The Final Storm

by Jeff Shaara

  For a long minute he kept his stare out to the open ground, watched those men slogging forward, pushing past plumes of mud and fire, the impact of mortar and artillery fire. He had no idea who they were, who their officers might be, Bennett not telling him any more than he needed to know. They continued to come, emerging out of each blast of smoke, but some were chopped down in the mud, the wounded still moving, some crawling, the sound of their agony erased by the steady roar of the shelling. He couldn’t look away, the surge of men pushing to the edge of the hill, another part of the battalion moving up into the ragged crags. As they climbed, many were hidden by the same gaps and slices in the coral that had protected him, and he knew they were filling every space, slipping into holes and muddy hollows, sliding in behind rocks. Some men were better at hiding than others, and he was helpless to change that, saw boots dangling out from rocky perches, drawing the fire of the sharpshooters and Nambu guns. A mortar shell came down close now, just below him, jarring impact into a thick brushy hole. He was knocked back, hit the rock behind him hard, knocking his breath away, gasped for air, curled up tightly, angry at himself. No time for sightseeing. From the brush below there were screams, then another blast, straight into the same hole, the screams gone. His breath came back, and he struggled to lean forward, nothing to see, the hole just a rolling cloud of dust and smoke. Too many of his men had already tumbled off the hill, victims of the grenades, the mortar fire, some picked off by Japanese sharpshooters, a weapon that seemed to him more dangerous than any other. The single crack and ping had come past him several times, aimed somewhere below, and once he had reached the muddy bowl, so close to the tall rocks, he felt safe from that. But the men hidden down below were completely vulnerable, and the careless man who peered up would probably never hear the well-aimed round that struck the helmet, the helmet that was supposed to protect them. The snipers scared him more than the mortar rounds, something he had learned from the fights he had gone through before. The training had drilled that into him, of course, that any officer who revealed his identity by the careless slip of a show of authority could be the first man to die. They died on Guam, he thought. They’re dying here. The stupid go first. Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.

  He sat back against the rock, no way to keep his legs out of the stinking black mire, pulled the carbine to his chest, thoughts racing through his brain, what he should do, what orders to give. He had felt this kind of fear before, knew it was never acceptable, that he had to find the iron inside of him, make the move, put himself out there, do whatever it took to draw the rest of the men farther up the hill. Dammit, it’s time to be … what? In charge? Those boys are waiting for me, and no matter how many of them are left, they can’t do this on their own. Some will try, some have already tried, the brave and the stupid, no idea how deadly the Jap fire can be. Some of those are the replacements, believing the ridiculous propaganda that the Japs are half blind and subhuman, that all we have to do is shoot at them and the battle is won. No, they need someone to show them just what the hell we’re doing up here. And that’s you. He still held the carbine tight against him, stared again at the opening of the cave a few yards away, his useless vigil. Figure this out, Lieutenant. Figure it out right now.

  It seemed odd at first, that no matter how normal it was supposed to be, he had never become quite used to every enlisted man saluting him, calling him sir. But not out here, not in the battle zones, that order given to the men before any other. On Guam he had seen the mistakes, a careless reflex, a salute followed almost immediately by the snapping crack of a man’s head. The Japanese snipers had been amazingly accurate on both Guam and Saipan, and no matter the constant patrolling by the Marines, they seemed to be everywhere, doing their damage and then vanishing into thin air. The binoculars could be deadly as well, another agonizing lesson. The new lieutenants were the worst, straight-backed men right out of training, who thought leadership meant that in every confrontation with the enemy they should stand out like some statue on a battlefield, glassing the countryside. The image stayed with him even now, one statue in particular, blackened bronze, so distinctive at Gettysburg. The officer candidates had been hauled there on a field trip, training on the ground of the country’s bloodiest battle, lectured about the bad tactics of the Confederates. He had noticed what most hadn’t, what even the instructors ignored, that out there on Little Round Top, General Gouverneur K. Warren stood in perfect repose, out in the wide open, holding his binoculars, gazing out with what Porter had felt was stuffed-shirted pomposity, as though daring the Confederates to come up on his hill. Even then Porter knew the obvious, that if he became an officer, and joined the fighting, the tactics at Gettysburg involved muskets, not the weapons they would likely face from the Japanese. And yet in every battle, every island, he had seen the same pose, fresh-faced officers leading men for the first time, one distinct memory from Saipan, a green lieutenant rushing ashore, eager to find that good vantage point, scampering up that first piece of high ground to strike that pose. If those men were unlucky enough to be anywhere close to a Japanese sniper, they went down so quickly, their own platoon never even learned their name.

