The Final Storm Part 8

"I'll boil you, you stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h. Captain says there's all kinds of diseases we can catch, typhoid, or the plague or something. I'm not being your d.a.m.n nursemaid if you start crying about your guts coming out. We got our own rations, and that's what we're gonna eat. You got that?"

Adams saw others watching him, heard the laughter.

"Got it, Sarge."

He started to move out toward the road, heard Yablonski call out, "Hey, Sarge! I'm grabbing these straw things. Make a good bed in my foxhole. You want one?"

It was Yablonski's usual game, offering to share anything resembling loot with the one man who would otherwise object to him taking it. Adams had heard the lectures about that, the captain preaching about leaving the civilians alone, making friends, so the Okinawans would be more helpful. But Lieutenant Porter hadn't said anything about the minor treasures Yablonski had found, trinkets mostly, stuffed into his backpack. It bothered Adams at first, but he was growing numb to that now, the people mostly filthy and frightened, no one offering any information where the j.a.panese might be.

Ferucci looked at the thin mat, woven bamboo, said, "Yeah, fine. I'm sick of sleeping on dirt. I bet there's more of them things." He called out now, "Hey! You guys see these mat things, grab 'em. We could use a little luxury."

Beside the road, the lieutenant watched the scene play out, no objection, seemed as impatient as his men, ready to move on to the next village. Adams felt an itch on his leg, reached down, scratched, saw Welty coming back toward him, the other men gathering, their job complete. Adams looked again at the approaching storm, glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch. It's after five. Time to start digging again. Welty moved toward him, and Adams said, "Another day of fun. Maybe we oughta grab some of those mats too. I still got dirt in my a.s.s from this morning."

Welty shrugged, leaned low, scratched his own leg, said, "There was some cloth back there, maybe sheets or something. I'll grab 'em."

Adams felt a hint of guilt, thought, these d.a.m.n people don't have a pot to p.i.s.s in ... but the itching came again, and he tugged at his dungarees, tried to relieve the discomfort. Yeah, enough of this. They got beds, we got dirt.

The holes had been dug, Adams shifting the dirty white cloth beneath him, not nearly as much padding as he had hoped. He began poking through the backpack for his rations, and across from him Welty did the same. The daylight was almost completely gone, and Ferucci appeared above them, said, "Starting to rain. Grab your ponchos. One man two on, then two off."

He was gone quickly, repeating the words a few yards away. Welty pulled his poncho from the backpack, said, "I hate the rain. You're lucky, New Mexico and all. I'd trade Virginia for the desert any day."

"It's not all desert. We get rain. Monsoon season, comes up from Mexico. It's a b.i.t.c.h. Can't do anything outside but slide in the mud."

The conversation faded away, Adams fumbling with his own poncho, sliding it over his head, replacing his helmet. He put his hands on the cardboard of a K ration box, felt a rumble in his stomach. He hadn't eaten since morning, but had no appet.i.te for the small can of stew, or whatever else the supply people had thought was an amusing addition to their meals. There was a stinging itch on his backside, and he shifted his bottom against the ground, but the itching wouldn't stop. Now there were more, along his belt, and he shoved his hands down his pants, said, "What the h.e.l.l?"

Welty was scratching at his stomach, suddenly jumped up, said, "Ah! There's bugs! d.a.m.n!"

Adams stood as well, looked down at the white cloth, bent low, grabbed it, tugged, said, "Get off this thing. It's infested with something."

Welty was scratching furiously at his legs, and Adams yanked the cloth up, tossed it out of the foxhole. He heard laughter, but now there was cursing, close by, Yablonski, "There's d.a.m.n critters all over me! Itches like h.e.l.l! Hey Sarge!"

"Shut up! I got 'em too. It's this bamboo stuff, these mats."

Adams crawled up out of the foxhole, fumbled through the laces on his boots, yanked them off, ripped at his socks, scratching furiously at his legs. More men were coming up from the holes, and now the lieutenant was there, kneeling low, an angry shout.

"Get your a.s.ses back in your holes! What the h.e.l.l's the matter with you?"

Adams dropped down, Welty beside him, still scratching, and Ferucci said, "I don't know! I got bugs on me!"

From the other foxholes, the chorus was the same, and Welty shouted out, "It's fleas! Sir, it's fleas! I know it."

Adams froze for a silent moment, heard more cursing, the mystery of their ailment suddenly explained. But Adams ignored that, stared at Welty, felt a hot burst of fear, the word punching him. Sir.

"d.a.m.n, Jack. Don't ... do that."

