The Final Storm Part 13

Buckner shrugged.

"My people are learning exactly what they should be learning. We are rapidly moving the artillery into proximity to the enemy's strongest positions. Armored units are rolling into place even as we speak. But if it satisfies you, General, please know that I have already considered my options. If I feel it is necessary, I will order General Geiger to move his Marines southward, to lend a hand."

Nimitz didn't wait for the response from Vandegrift, held up a hand, said, "Enough. General Buckner, I would suggest ..."

"Sir, forgive me, but I am not in favor of navy commanders issuing instructions as to how the army should go about its business. I deeply regret the cost the navy is suffering from the j.a.panese suicide a.s.saults. Those strikes have caused us to lose two supply ships, which have contributed to our difficulties. But in time, those difficulties will be solved. The army knows its business, Admiral. Please allow me to do my job. If you order me to change my strategies, then of course, I will follow those orders. But I will vigorously protest that kind of interference." He looked hard at Nimitz, a cold blue glare. "Sir, we have the firepower in place to carry out this operation just as planned. Every day we make forward progress."

Vandegrift interrupted.

"A foot at a time."

Nimitz knew the Marine had a point. But he understood Buckner's strategy and his stubborn adherence to every piece of training he had received. It was simply the army way, move steadily forward by overwhelming the enemy with firepower. The Marines had maintained a completely opposite philosophy, that movement should be lightning quick by men on foot, and the artillery and tanks could come in afterward to clean up. Nimitz understood more clearly than ever why MacArthur mostly left the Marines out of his own picture. It was far easier doing things his own way, without having to hear dissension from his subordinates. They're both right, he thought. And, probably, both wrong. No wonder Turner hides in a bottle. He's staying the h.e.l.l out of the way.

"General Vandegrift, I appreciate your frustration, but General Buckner is in command here. Your men have performed extremely well, as I expected. But the Marines cannot be the point of every sword. I know the numbers, know how much devastation we can bring to any enemy position. General Buckner, your forces are engaged with an enemy you are expected to defeat, without any more delay than necessary. Delay means casualties, as we all know. It was antic.i.p.ated that Okinawa would be secured in a month. You have one week left in that timetable, and from the looks of things, you're not even close to making it." He glanced at Vandegrift, who seemed to recognize Nimitz heating up. The Marine leaned forward, clearly hanging on Nimitz's anger. "We're losing a ship or more every day to the d.a.m.n kamikazes. Men are dying at sea, and men are dying on these hills. Too many men. You've got a week, General. If you can't make a significant breakthrough, I need to find someone who will."

Buckner started to protest, and Nimitz knew he had trespa.s.sed into Buckner's authority more than any army man would normally tolerate. But Nimitz could read the energy of both men, and there was just enough muggy heat in the room to light his own fuse. Even Buckner seemed to understand that there was little he could say. Nimitz tried to calm down, fought the unpleasant wetness in his clothes.

"Simply put, gentlemen, the army's difficulties in the south must be solved. I do agree with you, that our success here is only a matter of time. The problem of course ..." He paused, studied the table in front of him, chose his words. "The problem, General Buckner, is that time is not measured out here. It is measured in Washington. And Washington is tapping its foot."

14. ADAMS.

NEAR CAPE HEDO, NORTHERN OKINAWA.

APRIL 28, 1945.

The rain finally stopped, but the mud around him continued to ooze downward into the base of the foxhole, deepening the pool of goo beneath him. He stared at Welty, saw the same misery, but more, Welty scratching at his pant leg, futility against the constant a.s.sault from the fleas. The roads had been nearly impa.s.sable, and so today there had been no kitchen trucks. Their only alternative was K rations, and even the lieutenant had grumbled at that. It was a mystery to Adams that Welty never seemed to mind the K rations, and he watched his friend digging merrily through the boxes, picking out whatever seemed to suit his tastes at the moment. But the fleas were relentless, not even Welty's quiet cheerfulness protecting him. Adams rubbed his own legs in reflex, said, "The oil works. I'm telling you. The sarge was right."

Welty shook his head.

"I'm not wasting my gun oil. My piece is more important than any d.a.m.n bugs. If this weapon doesn't fire when I need it to, it ain't gonna make much difference how many fleas are on me."

