Part 7 (1/2)
Ferucci looked at him, a short laugh.
”One April, Private. Seems the j.a.ps have played the world's greatest April Fool's joke on us. A pretend air force. Maybe this whole thing is pretend.”
As he moved closer to the camouflage, Adams saw a pile of black wreckage, what used to be a truck. Beyond was more of the same, another truck down in a crater, pieces scattered. Porter moved out past them, a quick order.
”Easy. Stay here, stay alert. We're in the wide-a.s.sed open here. Be ready for incoming fire. I need to find the captain.”
Porter moved away, and Adams saw one of the Marines moving out toward him, the unmistakable stride of an officer. The two men spoke for a long minute, pointing, and now a radioman appeared. There was more talk, another officer joining the conversation. The curiosity was digging hard at Adams, but he thought of Porter's words, wide-a.s.sed open. He looked out toward far hills, thought, anyone up there can see us clear as h.e.l.l. Suddenly, from the officers and the men close to them came a new sound: celebration. Around him the platoon inched forward, the others as curious as he was. Adams still watched the higher ground, nervous, said to Ferucci, ”Sarge, what the h.e.l.l is this place?”
”I guess the looey's gonna tell us.”
Porter was walking toward them, shouldered his carbine, beamed a broad smile.
”Congratulations, gentlemen.” He glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. ”Not even noon. Well, it seems that halfway through our first day on this slice of paradise, we've captured our third day's objective. Welcome to Yontan Airfield.”
8. ADAMS.
YONTAN AIRFIELD, OKINAWA.
APRIL 1, 1945, 7 P.M.
”Don't stop digging until the two of you can sit with your helmets belowground. Snipers are good at picking off helmets, and once it's dark, the j.a.ps will probably move in to take a better look at us. I hear any more b.i.t.c.hing about rocks, you can toss me your shovels and dig with your d.a.m.n hands!”
Porter prowled through his platoon like an angry cat, the smartest men keeping their comments to themselves. Adams worked as they all worked, chopping, digging, cutting down through the tough mix of dense sand and coral rock, hacking and probing with the small shovel. Close beside him, Welty worked as well, but Adams knew Welty didn't have the strong back, not for the ridiculous effort it took to make a hole in this kind of ground.
To one side, a voice, and Adams glanced that way, saw Gridley, s.h.i.+rtless, wide shoulders, streams of sweat, digging his hole close to Ferucci.
”Hey Sarge. I'm digging, but I gotta wonder why? There ain't been a j.a.p anywhere around this place all day.”
”Shut up, and keep digging. You heard the looey. That's all you need to know. I've gotta dig my own d.a.m.n hole, and spend the night with that smelly b.a.s.t.a.r.d Hunley and his d.a.m.n walkie-talkie. Don't give me your beefs. Some j.a.p up in those hills decides to throw some artillery fire at us, where'd you rather be? Up here on the nice flat ground, or in a deep-a.s.sed hole? Get to work. No more stupid questions.”
The chopping, hacking, and cursing continued, but gradually the foxholes grew deeper, the men testing them by sitting upright, squeezed together, facing each other with legs side by side. Adams sat down in the bottom of the hole, the shade welcome. He looked up at Welty, who had his small shovel on his shoulder, and Welty had a look of tired satisfaction.
”Looks good, Clay. I think we're safe.”
”Safe from what? I'm with Gridley. There isn't a d.a.m.n j.a.p anywhere around this place.”
”You heard that firing. I can hear it now, down that way. Something's happening. There's gotta be j.a.ps ...”
”Or our own guys shooting at rabbits.”
Welty clearly was not convinced, dropped down into the hole, kept his stare toward the distant rumbling. Adams had tried to avoid the sounds, had convinced himself it was still naval gunfire, distorted over the great distance.
”We're still sh.e.l.ling the island down there in front of those ground pounders. They're probably jumpy as h.e.l.l. I'll bet most of those army guys have never been through this before.”
”Not like you, eh, Hardtack?”
