The Final Storm (15 page)

He pointed at one man closest to him and the man responded, “I’ll rip those sons of bitches in half!”

The mess seemed to explode with voices, the others responding. The lieutenant kept up the calls, one fist pounding the table, and Adams knew it was calculated, but he couldn’t help himself, was caught up in the flow of emotion, the curses and shouts, the anger and fear turning outward. Men were ripping meat from their teeth, more steaks thrown against the bulkheads. Adams grabbed a blob of melting ice cream, held it out toward the lieutenant, then threw it hard to the deck, straight down, a splash of white on his boondockers. Porter watched him, the same steel in the man’s eyes, the lieutenant poking his finger close to Adams’s face, the words in a low, hard hiss.

“What are you going to do on that beach, Private?”

“Kill Japs, sir!”

“How many Japs, Private?”

“All of them, sir!”

Porter looked back across the mess, the faces changed, the tears gone, men standing, no time for food now. Porter gave them direction, harnessing the outburst, pointed toward the hatchway, the only order they needed. Plates clattered, food falling to the floor, men stepping up and over the tables. Adams saw Ferucci now, the sergeant pushing a man in front of him, out through the hatchway, the sergeant turning back with a quick glance at the lieutenant, a silent signal, yes, good. Adams was caught up in the flow of men, but he understood now, felt his heart racing, his hands shaking. The fear was in all of them, paralyzing, but the lieutenant had pulled it out of them, putting it to use, directing it where it needed to go. Porter still pointed the way, the men filing quickly out through the hatchway that would take them topside. Adams followed, was suddenly
stabbed by a hard jolt of thunder, the echoes of artillery fire. It rolled down around them all, thumps and thuds, echoing through the steel corridor. The Marines rushed to the ladders, pushing toward another hatchway that took them out into the cool night air. They poured out onto the deck of the transport ship, and it was Adams’s turn now. He ducked low through the oval hatchway, smelled the stink of smoke, saw flashes of light. The guns were firing on all sides of them, blinding light, the mass of faces reflecting the glow. Each thump punched him, the deck beneath his feet vibrating, the entire ship engulfed by the violence of the enormous fleet around them. Adams moved with the men around him, toward the railings, the men packing in tightly, their eyes adjusting, seeing the streaks of fire cutting through the last shadows of the night. The firing all went in one direction, and Adams fought to see above the heads in front of him, to see the target, the place that now had a name. The darkness had begun to lift, a hint of gray. The horizon was uneven, low hills, peppered with splashes of fire. The smoke was swirling over the deck, and Adams felt his eyes watering, wiped furiously, tried to breathe, covering his mouth. But the smoke couldn’t hide the massed fire from a thousand guns, ships far out on both sides pouring fire toward a narrow span of beach, and the hills beyond.

Whether the navy had done this every day for a week made no difference to the men who watched this now. With the first hint of dawn, the men could finally see Okinawa, the landing zones blasted, erupting into flashes of fire and rock and mud. Adams stood with the men of his platoon, his company, his regiment, some of them seeing this before, who knew what this meant, and others who had no idea what would happen next. Through the vast crowd on the deck there was still fear, but it was held away by the spectacle. They watched with anxious excitement, tight stomachs, and for some, still the sickness, the tears. But for many the fear was gone, at least for those who were not yet ready for what daylight would bring. As the warships threw their vicious fire onto the beaches, Adams shared the same exhilaration of many of the men around him. They were captivated by a magnificent show.

“G
REEN
T
WO
” B
EACH
, O
KINAWA
A
PRIL
1, 1945, 8:30
A.M
.

N
o one spoke, the rumble of the landing craft pushing them through the water’s surface in a slow, sickening roll. Adams did as the men around him, kept his stare on the back of the man closest to him, trying to ignore the stink of vomit, the helmet that would suddenly drop low, the sickness pulling a man to his knees. He felt the pressure from men behind him, pushed up tight against Adams’s backpack, as tight as Adams was pressed into the man to his front.