Welty seemed oblivious, was rubbing furiously at his legs, and Adams eased his head up, looked for the lieutenant, wanted to do something to correct the mistake. It was full dark now, the curses still coming, and he heard rustling, the sounds of the mats tossed up onto the ground, everyone's mistake.

"Don't do what?"

Adams lowered his voice to a whisper.

"You called him ... sir."

Welty stopped moving, but only for a brief second. But he lowered his voice as well.

"Sorry. No harm done. No j.a.ps around here, least not any we've seen today."

"Yeah, well, you know the order."

Welty said nothing, rubbed his legs again, and Adams said, "I'll take the first two, okay? I'm not gonna eat. My gut's kinda messed up."

"Sure."

Adams stood slowly, knew that all across the rocky ground, the others were doing the same, the two men in each foxhole dividing the watch duty between them. If there was sleep at all, a man could get close to two hours while his buddy kept his eyes out for any j.a.panese infiltrators. The orders had been specific, the lieutenant pa.s.sing on what came from above, that the j.a.panese had already been tormenting some of the army and Marine units by slipping into their positions at night. Makes sense, he thought. If they're that d.a.m.n good at hiding in this stuff, they could be anywhere. He thought of Welty's error. That could be real bad. If something happens to the lieutenant because one of us singled him out ...

His knees were bent under him, raising his head up to just above the level of the foxhole. He felt the rain now, the ground around him splattering with hard, fat drops. d.a.m.n, this is gonna be one c.r.a.ppy night. He knew the orders, had no choice but to watch the darkness, knew that all out across the stretch of low hills, the other platoons were doing the same, an entire company holding positions alongside the fields beside this one road. The rain was growing more intense, muddy drops splashing into his face. He pulled at the hood of the poncho, the plastic sheeting noisy, made noisier by the rain, small rivers of water finding their way in, slipping down his shirt. Some army guy had to invent these things, he thought. And the ones that didn't work, they gave to us. The itching was still there, and he fought it, thought, maybe the rain will drown those little sons of b.i.t.c.hes. Fleas. Who in h.e.l.l would think the Okies carried fleas? I haven't seen a single dog yet.

His knees were soaked, the water pooling in the bottom of the foxhole, and he tried to lean back, felt soft mud everywhere he touched. He glanced toward Welty, knew better than to say anything, thought, you'll be asleep in minutes. Never saw anything like it. I could be beating h.e.l.l out of you with a baseball bat and you'd sleep right through it. How'd you even eat in this stuff? The d.a.m.n stew is bad enough without Okie rainwater ...

The short quick steps moved right past him, sharp splashes in the mud, and now another, one behind the other. He felt a stab of panic, started to call out, the sounds choked away by the shock. More steps came, quick, running, and he reached for his rifle, tried to bring it up, his hands wet, clumsy, the barrel jabbed into the side of the foxhole. He kicked Welty, but the man had already heard, was up as well, his M-1 pointed back to where the sounds had gone. Out to one side, the shots came, blinding flashes, a spray of fire from a foxhole close by. Adams hesitated, thought of the mud in his barrel, dangerous, but the fear was overwhelming, men shouting, more shots coming farther down. He strained to see anything in the dark, steady rain, and he held his breath, turned his head away from the rifle, fired. There was no clog in the barrel, and he aimed now, fired again, kept his aim low along the ground, kept firing, blinded by the muzzle blast, by the flashes of fire around him. The shooting spread, contagious, the fear in every man pouring out through the weapons, two dozen rifles firing all across the rolling ground. As the magazines emptied, the shots began to slow, and he heard one voice, loud, the lieutenant.

"Cease fire! What are you shooting at?"

The silence came now, no one responding, and Adams heard a hard whisper, a question from Welty.

"j.a.ps?"

Adams wanted to respond, but he didn't have an answer. He stared into the rain, no sounds at all but the gentle splashes around him, the swirling wind, the men all watching, as he was, blind and desperate fear that the enemy had finally come close.

The rain had stopped, but the misery of the foxhole had only grown worse. Adams felt the stiff aching in his knees, his back, his skin raw from scratching at the plague of fleas. The endless night had finally given way, a hint of detail, small b.u.mps appearing in the ground around him, the helmets of the others, men starting to move in the dim light. He could feel the water in his boots, the bottom of the foxhole inches deep in soft mud, every part of him wet beneath the poncho. Welty was up now as well, neither man making any effort to sleep. Welty whispered close to him, "No coffee this morning, that's for sure."

The joke wasn't funny. Adams hadn't had coffee since they left the ship.

