by Jeff Shaara
Adams obeyed, the others as well, some of them emerging from foxholes, some already holding backpacks, prepared for the move. Porter dropped to one knee, waited for them to gather, some squatting, sitting, finding low places that might serve as cover, cover none of them thought they’d need. Adams moved toward a fat sago palm, saw Yablonski slip into the shade before him, knew better than to object. Welty was close to the lieutenant, squatting between two low rocks, and Adams moved that way, sat, one hand on the ground, coated now with a fine grit of red.
“All right, listen up! Those trucks are taking us out of here. The whole damn division’s mounting up.”
“Ha! I knew it!”
The voice came from the palm tree, and Porter looked that way, annoyed.
“Shut up! You don’t know jack. I’ve heard all the crap you idiots have been tossing around. You’re expecting hula girls and cold beer. Forget it. The army’s been getting their teeth kicked in down south, and the generals have decided they need us to move down there and replace them. That shouldn’t surprise any of you. We knew that we’d end up with the heavy lifting, and my guess is some dumbass on some ship out there had his map upside down and sent us the wrong way. The real heat’s down south, has been from the beginning. The army boys can’t handle it, so you know what’s gotta happen next. The First Division is already on the move, and we’re going in behind them. I haven’t been told exactly what they’re gonna do with us, but you know damn well it’s not gonna be pretty.”
The trucks were pulling into a wide field, the engines shutting down, the clouds of dust pouring up the hill toward the platoon. Across the field, other platoons were getting the same briefing, loosely spaced clusters of men listening to their officers. Porter glanced toward the trucks, said, “Grab your gear and mount up. Fifteen to a truck, so we’ll fill three of ’em. I’ll be up front with the radio. If you need water, there’s a truck coming up with some barrels. Fill ’em up. It’s a long drive.”
The trucks had no canopies, the dust swirling around them in suffocating clouds of heat and blinding grit. Adams had his head down, eyes closed, his helmet the only shade. Close beside him Welty did the same, and even the most vocal knew better than to open their mouths. Even if their complaints could be heard at all, the dust would find any opening, a mouthful of the crushed coral adding more misery to what was already a rumbling bouncing hell.
Adams had no idea how long they had been in the trucks, had bounced and rocked in rhythm with those around him, swaying with the turns, cursing silently when the truck hit a sharp hole. He tried to open his eyes more than once, tried again now, was surprised that the air seemed to be clearing, the dust not as bad. He felt a sharp breeze in his face, looked across to the man opposite, Gridley, the big man staring past him, his eyes ringed with white circles. More of the men raised their heads, the air clearing, and Adams saw flat fields, sugarcane, the small farms they had marched past many days ago. Beside him Welty spat a hard wad of something thick into the air, past Adams’s head, stared up and over, trying to see more of where they were, the others doing the same. Adams heard a croaking voice at the back of the truck, the last man on the bench, Ferucci.
“Airfield. Maybe Yontan. We’re stopping.”
Adams felt the truck slow, a hard squeal of brakes, could see a sea of trucks already in place, parked in neat rows. Just as quickly the trucks at the far end of the field began to move, one after the other, the caravan resuming. The truck beneath him rumbled to life, curses rolling through the men, the usual voices, Yablonski, “What the hell? Somebody can’t make up his mind?”
Adams ignored him, was more curious than angry, the truck lurching forward, following the next one in the long, snaking line. The road away from the airfield was wider, smoother than the coral trail they had endured, and he kept his gaze outward, saw another row of trucks, some with canopies, coming the other way, toward them. Beside him Welty said, “Hey, where the hell are they going?”
The truck slowed, dipped to one side, easing off the road, the entire caravan shifting over, allowing the northbound trucks to pass. Some of those trucks were covered, but others were open, and Adams could see the men now, faces peering out, as curious as he was. But there was a difference, something in the faces that seemed gloomy, lifeless. Some of the Marines began to call out, waving, simple greetings, but the greetings weren’t returned, and now Ferucci said, “Army! Sure as hell! Those are ground pounders!”