All around them the shellfire continued, but much lighter now, the bombardment from the navy’s smaller patrol boats that rolled forward alongside the landing craft. The smoke was there again, washing over them, mixing with the exhaust from the churning engine of the landing craft. Above, Adams heard a new sound, planes close overhead, some of the men looking up with him, a glimpse of the blue Corsairs, the navy’s best aerial weapon. One man let out a cheer, but no one joined him. The gunboats close by continued to fire, sharp thumps, but then, nothing, the guns silent. Adams peered up, saw the closest boat veering away, as though its job was done. The landing craft rocked to one side, then rolled the other way, the men trying to stay upright, wedged together, a shout behind
them, and suddenly the landing craft jerked to a stop. Adams fell forward, driven by the man behind him, curses, the stink from the sickness around their feet rising up through the sharp, salty breeze. In a sudden rush of motion, the bow of the craft fell away, a hard slap into shallow water, the beach and the hills now visible, close, less than a hundred yards. One voice rose above the noise, the lieutenant, standing at the opening, a hand in the air.

“Let’s go! Follow me!”

The lieutenant was out and down into the water, still waving, and behind him the men surged out of the craft in one mass, a cluster of helmets and rifle barrels and overstuffed backpacks. The open bow of the craft sloped downward, bouncing against black coral, and Adams stared at the beach, saw a mass of men in the water, far out in both directions. The water was mostly shallow, knee-deep, the men pushing forward to a narrow stretch of dull gray sand. He saw the hand in the air again, Porter calling them forward, and Adams splashed down into the warm water, his boots hitting the uneven rocks, stumbling, fighting for balance against the weight of the ammo, the weight of the backpack. He kept his stare toward the beach, straining to see the flashes of fire, to hear the sounds he had been told about, the hiss of machine gun fire into the water around him. But there was no firing at all, the men around him splashing forward, no one aiming, no targets anyone could see, and better, no one seeming to target
them
. The tension turned his stomach over, and he wanted to be sick, fought it, focused on each step, angry at himself, the warm water not easing the cold inside him. He pulled his arms in tight, gripping his rifle, his mind racing, thoughts of everything, nothing, ignored the men around him, stepping forward, as he was. They pushed closer to the beach in manic splashes, and he felt salt water on his face, stinging his eyes. Beneath him the rough coral had given way to hard sand, easier footing, and he kept his stare toward the beach, saw men up on the sand, more hands in the air, waving them on. As far out as he could see, Marines were flowing up out of the surf, swarming across the narrow stretch of open ground, an enormous green wave moving forward toward the low hills. Adams slogged through the water with heavy automatic steps, but the water and the fear had drained him. He struggled to breathe, his chest heaving, and still he stared up into the thin brush, past the men who were on the beach. Most of them kept running, disappearing; others dropped down onto dry sand, fighting with themselves, finding their wind. They were back up now,
prodded by screaming sergeants, shoved forward into the brush. Adams blinked through the salt and sweat in his eyes, was clear of the surf now, tried to push his legs harder, to run, hard wet sand, turning softer, dragging at his boots. The pain in his legs was paralyzing, but he would not stop, passed by one man who had collapsed, the man struggling to rise, another man pulling him up. He kept his eyes forward, toward the low hills, the men staggering ahead of him under the weight of their packs, more of them falling, seeking cover in the low rocks, pockets of coral, fresh craters from the shelling. He moved past them, saw the lieutenant, Porter, still pulling them forward, and Adams forced himself to keep running, the terror in his mind giving way to a strange exhilaration, the excitement ripping through the fear, inspired by the lieutenant, no hesitation, the man doing his job,
leading
them. He followed Porter up onto a low rocky hill, the men around him still running, Adams keeping the pace, the energy coming back. They reached a row of bushes, a field of waist-high brush, and Porter waved them down, the signal every man knew.
Take cover
.

Adams tumbled down, the weight on his back rolling him over, men coming down close to him, rifles jabbed forward, expectant, the only sound the scuffling of men on rock, grunts and hard breathing. Adams crawled forward, close to a fat ragged boulder, brush on one side, good cover, and he rolled onto his back, sat, tried to catch his breath. The faces were there now, wide-eyed terror and exhaustion, most from his own platoon, the names rolling into his brain. Ferucci was on his knees, peering up, then dropping down, the man who had done this before, who knew what to expect. Adams saw Welty lying on his side, wiping the water off his glasses. Close beside Adams was Yablonski, wide-eyed fury, aiming his rifle, but not firing. No one spoke, all of them doing what Adams was doing, gathering themselves, finding their wind, checking their rifles, some seeking targets. Ferucci crawled forward, probing the brush, and Adams felt a stab of fear, no, stay back … and now Ferucci shouted, “Here! Jap trenches! Good cover!”

