The Final Storm Part 6

The words were automatic, Porter's face still grim, tight, and Adams followed the instructions, moved through a hatchway into a cramped mess hall, benches and narrow tables. Men were sitting tightly against one another on the benches, some on the floor, and Adams searched for a spot, saw no s.p.a.ce, leaned toward a bulkhead beside him, put his back against the steel. He picked up his fork, probed the eggs, the steak beneath the yellow heap, hesitated, looked out across the mess hall, saw men staring down at their plates, almost no one eating. One man stood, left his tray on the table, hurried out quickly, past him. No one reacted, and Adams realized the room was silent, no sound of tin plates, no one talking at all. He wanted to say something, to ask, but something in his brain told him to keep quiet. Three A.M., he thought. Guess it's kinda tough to eat much. I'd rather be sleeping.

He had felt the tension all night, few men talking at all. But when the mess call came, everyone had reacted as they always reacted, orderly, automatic, following the lieutenant to their designated mess. The food had been an amazing surprise, but many of the veterans were angry at that, a strange reaction. He saw the same anger now, the faces staring downward, one man suddenly throwing his fork against a bulkhead, a sharp clatter, no one responding. The man still sat with fists curled on either side of his tray, said, "Another last meal. How many more times we gotta do this?"

Adams saw movement beside him, the lieutenant coming in through the hatchway.

"Knock it off, Yablonski. You don't want to eat, don't eat. You got a b.i.t.c.h, you air it to me. Let these men eat."

Adams had never liked Yablonski, the man always angry, always trying to pick a fight. Adams had obliged him, faced the man in a boxing match that Adams had won easily, a thunderous right hand into Yablonski's temple that had knocked him cold. Yablonski hadn't spoken to him since, seemed to pretend Adams didn't exist, that the fight had never happened. Adams had heard from the others that Yablonski had been in more fights than anyone in the platoon, mostly outside of a boxing ring. Nearly everyone seemed to be afraid of him, and Adams heard talk that he was flat-out dangerous, with a manic need to kill someone, hopefully the enemy. Adams had seen that look in Yablonski's eye, and the knockout hadn't done anything to change it.

Porter waited silently for a response, kept his eye on Yablonski's back. Yablonski seemed to ignore the lieutenant, said, "I'm sick of this! How many times they expect us to do this?" He turned, faced the lieutenant now. "I made it this far ... how many lives you think I have left? Any of us? We've lived through fight after fight, and the ones who made it this far are just plain lucky. So, they're gonna keep sending us in until we get it? Is that the way this goes?"

"Outside, Private. Now."

The lieutenant stayed calm, the order coming without anger. Adams felt a cold chill in Yablonski's stare, the man rising slowly. Yablonski stepped back away from the bench, moved away from the lieutenant, toward the far hatchway. Adams waited for the order bringing Yablonski back, sending him below, but the lieutenant said, "That's right. Go topside. Get some air. All h.e.l.l's about to break loose, and you might wanna watch that. See what we're doing to those yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Yablonski didn't respond, disappeared through the hatchway, and Adams felt the cold still, the man's anger hanging in the room. Most of the men kept their stare on their untouched food, no one looking at the lieutenant. Adams couldn't look at the tray, his appet.i.te gone, could feel it now, more than ever before. Men were s.h.i.+vering, hands shaking, one fork rattling in a manic chatter against a tin plate.

"Easy, boys. We'll be on that beach soon enough. You start shooting j.a.ps, you'll feel a h.e.l.l of a lot better." Porter paused. "Look at me! All of you!"

Heads turned slowly, and Adams saw the eyes, some with tears. The lieutenant stepped close to one table, reached over a man's shoulder, picked up a steak from the man's plate, held it in the air, grease dripping from his fingers. Porter seemed to wait, had their full attention, then made a quick shout, pulled at the steak with both hands, ripping it in half. He stuffed one piece in his mouth, ripped away the excess, threw it hard over their heads, a wet slap against the bulkhead. Adams stared at the lieutenant with wide eyes, saw a glimmer of madness, and now Porter finished chewing the meat in his mouth, then began to laugh, a low chuckle. He held his hands out, the juice still dripping, "That's what I'm going to do to the first j.a.p b.a.s.t.a.r.d I see! How about you!"

