The Final Storm

by Jeff Shaara

  With the second night approaching, the Marines knew the routine, and the shovels had come out once more, the holes dug in the brutal rockiness. While the Japanese had not shown their intentions, the officers who led the Marines had grown more itchy by the hour. There had been too much intel, too much recon, and too many reports of just how valuable this island was to the Japanese and their military. As Adams worked his shovel into the cracking coral, he had questions of his own. It had come to him on the march, aching legs supporting tired bodies, dreamy gazes where the hillsides opened up toward the strands of beaches to the west, soft surf, dotted only by the vast armada of American ships that lay offshore. The hills had been mostly quiet, as though the occasional Japanese soldier was just an angry tourist, annoyed that these Marines had trespassed into his private piece of solitude. The weariness in Adams’s steps had gone from painful drudgery to annoyance. As the shovel bounced painfully against the coral, the foxhole inching deeper far too slowly, his curiosity had become anger. He thought of the maps he had studied in San Diego, the enormity of the Pacific, so many islands, some of them so terribly vital, some of them completely ignored. Who figures that out, he thought. Which Jap general decided which ones he needed, and which ones he didn’t? And back in Guam and Hawaii … all of those men in their offices, with their plans and committees and secretaries, the men who never dirtied their hands. What if this is one of those incredibly stupid mistakes, another one of those screw-ups that made me a clerk? He wanted to ask Ferucci, but he knew the sergeant wouldn’t know any more than the rest of them. But still the question burned, the same question he had asked on the roadway. So damn much ocean … so damn many islands. Is anybody sure if this is really Okinawa?

  By the third day, American Marines and infantry had divided Okinawa in half and had easily captured the two primary airfields in the island’s center. The invasion continued ahead of schedule, the First and Sixth Marine divisions moving northward, the army’s Seventh and Ninety-sixth divisions moving south. On Kerama Retto, the cluster of islands off Okinawa’s southwestern shore, the Seventy-seventh Division held its position securely while the airfield there was made usable for American aircraft. As the invasion had begun, the Second Marine Division had made a feint on the island’s east side, an attempt to draw Japanese attention away from the primary assault. Now the Second was back on the transport ships, a floating reserve. The army had its own reserve, the Twenty-seventh Infantry Division, waiting as well. No one in the American command had any precise idea when or if those reserves would be sent ashore. None of the intel reports had given General Buckner any specific idea how many Japanese troops were still dug into the caves and man-made tunnels beneath Okinawa’s hills.

  The Marines began to focus on Japanese positions on the Motobu Peninsula, which jutted seaward to the west, reports coming in from the recon patrols that the Japanese had dug in a considerable garrison there. While some of the Marines would attack the peninsula, others would continue to press northward, driving whatever resistance they found straight up toward the island’s northern edge. In the south the army would press against resistance there, with a goal of capturing the island’s capital city, Naha, as well as what General Buckner’s intelligence officers assumed to be a strong defensive line that ran from the capital across the island to the historic Shuri Castle. The castle sat on a prominent knoll, geographically perfect for a stout Japanese defense. Despite the ease of landing sixty thousand troops on the first day of the invasion, and tens of thousands in the days that followed, not even the most confident American commander believed the Japanese would simply hand the island to the Americans with a courteous bow.

  9. ADAMS

  WESTERN SHORE, OKINAWA

  APRIL 5, 1945

  “We’re missing all the damn fun, you know. I didn’t sign up to be a house inspector. This is just another damn ghost town.”

  “Shut up! Go around to the side. There’s a window.”

  Yablonski obeyed, and Ferucci looked back at Adams, said with a hard whisper, “Get ready!”

  Adams had done this too many times to be nervous, hoisted his rifle up to his waist, pointed at the rough wooden door. The others scattered out to one side, Gridley dropping to his knees, Gorman beside him, the BAR aimed at the door. Ferucci raised one foot, pushed slightly against the door, testing, then glanced back again, nodded, and shoved hard. The door opened, Ferucci shouldering his rifle, a quick scan inside, then he backed away, said, “Go!”

  Adams moved past him, Welty close behind. They saw Yablonski at the window, a smirk on the man’s face, no whisper now.

  “Well? You see any treasure? A Jap division maybe hiding under that bamboo thing?”

  Adams ignored him, knew the routine, poked his rifle into a pile of some kind of clothing, saw a small cloth sack in one corner of what seemed to be a primitive kitchen. He opened the sack with the muzzle of the M-1, saw sweet potatoes, scanned the kitchen for anything of interest, nothing but crude utensils, one copper pot.

  “Nothing here.”

  Welty moved quickly into the other room of the two-room house, a quick shout, “Ah! Hey! Stop! Don’t move! Sarge!”

  Adams jumped toward the doorway, saw Welty pointing his M-1 downward, aimed at two old women, seated together in a corner, wedged against the crude wall by the side of a straw-covered cot. The sergeant was there quickly, pushed Adams aside.

  “Well, somebody lives here. Howdy do, ladies. Sorry to bother you, but we’re supposed to be looking for Jap bastards. You got any around here?”

  Adams could see stark terror on the women’s faces, one holding feeble hands up over her head, a pathetic show of self-protection, both women shaking, a mumble of words Adams thought to be a prayer. But there was more, the smell rising over him, thick and sour, and he backed away, said, “Come on, Sarge. Just old ladies.”

  Ferucci shook his head.