The men on both benches rose up, and Adams heard the calls coming from the trucks in front, the usual hoots, insults and joking, and now the men around him began the same routine.
“Hey, doggie, doggie! Woof!”
“Too tough for you boys down here? You doggies need some men to take over for you?”
“Hey! You scared of those little Japs?”
The calls continued, and now the convoy moving past slowed even more, then stopped, engines still running, a jam in the traffic somewhere up ahead. Adams tried to think of his own insult, something appropriate, unique, knew that every army man everywhere was thought of as a doggie. The barking took over now, a chorus of insults, and through it all, he heard a voice, Ferucci.
“The Twenty-seventh! Those guys are the Twenty-seventh! You bastards!”
There was hesitation in the catcalls, some of the Marines hearing the words, comprehending. The shouting erupted again, different, far more hostile, even Welty, standing now, surprising Adams.
“You yellow sons of bitches! You no-good yellow bastards!” Welty continued, the volume of his fury growing, and after a long minute he dropped down, seemed exhausted by his own anger, repeated the words quietly. “Worthless no-good bastards. Worthless. We oughta shoot every one of them.”
Adams looked at the redhead with driving curiosity, wanted to ask the question, but the shouts of the Marines stifled him. All along the caravan the wave of menace seemed to grow, furious cursing, insults and jeers. The trucks were no more than a few feet apart, and when the words were not enough, the Marines began to throw things, cartridges, pieces of scrap from the floor of the truck, anything they could find. There was nothing playful, the objects hurled with baseball precision, a rain of debris into the army trucks in a one-sided assault. Adams stared in horror, saw one face from the other truck, a quick glance outward, fear in the man’s eyes. The face disappeared now, ducking low, and now the trucks began to move. Another truck crept past, canvas hiding the men, no one looking out, the shouting from the Marines still relentless. Adams felt a strange fear, thought, this is stupid. Somebody’s gonna start shooting. What the hell’s going on? The trucks kept moving, picking up speed, belching smoke, kicking up clouds of dust and gradually the noisy display from the Marines began to quiet. Welty seemed much more subdued than the men around him, and Adams leaned close to his ear.
“What the hell?”
“Yellow bastards. The Twenty-seventh was on Saipan. They just fell apart. Ran like hell.”
Adams heard the words drift away, knew the sign, that Welty wouldn’t say anything else, and Adams knew not to ask. But he was deathly curious, had heard only bits and pieces of the scuttlebutt about Saipan. He had heard the insulting descriptions for the army divisions, the Twenty-seventh in particular, had assumed the insults had been just another one of those rivalry things, all Marines giving grief to all GIs, sailors giving grief to them both. But this was different, far more intense than any rivalry. On the other side of Welty, a face leaned out, looked at Adams, the older man, Gorman.
“They’re no good, pal. Worst division in the army. A lot of Marines died because of those sons of bitches. I heard Howlin’ Mad had their general fired. I don’t know what the hell they’re doing here. They shoulda been sent to MacArthur, where they belong. If they’re moving north, it’s cause they screwed up again. We sure as hell don’t need ’em here.”
Ferucci joined in.
“Pop’s right. That’s gotta be why we’re going south. Replacing those bastards. I bet they’re either going up nor
th or they’re getting hauled out of here altogether. They do a little dirty work and some general gives them a vacation. I bet they’ll sit up north and use our foxholes and slit trenches. Too lazy to dig their own.”
Adams saw Porter now, the lieutenant climbing up on the back of the truck.
“You boys through acting like assholes? Listen up. Captain says we’re heading down a little farther. Once these doggies get out of our way, we’ll be rolling again.”
Porter dropped down, was gone, hustling back to the next truck in line. The last truck in the army caravan passed by now, a swirl of dust engulfing it, the canvas pulled tightly closed. Ferucci said, “Those bastards know to keep their asses hidden. I’d like to have a little chat with General Buckner, or whoever else thought any army dogs could do this job. They probably took one mortar shell and the whole line collapsed.”