He saw one man rising up, crawling toward them, knew by now it would be Ferucci, the sergeant pulling them awake, as though anyone had been able to sleep after the small-scale war they had waged. There had been other shots, scattered farther along the road, panicked men too eager to see enemies in the rain. Ferucci said in a low voice, "Anybody shoots me, I'll kick your a.s.s. Wake up your buddies."

Men responded, the foxholes close by coming alive, low talk. Ferucci stood now, and Adams watched him with a hint of alarm, thought, easy, Sarge. What the h.e.l.l are you doing? The sergeant moved toward Adams, didn't look down, stepped past in the slop of deep mud, held his rifle low, pointing it forward, and Adams heard Ferucci laughing. Beyond the brush, others were up, and more laughs came, one man calling out, a mocking sound.

"Baaaaah."

Adams heard the familiar voice of the lieutenant, moving through the foxholes, hard whispers, closer now.

"Pipe down! Get back in cover! This isn't a d.a.m.n playground!"

Ferucci returned, knelt down close to his squad, said, "Well, boys, you've got fresh meat today. Seems the infiltrators you took out last night had fur. You a.s.sholes killed a flock of goats."

10. USHIJIMA.

THIRTY-SECOND ARMY HEADQUARTERS,.

BENEATH SHURI CASTLE, OKINAWA.

APRIL 5, 1945.

"We should not have allowed them to take those airbases. Not without shedding their blood. I offer this only as a respectful suggestion, sir!"

Ushijima did not look at Cho, let the words slip past. He closed his eyes, the smell of the tea comforting.

"You tell me what I already know, General. But the power of the American fleet gave us no choice."

"What power is that, sir? They only bring numbers, they do not bring the code of the Bushido, they are not warriors!"

Ushijima kept his eyes closed, but Cho's energy was poisoning his calm. He took a long breath, tried to relax, but Cho's presence would never allow that. He could hear the man's agitated breathing, opened his eyes, looked up at him from his cushion on the floor, said, "It will take more than spiritual strength to prevail in this war."

Cho crossed his arms, his usual stubbornness.

"It never has required anything else! Never! Not in all our history! You were in China, you saw for yourself how easily we prevailed. There were those in Tokyo who thought that we should never awaken such a ma.s.sive dragon. What kind of dragon did we find? One who steps aside and bows to our victories. It will be the same again, right here! Sir!"

The added show of respect punctuated every outburst from Cho, a theatrical afterthought. It is mere performance, Ushijima thought, for some invisible set of eyes that are watching us, judging us, in every gesture we make. He felt drained by Cho's energy, but he would never allow Cho to know that. Cho was, after all, his subordinate. He took the small teacup in his hands, soothed by the warmth, tasted the flowery liquid.

"I was not aware the war in China has concluded. From my experience there, we were victorious over armies of poorly armed peasants. We swept away troops who were more suited to fight Neanderthals. But China has changed. There are greater forces against us there, perhaps too great. China has rallied her friends and those friends have brought better troops and better arms. And the Chinese are fighting on their own soil. Never forget that. No matter how weak an army, they are strengthened when they fight to protect their own homes."

Cho bent low, as though testing Ushijima's vision, a mocking test of whether he was ill, and Ushijima thought, he was never in a cla.s.sroom, he has never studied the great lessons of history. Why do I waste my words?

Cho's response came in a syrupy, patronizing tone.

"We have won every battle. We occupy an enormous amount of Chinese territory, territory in Burma, Indochina, Korea. Soon the entire Asian continent will lie in peace beneath our emperor's flag. The Chinese do not know of honor, of the code of the Bushido."

"And yet they fight us. No one in Tokyo has indicated to me that there is any end to that campaign, that we are close to conquering China ... we might as well try to conquer the moon. If our army here was to be increased by a handful of those divisions, those good men who are buried in the mud in Manchuria ..."

"Manchukuo, sir! Forgive me for correcting you."

"Yes, yes, Manchukuo. I will play the game. That is what our children will be taught. I suspect the Chinese maps will still read Manchuria."

He knew he had crossed a dangerous line, that Cho still had influence in Tokyo that would treat this kind of talk as treasonous. But Ushijima clearly understood his place now, his role in the spectacle that was being played out for the emperor's benefit. When Manchuria had been conquered, a government had been put into place there, a Chinese aristocrat who of course answered only to the j.a.panese army that kept him in power.

Cho stood straight, stared past him, the arrogance unyielding.

"If there are Chinese fools who do not accept their fate, then we shall manage that in the only way possible. They would play with maps? We shall burn every last one of them, until they accept their destiny."

