions, dropped down hard. He held his breath, dirt in his face, the rocky ground beside him cracking into splinters. He started to move, to scramble back, a desperate slithering crawl, his heart racing, looked for any kind of cover, but the firing came again, a hard
ping
off the rock beside him. He lay flat again, paralyzed by the terror, felt like screaming, the spray of lead now slapping the rocks just behind him. He spit out the dirt in his mouth, gasped for air, a loud shout down the hill behind him, Ferucci.

“Get back here! Run!”

Adams started to rise up, heard the crack of the bullet past his ear, lay flat again. The burst from the Japanese machine gun came again, tapping high on the hill like a woodpecker. Ferucci continued to shout, a manic tirade.

“Where is that son of a bitch? Anybody see him?”

No one responded, the spray of lead splitting the air overhead, still pinning Adams tight to the ground. He was breathing dust, choking, the terror freezing him, Ferucci again, “Find that bastard! Where’s the BAR? Give him hell!”

The rock beside Adams’s head cracked again, a shower of lead ripping past just above his back. Behind him rifle fire began, men taking aim at nothing, peppering the hillside, desperate, useless. The machine gun continued, seeking new targets, and Adams’s brain screamed at him to move, to run. But there were other voices too, Ferucci again, “He’s gotta be hit! Lay down fire! I’ll get him!”

Adams tried to think, his body still frozen, his arms pulled in tight, and he shouted through the dust in his throat, “No! Stay back!”

The men behind him kept up their fire, and Adams closed his eyes, utterly helpless, his face jarred by the thumps and pops in the rocks. The machine gun kept firing, shattering the ground just past his feet, seeking targets farther down, the men along the road behind him. His brain tried to work, fighting through, shouting orders … 
maybe the Jap thinks I’m dead
. Don’t move, don’t do anything. He’s shooting at
them
. Just … wait.

And then, the machine gun stopped.

“Run! Now! Get down here!”

Adams waited for a long second, stayed perfectly still, his brain focused on the silence from above. The springs uncoiled now, and he pushed himself up with his arms. One hand still gripped the rifle, and he crawled backward, slid down the slope on his stomach, his dungarees ripped by the rocks, scrapes against his knees. But he was down now, tall grass, larger rocks, saw the faces of the others, the entire squad staring at him, more men out beyond the road, still searching for a target, aiming up at the unseen gunner. He tried to breathe, still spitting dirt, coughed again, Ferucci’s voice, close to him, “You hit? You got blood on your face.”

He realized Ferucci was talking to him, but he couldn’t speak, coughed violently, put a shaking hand on his nose. He looked at the blood on his dirty fingers, saw the torn pant legs, more blood at his knees, took a breath, no pain, no other blood on his clothes.

“I’m okay, I think. Bloody nose. I think that’s it.”

“Get a corpsman up here! I’m not losing anybody today! Why the hell didn’t you run? I told you to get your ass back down here!”

Adams felt helpless, like a small child, still shaking, said in a stammer, “I don’t know. I couldn’t …”

He saw the lieutenant crawling toward them, the officer making a sharp glance toward Ferucci, who said, “He’s okay. Not hit. We couldn’t spot that bastard. He’s up in that brush somewhere.”

“Sergeant, next time you want to designate somebody for recon, use your damn brains! You sent him up there in the wide damn open!”

“Aye, sir. But we hadn’t seen any Japs … I thought …” Ferucci stopped, frozen by the lieutenant’s stare. “Aye, sir.”

Porter looked at Adams, seemed to scan him.

“All right. Maybe that son of a bitch is gone, crawled back into his hole. Unless we give him another target. Let’s stay in cover, keep close to
the ditch, get past this guy. He can’t be the only damn Nambu gun in these hills, so stay low, use whatever cover you can. And keep your distance. Five yards apart! Move out on my signal. Walkie-talkie!”

“Sir!”

The man crawled along the rocky depression, pulled the equipment from his back, handed it to Porter.

“Charlie six, this is Charlie two. We’re taking Nambu fire. You hear it?”

The response was a crackling garble, the words just audible.

“Roger, Charlie six … a clump of trees … two hundred yards above …”

Porter spoke again, “Charlie two, we’re moving out. Watch your flank. The enemy is still up there, but looks like a lone duck. Pretty sure we missed him.”

A new voice came now, and Porter’s reaction was different, his authority fading. It was Captain Bennett.

“Charlie six, negative that. We can’t leave him in our rear. Charlie two, move up the hill. Charlie six, do the same. Find him!”

Porter lowered the walkie-talkie, seemed to pause, stared down, thoughts Adams couldn’t read. Then Porter said, “Aye, sir. Charlie six … out.” The lieutenant handed the walkie-talkie to Hunley, the carrier, said in a low voice, “Guess we’ve got a job to do.” He peered up briefly over a low flat rock, no fire coming down. In the ditch across the road, Yablonski called out, “If that bastard is still up there, I’ll draw his fire. I poured two clips into those trees. I saw something move, but that’s it. I mighta hit him.”

Porter pointed a finger toward Yablonski, toward the others on that side of the road.

