Part 15 (1/2)

”I understand, sir.”

”Is General Cho in his office?”

”I just saw him, yes, sir.”

Us.h.i.+jima nodded, knew that Cho's proximity meant that he had heard everything Us.h.i.+jima had just said. He glanced that way, toward the wall, thought, he is standing close, making sure he misses nothing. Good.

”I am not ready to end this fight, Colonel. I was sent here with specific orders that we not destroy this army by engaging in one ma.s.sive suicidal charge. Those kinds of attacks are no longer appropriate, and as you know, they do nothing at all to bring victory.” He raised his voice, aimed the words at the ears of Cho. ”A military victory.” He paused. ”We have one duty now, to kill as many of the enemy as it is possible to kill. I am counting on you to see that we accomplish that.”

”I understand, sir.”

There was a commotion behind Yahara, an aide, holding a piece of paper. The man seemed agitated, excited, and Us.h.i.+jima said, ”What is it?”

The man stepped into the room, tried to hold himself at attention, his energy making that impossible.

”Here, sir! A message has just come through from the Imperial High Command.”

”What is it, Lieutenant?”

The man held out the folded paper, and Yahara took it, pa.s.sed it on to Us.h.i.+jima without looking at it. Us.h.i.+jima opened the paper, read.

The Imperial Command informs General Us.h.i.+jima that the Imperial Air Force is prepared to launch a glorious a.s.sault against the Americans who now threaten your position. Our glorious emperor has been advised of this plan and has expressed his complete confidence to General Us.h.i.+jima that this attack will utterly destroy the American fleet. General Us.h.i.+jima is ordered to hold fast to his position of strength on Okinawa and continue to inflict devastating losses to our enemies. Success is a.s.sured.

He stared at the message, the characters blurring, felt the tears returning, a mix of sadness and overwhelming anger. He crumpled the paper in his hands, threw it hard against the wall.

16. ADAMS.

NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA.

MAY 8, 1945.

The rains had come again the day before, and with so much of the vegetation and cl.u.s.ters of trees already destroyed, the ground and the roads that cut through the countryside were becoming a sea of deepening mud. The Sixth had advanced southward into an area vacated by the First Division, those Marines moving more to the east. Beyond the east flank of the First, two of the American army divisions, the Seventy-seventh and Ninety-sixth, held the ground all the way to the far coast. There had been more griping about that, so many of the Marines insultingly dismissive of the army's work, but the infantry who stood beside them had nothing to be embarra.s.sed about. Throughout May 4 and 5, the unexpected j.a.panese counterattack had been directed mostly into army positions, and despite low expectations from the Marines, the army had held their ground with as much ruthlessness as the Marines themselves. No one in the front lines knew how badly the j.a.panese had spent themselves, and how many more of the enemy still waited in their hiding places among the low hills. But the army units were just as prepared to resume their forward advance as the fresher Marines who had moved in alongside them.

The truck was sliding, tilting to the right, then farther still, the men on the high side tumbling over, falling into the men whose backs were now to the ground.

”Get out! Move it!”

He saw Porter yelling the order from outside, the lieutenant standing in knee-deep mud. No one had to be told twice, the truck balanced precariously with two wheels completely buried. They bailed out as quickly as each man could move, some stumbling, backpacks and weapons. .h.i.tting the mushy ground. Immediately they were engulfed by another horror, the rain and mud blanketed by a pungent stink, the smell of the earth revealing some hint of what lay hidden beneath it. Adams felt his face curling up, fighting the smell, far worse than before, others reacting as well. But he saw the lieutenant high-stepping through the mud as quickly as he could, waving his arms.

”There! That shallow dip. Get there! Now!”

The men flowed clumsily away from the trucks, Adams aware of the urgency in Porter's order, and he saw the lieutenant staring away, down another long hillside. Even in the driving rain, Adams could see men dug in everywhere, the soft ground pockmarked by foxholes and narrow trenches. In the shallow bowl where Porter had sent them, other men were waving them on, officers certainly, anonymous in their ponchos. But the authority was there, the men who knew something, who were a.s.signing Porter's platoon and the rest of Bennett's company to a place where they could dig their own holes. Adams felt the mud pulling at his boots, tried to keep his balance, stepped as quickly as he could. He heard a new sound now, a sharp rip in the air above him, the sh.e.l.l impacting off to the left, near some of the men on the far flank. The sh.e.l.l didn't explode with much vigor, the blast throwing up more mud than fire, but the men close to the blast reacted as any man would, diving headlong into the miserable slop. The rumble from the artillery reached them, their pace picking up, the boots trudging as quickly as they could through the vast sea of oozing ground they had been a.s.signed to.

