The Final Storm

by Jeff Shaara

  Beside him the man shifted position, rolled over away from him, peered up over the rock. Adams leaned that way, said in a low whisper, “Get down! You nuts?”

  The man settled back down, sat heavily, said, “Maybe. You an officer?”

  “No. Private Adams.”

  “Adams. Yeah, the boxer. Won ten bucks on you last month. I’m Captain Bennett.”

  SOUTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA

  MAY 10, 1945, DAWN

  The mortar fire began at first light, incoming rounds that shattered into the coral, blowing rocky shrapnel through the men who tried desperately to hold on to their advance position. Near the mouth of the river, where it spread wide into the ocean, the obliterated road bridge stood as a shattered monument to the effectiveness of what still remained of Japanese artillery. On the north side of the river, frustrated tank commanders brought their vehicles close to the water, hoping to support the Marines who had made the crossing, but without the bridge, the tanks could do nothing more. The river itself would swamp any machines that tried to drive across. As the tank crews waited impatiently, the engineers attempted to build a bridge strong enough to support the weight of the armor. But the Japanese had a perfect field of fire, and immediately the engineers were targeted, soaring plumes of water taking a horrific toll on the men who did their best to build yet another bridge. Even the footbridge was targeted, not by artillery but by bands of Japanese soldiers who rushed the bridge wearing satchel charges, suicide squads whose work was stunningly effective. As the engineers tried to respond with hastily fired carbines, they could not prevent the Japanese from accomplishing their goal. The footbridge was blasted to rubble by men who gave their lives for that one simple task.

  As the hours passed, the determination of the engineers prevailed. Despite ongoing artillery fire from the hidden Japanese positions, the heavier bridges took shape, and the tanks began to roll. Offshore, in perfect testament to the effectiveness of the navy’s firepower, the cruiser USS Indianapolis provided supporting fire against the Japanese guns that dared to show their position for more than a few seconds. With the tanks finally able to lend support, the Marines on the south side of the river received the orders the officers had expected all along. Crossing the river wasn’t enough. Now it was time to continue the drive. To the east, the army divisions and the Marine First Division were facing Japanese defenses anchored by the Shuri Castle, and other strong positions dug deep into networks of low hills. To the west, closer to the coast, the Sixth Marines were facing one of the primary goals of the entire campaign: Okinawa’s capital city of Naha, and just beyond, the city’s major airfield.

  Before first light on May 10, the Marines who hugged to whatever cover they could find began to suffer from incoming mortar fire, their positions revealed by the light of green flares, which burst over them, effective even in the driving rain. There was a new weapon as well, already familiar to the soldiers who had spent so many days close to Japanese positions. Enormous numbers of Japanese soldiers were equipped with a knee mortar, so called because its lightweight portability meant that it could be fired from nearly anywhere, anchored against the ground by a man’s knee. But the small size did not diminish its brutal effectiveness against troops within close range. Hidden by ridgelines and any obstacle they could find, the Japanese troops began to pour fire into anyplace the Marines were trying desperately to seek cover. The low hills outside the city of Naha were now crawling with Marines, but very soon they learned that close in front of them, behind them and beneath them, the hill was crawling with Japanese troops as well.

  They slid forward through the shallow mud, thick pools of stench that had flowed into low places in the coral. Adams stayed close to the soles of Ferucci’s boots, knew that Welty or someone else was close behind him. Together they snaked their way through a deep draw, cut into the face of a hill that was no more than forty feet high. Around them the more open ground was a sea of uneven wreckage, earthen hills plowed up by artillery shells, any vegetation long since obliterated, the rough ground offering shallow sanctuary for the Marines. Their goal had been a hill, what Bennett’s map had shown to be Charlie Hill, but naming the mound of rocky coral did not mean it was that much more prominent than most of the undulating wasteland around it. As they reached the base of the hill, Adams had glimpsed a single landmark, one lone pine tree, rising above the ragged ridgeline, knew that somewhere an artilleryman was sighting on it as well. The shellfire had come all morning, some from the American 150s back near the river, or from the Indianapolis. The tanks were assisting as well, rolling up in support of the men who crawled their way through the cut coral. But as the Marines slipped and squirmed their way onto Charlie Hill, the big guns had to stop. Whatever targets there might have been were mostly underground, and the only thing the gunners and their observers could spot now were the specks of dirty green.