  He knew those men had long gone, that any officers on this hill now were veterans. But we’re being chewed to pieces, he thought. They’ll be sending us help, damn sure of that. Replacements coming in all the time. But if they keep trying to climb this thing in broad daylight, none of those boys will survive long enough to find out what it’s like to do this … to watch your own men die while you sit in a pool of someone’s guts.

  He thought of calling out, giving the loud order they would hear. But there was a shout below him, someone else giving an order of his own, and he saw a burst of activity, a flurry of M-1 fire aimed toward the cave, splats on the rocks above him. Men were in motion, a quick run across the open patch of rocky ground. They jumped down, tumbling into brush, and the Nambu gun responded, but too late, and now the M-1 fire slackened, the mission accomplished. But the Nambu kept up its fire, ripping across the rock, then into the brush, and he pictured what was happening in the cave, the Japanese gun crew, one more belt of ammo consumed. The cries came, the only words he had heard for some minutes, the cry he had heard before, in every place he had pushed through, all the way up the hill.

  “Corpsman!”

  “Corpsman!”

  He pounded one fist against his leg, furious, aimed the carbine, fired one round across the opening of the cave, useless. His anger was aimed as much at himself as the enemy in their hole. Damn it all, do something! At least let the boys know you’re here, that you know what’s going on! Oh, yeah, then what? You gonna holler at them to keep their heads down? Yeah, a real leader. Be careful boys, you might get hurt. They’re your responsibility for God’s sake. He glanced back at what remained of the Japanese corpses, felt overwhelmed by the stinking ooze that coated his legs, his boots. Enough of this.

  The thirty caliber opened fire again, below him and to the left, and Porter eased his head forward, saw a frustrated glimpse in his direction from one of the men. It answered a mystery. Okay, yeah, they know I’m here. But they’re in no place to do any good. None of us are. To his right the Nambu gun opened again, and Porter slid that way, to the edge of his cover. The rock just above him splintered, a hard crack, and he dropped low, his face in the mud, his helmet jarred to the side. He cursed himself, thought, somebody else knows I’m here too. But that sounded like M-1 fire. If I get killed by one of my own boys … Okay, then don’t. He pulled his helmet straight, spit the filthy mud from his mouth, clamped down on the gag rising in his throat. He punched his arm in the air, a quick short wave with the carbine. See? It’s one of us, you idiot. In front of him the Nambu fired again, the wisps of smoke drifting out of the cave’s opening, and he stared that way, thought, that son of a bitch is right there, perched for all the world on his rocky little hole, thinking no one can get to him. He scanned the hill above the gun, no place to go, no footholds but open rock, putting
him in the wide open, knew the Japanese up higher would see anything he tried to do. Dammit! The grenades in his pocket jabbed against his leg, and he felt a sudden spark, a burst of an idea. The grenade was in his hand now, and he gripped it hard, the idea growing, leaping through his brain. He laughed, manic tension, thought, well, how about a little slow-pitch softball? He glanced back at the narrow pool of black water, his shallow pit of cover, thought, this might work. It might kill you in the process, but if you’re any good at this, it could take that bastard out. He held tight to the grenade, pulled the pin, took a breath, counted in his head, practiced the rhythm of seconds, one … two … three … okay, that’s about right. Play ball.

