The Final Storm (17 page)

Adams saw Marines emerging from distant brush, and barely visible, a cluster of low white buildings. Porter scanned the open ground, motioned to the walkie-talkie man, another quick conversation. Adams saw a smile, strange, and now the lieutenant waved the men out in both directions. The men responded by moving quickly, short steps across the open ground. Adams could see farther out in front of them, the field pockmarked by shell holes. They moved toward the buildings, the other Marines moving
in and out, gathering. Adams could see sheets of camouflage up on poles, flapping in the gentle breeze. What the hell is that? Marines were gathering beneath the camouflage, the only shade in the area, and Adams saw now that the poles were arranged in the shape of airplanes. There were wooden crates beyond the strange shelters, stacked in odd configurations. Men were talking, laughter, one man climbing up on the crates, spreading his arms like wings. Adams understood now, the others as well, Ferucci saying it aloud.

“Fake airplanes. The Japs made fake airplanes. I guess … it’s all part of the joke.”

Adams moved closer to the gathering Marines, said, “What joke?”

Ferucci looked at him, a short laugh.

“One April, Private. Seems the Japs have played the world’s greatest April Fool’s joke on us. A pretend air force. Maybe this whole thing is pretend.”

As he moved closer to the camouflage, Adams saw a pile of black wreckage, what used to be a truck. Beyond was more of the same, another truck down in a crater, pieces scattered. Porter moved out past them, a quick order.

“Easy. Stay here, stay alert. We’re in the wide-assed open here. Be ready for incoming fire. I need to find the captain.”

Porter moved away, and Adams saw one of the Marines moving out toward him, the unmistakable stride of an officer. The two men spoke for a long minute, pointing, and now a radioman appeared. There was more talk, another officer joining the conversation. The curiosity was digging hard at Adams, but he thought of Porter’s words,
wide-assed open
. He looked out toward far hills, thought, anyone up there can see us clear as hell. Suddenly, from the officers and the men close to them came a new sound: celebration. Around him the platoon inched forward, the others as curious as he was. Adams still watched the higher ground, nervous, said to Ferucci, “Sarge, what the hell is this place?”

“I guess the looey’s gonna tell us.”

Porter was walking toward them, shouldered his carbine, beamed a broad smile.

“Congratulations, gentlemen.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Not even noon. Well, it seems that halfway through our first day on this slice of paradise, we’ve captured our third day’s objective. Welcome to Yontan Airfield.”

Y
ONTAN
A
IRFIELD
, O
KINAWA
A
PRIL
1, 1945, 7
P.M
.

“D
on’t stop digging until the two of you can sit with your helmets belowground. Snipers are good at picking off helmets, and once it’s dark, the Japs will probably move in to take a better look at us. I hear any more bitching about rocks, you can toss me your shovels and dig with your damn hands!”

Porter prowled through his platoon like an angry cat, the smartest men keeping their comments to themselves. Adams worked as they all worked, chopping, digging, cutting down through the tough mix of dense sand and coral rock, hacking and probing with the small shovel. Close beside him, Welty worked as well, but Adams knew Welty didn’t have the strong back, not for the ridiculous effort it took to make a hole in this kind of ground.

To one side, a voice, and Adams glanced that way, saw Gridley, shirtless, wide shoulders, streams of sweat, digging his hole close to Ferucci.

“Hey Sarge. I’m digging, but I gotta wonder why? There ain’t been a Jap anywhere around this place all day.”

“Shut up, and keep digging. You heard the looey. That’s all you need
to know. I’ve gotta dig my own damn hole, and spend the night with that smelly bastard Hunley and his damn walkie-talkie. Don’t give me your beefs. Some Jap up in those hills decides to throw some artillery fire at us, where’d you rather be? Up here on the nice flat ground, or in a deep-assed hole? Get to work. No more stupid questions.”

