The Final Storm (35 page)

No one responded, the rifle fire from the Japanese above them continuing, the sudden chatter from a Nambu gun, somewhere close. Adams lay as flat as he could, heard the whining crack, a dull
whump
from a Japanese rifle, so many odd sounds, different kinds of weapons. He had no choice but to keep flat, sharp coral beneath him, his face turned to the side, dirt in his ear. The rifle fire seemed to increase, more Japanese joining the fight, some response from below, the rattle of a BAR, pops from the Marines who crouched along the base of the hill, waiting for their own lieutenant to order the advance. The Nambu gun kept up its fire, a spray that ricocheted across the coral just behind Adams, and he heard shouts, a short scream, “I’m hit! Doc!”

Ferucci did not move, shouted, “We’ve got wounded up here! Corpsman!”

Others took up the call, voices from behind, “Corpsman!”

“Get a doc up here!”

“Got him!”

Adams let out a breath, the rifle fire close again, a splatter on a rock beside him, and he pushed against Ferucci’s boot heel.

“We gotta move. They see us!”

Ferucci didn’t speak, crawled away up the trail, a short scramble, and Adams stayed close to him, the smell of powder rolling over them. From below a tank fired, the shell passing overhead with a sharp whistle, impacting against the hilltop. Adams felt the ground shake beneath him, turned toward the tank, could see smoke from the barrel of the tank’s 75. Yes! Again! Blow them to hell! He saw movement now, close to the tank, a man, another, emerging from some hidden place. They moved with quick steps, scurrying toward the tank. The uniforms were light, tan, and his heart leapt in his throat.

“Sarge!”

But there was no time, and two more Japanese soldiers appeared, the men running low toward both tanks, a mad crawl right under the belly, and now the blasts came, one quickly after the other, bursts of fire and black smoke. Adams stared in horror, swung around with his rifle, but
there were no targets, the tanks engulfed in fire. He saw one hatch open, a man scrambling out, billowing smoke from inside the tank, but the Nambu guns were taking aim, the man falling, cut down by the Japanese fire. Another tanker emerged, bloody, bareheaded, staggering up out of the machine, was punched backward by the machine gun fire, fell in a heap to the muddy ground. Adams stared, sick, expected more men to emerge, the smoke coming out of both hatches in a thick plume. But there was only silence now, the fire curling up around each tank, a thump of a blast as a gas tank ignited, fire now spewing straight up through the open hatches.

“Sons of bitches! Satchel charges!” Adams looked at the voice, Welty, below him.

Adams said, “They just blew themselves up!”

Welty said nothing more, turned toward him, black calm on the man’s face, and above him, Ferucci said, “Stay down!”

Porter shouted now, from his hidden perch.

“Give me covering fire! I’m going up!”

Adams wanted to shout out, no! Going up … where? He looked past Ferucci, saw the lieutenant emerge from a shallow hole, a grenade in his hand. The men responded with fire of their own, Adams raising his rifle to his shoulder, aiming up toward the ridge, nothing to see, no targets at all, just cuts in the rock. Porter seemed to pause, and Adams saw his face, red, bathed in sweat. He leapt out now, ran up over the rocky hillside, fell flat again, and now Adams saw the rifle barrel just above him, the Japanese soldier showing himself. Porter tossed the grenade up, into the opening, then rolled away. The blast came, a thumping billow of smoke and rock, and Porter was up again, threw another into the same hole, then stood, fired his carbine into the narrow gap. Ferucci yelled, “Let’s go! Move!”

The sergeant rose, moved away quickly, darting into the shallow cover, closer to Porter. Adams followed, automatic, no thought, his eyes on the black ground, rocks and mud and smoke.