Cho's dreamlike confidence was overpowering, and Ushijima had no patience for it. He had not slept well for days now, not since the Americans had come ash.o.r.e. The preparations for the Shuri defensive lines had been intense and continuous, and he had marveled how the tireless Colonel Yahara seemed to be everywhere at once, every hour of the day and night. Ushijima pulled himself to his feet, the tea forgotten, any pleasantness swept away by Cho's noisy version of patriotism. Cho stood back, hands clasped behind his back, rocked slowly on his heels, a show of impatient obedience, waiting for Ushijima to speak. Ushijima tugged at his jacket, straightened his uniform, stretched his back.

"General, let us pay more attention to those things we can control. I agree with you about the airfields. I very much regret that we could not hold the Americans away. But you are certainly aware that if Tokyo had not thought it so wise to take away the Ninth Division, this army would have had the manpower to put up a far more formidable defense. But I will not make excuses. Had we done as you proposed, and manned those positions near the water's edge, those men would have died uselessly. You saw the American bombardment, you saw how they targeted the coastline. As much as I mourn the loss of so many fine soldiers, sacrificing them would not have prevented the enemy landing. We must fight the war with the tools we have been given."

"We have been given the code of the Bushido. That is the greatest tool of all. Sir!"

Ushijima knew there was nothing to be gained by continuing any argument with Cho, thought, does he truly believe that? We shall win because we are more spiritual than the Americans? Ushijima moved out of his room, turned toward the map room, a short walk down the hall. Cho moved with him, stayed a pace behind, appropriate. There, two officers were staring at the enormous map of the island, one man with a thick stub of blue chalk, marking a line across Okinawa's narrow center. They were suddenly aware of the commanders, stood back at stiff attention, and the man with the chalk said, "Forgive me, sir. I was adjusting the enemy's position."

"Yes, I see that. Then it is confirmed? They have reached the eastern coast, severed our connection with the north?"

The man seemed to hesitate, a glance at Cho. Ushijima knew why, said, "You may speak, Major. Give me the report. The accurate report."

The man nodded toward the table close to the large map.

"Just arrived, sir. I was going to bring it to General Cho in one minute. I had been ordered to correct the maps as quickly as possible. My apologies for the delay."

Cho started to speak, and Ushijima interrupted him, knew that the major would get a lashing for no good reason. It was Cho's way, bombast and fear, as though no one would do their jobs without the crack of his whip.

"Thank you, Major. Have all the line commanders communicated with us?"

"Those in the south, yes, sir. We have been unable to reach Colonel Udo."

"No, I suspect not."

Cho stepped forward, pointed at the northern part of the island.

"Udo will do his duty. He will b.l.o.o.d.y the enemy and drive them into the sea!"

Ushijima did not respond, moved close to the map. He had studied every detail of the geography, stared at the curving lines that represented the hills over the northern half of the island. Udo will fight with what he has, he thought, and we can give him nothing more. He knew Udo well, had studied alongside him at the Imperial Military Academy. But Udo had shown very little of the dignity Ushijima had expected, seemed to spend his energies endearing himself to General Cho. Colonel Udo was said to have brutalized the Okinawan civilians in the north, which kept many of them from willingly serving the army as much-needed laborers. Ushijima had planned that the north be lightly defended, and so Udo was given that command, which kept Udo out of the way from the more critical defenses in the south. Ushijima understood that he did not have the luxury of replacing Udo with another experienced commander. If Udo's bad habits got in the way of his performance against the Americans, Ushijima just didn't want to hear about it. After a long silence, Ushijima said flatly, "Colonel Udo knows his duty. He will do what we have asked him to do." He glanced at the paper, troop movements, brief reports from several of the field commanders, all communicated through the radio room nearby. "The American Marines are driving northward, which will weaken the forces who face us here. That is the best we can do with the resources we have. We shall continue to strengthen our position in the south, using this part of the island to our advantage. I expect Colonel Udo to do what he can against the Marines, engaging them at every suitable opportunity. His greatest duty is to allow the pa.s.sage of time, to keep the Marines far from our strongest point."

"He shall succeed! And he shall accomplish much more! I am certain of it! Sir!"

Ushijima ignored Cho's bombast once more, studied the southern half of the island.

"I am greatly pleased with the work we have done to strengthen our defensive lines." He turned to Cho. "You are pleased with the strength of our lines, yes?"

Cho seemed not to notice the change of subject.

"I accept the shame we must endure by fighting from the defensive, sir. But I must admit that our men have shown the kind of spirit we must have, even as they bring shame upon their ancestors."