The Final Storm

by Jeff Shaara

  Adams absorbed the scene with a swelling need to laugh out loud. Welty smiled at him, a discreet wink, and Adams watched as the doctor walked away. He swung his legs out onto the wooden floor, leaned out closer to the two men.

  “Did Bennett really send you down here?”

  “That’s Captain Bennett.” Mortensen scanned the large tent, seemed to focus on one particular nurse, who was bending over to attend to a nearby patient. He kept his gaze that way, said, “Just grab your gear. Let’s go.”

  Adams picked up his backpack, newly stuffed with fresh everything, grabbed his boots, slipped them on quickly, laced up the straps with automatic precision. Welty said, “New boots? They gave you new boots?”

  “Yep. Burned the old ones. Burned everything else too, I guess.” Adams stood now, tried to hide the slight waver, but Welty caught it, said, “You sure …?”

  “Let’s get him out of here. Talk about it later.”

  Mortensen grabbed him by the arm, for support as much as a strong pull out of the tent. They were outside quickly, away from the awful smell of antiseptics and sickness. Adams felt giddy, the sky a shocking blue, the heat from the sun swarming about him, sweat already in his shirt.

  “They even gave me fresh underwear. Socks, the whole works. Real food too. I musta looked even worse than you two.” He grimaced, the foul air surrounding him, the smell rolling up around him from the two Marines. “If I smelled like that, it’s a wonder they didn’t toss me in the latrine. Damn, Sarge, you two ever gonna take a bath?”

  He realized it was a stupid question, but Mortensen surprised him, said, “Right over there. I saw some army boys lining up for a shower. What do you say, Private?”

  Welty jumped at the question.

  “You betcha.”

  They kept Adams between them, moved out through the sea of larger tents, distant rows of concrete block buildings and tin huts. The activity passed by them, no one seeing them at all, everyone on some kind of mission, carrying the self-importance he had always seen in the rear echelon. Mortensen slowed, held out a hand, pointing to a small open field, and Adams saw the line, a dozen men, stark naked, standing in front of a small tent. Above was perched a huge barrel on a metal stand, and beside the tent, a crude hand-painted sign: THIRTY SECONDS PER MAN—NO EXCEPTIONS.

  Welty was already removing his shirt, said, “That’s more than it takes me at home. But if they got soap, I might not wanna leave.”

  Mortensen said, “One more reason the army boys are so damn soft. They’re living back here in the lap of luxury. After this, I’m looking for the tent where the doggies get their massages. I got this little crink in my back.”

  They released Adams, and he stood guard over the pile of stinking clothes, wondered if there was some way to discreetly haul them to a fire barrel. But this was army ground, no Marine uniforms in sight, and likely, no place to find any. He watched them fall into line, their bare skin as dirty as their uniforms, both men with the smiling anticipation, as though they were getting away with something naughty. To one side Adams saw a group of army officers, a casual conversation, mostly ignoring anyone else. Adams felt a pang of nervousness, thought, this might not be a welcome spot for Marines. But the two men were already at the tent, next in line, the gangly Mortensen taking the lead, and Adams laughed, reached down and dragged their clothes and weapons away from the traffic, a shady spot beside a supply tent. Guess no one will know they’re Marines, he thought. Hard to tell once they’re naked. Unless Marines smell different.

  The men were clean but in their uniforms there was no way to tell. They moved quickly through the bustle of the supply depot, the three men knowing it would be best if they seemed to be on an urgent mission, no time for chitchat. Adams had left the field hospital with no weapon but his K-bar, and Mortensen had reassured him, no problem at all. The sergeant led the three-man parade, seemed to know exactly where he was heading, and Adams brought up the rear, just followed, trying not to catch the eye of anyone who seemed important. Mortensen suddenly turned, like a hound on a scent, stepped up to a concrete building, paused, a quick glance back at the other two, said, “I’ll do the talking. Both of you … try to look a little nuts. Like you can’t wait to cut some doggy’s throat.”

  They moved through the open door, past a sign that was much less crude than the shower: ORDNANCE SUPPLY.

  The building was mostly a vast open space, the thick odor of gun oil, men with clipboards, others moving crates in through a gaping doorway in the rear. Mortensen led them to a desk, a lieutenant busy at some papers, his single gold bar polished to a high sheen. Mortensen said softly, “You in charge here?”