  The rifle fire was relentless, most of it coming from rocks and crevices above them, keeping the Marines low in their cover. In front of him Ferucci had stopped, no progress now, nothing to do but wait for an opportunity. The shelling had seemed to come in bursts, Adams wondering if the Japanese inside the caves and holes knew the timing and so kept low while their gunners did the job. But no one had answers, and there was no time for conversation about anything. He thought of the lieutenant above them, just beyond a hump in the rocks. He’ll know more than I do. He’ll tell me to shut up and keep my head down. Getting good at that. The rocks close to his left hand shattered, and he hunched his shoulders in, thought, God, they see me! He wanted to move, anywhere, any direction, but the men around him were in no better position, no better cover than he had now. We can’t just sit here! Dammit! He realized now that a roar was coming from below. The sound was familiar, clanking steel, a belching rumble. He eased his head around, saw down the hill, far out in the open, the black smoke, the machine rolling up and over the uneven ground.

  “Sarge! A tank!”

  “Shut up. I hear it. There’s a crack in that rock above us. Jap rifles there. If the tank can send one shot in there, we can rush it!”

  Adams gripped the M-1, held it close to his chest, saw the men down the hill behind him, some curled into muddy depressions, shell holes, no one seeming to want to rush anything. He watched the tank coming closer, felt a surge of thankfulness, the Sherman keeping back from the base of the hill. Now another appeared, its turret rotating, seeking targets, both machines drawing closer, stopping, and above him, Adams heard the voice, Porter, “Come on, damn you! Put one up on this ridge! Son of a bitch, where’s the walkie-talkie?”

  No one responded, the rifle fire from the Japanese above them continuing, the sudden chatter from a Nambu gun, somewhere close. Adams lay as flat as he could, heard the whining crack, a dull whump from a Japanese rifle, so many odd sounds, different kinds of weapons. He had no choice but to keep flat, sharp coral beneath him, his face turned to the side, dirt in his ear. The rifle fire seemed to increase, more Japanese joining the fight, some response from below, the rattle of a BAR, pops from the Marines who crouched along the base of the hill, waiting for their own lieutenant to order the advance. The Nambu gun kept up its fire, a spray that ricocheted across the coral just behind Adams, and he heard shouts, a short scream, “I’m hit! Doc!”

  Ferucci did not move, shouted, “We’ve got wounded up here! Corpsman!”

  Others took up the call, voices from behind, “Corpsman!”

  “Get a doc up here!”

  “Got him!”

  Adams let out a breath, the rifle fire close again, a splatter on a rock beside him, and he pushed against Ferucci’s boot heel.

  “We gotta move. They see us!”

  Ferucci didn’t speak, crawled away up the trail, a short scramble, and Adams stayed close to him, the smell of powder rolling over them. From below a tank fired, the shell passing overhead with a sharp whistle, impacting against the hilltop. Adams felt the ground shake beneath him, turned toward the tank, could see smoke from the barrel o
f the tank’s 75. Yes! Again! Blow them to hell! He saw movement now, close to the tank, a man, another, emerging from some hidden place. They moved with quick steps, scurrying toward the tank. The uniforms were light, tan, and his heart leapt in his throat.

  “Sarge!”