  He eased up to his knees, the grenade handle still gripped tightly, then he opened his fingers, the handle popping out, igniting the fuse, and he counted out loud, “One … two …”

  He lobbed the grenade in a high arc, underhanded, like a softball, the slow pitch, then rolled back into the mud, pulled himself as low as he could. The blast came in midair, out in front of the rocks, and he raised his head, stared through the smoke, grabbed another grenade, ready for the same trick. But there was a new sound, a grunting cry, and suddenly a man rolled forward, straight out of the rocky face of the hill. The man tumbled down, gathering rocks as he went, slid to a stop in a patch of thorny stubble. A cheer came from below, but Porter kept his head down, heard cheers close by as well, the crew of the thirty. I’ll be damned, he thought. It worked. Slow-pitch softball. They don’t call it that in training, of course. Proximity blast. That’s how it’s done. He knew that the one silenced gun wouldn’t give them relief for long, stood now, letting the men below see him clearly. The men responded, no sounds, just movement, some of them climbing up from hidden holes and cracks, scampering upward, toward him. Immediately the blast of a mortar erupted down to one side, then another, another Nambu gun, farther along the slope, another grenade tumbling down from above him. The Marines responded with fire of their own, another thirty, farther down, M-1 fire, and he waited for the smoke to thin out, thought, at least it’s something. They found new targets. Just keep those bastards above me in their holes, just for a few seconds … let me get to that cave. Sure as hell, there are more Japs in that cave moving up to take that gun crew’s place. He kept a low crouch, saw men still in motion, using the smoke for cover, moving past fresh bodies, wounded men, rifle fire coming down from above. The M-1s answered, and now another thirty caliber, farther away, the rocks overhead pinging, shattering, a body suddenly rolling down right in front of him, past his perch, crashing on hard rocks below. He raised his fist, a salute, stupid gesture, but the good shooting of the machine gunner was energizing, would inspire his men as well. The thirty kept up its fire, the cover they needed, and he shouted, “Move up! Go!”

  They came out of their cover and he waited, watched them, saw that most of the ponchos were gone, some of the men shirtless, their skin shining like white torches in the black rock. But there was no time to chew anyone out, the thought flashing through his brain: It’s going to rain again, you idiots. Then what? We’ll stop the war so you can get a raincoat? Morons. You can’t all be my boys. But, right now … get your asses up this hill.

  He watched them through the smoke, saw faces, eyes peering under helmets, staring up, the men moving closer. More men were coming from farther down, across the open rocks, and he wanted to halt that, stop them, but there was no time, the men following each other automatically. The distant Nambu gun found them now, shots in quick succession, more rifle fire from above. Some of the Marines reached the brushy holes, but others simply fell, some rolling away, two men lying where they dropped. He closed his eyes, cursed loudly, glanced toward the cave, no sign of anyone new, shouted out, “Up here! Brush along the rock to the right! Climb like hell!”

  He had sent them in the direction of the thirty’s crew, knew only that the cluster of cover there seemed to hide those men for a longer time than he had been in his own perch. Whether they heard his order or not, men were moving up that way, and he saw a handful of men reaching the brush, sliding forward, some right into the machine gunners’ laps. The mortar shells came again, the Japanese far above reacting to the new surge of movement, and the blasts ripped all across the hillside, but mostly farther down, into the fresher men who had just begun their climb. He watched the men closer to him coming up, the distant Nambu gun ripping into them, more men collapsing, some just hitting the deck, taking cover where there was no cover, no other place to hide. Another mortar shell impacted, closer up the hill, blowing dust and rock skyward, and he dropped down again, splashing the watery filth. The cries came again, wounded men, hopeless requests for a corpsman. The shock of the blast drifted away, and the fury returned, different now, thoughts of generals and their plans. This is bullshit! This isn’t a plan, it’s raw perfect stupidity. He recalled Bennett’s words, passed along from the colonel. Get to the top. Straight up. Sure, any other time this hill is a hefty jog, a good training run. Did somebody back in those tents forget there’s a million damn Japs up here? He had long understood why enlisted men seemed to hate officers, some hiding it better than others. Well, right now, I’m with you boys.

  He heard a scrape on the rocks, was surprised to see faces appear, three men, filthy, wide-eyed, clambering up the rocks toward his watery crater. They saw him now, gasping relief, tumbled forward, splashing close to him. They seemed oblivious to the stench, low breathless voices, one man familiar, and Porter knew it was the loudmouthed jerk, Yablonski.

