The Final Storm (19 page)

Welty was scratching furiously at his legs, and Adams yanked the cloth up, tossed it out of the foxhole. He heard laughter, but now there was cursing, close by, Yablonski, “There’s damn critters all over me! Itches like hell! Hey Sarge!”

“Shut up! I got ’em too. It’s this bamboo stuff, these mats.”

Adams crawled up out of the foxhole, fumbled through the laces on his boots, yanked them off, ripped at his socks, scratching furiously at his legs. More men were coming up from the holes, and now the lieutenant was there, kneeling low, an angry shout.

“Get your asses back in your holes! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Adams dropped down, Welty beside him, still scratching, and Ferucci said, “I don’t know! I got bugs on me!”

From the other foxholes, the chorus was the same, and Welty shouted out, “It’s fleas! Sir, it’s fleas! I know it.”

Adams froze for a silent moment, heard more cursing, the mystery of their ailment suddenly explained. But Adams ignored that, stared at Welty, felt a hot burst of fear, the word punching him.
Sir
.

“Damn, Jack. Don’t … do that.”

Welty seemed oblivious, was rubbing furiously at his legs, and Adams eased his head up, looked for the lieutenant, wanted to do something to correct the mistake. It was full dark now, the curses still coming, and he heard rustling, the sounds of the mats tossed up onto the ground, everyone’s mistake.

“Don’t do what?”

Adams lowered his voice to a whisper.

“You called him … sir.”

Welty stopped moving, but only for a brief second. But he lowered his voice as well.

“Sorry. No harm done. No Japs around here, least not any we’ve seen today.”

“Yeah, well, you know the order.”

Welty said nothing, rubbed his legs again, and Adams said, “I’ll take the first two, okay? I’m not gonna eat. My gut’s kinda messed up.”

“Sure.”

Adams stood slowly, knew that all across the rocky ground, the others were doing the same, the two men in each foxhole dividing the watch duty between them. If there was sleep at all, a man could get close to two hours while his buddy kept his eyes out for any Japanese infiltrators. The orders had been specific, the lieutenant passing on what came from above, that the Japanese had already been tormenting some of the army and Marine units by slipping into their positions at night. Makes sense, he thought. If they’re that damn good at hiding in this stuff, they could be anywhere. He thought of Welty’s error. That could be real bad. If something happens to the lieutenant because one of us singled him out …

His knees were bent under him, raising his head up to just above the level of the foxhole. He felt the rain now, the ground around him splattering with hard, fat drops. Damn, this is gonna be one crappy night. He knew the orders, had no choice but to watch the darkness, knew that all out across the stretch of low hills, the other platoons were doing the same, an entire company holding positions alongside the fields beside this one road. The rain was growing more intense, muddy drops splashing into his face. He pulled at the hood of the poncho, the plastic sheeting noisy, made noisier by the rain, small rivers of water finding their way in, slipping down his shirt. Some army guy had to invent these things, he thought. And the ones that didn’t work, they gave to us. The itching was still there, and he fought it, thought, maybe the rain will drown those little sons of bitches. Fleas. Who in hell would think the Okies carried fleas? I haven’t seen a single dog yet.

His knees were soaked, the water pooling in the bottom of the foxhole, and he tried to lean back, felt soft mud everywhere he touched. He glanced toward Welty, knew better than to say anything, thought, you’ll be asleep in minutes. Never saw anything like it. I could be beating hell out of you with a baseball bat and you’d sleep right through it. How’d you even eat in this stuff? The damn stew is bad enough without Okie rainwater …

The short quick steps moved right past him, sharp splashes in the
mud, and now another, one behind the other. He felt a stab of panic, started to call out, the sounds choked away by the shock. More steps came, quick, running, and he reached for his rifle, tried to bring it up, his hands wet, clumsy, the barrel jabbed into the side of the foxhole. He kicked Welty, but the man had already heard, was up as well, his M-1 pointed back to where the sounds had gone. Out to one side, the shots came, blinding flashes, a spray of fire from a foxhole close by. Adams hesitated, thought of the mud in his barrel, dangerous, but the fear was overwhelming, men shouting, more shots coming farther down. He strained to see anything in the dark, steady rain, and he held his breath, turned his head away from the rifle, fired. There was no clog in the barrel, and he aimed now, fired again, kept his aim low along the ground, kept firing, blinded by the muzzle blast, by the flashes of fire around him. The shooting spread, contagious, the fear in every man pouring out through the weapons, two dozen rifles firing all across the rolling ground. As the magazines emptied, the shots began to slow, and he heard one voice, loud, the lieutenant.