He pointed at one man closest to him and the man responded, "I'll rip those sons of b.i.t.c.hes in half!"

The mess seemed to explode with voices, the others responding. The lieutenant kept up the calls, one fist pounding the table, and Adams knew it was calculated, but he couldn't help himself, was caught up in the flow of emotion, the curses and shouts, the anger and fear turning outward. Men were ripping meat from their teeth, more steaks thrown against the bulkheads. Adams grabbed a blob of melting ice cream, held it out toward the lieutenant, then threw it hard to the deck, straight down, a splash of white on his boondockers. Porter watched him, the same steel in the man's eyes, the lieutenant poking his finger close to Adams's face, the words in a low, hard hiss.

"What are you going to do on that beach, Private?"

"Kill j.a.ps, sir!"

"How many j.a.ps, Private?"

"All of them, sir!"

Porter looked back across the mess, the faces changed, the tears gone, men standing, no time for food now. Porter gave them direction, harnessing the outburst, pointed toward the hatchway, the only order they needed. Plates clattered, food falling to the floor, men stepping up and over the tables. Adams saw Ferucci now, the sergeant pus.h.i.+ng a man in front of him, out through the hatchway, the sergeant turning back with a quick glance at the lieutenant, a silent signal, yes, good. Adams was caught up in the flow of men, but he understood now, felt his heart racing, his hands shaking. The fear was in all of them, paralyzing, but the lieutenant had pulled it out of them, putting it to use, directing it where it needed to go. Porter still pointed the way, the men filing quickly out through the hatchway that would take them topside. Adams followed, was suddenly stabbed by a hard jolt of thunder, the echoes of artillery fire. It rolled down around them all, thumps and thuds, echoing through the steel corridor. The Marines rushed to the ladders, pus.h.i.+ng toward another hatchway that took them out into the cool night air. They poured out onto the deck of the transport s.h.i.+p, and it was Adams's turn now. He ducked low through the oval hatchway, smelled the stink of smoke, saw flashes of light. The guns were firing on all sides of them, blinding light, the ma.s.s of faces reflecting the glow. Each thump punched him, the deck beneath his feet vibrating, the entire s.h.i.+p engulfed by the violence of the enormous fleet around them. Adams moved with the men around him, toward the railings, the men packing in tightly, their eyes adjusting, seeing the streaks of fire cutting through the last shadows of the night. The firing all went in one direction, and Adams fought to see above the heads in front of him, to see the target, the place that now had a name. The darkness had begun to lift, a hint of gray. The horizon was uneven, low hills, peppered with splashes of fire. The smoke was swirling over the deck, and Adams felt his eyes watering, wiped furiously, tried to breathe, covering his mouth. But the smoke couldn't hide the ma.s.sed fire from a thousand guns, s.h.i.+ps far out on both sides pouring fire toward a narrow span of beach, and the hills beyond.

Whether the navy had done this every day for a week made no difference to the men who watched this now. With the first hint of dawn, the men could finally see Okinawa, the landing zones blasted, erupting into flashes of fire and rock and mud. Adams stood with the men of his platoon, his company, his regiment, some of them seeing this before, who knew what this meant, and others who had no idea what would happen next. Through the vast crowd on the deck there was still fear, but it was held away by the spectacle. They watched with anxious excitement, tight stomachs, and for some, still the sickness, the tears. But for many the fear was gone, at least for those who were not yet ready for what daylight would bring. As the wars.h.i.+ps threw their vicious fire onto the beaches, Adams shared the same exhilaration of many of the men around him. They were captivated by a magnificent show.

7. ADAMS.

"GREEN TWO" BEACH, OKINAWA

APRIL 1, 1945, 8:30 A.M.

