Adams felt a rush of exhilaration, said, "Yeah! Right! About d.a.m.n time we can bust up some j.a.ps instead of everybody else getting all the fun!"

Ferucci stared at him, unsmiling, then looked at Welty.

"I keep forgetting, he hasn't done much of this before. Tell you what, Adams. When it comes time to hit that water, you can be the first one in."

17. ADAMS.

NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA.

MAY 9, 1945.

He had seen the engineers and their work crews moving out, disguised by the wet darkness. The rains had still not subsided, but there was no time now for sitting in muddy foxholes. Despite the dense mire of the flooded roads, fresh supplies had reached the hill. But the trucks stayed far back, would not risk either the mud or j.a.panese artillery. Instead the supplies were carried forward on foot, men hauling crates of grenades, rations, and fresh ammunition on their backs. Every man in the company was encouraged to grab as many grenades as he could carry, the word pa.s.sing throughout the Twenty-second Regiment that the soldiers and Marines who had first confronted the enemy in these hills had spent more time lobbing grenades than firing their rifles.

Even with supplies coming to them, the officers sent their own men back along the same muddy trails, concerned that a few boxes of K rations wouldn't support men who were about to cross a river that would in effect cut off their lifeline. Adams had gone back, along with several of the others, on orders from Captain Bennett that the company load up on anything the trucks had brought close, including the desperately needed drinking water. Adams had hauled a cl.u.s.ter of canteens, had made his way along a faintly marked trail, guided by hidden voices, whispers, the supply officers seemingly more frightened of j.a.panese snipers than were the Marines who actually faced the snipers on the front lines. The canteens had been filled beneath a camouflaged tent, which shielded a half-dozen drums of fresh water, steel barrels that had been rolled into the mud off the back of a truck that was still there, hopelessly bogged down, the driver cursing every drop of rain that kept him away from the dry tents of his supply depot. Adams had done his job, filling the canteens to the top, had tried his best to ignore the b.i.t.c.hing of the supply troops who had sacrificed little more than a pair of dry socks. But there were more rants to come. Finding his way once more through the absurd rivers of mud, he had reached his own platoon. Almost immediately, as the canteens were pa.s.sed out to anxious, thirsty men, there came a new round of curses, directed at Adams himself. As soon as the canteens were raised, the water was spat out, some of it directly on Adams. He had been baffled, stunned at the response, but then, even in the rain, the smell of the water on his uniform had given him a clue. With furious amazement he had tasted the water himself, his full canteen giving off the same odor. Like the others, he couldn't swallow, the pungent taste revealing what the others had quickly learned. Speculation ran wild, that there had been sabotage, that the j.a.panese had succeeded somehow in poisoning the water supply. It took the experience of the men like Porter, who realized with perfect dread that what the men were drinking had come from drums that had once held oil, drums that, for reasons no one could fathom, were not cleaned before they were filled with water. Porter rea.s.sured his men, as did the other officers across the dismal muddy hills, hundreds of men who now had to rely on their canteens regardless of how awful the water could be. It wasn't completely poisonous after all, just disgusting. But it was all they would have until new drums could be brought forward, until new supply trucks could slog their way through the mud that was deepening every hour. Word was pa.s.sed back by the runners, radioed by furious line officers, and somewhere a supply officer finally got the word. But for the men who waited in the rain, who sat in the mud and stinking filth of a churned-up battlefield, the fury was complete. If there had been any way for the men to find that supply officer, oil would have been the least of his worries.

NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA.

MAY 10, 1945, PREDAWN.

Porter had waited for orders, the low crackle of a radio, and after midnight had led his men back up to the ridgeline. The narrow pathways had been no less muddy, no less slick, and the tall gra.s.s along the ridge bathed each man in a shower of water that soaked their already wet clothes. On the ridge itself they could only wait, Porter and the other officers close to their walkie-talkies, alert for any emergency that might suddenly erupt below them. The hill fell away to flat ground, an open plain that they would have to cross to reach the river itself. With the first sign of darkness the engineers had moved out, and no one had seen any sign of the kind of work they were trying to do, the darkness and the driving rain disguising their labor. As the men around him waited in soaking-wet darkness, Adams focused his gaze down toward the hidden river, thought about those men, building some kind of bridge. Footbridge, he thought. What the h.e.l.l is that? Pieces of something laid end to end, I guess. More questions rolled through him, but he would not ask, knew that close by, Ferucci sat, waiting, the others, Welty right behind him. They think I'm an idiot, he thought. Bad enough I brought them undrinkable water. Now we're about to do ... what? They probably think I'm a screw-up no matter what happens next, the new guy who's not new. I shoulda been there with them all along, shoulda been with Welty on Saipan. Some stupid-a.s.sed disease, and now I'm no better than those slick-faced replacements they sent out here with me. Welty's gotta be scared, the sarge too, all of them. It can't just be me. He glanced down at his chest, hidden by the poncho, thought of the lumbering weight hanging from his shirt, the extra grenades. h.e.l.l, we never trained in anything like this. It never rained like this in San Diego, days at a time. The deepest mud was over my ankles. This stuff ... you could drown in it, and they'd never find you. Sure as h.e.l.l, no one ever told us we'd need a dozen d.a.m.n grenades. All that bayonet practice, all us tough guys, cutting up a cloth dummy. No one's shown me a single reason why these j.a.ps are dummies at all. Most of these guys have done all this before, and I bet they're watching me, keep an eye on the idiot, the new guy. The guy who peed his own d.a.m.n pants. Well, maybe so. But I bet every one of these guys up here is as scared as I am. I sure as h.e.l.l hope so.

