The Final Storm Part 22

Adams looked for a convenient mud puddle, thought, I can fix that part right away. But the land had dried out, more heat than wetness now, the sun already up over the far hills. Adams lowered his voice, said, "What do you know about ours? The new looey."

"Gibson? d.a.m.nedest southern drawl you ever heard. Someone said he's a VMI man, talks a lot about Stonewall Jackson. I guess we'll find out what kind of stone wall he is."

Gibson stood to one side, motioning his men toward the trucks, and Adams moved away from Welty, approached the lieutenant, knew better than to stand at attention, and though no one had heard a sniper in the area at all, Adams erased the word sir from his mind.

"Begging your pardon. I'm Private Adams. Sergeant Mortensen's squad. Just got back up from the field hospital. I'm happy to be back."

Gibson nodded, didn't seem to really see him, said, "Fall in, Private. You do your job, I'll do mine. Right now you need to load up on phosphorus grenades. We'll be mopping up for the boys up front, cleaning out some caves. I want to see some dead j.a.ps."

Gibson was matter-of-fact, no smile, no real energy behind the words. Adams digested the word j.a.ps, rolling out of Gibson's mouth with two syllables. Jayaps.

"I'll agree with that, uh ..."

"Git on back to your squad. I want everybody loaded up with plenty of ordnance."

The conversation was clearly over, and Adams slipped away, no salute, Gibson not seeming to expect one. Adams mulled over the man's slow drawl, thought, G.o.d, if we're under fire, I hope like h.e.l.l I can understand his orders. He tried to guess Gibson's age, thought, not as old as the sarge, that's for sure. Hope he's up to snuff. He searched for Welty, moved out next to him, said, "Phosphorus grenades. They're giving us something new."

"Not new. But nasty as h.e.l.l. Best way to nail the j.a.ps right in their hidey holes. Just don't get any of that stuff on you. Burns right through skin, bone, everything else. Hey, we got company."

Adams saw where Welty was pointing, a squad of men dropping down from an amphtrac, all with large tanks on their backs. Adams had seen plenty of those before, thought, flamethrowers, and a whole bunch of them. d.a.m.n, this is gonna be fun.

NORTH OF MEZADO RIDGE, SOUTHERN OKINAWA.

JUNE 17, 1945.

The prisoners filed past, a dozen men, wearing what looked like loincloths. The Marines who marched them back seemed disgusted by the job, and in front of Adams, Yablonski called out, "There's a d.a.m.n cave back around the curve. Dump 'em there."

One man responded with a spit toward the prisoners, moved past Adams with dead eyes. Adams scanned one of the prisoners, the man rail thin, barefoot, a twisted mess of black hair. The man glanced at the pa.s.sing Marines, seemed terrified, moving in halting steps, prodded by the next man in line behind him. Yablonski kept up the chatter, said loudly, "We'll be eating you boys for dinner tonight. Ha!"

"Knock that off."

The voice came from the rear, Mortensen keeping his squad together, s.p.a.ced the usual five yards apart. Yablonski's shoulders hunched, the man clearly angry, but he seemed to appreciate that Mortensen had plenty of temper for all of them. The prisoners were past, and Adams saw a series of low hills, and beyond, a rocky, scrub-covered ridgeline. The rumble of artillery rolled down from the east, and Adams soaked that up, couldn't just let it pa.s.s. The thumps seemed to land somewhere very far away, and yet, inside his own brain, the smoke and smell of burnt explosives drifted through him in hot stinging waves. He focused on Welty, directly in front, boots kicking up coral dust, the heat drumming down on them. He stared at the nearest hill, thought of the shotgun, no use at all at this range. What the h.e.l.l were we thinking? He saw another column moving out beyond the far side of the hill, saw men suddenly dropping down, scattering, and he caught the single crack of rifle fire. Now a Nambu gun rattled out that way, the awful sound too familiar. The lieutenant called out from in front.

"Double-time it. Move up to the hill, spread out!"

