The Final Storm (43 page)

Adams had stayed as close to Welty as he could, and the others in their squad, even the ever-hostile Yablonski, had accepted Welty’s authority as absolute. Others who had stayed higher on the hill had fought on as best they could manage, an extraordinary game of hot potato as grenades flew across the crest of the hill from men on both sides. But the Japanese had the advantage, greater number, and, apparently, greater supply of grenades, fed to them from the supply caves on the south side of the hill. With the grenade war becoming a lopsided affair, many of those Marines who could still move had done what Welty had done, obeyed the panicky instinct to pull back to some kind of safety, every man hearing the order in his brain, whether passed on to him by an officer or not.
Get off the hill
.

T
he flash of fire blinded him yet again, a cascade of broken rock and mud burying them, the smoke burning his lungs. Adams waited for it to clear, holding his breath as long as he could, kept his face straight down into the soft, putrid dirt. He raised his head, blinked through the blindness, the flecks in his eyes, knew that with each blast the enemy had come forward, low scampering shadows who waited for their own mortars to clear the way before launching themselves straight into wherever the Marines might be. He pointed the M-1, searched frantically for movement, did not fire. With no targets, a flash from his own rifle would just tell the closest enemy where he was, and it was a certainty that a grenade would follow. Welty was pulled up beside a small rock pile close to him, a makeshift barricade Welty had gathered in the first minute they had stopped. Adams kept himself flat in the muddy depression, desperate optimism that a wad of uprooted brush might protect him, still tried to dig himself in wherever it was soft. Behind them Adams knew there were others spread out in a low gash in the rock, some beyond, up the far side. In the lowest place wounded had been dragged, a gesture of desperation, no corpsmen or medical bags to be found. Those who were conscious had done an admirable job of keeping quiet, muffled cries from men whose limbs were shattered, whose chests had been battered by shrapnel from a grenade or ripped by the shards of steel from a mortar shell. Adams kept his stare on a bare rocky plane, sloping ground that led away into nooks and crevices he could not see. He glanced toward Welty, knew Welty was
doing as he did, pointing the M-1 outward, would pour a clip of fire toward anything that could be Japanese. Adams gripped the K-bar knife in his left hand, clamped against the stock of the rifle. It was awkward, a clumsy way to shoot, but marksmanship meant very little now, and having the knife ready for immediate use was more of a priority now than it had ever been in a foxhole.

He let out a breath, good night vision, searched with stinging eyes for any flicker of motion. Without any warning another mortar round came down, a hard blast down behind him, the force jarring him off the ground, something hard striking his feet and legs. He yelped, pulled his feet up close, panic, rubbing one hand on his legs, wiping through mud and filth. But there was no pain, no sign that he had been struck by more than the debris tossed out of the deeper hole by the round. But then a new thought came, no, my God … and he jerked his head around, stared into smoky black dark, wiped his face, saw flickers of flame on the already burned brush. The scream came now, too loud, the sound piercing the dark.

“Oh God! Oh God! Doc! I need a doc!”

Welty slid back away from his small rock pile, down into the hole, right into the thickest smoke from the blast. Adams whispered, “You okay?”

“Do your job!”

There was no other response, and Adams was frantic now, turned back, searched the ground in front of him for any sign of movement, still trying to hear through the ringing in his ears, wanted to call out, to ask how bad it was, but there could be no sound. He wasn’t sure how many men had been down in the deeper hole, had pulled one of the wounded down there himself, helped by another man, anonymous in the darkness. Adams tried to breathe, to clear the misery of smoke and burning powder from his lungs, heard the man cry again, softer, could hear a flurry of muffled motion, and now, one more word, a faint, gentle sound.

“Mama …”

No one spoke, a long second, and then a familiar voice, from beyond the low place, the growl Adams knew well: Yablonski.

“We gotta shut him up!”

Welty responded, an angry whisper.

“Shut you up! He’s done!”

Adams looked that way, felt swallowed by the smells from the low ground, the explosives blending with the awful soup of what remained of
the men. He knew the deep place had been crowded, the wounded laid together, thought of the men who had tried to help them, no one he knew. He heard more scuffling, a low curse from Welty. Out the other way, along the hillside, Adams heard a soft rustle, and now, a few feet away, a low voice.

“He want mama? You want mama?”

Adams jerked around, nothing, darkness, but the accent was too clear and he yanked the M-1 that way, groped for the trigger, felt the grenade drop onto him, a dull
thunk
that jarred his helmet. Adams made a shout, desperate fear, felt the grenade with his hand, flung it out toward the voice, dropped his face to the mud, the blast immediate, close, splinters of steel ripping the soft ground around him, a punch striking his arm. He yelped again, pulled the arm in tightly, heard another cry, could see movement in the darkness, the Japanese soldier stumbling, a noisy stagger, falling away, groaning. Adams felt his heart exploding in his chest, fired the M-1, the flashes blinding him. The clip popped out of the rifle, and he rolled, tried to reach the cartridge belt, realized his arm was burning, sharp pain. His fear turned again to panic and he heard a sharp whisper, close beside him.

“You hit? Get back here!”

Welty was there now, pulling Adams by the pant leg, lower into the hole, and Adams hooked the unhurt arm through the strap of the M-1, grabbed the wound with his free hand, was shaking, the panic unyielding.

“I’m hit! My arm! Jap was right there!”

“Shut up! Get down here.”

Adams let Welty pull him down, hit level ground, his feet sliding hard into another man, no protest.

“Sorry …”

“Shut up. Nobody alive here. Just sit tight. Might have to use the bodies for cover. Some of ’em are fresh. It’ll be different tomorrow.”