The words rolled through his brain in a quivering wave, silent chatter, more questions. If we can wade, why do we need a bridge? Who decides who uses the bridge? Is that for officers? Five feet deep, that's up to my neck. Welty's shorter than me. d.a.m.n, I better keep an eye on him. The j.a.ps know we're coming? Well, maybe not. He stared into the rain, the steady hiss, and suddenly there were streaks of fire, red lines, then blue, the odd color of the j.a.panese tracers, pouring out in cl.u.s.ters from the far side of the river. The men flattened out, but the fire was aimed low, toward the water none of them could see. There were short calls, the officers keeping their men in silence, orders not to fire, not to respond. Adams pushed himself flat against the soggy gra.s.s, but the only sound came from the rain, none of the pops and cracks from the distant machine guns, no other sound at all. He took a breath, peered up, saw the tracers aimed far below them, only a few machine guns, the rain deadening their chatter. The engineers, he thought. The j.a.ps must have had lookouts or something, must have heard something. Oh G.o.d, get those guys out of there. All this for a stupid d.a.m.n footbridge?

And then the streaks stopped, the j.a.panese holding their fire. Adams was breathing heavily, heard low talk, close beside him, behind, men in nervous stammers, speculating what had happened. He wanted to tell them, shut up! The j.a.ps heard those guys! They might hear us too. But there was nothing else now, just the rain, and Adams felt his stomach turning over, flexed his fingers, realized he was shaking, the cold and the fear eating at him again.

He heard a rustle in the gra.s.s, a man moving up from out in front, a low voice.

"Saddle up. Follow me. n.o.body fires on this side of the river. There's n.o.body here but us, n.o.body shoots, you hear me? Keep track of your buddy, whoever's beside you. n.o.body lags behind."

Porter was already moving away, down into the thick gra.s.s. Adams waited for a shadow to move past him, fell into line behind the man. The gra.s.s gave way to more rocks, slices in the hillside, narrow gorges of coral and limestone, uneven footing. He felt a high wall on one side of him, tripped on something, stumbled to one side, rammed his ribs into a jutting rock, made a hard grunt, the man behind him doing the same, more grunts. He heard a hard whisper from the lieutenant.

"Quiet, dammit!"

There were no replies, Porter again pushing out in front of them. Adams felt the ground flattening, easier stepping, and now the mud was there, his feet slurping their way with the others. The mud grew deeper, the going slow. He stared at the back of the man in front of him, a shadow struggling forward, kept his distance, winced from the hard slurps of their steps. His legs began to burn, sweat blending with the rain in his eyes. He wanted to look around, to see if someone was behind him, his own footsteps now drowning out the sounds of anyone else. But even a glance to the side could cost him his balance, and he kept his head down, stared blindly at the knee-deep goo.

The mud began to harden, and he felt himself climbing, a low rise, gravel now beneath his feet. The noise echoed all along the line, and he glanced to the side, caught a glimpse of men, many men, columns spread out in formation, heard the soft crunch of the gravel. He tried to soften his steps, but it was useless, the boots of dozens of men around him stirring up the wide field, the strange image in his shivering mind of walking in a vast field of corn flakes. He stared ahead, thought of the engineers, the tracers, j.a.panese lookouts, and now, in front of him, the closest man had stopped. Adams halted just before running into the man; behind him others were coming up close. Men were kneeling, and he dropped down with them, saw one man still up, standing, silent, seeming to wait. No one was speaking at all, the only sound the rain on helmets and ponchos. He blinked water out of his eyes, but there was no rest, the men responding to a quiet order he didn't hear. The crunching began again, and he could see wide-open ground all around, no sign of cover, felt a hand on his arm, a brief tug, and now he saw the river, a wide black stain, peppered by the rain. The bank was thick with men, and he watched as one man moved out into the water, others following in line, one man behind the other. Then, to the left, another line, another leader. He thought of the footbridge. Where is that? Did they build it? Why are we ... a hand grabbed his shoulder, pushed him up close to another man, a low grunt he had heard before ... Ferucci. There were no words, the message clear. Get moving.

