by Jeff Shaara
When word came of the formation of the Sixth Division, Clay had pulled every string a private can pull, had begged and cajoled, made ridiculous speeches to indifferent officers. The process took agonizing months, and then word had come of something new and strange and wonderful. Somewhere in some white office in Washington, the decision had been made to allow women into the Marine Corps. Soon they had begun to arrive in San Diego, their duty freeing those men who agonized to join or rejoin combat units. When the first women arrived at his own post, Adams felt the giddy excitement that finally, he would go back out there. Once he had his orders in hand, all those newsreels and casualty counts were forgotten, all the sights and sounds and smells from the hospital put aside. Finally Clay Adams would hold the steel in his hands, and this time he would face the enemy.
OFFSHORE, ULITHI ATOLL, CAROLINE ISLANDS
MARCH 27, 1945
“Anybody know where the hell we’re going?”
“Shut up. The captain’s on his way.”
The talk continued, different fragments of scuttlebutt from the men blending together into utter confusion. Sergeant Ferucci lay in his own bunk, said nothing, doing what the other sergeants were doing, letting the men blow off steam, the crowded compartment thick with the stink of cigarettes and socks. Adams had been shooting craps in one corner of the cramped space behind one of the hammocklike bunks, but the dice had not been friendly, and he moved away, left three other men to their game. Above him a cloud of cigarette smoke hovered over the bunk of Jack Welty, another of the newly arrived veterans.
“They strip you clean, Clay?”
“A couple bucks. Not really in the mood. You got anything to read?”
“Nothing I wanna share with you.”
Adams enjoyed Welty’s Virginia drawl, the young man barely nineteen. He knew that Welty’s family had money, but Welty seemed embarrassed by that, seemed to resent the lavish care packages of odd food and clothing, most of it completely inappropriate for a Marine. The greatest laugh had come at Welty’s expense only a month before, a large box addressed to Welty that had been his family’s obvious attempt to help him fit in with his comrades. It had been a case of beef stew, small cans not much different from the prime ingredient in their K rations. After the humiliating howls from the others had subsided, the stew disappeared. Adams had a strong suspicion that Welty had tossed it overboard.
Welty sat up, let his feet dangle just above Adams’s head. All around them men were sitting with their backs against the steel bulkheads, or sleeping fitfully in tiny bunks, trying to ignore the chorus of conversation, most of it wild speculation of their next port of call. Across from Adams, another man lay against a gap between the bunks, his helmet liner low over his eyes, and said in another soft drawl, “Tokyo Bay. Heard a sailor saying something about minefields there.”
The responses came from around the cramped space, the usual skepticism, opinions from men who knew that they had no idea what they were talking about.
“You know how far it is to Tokyo Bay? We’d get bombed to hell before we got halfway there.”
“Formosa. I heard Formosa. Found it on a map.”
“Hell no. We’re going to China. Japs have been kicking ass, and they need us to take the ports back. Gotta be better than getting blown to hell trying to take Tokyo Bay.”
“I been bombed plenty of times, shelled and machine-gunned. All I know is that Tokyo Bay is in Japan, right? That’s close enough for me.”
“He’s right. Let’s hit ’em where it hurts. Get this thing over with.”
“I wrote my sis I was in Ulithi, and the censors sent it back to me. Top secret. How can a place nobody ever heard of be top secret?”
Adams let the talk flow past, adjusted himself to the hard surface under his rear end, tried to find a comfortable way to sit. He looked up at Welty, saw freckles and red hair, the white smile that never seemed to go away. Adams said, “Hey, Jack, where you think we’re heading?”
Welty shrugged.
“Someplace else. Can’t say I’ll miss our glorious week on Ulithi. A sand bar with palm trees. Not much to get excited about there. Rather go back to Guadalcanal.”
The attention turned from the argument over geography, one man catching Welty’s words.
“Hey, Red. I bet you loved all those island girls? They ain’t never seen anything like you. They thought your head was on fire.”
Welty shook his head, ignored the man, who returned to the manic discussion of their next mission. Adams still looked up at the red hair, said, “I don’t remember seeing too many girls on Ulithi. Guadalcanal, different story.”
“You can have ’em, Clay.” Welty tapped his shirt pocket. “Got all the gal I need right here. She’s back in Richmond writing me right now. Gotta write her again too, before we get all wrapped up in whatever we’re doing next. My parents aren’t too happy about it, but not much they can do about it now.”
Adams left that alone, knew Welty wouldn’t go into details about his parents at all. And he had seen the photo Welty kept in his pocket, a bright smile on a pretty blonde, every letter coming with that soft scent of some kind of perfume.
“Yeah, well, can’t argue that one. Agree with you though. These island dames don’t do a thing for me. Most of ’em got no teeth, or too much of everything else.”
