The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific

by Jeff Shaara

  Welty threw himself forward, flattened, and Adams did the same, could see Marines lining up along the best cover, rugged coral rocks, whatever brush they could find. To one side Adams saw Mortensen, the tall man curling his legs in tight, one small boulder protecting him, saw Gridley, the BAR, the squad somehow keeping close through all the chaos. The firing was mostly one-sided now, Marines finding targets down the far side of the ridge, the Japanese scrambling away, some dropping down into holes, the mouths of caves, mostly hidden.

  Mortensen called out, “Watch behind us! Those bastards might still be in those holes!”

  Adams glanced back down the hill, many more Marines spreading out through the rocks, still some Japanese soldiers, one Nambu gun off to the left, silenced suddenly by a grenade. Marines continued to fall, fire coming at them from far to the side, the thirties now aiming that way, seeking new targets. The panic tried to return, Adams jerking back and forth, looking over the crest, back down, nowhere to go, another crest, another ridge with fire on all sides, too many men going down. Mortensen’s words echoed through him, and he said aloud, “They’re everywhere!”

  “Shut up! You see one, you blow him to hell!”

  Welty’s words calmed him, the jerkiness easing, and Adams remembered the soldier he had killed, reload, slid a shell from the cartridge belt, slipped it into the shotgun’s magazine. Welty suddenly fired, shouted, “Duck!”

  Adams obeyed, the grenade blast coming a few feet away, a shattering of rock that blew over him, punching and slicing into his side. He rolled that way, ran a hand down his arm, his side, his jacket ripped, shreds of cloth.

  “Ah … I’m hit!”

  Welty was there, on top of him, rolling him over, feeling, said, “No you’re not! Just tore up your fancy new duds.”

  “You sure?”

  “No blood, you idiot. You feel dead?”

  Adams felt the rips in the jacket, dry, pieces of gravel against his skin, not quite hard enough to blow into him, to … shatter his arm. He stared at his hand, saw only the dried crust of blood from the Japanese soldier, thought, damn, that was lucky as hell.

  “Thanks!”

  Welty rolled away, said, “Yeah, I get a medal ’cause you got lucky. Just keep your eyes open. We won’t be staying here long. The brass will want us to keep going.”

  “No, not now.”

  The voice came from below Adams’s feet and he saw Gibson, the new lieutenant crawling on his knees and elbows, the carbine cradled in his arms. “Stay right here! They’re sending up another unit to go past us.” He raised up, shouted out. “Everybody, you all stay where you’re at. We’re supposed to hold this crest—”

  The man’s helmet popped off and he slumped suddenly, facedown in the rocks. Adams stared, frozen, and Welty shouted, “Corpsman!”

  “Here!”

  The corpsman scrambled up the hill, and Adams caught sight of the medical bag, could see it was brand-new, the man staring at him with sweating terror. Adams pointed, said, “There, they hit the looey!”

  “The what?”

  “Right there! The man that’s down!”

  “Yeah! Okay! What do I do?”

  Welty scrambled past Adams, below his feet, jerked the bag from the man’s hand, shouted into his face, “How long you been out here?”

  “Don’t know. Just got here!”

  Welty didn’t respond, rolled the lieutenant over, turned away quickly, said, “Never mind.” He handed the frightened corpsman his bag, said, “Keep your ass down, right here! We’ll need that damn bag!”

  Welty moved back up beside Adams, and Adams saw the furious glare, Welty mumbling, “What the hell’s going on back there? They send us children to play doctor?”

  Adams stared at Gibson’s body, the feeling too familiar now, sickening helplessness. Welty said, “Right between the eyes. He never felt a thing. Let go of it. Do your job!”

  “Yeah … sure.”

  Adams looked back down the hill, could see a new wave of Marines coming up, men carrying thirties, mortar crews. The ridge was still peppered by firing, but most of the Japanese troops had either pulled away or were among the scattered dead. Already stretcher bearers were coming up, gathering up the wounded, the sounds of the fight replaced more by the sound of men, the voices, sharp screams, curses. Beside him Welty said, “Hey, Clay. Your new boots look like hell.”