"Fine. I haven't fired at a d.a.m.n thing in a week, and right now, I'd rather keep from being eaten by bugs. It'll be dark in an hour, and then the mosquitoes'll be here. I might try the oil on my face. This is about the worst d.a.m.n place I've ever been."

Welty looked at him without comment, but the message in Welty's expression was familiar. You haven't seen a d.a.m.n thing yet.

When it wasn't raining the heat returned, and when the heat gave way to sunset it was the insects. Several of the men had come down with dysentery, and the lieutenant had relayed word from above that malaria was showing itself as well. The Atabrine tablets were plentiful, along with salt tablets, sucrose tablets, and a variety of medical stations where the men could have every ailment treated. The pills were an easy remedy, and Adams was as curious as Porter had been why so many of the men bolted at the thought of swallowing a tiny pill that could prevent a miserable sickness, especially since doing so was an order. Welty devoured something from the cardboard box, crumbs on his face, looked again at Adams, a slight smile, and Adams said, "You're right, dammit. I got no reason to b.i.t.c.h. This hasn't been too tough, no matter what some of the others say."

Welty began scratching again, said, "I'm sick of hearing Yablonski and those other guys bellyache about how the Fourth and the Twenty-ninth got all the fun while all we did was walk. I heard Yablonski say the looey musta been a chicken since he didn't volunteer us to join those boys on that peninsula fight. Who the h.e.l.l thinks like that? Stupid as h.e.l.l. I don't care how much they hate the j.a.ps, taking casualties ain't ever fun."

Welty stopped himself, seemed to withdraw, and Adams let it go, knew that Welty wouldn't talk about anything he had seen on those other places, the other fights. He seemed to focus more on the fleas, pulled up his shirt, deep red streaks on his belly.

"I'm telling you, Jack. Gun oil. Try it."

"I got a better idea. We get much more rain in this foxhole, we'll be up to our necks. That'll drown 'em. Nothing's been biting my a.s.s since we've been sitting in this slop."

Adams shifted himself, knew he had to rise up from the mud, that his clothes were already too wet, and with the night would come the biting chill. Shivering in the darkness was bad enough as it was, the unending fear that an infiltrator would sneak up, drop a grenade in the hole.

The veterans were still speaking in low voices about the ease of the operation so far, how most of the j.a.panese had been wiped out without making much of a fight. The Marines were taking casualties, of course, but nothing like the commanders had expected. That message had been clear, driven home by the number of medical crews they had seen around every command post, every makeshift field hospital. Navy corpsmen were plentiful, and when there were wounded, the corpsmen had always responded with what seemed to Adams to be a complete ignorance of the danger around them. Adams had no idea how many of the medical men were supposed to be a.s.signed to each company or battalion, but the others talked about it with surprise, that there were far more of them now than some of the men could ever recall. As the Twenty-second pressed northward, anchoring control of the northern tip of the island, Adams had marched past a number of command posts, had seen the men with the red crosses on their helmets in cl.u.s.ters, playing cards or, on those rare sunny days, catching naps in the sunshine. It hadn't taken any officer to explain what the men could see for themselves. The bra.s.s had expected those corpsmen and the medical staffs to be in action, far more action than they had seen. It was a strange and uneasy blessing, so many medical staffs with so little to do. Some of the newer men began to talk, all of that loud cheerleading about the Marines and their reputations, as though the j.a.panese had been so afraid they had scampered underground, to await their deaths in peaceful submission to the flamethrowers. Adams paid more attention to the veterans like Welty and the sergeant, others who had gathered on the northern tip of the island, happy to accept the victory that had been handed them. If the j.a.panese had decided not to defend Okinawa by rushing headlong into the Marine positions, no one was objecting.