The chopping, hacking, and cursing continued, but gradually the foxholes grew deeper, the men testing them by sitting upright, squeezed together, facing each other with legs side by side. Adams sat down in the bottom of the hole, the shade welcome. He looked up at Welty, who had his small shovel on his shoulder, and Welty had a look of tired satisfaction.

“Looks good, Clay. I think we’re safe.”

“Safe from what? I’m with Gridley. There isn’t a damn Jap anywhere around this place.”

“You heard that firing. I can hear it now, down that way. Something’s happening. There’s gotta be Japs …”

“Or our own guys shooting at rabbits.”

Welty clearly was not convinced, dropped down into the hole, kept his stare toward the distant rumbling. Adams had tried to avoid the sounds, had convinced himself it was still naval gunfire, distorted over the great distance.

“We’re still shelling the island down there in front of those ground pounders. They’re probably jumpy as hell. I’ll bet most of those army guys have never been through this before.”

“Not like you, eh, Hardtack?”

Ferucci was standing above the hole, no smile with his question. Adams felt suddenly very stupid, said, “Uh, no, Sarge.”

“Listen, you lamebrain, a bunch of those ground pounders are veterans too, fought under MacArthur, some damn place like New Guinea. Cannibals, boys. How’d you like to spend your night in a foxhole wondering if the next bastard you hear might be wanting to eat your ass? The looey says the ground pounders are running into some resistance down south. That’s not fireworks, it’s artillery, and if you paid attention, you’d know that none of that sounds like our stuff. Seems we had the easy time of it. But down there, the Japs aren’t just sitting back. Maybe they figured out who we are, and decided they’d rather stand up to ground pounders. Now settle in and eat something. The brass wants us up and moving north at dawn. The looey says there’s supposed to be Jap positions up that way, and recon says they’re just waiting for us to wander by. So, you think we’re
here to shoot rabbits, don’t come bitching to me when some Jap sniper takes your head off.”

The absurdity of the sergeant’s words made Adams drop his head, hiding the smile. He made a slow nod.

“Aye, Sarge.”

Ferucci was gone now, curses directed at another of the foxholes. Welty sat across from him, their backpacks wedged close beside them.

“Don’t think he likes you too much, Clay.”

Adams thought of the boxing matches, Ferucci treating him like a star.

“He’s not supposed to like anybody out here. Just like the looey. Hell,
you’re
not even supposed to like me. Nobody’s supposed to be buddies. Buddies get killed, and it makes you a crappy Marine. That’s what I was told, anyway.”

Welty seemed to ponder the thought, shrugged.

“I learned a lot of that kind of stuff in training. Don’t see how that makes me a better Marine. I know what to do when the enemy attacks. Kill the bastards. That’s what we’re supposed to do, right?”

There was no fire in Welty’s words, Adams unconvinced that Welty could really kill anybody. He would never forget boot camp, thought charging sandbags with bayonets was easy. Hell, he thought, it was fun. Scream your brains out, curse the sandbag’s momma, all so the sergeants would think you were getting tougher. Now we’re tougher. Okay, what now?

There was a shout and Adams grabbed the M-1, popped his head up above the rim of the foxhole, heard the sound of an engine, searched the fading daylight. Men were pointing, Welty’s words loud in his ear.

“It’s a plane! He’s coming in!”

Adams stared, mystified, said, “He’ll have a hell of a time finding a place to land that ain’t busted all to hell.”

Nearby, Ferucci shouted, “Lieutenant! We got company!”

The plane rolled its wings slightly, the pilot maneuvering, seeking a clear strip of undamaged runway, the plane dropping quickly. Adams watched with raw amazement, thought, hell of a good pilot. Something’s gotta be wrong with him.

The plane made a last bank, a steep turn, putting down onto a narrow strip that led close to the Marines, and they all saw it, the last bit of sunlight reflecting off the plane’s wings, and now the fuselage, the bright red circle. Welty shouted into Adams’s ear.

“Holy Jesus! That’s a Jap!”