No one spoke, the rumble of the landing craft pus.h.i.+ng them through the water's surface in a slow, sickening roll. Adams did as the men around him, kept his stare on the back of the man closest to him, trying to ignore the stink of vomit, the helmet that would suddenly drop low, the sickness pulling a man to his knees. He felt the pressure from men behind him, pushed up tight against Adams's backpack, as tight as Adams was pressed into the man to his front.

All around them the sh.e.l.lfire continued, but much lighter now, the bombardment from the navy's smaller patrol boats that rolled forward alongside the landing craft. The smoke was there again, was.h.i.+ng over them, mixing with the exhaust from the churning engine of the landing craft. Above, Adams heard a new sound, planes close overhead, some of the men looking up with him, a glimpse of the blue Corsairs, the navy's best aerial weapon. One man let out a cheer, but no one joined him. The gunboats close by continued to fire, sharp thumps, but then, nothing, the guns silent. Adams peered up, saw the closest boat veering away, as though its job was done. The landing craft rocked to one side, then rolled the other way, the men trying to stay upright, wedged together, a shout behind them, and suddenly the landing craft jerked to a stop. Adams fell forward, driven by the man behind him, curses, the stink from the sickness around their feet rising up through the sharp, salty breeze. In a sudden rush of motion, the bow of the craft fell away, a hard slap into shallow water, the beach and the hills now visible, close, less than a hundred yards. One voice rose above the noise, the lieutenant, standing at the opening, a hand in the air.

"Let's go! Follow me!"

The lieutenant was out and down into the water, still waving, and behind him the men surged out of the craft in one ma.s.s, a cl.u.s.ter of helmets and rifle barrels and overstuffed backpacks. The open bow of the craft sloped downward, bouncing against black coral, and Adams stared at the beach, saw a ma.s.s of men in the water, far out in both directions. The water was mostly shallow, knee-deep, the men pus.h.i.+ng forward to a narrow stretch of dull gray sand. He saw the hand in the air again, Porter calling them forward, and Adams splashed down into the warm water, his boots. .h.i.tting the uneven rocks, stumbling, fighting for balance against the weight of the ammo, the weight of the backpack. He kept his stare toward the beach, straining to see the flashes of fire, to hear the sounds he had been told about, the hiss of machine gun fire into the water around him. But there was no firing at all, the men around him splas.h.i.+ng forward, no one aiming, no targets anyone could see, and better, no one seeming to target them. The tension turned his stomach over, and he wanted to be sick, fought it, focused on each step, angry at himself, the warm water not easing the cold inside him. He pulled his arms in tight, gripping his rifle, his mind racing, thoughts of everything, nothing, ignored the men around him, stepping forward, as he was. They pushed closer to the beach in manic splashes, and he felt salt water on his face, stinging his eyes. Beneath him the rough coral had given way to hard sand, easier footing, and he kept his stare toward the beach, saw men up on the sand, more hands in the air, waving them on. As far out as he could see, Marines were flowing up out of the surf, swarming across the narrow stretch of open ground, an enormous green wave moving forward toward the low hills. Adams slogged through the water with heavy automatic steps, but the water and the fear had drained him. He struggled to breathe, his chest heaving, and still he stared up into the thin brush, past the men who were on the beach. Most of them kept running, disappearing; others dropped down onto dry sand, fighting with themselves, finding their wind. They were back up now, prodded by screaming sergeants, shoved forward into the brush. Adams blinked through the salt and sweat in his eyes, was clear of the surf now, tried to push his legs harder, to run, hard wet sand, turning softer, dragging at his boots. The pain in his legs was paralyzing, but he would not stop, pa.s.sed by one man who had collapsed, the man struggling to rise, another man pulling him up. He kept his eyes forward, toward the low hills, the men staggering ahead of him under the weight of their packs, more of them falling, seeking cover in the low rocks, pockets of coral, fresh craters from the sh.e.l.ling. He moved past them, saw the lieutenant, Porter, still pulling them forward, and Adams forced himself to keep running, the terror in his mind giving way to a strange exhilaration, the excitement ripping through the fear, inspired by the lieutenant, no hesitation, the man doing his job, leading them. He followed Porter up onto a low rocky hill, the men around him still running, Adams keeping the pace, the energy coming back. They reached a row of bushes, a field of waist-high brush, and Porter waved them down, the signal every man knew. Take cover.