Along the heights that led them northward, the land had been stunning in its beauty, a lush tropical paradise. But the beauty was erased too often by the soaking rains. With the fighting in their area almost nonexistent, Captain Bennett's company had been ordered to dig into the flat fields that overlooked a cliff, a sheer drop to the ocean below. Adams had slung the small shovel into the soft ground, staring out toward waves rolling up on soft beaches, breakers lapping across lines of coral offsh.o.r.e. Beyond, the ships stood guard, as they had all throughout the campaign, smaller gunboats up close, supply and mostly empty troop ships in the distance, and beyond that, the mammoth warships. In the rain the ships were hidden, but when the sun came out, as it was coming out now, the ships speckled the broad blue sea like a painting, some artist's glorious impression of war that didn't seem real. Every night there had been incidents, infiltrators sweeping through their positions. Some sought out the careless glow of a cigarette, zeroing in on chatter from the men who thought themselves safe. The infiltrators were as stealthy and as determined as they had always been, intent on killing anyone they could find, dropping a grenade or themselves into a foxhole. Others were raiding the supply and ammunition depots, some of those shot down as they sought out food or a weapon. When the Marines got lucky, when an infiltrator was taken down, the morning would bring the examination, and nothing had changed. The j.a.panese were ragged, unkempt men, showing signs of malnutrition or the effects of days in the wet, muddy caves. But the Marines knew that whether they came for blood or bread, the enemy's dedication to the job was absolute. Even with the northern half of the island declared secure, the Marines spent their nights in their foxholes, wary of the sounds, the shadows, cursing the vermin that swarmed out of the ground around them, or the rain that seemed to wait for those times when the men had barely found sleep. The rain seemed to pa.s.s right through the shelter halves and ponchos, and no matter how much care the men used to ward off the water, it found them anyway, every man engulfed in mud and misery.

And then it would stop, as it had stopped now. The winds had picked up, and Adams could see patches of blue sky, the clouds above him drifting away, as though shoved aside by the sun. Welty was eating something from a can, ravenous enjoyment, and Adams couldn't watch him, said, "I'm peeking out. Sun's coming out, and dammit, I'm too wet and too cold to just sit here. Maybe I can change into some new underwear before the sun goes down."

Welty shrugged, spoke through a mouthful of something brown, "Ain't been any snipers all day. Up to you."

Adams put his hand down into several inches of soft mud, pulled his soaking boots under him, stood slowly. He was surprised to see men moving around, some not in their foxholes at all. Some were gathering close to the edge of a cliff, wringing out shirts, shaking mud from ponchos, every man seeking some comfort from the sudden gift of a setting sun. He saw Porter now, the lieutenant walking quickly past, eyes focused downward. He's in a hurry to go somewhere, Adams thought. Glad I'm not an officer. Too much work.

He stood straight, stretched his back, stood waist high in the muddy hole, slung mud from his fingers, wiped them on a shirt that was muddier than his hands. To the west the sun was an enormous orange ball, the reflection spread out on the water in a great sheet of silent fire, broken only by the ships. Adams pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the foxhole, reached down for his M-1, slung it over his shoulder. He stood up, felt water running down his legs, thought, yep, clean underwear. They sure as h.e.l.l better send us a supply truck up here soon. Ran out of socks this morning. He stepped toward the others, stared out past them to the sun, and Ferucci was beside him now, said, "Pretty d.a.m.n impressive, ain't it? This would be a h.e.l.l of a place to bring a gal. Sit up here and drink a little beer, put your arm around her waist, tell her all kinds of poetic c.r.a.p. She'd melt right on the spot, give it to you without a second thought. Course, then it would rain like h.e.l.l, and a flea would bite her on the a.s.s, and you'd have h.e.l.l to pay."

The sergeant laughed at his own joke, moved closer to the cliff, said something to the row of men seated there. Adams heard the sound of a jeep, looked toward the road that wound southward down the hill. All across the green hillsides, steam was rising from the great thickets of dense trees, and now he saw a fire, high above, black smoke in a heavy column, knew it had to be from one of the patrols. He thought of the flamethrower, thought, h.e.l.l of a thing. d.a.m.n glad I don't have to haul that around. Gotta make you a target for sure, if the j.a.ps see you coming. The j.a.ps gotta know what's about to happen to 'em, and seems like most of the time they just sit tight till we burn 'em to death. I don't care how much you wanna die, that ain't the way to go.