Across the field other men had identified the plane already, a swarm of Marines crouched low in a line of fire. The plane slipped its way past the shell holes, moved closer to the buildings at the end of the field, the engine shut off, the prop jerking to a stop. All across the field the rifles and machine guns were aimed, a curtain of silence over the bizarre scene. In short seconds the cockpit slid open, a single man emerging, adjusting his cloth helmet, slipping a parachute off his arms, swinging his legs out onto the wings, dropping down to the ground with a soft thump. He looked around, began to walk toward the first building, then suddenly stopped, turned with a jerk of his head, scanning the field. He seemed to understand now, crouched low, reached for a pistol at his belt. The shots came from close in front of him, and farther across the field, a chattering of fire that crumpled the man where he stood. Close to Adams, one man had fired an entire clip, shouted now, was up and out of his foxhole, running toward the silent plane. It was Yablonski.

“Got him! By God, I got him!”

Ferucci pursued him, others as well, a mass of men moving out from their positions. Adams was drawn with them, Welty following, a quick dash across to the plane. Officers were there now, calling the men back, one older man stepping forward, kneeling at the body.

“I’ll be a son of a bitch.”

The officer stood, moved to the plane, said aloud, “Well, we didn’t shoot it down, but I’d say you boys nailed your first Jap Zero.”

Lieutenant Porter moved out close to the older man, said, “Sir, what the hell was he doing?”

The older officer glanced at Porter, and he shrugged, laughed, looked out to the sea of faces who gathered in a tight circle around the plane and its desperately unfortunate pilot.

“Lieutenant, it’s happened in every army that’s ever fought. There’s always some poor bastard who doesn’t get the word.”

T
hey had tried to sleep, Adams unnerved by the intermittent rattling from distant machine gun fire, the occasional thump of artillery. But sleep did come, both men in their foxhole finally unwinding from the amphibious landing. Welty had been fidgety, and just before dawn, when the
low growling call came from Ferucci, Adams was jolted awake to see Welty digging through his own backpack, as though he had not slept at all.

Their breakfasts had been quick and awful, the K rations a poor substitute for the relative luxury of the chow on board the transport ship. As Adams checked his M-1, the routine from the training, Welty had gone out to fill the canteens. Ferucci had called them up out of the foxholes with a sharp curse, and there had been no time for anything but a brief latrine call, men lining up impatiently at a shallow slit trench. The slower men had to handle nature’s call out on the march.

They moved out at the first hint of daylight, the various companies flowing northward on the network of roads that led through the smaller villages and farmlands, every piece of ground offering some kind of cover that could disguise a Japanese machine gun nest. The navy recon planes had provided information on a scattering of Japanese positions, the carrier pilots spotting gun emplacements in the hills, most of them tucked into hiding places that no one might find until the guns had done their job. The experienced pilots had come to expect what they saw now, that the Japanese had positioned the larger artillery pieces on railway tracks, or flattened roadbeds, which allowed the guns to fire, then be withdrawn back into caves. The spotters might note the position, but before a Corsair or a naval gunner could zero in, the gun would disappear straight back into the mountain.

It was the same with the Japanese troop positions. All along the low mountain ridges that ran to the northern tip of the island, recon showed troops in motion, but only glimpses. There were no large-scale troop movements, no great masses of trenches where the Japanese seemed prepared to make a stand. The senior commanders could only vent their frustration at the intelligence officers, since no one could accurately count just how many enemy troops were on the northern half of the island. And even when people were located, there was never complete certainty that they weren’t just Okinawan civilians, working their fields, tending to what remained of the normalcy of their everyday lives. As had happened around the airbases inland from the landing beaches, it appeared that most of the carefully constructed defensive works had been blasted to rubble and splinters by naval and air force bombardment. Driving northward, some of the Marines stumbled into pockets of resistance, a carefully hidden enemy who could emerge from uncountable holes in the brush and rocky hillsides.
The fights were often brief, but the Japanese had every advantage. All the Marines could do was what their commanders insisted: keep going, shoving the Japanese back until the enemy had no choice but to give up that part of the island.