The rifle fire came from the left now, a burst from another machine gun, the rocks around him erupting in small splatters. Adams fell flat, no cover, men stumbling beside him, one man crying out. The Marines answered, M-1s from below, firing into the new target, no target at all. There was no other sound, just the steady firing from both sides, and Adams felt the paralysis, immobile against the rocks, staring sideways, a man’s body close beside him. Run, you stupid …

He leapt up, climbed frantically, searching wildly for anyplace to
come down. There were small rocks in a heap, and he moved that way, dove, landing hard, rolled over them, saw a crack in the hard rock, slid that way, more fire, close by. He hugged the rifle close to his chest, terror holding him hard against the rocks, the crack inviting, a small cave. And now he saw the helmet, eyes staring back at him from inside the rock. He yelled, animal sounds, jammed the rifle forward, fired, fired again, kept firing until the clip clinked out of the M-1. Smoke filled the narrow gap, blinding, and he heard noises, voices, more men farther back in the rock. His legs tried to pull him away, to run, but there was no other place to be, and he dropped the M-1, no time, grabbed a grenade, jerked it from his shirt, blind instinct, pulled the pin, threw the grenade into the hole. He ducked now, just below the opening, the voices louder, a hard shout, but the blast came, knocking him backward, rolling him away from the rocky face. His ears were ringing and he tried to stand, saw splinters of rock around him, the Japanese machine guns still seeking him, punching the ground close to him. He scrambled back up into the cloud of dust and smoke, hugged the rock, saw the M-1, grabbed a clip from the cartridge belt, jammed it home.

“Pull back!”

“No! Japs! Right here!”

“Pull back!”

He knew Porter’s voice, but the words seemed to echo from very far away. The smoke cleared around him, and he saw movement down below, the men moving back down the hill, some in a run, some dropping, rolling, some not moving at all. He coughed from the smoke, wanted to see inside the rocky opening, to see the Japanese soldiers, the dead,
his
dead.

“Pull back! Get back! Move it!”

The hillside was alive with movement, men crawling down, some firing up toward the crevices, the enemy answering, flashes from the hidden places, smoke drifting past him in thin, stinking clouds. He kept his back to the rocks, heard more voices now from behind him, more men inside the rock hole, the voices urgent, silly, meaningless words. He grabbed another grenade, jerked the pin, held the grenade for a long second, his hand shaking, then with one motion stood back from the rock and threw the grenade hard inside. He ducked again, braced for the blast, one hand on his ear, the rocks jumping under him, a fresh cloud of blinding smoke.

“Pull back! Now!”

The smoke was all around him, a cloud of camouflage, and he dove down through it, struggling to keep his feet, jumped down to the crevice, past the rocks, more muddy holes. There were bodies, Marines, and he hesitated, reached down, grabbed a man’s hand,
no one left behind …

“Get down! Pull back!”

The hand did not move, and his own momentum pulled him away, the Nambu gun chipping the rocks, whistles and cracks around his head. He released the hand, no choice, saw a low place in the rocks, jumped down, the hillside flattening, deeper mud, shell holes and torn ground. There were others moving around him, pulling back, no one stopping, and he kept running, tripping, stumbling, a desperate scamper, saw more of the others, men all across the muddy uneven ground, settling into cover. Faces watched him, terrified, some with dead eyes, and he saw Ferucci, on his knees, the sergeant cursing him, waving at him.

“Here! Take cover!”

Adams slid to a stop, felt mud inside his shirt, the sergeant grabbing him hard, pulling him flat to the ground.

“You stupid bastard! You hear the order to withdraw, you withdraw!”

Adams didn’t know how to respond, wanted to say something about the Japanese in the rocks, but there was no voice, his breathing in furious gasps, the smoke still in his lungs. There was a calm moment, strange, no firing, a wafting black cloud rolling past, the stink of the smoke that poured toward them from the tanks. Adams tried to sit, roll over, see up the hill, but the order came from far down the line.

“Tanks are coming up! Withdraw!”

The words seemed nonsensical, foolish, someone’s stupid mistake. Tanks get blown to hell! He searched the faces, saw some with helmets low, staring into the mud, some looking back up the hill, some with rifles aimed. The tanks came with hard rumbles, the squeaking of steel, and the big guns fired, a steady thumping rhythm into the hill. He thought of the bodies, could see them, splayed out, filthy green heaps, but the tankers aimed high, were blasting the crest, and now a hand jerked his shoulder, sharp words.

“Let’s go!”

He rose up with the others, the Japanese opening up again from hidden machine guns, the firing from the tanks continuing, their own machine guns answering. The Marines flowed back away from the hill, into the undulating ground, thick deep mud, some men seeking cover around
the tanks, but the tanks did not stay, were already in motion, pulling away, their machine guns continuing to fire, offering cover to the retreating Marines. Adams scrambled to keep up, searing pain in his chest, legs bogging down in the mud, saw some men jumping up on the tanks, grabbing on, some sliding back off, the bouncing motion of the tanks too unsteady. He followed the men on foot, no faces now, just backs, helmets, rifles and carbines and BARs, a mad scramble away from the hill, the hill they couldn’t take.