His eyes turned back to the sea, the sun just now touching the horizon, seeming to melt like some fat wad of orange b.u.t.ter. He squinted, thought of Ferucci and his gal. He's probably right. But d.a.m.n if I'm coming anywhere out here for a vacation. I'll settle for Albuquerque. Maybe that cute blonde, Loraine Lancaster. G.o.d, I've loved her since I was a kid. But now I've got this here uniform. "Hey, baby, how 'bout you and this big-time Marine hit the big city?" Oh yeah, you jacka.s.s, and she'll look at you like she always did, like you ain't even there. I always figured she had the hots for Jesse or some of his buddies. Any gal that special could get anybody she wanted, even the older guys. Now Jesse's home, big war hero, tough-guy paratrooper. He's probably already had her up on Lover's Hill, in one of those little caves. d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l. She won't even remember my name. That's what I get for being the little brother. He'll get the good-looking ones, and I'll have to settle for some fat waitress who spits tobacco.

He heard a hum now, far behind the hill, the noise growing into a sharp roar. Men were turning to look, and the chatter came now, unmistakable, machine gun fire. They burst into view just above the hilltop, two planes locked in a twisting duel, one tight behind the other, and he could see the markings of the lead plane, the distinct red meatball on its wings.

Men were calling out now, "A Zero! And that's a h.e.l.lcat! Get him!"

"Knock the b.a.s.t.a.r.d down!"

Adams saw a burst of fire, the j.a.panese plane nosing down, straight into the water. It impacted with a fiery splash, the men responding with raised fists, salutes for the h.e.l.lcat's pilot. But now there were more planes, some much farther away. They seemed to drop down like a swarm of flies, dipping, turning, more flickers of fire as the American fighters moved among them. Adams watched in amazement, an enormous battle in the skies spreading out toward the north, past the cape. More planes came over the treetops on the hill, a new swarm, dozens, some pursued by the Americans. But many more were not, and they came down low, following the contour of the island, racing down toward the water's surface, some of them dipping in a sharp roar right past the cliff. Some of the men scrambled to their foxholes, but there were no bombs, no strafing runs. The planes ignored them, moved out to sea, some of them dropping close to the water, like schools of airborne fish. Others were much higher, barely in view, but then they began to dive, some in great sweeping arcs. As the planes moved out past the island, the American fighters did not follow. They seemed to disappear, pulling away, leaving the j.a.panese pilots to a new fate. He saw it now, streaks and specks of fire rising from every ship, close and far away. The men around him were returning to the cliff, no danger on the ground, the great battle now unfolding between plane and ship. The sun was nearly gone, but the fading glow still reflected off the planes, a chaotic shower of specks, dancing, swirling, all moving toward the ships. Close offsh.o.r.e, a smaller frigate was firing every anti-aircraft gun, the streaks erupting off the ship like some sickening fireworks display, and he saw their target now, coming down in a tight corkscrew, impacting the water closer to sh.o.r.e. Now another, the plane low to the water, dipping downward, coming apart, tumbling into pieces on the water's surface. They continued to come, and Adams felt a strange panic, helplessness, silence from the men around him, the awful show continuing to unfold, the Marines useless bystanders. The noise flowed past them, the thump and chatter of anti-aircraft fire, another wave of j.a.panese planes swarming across the sky, spreading out, seeking targets. The roar came close overhead, and he saw the plane, a steep dive, pulling up just off the beach, driving straight for the frigate. The guns on the ship poured out low, and he saw one wing suddenly breaking off, the plane rolling over, but the plane was too close to its target, and it plowed low against the waterline, a sharp blast square in the middle of the ship itself. Beside him he heard soft words, Welty, couldn't look at him, couldn't turn away from the fireball. Now the sound reached them, a hard rumble, and Adams flinched, felt the sickening knot inside his gut. There was another blast, a surprise from a plane he hadn't seen, striking the ship close to the bow. The frigate was swallowed by fire, black smoke hiding the gruesome horror. But the anti-aircraft fire from the more distant ships continued, the skies darkening with the sunset and the vast plumes of smoke. He understood now, the insane simplicity of it. The officers had talked of it, how the Americans would meet the incoming waves of planes with as many of the carrier fighters as could be launched. But the h.e.l.lcats and Wildcats and Corsairs could only do so much, and those j.a.panese pilots who survived the gauntlet in the air could not be pursued into the storm of anti-aircraft fire from panicky naval gunners. Many of the j.a.panese planes would plunge harmlessly into the water, most with pilots already dead, but even in death, some of the pilots had put their planes into a fall that would reach a target. Not even the largest and most heavily armored ships were completely immune to the shock of the explosives that had been stuffed into the j.a.panese planes, and so any ship that was struck suffered damage that could be fatal, if not to the ship itself, then to many of her crew. Adams stared at the burning frigate, and he felt the thickening silence, the darkness putting an end to the fight, the battle over, the waves of aircraft either fulfilling their mission or dropped into the sea. Beside him, Welty, "My G.o.d. Those sons of b.i.t.c.hes."

