by Jeff Shaara
“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. His 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.
To the south, what remained of Ushijima’s army had mostly dug into the heights of the Kiyan Peninsula, and the delay from General Buckner in driving the American forces southward had been brief, much briefer than Ushijima had anticipated. The two army divisions now in the line, the Seventh and the Ninety-sixth, pressed from the east, allowing the battered Seventy-seventh to pull back for a rest and refit. In the center and right, the Marine First Division drove straight at the defensive positions, and with a more narrow front to contend with, the more compact Americans rolled into yet another slogging fight against high ground, a frontal assault that drove the casualty counts high on both sides. Once Oroku was secure, the Sixth Marines moved down the western coast, moving into position on the right flank of the First Division. But the losses on the Oroku Peninsula meant that all three of the Sixth’s regiments were so badly chewed up, they could not assist their brethren with the force everyone hoped for. Thus for the Sixth, the front for the last great assault was narrowed even more, the Marines once more shoving southward along the coast.
“Well, whatya know? Things must be worse than they’re telling us. They’re sending crack-ups back out here.”
Yablonski spoke from inside a foxhole, rose up, Adams staring at him with a weary fatigue, thought, some things never change.
“Yeah. They figure the guys up here ain’t pulling the load, so they’re scraping the barrel to find guys like me. You rather have a bunch of moron replacements?”
Mortensen had moved up behind him, said, “Speaking of … replacements. Over there, our new lieutenant, Gibson. Go report to him, let him know who you are, that you’re with me. You wanna fight so damn bad, show off the shotgun. Once we move out, you’ll be put right up front.”
Yablonski perked up, climbed from the foxhole, his mouth stuffed with a chocolate bar.
“You got a shotgun?” He caught the weapon in Mortensen’s hand as well, said, “Dammit! You didn’t bring more? Come on, Sarge, that’s the best damn weapon out here.”
Mortensen ignored him, and Yablonski saw Welty now, eyed the third piece.
“Oh, for God’s sake. That’s all it takes, haul your asses back to some cushy hospital and they give you a reward? Hell, I’m going AWOL first chance I get. You girls know how to use that thing? The sucker kicks, might hurt your shoulder, you know. You need a man to handle it for you?”
Mortensen turned, moved closer to Yablonski, towered over the man, said, “This girl knows exactly what to do with it, and if you get in my way, I’ll give you a lesson you won’t like. You hear me? Now shut the hell up! All of you! Let’s move out. We got a job to do.”
Adams followed the others, had no idea what the orders had been, where they were going. Down at the far end of a bare field a pair of jeeps were parked end to end, a half-dozen men gathered, the familiar scene, a map spread on one jeep’s hood. Captain Bennett was speaking to several other men, and Adams noticed one man with his hands on his hips, staring out at the Marines as they moved past. Beyond the jeeps were four big trucks, shirtless men unloading crates. Adams had seen those crates before, thought, grenades. I guess it’s time to load up. He looked again at the cluster of men around the jeep, the one man still watching the procession, the attitude of the man in charge. Adams slid closer to Welty, said, “Who’s that? You know?”
Welty whispered, “Hell, I guess you ain’t heard. Sometime during the fight over Sugar Loaf, Colonel Schneider got relieved by General Shepherd. Word came back that Schneider had kinda fallen apart up there, wasn’t doing the job. Scuttlebutt said that the big brass had to find somebody to blame for us taking so long to capture the place, and I guess Schneider didn’t have too many friends. That guy over there’s Colonel Roberts. He’s the regimental CO now. I hear he’s a pretty good joe.” Welty paused, both men joining the flow toward the trucks. “You saw a bunch of it, Clay, but sure as hell, it didn’t get much better after we pulled you out. A bunch of the brass never made it off the hill. The other units got busted up as bad as we did. Lots of new lieutenants now. And I heard that a bunch of ninety-day wonders got busted up on Oroku, hadn’t been on the line for more than a couple days. The Twenty-ninth and the Fourth both took a lot of damage. We lost more guys than I want to know about. Be happy we got gathered up by the sarge. Mortensen’s a good guy, even if he tries too hard to be a badass. Right now I wouldn’t trust anybody in clean boots.” He glanced at Adams. “Well, hell, you know what I mean.”
Adams looked for a convenient mud puddle, thought, I can fix that part right away. But the land had dried out, more heat than wetness now, the sun already up over the far hills. Adams lowered his voice, said, “What do you know about ours? The new looey.”
“Gibson? Damnedest southern drawl you ever heard. Someone said he’s a VMI man, talks a lot about Stonewall Jackson. I guess we’ll find out what kind of stone wall he is.”
Gibson stood to one side, motioning his men toward the trucks, and Adams moved away from Welty, approached the lieutenant, knew better than to stand at attention, and though no one had heard a sniper in the area at all, Adams e
rased the word sir from his mind.