N
ORTHEAST OF
N
AHA
, O
KINAWA
M
AY
11, 1945

T
he brief respite from the rains had ended, a new storm washing over them with a fury that felt like the clouds were making up for lost time. The winds were blustery, sweeping away the shelter halves, no kind of cover for the muddy holes strong enough to keep the storm off the men who kept low in their foxholes. From hills and hidden places in what seemed every direction, the Japanese continued to choose their targets, anyone leaving his hole likely to draw attention from a dozen machine guns, a hail of rifle fire. And so the men stayed put. They were getting used to the oily water, but only because they had no choice.

In the foxholes themselves, the misery of the mud was made worse for another more personal reason. Those, like Adams, whose guts were twisted into sickening turmoil, had no place to go to relieve themselves, no latrine, no slit trench. But their pants came down, brief seconds of embarrassing hell, the new stink adding to the mud and water in the only place they could stay, the only place there was cover from the Japanese guns, the only kind of
comfort
there could be.

The stink had come from other sources as well, and no one had to ask why. The answers lay all around them, shreds of clothing, uniforms of the
soldiers from both sides who had fought over this same ground for weeks now. Worse were the bones, and what was still hanging from them, some identifiable, an arm, hand, leg, some just blobs of black filth. The shovels had done quick work, the foxholes easier to dig in the mud, gaps in the coral. But the shovels continued to chop through the remains of the men who had died there. The sickening crunch of bone was never ignored, even by the men who had done this before, who seemed immune to almost any other horror. With every hour the smells had grown worse, had become a part of them, their soggy uniforms, their food, infesting every brain, driving some of the men into nightmares of what … and who … they sat in. The nightmares were brief, most of the men not able to sleep at all, and if they found themselves nodding off for blessed moments in the foot-deep water, the Japanese flares would come, shattering the darkness with harsh green light. The flares usually meant a mortar barrage, the blasts sudden and unpredictable, since the telltale sounds of the knee mortars were disguised by the storm. The Marines had withdrawn as far as the brass considered necessary, but no matter their distance from Naha, or the hills they still had to assault, the Japanese were there. In the dark they came as they had before, but in far greater numbers. The rain disguised any sound, no shadows caught by starlight. The grenades and satchel charges were their weapons of choice, stunning blasts of blinding light, enough to terrorize the men in their foxholes, but enough as well to silhouette the enemy who was often so close, some of the Marines claimed they could smell them. When the individual attacks came, it was rare that the Japanese soldier did any more than sacrifice himself, falling straight into a foxhole with an armed grenade, taking away his enemy and himself, fulfilling his glorious mission. With the American tanks moving up in a vain effort to support the Marines, the infiltrators would go after those much more valuable targets, the men on the ground ordered to keep watch for any hint of Japanese soldiers whose sole mission was to throw themselves and their satchel charges beneath the belly of the tank. Already the armor officers had pulled many of the Shermans farther back, conceding that the Japanese suicide assaults were infuriatingly effective. In the rainy darkness it didn’t matter how many Marines kept watch, some sheltered by the tank itself. When the Japanese came, those men were just as likely to become casualties themselves.

Along the muddy front, the orders from the lieutenants were direct and harsh. At least two men per hole, and as before one had to remain
alert, keeping watch, whether there was anything to be seen or not. The ponchos that still held together were all they had for protection, and with no way to dry out clothes or skin, sickness had begun to spread through the men, made far worse by the filth they could not escape. The enemy was suffering as well, but no Marine gave that much thought, knew only that any attempt to leave the foxhole would likely draw fire. The Japanese seemed to wait in every low place, rising up from some invisible nook, seeking out the vulnerable, the careless, the unwary, and if any of the sickest men had the desperate need to find a corpsman, or make it to an aid station, it was just as likely he would run headlong into a band of infiltrators. And with the driving rain muffling the passwords, the danger was more intense than ever that he might be shot down by a jittery hand from his own unit.