  The man did not look up, said, “What do you think?” The odor of the two uniforms caught him now, and he backed away from his papers, said, “Good God, you boys fall in a latrine?”

  Mortensen kept his voice low, leaned close.

  “This is what the front lines smell like, sir. The fellow behind me in the clean shirt brought us off the line in G sector, and the colonel’s hopping mad. Says unless we get some shotguns right away, he’s coming down here to rip the asshole out of anyone who gets in his way. Sir, I don’t have to tell you what the colonel’s like when he’s that pissed. We got Japs dropping down in every damn foxhole, and the boys are going nuts up there, taking shots at every officer who walks by. This guy’s clean uniform and all, he damn near started his own firefight. Those boys up there are so whacked-out, they’re shooting anything that don’t look like one of them. The colonel got the word that a bunch of our boys are ganging up to come down here to take care of business with more of you army lads in clean uniforms. My crud-covered buddy here keeps wanting to run his bayonet through this guy, and if I wasn’t bigger than him, he’d have done it.”

  As though on cue, Welty reached down, withdrew his K-bar knife, and fingered it with affection, staring at Adams as though ready to carve a roast. Mortensen grabbed Welty by the shoulder, jerked him around.

  “Later! This man’s an officer!”

  Welty slumped, twitched nervously, the K-bar still in his hand, and Welty seemed to notice the lieutenant for the first time, a broad, lustful smile. Mortensen looked at the officer again, said, “Sir, I’m hauling this one down to the hospital right now. He’s done for. You ever see hair turn that red? The colonel said I’m the only one who can handle him, so here we are. But there’s fifty more headed down here, and the colonel sent me to load up on riot gear. Shotguns are the best we can do, so I need your help, sir. Three shotguns. A few ammo belts of shells. That’s all we need.”

  The lieutenant sat back in his chair, began to laugh.

  “Yeah? What the hell you think we got MPs for? You damn leather-necks pull this crap on me all the time. I might look like some shavetail to you, but I’ve been doing this job for too long. Get lost.”

  “I can tell you’re a veteran, sir. You’ve been to the front then?”

  “Hell no.”

  Mortensen glanced out in both directions, their conversation still not drawing any unwelcome attention.

  “Surely, sir, you must hear the reports of what’s going on up there.”

  “Nobody tells me a thing, and I like it that way. Now, I said, get lost.”

  Mortensen leaned out over the man’s desk, a scattering of dried mud falling on the lieutenant’s papers. The officer stared up at him, more angry now, his face curling even more from the sergeant’s odor.

  “Sir, with all due respect. I’ve got men dying by the boatloads. Shotguns are the best weapon against what the Japs are doing up there. If you like, I can have the colonel arrange to send a jeep down, give you a tour. No trouble at all, sir. As many holes as we got in the line, a tough-looking hombre like you could help us out. The platoon leaders we’ve got coming up are, pardon the expression, sir, as worthless as tits on a boar. We could use a veteran like yourself.”

  Mortensen leaned even closer, as though showering the lieutenant in as much of his essence as he could.

  “I
know I can smooth it over with the colonel. I bet you’re itching like hell to get out from behind this desk and get out to where the action is, right, sir?”

  The lieutenant stared up at Mortensen, a long, silent pause.

  “Three shotguns?”

  “And ammo, sir.”

  “And ammo. While I’m gone, clean up this crap you dropped all over my desk.”

  The man was up now, disappeared down a corridor of steel shelves. To one side several GIs stood, watching the entire scene, all in clean uniforms. One man moved closer, older, and Adams knew the stare of an officer.

  “The Marines don’t have their own supply depots?”

  Mortensen straightened, stepped toward the officer, his smell moving with him.

  “We don’t have shotguns, sir. The army is blessed with the best weapons, and my boys are fighting it out with knives. I’m hoping you’ll allow us this one luxury, sir.”

  The officer appraised Mortensen, seemed to appreciate his age.

  “Your company get pretty chewed up, then?”

  Mortensen didn’t miss a beat.

  “Lost most of the company, sir. Trying to do what we can with replacements. You know how that goes. Pretty tough sledding with these new kids they’re sending over.”

  The older man nodded, still appraising.