“Cease fire! What are you shooting at?”

The silence came now, no one responding, and Adams heard a hard whisper, a question from Welty.

“Japs?”

Adams wanted to respond, but he didn’t have an answer. He stared into the rain, no sounds at all but the gentle splashes around him, the swirling wind, the men all watching, as he was, blind and desperate fear that the enemy had finally come close.

T
he rain had stopped, but the misery of the foxhole had only grown worse. Adams felt the stiff aching in his knees, his back, his skin raw from scratching at the plague of fleas. The endless night had finally given way, a hint of detail, small bumps appearing in the ground around him, the helmets of the others, men starting to move in the dim light. He could feel the water in his boots, the bottom of the foxhole inches deep in soft mud, every part of him wet beneath the poncho. Welty was up now as well, neither man making any effort to sleep. Welty whispered close to him, “No coffee this morning, that’s for sure.”

The joke wasn’t funny. Adams hadn’t had coffee since they left the ship.

He saw one man rising up, crawling toward them, knew by now it
would be Ferucci, the sergeant pulling them awake, as though anyone had been able to sleep after the small-scale war they had waged. There had been other shots, scattered farther along the road, panicked men too eager to see enemies in the rain. Ferucci said in a low voice, “Anybody shoots me, I’ll kick your ass. Wake up your buddies.”

Men responded, the foxholes close by coming alive, low talk. Ferucci stood now, and Adams watched him with a hint of alarm, thought, easy, Sarge. What the hell are you doing? The sergeant moved toward Adams, didn’t look down, stepped past in the slop of deep mud, held his rifle low, pointing it forward, and Adams heard Ferucci laughing. Beyond the brush, others were up, and more laughs came, one man calling out, a mocking sound.

“Baaaaah.”

Adams heard the familiar voice of the lieutenant, moving through the foxholes, hard whispers, closer now.

“Pipe down! Get back in cover! This isn’t a damn playground!”

Ferucci returned, knelt down close to his squad, said, “Well, boys, you’ve got fresh meat today. Seems the infiltrators you took out last night had fur. You assholes killed a flock of goats.”

T
HIRTY-SECOND
A
RMY
H
EADQUARTERS
,
B
ENEATH
S
HURI
C
ASTLE
, O
KINAWA
A
PRIL
5, 1945

“W
e should not have allowed them to take those airbases. Not without shedding their blood. I offer this only as a respectful suggestion, sir!”

Ushijima did not look at Cho, let the words slip past. He closed his eyes, the smell of the tea comforting.

“You tell me what I already know, General. But the power of the American fleet gave us no choice.”

“What power is that, sir? They only bring numbers, they do not bring the code of the Bushido, they are not warriors!”

Ushijima kept his eyes closed, but Cho’s energy was poisoning his calm. He took a long breath, tried to relax, but Cho’s presence would never allow that. He could hear the man’s agitated breathing, opened his eyes, looked up at him from his cushion on the floor, said, “It will take more than spiritual strength to prevail in this war.”

Cho crossed his arms, his usual stubbornness.

“It never has required anything else! Never! Not in all our history! You were in China, you saw for yourself how easily we prevailed. There were those in Tokyo who thought that we should never awaken such a massive
dragon. What kind of dragon did we find? One who steps aside and bows to our victories. It will be the same again, right here! Sir!”

The added show of respect punctuated every outburst from Cho, a theatrical afterthought. It is mere performance, Ushijima thought, for some invisible set of eyes that are watching us, judging us, in every gesture we make. He felt drained by Cho’s energy, but he would never allow Cho to know that. Cho was, after all, his subordinate. He took the small teacup in his hands, soothed by the warmth, tasted the flowery liquid.