Adams kept his stare on the flames, the skies now dark, the sun only a faint glow of light, the sea lit by the fires from a dozen ships.

NEAR CAPE HEDO, NORTHERN OKINAWA.

MAY 2, 1945.

The rains had stopped, the ground drying, the mud now turning to a fine red dust. Adams cursed, rubbed the small oily cloth over the barrel of his M-1, turned sheepishly to Welty, who said, "Yeah, fine. Here. I told you. Use only a little. The looey says we'll be getting more, but who the h.e.l.l knows when."

Adams took the small vial of gun oil, squeezed a single drop into the open breech of the rifle, rubbed the cloth in the tight circle against the steel.

"I never saw this kind of stuff before. It gets into everything."

Welty blew hard into the breech of his own M-1, said, "Coral. Like the grit on sandpaper. Plays h.e.l.l with the truck engines too, the airplane engines, anything like that. The mechanics go nuts with this stuff. Don't think I'd wanna be a pilot chasing some j.a.p Zero while this c.r.a.p is grinding my engine down to nothing."

"Jesus! b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h b.i.t.c.h! You ladies need a backrub, make all your little pains go away? I'll find one of the Okie gals for each of you."

Ferucci was standing over them, and Adams focused more on the rifle, pretended not to hear him. The sergeant bent low, stared at the breech of the M-1, said, "Clean it again. You must be out of practice. This d.a.m.n vacation we've been on's made you careless. Then get ready to saddle up. The looey says regimental is sending us a potload of trucks. We're going for a ride."

Adams looked up, the sergeant's face framed by the piercing glare from the sun.

"We going south?"

Ferucci straightened, hands on his hips.

"We're not going north, you moron. Unless you wanna drive a truck off that cliff."

Welty worked the action of his rifle, said, "Guam, I bet. They're sending us back to the beach we came in on."

Others were nearby, the word Guam attracting attention. Yablonski came closer, the big man, Gridley behind him. Both were shirtless, and Gridley carried the BAR across his shoulder, wore the bandoliers across his bare chest, the wound from the j.a.panese infiltrator hidden beneath a small white bandage on his shoulder. Yablonski said, "Guam. That's what I heard too. We done the job. So they're sending us back to do some more training. Pain in the a.s.s. Hardly saw an anthill of j.a.ps up here, and they think we oughta rest up."

Ferucci said, "So complain to your d.a.m.n congressman. Next time we'll stick you in the hottest place we can find. That make you feel better?"

"Yeah, it does. I didn't sign up to go on a Boy Scout camping trip. I still got clips they gave me on the d.a.m.n transport ship. My d.a.m.n piece ain't even been warmed up yet. If I don't heave a grenade at some j.a.p's belly, I may heave one at these two idiots. You clean that d.a.m.n piece good enough, redhead?"

Welty replaced the b.u.t.t of his rifle, the cleaning kit put away, looked up at Yablonski.

"You better aim that grenade where it'll do some good. Before it goes off, I'll sling this bayonet right into your d.a.m.n big mouth."

"Shut the h.e.l.l up, both of you!" Ferucci turned away, suddenly distracted. "What the h.e.l.l? Now what?"

Adams heard the sound of a jeep, peered up over the edge of the foxhole, and Ferucci said, "That's the colonel. And Bennett."

Adams kept his eye more on Yablonski, had developed a healthy fear of the man. Yablonski moved off, back toward his foxhole, Gridley following like some oversized pet. Welty stood, watched the officers gathering, and Adams looked that way, saw three of the lieutenants joining them, Porter among them. Ferucci said, "I knew it. We're not going to Guam. They're talking about our next mission, and it ain't a camping trip. n.o.body's smiling. Look, the colonel's flunky's got a map. I been thinking about this. I bet they're laying out the next a.s.sault, another island. Maybe j.a.pan itself. We cleaned out the j.a.ps pretty good here, and the high bra.s.s knows we didn't get chewed up too bad. They're gonna send us to j.a.pan. I knew it!"

