by Jeff Shaara
Welty shook his head.
“I’m not wasting my gun oil. My piece is more important than any damn bugs. If this weapon doesn’t fire when I need it to, it ain’t gonna make much difference how many fleas are on me.”
“Fine. I haven’t fired at a damn thing in a week, and right now, I’d rather keep from being eaten by bugs. It’ll be dark in an hour, and then the mosquitoes’ll be here. I might try the oil on my face. This is about the worst damn place I’ve ever been.”
Welty looked at him without comment, but the message in Welty’s expression was familiar. You haven’t seen a damn thing yet.
When it wasn’t raining the heat returned, and when the heat gave way to sunset it was the insects. Several of the men had come down with dysentery, and the lieutenant had relayed word from above that malaria was showing itself as well. The Atabrine tablets were plentiful, along with salt tablets, sucrose tablets, and a variety of medical stations where the men could have every ailment treated. The pills were an easy remedy, and Adams was as curious as Porter had been why so many of the men bolted at the thought of swallowing a tiny pill that could prevent a miserable sickness, especially since doing so was an order. Welty devoured something from the cardboard box, crumbs on his face, looked again at Adams, a slight smile, and Adams said, “You’re right, dammit. I got no reason to bitch. This hasn’t been too tough, no matter what some of the others say.”
Welty began scratching again, said, “I’m sick of hearing Yablonski and those other guys bellyache about how the Fourth and the Twenty-ninth got all the fun while all we did was walk. I heard Yablonski say the looey musta been a chicken since he didn’t volunteer us to join those boys on that peninsula fight. Who the hell thinks like that? Stupid as hell. I don’t care how much they hate the Japs, taking casualties ain’t ever fun.”
Welty stopped himself, seemed to withdraw, and Adams let it go, knew that Welty wouldn’t talk about anything he had seen on those other places, the other fights. He seemed to focus more on the fleas, pulled up his shirt, deep red streaks on his belly.
“I’m telling you, Jack. Gun oil. Try it.”
“I got a better idea. We get much more rain in this foxhole, we’ll be up to our necks. That’ll drown ’em. Nothing’s been biting my ass since we’ve been sitting in this slop.”
Adams shifted himself, knew he had to rise up from the mud, that his clothes were already too wet, and with the night would come the biting chill. Shivering in the darkness was bad enough as it was, the unending fear that an infiltrator would sneak up, drop a grenade in the hole.
The veterans were still speaking in low voices about the ease of the operation so far, how most of the Japanese had been wiped out without making much of a fight. The Marines were taking casualties, of course, but nothing like the commanders had expected. That message had been clear, driven home by the number of medical crews they had seen around every command post, every makeshift field hospital. Navy corpsmen were plentiful, and when there were wounded, the corpsmen had always responded with what seemed to Adams to be a complete ignorance of the danger around them. Adams had no idea how many of the medical men were supposed to be assigned to each company or battalion, but the others talked about it with surprise, that there were far more of them now than some of the men could ever recall. As the Twenty-second pressed northward, anchoring control of the northern tip of the island, Adams had marched past a number of command posts, had seen the men with the red crosses on their helmets in clusters, playing cards or, on those rare sunny days, catching naps in the sunshine. It hadn’t taken any officer to explain what the men could see for themselves. The brass had expected those corpsmen and the medical staffs to be in action, far more action than they had seen. It was a strange and uneasy blessing, so many medical staffs with so little to do. Some of the newer men began to talk, all of that loud cheerleading about the Marines and their reputations, as though the Japanese had been so afraid they had scampered underground, to await their deaths in peaceful submission to the flamethrowers. Adams paid more attention to the veterans like Welty and the sergeant, others who had gathered on the northern tip of the island, happy to accept the victory that had been handed them. If the Japanese had decided not to defend Okinawa by rushing headlong into the Marine positions, no one was objecting.