  “All right, Captain. Tell Lieutenant Moseby to give you what you need. Won’t be any paperwork problems on this end.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You get your new company together, well, give ’em hell up there. Just … next time, stick to your own depot. You’re drawing flies.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  The lieutenant returned, a clipboard in his hand, three shotguns slung on his shoulder, several belts of shells. He saw the older officer, said, “Major, I was going to get this requisition signed …”

  “Sign it yourself, Lieutenant. Just get these stinking bastards out of here.”

  “That major thought you were a captain? Hell, Sarge, you can go to the stockade for impersonating an officer!”

  “I didn’t impersonate anybody. He just assumed. Sometimes a little gray hair is an asset.”

  Adams sat back, shifted on the hard seat, tried to find some angle that didn’t hurt. They had hitched a ride with a truck carrying army and civilian aid workers, the kind of people who wouldn’t have any idea where three Marines were actually supposed to be. Adams examined the shotgun in between his knees, saw concern on the faces across from him, tried not to appear too menacing. Beside him Mortensen fingered his own shotgun, said to a man straight across, “Blows hell out of anything in close range. Kills Japs by the dozen. Best damn weapon man ever invented. You oughta see the guts.”

  Adams tried to avoid the horror on those who stared at them, wondered just what aid workers were hoping to do, thought, the best aid we can give the Okies is if we kill every damn Jap on this island. Okies oughta appreciate that, for sure. He slid open the breech of the pump shotgun, had watched the sergeant load his, a great show of expertise, obviously impressing the aid workers, if not injecting them with a bit more fear. Adams did the same, sliding the fat shells into the magazine, then one into the chamber, thought, five. That’s not too many. I kinda like eight better.

  He had no idea why Mortensen had wanted shotguns at all, and even now with the heavy piece in his hand, he wasn’t sure why it was any better than the M-1, or Mortensen’s Thompson. But the sergeant showed perfect certainty, and Adams had accepted Mortensen’s authority, as much as he had respected Ferucci. Just like Welty, Mortensen was a longtime veteran, and from the grim efficiency in the man’s authority, Adams assumed the sergeant had seen and done more than anyone in the platoon, maybe the company. He didn’t actually know that, of course, but he understood what that supply officer had seen, why the major had assumed Mortensen to be a company commander. Yep, a little gray hair goes a long way. There’s a whole hell of a lot of us that ain’t making it that far. Mortensen was a graphic contrast to the replacements, the men who came forward with what seemed to be utter brainlessness, an affliction apparent even in the new lieutenants. In the same truck, four of those men sat in the rear, two across, crisp new army uniforms, the faces of panicked children. They wore the insignia of their units, something any veteran sergeant would immediately rip away when they reached their destination. Their boots were even shinier than Adams’s, one man a sergeant, his stripes newly sewn onto a jacket that had never seen the outdoors. Beside Adams, Mortensen seemed to share his thoughts, leaned forward, said, “Any of you boys shave yet?”

  They tried to respond by haughty silence, as though their training made them seasoned, too grizzled for such abuse. But one of them broke ranks, stared at the filthy uniforms of Mortensen and Welty, said, “Marines, huh? I hear you boys had it kinda rough. How many Japs you kill?”

  The voice betrayed the man’s age, and Adams guessed, seventeen, if that old. Mortensen sat back, ignored the man, Welty keeping silent as well.

  “Maybe you haven’t killed any? That it? Might explain why you’re riding up to the line. They grab you for running away? Heard Marines don’t like it when their own shag ass.”

  Adams stared at the sneer on the chalky face, the sound of snottiness in his voice. Something cold and nasty suddenly rolled over in Adams’s brain, the man not even looking at him, focused more on the men with the dirty uniforms. He thinks I’m just like him, Adams thought. Clean uniform, so I’m one of them, another man who thinks he knows everything, who thinks he knows … the thoughts were overrun by his anger, and he slammed the shotgun down between his knees, said, “Listen, you little turd. We’ve all killed Japs. We’re not done killing Japs. If I can, I’ll kill every damn Jap on this island, and when I’m done, I’ll go to Japan and kill every damn one there. Those sons of bitches killed my sergeant, they killed my lieutenant, and they killed half my company. I killed one with my knife. I blew one up with a grenade, and they nearly did the same to me. They dumped mortar shells on me until I couldn’t take it anymore, but I’m taking it anyway! I’m going back up there because my buddies need me, they need every damn one of us who knows what it takes to kill Japs! You hear me?”