Welty was up now, curious, stood close beside Adams as they watched the officers, the map unrolling onto the hood of the colonel's jeep. Adams said, "j.a.pan? You think so?"

Ferucci seemed completely sure of himself, arms folded across his chest.

"d.a.m.n right. Time to take this fight right into the j.a.p living room. I been waiting for this, hoped like h.e.l.l I'd be a part of it. All that b.i.t.c.hing about how we missed out, well, we're not gonna miss out now. You just wait."

Adams heard the rumble, far down the road, a cloud of red dust rising up. The trucks came into view now, a long line of deuce-and-a-halfs. The meeting of officers broke up, the colonel climbing into his jeep, moving away into the dust cloud, and the others fanned out quickly, Porter coming up the hill toward his own platoon. Adams felt a strange dread, examined the rifle with a quick glance, saw more of the fine red film on the barrel, a new layer of coral dust already sticking to the oily sheen. Dammit! Porter stopped, scanned the foxholes, said aloud, "Gather up! Keep to those rocks, but get where you can hear me! Don't bunch up. There's still some j.a.ps in these hills, and this is no time for stupid casualties."

Adams obeyed, the others as well, some of them emerging from foxholes, some already holding backpacks, prepared for the move. Porter dropped to one knee, waited for them to gather, some squatting, sitting, finding low places that might serve as cover, cover none of them thought they'd need. Adams moved toward a fat sago palm, saw Yablonski slip into the shade before him, knew better than to object. Welty was close to the lieutenant, squatting between two low rocks, and Adams moved that way, sat, one hand on the ground, coated now with a fine grit of red.

"All right, listen up! Those trucks are taking us out of here. The whole d.a.m.n division's mounting up."

"Ha! I knew it!"

The voice came from the palm tree, and Porter looked that way, annoyed.

"Shut up! You don't know jack. I've heard all the c.r.a.p you idiots have been tossing around. You're expecting hula girls and cold beer. Forget it. The army's been getting their teeth kicked in down south, and the generals have decided they need us to move down there and replace them. That shouldn't surprise any of you. We knew that we'd end up with the heavy lifting, and my guess is some dumba.s.s on some ship out there had his map upside down and sent us the wrong way. The real heat's down south, has been from the beginning. The army boys can't handle it, so you know what's gotta happen next. The First Division is already on the move, and we're going in behind them. I haven't been told exactly what they're gonna do with us, but you know d.a.m.n well it's not gonna be pretty."

The trucks were pulling into a wide field, the engines shutting down, the clouds of dust pouring up the hill toward the platoon. Across the field, other platoons were getting the same briefing, loosely s.p.a.ced cl.u.s.ters of men listening to their officers. Porter glanced toward the trucks, said, "Grab your gear and mount up. Fifteen to a truck, so we'll fill three of 'em. I'll be up front with the radio. If you need water, there's a truck coming up with some barrels. Fill 'em up. It's a long drive."

The trucks had no canopies, the dust swirling around them in suffocating clouds of heat and blinding grit. Adams had his head down, eyes closed, his helmet the only shade. Close beside him Welty did the same, and even the most vocal knew better than to open their mouths. Even if their complaints could be heard at all, the dust would find any opening, a mouthful of the crushed coral adding more misery to what was already a rumbling bouncing h.e.l.l.

Adams had no idea how long they had been in the trucks, had bounced and rocked in rhythm with those around him, swaying with the turns, cursing silently when the truck hit a sharp hole. He tried to open his eyes more than once, tried again now, was surprised that the air seemed to be clearing, the dust not as bad. He felt a sharp breeze in his face, looked across to the man opposite, Gridley, the big man staring past him, his eyes ringed with white circles. More of the men raised their heads, the air clearing, and Adams saw flat fields, sugarcane, the small farms they had marched past many days ago. Beside him Welty spat a hard wad of something thick into the air, past Adams's head, stared up and over, trying to see more of where they were, the others doing the same. Adams heard a croaking voice at the back of the truck, the last man on the bench, Ferucci.

"Airfield. Maybe Yontan. We're stopping."

