The Final Storm (29 page)

Adams kept his stare on the flames, the skies now dark, the sun only a faint glow of light, the sea lit by the fires from a dozen ships.

N
EAR
C
APE
H
EDO
, N
ORTHERN
O
KINAWA
M
AY
2, 1945

The rains had stopped, the ground drying, the mud now turning to a fine red dust. Adams cursed, rubbed the small oily cloth over the barrel of his M-1, turned sheepishly to Welty, who said, “Yeah, fine. Here. I told you. Use only a little. The looey says we’ll be getting more, but who the hell knows when.”

Adams took the small vial of gun oil, squeezed a single drop into the
open breech of the rifle, rubbed the cloth in the tight circle against the steel.

“I never saw this kind of stuff before. It gets into everything.”

Welty blew hard into the breech of his own M-1, said, “Coral. Like the grit on sandpaper. Plays hell with the truck engines too, the airplane engines, anything like that. The mechanics go nuts with this stuff. Don’t think I’d wanna be a pilot chasing some Jap Zero while this crap is grinding my engine down to nothing.”

“Jesus! Bitch bitch bitch! You ladies need a backrub, make all your little pains go away? I’ll find one of the Okie gals for each of you.”

Ferucci was standing over them, and Adams focused more on the rifle, pretended not to hear him. The sergeant bent low, stared at the breech of the M-1, said, “Clean it again. You must be out of practice. This damn vacation we’ve been on’s made you careless. Then get ready to saddle up. The looey says regimental is sending us a potload of trucks. We’re going for a ride.”

Adams looked up, the sergeant’s face framed by the piercing glare from the sun.

“We going south?”

Ferucci straightened, hands on his hips.

“We’re not going
north
, you moron. Unless you wanna drive a truck off that cliff.”

Welty worked the action of his rifle, said, “Guam, I bet. They’re sending us back to the beach we came in on.”

Others were nearby, the word
Guam
attracting attention. Yablonski came closer, the big man, Gridley behind him. Both were shirtless, and Gridley carried the BAR across his shoulder, wore the bandoliers across his bare chest, the wound from the Japanese infiltrator hidden beneath a small white bandage on his shoulder. Yablonski said, “Guam. That’s what I heard too. We done the job. So they’re sending us back to do some more training. Pain in the ass. Hardly saw an anthill of Japs up here, and they think we oughta rest up.”

Ferucci said, “So complain to your damn congressman. Next time we’ll stick you in the hottest place we can find. That make you feel better?”

“Yeah, it does. I didn’t sign up to go on a Boy Scout camping trip. I still got clips they gave me on the damn transport ship. My damn piece ain’t even been warmed up yet. If I don’t heave a grenade at some Jap’s
belly, I may heave one at these two idiots. You clean that damn piece good enough, redhead?”

Welty replaced the butt of his rifle, the cleaning kit put away, looked up at Yablonski.

“You better aim that grenade where it’ll do some good. Before it goes off, I’ll sling this bayonet right into your damn big mouth.”

“Shut the hell up, both of you!” Ferucci turned away, suddenly distracted. “What the hell? Now what?”

Adams heard the sound of a jeep, peered up over the edge of the foxhole, and Ferucci said, “That’s the colonel. And Bennett.”

Adams kept his eye more on Yablonski, had developed a healthy fear of the man. Yablonski moved off, back toward his foxhole, Gridley following like some oversized pet. Welty stood, watched the officers gathering, and Adams looked that way, saw three of the lieutenants joining them, Porter among them. Ferucci said, “I knew it. We’re not going to Guam. They’re talking about our next mission, and it ain’t a camping trip. Nobody’s smiling. Look, the colonel’s flunky’s got a map. I been thinking about this. I bet they’re laying out the next assault, another island. Maybe Japan itself. We cleaned out the Japs pretty good here, and the high brass knows we didn’t get chewed up too bad. They’re gonna send us to Japan. I knew it!”

Welty was up now, curious, stood close beside Adams as they watched the officers, the map unrolling onto the hood of the colonel’s jeep. Adams said, “Japan? You think so?”

Ferucci seemed completely sure of himself, arms folded across his chest.

“Damn right. Time to take this fight right into the Jap living room. I been waiting for this, hoped like hell I’d be a part of it. All that bitching about how we missed out, well, we’re not gonna miss out now. You just wait.”