  23. ADAMS

  MEZADO RIDGE, SOUTHERN OKINAWA

  JUNE 18, 1945

  The company had stayed on the ridge, the fortunate men sleeping in foxholes. The others made do with shelter halves, some with ponchos for pillows. They had stayed alert, the two-man buddy system again, but if there were Japanese there at all, they had mostly seemed content to stay in their holes. By dawn, another wave of Marines had passed through their position, a new attack on the next ridge, a place someone called Kawanga. The ridges ran like fingers out across the rolling rocky ground, each one a little taller, a little more rugged. The Sixth Marines were moving forward in a progressive wave, on a compact line that bordered the coastline. To their left, inland, the First Marine Division was pushing hard into more of the Japanese lines of resistance, while farther to their east, the two army divisions did the same. The sounds of the ongoing fighting were everywhere, some of it from the sea, shelling from warships that were taking up position around the base of the island. Word had come from Marine lookouts near the shore that the Japanese had attempted amphibious operations of their own, small boats and barges loaded with commandos who had attempted to slip along the coastline after dark, to come in behind the Marines and soldiers closest to the sea. But the naval lookouts had done their jobs, patrol boats aiming spotlights into every hidden bay, every rocky nook where those enemy boats could hide. Even the small spotter boats were armed with heavy machine guns. Supported by heavily armed gunboats offshore, the Americans made quick work of the Japanese commandos, none of whom reached their targets.

  On Mezado Ridge the caves were everywhere, the nerves of the men tested by the certain presence of the Japanese beneath them, as well as the constant sounds of the fight far up in front of them. All through the day the Marines had pressed forward through the ridgelines, and in every case the Japanese had made a good stand, but the enemy could not hold back the power that the Marines brought to the fight. Bennett’s company was one of several charged with the job of mopping up, of making sure that any Japanese soldiers hidden in the caves, in any kind of underground lair, were brought up, or dealt with according to how the Japanese themselves responded. From many of the holes Okinawans emerged first, manic chatter to the interpreters, some begging for mercy, for food, some telling the Marines that soldiers still lurked below, back in the caves. Some of those civilians were led away quickly, grateful for anything, if only the promise of food. But others had stayed below, and when the caves were blown, either by explosives or the blistering fire from the flamethrowers, the Marines were astonished and sickened to find women, children, even babies, horrifying groups of bloody corpses alongside the Japanese soldiers, the same men who had so brutally dominated the Okinawan people and their country.

  Before the Marines could begin their own work, muffled shots and grenade blasts would ring out from inside the cave, ending often furious arguments between those Japanese soldiers who favored surrender and those who never would. More often the Marines would discover a cave occupied by corpses who had settled their differences in the bloodiest way possible. The same fate befell those few Japanese soldiers who sought the sanctuary the Americans were offering. Japanese troops emerged from caves, hands high, a show of gratefulness to their captors, but many of those men did not survive long enough to matter. From small spider holes Japanese snipers waited for the opportunity to execute the Japanese soldiers who attempted to surrender. To the disbelief of the Marines, the snipers seemed to regard that mission even above killing their enemy. Marines stood unharmed, startled, while a Japanese prisoner would suddenly drop from an unseen assailant. If surrender was t
he greatest act of dishonor a Japanese soldier could display, there were Japanese marksmen who would enhance their own honor by eliminating them.

  “Easy now, take it slow. Where’s that damn interpreter?”

  Captain Bennett’s order was repeated, a shout echoed back across the open ground, and Adams saw one man coming quickly, an uneven run, negotiating his way through the jagged rocks. Bennett waited impatiently, the interpreter struggling to make the climb, and Adams saw the man’s lumpy gut, surprising. But he had seen that before, knew the look of rear echelon. Bennett pointed to the cave, a jagged hole in the rocks, lined with thickly webbed branches.

  “Right here. One of the boys saw somebody drop down into this mess. Give it a shout.”

  The interpreter moved closer, obviously skittish, shouted, “De-te-koi! De-te-koi! Shimpachina!”

  Adams stood close beside Bennett, Mortensen on the other side, both with their shotguns aimed at the hole, and Mortensen asked the question that rolled through Adams’s mind.

  “What’s he saying?”

  Bennett responded, “ ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ Or something close.”

  Mortensen said, “He should try, ‘Come out or we’ll blow you to hell.’ ”

  The interpreter was still nervous, looked back at Bennett, said, “Again, Captain?”

  Bennett gave the man a scathing stare, said in a low voice, “You call me captain again and I’m going to have every man in this company fall in, call you general, and give you a big salute. You know what a sniper is, you jackass?”