Adams saw Porter responding, holding up his hands, low words, “Wait here!”

The lieutenant disappeared into the brush, and quickly there was a shout, passed on by the sergeants, more calls out in both directions.

“Move forward! Into the trenches!”

Adams rolled to his knees, followed the others through the thorny thickets, the ground suddenly opening up in front of him, a narrow ditch
of sand and rock. Men were sliding down, rifles ready, good cover from the depth of the trench and the rocks and patches of brush beyond. Adams looked for Ferucci, saw the sergeant aiming his carbine, the others mimicking him with their own weapons, the longer M-1s laid up on flat ground, men seeking targets. For a long moment no one spoke, and Adams felt himself flinching, expecting … something. Now Porter was there, slipping along the wide, winding trench.

“Stay low! Keep to this cover! I’ll find Captain Bennett! He should be to our right!”

Adams watched Porter scramble away, was suddenly scared for the man, stay down, dammit. The fear built up in a thick wave, the calm and the silence around him unnerving, unexpected. Adams pulled the M-1 close to his chest again, laid back against the side of the trench, saw out to one side, a wide dugout, a slab of concrete. Words filled his brain, the logic, an artillery emplacement, but there was no sign of the artillery piece at all, no blasted parts, no twisted steel. His mind focused on the flow of men still coming up behind him, the trench filling rapidly, men now calling out, sergeants, pulling their men through the narrow brush, dropping down, lining the trench, the gun pit. Close to him, Ferucci said, “The damn Japs gave us a gift! I’ll be damned!”

Another man, a sergeant Adams didn’t know, said, “You sure about that? They could have mined this thing, booby-trapped it. They start tossing grenades on us, we’re dead.”

“If that was true, we’d already be blown to hell, wouldn’t we? And there’s not a Jap in sight. I think we wiped these bastards out, or scared them off this beach. The damn swab jockeys did their job.”

Beside Adams, Yablonski said, “I don’t see any guts. No bones. Nobody got wiped out here, Sarge. They ran.”

Ferucci peered out again, shook his head.

“To where? That’s what we gotta worry about.”

Adams saw movement, men pulling in their legs, making way for the lieutenant. Porter crawled low, a quick scramble down the trench, red-faced, breathing heavily.

“Sergeants, gather up!”

The men came close, Ferucci, the others, and Porter waited for them, then said in a hard whisper, “Listen up! Captain says there’s been no resistance so far. Radio reports from down the beach all say the same thing. The Japs left these works empty. Gun emplacements all down the beach, but
nobody’s home! So, they gotta be laying low. But nobody gets careless, you got that? We’re to push up through that brush field out ahead. There’s some rocks up beyond that, more good cover. The Japs might be waiting for us there, so keep low! Space your men … five yards between ’em. Our mortar crews are already setting up in those low rocks to the left. If all hell breaks loose, they’re watching us, and they’ll give us support. Take five minutes to catch your breaths, then wait for my command! That’s it!”

The sergeants spread out, moving back to their squads. Adams could see both ways, thick clusters of green, no one talking, a light breeze whispering through the brush behind them. Men still aimed their rifles, but others did as Adams was doing, sat with their backs against the hard, rocky sand. He felt something pressing painfully against his hip, rolled slightly, his hand finding his gas mask.

“Get rid of that stupid thing.” He saw Ferucci holding up his own gas mask, and the sergeant continued, “Ditch those gas masks. You’re carrying too much crap. Before this is over, you’ll wish you hadn’t grabbed all that ammo. Every damn one of you is carrying enough junk for a Boy Scout campout.” He glanced up, the sun well above the horizon. “Wait till that sun starts to bake your asses. Every bit of that junk will be left behind. Seen it every damn time.”

Adams looked at the gas mask, wasn’t completely convinced, but beside him Yablonski tossed his mask back into the brush, other men doing the same. Adams felt the belt of clips across his chest, thought, no, I’ll keep these. Yablonski seemed to read his mind, said, “They said take all the clips you can carry, and that’s what I’m doing. You wanna get caught out there with an empty weapon, you go right ahead. Every clip means eight dead Japs. All it costs me is sweat.”