The Final Storm

by Jeff Shaara

  “There it is, boys. Right below us. What do you think, sir?”

  Adams cringed at the word, sir, but the men were on top of an enormous flat-topped hill, and he glanced around, thought, unlikely as hell any Japs can hear him. I guess the orders don’t apply to captains. The older officer pulled a pair of binoculars from his jacket, moved forward on his stomach, shoved his way through thick grass, glasses downward. He turned back toward the others, slid closer through the grass, said, “We sent foot patrols out last night. They found what I expected, that the bridge is mostly blown to hell, and the river along that span is about four or five feet deep, soft silt, but fordable. The span will never support a tank, and likely not even a supply truck. They’re hoping we’ll try to use it, and you can bet every gun on that far hill is trained on it. So we’ll build another one, just downstream. We won’t need more than a footbridge for now, to get some of your men across, and they can wade if the Japs make it hot. After dark my men will slip down there and do our part of the job. I’ll call for a covering force to keep an eye on us, in case the Japs decide to go night hunting. By early tomorrow morning you should be able to cross over. But there’s almost no cover anywhere close to the river, so don’t delay. Get your men out there well before daylight. My engineers will keep recon officers on this side and give you as much help as we can. We’ll build more bridges for the armor as quickly as we can, but your objective is to get the hell over to the other side, and establish a bridgehead. I’ll radio back to Colonel Schneider. He’s given me the authority to put my people in the water, and once we’re done I’ll pass the word to him. You should get his order to cross as soon as my people are back onshore. Can’t waste time. Even if the Japs don’t know we’re coming across, by dawn they’ll see that footbridge and try to blow hell out of it. You’ll have to get over pretty quick.”

  Adams saw Bennett nodding, “I’ve been told that, yes, sir.”

  The engineer turned again toward the river, the binoculars coming up once more. Bennett said, “Sir, I wouldn’t do that too often. Binoculars draw fire. Even in this mess, the enemy snipers can catch a reflection. Any glimpse of something like that on this ridgeline could … um …”

  The binoculars dropped, and Adams saw the older man’s face, a hard frown.

  “I know my job, Captain. Your concern is noted, but I’ve been staring at Jap positions for a month now. I’ll do my job, you do yours.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The engineer didn’t linger, no more conversation. He slid past Adams on his backside, then stood in the rocks below, disappeared quickly down the hill, another man following close behind him. Adams felt impressed, thought, yep, engineer. Gotta know his stuff, for sure. He felt movement at his feet, saw Welty slipping up beside him.

  “That’s Colonel Wakeman, I think. Saw his men do some pretty keen work on Saipan. I couldn’t hear them. What’s the hot dope?”

  “They’re gonna build a bridge. I guess the river is pretty close to us.”

  Welty seemed to chew on the words, put his face down, said nothing.

  Porter slid down near them now, scanned the men closest to him, pointed toward a man to one side, Ferucci.

  “Let’s move back down, Sergeant. Engineers have some work to do, and we need to be ready to move out in short order. Find good cover in those rocks and gullies in case the Japs open up on us again. Make sure your men get some rest, eat something. It’ll be a short night.”

  Porter moved off in a low crouch, and Adams felt the lieutenant’s excitement, felt it himself. One word rolled through his brain, a mission. Finally! Something to do, something more useful than sitting in a mud hole. He knew what was coming next, Ferucci’s barking command, and he started to move back along the pathway. But Welty didn’t follow, and Adams stopped, tapped Welty’s leg.

  “Let’s go. Gotta find a good spot to spend the night.”

  Welty looked at him, and Adams saw a gray mask of dread, anger on Welty’s wet face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Are you stupid or something?” Adams was mystified, didn’t know what to say. “That engineer colonel … his men are gonna build a bridge? That means we’re up here for one reason. We’re gonna cross the river.”

  Ferucci moved up close, slapped Adams on the back.

  “Right. That’s why we’re here. Japs ain’t on this side, they’re over there. It’s our job to go get ’em.”

  Adams felt a rush of exhilaration, said, “Yeah! Right! About damn time we can bust up some Japs instead of everybody else getting all the fun!”

  Ferucci stared at him, unsmiling, then looked at Welty.

  “I keep forgetting, he hasn’t done much of this before. Tell you what, Adams. When it comes time to hit that water, you can be the first one in.”

  17. ADAMS

  NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA

  MAY 9, 1945

  He had seen the engineers and their work crews moving out, disguised by the wet darkness. The rains had still not subsided, but there was no time now for sitting in muddy foxholes. Despite the dense mire of the flooded roads, fresh supplies had reached the hill. But the trucks stayed far back, would not risk either the mud or Japanese artillery. Instead the supplies were carried forward on foot, men hauling crates of grenades, rations, and fresh ammunition on their backs. Every man in the company was encouraged to grab as many grenades as he could carry, the word passing throughout the Twenty-second Regiment that the soldiers and Marines who had first confronted the enemy in these hills had spent more time lobbing grenades than firing their rifles.

