The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific

by Jeff Shaara

  “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 mass, a cluster 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 mass of men in the water, far out in both directions. The water was mostly shallow, knee-deep, the men pushing 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 hitting 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 splashing 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, passed 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 shelling. 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 glasses. 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! Jap 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, passed 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 thorny 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 damn Japs gave us a gift! I’ll be damned!”

  Another man, a sergeant Adams didn’t know, said, “You sure about that? They could have mined this thing, booby-trapped it. They start tossing grenades on us, we’re dead.”

  “If that was true, we’d already be blown to hell, wouldn’t we? And there’s not a Jap in sight. I think we wiped these bastards out, or scared them off this beach. The damn swab jockeys did their job.”

  Beside Adams, Yablonski said, “I don’t see any guts. No bones. Nobody 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 Japs left these works empty. Gun emplacements all down the beach, but nobody’s home! So, they gotta be laying low. But nobody 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 Japs might be waiting for us there, so keep low! Space your men … five yards between ’em. Our mortar crews are already setting up in those low rocks to the left. If all hell 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 clusters 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 crap. Before this is over, you’ll wish you hadn’t grabbed all that ammo. Every damn 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 asses. Every bit of that junk will be left behind. Seen it every damn 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 Japs. 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 hell are you, you yellow bastards. Stick your head up, just one time. Give me one clean shot, you sons of bitches …”

  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 glasses, 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, reassuring 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 hell 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 damn 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, anticipating 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 thorny, scraping 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 hell is happening? Where the hell are the Japs? 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 bloody 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 Japs. What the navy’s guns didn’t get, the carrier planes have blasted all to hell! 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 shoreline, 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 shelling and bombing from the American bombardments, or whatever destruction the Japanese still had in mind.

  Adams couldn’t keep his heart from pounding, sweat thick in his shirt 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 shirt. 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, pushing 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 passed 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 glasses, 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 Japanese horde that was supposed to meet them, nothing to stop the Marines from moving inland. They had already passed 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 Japanese 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.