The men obeyed instantly, and Adams scrambled after Welty, saw cuts in the earth, sh.e.l.l holes, debris scattered in every direction. As before, most of the vegetation was obliterated, some burned into rough stubble, some uprooted, blasted trees, the blobs of earth at their base making for good cover. The Nambu began again, still on the far side of the hill, and Adams followed Welty's lead, dropped low, held the shotgun at the ready. But there was nothing to shoot at, no sign of activity, the churned-up ground showing swirls of dust from a light breeze.

Behind him there was a sudden rip of fire from a Nambu gun, a man's scream, and now movement through a brush line, flickers of fire. The men fell flat but the j.a.panese fire was coming from every angle, holes in the ground suddenly revealing their occupants. Adams hugged the shotgun, the crack and whistle from the j.a.panese weapons close overhead, heard cries from all across the hill. The sound of thirties erupted behind them, a machine gun platoon coming up to the base of the ridge. But the targets were elusive, the men close to Adams keeping low, no one returning fire. A man ran past him, the quick scamper of footsteps, and he heard a single thunderous blast close by, Welty, the shotgun. Adams turned, frantic, saw the j.a.panese soldier tumbling down, Welty pumping a new sh.e.l.l into the shotgun's breech, lying flat again.

"Got him! Dammit! These sons of b.i.t.c.hes ..."

The thirties kept up their sporadic fire, desperate machine gunners trying to find targets, the j.a.panese mingling in with the Marines. But more of the Marines were finding targets of their own, some suddenly caught in a hand-to-hand struggle. Welty fired the shotgun again, and Adams peered up, a burst of Nambu fire close over his head, driving him flat again.

"Jack! Nambu to the right!"

"I know! You want me to shake his hand? I can smell the d.a.m.n powder!"

Adams felt his breathing in heavy gasps, red dust on his face, choking, rolled over, thin brush his only cover. He waited for the Nambu to go silent, thought, change belts, right? Reload ... right now. He leaned up, sitting position, searched frantically, saw the barrel of the Nambu, movement behind a thick bush. He raised the shotgun, no time to aim, fired, the brush blown into pieces, leaves falling. He pumped the shotgun, fired again, the Nambu silent, the barrel suddenly rolling to the side. Welty was up, crawling quickly, moved to the gun, shotgun pointed in, fired, no sounds at all from the j.a.panese gunners. He waved back toward Adams, a shout, "Here!"

Adams crawled as well, a crack of rifle fire over his head, kept moving. He reached the brush, close to Welty, saw the gunners, four men, a heap of blood and shattered flesh, the Nambu on its side, one man lying across it, his face nearly gone.

"Good work!"

Welty slapped his arm, then crawled in among the gunners, settled low, said, "Here! Good cover. Bodies!"

Adams slid in beside him, shoved one man up on another, a small embankment of human flesh, felt the slick wetness, blood on his hands. A single thump impacted the body closest to him, sickening sound, the smell of the blood and the stinking j.a.panese bodies engulfing him. He was breathing heavily, his heart racing, said, "What now? What do we do?"

Welty peered up, cold fury in his eyes, placed the shotgun up on the bodies, a perfect perch, said, "Sit right here! Watch for j.a.ps, anybody moves close, blow 'em to h.e.l.l. Reload your shotgun, you fired twice."

"No, just once."

"You fired twice! Reload!"

Adams was ready for the argument, a ridiculous debate, thought, I know how many times I fired the d.a.m.n piece ... and he thumbed one sh.e.l.l into the magazine, tested another, which slid in easily. Yeah, okay, fine. How the h.e.l.l did he know that? He stared at the shotgun for a long moment, lost in some other place, his brain trying to take him away, the roar of fire across the hill chasing him. But he fought it, kept his stare on the shotgun, felt the power in his hands, the burst of fire that took a man apart, that left no doubt if you had hit him. The voice rose in his brain, pus.h.i.+ng aside the need to escape. Do it again.

Across the sloping ground, Marines kept up their push, some firing point blank into spider holes, j.a.panese soldiers still rising up, some throwing grenades, shot down almost immediately. The thirties were still seeking targets, one burst splitting the air close above Adams, and he ducked low, his face close to the j.a.panese uniform, filth and blood. He wanted to back away, the smells sour, gut turning, thought, good cover. Welty stays, you stay.