“Begging your pardon. I’m Private Adams. Sergeant Mortensen’s squad. Just got back up from the field hospital. I’m happy to be back.”
Gibson nodded, didn’t seem to really see him, said, “Fall in, Private. You do your job, I’ll do mine. Right now you need to load up on phosphorus grenades. We’ll be mopping up for the boys up front, cleaning out some caves. I want to see some dead Japs.”
Gibson was matter-of-fact, no smile, no real energy behind the words. Adams digested the word Japs, rolling out of Gibson’s mouth with two syllables. Jayaps.
“I’ll agree with that, uh …”
“Git on back to your squad. I want everybody loaded up with plenty of ordnance.”
The conversation was clearly over, and Adams slipped away, no salute, Gibson not seeming to expect one. Adams mulled over the man’s slow drawl, thought, God, if we’re under fire, I hope like hell I can understand his orders. He tried to guess Gibson’s age, thought, not as old as the sarge, that’s for sure. Hope he’s up to snuff. He searched for Welty, moved out next to him, said, “Phosphorus grenades. They’re giving us something new.”
“Not new. But nasty as hell. Best way to nail the Japs right in their hidey holes. Just don’t get any of that stuff on you. Burns right through skin, bone, everything else. Hey, we got company.”
Adams saw where Welty was pointing, a squad of men dropping down from an amphtrac, all with large tanks on their backs. Adams had seen plenty of those before, thought, flamethrowers, and a whole bunch of them. Damn, this is gonna be fun.
NORTH OF MEZADO RIDGE, SOUTHERN OKINAWA
JUNE 17, 1945
The prisoners filed past, a dozen men, wearing what looked like loincloths. The Marines who marched them back seemed disgusted by the job, and in front of Adams, Yablonski called out, “There’s a damn cave back around the curve. Dump ’em there.”
One man responded with a spit toward the prisoners, moved past Adams with dead eyes. Adams scanned one of the prisoners, the man rail thin, barefoot, a twisted mess of black hair. The man glanced at the passing Marines, seemed terrified, moving in halting steps, prodded by the next man in line behind him. Yablonski kept up the chatter, said loudly, “We’ll be eating you boys for dinner tonight. Ha!”
“Knock that off.”
The voice came from the rear, Mortensen keeping his squad together, spaced the usual five yards apart. Yablonski’s shoulders hunched, the man clearly angry, but he seemed to appreciate that Mortensen had plenty of temper for all of them. The prisoners were past, and Adams saw a series of low hills, and beyond, a rocky, scrub-covered ridgeline. The rumble of artillery rolled down from the east, and Adams soaked that up, couldn’t just let it pass. The thumps seemed to land somewhere very far away, and yet, inside his own brain, the smoke and smell of burnt explosives drifted through him in hot stinging waves. He focused on Welty, directly in front, boots kicking up coral dust, the heat drumming down on them. He stared at the nearest hill, thought of the shotgun, no use at all at this range. What the hell were we thinking? He saw another column moving out beyond the far side of the hill, saw men suddenly dropping down, scattering, and he caught the single crack of rifle fire. Now a Nambu gun rattled out that way, the awful sound too familiar. The lieutenant called out from in front.
“Double-time it. Move up to the hill, spread out!”
The men obeyed instantly, and Adams scrambled after Welty, saw cuts in the earth, shell holes, debris scattered in every direction. As before, most of the vegetation was obliterated, some burned into rough stubble, some uprooted, blasted trees, the blobs of earth at their base making for good cover. The Nambu began again, still on the far side of the hill, and Adams followed Welty’s lead, dropped low, held the shotgun at the ready. But there was nothing to shoot at, no sign of activity, the churned-up ground showing swirls of dust from a light breeze.
Behind him there was a sudden rip of fire from a Nambu gun, a man’s scream, and now movement through a brush line, flickers of fire. The men fell flat but the Japanese fire was coming from every angle, holes in the ground suddenly revealing their occupants. Adams hugged the shotgun, the crack and whistle from the Japanese weapons close overhead, heard cries from all across the hill. The sound of thirties erupted behind them, a machine gun platoon coming up to the base of the ridge. But the targets were elusive, the men close to Adams keeping low, no one returning fire. A man ran past him, the quick scamper of footsteps, and he heard a single thunderous blast close by, Welty, the shotgun. Adams turned, frantic, saw the Japanese soldier tumbling down, Welty pumping a new shell into the shotgun’s breech, lying flat again.
“Got him! Dammit! These sons of bitches …”
The thirties kept up their sporadic fire, desperate machine gunners trying to find targets, the Japanese mingling in with the Marines. But more of the Marines were finding targets of their own, some suddenly caught in a hand-to-hand struggle. Welty fired the shotgun again, and Adams peered up, a burst of Nambu fire close over his head, driving him flat again.