Adams tumbled down, the weight on his back rolling him over, men coming down close to him, rifles jabbed forward, expectant, the only sound the scuffling of men on rock, grunts and hard breathing. Adams crawled forward, close to a fat ragged boulder, brush on one side, good cover, and he rolled onto his back, sat, tried to catch his breath. The faces were there now, wide-eyed terror and exhaustion, most from his own platoon, the names rolling into his brain. Ferucci was on his knees, peering up, then dropping down, the man who had done this before, who knew what to expect. Adams saw Welty lying on his side, wiping the water off his gla.s.ses. Close beside Adams was Yablonski, wide-eyed fury, aiming his rifle, but not firing. No one spoke, all of them doing what Adams was doing, gathering themselves, finding their wind, checking their rifles, some seeking targets. Ferucci crawled forward, probing the brush, and Adams felt a stab of fear, no, stay back ... and now Ferucci shouted, "Here! j.a.p trenches! Good cover!"

Adams saw Porter responding, holding up his hands, low words, "Wait here!"

The lieutenant disappeared into the brush, and quickly there was a shout, pa.s.sed on by the sergeants, more calls out in both directions.

"Move forward! Into the trenches!"

Adams rolled to his knees, followed the others through the th.o.r.n.y thickets, the ground suddenly opening up in front of him, a narrow ditch of sand and rock. Men were sliding down, rifles ready, good cover from the depth of the trench and the rocks and patches of brush beyond. Adams looked for Ferucci, saw the sergeant aiming his carbine, the others mimicking him with their own weapons, the longer M-1s laid up on flat ground, men seeking targets. For a long moment no one spoke, and Adams felt himself flinching, expecting ... something. Now Porter was there, slipping along the wide, winding trench.

"Stay low! Keep to this cover! I'll find Captain Bennett! He should be to our right!"

Adams watched Porter scramble away, was suddenly scared for the man, stay down, dammit. The fear built up in a thick wave, the calm and the silence around him unnerving, unexpected. Adams pulled the M-1 close to his chest again, laid back against the side of the trench, saw out to one side, a wide dugout, a slab of concrete. Words filled his brain, the logic, an artillery emplacement, but there was no sign of the artillery piece at all, no blasted parts, no twisted steel. His mind focused on the flow of men still coming up behind him, the trench filling rapidly, men now calling out, sergeants, pulling their men through the narrow brush, dropping down, lining the trench, the gun pit. Close to him, Ferucci said, "The d.a.m.n j.a.ps gave us a gift! I'll be d.a.m.ned!"

Another man, a sergeant Adams didn't know, said, "You sure about that? They could have mined this thing, b.o.o.by-trapped it. They start tossing grenades on us, we're dead."

"If that was true, we'd already be blown to h.e.l.l, wouldn't we? And there's not a j.a.p in sight. I think we wiped these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds out, or scared them off this beach. The d.a.m.n swab jockeys did their job."

Beside Adams, Yablonski said, "I don't see any guts. No bones. n.o.body got wiped out here, Sarge. They ran."

Ferucci peered out again, shook his head.

"To where? That's what we gotta worry about."

Adams saw movement, men pulling in their legs, making way for the lieutenant. Porter crawled low, a quick scramble down the trench, red-faced, breathing heavily.

"Sergeants, gather up!"

The men came close, Ferucci, the others, and Porter waited for them, then said in a hard whisper, "Listen up! Captain says there's been no resistance so far. Radio reports from down the beach all say the same thing. The j.a.ps left these works empty. Gun emplacements all down the beach, but n.o.body's home! So, they gotta be laying low. But n.o.body gets careless, you got that? We're to push up through that brush field out ahead. There's some rocks up beyond that, more good cover. The j.a.ps might be waiting for us there, so keep low! s.p.a.ce your men ... five yards between 'em. Our mortar crews are already setting up in those low rocks to the left. If all h.e.l.l breaks loose, they're watching us, and they'll give us support. Take five minutes to catch your breaths, then wait for my command! That's it!"