Welty lay back in the bunk, his feet still dangling, and Adams closed his eyes, tried to avoid the arguments around him, thought, I’ve seen a few of these island girls that weren’t too damn ugly. A few. Not sure what I’d do if one of ’em pounced on me.
He had heard plenty from the combat veterans, warnings that the natives on any of these islands could be as dangerous as the enemy soldiers they helped to hide. The words had been drilled into them all, first by the company commander, Captain Bennett, then Sergeant Ferucci. Stay the hell away from the indigenous people. He still didn’t know exactly what indigenous meant, but the meaning was clear enough. Out here, anyone not a Marine could be looking to kill a Marine. Simple enough.
“Listen up!”
The voice came from the hatchway, and Adams saw Captain Bennett lean in through the oval opening, followed by the platoon commander, Lieutenant Porter. The men shifted across the tight space, gave the officers room to stand, and Bennett said, “All right, it’s time to let you in on the big secret. Though why anything needs to be so damn secret out here is a mystery to me. Any of you know where Okinawa is?”
There was a hum, some men suddenly aware that the secret wasn’t secret anymore.
“Didn’t think so. If you’ve heard jack about what the First went through on Iwo Jima, you know that place was nothing but a hole in the ocean, one tiny hot rock. Some of you found the same thing on Peleliu. Not much to look at, not much to fight over. But we fought over it anyway, because it was our job. This one’s different. A hell of a lot different. Okinawa isn’t some four-mile lava pile. It’s a damn country. Sixty miles from top to bottom, maybe a dozen miles across. There are several major airfields there that the top brass wants, and a load of Japs defending them. As bad as that ought to be, there are a hell of a lot of civilians there who have been under the Jap boot heels for years. One of our jobs will be to fix that, liberate those people. I’ve heard about how many of you have been shooting your mouths off how anxious you are to get started on our next mission. Well, good. I want to see you enthusiastic about your jobs. Whether you got your training at Parris Island or San Diego, or whether you had to eat sand for General Shepherd on Guadalcanal, everything you were taught about fighting the Japs is about to be tested.” The captain paused, gave a sharp nod to Lieutenant Porter, who stepped forward, shouted, “Which way do you run your K-bar knife into a Jap’s gut?”
The response was immediate, a chorus.
“Up, sir!”
“What do you do when you pass an officer on the line?”
There was a slight hesitation, then a smattering of responses, all the same.
“Nothing, sir!”
Porter seemed satisfied but Bennett said, “That’s right. Nothing. No salutes, no yes sir, no sir. No sir at all. I’m not going home in a box because you ladies suddenly decide to show me some respect within earshot of a Jap sniper. No officer is to use binoculars. That shows authority, and Japs will target anyone they think is in charge. No radio operator is to let his antenna show, no walkie-talkie operator is to stand in the wide damn open. The Japs have shown us what kinds of targets they prefer, and this company isn’t going to offer them up on a platter.” He paused. “Lieutenant, finish the briefing. I’ve got four more platoons on this boat, and every one of them is uglier than the last one. That makes you special, ladies. You were first.”
The captain turned, slipped out through the hatchway. Porter stood with his hands on his hips, eyed the men slowly.
“Right now, we’re headed for Okinawa. We cross the beach on one April. We’ll go in alongside the First Marines, and south of us, two army divisions are going in with us. Two more will be in support, and one more Marine division will be in reserve. You don’t need to know any more details than that.”
The inevitable laughter came, one man raising his hand.
“Sir, has the army finally learned that it takes a whole lot more of them ground pounders to do the job …”
“Can that, Marine! This is no damn beach drill. There could be a hundred thousand Japs on that island, and we don’t know exactly where they are. For the past few days, the navy’s been shelling hell out of every inch of that place, and the air boys are dropping every bomb they can haul there. The word that’s come down to us is that you might wade ashore into one big damn mess of Jap bodies. Don’t count on that. I’m betting it’ll be hot as hell. Japs have already shown us they can dig holes, and recon tells us that there are holes all over that place. Lots of concrete too. The captain mentioned the Okinawan civilians. There’s hundreds of thousands of them, innocents, likely to be caught in the crossfire, or, if they’re stupid, helping the Japs fight us off. They’re not savages. A lot of farmers, and there are regular cities too. Nobody in this platoon has ever fought an enemy door to door. The navy says they’ll level every building for us, but I’ve heard that before. You don’t need to know this, but I’ll tell you anyway. We’re hitting Okinawa for one very good reason that the captain didn’t mention. That damn island is three hundred fifty miles from the Jap mainland. We secure that place, and we’ve got us one hell of a good staging area for an invasion of Japan. But that comes later, and you’re not supposed to think about that. Me either. Our primary mission is to get across the damn beach as quick as possible, establish a hard perimeter, and hold off any Jap counterattacks. By the second day, we’ll make a hard push inland, extend the beachhead into the farm country. By the third day, we are expected to occupy and secure the Yontan Airfield. You won’t need any maps. It’ll be right in front of us.”