Ferucci was standing above the hole, no smile with his question. Adams felt suddenly very stupid, said, ”Uh, no, Sarge.”
”Listen, you lamebrain, a bunch of those ground pounders are veterans too, fought under MacArthur, some d.a.m.n place like New Guinea. Cannibals, boys. How'd you like to spend your night in a foxhole wondering if the next b.a.s.t.a.r.d you hear might be wanting to eat your a.s.s? The looey says the ground pounders are running into some resistance down south. That's not fireworks, it's artillery, and if you paid attention, you'd know that none of that sounds like our stuff. Seems we had the easy time of it. But down there, the j.a.ps aren't just sitting back. Maybe they figured out who we are, and decided they'd rather stand up to ground pounders. Now settle in and eat something. The bra.s.s wants us up and moving north at dawn. The looey says there's supposed to be j.a.p positions up that way, and recon says they're just waiting for us to wander by. So, you think we're here to shoot rabbits, don't come b.i.t.c.hing to me when some j.a.p sniper takes your head off.”
The absurdity of the sergeant's words made Adams drop his head, hiding the smile. He made a slow nod.
”Aye, Sarge.”
Ferucci was gone now, curses directed at another of the foxholes. Welty sat across from him, their backpacks wedged close beside them.
”Don't think he likes you too much, Clay.”
Adams thought of the boxing matches, Ferucci treating him like a star.
”He's not supposed to like anybody out here. Just like the looey. h.e.l.l, you're not even supposed to like me. n.o.body's supposed to be buddies. Buddies get killed, and it makes you a c.r.a.ppy Marine. That's what I was told, anyway.”
Welty seemed to ponder the thought, shrugged.
”I learned a lot of that kind of stuff in training. Don't see how that makes me a better Marine. I know what to do when the enemy attacks. Kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. That's what we're supposed to do, right?”
There was no fire in Welty's words, Adams unconvinced that Welty could really kill anybody. He would never forget boot camp, thought charging sandbags with bayonets was easy. h.e.l.l, he thought, it was fun. Scream your brains out, curse the sandbag's momma, all so the sergeants would think you were getting tougher. Now we're tougher. Okay, what now?
There was a shout and Adams grabbed the M-1, popped his head up above the rim of the foxhole, heard the sound of an engine, searched the fading daylight. Men were pointing, Welty's words loud in his ear.
”It's a plane! He's coming in!”
Adams stared, mystified, said, ”He'll have a h.e.l.l of a time finding a place to land that ain't busted all to h.e.l.l.”
Nearby, Ferucci shouted, ”Lieutenant! We got company!”
The plane rolled its wings slightly, the pilot maneuvering, seeking a clear strip of undamaged runway, the plane dropping quickly. Adams watched with raw amazement, thought, h.e.l.l of a good pilot. Something's gotta be wrong with him.
The plane made a last bank, a steep turn, putting down onto a narrow strip that led close to the Marines, and they all saw it, the last bit of sunlight reflecting off the plane's wings, and now the fuselage, the bright red circle. Welty shouted into Adams's ear.
”Holy Jesus! That's a j.a.p!”
Across the field other men had identified the plane already, a swarm of Marines crouched low in a line of fire. The plane slipped its way past the sh.e.l.l holes, moved closer to the buildings at the end of the field, the engine shut off, the prop jerking to a stop. All across the field the rifles and machine guns were aimed, a curtain of silence over the bizarre scene. In short seconds the c.o.c.kpit slid open, a single man emerging, adjusting his cloth helmet, slipping a parachute off his arms, swinging his legs out onto the wings, dropping down to the ground with a soft thump. He looked around, began to walk toward the first building, then suddenly stopped, turned with a jerk of his head, scanning the field. He seemed to understand now, crouched low, reached for a pistol at his belt. The shots came from close in front of him, and farther across the field, a chattering of fire that crumpled the man where he stood. Close to Adams, one man had fired an entire clip, shouted now, was up and out of his foxhole, running toward the silent plane. It was Yablonski.