Along the heights that led them northward, the land had been stunning in its beauty, a lush tropical paradise. But the beauty was erased too often by the soaking rains. With the fighting in their area almost nonexistent, Captain Bennett’s company had been ordered to dig into the flat fields that overlooked a cliff, a sheer drop to the ocean below. Adams had slung the small shovel into the soft ground, staring out toward waves rolling up on soft beaches, breakers lapping across lines of coral offshore. Beyond, the ships stood guard, as they had all throughout the campaign, smaller gunboats up close, supply and mostly empty troop ships in the distance, and beyond that, the mammoth warships. In the rain the ships were hidden, but when the sun came out, as it was coming out now, the ships speckled the broad blue sea like a painting, some artist’s glorious impression of war that didn’t seem real. Every night there had been incidents, infiltrators sweeping through their positions. Some sought out the careless glow of a cigarette, zeroing in on chatter from the men who thought themselves safe. The infiltrators were as stealthy and as determined as they had always been, intent on killing anyone they could find, dropping a grenade or themselves into a foxhole. Others were raiding the supply and ammunition depots, some of those shot down as they sought out food or a weapon. When the Marines got lucky, when an infiltrator was taken down, the morning would bring the examination, and nothing had changed. The Japanese were ragged, unkempt men, showing signs of malnutrition or the effects of days in the wet, muddy caves. But the Marines knew that whether they came for blood or bread, the enemy’s dedication to the job was absolute. Even with the northern half of the island declared secure, the Marines spent their nights in their foxholes, wary of the sounds, the shadows, cursing the vermin that swarmed out of the ground around them, or the rain that seemed to wait for those times when the men had barely found sleep. The rain seemed to pass right through the shelter halves and ponchos, and no matter how much care the men used to ward off the water, it found them anyway, every man engulfed in mud and misery.
And then it would stop, as it had stopped now. The winds had picked up, and Adams could see patches of blue sky, the clouds above him drifting away, as though shoved aside by the sun. Welty was eating something from a can, ravenous enjoyment, and Adams couldn’t watch him, said, “I’m peeking out. Sun’s coming out, and dammit, I’m too wet and too cold to just sit here. Maybe I can change into some new underwear before the sun goes down.”
Welty shrugged, spoke through a mouthful of something brown, “Ain’t been any snipers all day. Up to you.”
Adams put his hand down into several inches of soft mud, pulled his soaking boots under him, stood slowly. He was surprised to see men moving around, some not in their foxholes at all. Some were gathering close to the edge of a cliff, wringing out shirts, shaking mud from ponchos, every man seeking some comfort from the sudden gift of a setting sun. He saw Porter now, the lieutenant walking quickly past, eyes focused downward. He’s in a hurry to go somewhere, Adams thought. Glad I’m not an officer. Too much work.
He stood straight, stretched his back, stood waist high in the muddy hole, slung mud from his fingers, wiped them on a shirt that was muddier than his hands. To the west the sun was an enormous orange ball, the reflection spread out on the water in a great sheet of silent fire, broken only by the ships. Adams pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the foxhole, reached down for his M-1, slung it over his shoulder. He stood up, felt water running down his legs, thought, yep, clean underwear. They sure as hell better send us a supply truck up here soon. Ran out of socks this morning. He stepped toward the others, stared out past them to the sun, and Ferucci was beside him now, said, “Pretty damn impressive, ain’t it? This would be a hell
of a place to bring a gal. Sit up here and drink a little beer, put your arm around her waist, tell her all kinds of poetic crap. She’d melt right on the spot, give it to you without a second thought. Course, then it would rain like hell, and a flea would bite her on the ass, and you’d have hell to pay.”
The sergeant laughed at his own joke, moved closer to the cliff, said something to the row of men seated there. Adams heard the sound of a jeep, looked toward the road that wound southward down the hill. All across the green hillsides, steam was rising from the great thickets of dense trees, and now he saw a fire, high above, black smoke in a heavy column, knew it had to be from one of the patrols. He thought of the flamethrower, thought, hell of a thing. Damn glad I don’t have to haul that around. Gotta make you a target for sure, if the Japs see you coming. The Japs gotta know what’s about to happen to ’em, and seems like most of the time they just sit tight till we burn ’em to death. I don’t care how much you wanna die, that ain’t the way to go.
