The Final Storm (14 page)

Nimitz pictured Buckner in his mind, tall, gray hair, the picture of what a general should look like. Not sure how the Japs feel about him, he thought. For all I know they never heard of him. No, the best thing we have going for us on Okinawa is the Marines. I’ll bet it doesn’t make a bit
of difference to the Japs that two-thirds of our people there will be army. By now they have to think that anybody coming across a beach is a Marine. That can’t hurt. He knew that the offices in Washington had as much anxiety about the invasion as he did, thought, King’s pissed as hell that MacArthur gets the headlines. Not much I can do about that, except my job. King’s gotta be busting at the seams for us to get our people on Okinawa, grab some attention for ourselves. Hell, Iwo Jima wasn’t enough?

He knew it wasn’t. Despite any glorious photographs that reached stateside, the newspapers would not be told the casualty figures from Iwo Jima, at least for a while. The same would happen in the fight to come. That’s not the kind of press we want, he thought. MacArthur can disguise that kind of news by being … well, MacArthur. Out here, there’s not much else we can tell anyone. We fight like hell to take an island, and get chewed up doing it, and that’s pretty much the whole story. Hard for any newspaper to crow about our wonderful conquest of someplace they can’t even spell.

There was a sharp rap on the door, and he looked up, saw another of his aides, a red-haired ensign.

“Sir, sorry to interrupt you …”

“I’m done here. What is it, Greg?”

“Report just received from General Buckner, sir.”

Nimitz glanced at the empty glass of bourbon, his second, thought about filling it again.

“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s jumping around like he stepped on a beehive.” He passed on the bourbon with a hint of reluctance, pulled himself from the chair.

“I’m coming, Greg.”

The man stood aside, and Nimitz led Lamar out into the warm hallway, both men turning quickly into the radio room.

“Well, Arthur, what do you think? Is Buckner annoying the hell out of Admiral Turner? Bad idea to put two senior commanders on the same ship.” He saw a slight frown on Lamar’s face. “Yeah, I know, Lieutenant. It was my idea. All right, Ensign, what’s Buckner saying?”

“Just a general update on their preparedness, sir. The boys will be loaded onto the landing craft very soon. The offshore islands are secure, and we’ve captured a whole fleet of suicide boats.”

“Good. He’ll crow about that for a while. I promise you, later on, his
after-action report will point out how the army saved the navy from certain destruction. He’s big on
those
kinds of details. That’s a West Pointer for you. Anything else I need to read?”

Lamar held the report in his hand, seemed to hesitate, and Nimitz knew the signal.

“Give me the damn paper.”

Lamar handed him the dispatch and Nimitz read, his eye catching the word.

“Civilians? Again?”

Lamar was looking down, did not respond, the others at the radio desk looking away. Nimitz read more of Buckner’s words, his anger growing.

“What the hell’s the matter with those people? This is Saipan all over again! Where did this happen … okay, yeah, Kerama Retto. They blew themselves up? We didn’t do a damn thing to them, and they just … blew themselves up?”

It was a memory he had tried to forget, visiting Saipan the summer before. Admiral King had been there as well, the usual high-ranking inspection of a successful campaign. What Nimitz did not expect to see was the place called Marpi Point, where hundreds of terrified civilians had fled the advance of the American Marines by hurling themselves off the cliffs onto the rocky coastline below. The Marines who had tried to communicate their friendliness to the civilians had been stunned by the horror, and Nimitz had seen firsthand how effective Japanese propaganda could be. Those few civilians whom the Marines had prevented from leaping to their deaths spoke of the cannibalism of the Americans, how every child was certain to be raped and killed. Their terror had made it clear that the Japanese would spread the same propaganda to the occupants of every island. And now Nimitz saw the same kind of report. As Buckner’s troops from the Seventy-seventh Infantry Division swept over the small islands off Okinawa’s southwestern shore, the civilians there had reacted with the same blind fear. Unlike Saipan, on the small cluster of islands, the Japanese had supplied the people with weapons, mostly grenades. The troops who had witnessed the suicides had thought they were being fired on, but it was quickly apparent the civilians were using the grenades on themselves. Once again, Japanese propaganda had been amazingly effective.

“Damn. It could be this way all over Okinawa. How in hell do we stop this?”

It was a question no one around him could answer.

