The Final Storm Page 11

  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.”

  6. ADAMS

  OFFSHORE, OKINAWA

  APRIL 1, 1945 (EASTER SUNDAY)

  “Eat 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!”

  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.

  7. ADAMS

  “GREEN TWO” BEACH, OKINAWA

  APRIL 1, 1945, 8:30 A.M.

  No 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 ma
n 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.