  He was shouting now, ignored the hand pulling on his arm, tried to stand in the rolling truck, fought the grip from Mortensen, the sergeant silent, pulling him back to the seat. But the words wouldn’t stop, the four replacements leaning back away from him, obvious fear. Adams pulled free of Mortensen’s grip, leaned closer to the man with the attitude, the attitude erased completely.

  “I’ve seen them kill people I’ve known since training, and I’ve seen them kill corpsmen and stretcher bearers … I’ve seen them kill an Okie girl …”

  He began to stammer, and Mortensen grabbed his arm again, yanked him down hard, and Welty was in front of him, kneeling, shouted into his face.

  “Shut up! You hear me? Shut up! You wanna go back to that damn white-sheet place? You crack up on me again and I’ll take you there myself. You see that shotgun?”

  Welty waited for the answer, and Adams tried to hold back the shaking in his chest, his hands, nodded.

  “Look at it!”

  Adams obeyed, stared at the cold steel, the fat barrel pointing skyward, the belt of ammo across his chest. Welty grabbed the shotgun, shoved it hard into Adams’s chest.

  “You know why we wanted these things? ’Cause they work! We got a job to do, and you already know that those Jap bastards wanna make it easy for us, they wanna walk right up to us and stick a grenade down our throats. We have to kill every one of these bastards, every one! Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I said, right?”

  Adams felt the hard grip on his arm, Mortensen still holding him, hard fingers digging into the barely healed wound on his arm. Adams felt the pain, wouldn’t flinch, saw Welty still staring at him, hard and cold, the same hint of madness he had seen in the others. Adams understood now, they’ve gotta know. Am I gonna crack up again? I’ve gotta know. Hi
s hands gripped hard to the shotgun, and he realized that what Mortensen said was true, that Welty was right. The shotgun had one purpose. At close range it could blow a man to pieces and take out a half-dozen Japs behind him.

  Welty’s voice rose, closer to Adams’s face.

  “You talk like a tough guy, but I’m telling you, I want more than talk outta you! We’re gonna kill every one of those bastards! Right?”

  Adams saw the fury in Welty’s red eyes, his friend searching him, a frightening urgency. He felt it now, that they needed to hear they could count on him, that Adams was still ready for the fight. He jerked the shotgun from Welty’s hands, knew that Welty shared the memories, the death and the stink, but one memory was Adams’s alone, and he embraced it now, that one dismal day, vivid and pure, digging his knife into the throat of the Japanese soldier, the head rolling away, the fountain of blood. He could smell the man’s blood still, would always smell it, and for the first time he knew he had to have more, that the hate and the pain were part of the men beside him, part of everything he had become. It was why he had to leave the hospital, why the doctors had allowed him back on the line. If he was nuts at all it was because that kind of nuts was what they needed from him. He had to go back, he had to fight. He returned Welty’s stare, no emotion, no fear, the words coming out as perfect truth.

  “I wanna kill every damn one.”

  On June 4, the Sixth Division’s commanding general, Lemuel Shepherd, was finally allowed to embark on the kind of mission his men were suited for. Coming in from the sea, the Fourth and Twenty-ninth regiments struck the Oroku Peninsula and tore into the defenses that the Japanese naval troops had thought were invincible. Inland, the Twenty-second Regiment served both as reserve and as the cutoff force, moving into what was left of the city of Naha, sealing off the base of the peninsula against any escape for the Japanese forces who now faced seaward. After four days of slogging through intermittent rain and stifling heat, the two regiments succeeded in driving through the Japanese and secured the vital airfield west of the city. But the fight had been difficult, the naval troops putting up a more solid defense than even Ushijima had expected. But the end had been inevitable, even if the Marines’casualties were, once again, brutally high. As a fitting conclusion to the battle, with the Oroku Peninsula securely in Marine hands, Admiral Ota did what he was expected to do. With Marine gunners zeroing in on his headquarters, Ota denied the Marines the privilege of capturing the senior naval officer on Okinawa. The admiral committed suicide.