There were voices across the hill now, the lieutenants pulling their men up from whatever cover they had found. Adams peered up carefully, and Welty said, "Time to go. d.a.m.n, I liked this place."

Welty jumped up, and Adams followed, stepped up and over the stack of bodies, his boot pus.h.i.+ng down into soft slop. He ran, following Welty, saw more Marines all out across the ridge, some firing toward j.a.panese soldiers on the ridgeline, some throwing grenades, fire in both directions. The brush thinned toward the top, the j.a.panese mostly in the open, some running, some ripped down by the fire from the Marines, some from the thirties down the hill. The grenades arced over from the crest of the hill, the same tactic the j.a.panese had used so many times before. Closer to the ridgeline, the Marines tossed over their own, the deadly, ridiculous game. Welty still ran, Adams desperate to keep up, the rocks difficult, clawing at his boots, a body underfoot, a Marine, and Adams flinched, tried not to step on the man, was past now, movements to his right, close beside Welty, a j.a.panese soldier rising up, a bayonet, Welty unaware. Adams shouted, but there was too much noise, no time, and he leveled the shotgun at his hip, fired into the man from a few feet away. The soldier collapsed, folded over, the blast ripping his gut. Welty glanced that way but didn't slow down. Adams ignored the man he had killed, too many j.a.panese troops rising up from their cover, some tossing grenades. He aimed the shotgun, sighted down the barrel, scanning, waiting, and one man rose up suddenly, half visible behind a bush, the grenade in his hand, thumping it on his own helmet. Adams fired straight into the man's face, the helmet blown away, the j.a.panese soldier collapsing in a heap, the grenade going off right where the body had fallen. The dust and smoke was rolling past, thicker toward the ridgeline, no visibility at all, choking stink of powder. The machine gun fire from behind had stopped, the Marine gunners seeing too many of their own on the hill. From beyond the crest the mortars came, more grenades, one arcing toward him, bounding on the rocks, right to Adams's feet. He kicked at it, panic, shouted out, but the grenade just smoked, no explosion, a dud, and Welty grabbed his arm, said, "Hit those rocks up there! Get ready ... there's j.a.ps right over the top!"

Welty threw himself forward, flattened, and Adams did the same, could see Marines lining up along the best cover, rugged coral rocks, whatever brush they could find. To one side Adams saw Mortensen, the tall man curling his legs in tight, one small boulder protecting him, saw Gridley, the BAR, the squad somehow keeping close through all the chaos. The firing was mostly one-sided now, Marines finding targets down the far side of the ridge, the j.a.panese scrambling away, some dropping down into holes, the mouths of caves, mostly hidden.

Mortensen called out, "Watch behind us! Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds might still be in those holes!"

Adams glanced back down the hill, many more Marines spreading out through the rocks, still some j.a.panese soldiers, one Nambu gun off to the left, silenced suddenly by a grenade. Marines continued to fall, fire coming at them from far to the side, the thirties now aiming that way, seeking new targets. The panic tried to return, Adams jerking back and forth, looking over the crest, back down, nowhere to go, another crest, another ridge with fire on all sides, too many men going down. Mortensen's words echoed through him, and he said aloud, "They're everywhere!"

"Shut up! You see one, you blow him to h.e.l.l!"

Welty's words calmed him, the jerkiness easing, and Adams remembered the soldier he had killed, reload, slid a sh.e.l.l from the cartridge belt, slipped it into the shotgun's magazine. Welty suddenly fired, shouted, "Duck!"

Adams obeyed, the grenade blast coming a few feet away, a shattering of rock that blew over him, punching and slicing into his side. He rolled that way, ran a hand down his arm, his side, his jacket ripped, shreds of cloth.

"Ah ... I'm hit!"

Welty was there, on top of him, rolling him over, feeling, said, "No you're not! Just tore up your fancy new duds."

"You sure?"

"No blood, you idiot. You feel dead?"

Adams felt the rips in the jacket, dry, pieces of gravel against his skin, not quite hard enough to blow into him, to ... shatter his arm. He stared at his hand, saw only the dried crust of blood from the j.a.panese soldier, thought, d.a.m.n, that was lucky as h.e.l.l.

