The Final Storm (48 page)

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 damn 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 passing 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, spaced 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 pass. 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 hell 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, shell 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 Japanese fire was coming from every angle, holes in the ground suddenly revealing their occupants. Adams hugged the shotgun, the crack and whistle from the Japanese 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 Japanese soldier tumbling down, Welty pumping a new shell into the shotgun’s breech, lying flat again.

“Got him! Dammit! These sons of bitches …”

The thirties kept up their sporadic fire, desperate machine gunners trying to find targets, the Japanese 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 damn 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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 Japs, anybody moves close, blow ’em to hell. 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 damn piece … and he thumbed one shell into the magazine, tested another, which slid in easily. Yeah, okay, fine. How the hell 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, pushing aside the need to escape.
Do it again
.

Across the sloping ground, Marines kept up their push, some firing point blank into spider holes, Japanese 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 Japanese 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. Damn, I liked this place.”

Welty jumped up, and Adams followed, stepped up and over the stack of bodies, his boot pushing down into soft slop. He ran, following Welty, saw more Marines all out across the ridge, some firing toward Japanese soldiers on the ridgeline, some throwing grenades, fire in both directions. The brush thinned toward the top, the Japanese 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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 Japs 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 Japanese scrambling away, some dropping down into holes, the mouths of caves, mostly hidden.

Mortensen called out, “Watch behind us! Those bastards might still be in those holes!”

Adams glanced back down the hill, many more Marines spreading out through the rocks, still some Japanese 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 hell!”

Welty’s words calmed him, the jerkiness easing, and Adams remembered the soldier he had killed,
reload
, slid a shell 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 Japanese soldier, thought, damn, that was lucky as hell.

“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 brass 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 ass down, right here! We’ll need that damn bag!”

Welty moved back up beside Adams, and Adams saw the furious glare, Welty mumbling, “What the hell’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 Japanese 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 hell.”

M
EZADO
R
IDGE
, S
OUTHERN
O
KINAWA
J
UNE
18, 1945

T
he 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 Japanese there at all, they had mostly seemed content to stay in their holes. By dawn, another wave of Marines had passed through their position, a new attack on the next ridge, a place someone called Kawanga. 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 pushing hard into more of the Japanese 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, shelling from warships that were taking up position around the base of the island. Word had come from Marine lookouts near the shore that the Japanese 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 offshore, the Americans made quick work of the Japanese commandos, none of whom reached their targets.