“Jack! Nambu to the right!”
“I know! You want me to shake his hand? I can smell the damn powder!”
Adams felt his breathing in heavy gasps, red dust on his face, choking, rolled over, thin brush his only cover. He waited for the Nambu to go silent, thought, change belts, right? Reload … right now. He leaned up, sitting position, searched frantically, saw the barrel of the Nambu, movement behind a thick bush. He raised the shotgun, no time to aim, fired, the brush blown into pieces, leaves falling. He pumped the shotgun, fired again, the Nambu silent, the barrel suddenly rolling to the side. Welty was up, crawling quickly, moved to the gun, shotgun pointed in, fired, no sounds at all from the Japanese gunners. He waved back toward Adams, a shout, “Here!”
Adams crawled as well, a crack of rifle fire over his head, kept moving. He reached the brush, close to Welty, saw the gunners, four men, a heap of blood and shattered flesh, the Nambu on its side, one man lying across it, his face nearly gone.
“Good work!”
Welty slapped his arm, then crawled in among the gunners, settled low, said, “Here! Good cover. Bodies!”
Adams slid in beside him, shoved one man up on another, a small embankment of human flesh, felt the slick wetness, blood on his hands. A single thump impacted the body closest to him, sickening sound, the smell of the blood and the stinking Japanese bodies engulfing him. He was breathing heavily, his heart racing, said, “What now? What do we do?”
Welty peered up, cold fury in his eyes, placed the shotgun up on the bodies, a perfect perch, said, “Sit right here! Watch for Japs, anybody moves close, blow ’em to hell. Reload your shotgun, you fired twice.”
“No, just once.”
“You fired twice! Reload!”
Adams was ready for the argument, a ridiculous debate, thought, I know how many times I fired the damn piece … and he thumbed one shell into the magazine, tested another, which slid in easily. Yeah, okay, fine. How the hell did he know that? He stared at the shotgun for a long moment, lost in some other place, his brain trying to take him away, the roar of fire across the hill chasing him. But he fought it, kept his stare on the shotgun, felt the power in his hands, the burst of fire that took a man apart, that left no doubt if you had hit him. The voice rose in his brain, pushing aside the need to escape. Do it again.
Across the sloping ground, Marines kept up their push, some firing point blank into spider holes, Japanese soldiers still rising up, some throwing grenades, shot down almost immediately. The thirties were still seeking targets, one burst splitting the air close above Adams, and he ducked low, his face close to the Japanese uniform, filth and blood. He wanted to back away, the smells sour, gut turning, thought, good cover. Welty stays, you stay.
There were voices across the hill now, the lieutenants pulling their men up from whatever cover they had found. Adams peered up carefully, and Welty said, “Time to go. Damn, I liked this place.”
Welty ju
mped up, and Adams followed, stepped up and over the stack of bodies, his boot pushing down into soft slop. He ran, following Welty, saw more Marines all out across the ridge, some firing toward Japanese soldiers on the ridgeline, some throwing grenades, fire in both directions. The brush thinned toward the top, the Japanese mostly in the open, some running, some ripped down by the fire from the Marines, some from the thirties down the hill. The grenades arced over from the crest of the hill, the same tactic the Japanese had used so many times before. Closer to the ridgeline, the Marines tossed over their own, the deadly, ridiculous game. Welty still ran, Adams desperate to keep up, the rocks difficult, clawing at his boots, a body underfoot, a Marine, and Adams flinched, tried not to step on the man, was past now, movements to his right, close beside Welty, a Japanese soldier rising up, a bayonet, Welty unaware. Adams shouted, but there was too much noise, no time, and he leveled the shotgun at his hip, fired into the man from a few feet away. The soldier collapsed, folded over, the blast ripping his gut. Welty glanced that way but didn’t slow down. Adams ignored the man he had killed, too many Japanese troops rising up from their cover, some tossing grenades. He aimed the shotgun, sighted down the barrel, scanning, waiting, and one man rose up suddenly, half visible behind a bush, the grenade in his hand, thumping it on his own helmet. Adams fired straight into the man’s face, the helmet blown away, the Japanese soldier collapsing in a heap, the grenade going off right where the body had fallen. The dust and smoke was rolling past, thicker toward the ridgeline, no visibility at all, choking stink of powder. The machine gun fire from behind had stopped, the Marine gunners seeing too many of their own on the hill. From beyond the crest the mortars came, more grenades, one arcing toward him, bounding on the rocks, right to Adams’s feet. He kicked at it, panic, shouted out, but the grenade just smoked, no explosion, a dud, and Welty grabbed his arm, said, “Hit those rocks up there! Get ready … there’s Japs right over the top!”