The Final Storm (34 page)

And then the streaks stopped, the Japanese holding their fire. Adams was breathing heavily, heard low talk, close beside him, behind, men in nervous stammers, speculating what had happened. He wanted to tell them, shut up! The Japs heard those guys! They might hear us too. But there was nothing else now, just the rain, and Adams felt his stomach turning over, flexed his fingers, realized he was shaking, the cold and the fear eating at him again.

He heard a rustle in the grass, a man moving up from out in front, a low voice.

“Saddle up. Follow me. Nobody fires on this side of the river. There’s nobody here but us, nobody shoots, you hear me? Keep track of your buddy, whoever’s beside you. Nobody lags behind.”

Porter was already moving away, down into the thick grass. Adams waited for a shadow to move past him, fell into line behind the man. The grass gave way to more rocks, slices in the hillside, narrow gorges of coral and limestone, uneven footing. He felt a high wall on one side of him, tripped on something, stumbled to one side, rammed his ribs into a jutting rock, made a hard grunt, the man behind him doing the same, more grunts. He heard a hard whisper from the lieutenant.

“Quiet, dammit!”

There were no replies, Porter again pushing out in front of them. Adams felt the ground flattening, easier stepping, and now the mud was
there, his feet slurping their way with the others. The mud grew deeper, the going slow. He stared at the back of the man in front of him, a shadow struggling forward, kept his distance, winced from the hard slurps of their steps. His legs began to burn, sweat blending with the rain in his eyes. He wanted to look around, to see if someone was behind him, his own footsteps now drowning out the sounds of anyone else. But even a glance to the side could cost him his balance, and he kept his head down, stared blindly at the knee-deep goo.

The mud began to harden, and he felt himself climbing, a low rise, gravel now beneath his feet. The noise echoed all along the line, and he glanced to the side, caught a glimpse of men, many men, columns spread out in formation, heard the soft crunch of the gravel. He tried to soften his steps, but it was useless, the boots of dozens of men around him stirring up the wide field, the strange image in his shivering mind of walking in a vast field of corn flakes. He stared ahead, thought of the engineers, the tracers, Japanese lookouts, and now, in front of him, the closest man had stopped. Adams halted just before running into the man; behind him others were coming up close. Men were kneeling, and he dropped down with them, saw one man still up, standing, silent, seeming to wait. No one was speaking at all, the only sound the rain on helmets and ponchos. He blinked water out of his eyes, but there was no rest, the men responding to a quiet order he didn’t hear. The crunching began again, and he could see wide-open ground all around, no sign of cover, felt a hand on his arm, a brief tug, and now he saw the river, a wide black stain, peppered by the rain. The bank was thick with men, and he watched as one man moved out into the water, others following in line, one man behind the other. Then, to the left, another line, another leader. He thought of the footbridge. Where is that? Did they build it? Why are we … a hand grabbed his shoulder, pushed him up close to another man, a low grunt he had heard before … Ferucci. There were no words, the message clear.
Get moving
.