The sergeants spread out, moving back to their squads. Adams could see both ways, thick cl.u.s.ters of green, no one talking, a light breeze whispering through the brush behind them. Men still aimed their rifles, but others did as Adams was doing, sat with their backs against the hard, rocky sand. He felt something pressing painfully against his hip, rolled slightly, his hand finding his gas mask.

"Get rid of that stupid thing." He saw Ferucci holding up his own gas mask, and the sergeant continued, "Ditch those gas masks. You're carrying too much c.r.a.p. Before this is over, you'll wish you hadn't grabbed all that ammo. Every d.a.m.n one of you is carrying enough junk for a Boy Scout campout." He glanced up, the sun well above the horizon. "Wait till that sun starts to bake your a.s.ses. Every bit of that junk will be left behind. Seen it every d.a.m.n time."

Adams looked at the gas mask, wasn't completely convinced, but beside him Yablonski tossed his mask back into the brush, other men doing the same. Adams felt the belt of clips across his chest, thought, no, I'll keep these. Yablonski seemed to read his mind, said, "They said take all the clips you can carry, and that's what I'm doing. You wanna get caught out there with an empty weapon, you go right ahead. Every clip means eight dead j.a.ps. All it costs me is sweat."

Ferucci said nothing, tossed his own gas mask out in front of the depression. Adams lay back against the softness of his pack, glanced at the M-1 again, water beading on the oiled steel. Beside him Yablonski was moving the brush aside with the barrel of his rifle, still seeking a target, a low voice, more angry words.

"Where the h.e.l.l are you, you yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Stick your head up, just one time. Give me one clean shot, you sons of b.i.t.c.hes ..."

Adams said nothing, knew better than to interfere in the man's angry monologue. He saw Ferucci watching Yablonski, a cold, uncertain stare, the sergeant not doing anything to break the man's frightening concentration. Adams lay back again, Yablonski's words fading, silent, and Adams took a long breath, tested himself, the fear not as bad as he expected. Welty was on his other side, and Adams turned, saw the gla.s.ses, Welty slowly peering up above the lip of the trench. Welty was the only man in the squad that Adams felt was his friend, and he was curious, had never seen Welty in any kind of dangerous situation. He wondered if Welty was as scared as he was, wanted to say something, rea.s.suring them both, put a hand on Welty's shoulder.

"We made it, Jack. On the beach. We got our beachhead."

Welty didn't respond, was in some other place, held his rifle up at his chest, staring away, his face sweating. Ferucci said, "Leave him be. He knows what's about to happen. Never seen a man more in charge of himself, once the fighting starts. We'll all be okay. So far, this is just ... strange."

Behind Ferucci, Gorman popped his head up, the older man calm as well, appraising the land around them.

"Hey Sarge, the tanks oughta hit the beaches right behind us. That's usually the drill. That'll make our job a whole h.e.l.l of a lot easier."

Ferucci pointed a thumb back over his shoulder toward Gorman, said to Adams, "Pops has done this more times than anybody. Listen to him, Private." He turned. "Hey, Pops. You got Gridley's stuff?"

Gorman didn't smile.

"You have to ask? He can't fire that d.a.m.n Browning without me. I wouldn't let him down."

Gridley was farther down the line, the heavy BAR standing upright against the sandy embankment beside him. Gorman was Gridley's ammo carrier, the older man somehow earning the right to go into combat with a carbine and heavy boxes of cartridges. Adams had yet to understand why any of that was a privilege.

The sergeant began to move, pulled himself up to his knees, antic.i.p.ating the lieutenant's order. After a long pause, it came, a sharp wave, the crisp shout, "Let's go! Move! Spread out!"