  But there was no time, and two more Japanese soldiers appeared, the men running low toward both tanks, a mad crawl right under the belly, and now the blasts came, one quickly after the other, bursts of fire and black smoke. Adams stared in horror, swung around with his rifle, but there were no targets, the tanks engulfed in fire. He saw one hatch open, a man scrambling out, billowing smoke from inside the tank, but the Nambu guns were taking aim, the man falling, cut down by the Japanese fire. Another tanker emerged, bloody, bareheaded, staggering up out of the machine, was punched backward by the machine gun fire, fell in a heap to the muddy ground. Adams stared, sick, expected more men to emerge, the smoke coming out of both hatches in a thick plume. But there was only silence now, the fire curling up around each tank, a thump of a blast as a gas tank ignited, fire now spewing straight up through the open hatches.

  “Sons of bitches! Satchel charges!” Adams looked at the voice, Welty, below him.

  Adams said, “They just blew themselves up!”

  Welty said nothing more, turned toward him, black calm on the man’s face, and above him, Ferucci said, “Stay down!”

  Porter shouted now, from his hidden perch.

  “Give me covering fire! I’m going up!”

  Adams wanted to shout out, no! Going up … where? He looked past Ferucci, saw the lieutenant emerge from a shallow hole, a grenade in his hand. The men responded with fire of their own, Adams raising his rifle to his shoulder, aiming up toward the ridge, nothing to see, no targets at all, just cuts in the rock. Porter seemed to pause, and Adams saw his face, red, bathed in sweat. He leapt out now, ran up over the rocky hillside, fell flat again, and now Adams saw the rifle barrel just above him, the Japanese soldier showing himself. Porter tossed the grenade up, into the opening, then rolled away. The blast came, a thumping billow of smoke and rock, and Porter was up again, threw another into the same hole, then stood, fired his carbine into the narrow gap. Ferucci yelled, “Let’s go! Move!”

  The sergeant rose, moved away quickly, darting into the shallow cover, closer to Porter. Adams followed, automatic, no thought, his eyes on the black ground, rocks and mud and smoke.

  The rifle fire came from the left now, a burst from another machine gun, the rocks around him erupting in small splatters. Adams fell flat, no cover, men stumbling beside him, one man crying out. The Marines answered, M-1s from below, firing into the new target, no target at all. There was no other sound, just the steady firing from both sides, and Adams felt the paralysis, immobile against the rocks, staring sideways, a man’s body close beside him. Run, you stupid …

  He leapt up, climbed frantically, searching wildly for anyplace to come down. There were small rocks in a heap, and he moved that way, dove, landing hard, rolled over them, saw a crack in the hard rock, slid that way, more fire, close by. He hugged the rifle close to his chest, terror holding him hard against the rocks, the crack inviting, a small cave. And now he saw the helmet, eyes staring back at him from inside the rock. He yelled, animal sounds, jammed the rifle forward, fired, fired again, kept firing until the clip clinked out of the M-1. Smoke filled the narrow gap, blinding, and he heard noises, voices, more men farther back in the rock. His legs tried to pull him away, to run, but there was no other place to be, and he dropped the M-1, no time, grabbed a grenade, jerked it from his shirt, blind instinct, pulled the pin, threw the grenade into the hole. He ducked now, just below the opening, the voices louder, a hard shout, but the blast came, knocking him backward, rolling him away from the rocky face. His ears were ringing and he tried to stand, saw splinters of rock around him, the Japanese machine guns still seeking him, punching the ground close to him. He scrambled back up into the cloud of dust and smoke, hugged the rock, saw the M-1, grabbed a clip from the cartridge belt, jammed it home.

  “Pull back!”

  “No! Japs! Right here!”

  “Pull back!”

  He knew Porter’s voice, but the words seemed to echo from very far away. The smoke cleared around him, and he saw movement down below, the men moving back down the hill, some in a run, some dropping, rolling, some not moving at all. He coughed from the smoke, wanted to see inside the rocky opening, to see the Japanese soldiers, the dead, his dead.

  “Pull back! Get back! Move it!”