"Thanks!"

Welty rolled away, said, "Yeah, I get a medal 'cause you got lucky. Just keep your eyes open. We won't be staying here long. The bra.s.s will want us to keep going."

"No, not now."

The voice came from below Adams's feet and he saw Gibson, the new lieutenant crawling on his knees and elbows, the carbine cradled in his arms. "Stay right here! They're sending up another unit to go past us." He raised up, shouted out. "Everybody, you all stay where you're at. We're supposed to hold this crest-"

The man's helmet popped off and he slumped suddenly, facedown in the rocks. Adams stared, frozen, and Welty shouted, "Corpsman!"

"Here!"

The corpsman scrambled up the hill, and Adams caught sight of the medical bag, could see it was brand-new, the man staring at him with sweating terror. Adams pointed, said, "There, they hit the looey!"

"The what?"

"Right there! The man that's down!"

"Yeah! Okay! What do I do?"

Welty scrambled past Adams, below his feet, jerked the bag from the man's hand, shouted into his face, "How long you been out here?"

"Don't know. Just got here!"

Welty didn't respond, rolled the lieutenant over, turned away quickly, said, "Never mind." He handed the frightened corpsman his bag, said, "Keep your a.s.s down, right here! We'll need that d.a.m.n bag!"

Welty moved back up beside Adams, and Adams saw the furious glare, Welty mumbling, "What the h.e.l.l's going on back there? They send us children to play doctor?"

Adams stared at Gibson's body, the feeling too familiar now, sickening helplessness. Welty said, "Right between the eyes. He never felt a thing. Let go of it. Do your job!"

"Yeah ... sure."

Adams looked back down the hill, could see a new wave of Marines coming up, men carrying thirties, mortar crews. The ridge was still peppered by firing, but most of the j.a.panese troops had either pulled away or were among the scattered dead. Already stretcher bearers were coming up, gathering up the wounded, the sounds of the fight replaced more by the sound of men, the voices, sharp screams, curses. Beside him Welty said, "Hey, Clay. Your new boots look like h.e.l.l."

23. ADAMS.

MEZADO RIDGE, SOUTHERN OKINAWA.

JUNE 18, 1945.

The company had stayed on the ridge, the fortunate men sleeping in foxholes. The others made do with shelter halves, some with ponchos for pillows. They had stayed alert, the two-man buddy system again, but if there were j.a.panese there at all, they had mostly seemed content to stay in their holes. By dawn, another wave of Marines had pa.s.sed through their position, a new attack on the next ridge, a place someone called Kaw.a.n.ga. The ridges ran like fingers out across the rolling rocky ground, each one a little taller, a little more rugged. The Sixth Marines were moving forward in a progressive wave, on a compact line that bordered the coastline. To their left, inland, the First Marine Division was pus.h.i.+ng hard into more of the j.a.panese lines of resistance, while farther to their east, the two army divisions did the same. The sounds of the ongoing fighting were everywhere, some of it from the sea, sh.e.l.ling from wars.h.i.+ps that were taking up position around the base of the island. Word had come from Marine lookouts near the sh.o.r.e that the j.a.panese had attempted amphibious operations of their own, small boats and barges loaded with commandos who had attempted to slip along the coastline after dark, to come in behind the Marines and soldiers closest to the sea. But the naval lookouts had done their jobs, patrol boats aiming spotlights into every hidden bay, every rocky nook where those enemy boats could hide. Even the small spotter boats were armed with heavy machine guns. Supported by heavily armed gunboats offsh.o.r.e, the Americans made quick work of the j.a.panese commandos, none of whom reached their targets.