He stopped, seemed to wait for the mission to sink in. No one spoke for a long moment, and then Ferucci said, “Sir. What’s the army doing there? They backing us up?”
There were low comments, and Porter did not smile.
“Quiet. Once we establish control of the airfield, we will drive north, securing the northern half of the island. The army divisions will come across the beaches to our south, and once they establish their own beach-heads, they will drive south and do the same thing. The objective is to divide Okinawa into two theaters of action, driving the enemy in both directions until their backs are to the wall, so to speak. We do not expect the enemy to surrender. So far, he never has. Command anticipates a great deal of banzai attacks, and a whole hell of a lot of hari-kari when we pen those bastards up in a tight space. You want points with me, you bring me back a hari-kari knife. I want a whole damn collection of those things.” He paused, now a smile. “I got a bet going with an army lieutenant. Old pal of mine from Baltimore. I told him my boys would scoop up a whole pile of those fancy-assed knives, and he’s told his boys to do the same. Whoever gets the most gets a night on the town when we get back home. I might just bring some of you along with me. Don’t let me down, boys. Can’t let any damn ground pounders show us up!”
The response was loud, raucous, Adams joining in, punching a fist in the air. Porter had his hands on his hips again, nodded in approval, then silenced them with a wave of one hand.
“One April. Four days from now. You get a chance to go topside, do it. Take a good look at what’s around us. We’ll be part of the biggest damn fleet ever put together. Bigger than what they did at Normandy. One April is ‘L-Day.’ In case you’re wondering, L stands for love. Somebody back at Guam came up with that, thinking it would confuse the Japs.” He paused. “None of those admirals asked me what I thought of that idea.”
The noisy cheers came again, and Porter held up his hand.
“One April, well before dawn, we’ll board landing crafts and head straight into the beach. The coral reefs are not nearly as big a pain in the ass as we’ve had to cross before. It’ll be a sight. If any Japs survive what the navy’s doing to ’em right now, there’ll be so many of you ugly bastards hitting that beach, you just might scare ’em away.” He paused again, seemed to realize the stupidity of his comment. “But I doubt it. Use your rifles, use your K-bar, use your damn fists if you have to. Those of you … well, some of you know what the Jap is all about. Kill those bastards, every damn one of them. ’Cause they sure as hell will be trying to kill you. All right, I’m done. Go back to whatever the hell you were doing. You sergeants … keep these boys under control. No fights, and keep the damn gambling under wraps. Anybody in this platoon ends up in the brig … well, I’ll make sure you’re the first ones across the beach. You got that?”
Porter didn’t wait for a response, turned, leaned low through the hatchway, and was gone. Adams felt the thick silence, the fog of clarity that spread through them all, the men absorbing the briefing. One man said in a low voice, “Four days.”
Ferucci responded, “April Fool’s Day. The joke’ll be on those Japs. If there’s any left. Leave it to the navy to blow hell out of those bastards and spoil all our fun.”
The talk began again, nervous chatter, the voices louder, an urgency no one could avoid. Adams thought back to San Diego, studying the maps that hung on the office walls, killing time by searching for the islands whose names had become so well known. He had seen Okinawa, wished now he had studied the place in more detail. He couldn’t avoid a strange excitement, knots in his gut. That’s close to Japan, he thought, closer than anyplace we’ve been yet. I guess that’s good. He felt a shiver, but it was not the sweat in his shirt. Beaches, he thought. Finally. Killing those Jap sons of bitches. The words rolled through him, pushed by the energy of the others. Through the hum of anticipation, there was something else, unspoken, no one offering those mindless cheers. Too many of these men were veterans, and those men knew that every assault brought casualties. There were glances, the curious, the angry, morbid examination of the men around them. Who would not come back? Who would do the job … who would fail? Adams saw men looking at him, brief, cold stares. He knew the meaning, looked down, his hands pulled tight, arms crossed, holding down the thunder in his own heart. They’re wondering about me, he thought. Just like the damn replacements. When we get out there … cross that beach … what’ll I do? He could not answer his own question, felt the shiver again. He glanced toward Ferucci, the sergeant leaning back in his bunk, staring away into some other place. Follow him. He knows … he’s done it before. Just kill the damn Japs. That’s all you have to think about. Adams avoided the others, the low talk, the probing eyes. Men close to him were looking down; he knew that some of them had done this before. They’re as scared as I am, he thought. Scared of what? Being a Marine? He chased that away from his mind. Dammit, Marines aren’t scared. We’re the toughest bastards in the world. He shivered again, his arms tightening into a harder grip across his chest. He looked at his boots, his boondockers, clean, the soles barely worn. New. Not for long. He took a breath,
loosened the grip against his chest, looked up toward Welty’s bunk. The redhead had put on his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, was sitting upright, staring silently at a photo in his hand.