The trucks rolled to life again, the road in front clear. The men rocked against one another, the bumping rhythm returning, more dust, the sun straight overhead now. They rumbled for another half hour, and then, just as before, they slowed, moving into line alongside dozens more. But this time the engines did not shut down. Adams blew the dust out of his nose, coughed it out of his throat, wiped at the grime in his eyes, saw Ferucci up, jumping down, out the rear of the truck. The others followed, filing out through the stink of exhaust, men slapping at the red dust in their clothes, and Porter was there, pulling them off the road.
“Get out this way! The company’s in this field. Space out, dig in, and wait for orders!”
The lieutenant moved away to the next truck, the same instructions, and Adams dropped down off the truck, held his backpack in his hands, his rifle slung on his shoulder. He saw Ferucci eyeing him, then looking toward the others in the squad.
“All right, you heard him. Let’s go.”
As the trucks emptied, they moved away in a roar, the empty caravan rolling back northward. The Marines had been unloaded on a broad hill and to one side were the unmistakable signs of a distant airfield, low buildings and rows of tents, scattered patches of camouflaged netting. Around him the men moved past, most of them with heads down, still spitting out the dust of the miserable ride. Adams began to move, the hillside drawing his eye, and now he stopped, along with a half-dozen men from the truck. On the far side of the hill, away from the airfield, the hill fell away in a gentle slope a mile long, maybe more, and just as wide. To the right he could see the ocean, and southward, in the far distance, he could see a wide swath of smoke settled along another ridge. There was smoke in the deepest part of the valley as well, thin and drifting, and beneath it, the snaking line of a river.
“Move it! Dig in!”
He followed Ferucci, kept his eyes out to the long hillside, caught a smell now, carried on the soft breeze. Around him some of the men were reacting to it, a stink like nothing he had ever experienced. As they moved out into the field, the smell grew worse, the wind driving toward them from the south. The lieutenant had spread them in one section of the wide hilltop, men already digging in on the slope of the hill that faced the airfield. He moved that way, then closer to the ridgeline, the smell curling his face, sweet and bitter and sickening. He stepped up onto the highest point, could see all across the wide sloping ground, saw that the ground was churned and blasted, trees ripped to splinters, shell craters small and large.
“Let’s go! Get off that ridgeline! The enemy can see these heights!”
Adams turned, saw Porter moving along the high ground, waving at him, at the others who had been as curious what lay in front of their new position. Porter moved up past him, slowed, said, “There’s gonna be hell to pay, kid. Right out there … that’s Jap-land. The party’s over.”
PART TWO
15. USHIJIMA
BENEATH SHURI CASTLE,
THIRTY-SECOND ARMY HEADQUARTERS, OKINAWA
MAY 4, 1945
He had allowed a rancorous debate between his staff officers, unusual for someone in his position. But in the end, no matter how passionately Colonel Yahara had argued against it, Ushijima knew that, finally, he would go along with General Cho’s fiery insistence on launching a significant offensive counterstrike at the Americans.
The banquet had begun late, nearly midnight, a feast to celebrate the commencement of the great battle. The display of luxury had been rare and wonderful, platters of fish and meats prepared by the Okinawan servants, supervised of course by Ushijima’s own chef. Throughout the late evening, the spirits had flowed, sake and the homegrown Okinawan wines, dulling the talk, so that in the early morning the conversation among some of the staff officers had become jovial, almost giddy. The energy for that had come not only from Cho’s boisterous mood but from the girls who served them, who brought the food and drink, who lingered even now, cooing with birdlike compliments for the bravery and the manliness of their Japanese masters. Most of that had been directed at General Cho, who would appreciate it more than anyone on Ushijima’s staff. He had long accepted Cho’s bad habits, mainly because he had little choice.