Adams heard the rumble, far down the road, a cloud of red dust rising up. The trucks came into view now, a long line of deuce-and-a-halfs. The meeting of officers broke up, the colonel climbing into his jeep, moving away into the dust cloud, and the others fanned out quickly, Porter coming up the hill toward his own platoon. Adams felt a strange dread, examined the rifle with a quick glance, saw more of the fine red film on the barrel, a new layer of coral dust already sticking to the oily sheen. Dammit! Porter stopped, scanned the foxholes, said aloud, “Gather up! Keep to
those rocks, but get where you can hear me! Don’t bunch up. There’s still some Japs in these hills, and this is no time for stupid casualties.”

Adams obeyed, the others as well, some of them emerging from foxholes, some already holding backpacks, prepared for the move. Porter dropped to one knee, waited for them to gather, some squatting, sitting, finding low places that might serve as cover, cover none of them thought they’d need. Adams moved toward a fat sago palm, saw Yablonski slip into the shade before him, knew better than to object. Welty was close to the lieutenant, squatting between two low rocks, and Adams moved that way, sat, one hand on the ground, coated now with a fine grit of red.

“All right, listen up! Those trucks are taking us out of here. The whole damn division’s mounting up.”

“Ha! I knew it!”

The voice came from the palm tree, and Porter looked that way, annoyed.

“Shut up! You don’t know jack. I’ve heard all the crap you idiots have been tossing around. You’re expecting hula girls and cold beer. Forget it. The army’s been getting their teeth kicked in down south, and the generals have decided they need us to move down there and replace them. That shouldn’t surprise any of you. We knew that we’d end up with the heavy lifting, and my guess is some dumbass on some ship out there had his map upside down and sent us the wrong way. The real heat’s down south, has been from the beginning. The army boys can’t handle it, so you know what’s gotta happen next. The First Division is already on the move, and we’re going in behind them. I haven’t been told exactly what they’re gonna do with us, but you know damn well it’s not gonna be pretty.”

The trucks were pulling into a wide field, the engines shutting down, the clouds of dust pouring up the hill toward the platoon. Across the field, other platoons were getting the same briefing, loosely spaced clusters of men listening to their officers. Porter glanced toward the trucks, said, “Grab your gear and mount up. Fifteen to a truck, so we’ll fill three of ’em. I’ll be up front with the radio. If you need water, there’s a truck coming up with some barrels. Fill ’em up. It’s a long drive.”

T
he trucks had no canopies, the dust swirling around them in suffocating clouds of heat and blinding grit. Adams had his head down, eyes closed, his helmet the only shade. Close beside him Welty did the
same, and even the most vocal knew better than to open their mouths. Even if their complaints could be heard at all, the dust would find any opening, a mouthful of the crushed coral adding more misery to what was already a rumbling bouncing hell.

Adams had no idea how long they had been in the trucks, had bounced and rocked in rhythm with those around him, swaying with the turns, cursing silently when the truck hit a sharp hole. He tried to open his eyes more than once, tried again now, was surprised that the air seemed to be clearing, the dust not as bad. He felt a sharp breeze in his face, looked across to the man opposite, Gridley, the big man staring past him, his eyes ringed with white circles. More of the men raised their heads, the air clearing, and Adams saw flat fields, sugarcane, the small farms they had marched past many days ago. Beside him Welty spat a hard wad of something thick into the air, past Adams’s head, stared up and over, trying to see more of where they were, the others doing the same. Adams heard a croaking voice at the back of the truck, the last man on the bench, Ferucci.

“Airfield. Maybe Yontan. We’re stopping.”

Adams felt the truck slow, a hard squeal of brakes, could see a sea of trucks already in place, parked in neat rows. Just as quickly the trucks at the far end of the field began to move, one after the other, the caravan resuming. The truck beneath him rumbled to life, curses rolling through the men, the usual voices, Yablonski, “What the hell? Somebody can’t make up his mind?”

Adams ignored him, was more curious than angry, the truck lurching forward, following the next one in the long, snaking line. The road away from the airfield was wider, smoother than the coral trail they had endured, and he kept his gaze outward, saw another row of trucks, some with canopies, coming the other way, toward them. Beside him Welty said, “Hey, where the hell are they going?”