“Whether you hit him or not … you’re our cover! We’re going up, and if that bastard opens fire again, lay down as much return fire as you can! Where’s the BAR?”

Gridley was across the road as well, responded, “Here!”

“Good! Use it, son. Anything moves up there, blow hell out of it! Watch out for Charlie two. They’ll be moving up on our right, beyond that rise.”

The lieutenant took a long breath, glanced both ways, the others on the near side of the road watching him. Adams saw something new in the lieutenant’s eyes, a hard glaze, staring right through the men closest to him.
The words came out slowly, precise, a slight wavering, and Adams realized now, the man was afraid.

“Keep low. Use the cover. That bastard fires, hit the deck, let these boys nail him from back here. They might see him before we do.” He paused, looked to the right, where the road curved away, the direction they had just come. “Maybe Charlie two will get him first, save us the trouble.” He looked both ways, pulled his carbine close to his chest, a long second, said, “Let’s go!”

Porter moved first, crawled up over the flat rock, dove into brush, and now Ferucci followed, a hard shout to the others.

“Move your ass!”

Adams was still spitting dirt and blood, coughed again, made a quick glance at the M-1, felt a quiver in his knees, the paralyzing fear again. But the others on both sides of him leapt up, crawling uphill, slipping into the thin patches of brush. He watched boots working frantically, one man driving up on his belly, moving away. Adams gripped the M-1, tried to stop the shaking in his chest. He heard another one of the sergeants farther along the road, pulling his men up onto the hillside, and behind him the muzzles of the rifles in the ditch were up, silent and still, ready for a target. His heart was pounding wildly, and he hesitated, but the others were moving on up the hill, and he shouted to himself, his own order, get moving! The springs uncoiled again, and he launched himself up and over the rock, stayed on his feet, running uphill, bent low, pushed past the brush, stepped over someone, saw a larger rock, no one there, dove headlong, hit the ground with a gut-busting grunt.

Up the hill there was no response, and Porter was close to Adams, hidden by a bush to one side, said in a low growl, “Where the hell is that bastard?”

The others responded, short calls.

“Nothing!”

“No sign of him!”

Adams felt pain in his chest, the impact against the ground, the hard breathing, saw the others spread out across the hillside, some in good cover, some protected by a wisp of brush. Porter was up suddenly, running farther up, boots kicking up dirt, and he went down again, more cover, looked back at his men, scanned the hillside with a manic jerk of his head. Adams saw the man’s eyes, furious, terror, and Porter shouted, “Dammit! Find the bastard!”

Adams pushed up with one arm, ran after the lieutenant, and from the trees above them came the sound again, the
tap tap tap
of the woodpecker, closer now. There was no cover in front of him, but he flattened out again, and now the response, down the hill, the heavy thumping of the BAR. The Nambu was silent again, and Adams saw the lieutenant rise, firing the carbine, then moving up again, another low rock, falling in a heap of dust. Adams’s legs reacted, following, and on both sides others were moving as well, short bursts of motion, then down. But there was little cover, the rocks small, the brush too scattered. They were close to the clump of trees, thin pines along the hilltop, and Adams hugged the ground, jerked his head to one side, looking for Porter, waiting, his chest heaving against the hard ground. There was a new burst of fire, from the right, pops from an M-1, then more, and now came shouts.

“Got him! Got him!”

Adams breathed the dirt, choked again, rose with Porter, who stayed down on one knee, still aiming the carbine. Adams mimicked him, pulled the M-1 up to his shoulder, scanned the trees, small spaces, and Adams saw movement, men in the trees, saw … green. Marines. Porter yelled out, “Hold your fire!”

The men in the trees were waving, but others had come up from the right, were swarming past them, cautious, taking position along the ridgeline, searching for more targets in the pine thickets. The lieutenant looked out to both sides, his own men spread out on the hill, said, “Easy! Keep low! Eyes on anything that moves!”

He rose up, stepping quickly, and Adams followed him to the trees, some of the others coming as well. The men from the other platoon were in position, and Porter moved close to one man, both of them on their knees. Adams knew the man, Sergeant Long, and Adams kept his distance, stayed down in line behind Porter, scanning the hillside. He looked back toward the road, saw the men there in good cover, dark spots of rifle barrels, the men there still aiming up the hill. Up beside Porter, the sergeant said, “Right here! Saw him poke his Nambu up out of this hole.”

Porter said only, “Stay down. Could be more. I see the bastard.”

The two men crawled up past some low pines, and Adams felt a burning curiosity, followed, tried to ignore the pain in his scraped knees. The sergeant sat, facing Porter, raised a machine gun up from the brushy thicket, stood it upright on its butt, a look of pure joy on his face.

“Look at this piece of crap. That the best they got?”

Adams moved closer, staring at the machine gun, could see the enemy soldier now, the dull brown uniform, coated in blood, the man lying facedown beside what looked like a small round foxhole. The lieutenant eased over close to the hole, stared down, said, “Spider hole. Not big enough for a rabbit. These sons of bitches could be all over the place. I bet we’ve been walking right past them.”