Nimitz continued to read, more of the same efficiency from Buckner, troop counts and landing craft specifics that Nimitz already knew. There were details of the shelling of the island as well, Buckner’s gleeful expectation that the Japanese defenses had been completely destroyed. Nimitz took no joy from the general’s optimism, had heard too much of that before. Dammit, if bombs and artillery are all we need, why in hell are you out there in the first place?

Nimitz was growing weary, the end of a long day, knew that tomorrow would be longer still. He couldn’t help the tension, felt it from his entire staff, the same tightness they all felt the night before every major operation. He scanned the rest of Buckner’s report, and his eye stopped at the end of the last page, a single line of type. Nimitz felt a cold stab in his stomach. No, not this crap again.

“Tomorrow we start on a great adventure.”

O
FFSHORE
, O
KINAWA
A
PRIL
1, 1945 (E
ASTER
S
UNDAY
)

“E
at up! All you want. Grab it and growl!”

The line snaked back along the corridor, the men inching their way past the amazing bins of hot food. Adams could smell the meat, saw men coming back past him with trays of steak and scrambled eggs, bowls of ice cream, steaming coffee. The smells were wonderful, hunger overcoming his bleary-eyed lack of sleep. He glanced behind him, saw Sergeant Ferucci, said, “What time is it, Sarge?”

“Just past three. You better eat up. Might not get anything for a while.”

In front of him one man stepped out of line, moved the other way, down a stairway, stumbled, held himself against the railing, was suddenly sick. Around Adams there was a chorus of groans, low curses, the scene too common on the transport ships. Ferucci prodded him gently, said, “Ignore that. Eat what you can. Some of these boys are too smart for their own good. They ain’t eating ’cause they know what’s coming. More’n’ likely, you’ll just be borrowing those steaks. Seen too many boys give it all back before we hit the beach. Not me. I see this much grub, I grab all I can. You
oughta do the same. If it stays down, you’ll be better off. If it doesn’t … well, won’t matter much.”

Behind the sergeant, another man said, “Funny as hell, Sarge. How the hell can you eat anything at three in the morning? I’m done. You can have my share.”

Adams turned, saw Gorman, one of the veterans, a sickly look on the man’s face. They called Gorman “Pops,” though Adams knew he couldn’t have been much older than the rest, maybe twenty-five. Gorman had been in four major engagements, and Adams had envied that, knew that Gorman should be someone to watch, would know what to do in a tight spot. But Gorman was getting sicker by the second, and Adams watched as he stepped out of line, made his way to the same stairway, dropped out of sight. Ferucci said, “He shoulda gone up, gotten some air. He’ll be okay. Just means more steak for the rest of us.”

Ferucci moved up to the long table, his plate filled quickly. At the far end of the table, Lieutenant Porter waited, watching, and Adams saw a silent nod toward Ferucci. The lieutenant held a grim stare, a glance toward Adams, then the others as they came up behind. Adams liked Porter, kept that to himself, knew the men didn’t talk kindly about officers very often. But there was something solid about the man, the kind of energy that Adams hoped was contagious, the look in the man’s eye that Adams interpreted as concern for his men, and more, an officer who could lead. He didn’t know what kind of action Porter had seen, how many men he had led into horrible places, how many of those had gone down. The man kept just enough steel in his stare to keep the questions away, and Adams felt the same confidence that the rest of the platoon seemed to expect. They might still make jokes about officers, but in this platoon, Porter was in charge.

Behind the table, a row of sailors were dishing out the food. Behind them stood an officer, the source of the ongoing pep talk.

“Eat up! Put a steak in your pocket if you want to! When was the last time you had ice cream? There’s plenty.”

More of the men were filling their plates, and Adams smelled the coffee now, caught the officer’s eye.

“Belly up to the table, Private! Take plenty!”

Adams was close to the massive pile of steaks now, the sailor across from him holding a long, thin fork.

“How many?”

“Just one, I guess.”

Behind Adams, another man fell out, soft words, “Can’t do it.”

Adams tried to ignore him, knew it was another of the veterans. The sailor smiled at him now.

“One more for you, Marine. Here, take two.”

Adams felt the weight dropping on his tray, moved farther along the table, saw the eggs, piled high, another sailor holding a large spoon.

“Here you go. Fresh from the navy’s own chickens. Bet you didn’t know we had a henhouse. The captain gets his over easy, every morning.”