  “Phew-ee. Ain’t had a bath in a while, that’s for sure. Well, hey there, ladies, we’ll be going now. You see any Jap bastards, you be sure to let us know.” He came back past Adams, said, “Let’s go. Welty, you go tell the looey we found some Okies. Didn’t look like much of a threat to me. The aid boys will wanna check ’em out though. I’m not touching them. God knows what kind of damn tropical crud they’re carrying.”

  They moved back outside, and Adams glanced skyward, the clouds low and black, the wind picking up, raising the dust from the sandy ground. Welty moved away, a short walk through the cluster of houses, to where the lieutenant waited, sitting on an arch-shaped wall of concrete. The other squads were moving among the houses, rifles aimed into windows, more doors kicked in, no one calling out, no hint of alarm. They had been doing this for two days now, each of the small villages perched near cultivated fields, the farmers only occasionally appearing, old men mostly, primitive plows, tending to rows of short green plants.

  Adams could hear the sharp rumbles to the south, the first sounds of fighting on the peninsula. The sounds had been inconsistent, nothing like anyone’s idea of a pitched battle. There was mostly artillery, any rifle fire hidden by the lay of the hilly land, and now the rising winds. Adams had watched a swarm of fighter planes, twisting, banking, seeking targets along the higher hills, but even those were gone now, chased back to their ships by the change in the weather. Ferucci was beside him now, said, “Yablonski may be right. All the action’s down that way. I like the looey, but this job is stupid as hell. We ain’t gonna find any Japs hiding out in these places. They see us coming, they’re long gone.”

  Adams thought of the sack of sweet potatoes, could see out past the small houses, a patch of open ground, rows of thick green plants.

  “Hey, Sarge, you sure we can’t eat the crops? We could cook up some of those sweet potatoes, and I saw a bean field back a ways. If we boiled hell out of the stuff, dumped in a handful of halazone tablets, might make a good soup.”

  He knew what the order had been, the captain passing word through the company that the vegetables wer
e off-limits. But Adams had suspected it was just some protocol for being nice to the farmers. Ferucci was watching the others, turned to Adams, said, “You know what night fertilizer is?”

  “Well, I hadn’t heard that before the captain said it.”

  “People shit. That make it any clearer? That’s what the Okies use to fertilize these fields. You still interested?”

  Adams thought a moment, had seen Indians do the same thing near his home.

  “Well, if we boil the vegetables …”

  “I’ll boil you, you stupid son of a bitch. Captain says there’s all kinds of diseases we can catch, typhoid, or the plague or something. I’m not being your damn nursemaid if you start crying about your guts coming out. We got our own rations, and that’s what we’re gonna eat. You got that?”

  Adams saw others watching him, heard the laughter.

  “Got it, Sarge.”

  He started to move out toward the road, heard Yablonski call out, “Hey, Sarge! I’m grabbing these straw things. Make a good bed in my foxhole. You want one?”

  It was Yablonski’s usual game, offering to share anything resembling loot with the one man who would otherwise object to him taking it. Adams had heard the lectures about that, the captain preaching about leaving the civilians alone, making friends, so the Okinawans would be more helpful. But Lieutenant Porter hadn’t said anything about the minor treasures Yablonski had found, trinkets mostly, stuffed into his backpack. It bothered Adams at first, but he was growing numb to that now, the people mostly filthy and frightened, no one offering any information where the Japanese might be.

  Ferucci looked at the thin mat, woven bamboo, said, “Yeah, fine. I’m sick of sleeping on dirt. I bet there’s more of them things.” He called out now, “Hey! You guys see these mat things, grab ’em. We could use a little luxury.”

  Beside the road, the lieutenant watched the scene play out, no objection, seemed as impatient as his men, ready to move on to the next village. Adams felt an itch on his leg, reached down, scratched, saw Welty coming back toward him, the other men gathering, their job complete. Adams looked again at the approaching storm, glanced at his wristwatch. It’s after five. Time to start digging again. Welty moved toward him, and Adams said, “Another day of fun. Maybe we oughta grab some of those mats too. I still got dirt in my ass from this morning.”

  Welty shrugged, leaned low, scratched his own leg, said, “There was some cloth back there, maybe sheets or something. I’ll grab ’em.”

  Adams felt a hint of guilt, thought, these damn people don’t have a pot to piss in … but the itching came again, and he tugged at his dungarees, tried to relieve the discomfort. Yeah, enough of this. They got beds, we got dirt.

  The holes had been dug, Adams shifting the dirty white cloth beneath him, not nearly as much padding as he had hoped. He began poking through the backpack for his rations, and across from him Welty did the same. The daylight was almost completely gone, and Ferucci appeared above them, said, “Starting to rain. Grab your ponchos. One man two on, then two off.”

  He was gone quickly, repeating the words a few yards away. Welty pulled his poncho from the backpack, said, “I hate the rain. You’re lucky, New Mexico and all. I’d trade Virginia for the desert any day.”

  “It’s not all desert. We get rain. Monsoon season, comes up from Mexico. It’s a bitch. Can’t do anything outside but slide in the mud.”

  The conversation faded away, Adams fumbling with his own poncho, sliding it over his head, replacing his helmet. He put his hands on the cardboard of a K ration box, felt a rumble in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but had no appetite for the small can of stew, or whatever else the supply people had thought was an amusing addition to their meals. There was a stinging itch on his backside, and he shifted his bottom against the ground, but the itching wouldn’t stop. Now there were more, along his belt, and he shoved his hands down his pants, said, “What the hell?”

  Welty was scratching at his stomach, suddenly jumped up, said, “Ah! There’s bugs! Damn!”

  Adams stood as well, looked down at the white cloth, bent low, grabbed it, tugged, said, “Get off this thing. It’s infested with something.”

  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.