The men surged forward out of the trench, following Porter in a crouching run across the uneven ground. Adams pushed through a thicket of brush, stiff and th.o.r.n.y, sc.r.a.ping his legs. To both sides the men ran with him, Gorman moving close to Gridley, Yablonski beside them, Ferucci's squad mostly together. There was sweat on every face, grim purpose, some ignoring the order to keep their distance. All around him the wave of green pressed forward, the only sound the boots on rock, hard breathing, and the crunch of the brush. The dirt was reeking of the stink of explosives, craters and blasted rock, smoke from small fires, shattered trees still smoldering, wisps of smoke coming from low places. He tried to keep his eye on Porter, was uncertain where he was, no insignia on the man's green jacket, all the men anonymous, running as one, scrambling, stumbling through the rocky field. Then a hand went up, familiar. The men responded, settled low, Adams down to his knees, jagged rocks, dirt and brush, more good cover. He rolled to one side, the weight from the ammo belts pulling him down, and he put his rifle at his shoulder, glanced across the rocks, saw men dropping low all around him, rifles ready, no one talking. Porter watched them come, still motioning to the slower men: Down.

Adams's mind searched for sounds, the fear sharpening his senses. What the h.e.l.l is happening? Where the h.e.l.l are the j.a.ps? His heartbeat was heavy in his ears, his breaths coming in short, hard gasps. He heard a whisper of breeze, smoke drifting past, and now a new sound, low at first, then coming fast, louder, a high-pitched screaming roar. The terrifying sounds became engines, and he saw the blue Corsair, then another, the planes racing low over the beach. Just as quickly they were gone, up and over the hills. From the rocks around him, men called out, cheers, but Porter shouted them down.

"Shut up! Do your job!"

Adams stared up at the puffs of white clouds, felt lost, confused, grateful for Porter, for anyone who knew what was going on. He had heard too many horror stories, men crossing beaches, ripped to bits before they reached any cover at all. What he hadn't heard from the veterans he had imagined, and none of the fantasies was pleasant. No matter how he tried to fight that, the images were there, driven into him by the b.l.o.o.d.y bandages and missing limbs of the men he had seen in the hospital. Some never made it out of the water, some had been wounded while still in their landing craft. But we didn't get it at all, he thought. They let us alone, gave us the beach. Did the officers expect that? The navy guns ... all that bombing. It worked? So what do we do now?

The whining roar of the engines came again, three more Corsairs, the blue gull-winged planes flying along the beach, higher, wings dipping, the planes turning, going inland, like the others. He could see the bombs beneath their wings, felt a jab of excitement, yes! That's why there are no j.a.ps. What the navy's guns didn't get, the carrier planes have blasted all to h.e.l.l! Only thing that makes sense.

The quiet returned, low talk from some of the men around him huddled in their rugged cover. For now there were only the soft sounds of the beach, a distant calling of birds, and beyond that, silence.

Silence.

HANZA VILLAGE, OKINAWA.

APRIL 1, 1945, 11 A.M.

They were walking, two rows of men in the shallow ditches that lined a narrow gravelly road. Adams kept his eyes on the low patches of brush speckled across wide rocky fields, taller hills beyond, rocks and trees. There were more roads that led away, intersections that led into a row of stone huts, straw roofs, some with sheets of tin. Marines were everywhere, more of the landing force moving inland along other roads, into the small villages near the beach. Porter's men moved in silence, each man holding tight to his weapon, waiting for ... something. Behind them Adams could hear the sounds of engines on the beach, the great invasion continuing, amphtracs and floating tanks driving up onto the narrow sh.o.r.eline, the larger LSTs unloading their men and machinery all along the landing zone. The tanks were already there, and he knew from the briefings that the engineers and Seabees would come close behind them, more equipment, bulldozers, and tractors. Ultimately they would deal with the airfields, smoothing over the damage caused by the sh.e.l.ling and bombing from the American bombardments, or whatever destruction the j.a.panese still had in mind.

Adams couldn't keep his heart from pounding, sweat thick in his s.h.i.+rt and short jacket, his backpack growing heavier with each step. The belts of clips for the M-1 draped heavily across his chest, thumping him as he walked, pressing into the grenades that hung from his s.h.i.+rt. Far up in front of him, Porter led the way, another squad behind him, Ferucci's squad bringing up the rear. Every few minutes there were hard whispers from the sergeant.