  The hillside was alive with movement, men crawling down, some firing up toward the crevices, the enemy answering, flashes from the hidden places, smoke drifting past him in thin, stinking clouds. He kept his back to the rocks, heard more voices now from behind him, more men inside the rock hole, the voices urgent, silly, meaningless words. He grabbed another grenade, jerked the pin, held the grenade for a long second, his hand shaking, then with one motion stood back from the rock and threw the grenade hard inside. He ducked again, braced for the blast, one hand on his ear, the rocks jumping under him, a fresh cloud of blinding smoke.

  “Pull back! Now!”

  The smoke was all around him, a cloud of camouflage, and he dove down through it, struggling to keep his feet, jumped down to the crevice, past the rocks, more muddy holes. There were bodies, Marines, and he hesitated, reached down, grabbed a man’s hand, no one left behind …

  “Get down! Pull back!”

  The hand did not move, and his own momentum pulled him away, the Nambu gun chipping the rocks, whistles and cracks around his head. He released the hand, no choice, saw a low place in the rocks, jumped down, the hillside flattening, deeper mud, shell holes and torn ground. There were others moving around him, pulling back, no one stopping, and he kept running, tripping, stumbling, a desperate scamper, saw more of the others, men all across the muddy uneven ground, settling into cover. Faces watched him, terrified, some with dead eyes, and he saw Ferucci, on his knees, the sergeant cursing him, waving at him.

  “Here! Take cover!”

  Adams slid to a stop, felt mud inside his shirt, the sergeant grabbing him hard, pulling him flat to the ground.

  “You stupid bastard! You hear the order to withdraw, you withdraw!”

  Adams didn’t know how to respond, wanted to say something about the Japanese in the rocks, but there was no voice, his breathing in furious gasps, the smoke still in his lungs. There was a calm moment, strange, no firing, a wafting black cloud rolling past, the stink of the smoke that poured toward them from the tanks. Adams tried to sit, roll over, see up the hill, but the order came from far down the line.

  “Tanks are coming up! Withdraw!”

  The words seemed nonsensical, foolish, someone’s stupid mistake. Tanks get blown to hell! He searched the faces, saw some with helmets low, staring into the mud, some looking back up the hill, some with rifles aimed. The tanks came with hard rumbles, the squeaking of steel, and the big guns fired, a steady thumping rhythm into the hill. He thought of the bodies, could see them, splayed out, filthy green heaps, but the tankers aimed high, were blasting the crest, and now a hand jerked his shoulder, sharp words.

  “Let’s go!”

  He rose up with the others, the Japanese opening up again from hidden machine guns, the firing from the tanks continuing, their own machine guns answering. The Marines flowed back away from the hill, into the undulating ground, thick deep mud, some men seeking cover around the tanks, but the tanks did not stay, were already in motion, pulling away, their machine guns continuing to fire, offering cover to the retreating Marines. Adams scrambled to keep up, searing pain in his chest, legs bogging down in the mud, saw some men jumping up on the tanks, grabbing on, some sliding back off, the bouncing motion of the tanks too unsteady. He followed the men on foot, no faces now, just backs, helmets, rifles and carbines and BARs, a mad scramble away from the hill, the hill they couldn’t take.

  18. ADAMS

  NORTHEAST OF NAHA, OKINAWA<
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  MAY 11, 1945

  The brief respite from the rains had ended, a new storm washing over them with a fury that felt like the clouds were making up for lost time. The winds were blustery, sweeping away the shelter halves, no kind of cover for the muddy holes strong enough to keep the storm off the men who kept low in their foxholes. From hills and hidden places in what seemed every direction, the Japanese continued to choose their targets, anyone leaving his hole likely to draw attention from a dozen machine guns, a hail of rifle fire. And so the men stayed put. They were getting used to the oily water, but only because they had no choice.

  In the foxholes themselves, the misery of the mud was made worse for another more personal reason. Those, like Adams, whose guts were twisted into sickening turmoil, had no place to go to relieve themselves, no latrine, no slit trench. But their pants came down, brief seconds of embarrassing hell, the new stink adding to the mud and water in the only place they could stay, the only place there was cover from the Japanese guns, the only kind of comfort there could be.