”Dig in!”

Porter dropped down, obeying his own order, his walkie-talkie man cutting into the mud with the small shovel. Adams saw Welty, already working at the soft goo at their feet, and Welty said, ”Here! Come on! Dig!”

Another crack split the air, two more to one side, sh.e.l.ls striking the hillside behind them, near the trucks. Adams ducked, useless instinct, and Ferucci was there, moving past, his own shovel in his hand.

”Dig! No cover up here! They're looking at us, you jacka.s.s!”

Adams swung his shovel down like a pickax, but the angled blade just sank into the mud, nothing like the rugged coral they had chopped through before.

”Straighten it out! Dig!”

Welty seemed furious, and Adams felt immensely stupid, fumbled with the shovel's head, loosening the clamp, straightening the blade, the shovel now ... a shovel. He began to scoop the mud, tossing it to one side, another scoop, the slop filling the hole as quickly as he could clear it away. Welty was doing the same, manic motion, another sh.e.l.l coming down fifty yards in front of them, the hillside erupting into a bright flash, a wall of brown goo coming down around them. Adams felt his heart screaming in his chest, worked the shovel, gradually the hole deepening, the softer ground hardening the deeper they went. The hole began to take shape, deepening further, Welty now down inside, punching the ground with the small blade, Adams kneeling on one knee, the poncho billowing out in a gust of wind, no protection at all, the rain blowing hard into his face. There were more sh.e.l.ls coming in, some bursting high above, flashes of fire in the dark rain. Others came down straight into the mire, throwing up more curtains of mud. Welty yelled at him, ”Get down here! Help me!”

Adams dropped down, the bottom of the foxhole already filling with water, softening, easier to dig. Adams tried to find room for his own shovel, worked in rhythm with Welty, digging while Welty tossed away the dirt. The hole was almost waist deep, both men struggling, the mud seeping in, but not as quickly as they tossed it out. Adams worked as rapidly as Welty's movements allowed, let himself be guided by the redhead's speed, and soon the hole was more than belly deep. Deep enough.

Welty jerked at his backpack, shouted at him, ”Shelter half! Try to spread it out over the hole! Come on, you know how to do this!”

Adams pulled his slab of canvas from his pack, unrolled it, felt water running down his neck and back. He did as Welty did, anch.o.r.ed the corners of the shelter half on either side of the hole, saw a rock lodged in the mud, reached out, pulled it onto one corner of the canvas, searched frantically for another. But the ground had hidden anything on the surface, and he mimicked Welty, the man scooping a mound of mud onto the other corner of the shelter, the best they could do. The canvas was across the hole now, overlapping in the center, and Adams knew it wouldn't hold, that the rain would simply flow right into the sagging center.

”We need a tent pole, anything.”

”You see any d.a.m.n tent poles?”

Adams felt stupid again, glanced at his rifle, useless, too short, and he didn't want the barrel in the mud, or filling up with water. Welty sat at one end of the rectangular hole and Adams dropped down, facing him, both men exhausted. Adams fought for his breath, tried to slide the poncho beneath him, some protection from the muddy bottom, but he was already soaked, his dungarees thick with the filthy water. Above them the shelter halves were sagging low, water pouring through in steady streams. Adams s.h.i.+fted his position, tried to avoid a rivulet that came down on his legs, splattering against his boots. He looked at Welty, hoped to see a smile, the man's calm humor rea.s.suring. But Welty had his head down, his eyes hidden by his helmet, water dripping off the brim. Adams felt a thump in the ground, knew it had to be an artillery sh.e.l.l. More came in now, the soft sides of the foxhole shaking, mud tumbling in around their legs. He heard voices, distant, urgent, tried to hear ... who? But the words were swept away by the wind and rain, and Welty did not move.

”Did you hear that? Somebody might be hit.”

Welty raised his head, his eyes peering out toward him from beneath the helmet.