"Five yards! Dammit, keep your distance!"

Adams focused on the backpack that bobbed along in front of him, Yablonski, the man holding his rifle up, keyed, alert, still a desperate search for a target. Adams could see across the road, an open field cut by a narrow road that led to a small village. Marines were there as well, slipping cautiously into the small buildings, pus.h.i.+ng through, shouts of all clear.

The sweat stung his eyes, and he wiped them with his sleeve, saw a hand signal, then a low voice pa.s.sed the word back from Porter.

"Take ten. Stay down in the ditch. No huddling up. Keep your distance."

The men dropped like sacks of flour, and Adams did the same, his knees gratefully giving way, the pack breaking his fall. Welty was closest behind him, the march not seeming to affect the man at all. Welty removed the gla.s.ses, wiped them with a sleeve. Adams wanted to talk to him, but there was nothing to say, no answers to the questions. The mystery was complete, no sign of the great j.a.panese horde that was supposed to meet them, nothing to stop the Marines from moving inland. They had already pa.s.sed their first day's objective, spreading far beyond the beachhead. There had been nothing to slow them down.

As they had moved up the low hills, there had been a burst of fire, off to the south, and Adams had heard the different sound of the j.a.panese Nambu machine gun, the first clue that there might be anyone else here at all. But the firefight had been brief, a peppering of shots from a few M-1s, and then, nothing. Farther to the south had come a hard rumble, thumps from what sounded like mortars, but if there had been a fight at all, it had been over quickly. The farther they moved inland, the more frequent the exchanges had been. But all of that had been far away, no one firing at them.

"Drink some water." Adams turned toward the voice, saw the sergeant holding up his canteen, pointing. "Do it. I'm not dragging your a.s.ses up this road because you fall out all dried up. You're sweating like pigs, and I can smell every one of you back here. A barnyard would be a relief."

Adams obeyed, the water in his canteen warm, and he washed away the crust and salt on his lips. He had another canteen, empty now, most of the men carrying two, another of those luxuries offered on board the transport s.h.i.+p. He slipped the tin back into its canvas holster, his mind drifting, the heat working on his brain. He looked skyward, thought of home, a bluebird day. Well, not quite like that here. There's clouds. And I haven't seen a bluebird either. Seagulls, and some other brown thing. He wiped sweat out of his eyes, looked toward the front of the column, saw Porter close to the walkie-talkie man, the antenna wobbling out to one side. Porter was talking in a low voice, raised his head, stared out down the road. Adams focused, watched, waited for Porter to tell them ... something. The conference was quick, Porter now rising.

"Saddle up, ladies."

They rose, some struggling under the weight of the cargo they carried, and Adams was surprised to see ammo belts coming off, tossed into the ditch. He put a hand against his chest, thought, no, not me. In front of him, Yablonski bent low, retrieved one belt, slung it over his shoulder, said, "Thank you, boys. Keep 'em coming. You weak a.s.sholes can't hack this, you shoulda stayed home. There's j.a.ps in these hills, I can smell 'em. Don't come running to me when you run outta clips."

Ferucci responded from behind Adams.

"Shut up. You want to haul those belts, fine. The rest of you ... well, I told you to drop that c.r.a.p back at the beach."

Porter was already moving ahead, watched the scene with weary annoyance, and another of the sergeants pa.s.sed the order back to the last squad.

"Move it. Five-yard intervals. The looey says we got someplace to be."

The march continued, the wetness in Adams's boots less noticeable, his legs aching, moving in a slow, plodding rhythm, keeping the five-yard gap from Yablonski. They crested a low hill, Porter slowing them, cautious, but the far side of the hill was different, a cultivated field, waist high and green, and Yablonski said, "Sugarcane. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds could be hiding in here."