The truck slowed, dipped to one side, easing off the road, the entire caravan shifting over, allowing the northbound trucks to pass. Some of those trucks were covered, but others were open, and Adams could see the men now, faces peering out, as curious as he was. But there was a difference, something in the faces that seemed gloomy, lifeless. Some of the Marines began to call out, waving, simple greetings, but the greetings weren’t returned, and now Ferucci said, “Army! Sure as hell! Those are ground pounders!”

The men on both benches rose up, and Adams heard the calls coming from the trucks in front, the usual hoots, insults and joking, and now the men around him began the same routine.

“Hey, doggie, doggie! Woof!”

“Too tough for you boys down here? You doggies need some
men
to take over for you?”

“Hey! You scared of those little Japs?”

The calls continued, and now the convoy moving past slowed even more, then stopped, engines still running, a jam in the traffic somewhere up ahead. Adams tried to think of his own insult, something appropriate, unique, knew that every army man everywhere was thought of as a
doggie
. The barking took over now, a chorus of insults, and through it all, he heard a voice, Ferucci.

“The Twenty-seventh! Those guys are the Twenty-seventh! You bastards!”

There was hesitation in the catcalls, some of the Marines hearing the words, comprehending. The shouting erupted again, different, far more hostile, even Welty, standing now, surprising Adams.

“You yellow sons of bitches! You no-good yellow bastards!” Welty continued, the volume of his fury growing, and after a long minute he dropped down, seemed exhausted by his own anger, repeated the words quietly. “Worthless no-good bastards. Worthless. We oughta shoot every one of them.”

Adams looked at the redhead with driving curiosity, wanted to ask the question, but the shouts of the Marines stifled him. All along the caravan the wave of menace seemed to grow, furious cursing, insults and jeers. The trucks were no more than a few feet apart, and when the words were not enough, the Marines began to throw things, cartridges, pieces of scrap from the floor of the truck, anything they could find. There was nothing playful, the objects hurled with baseball precision, a rain of debris into the army trucks in a one-sided assault. Adams stared in horror, saw one face from the other truck, a quick glance outward, fear in the man’s eyes. The face disappeared now, ducking low, and now the trucks began to move. Another truck crept past, canvas hiding the men, no one looking out, the shouting from the Marines still relentless. Adams felt a strange fear, thought, this is stupid. Somebody’s gonna start shooting. What the hell’s going on? The trucks kept moving, picking up speed, belching smoke,
kicking up clouds of dust and gradually the noisy display from the Marines began to quiet. Welty seemed much more subdued than the men around him, and Adams leaned close to his ear.

“What the hell?”

“Yellow bastards. The Twenty-seventh was on Saipan. They just fell apart. Ran like hell.”

Adams heard the words drift away, knew the sign, that Welty wouldn’t say anything else, and Adams knew not to ask. But he was deathly curious, had heard only bits and pieces of the scuttlebutt about Saipan. He had heard the insulting descriptions for the army divisions, the Twenty-seventh in particular, had assumed the insults had been just another one of those rivalry things, all Marines giving grief to all GIs, sailors giving grief to them both. But this was different, far more intense than any rivalry. On the other side of Welty, a face leaned out, looked at Adams, the older man, Gorman.

“They’re no good, pal. Worst division in the army. A lot of Marines died because of those sons of bitches. I heard Howlin’ Mad had their general fired. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing here. They shoulda been sent to MacArthur, where they belong. If they’re moving north, it’s cause they screwed up again. We sure as hell don’t need ’em here.”

Ferucci joined in.

“Pop’s right. That’s gotta be why we’re going south. Replacing those bastards. I bet they’re either going up north or they’re getting hauled out of here altogether. They do a little dirty work and some general gives them a vacation. I bet they’ll sit up north and use our foxholes and slit trenches. Too lazy to dig their own.”

Adams saw Porter now, the lieutenant climbing up on the back of the truck.

“You boys through acting like assholes? Listen up. Captain says we’re heading down a little farther. Once these doggies get out of our way, we’ll be rolling again.”

Porter dropped down, was gone, hustling back to the next truck in line. The last truck in the army caravan passed by now, a swirl of dust engulfing it, the canvas pulled tightly closed. Ferucci said, “Those bastards know to keep their asses hidden. I’d like to have a little chat with General Buckner, or whoever else thought any army dogs could do this job. They probably took one mortar shell and the whole line collapsed.”