  “Uh … yes … sorry.”

  Noises came from the cave now, a woman’s voice, fast jabbering. Adams gripped the shotgun with cold, anxious fingers, felt the stab in his chest. No, please God, not a woman. She appeared now, a filthy billowing dress, bowed several times, terror in her eyes. She dropped to her knees, crying fitfully, the interpreter moving up close, low talk, something comforting.

  Bennett said, “Get back away from her, you stupid—”

  The blast erupted into both of them, the woman’s dress flying into shreds, a bloody mass, knocking the interpreter backward. Bennett shouted, “Grenade! Son of a bitch! Corpsman! Get a corpsman up here!”

  Adams stared, shocked, helpless, Mortensen watching beside him as a corpsman rushed forward, leaning low over the man. Another moved up close and Bennett said, “Stay back! Just need one. Too damn dangerous. Could be more grenades on that bitch.”

  The interpreter was screaming, and Adams saw bloody rips across his chest, one leg ripped open, a huge empty gash in his gut. Bennett turned to Mortensen, said, “Spread your men out around this hole. Those bastards are still in there. They just sent this one out for laughs. You got phosphorus?”

  “Yep.”

  “Use it.”

  A voice came from the sloping hillside beyond the cave’s opening, one man waving, pointing downward.

  “Here! Air shaft!”

  Bennett called up, “You have phosphorus?”

  “No. All out!”

  The captain pointed to Adams, surprising him, said, “Take a phosphorus grenade up there. Drop it in.”

  Adams scrambled to obey, climbed up along the rough ground, toward the Marine who had made the find, saw now it was Gorman, the older man. Gorman was excited, pointed his M-1 down toward a round hole, a piece of pipe, just barely above the level of the ground.

  “I love this. Stupid bastards think we’re blind or something. People wonder how these sons of bitches live in caves. Here’s how, kid.” Adams saw the pipe, no more than four inches across, hidden by a small clump of brush. Adams pulled the grenade from his jacket pocket, felt an odd shaking in his hands, had not used the brutal weapon yet. Gorman said, “Phosphorus? Good! Let the bastards have it!”

  Others were gathering and Gorman seemed jumpy, giddy, unusual. Gorman pointed into the hole.

  “Listen! You can hear ’em! They know we’re up here! Hurry up. They might blow this whole damn hill! They could have a ton of explosives down there. Listen to ’em. Chatterin’ like birds.”

  Another man moved close, said, “Dead birds.”

  Adams knew the man, another of Bennett’s sergeants, and he looked at Adams, saw the grenade. “Do it, kid.”

  Adams leaned close to the pipe, could hear the voices plainly, men and women, some crying, angry shouts. He glanced down toward Bennett, saw more men moving around the mouth of the cave, rifles aimed, Mortensen backing them off. Welty was holding the shotgun at his waist, staring up at him. Adams knew what Welty was watching for, thought, this is a damn test. He’s wondering if I’ll do this. Adams held the grenade over the hole, pulled the pin, still gripped it, felt a shivering hesitation. He stared into the hole, the voices coming up in a chorus of sound, arguments, orders, more crying, and he waited another second, Gorman standing above him.

  “Go on, son. Do it.”

  Adams dropped the grenade.

  He jumped back, waited, and the explosion rumbled beneath them, the mouth of the cave boiling with white smoke. The voices were screams now, but not many, and Adams backed away, wouldn’t hear them, the other Marines moving up, taking his place, cheering for the white smoke that spewed up through the pipe, a hot flume coming up through the narrow chimney. Men were cheering, M-1s in the air, saluting him, and Adams moved back down toward Welty, the others still aiming the rifles at the cave. To one side, Bennett glanced at him.

  “Good job.”

  “Thanks.”

  He looked at Welty, saw cold eyes, a slight nod. Adams caught the smell of the phosphorus, moved farther away, upwind, but the smoke was already in his clothes, his hair, on his skin. Fire had erupted near the mouth of the cave, white phosphorus igniting brush, the men reacting by wisely backing away. The cave was spewing smoke, and nothing else, no one emerging. There was another rumble, a sudden burst of fire from deep inside the cave, something combustible igniting. Adams still walked, his hands shaking, and Welty was there beside him, said, “Now dammit, Clay, don’t go all Asian on me again.”