Adams felt the truck slow, a hard squeal of brakes, could see a sea of trucks already in place, parked in neat rows. Just as quickly the trucks at the far end of the field began to move, one after the other, the caravan resuming. The truck beneath him rumbled to life, curses rolling through the men, the usual voices, Yablonski, "What the h.e.l.l? Somebody can't make up his mind?"

Adams ignored him, was more curious than angry, the truck lurching forward, following the next one in the long, snaking line. The road away from the airfield was wider, smoother than the coral trail they had endured, and he kept his gaze outward, saw another row of trucks, some with canopies, coming the other way, toward them. Beside him Welty said, "Hey, where the h.e.l.l are they going?"

The truck slowed, dipped to one side, easing off the road, the entire caravan shifting over, allowing the northbound trucks to pa.s.s. Some of those trucks were covered, but others were open, and Adams could see the men now, faces peering out, as curious as he was. But there was a difference, something in the faces that seemed gloomy, lifeless. Some of the Marines began to call out, waving, simple greetings, but the greetings weren't returned, and now Ferucci said, "Army! Sure as h.e.l.l! Those are ground pounders!"

The men on both benches rose up, and Adams heard the calls coming from the trucks in front, the usual hoots, insults and joking, and now the men around him began the same routine.

"Hey, doggie, doggie! Woof!"

"Too tough for you boys down here? You doggies need some men to take over for you?"

"Hey! You scared of those little j.a.ps?"

The calls continued, and now the convoy moving past slowed even more, then stopped, engines still running, a jam in the traffic somewhere up ahead. Adams tried to think of his own insult, something appropriate, unique, knew that every army man everywhere was thought of as a doggie. The barking took over now, a chorus of insults, and through it all, he heard a voice, Ferucci.

"The Twenty-seventh! Those guys are the Twenty-seventh! You b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

There was hesitation in the catcalls, some of the Marines hearing the words, comprehending. The shouting erupted again, different, far more hostile, even Welty, standing now, surprising Adams.

"You yellow sons of b.i.t.c.hes! You no-good yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" Welty continued, the volume of his fury growing, and after a long minute he dropped down, seemed exhausted by his own anger, repeated the words quietly. "Worthless no-good b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Worthless. We oughta shoot every one of them."

Adams looked at the redhead with driving curiosity, wanted to ask the question, but the shouts of the Marines stifled him. All along the caravan the wave of menace seemed to grow, furious cursing, insults and jeers. The trucks were no more than a few feet apart, and when the words were not enough, the Marines began to throw things, cartridges, pieces of sc.r.a.p from the floor of the truck, anything they could find. There was nothing playful, the objects hurled with baseball precision, a rain of debris into the army trucks in a one-sided a.s.sault. Adams stared in horror, saw one face from the other truck, a quick glance outward, fear in the man's eyes. The face disappeared now, ducking low, and now the trucks began to move. Another truck crept past, canvas hiding the men, no one looking out, the shouting from the Marines still relentless. Adams felt a strange fear, thought, this is stupid. Somebody's gonna start shooting. What the h.e.l.l's going on? The trucks kept moving, picking up speed, belching smoke, kicking up clouds of dust and gradually the noisy display from the Marines began to quiet. Welty seemed much more subdued than the men around him, and Adams leaned close to his ear.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"Yellow b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. The Twenty-seventh was on Saipan. They just fell apart. Ran like h.e.l.l."

Adams heard the words drift away, knew the sign, that Welty wouldn't say anything else, and Adams knew not to ask. But he was deathly curious, had heard only bits and pieces of the scuttleb.u.t.t about Saipan. He had heard the insulting descriptions for the army divisions, the Twenty-seventh in particular, had a.s.sumed the insults had been just another one of those rivalry things, all Marines giving grief to all GIs, sailors giving grief to them both. But this was different, far more intense than any rivalry. On the other side of Welty, a face leaned out, looked at Adams, the older man, Gorman.

"They're no good, pal. Worst division in the army. A lot of Marines died because of those sons of b.i.t.c.hes. I heard Howlin' Mad had their general fired. I don't know what the h.e.l.l they're doing here. They shoulda been sent to MacArthur, where they belong. If they're moving north, it's cause they screwed up again. We sure as h.e.l.l don't need 'em here."

Ferucci joined in.