  Even with supplies coming to them, the officers sent their own men back along the same muddy trails, concerned that a few boxes of K rations wouldn’t support men who were about to cross a river that would in effect cut off their lifeline. Adams had gone back, along with several of the others, on orders from Captain Bennett that the company load up on anything the trucks had brought close, including the desperately needed drinking water. Adams had hauled a cluster of canteens, had made his way along a faintly marked trail, guided by hidden voices, whispers, the supply officers seemingly more frightened of Japanese snipers than were the Marines who actually faced the snipers on the front lines. The canteens had been filled beneath a camouflaged tent, which shielded a half-dozen drums of fresh water, steel barrels that had been rolled into the mud off the back of a truck that was still there, hopelessly bogged down, the driver cursing every drop of rain that kept him away from the dry tents of his supply depot. Adams had done his job, filling the canteens to the top, had tried his best to ignore the bitching of the supply troops who had sacrificed little more than a pair of dry socks. But there were more rants to come. Finding his way once more through the absurd rivers of mud, he had reached his own platoon. Almost immediately, as the canteens were passed out to anxious, thirsty men, there came a new round of curses, directed at Adams himself. As soon as the canteens were raised, the water was spat out, some of it directly on Adams. He had been baffled, stunned at the response, but then, even in the rain, the smell of the water on his uniform had given him a clue. With furious amazement he had tasted the water himself, his full canteen giving off the same odor. Like the others, he couldn’t swallow, the pungent taste revealing what the others had quickly learned. Speculation ran wild, that there had been sabotage, that the Japanese had succeeded somehow in poisoning the water supply. It took the experience of the men like Porter, who realized with perfect dread that what the men were drinking had come from drums that had once held oil, drums that, for reasons no one could fathom, were not cleaned before they were filled with water. Porter reassured his men, as did the other officers across the dismal muddy hills, hundreds of men who now had to rely on their canteens regardless of how awful the water could be. It wasn’t completely poisonous after all, just disgusting. But it was all they would have until new drums could be brought forward, until new supply trucks could slog their way through the mud that was deepening every hour. Word was passed back b
y the runners, radioed by furious line officers, and somewhere a supply officer finally got the word. But for the men who waited in the rain, who sat in the mud and stinking filth of a churned-up battlefield, the fury was complete. If there had been any way for the men to find that supply officer, oil would have been the least of his worries.

  NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA

  MAY 10, 1945, PREDAWN

  Porter had waited for orders, the low crackle of a radio, and after midnight had led his men back up to the ridgeline. The narrow pathways had been no less muddy, no less slick, and the tall grass along the ridge bathed each man in a shower of water that soaked their already wet clothes. On the ridge itself they could only wait, Porter and the other officers close to their walkie-talkies, alert for any emergency that might suddenly erupt below them. The hill fell away to flat ground, an open plain that they would have to cross to reach the river itself. With the first sign of darkness the engineers had moved out, and no one had seen any sign of the kind of work they were trying to do, the darkness and the driving rain disguising their labor. As the men around him waited in soaking-wet darkness, Adams focused his gaze down toward the hidden river, thought about those men, building some kind of bridge. Footbridge, he thought. What the hell is that? Pieces of something laid end to end, I guess. More questions rolled through him, but he would not ask, knew that close by, Ferucci sat, waiting, the others, Welty right behind him. They think I’m an idiot, he thought. Bad enough I brought them undrinkable water. Now we’re about to do … what? They probably think I’m a screw-up no matter what happens next, the new guy who’s not new. I shoulda been there with them all along, shoulda been with Welty on Saipan. Some stupid-assed disease, and now I’m no better than those slick-faced replacements they sent out here with me. Welty’s gotta be scared, the sarge too, all of them. It can’t just be me. He glanced down at his chest, hidden by the poncho, thought of the lumbering weight hanging from his shirt, the extra grenades. Hell, we never trained in anything like this. It never rained like this in San Diego, days at a time. The deepest mud was over my ankles. This stuff … you could drown in it, and they’d never find you. Sure as hell, no one ever told us we’d need a dozen damn grenades. All that bayonet practice, all us tough guys, cutting up a cloth dummy. No one’s shown me a single reason why these Japs are dummies at all. Most of these guys have done all this before, and I bet they’re watching me, keep an eye on the idiot, the new guy. The guy who peed his own damn pants. Well, maybe so. But I bet every one of these guys up here is as scared as I am. I sure as hell hope so.

  The words rolled through his brain in a quivering wave, silent chatter, more questions. If we can wade, why do we need a bridge? Who decides who uses the bridge? Is that for officers? Five feet deep, that’s up to my neck. Welty’s shorter than me. Damn, I better keep an eye on him. The Japs know we’re coming? Well, maybe not. He stared into the rain, the steady hiss, and suddenly there were streaks of fire, red lines, then blue, the odd color of the Japanese tracers, pouring out in clusters from the far side of the river. The men flattened out, but the fire was aimed low, toward the water none of them could see. There were short calls, the officers keeping their men in silence, orders not to fire, not to respond. Adams pushed himself flat against the soggy grass, but the only sound came from the rain, none of the pops and cracks from the distant machine guns, no other sound at all. He took a breath, peered up, saw the tracers aimed far below them, only a few machine guns, the rain deadening their chatter. The engineers, he thought. The Japs must have had lookouts or something, must have heard something. Oh God, get those guys out of there. All this for a stupid damn footbridge?

  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 cou
ld 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?