”Yep. Artillery attack. That's what happens. We're safer right here than anyplace out there. You crawl out there and you'll catch h.e.l.l from the looey, I promise you. Just pray for luck. We'll be okay unless a j.a.p sh.e.l.l comes down right on top of us. If that happens ... well, it won't matter much.”

Welty seemed resigned, his strange calm returning, and Adams said, ”What do we do now? I'm cold. d.a.m.n! You smell that? What stinks so bad?”

Welty looked at him with a tilt of his head.

”Don't think about that. No telling what's in this mud. The cold'll get worse. What we do now is ... wait. They need us to move, they'll let us know. That's what officers are for. The looey's as miserable as we are.”

Adams looked at the side of the foxhole, close to his face, the mud oozing downward, the smells engulfing him. The question rolled through his brain. What's in the mud? Oh G.o.d. Dead j.a.ps. He wanted to ask, felt stupid again, no, keep your mouth shut. If it's dead j.a.ps ... maybe the rain will help. G.o.d, maybe it won't.

He s.h.i.+vered again, felt the water deepening beneath him. He kept his stare on the mud close to his face, thought, blood? That stink ... gotta be something dead. How long we gotta sit here and just do nothing? I'd rather be up there marching, maybe shooting at somebody than just sitting here. He clamped his arms in tight, trying to push heat through them, useless, the s.h.i.+vering growing worse, the smells sickening, images of dead bodies. He closed his eyes, tried to think of anything else, any distraction, but the first image he couldn't erase was the dead sniper, and then the men with the flamethrowers, roasting the enemy in their caves. G.o.d, how much worse can this get, anyway? This place ... who the h.e.l.l picked this place to fight over? He opened his eyes, saw mud flowing onto his legs, slowly burying him. He jerked his knees toward him, wiped at the mud with his hands, looked at it, the s.h.i.+vering coming from fear, a stab of nausea. Across from him, Welty pulled at his backpack, said, ”How 'bout some stew?”

They were on the move again, this time on foot, no truck able to navigate the deep mud of the trails, none daring to move across the open ground. Some had tried to use the primary roads, and Adams had pa.s.sed by them, watching the engineers at work, bulldozers extricating mired vehicles from mud that seemed hip deep. In front of them the j.a.panese artillery was peppering another open hilltop, but the near side of the ridge was cut with limestone gullies, large rocks scattered about, thickets of brush. It was excellent cover, and Adams could see clearly that the river of mud led them straight toward that hillside.

There had been no briefing, no senior officer telling them where they were going, what the plan might be. The lieutenant knew more than they did, of course, whether through the walkie-talkie or word from a runner, one of the amazingly unfortunate men who had to move quickly across all kinds of open ground just to pa.s.s some command to the frontline officers. Runners were labeled the suicide squad, their life expectancy in battle as bad as the lieutenants who were supposed to lead their men into every a.s.sault. If the runners had one advantage, it came from a lack of a shovel. They rarely stayed in one place long enough to worry about digging a foxhole.

The march had begun with a hard shout from Porter to move up out of the soggy protection of their foxholes. Once the men had emerged, a sea of dull green shapes, Adams had seen the lieutenant hurry away toward a huddle of other men who were sheltered by the shadow of a tank. The tank had seemed unoccupied, quiet and still, its treads half buried, but when the brief meeting had ended, two of the anonymous poncho-covered men had crawled up on the turret, and with a smoky belch the tank had come to life, churning frantically, its riders barely able to hang on. But that tank was long gone, and to Adams's dismay, it had gone in the opposite direction from where they slogged their way now.

The flashes of artillery fire still came toward them, but there was no precision, the patterns brief, scattered. It was like before, and Adams had heard enough to know that the bigger guns were probably firing in single shots, then disappearing back into their hiding places. The sh.e.l.ls that came down within sight were mostly ineffective, the mud and driving rain keeping the artillery from igniting any fires, the thunder from the impacts mostly m.u.f.fled. But no one slowed to watch, the entire company moving up as quickly as they could into this new cover, the ravines and rocks, men spreading out, guided by more men in ponchos, no one showing a face. Adams began to climb, put one hand on a fat wet rock, pushed himself up a steep slick path. Men were closing in behind him, no one paying attention to the order to keep their distance, the five-yard rule forgotten, at least for now. The rocks were the first real cover they had seen since the trucks had pulled away, every man searching for his own bit of safety.