His eyes turned back to the sea, the sun just now touching the horizon, seeming to melt like some fat wad of orange butter. He squinted, thought of Ferucci and his gal. He’s probably right. But damn if I’m coming anywhere out here for a vacation. I’ll settle for Albuquerque. Maybe that cute blonde, Loraine Lancaster. God, I’ve loved her since I was a kid. But now I’ve got this here uniform. “Hey, baby, how ’bout you and this big-time Marine hit the big city?” Oh yeah, you jackass, and she’ll look at you like she always did, like you ain’t even there. I always figured she had the hots for Jesse or some of his buddies. Any gal that special could get anybody she wanted, even the older guys. Now Jesse’s home, big war hero, tough-guy paratrooper. He’s probably already had her up on Lover’s Hill, in one of those little caves. Damn it to hell. She won’t even remember my name. That’s what I get for being the little brother. He’ll get the good-looking ones, and I’ll have to settle for some fat waitress who spits tobacco.
He heard a hum now, far behind the hill, the noise growing into a sharp roar. Men were turning to look, and the chatter came now, unmistakable, machine gun fire. They burst into view just above the hilltop, two planes locked in a twisting duel, one tight behind the other, and he could see the markings of the lead plane, the distinct red meatball on its wings.
Men were calling out now, “A Zero! And that’s a Hellcat! Get him!”
“Knock the bastard down!”
Adams saw a burst of fire, the Japanese plane nosing down, straight into the water. It impacted with a fiery splash, the men responding with raised fists, salutes for the Hellcat’s pilot. But now there were more planes, some much farther away. They seemed to drop down like a swarm of flies, dipping, turning, more flickers of fire as the American fighters moved among them. Adams watched in amazement, an enormous battle in the skies spreading out toward the north, past the cape. More planes came over the treetops on the hill, a new swarm, dozens, some pursued by the Americans. But many more were not, and they came down low, following the contour of the island, racing down toward the water’s surface, some of them dipping in a sharp roar right past the cliff. Some of the men scrambled to their foxholes, but there were no bombs, no strafing runs. The planes ignored them, moved out to sea, some of them dropping close to the water, like schools of airborne fish. Others were much higher, barely in view, but then they began to dive, some in great sweeping arcs. As the planes moved out past the island, the American fighters did not follow. They seemed to disappear, pulling away, leaving the Japanese pilots to a new fate. He saw it now, streaks and specks of fire rising from every ship, close and far away. The men around him were returning to the cliff, no danger on the ground, the great battle now unfolding between plane and ship. The sun was nearly gone, but the fading glow still reflected off the planes, a chaotic shower of specks, dancing, swirling, all moving toward the ships. Close offshore, a smaller frigate was firing every anti-aircraft gun, the streaks erupting off the ship like some sickening fireworks display, and he saw their target now, coming down in a tight corkscrew, impacting the water closer to shore. Now another, the plane low to the water, dipping downward, coming apart, tumbling into pieces on the water’s surface. They continued to come, and Adams felt a strange panic, helplessness, silence from the men around him, the awful show continuing to unfold, the Marines useless bystanders. The noise flowed past them, the thump and chatter of anti-aircraft fire, another wave of Japanese planes swarming across the sky, spreading out, seeking targets. The roar came close overhead, and he saw the plane, a steep dive, pulling up just off the beach, driving straight for the frigate. The guns on the ship poured out low, and he saw one wing suddenly breaking off, the plane rolling over, but the plane was too close to its target, and it plowed low against the waterline, a sharp blast square in the middle of the ship itself. Beside him he heard soft words, Welty, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t turn away from the fireball. Now the sound reached them, a hard rumble, and Adams flinched, felt the sickening knot inside his gut. There was another blast, a surprise from a plane he hadn’t seen, striking the ship close to the bow. The frigate was swallowed by fire, black smoke hiding the gruesome horror. But the anti-aircraft fire from the more distant ships continued, the skies darkening with the sunset and the vast plumes of smoke. He understood now, the insane simplicity of it. The officers had talked of it, how the Americans would meet the incoming waves of planes with as many of the carrier fighters as could be launched. But the Hellcats and Wildcats and Corsairs could only do so much, and those Japanese pilots who survived the gauntlet in the air could not be pursued into the storm of anti-aircraft fire from panicky naval gunners. Many of the Japanese planes would plunge harmlessly into the water, most with pilots already dead, but even in death, some of the pilots had put their planes into a fall that would reach a target. Not even the largest and most heavily armored ships were completely immune to the shock of the explosives that had been stuffed into the Japanese planes, and so any ship that was struck suffered damage that could be fatal, if not to the ship itself, then to many of her crew. Adams stared at the burning frigate, and he felt the thickening silence, the darkness putting an end to the fight, the battle over, the waves of aircraft either fulfilling their mission or dropped into the sea. Beside him, Welty, “My God. Those sons of bitches.”