On Mezado Ridge the caves were everywhere, the nerves of the men tested by the certain presence of the j.a.panese beneath them, as well as the constant sounds of the fight far up in front of them. All through the day the Marines had pressed forward through the ridgelines, and in every case the j.a.panese had made a good stand, but the enemy could not hold back the power that the Marines brought to the fight. Bennett's company was one of several charged with the job of mopping up, of making sure that any j.a.panese soldiers hidden in the caves, in any kind of underground lair, were brought up, or dealt with according to how the j.a.panese themselves responded. From many of the holes Okinawans emerged first, manic chatter to the interpreters, some begging for mercy, for food, some telling the Marines that soldiers still lurked below, back in the caves. Some of those civilians were led away quickly, grateful for anything, if only the promise of food. But others had stayed below, and when the caves were blown, either by explosives or the blistering fire from the flamethrowers, the Marines were astonished and sickened to find women, children, even babies, horrifying groups of b.l.o.o.d.y corpses alongside the j.a.panese soldiers, the same men who had so brutally dominated the Okinawan people and their country.

Before the Marines could begin their own work, m.u.f.fled shots and grenade blasts would ring out from inside the cave, ending often furious arguments between those j.a.panese soldiers who favored surrender and those who never would. More often the Marines would discover a cave occupied by corpses who had settled their differences in the bloodiest way possible. The same fate befell those few j.a.panese soldiers who sought the sanctuary the Americans were offering. j.a.panese troops emerged from caves, hands high, a show of gratefulness to their captors, but many of those men did not survive long enough to matter. From small spider holes j.a.panese snipers waited for the opportunity to execute the j.a.panese soldiers who attempted to surrender. To the disbelief of the Marines, the snipers seemed to regard that mission even above killing their enemy. Marines stood unharmed, startled, while a j.a.panese prisoner would suddenly drop from an unseen a.s.sailant. If surrender was the greatest act of dishonor a j.a.panese soldier could display, there were j.a.panese marksmen who would enhance their own honor by eliminating them.

"Easy now, take it slow. Where's that d.a.m.n interpreter?"

Captain Bennett's order was repeated, a shout echoed back across the open ground, and Adams saw one man coming quickly, an uneven run, negotiating his way through the jagged rocks. Bennett waited impatiently, the interpreter struggling to make the climb, and Adams saw the man's lumpy gut, surprising. But he had seen that before, knew the look of rear echelon. Bennett pointed to the cave, a jagged hole in the rocks, lined with thickly webbed branches.

"Right here. One of the boys saw somebody drop down into this mess. Give it a shout."

The interpreter moved closer, obviously skittish, shouted, "De-te-koi! De-te-koi! s.h.i.+mpachina!"

Adams stood close beside Bennett, Mortensen on the other side, both with their shotguns aimed at the hole, and Mortensen asked the question that rolled through Adams's mind.

"What's he saying?"

Bennett responded, " *Come out, come out, wherever you are.' Or something close."

Mortensen said, "He should try, *Come out or we'll blow you to h.e.l.l.' "

The interpreter was still nervous, looked back at Bennett, said, "Again, Captain?"

Bennett gave the man a scathing stare, said in a low voice, "You call me captain again and I'm going to have every man in this company fall in, call you general, and give you a big salute. You know what a sniper is, you jacka.s.s?"

"Uh ... yes ... sorry."

Noises came from the cave now, a woman's voice, fast jabbering. Adams gripped the shotgun with cold, anxious fingers, felt the stab in his chest. No, please G.o.d, not a woman. She appeared now, a filthy billowing dress, bowed several times, terror in her eyes. She dropped to her knees, crying fitfully, the interpreter moving up close, low talk, something comforting.

Bennett said, "Get back away from her, you stupid-"

The blast erupted into both of them, the woman's dress flying into shreds, a b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.s, knocking the interpreter backward. Bennett shouted, "Grenade! Son of a b.i.t.c.h! Corpsman! Get a corpsman up here!"

Adams stared, shocked, helpless, Mortensen watching beside him as a corpsman rushed forward, leaning low over the man. Another moved up close and Bennett said, "Stay back! Just need one. Too d.a.m.n dangerous. Could be more grenades on that b.i.t.c.h."

The interpreter was screaming, and Adams saw b.l.o.o.d.y rips across his chest, one leg ripped open, a huge empty gash in his gut. Bennett turned to Mortensen, said, "Spread your men out around this hole. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are still in there. They just sent this one out for laughs. You got phosphorus?"

"Yep."

"Use it."