The streaks of red and blue came again, the far side of the river, higher up, reflecting on the water, the sounds reaching him, too close to be disguised by the rain. Adams followed the others out into the river, his knees bent, loud splashes all around him, quick steps into deepening water, the chopping of the machine guns rolling toward them from places he couldn’t see. The streaks were closer now, the aim improving, a ripping slice in the water to one side. He pushed quickly forward, as quickly as the man in front would allow, the water up to his knees, then deeper, to his groin. The
machine guns kept up their fire and he pressed forward, as much of a run as the water would allow. He realized now, the water was warm, surprising, soothing the chill in his legs, and he felt the soft mud of the bottom, the current not strong, easy to keep his balance. He stayed close to the men in front, the fire now mostly above them. Men settled low in the water, the best cover they had, a sea of helmets moving together, hands holding rifles high above. His knees kept driving him forward, men pushing up close to him from behind, driven by the same fear that tried to paralyze him now. The tracers lit the water from above, and he could see the lines of men on both sides, waves on the surface increasing from their movement, the water deepening, over his stomach. He held the rifle just over his head, shuffled his feet, working to keep his balance. How much deeper, he thought? Why in hell aren’t we on that bridge? Forget that. We’re all down in this stuff. He wanted to turn, to find Welty, but the men were moving in slow motion, driven by the machine gun fire, everyone keeping the rhythm, the lines pressing forward. To one side came an enormous splash, a plume of spray that blinded him, another now out to the front. The sounds followed, distant thumps, the rain deadening the rips and screams. More shells impacted far to the right, others whistled close overhead, striking the gravel and dirt behind them. The water was below his waist now, then his knees, and in front of him men began to run. He was on gravel again, his own legs kicking into motion, a blind scamper, pulled by the men scrambling forward, the ground visible only from the sprays of tracer fire. The mud came again, his feet slowing, bogging down, fire in his legs. He stumbled, the ground dipping low, fell to one hand, fingers in mud, pushed himself up, men moving past, calls, voices, urging the men forward. The machine gun fire began to slow, the tracers only to the right now, one Nambu gun still sending out a steady stream of fire. In front the guns were suddenly quiet, and he kept moving, screaming pain in his legs, his chest, hard breaths. He tried to see anything at all, rocks, hills, but the rain still blinded him, stinging his eyes. There were only shadows, some men stumbling, falling, grunts and low words. He felt the ground rising again, a hill, hard, ragged coral, heard men moving up in front, some calling out to the others. Cover! He pushed into any opening he could find, climbing with every step, saw some men falling into holes, cuts, the hillside gashed with the deep crevices, just as before, men filling the gaps, some stepping on each other as they fought for cover. He slipped in behind a rock, brush around it, heard a voice, felt a man push up against him, but
there was no anger, no curses, both men doing the same thing. He sat still now, strained to hear, the man beside him silent, breathing heavily. We made it, he thought. We crossed the damn river! Downstream the single machine gun stopped its fire, and now the only sound came from the rain, and the pounding in his ears from his own heart, his breaths. He was shivering again, the warmth of the river turning cold, flexed his arms, held the rifle out, then pulled it close, anything to keep moving. He thought of the lieutenant, the others, the men who led the way, who took them across. Where are they? They know what we’re supposed to do. What happens now? We wait for daylight? Maybe the Japs will come after us, make a charge. He felt the rock with his back, tall, above his head. Good cover. Good cover. Okay, I’m ready. For what?

Beside him the man shifted position, rolled over away from him, peered up over the rock. Adams leaned that way, said in a low whisper, “Get down! You nuts?”

The man settled back down, sat heavily, said, “Maybe. You an officer?”

“No. Private Adams.”

“Adams. Yeah, the boxer. Won ten bucks on you last month. I’m Captain Bennett.”

S
OUTH OF THE
A
SA
K
AWA
R
IVER
, O
KINAWA
M
AY
10, 1945, D
AWN

The mortar fire began at first light, incoming rounds that shattered into the coral, blowing rocky shrapnel through the men who tried desperately to hold on to their advance position. Near the mouth of the river, where it spread wide into the ocean, the obliterated road bridge stood as a shattered monument to the effectiveness of what still remained of Japanese artillery. On the north side of the river, frustrated tank commanders brought their vehicles close to the water, hoping to support the Marines who had made the crossing, but without the bridge, the tanks could do nothing more. The river itself would swamp any machines that tried to drive across. As the tank crews waited impatiently, the engineers attempted to build a bridge strong enough to support the weight of the armor. But the Japanese had a perfect field of fire, and immediately the engineers were targeted, soaring plumes of water taking a horrific toll on the men who did their best to build yet another bridge. Even the footbridge was targeted, not by artillery but by bands of Japanese soldiers who rushed the bridge wearing satchel charges, suicide squads whose work was stunningly effective. As the
engineers tried to respond with hastily fired carbines, they could not prevent the Japanese from accomplishing their goal. The footbridge was blasted to rubble by men who gave their lives for that one simple task.