Ushijima had drunk far too much sake himself, but that had stopped two hours ago, when he had withdrawn from the greater festivities, returning to his private room. He sat now, his usual pose, knees bent, his feet pulled in tightly, fighting off the effects of the sake. With the attack not more than a couple of hours away, he needed clarity, a sharp mind. He pulled out his pocket watch, nearly four. His energy was returning, the effects of the partying wearing off, and he focused on the planning, on what was to come. Less than two hours, he thought. And then we shall have our say, we shall find out what kind of enemy faces us.
For several days the spies and observers had brought in word of a major shift in the American deployment. Across the southern front, many of the American infantry units had absorbed a terrific pounding from his well-fortified and perfectly camouflaged artillery. The Japanese machine gun placements, engineered by Colonel Yahara, had been brutally effective, and for the most part the American army units had made impressive assaults into positions that almost guaranteed failure. But still they had come, and slowly Ushijima had consolidated his defenses, driven back meter by meter by the infantry units he had come to respect. Cho did not share his feeling of admiration for the American tenacity, and Ushijima understood that the ploddingly slow progress of the Americans was costing their infantry enormous casualties. They do not respect death, he thought. They find no glory in sacrifice, and so they will find another way. With their resources, they will merely pull the depleted units away and replace them with fresh men who have not yet run from our guns. And that is why we must strike now. For once, General Cho is correct.
Ushijima knew that the American commanders would be agonizing over their lack of progress, that surely no American general had the stomach for such a high casualty rate. Unlike the Japanese, who fed their people only what the Imperial High Command chose to reveal, he knew that the American newspapers were sure to announce openly the kinds of losses their soldiers were suffering. It is astounding, he thought, that they believe such openness is a positive thing. War is not about truth. It is about morale and spirit and what officers can drive their men to do. The civilians have no place in such things, and the Americans can never understand that the cost of waging war is honorable death. None of their generals can withstand the pressure that will come from that. Japanese mothers are inspired by the emperor to sacrifice their sons, knowing that every death brings glory and honor. The Americans fight for … what? Because they hate us? Because we humiliated them at Pearl Harbor? That kind of inspiration has no solid foundation, and so, if we kill enough of them, their mothers will not be so accepting. Washington does not have the power of our emperor, or our high command. They will listen to the mothers. And that is perhaps our only advantage.
Cho had insisted that the Americans were losing two thousand men every day, a number that Ushijima knew was ridiculously high, but he did nothing to correct his chief of staff, even if the bluster of that made Colonel Ya
hara cringe. The Americans might know how high their losses are, but surely they are listening to our communications. Someone out there might believe Cho’s figures, or at least might believe it is possible. If their soldiers who kneel in mud and filth stop believing what their generals tell them, we will have won another kind of victory. We may defeat their morale. Cho’s boasting is certainly improving our own. If we receive no more support from Tokyo, morale might be the only thing my army will have left.
The shift in the American position had been carefully documented, reports confirming that the battered infantry was being pulled back, especially along the western flanks. Ushijima knew that those lines were now filling with Marines who were being trucked down from the north. The first to arrive had been the Marine First Division, filling the positions vacated by the badly mauled Twenty-seventh Infantry. Directly behind the First, he knew that the Sixth Marine Division was moving into place, and it was inevitable that once those forces were in position to attack, they would. He shared the grudging respect many of his commanders felt for the Marines, knew that all throughout the Pacific island campaigns, it had mostly been Marines who had come across the beaches and crushed the Japanese defenses. Whether Tokyo acknowledged that or not didn’t matter. On Okinawa his own defenses had held up well, despite being vastly out-manned by American infantry, and the toll suffered by the Americans had been deeply satisfying. It was after all his primary mission, that if his precious Thirty-second Army was to be sacrificed, they would take as many Americans with them as they could. But the butchery inflicted on the American infantry had not sent them scampering back to their ships as Cho had long predicted. With fresh troops moving in to face him, Ushijima had finally consented to Cho’s wishes that the Americans be attacked in a massive show of Japanese force. Despite Colonel Yahara’s passionate opposition, Ushijima had to accept Cho’s logic, that with so much shifting of troops, there could be confusion and uncertainty in the American lines. There might be no better time.