Adams had never seen sugarcane before, took Yablonski's word for it, followed as Porter waved them up out of the ditch. They moved out in a wide formation, stepping through the soft green stalks, the men separated by at least three neatly planted rows. Adams was focused on the sea of leafy green spreading out for a hundred yards, up and over a rise. The ground beneath his feet was clear, the half-grown stalks a foot apart. To his right, Welty made a sound, a high short whine, and Adams flinched, but Welty was walking slowly, deliberately, staring straight down, his rifle prodding the greenery as he moved. Beyond him, Ferucci said, "Eyes front, Private. Good hiding place for the j.a.ps. Keep sharp. The shooting starts, hit the deck."

Welty seemed lost in his own fear, and Adams remembered now, the briefing, the captain telling the entire company about the snakes on Okinawa, the place famous for the most poisonous snakes on earth. Welty had been one of those who seemed sickened by the fear of that, and Adams had laughed at them, thought, city boys. In New Mexico there were rattlesnakes as big as a man's leg, and even as a boy he had learned to step through rocks and brush with one eye glancing down at each footstep. The th.o.r.n.y brush on Okinawa had brought that back to him, not that different from the hostility of the land near his home. The snakes were different, he thought, but a snake's a snake. As long as you don't step on them, they leave you alone. The others hadn't been nearly as calm about that, some of the men more anxious about snakes than they were about the j.a.panese. Now, in the sugarcane, the fear had magnified, the progress slow as the men kept their gaze downward, M-1s pointing low. Even on the road, as several of the men had dropped out of line for an urgent call of nature, every one of them had stayed in the wide-open s.p.a.ces, any embarra.s.sment erased by the fear of what might be waiting in the cl.u.s.ters of brush. Adams was more curious about what the snakes looked like, had yet to see one, a mild disappointment. On board the s.h.i.+p, the captain had spoken of vast numbers of them, as though Okinawa was one great snake pit, no place safe enough to step. That was just bull, Adams thought. They're just keeping us on our toes, keeping these city boys from wandering off into G.o.d knows where. I don't want to be lost out in this stuff, for sure. He thought of Yablonski, the man's grim certainty. Yep, he's probably right. There's gotta be j.a.ps out here someplace. I don't want to be the guy who finds them.

They crested the hill, and the lieutenant signaled them to slow down, crouched low himself. They did the same, fifty men in a wide row. Adams glanced back and saw fifty more, the next platoon coming up behind, could see the road they had left, more men there, waiting to join them. Up ahead the sugarcane abruptly ended, giving way to a wide, flat field. The lieutenant glanced back to the second platoon, held up his hand, careful, now waved to his own men. Let's go. Adams moved at the lieutenant's pace, quick glances down between the greenery, the edge of the field blessedly close. They stepped clear of the cane and Porter stopped them again, the man seeming uncertain, a look of confusion. The lieutenant dropped low, the cane to his back, the others following his lead. Adams dropped to one knee, questions rolling through his head, a stab of fear. What? All I see is a big d.a.m.n field. He stared out at the hills beyond, saw cl.u.s.ters of trees. To his right, Ferucci said in a low voice, "There's more of our boys. There's some buildings."

Adams saw Marines emerging from distant brush, and barely visible, a cl.u.s.ter of low white buildings. Porter scanned the open ground, motioned to the walkie-talkie man, another quick conversation. Adams saw a smile, strange, and now the lieutenant waved the men out in both directions. The men responded by moving quickly, short steps across the open ground. Adams could see farther out in front of them, the field pockmarked by sh.e.l.l holes. They moved toward the buildings, the other Marines moving in and out, gathering. Adams could see sheets of camouflage up on poles, flapping in the gentle breeze. What the h.e.l.l is that? Marines were gathering beneath the camouflage, the only shade in the area, and Adams saw now that the poles were arranged in the shape of airplanes. There were wooden crates beyond the strange shelters, stacked in odd configurations. Men were talking, laughter, one man climbing up on the crates, spreading his arms like wings. Adams understood now, the others as well, Ferucci saying it aloud.

"Fake airplanes. The j.a.ps made fake airplanes. I guess ... it's all part of the joke."

Adams moved closer to the gathering Marines, said, "What joke?"