“I was not aware the war in China has concluded. From my experience there, we were victorious over armies of poorly armed peasants. We swept away troops who were more suited to fight Neanderthals. But China has changed. There are greater forces against us there, perhaps too great. China has rallied her friends and those friends have brought better troops and better arms. And the Chinese are fighting on their own soil. Never forget that. No matter how weak an army, they are strengthened when they fight to protect their own homes.”

Cho bent low, as though testing Ushijima’s vision, a mocking test of whether he was ill, and Ushijima thought, he was never in a classroom, he has never studied the great lessons of history. Why do I waste my words?

Cho’s response came in a syrupy, patronizing tone.

“We have won every battle. We occupy an enormous amount of Chinese territory, territory in Burma, Indochina, Korea. Soon the entire Asian continent will lie in peace beneath our emperor’s flag. The Chinese do not know of honor, of the code of the Bushido.”

“And yet they fight us. No one in Tokyo has indicated to me that there is any end to that campaign, that we are close to conquering China … we might as well try to conquer the moon. If our army here was to be increased by a handful of those divisions, those good men who are buried in the mud in Manchuria …”

“Manchukuo, sir!
Forgive me
for correcting you.”

“Yes, yes, Manchukuo. I will play the game. That is what our children will be taught. I suspect the Chinese maps will still read Manchuria.”

He knew he had crossed a dangerous line, that Cho still had influence in Tokyo that would treat this kind of talk as treasonous. But Ushijima clearly understood his place now, his role in the spectacle that was being played out for the emperor’s benefit. When Manchuria had been conquered, a government had been put into place there, a Chinese aristocrat who of course answered only to the Japanese army that kept him in power.

Cho stood straight, stared past him, the arrogance unyielding.

“If there are Chinese fools who do not accept their fate, then we shall manage that in the only way possible. They would play with maps? We shall burn every last one of them, until they accept their destiny.”

Cho’s dreamlike confidence was overpowering, and Ushijima had no patience for it. He had not slept well for days now, not since the Americans had come ashore. The preparations for the Shuri defensive lines had been intense and continuous, and he had marveled how the tireless Colonel Yahara seemed to be everywhere at once, every hour of the day and night. Ushijima pulled himself to his feet, the tea forgotten, any pleasantness swept away by Cho’s noisy version of patriotism. Cho stood back, hands clasped behind his back, rocked slowly on his heels, a show of impatient obedience, waiting for Ushijima to speak. Ushijima tugged at his jacket, straightened his uniform, stretched his back.

“General, let us pay more attention to those things we can control. I agree with you about the airfields. I very much regret that we could not hold the Americans away. But you are certainly aware that if Tokyo had not thought it so wise to take away the Ninth Division, this army would have had the manpower to put up a far more formidable defense. But I will not make excuses. Had we done as you proposed, and manned those positions near the water’s edge, those men would have died uselessly. You saw the American bombardment, you saw how they targeted the coastline. As much as I mourn the loss of so many fine soldiers, sacrificing them would not have prevented the enemy landing. We must fight the war with the tools we have been given.”

“We have been given the code of the Bushido. That is the greatest tool of all. Sir!”

Ushijima knew there was nothing to be gained by continuing any argument with Cho, thought, does he truly believe that? We shall win because we are more
spiritual
than the Americans? Ushijima moved out of his room, turned toward the map room, a short walk down the hall. Cho moved with him, stayed a pace behind, appropriate. There, two officers were staring at the enormous map of the island, one man with a thick stub of blue chalk, marking a line across Okinawa’s narrow center. They were suddenly aware of the commanders, stood back at stiff attention, and the man with the chalk said, “Forgive me, sir. I was adjusting the enemy’s position.”

“Yes, I see that. Then it is confirmed? They have reached the eastern coast, severed our connection with the north?”

The man seemed to hesitate, a glance at Cho. Ushijima knew why, said, “You may speak, Major. Give me the report. The accurate report.”

The man nodded toward the table close to the large map.

“Just arrived, sir. I was going to bring it to General Cho in one minute. I had been ordered to correct the maps as quickly as possible. My apologies for the delay.”