  “There’s Japs right above us! Saw ’em. They just sat up there and watched us come.” Yablonski seemed to realize who Porter was now, but his expression didn’t change. The man had carried an angry stare with him for the eighteen months Porter had him in his platoon. “So, looey, what you want us to do now?”

  Porter looked at the others, one man unfamiliar, the other, the redhead, smudged glasses, the name coming to him. Private Welty.

  “Well, we can’t stay here, that’s for sure. They probably watched you so they know where you were gonna end up. Grenades will be next.” Porter paused, stared up, thought of leaving the precious nest, gave out a long breath. “The cave, over there. We make a dash for that. Each of you, pull a grenade, have it ready. Hell, pull the pin in case we come face-to-face with those bastards. One thing, they’ll be surprised. Might be the only advantage we have.”

  “Pull the pin?”

  The third man stared at him as though the lieutenant were completely insane.

  “Yes! Pull the pin. Hold tight to the damn thing. It won’t hurt you, son, until you release the handle. You did this in training a thousand times.”

  “No, sir, I didn’t. I’m a cook.”

  The others looked at him, and Porter said in a hard whisper, “Don’t ever call me sir! What the hell are you doing up here?”

  The cook glanced at the other two, who seemed as baffled as Porter.

  “We couldn’t get the kitchen truck up close enough last night, the mud and all. Captain Lomaz told us to grab a rifle and come up here, try to help you out.”

  Porter realized the man had no weapon at all.

  “What rifle?”

  He saw tears now, running down the man’s filthy face, could tell he was very young and very scared.

  “Dropped it. Stepped on somebody … dead. Couldn’t see …”

  “How the hell did you get up this far? Yeah, okay, shut up. War is hell. You got a forty-five?”

  “You mean a pistol?”

  Yablonski had said nothing, but rose up now in front of the man, knelt facing him, and Porter saw the fist go out, a hard punch across the younger man’s jaw. The cook fell to the side, his face splashing into the mud, an audible cry. Porter grabbed Yablonski by the shoulder, didn’t know what to say, and Yablonski turned to him.

  “He’ll get us killed. Best we leave him here. He’s … injured.”

  Yablonski didn’t wait for any more instructions, moved out past the lieutenant to the edge
of the brushy perch, and Porter knew there was nothing he could do about any of this, not here. But, he thought, I’m still in charge of this lunatic. Porter moved up close beside him, said, “Wait for me to get out on the rocks. I’ll rush the cave opening. You come in right behind me. Use the grenades, toss ’em hard, back into the cave. If they haven’t killed us by then, we should wipe out anybody who’s still there.”

  Yablonski looked at him, still no change in the furious glare.

  “If you say so.”

  “Right. One day you can play general, but not today.”

  He glanced at Welty, who said, “I’m ready.”

  Porter saw the calm on the redhead’s face, the opposite of Yablonski. Another day at the office. Strange little bastard.

  Porter focused on the chorus of firing across the hill, unceasing, the M-1s and the thirty still peppering the Jap position above. Down below the thumping rhythm came from a half-dozen Japanese mortars, blasting the rocks and the men who sought cover there. The smoke was rising again, and Porter thought, good time to move. He took a long breath, let it out, leapt out of the cover, muddy boots slipping on the rock, the slope flattening out, a narrow ledge. He ran hard that way and above him, the hill came alive with fire, another Nambu gun, answered by fire from below, M-1s, the thirty, Marines in position to see the three-man attack. Smoke still seeped from the cave mouth, and he hesitated, a brief second, then heaved the grenade around the edge. The seconds passed, eternity, and the cave erupted in a billowing fountain of smoke and debris. He didn’t wait, rolled into the narrow opening, tried to hold his breath, impossible, the fumes choking him. There were loud voices farther back in the cave, and he clawed his way past the shattered remnants of the Nambu. The cave was no more than four feet across, and not much taller, but the smoke hid the depth. Yablonski was there now, pushed past him, the cave still a fog of dust, and Yablonski threw the grenade, then fired his M-1 in a quick burst, emptying the clip. All three men dropped flat, the blast much farther back, more dust flowing past them. Porter raised his head, stared at the smoke, saw now, the cave fell downward, a steep slope, said, “Grenade! Throw it hard!”