As the hours passed, the determination of the engineers prevailed. Despite ongoing artillery fire from the hidden Japanese positions, the heavier bridges took shape, and the tanks began to roll. Offshore, in perfect testament to the effectiveness of the navy’s firepower, the cruiser USS
Indianapolis
provided supporting fire against the Japanese guns that dared to show their position for more than a few seconds. With the tanks finally able to lend support, the Marines on the south side of the river received the orders the officers had expected all along. Crossing the river wasn’t enough. Now it was time to continue the drive. To the east, the army divisions and the Marine First Division were facing Japanese defenses anchored by the Shuri Castle, and other strong positions dug deep into networks of low hills. To the west, closer to the coast, the Sixth Marines were facing one of the primary goals of the entire campaign: Okinawa’s capital city of Naha, and just beyond, the city’s major airfield.

Before first light on May 10, the Marines who hugged to whatever cover they could find began to suffer from incoming mortar fire, their positions revealed by the light of green flares, which burst over them, effective even in the driving rain. There was a new weapon as well, already familiar to the soldiers who had spent so many days close to Japanese positions. Enormous numbers of Japanese soldiers were equipped with a
knee mortar
, so called because its lightweight portability meant that it could be fired from nearly anywhere, anchored against the ground by a man’s knee. But the small size did not diminish its brutal effectiveness against troops within close range. Hidden by ridgelines and any obstacle they could find, the Japanese troops began to pour fire into anyplace the Marines were trying desperately to seek cover. The low hills outside the city of Naha were now crawling with Marines, but very soon they learned that close in front of them, behind them and beneath them, the hill was crawling with Japanese troops as well.

T
hey slid forward through the shallow mud, thick pools of stench that had flowed into low places in the coral. Adams stayed close to the soles of Ferucci’s boots, knew that Welty or someone else was close behind him. Together they snaked their way through a deep draw, cut into the face
of a hill that was no more than forty feet high. Around them the more open ground was a sea of uneven wreckage, earthen hills plowed up by artillery shells, any vegetation long since obliterated, the rough ground offering shallow sanctuary for the Marines. Their goal had been a hill, what Bennett’s map had shown to be Charlie Hill, but naming the mound of rocky coral did not mean it was that much more prominent than most of the undulating wasteland around it. As they reached the base of the hill, Adams had glimpsed a single landmark, one lone pine tree, rising above the ragged ridgeline, knew that somewhere an artilleryman was sighting on it as well. The shellfire had come all morning, some from the American 150s back near the river, or from the
Indianapolis
. The tanks were assisting as well, rolling up in support of the men who crawled their way through the cut coral. But as the Marines slipped and squirmed their way onto Charlie Hill, the big guns had to stop. Whatever targets there might have been were mostly underground, and the only thing the gunners and their observers could spot now were the specks of dirty green.

The rifle fire was relentless, most of it coming from rocks and crevices above them, keeping the Marines low in their cover. In front of him Ferucci had stopped, no progress now, nothing to do but wait for an opportunity. The shelling had seemed to come in bursts, Adams wondering if the Japanese inside the caves and holes knew the timing and so kept low while their gunners did the job. But no one had answers, and there was no time for
conversation
about anything. He thought of the lieutenant above them, just beyond a hump in the rocks. He’ll know more than I do. He’ll tell me to shut up and keep my head down. Getting good at that. The rocks close to his left hand shattered, and he hunched his shoulders in, thought, God, they see me! He wanted to move, anywhere, any direction, but the men around him were in no better position, no better cover than he had now. We can’t just sit here! Dammit! He realized now that a roar was coming from below. The sound was familiar, clanking steel, a belching rumble. He eased his head around, saw down the hill, far out in the open, the black smoke, the machine rolling up and over the uneven ground.

“Sarge! A tank!”

“Shut up. I hear it. There’s a crack in that rock above us. Jap rifles there. If the tank can send one shot in there, we can rush it!”

Adams gripped the M-1, held it close to his chest, saw the men down the hill behind him, some curled into muddy depressions, shell holes, no one seeming to want to
rush
anything. He watched the tank coming closer,
felt a surge of thankfulness, the Sherman keeping back from the base of the hill. Now another appeared, its turret rotating, seeking targets, both machines drawing closer, stopping, and above him, Adams heard the voice, Porter, “Come on, damn you! Put one up on this ridge! Son of a bitch, where’s the walkie-talkie?”