  Adams held up his hand, still shaking, and Welty said, “Whoa, what the hell’s with you? You okay?”

  “I did it, Jack. Wiped ’em out. They never had a chance.”

  “I know. That was the idea. Bastards won’t come out, we sure as hell ain’t going in there to get ’em. You saw what they did, using those damn Okies like booby traps. They got no reason to live, none at all.”

  Adams was breathing heavily, sweating in the hot dusty air, the shaking rolling all through him. But it wasn’t fear, nothing about the grenade, the smoke, the screams, and the death that bothered him at all. The shaking wasn’t fear. It was excitement.

  “Over here!”

  Adams turned, saw a cluster of men waving from a crevice in a brushy hillside, and Bennett motioned for his men to advance, leaving a small party behind to keep tabs on the smoking hole. Welty began to move, said, “Look! They’re coming out. Let’s get there quick!”

  Adams could see civilians emerging from the cave, another group of women in filthy dresses, some breaking into a run, escaping as quickly as they could. The captain was on the radio set, an angry demand for more aid workers, for interpreters and prison guards. Another interpreter was there, moving up quickly toward Bennett, no one bothering him with details of what had happened to the last man. Mortensen moved up within fifty yards of the new cave, held the shotgun high above his head, holding his men a distance from the cave’s mouth.

  “Give ’em room. They keep coming, let ’em come.”

  To one side Adams saw a pair of Marines moving up, a flamethrower team, the weight of the tank of napalm on their backs a hindrance as they staggered quickly through the rocks. Mortensen’s squad was gathering near their sergeant, and Adams moved into place, focused on the man hauling the long spout of the flamethrower. This ought to be something, he thought. Ringside seat. Close by, Yablonski was watching him, said, “Hey Nut Case! Don’t let these Okie ladies scare you!”

  Welty move
d past Adams, toward Yablonski, and Adams could see Yablonski’s response, both men bowing up. Welty slung his shotgun on his shoulder, said, “I’ve heard about all I wanna hear outta your big damn mouth!”

  “What you gonna do, Four Eyes, kick me in the shins?”

  Mortensen shouted, “Knock it off, both of you! There’s a boatload of these bastards in this hole! Stand ready!”

  The flamethrower crew moved closer, the man with the nozzle looking at Mortensen, waiting for the word to fire. The sergeant shook his head, kept his eyes on the cave, said, “Not yet. Let ’em come.”

  The women continued to flow up out of the cave, more than two dozen, and now men appeared, ratty uniforms, hands on tops of heads. Mortensen yelled out, “Watch ’em! Any bundles at their waist, shoot ’em! Anybody drops his hands, shoot him!”

  Adams wanted to move closer, better effect with the shotgun, heard Yablonski saying something to Welty, some stupid vulgarity, Welty ignoring him. One woman emerged from the cave, men flanking her, close, as though making sure she didn’t run, and Adams realized there was something different, the dress not as dirty, a shawl over her head. She looked up, eyes calm, scanning the men, focusing on the men with the flamethrower. Adams couldn’t look away, something in her eyes, watched her, wanted to say something, what? There was something wrong, and now he understood. It wasn’t a woman at all.

  “Hey …”

  She seemed to trip, falling forward, and Adams could see the Nambu gun strapped to her back. Behind another man dropped down, carefully planned, the machine gun beginning to fire, flashes of light, the distinct chatter. The Marines dropped low, some returning fire, but the Nambu had spread its deadly fire in a wide spray, finding its mark, the men with the napalm tanks down, others going down. The M-1s responded, peppering the machine gunner, the Nambu silent now. Adams rushed forward, Mortensen pushing ahead of him, one blast from the sergeant’s shotgun, the body of the gunner jumping from the impact. The other Japanese soldiers had withdrawn, scrambling back into the cave, and Adams caught a last glimpse of them, faces, some near the cave’s mouth, huddled low, firing still. He shouted out a warning and Mortensen dropped low, fired the shotgun into the cave, backed away, others firing as well, the heavy rumble of the BAR, shouts and chaos all around him. Adams saw Yablonski running to the fallen flamethrower, Yablonski shouting out something, curses. He ripped at the straps of the napalm tanks, freed them from the dead Marine, slung the tanks up on his back, yelled out, “Move aside! These stinking bastards …”