The smell of the bodies was overwhelming him, combining with the fear, the sweet sickly smell of blood and insides, a powerful odor of excrement. Adams held the arm tight against him, tried to ease his feet off the body, waves of sickness rolling through him. Welty pulled on his arm, Adams resisting, but relaxing now, Welty wrapping something on the wound, a soft whisper, “Best we can do for bandages. It’s not bad, doesn’t feel like you’re bleeding much. You need morphine?”

“No … don’t think so.”

An M-1 popped twice from out beyond the low place, where Yablonski
had been, and now the thunderous clap from the BAR rolled across, streaks cutting across the hillside. The sounds jarred him, some kind of cheer from Yablonski, and Adams tried to grip the rifle, the wound in his arm like a stabbing torch, his feet now pressed hard into the soft pieces of the man just below him. He stared up into the darkness, skyward, nothing at all, hints of shadows from the rocks, the rolling rattle of shellfire from the fight that still spread across the hill, more from down below, on the flat ground. He couldn’t keep the shivers away, tried to answer that, you’re not dying, it’s just a small wound. Get control of yourself. The enemy is right up there! He slid the gun up the slope, realized it was empty, felt a new panic, one hand fumbling against the cartridge belt. But the shaking in his hands was too much, the shaking now in his brain, pulling him to some other place, warm and dry. The ground beneath him was different now, soft, like a bed, holding him, someplace
safe
. He stayed with the feeling for a long moment, but something brought him back, a hard crack, a gunshot, startling, dangerous. He tried to fight the dream, gripped the rifle, stared into the darkness. Stop this! Stay awake! But it wasn’t sleep, his eyes wide, alert. His heart began to race, the pain and the wetness returning. He thought of Welty, needed help from his friend. From what? What’s happening
to me? The dream came again, angry this time, and he wanted to shout, the anger rolling over into horror, pieces of bodies, faces, Ferucci, laughing at him, more laughter, his own, sharing the joke, a deep echo inside his brain. The laughter was louder, unstoppable, and he felt a hard claw wrapped around him, pulling him out of the mud, carrying him away. The darkness gave way to more images, faces, men he didn’t know, some just pieces, all of them laughing, his brain erupting with too many images, the claw suddenly letting go, dropping him into a great black hole, a surging river of blood and filth and madness.

T
he assaults on Sugar Loaf Hill had been many and futile, and after each failure to drive the Japanese away, the number of Marine casualties grew to a staggering percentage of each unit engaged. Using darkness as the only protection they had, the platoons who still had their lieutenants, or squads that could depend on a sergeant, obeyed the orders that trickled up the hill from runners and the occasional walkie-talkie: withdraw. In the daylight, from the distant hills to the north, American observers could see the Japanese swarming back out into their positions, positions the Marines had no choice but to abandon. Offshore, the enormous battleship the USS
Mississippi
used its massive guns to pour a horrific dose of fire onto the Japanese positions, not only on the south slope of Sugar Loaf, but on the other two hills that spread out behind, as much as the navy could do to obliterate all three corners of the triangle. The cost to the Japanese was horrific, but, as always, their greatest number had scrambled back down into the deepest caves, which protected them from even the heaviest artillery.

The Marines who could make the withdrawal did so, but many of the wounded could not yet be evacuated, and so the American artillery unwittingly did what the doctors could not: erased their suffering. On the open ground of the hill itself, the bodies of men from both sides could be seen by the observers, and by the men who gathered out beyond the base of the hill, preparing for yet another frontal assault. Though the Marines did all they could to obey their passionate duty to
leave no man behind
, the bodies of the dead were spread throughout pockets of dead Japanese, a scattered mass of rotting decay, the ongoing fights not allowing either side to offer rescue or assistance to so many of their fallen.

The fight on Sugar Loaf Hill continued for nearly a full week, with
much the same result: conquest and withdrawal, all the while increasing the astounding casualty counts on both sides. By May 20, the vicious pounding from American artillery had silenced most of the heavy Japanese guns that had directed fire from Half Moon and Horseshoe, the other two hills. Finally, waves of American tanks swung southward, circling behind the hills themselves, trying to pierce through supply lines to the Japanese on Sugar Loaf and adding their firepower to the struggle that would soon follow on the base of the arrowhead. Pockets of Japanese troops still occupied many of the caves, but the tanks brought a new weapon to the fight. Many had their 75-millimeter cannons replaced by long-range flamethrowers, the tanks accomplishing what many of the men on the ground could not. Entire squads of Japanese troops were obliterated while still holding position deep in the rocky caves.

To the east, the First Marine Division had pressed their attack hard against the heights closer to the Shuri Castle, and the castle itself began taking heavy fire from American artillery, an assault that required several days to complete. To their east, the American infantry divisions accomplished the same goal, surging toward more of the high ground the Japanese generals had assumed would resist any attack. The cost to all the American divisions was extraordinary, entire companies wiped out, officers swept away en masse, yet in every case the Americans continued their push, inflicting casualties on the enemy that equaled or exceeded their own. The difference of course was that the Americans could bring in replacements, fill holes in the line, replace officers with new men coming in from the ships that continued to arrive offshore. The Japanese had no such luxury.

The men of the Sixth Marine Division who survived Sugar Loaf Hill were given little time for recovery. The city of Naha and its valuable airfield still lay in their path, and with furious pressure on General Buckner to complete the conquest of Okinawa, a campaign that had already exceeded its timetable by several weeks, even the squads and companies that had lost so many of their number on that dismal hill were still needed, still pressed into action. This meant that the men with the light wounds would still be called upon to do their part. No matter their number and their enthusiasm, the replacements could not be as dependable as the men who had already faced some of the worst fighting of the war.