Adams kept his stare on the flames, the skies now dark, the sun only a faint glow of light, the sea lit by the fires from a dozen ships.
NEAR CAPE HEDO, NORTHERN OKINAWA
MAY 2, 1945
The rains had stopped, the ground drying, the mud now turning to a fine red dust. Adams cursed, rubbed the small oily cloth over the barrel of his M-1, turned sheepishly to Welty, who said, “Yeah, fine. Here. I told you. Use only a little. The looey says we’ll be getting more, but who the hell knows when.”
Adams took the small vial of gun oil, squeezed a single drop into the open breech of the rifle, rubbed the cloth in the tight circle against the steel.
“I never saw this kind of stuff before. It gets into everything.”
Welty blew hard into the breech of his own M-1, said, “Coral. Like the grit on sandpaper. Plays hell with the truck engines too, the airplane engines, anything like that. The mechanics go nuts with this stuff. Don’t think I’d wanna be a pilot chasing some Jap Zero while this crap is grinding my engine down to nothing.”
“Jesus! Bitch bitch bitch! You ladies need a backrub, make all your little pains go away? I’ll find one of the Okie gals for each of you.”
Ferucci was standing over them, and Adams focused more on the rifle, pretended not to hear him. The sergeant bent low, stared at the breech of the M-1, said, “Clean it again. You must be out of practice. This damn vacation we’ve been on’s made you careless. Then get ready to saddle up. The looey says regimental is sending us a potload of trucks. We’re going for a ride.”
Adams looked up, the sergeant’s face framed by the piercing glare from the sun.
“We going south?”
Ferucci straightened, hands
on his hips.
“We’re not going north, you moron. Unless you wanna drive a truck off that cliff.”
Welty worked the action of his rifle, said, “Guam, I bet. They’re sending us back to the beach we came in on.”
Others were nearby, the word Guam attracting attention. Yablonski came closer, the big man, Gridley behind him. Both were shirtless, and Gridley carried the BAR across his shoulder, wore the bandoliers across his bare chest, the wound from the Japanese infiltrator hidden beneath a small white bandage on his shoulder. Yablonski said, “Guam. That’s what I heard too. We done the job. So they’re sending us back to do some more training. Pain in the ass. Hardly saw an anthill of Japs up here, and they think we oughta rest up.”
Ferucci said, “So complain to your damn congressman. Next time we’ll stick you in the hottest place we can find. That make you feel better?”
“Yeah, it does. I didn’t sign up to go on a Boy Scout camping trip. I still got clips they gave me on the damn transport ship. My damn piece ain’t even been warmed up yet. If I don’t heave a grenade at some Jap’s belly, I may heave one at these two idiots. You clean that damn piece good enough, redhead?”
Welty replaced the butt of his rifle, the cleaning kit put away, looked up at Yablonski.
“You better aim that grenade where it’ll do some good. Before it goes off, I’ll sling this bayonet right into your damn big mouth.”
“Shut the hell up, both of you!” Ferucci turned away, suddenly distracted. “What the hell? Now what?”