The other sailors laughed at their own joke, the food passing from spoon and fork to the tin plates on the trays, the line continuing, coffee poured into tin cups. Adams saw the heavy tubs of ice cream, stared at the mountain of food on his tray, saw a wave from the lieutenant.

“This way, Private. Through the hatch. Find a place to sit.”

The words were automatic, Porter’s face still grim, tight, and Adams followed the instructions, moved through a hatchway into a cramped mess hall, benches and narrow tables. Men were sitting tightly against one another on the benches, some on the floor, and Adams searched for a spot, saw no space, leaned toward a bulkhead beside him, put his back against the steel. He picked up his fork, probed the eggs, the steak beneath the yellow heap, hesitated, looked out across the mess hall, saw men staring down at their plates, almost no one eating. One man stood, left his tray on the table, hurried out quickly, past him. No one reacted, and Adams realized the room was silent, no sound of tin plates, no one talking at all. He wanted to say something, to ask, but something in his brain told him to keep quiet. Three
A.M
., he thought. Guess it’s kinda tough to eat much. I’d rather be sleeping.

He had felt the tension all night, few men talking at all. But when the mess call came, everyone had reacted as they always reacted, orderly, automatic, following the lieutenant to their designated mess. The food had been an amazing surprise, but many of the veterans were angry at that, a strange reaction. He saw the same anger now, the faces staring downward, one man suddenly throwing his fork against a bulkhead, a sharp clatter, no one responding. The man still sat with fists curled on either side of his tray, said, “Another
last meal
. How many more times we gotta do this?”

Adams saw movement beside him, the lieutenant coming in through the hatchway.

“Knock it off, Yablonski. You don’t want to eat, don’t eat. You got a bitch, you air it to me. Let these men eat.”

Adams had never liked Yablonski, the man always angry, always trying to pick a fight. Adams had obliged him, faced the man in a boxing match that Adams had won easily, a thunderous right hand into Yablonski’s temple that had knocked him cold. Yablonski hadn’t spoken to him since, seemed to pretend Adams didn’t exist, that the fight had never happened. Adams had heard from the others that Yablonski had been in more fights than anyone in the platoon, mostly outside of a boxing ring. Nearly everyone seemed to be afraid of him, and Adams heard talk that he was flat-out dangerous, with a manic need to kill someone, hopefully the enemy. Adams had seen that look in Yablonski’s eye, and the knockout hadn’t done anything to change it.

Porter waited silently for a response, kept his eye on Yablonski’s back. Yablonski seemed to ignore the lieutenant, said, “I’m sick of this! How many times they expect us to do this?” He turned, faced the lieutenant now. “I made it this far … how many lives you think I have left? Any of us? We’ve lived through fight after fight, and the ones who made it this far are just plain lucky. So, they’re gonna keep sending us in until we get it? Is that the way this goes?”

“Outside, Private. Now.”

The lieutenant stayed calm, the order coming without anger. Adams felt a cold chill in Yablonski’s stare, the man rising slowly. Yablonski stepped back away from the bench, moved away from the lieutenant, toward the far hatchway. Adams waited for the order bringing Yablonski back, sending him below, but the lieutenant said, “That’s right. Go topside. Get some air. All hell’s about to break loose, and you might wanna watch that. See what we’re doing to those yellow bastards.”

Yablonski didn’t respond, disappeared through the hatchway, and Adams felt the cold still, the man’s anger hanging in the room. Most of the men kept their stare on their untouched food, no one looking at the lieutenant. Adams couldn’t look at the tray, his appetite gone, could feel it now, more than ever before. Men were shivering, hands shaking, one fork rattling in a manic chatter against a tin plate.

“Easy, boys. We’ll be on that beach soon enough. You start shooting Japs, you’ll feel a hell of a lot better.” Porter paused. “Look at me! All of you!”

Heads turned slowly, and Adams saw the eyes, some with tears. The
lieutenant stepped close to one table, reached over a man’s shoulder, picked up a steak from the man’s plate, held it in the air, grease dripping from his fingers. Porter seemed to wait, had their full attention, then made a quick shout, pulled at the steak with both hands, ripping it in half. He stuffed one piece in his mouth, ripped away the excess, threw it hard over their heads, a wet slap against the bulkhead. Adams stared at the lieutenant with wide eyes, saw a glimmer of madness, and now Porter finished chewing the meat in his mouth, then began to laugh, a low chuckle. He held his hands out, the juice still dripping, “That’s what I’m going to do to the first Jap bastard I see! How about you!”