The streaks of red and blue came again, the far side of the river, higher up, reflecting on the water, the sounds reaching him, too close to be disguised by the rain. Adams followed the others out into the river, his knees bent, loud splashes all around him, quick steps into deepening water, the chopping of the machine guns rolling toward them from places he couldn't see. The streaks were closer now, the aim improving, a ripping slice in the water to one side. He pushed quickly forward, as quickly as the man in front would allow, the water up to his knees, then deeper, to his groin. The machine guns kept up their fire and he pressed forward, as much of a run as the water would allow. He realized now, the water was warm, surprising, soothing the chill in his legs, and he felt the soft mud of the bottom, the current not strong, easy to keep his balance. He stayed close to the men in front, the fire now mostly above them. Men settled low in the water, the best cover they had, a sea of helmets moving together, hands holding rifles high above. His knees kept driving him forward, men pushing up close to him from behind, driven by the same fear that tried to paralyze him now. The tracers lit the water from above, and he could see the lines of men on both sides, waves on the surface increasing from their movement, the water deepening, over his stomach. He held the rifle just over his head, shuffled his feet, working to keep his balance. How much deeper, he thought? Why in h.e.l.l aren't we on that bridge? Forget that. We're all down in this stuff. He wanted to turn, to find Welty, but the men were moving in slow motion, driven by the machine gun fire, everyone keeping the rhythm, the lines pressing forward. To one side came an enormous splash, a plume of spray that blinded him, another now out to the front. The sounds followed, distant thumps, the rain deadening the rips and screams. More sh.e.l.ls impacted far to the right, others whistled close overhead, striking the gravel and dirt behind them. The water was below his waist now, then his knees, and in front of him men began to run. He was on gravel again, his own legs kicking into motion, a blind scamper, pulled by the men scrambling forward, the ground visible only from the sprays of tracer fire. The mud came again, his feet slowing, bogging down, fire in his legs. He stumbled, the ground dipping low, fell to one hand, fingers in mud, pushed himself up, men moving past, calls, voices, urging the men forward. The machine gun fire began to slow, the tracers only to the right now, one Nambu gun still sending out a steady stream of fire. In front the guns were suddenly quiet, and he kept moving, screaming pain in his legs, his chest, hard breaths. He tried to see anything at all, rocks, hills, but the rain still blinded him, stinging his eyes. There were only shadows, some men stumbling, falling, grunts and low words. He felt the ground rising again, a hill, hard, ragged coral, heard men moving up in front, some calling out to the others. Cover! He pushed into any opening he could find, climbing with every step, saw some men falling into holes, cuts, the hillside gashed with the deep crevices, just as before, men filling the gaps, some stepping on each other as they fought for cover. He slipped in behind a rock, brush around it, heard a voice, felt a man push up against him, but there was no anger, no curses, both men doing the same thing. He sat still now, strained to hear, the man beside him silent, breathing heavily. We made it, he thought. We crossed the d.a.m.n river! Downstream the single machine gun stopped its fire, and now the only sound came from the rain, and the pounding in his ears from his own heart, his breaths. He was shivering again, the warmth of the river turning cold, flexed his arms, held the rifle out, then pulled it close, anything to keep moving. He thought of the lieutenant, the others, the men who led the way, who took them across. Where are they? They know what we're supposed to do. What happens now? We wait for daylight? Maybe the j.a.ps will come after us, make a charge. He felt the rock with his back, tall, above his head. Good cover. Good cover. Okay, I'm ready. For what?

Beside him the man shifted position, rolled over away from him, peered up over the rock. Adams leaned that way, said in a low whisper, "Get down! You nuts?"

The man settled back down, sat heavily, said, "Maybe. You an officer?"

"No. Private Adams."

"Adams. Yeah, the boxer. Won ten bucks on you last month. I'm Captain Bennett."

SOUTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA.

MAY 10, 1945, DAWN.

The mortar fire began at first light, incoming rounds that shattered into the coral, blowing rocky shrapnel through the men who tried desperately to hold on to their advance position. Near the mouth of the river, where it spread wide into the ocean, the obliterated road bridge stood as a shattered monument to the effectiveness of what still remained of j.a.panese artillery. On the north side of the river, frustrated tank commanders brought their vehicles close to the water, hoping to support the Marines who had made the crossing, but without the bridge, the tanks could do nothing more. The river itself would swamp any machines that tried to drive across. As the tank crews waited impatiently, the engineers attempted to build a bridge strong enough to support the weight of the armor. But the j.a.panese had a perfect field of fire, and immediately the engineers were targeted, soaring plumes of water taking a horrific toll on the men who did their best to build yet another bridge. Even the footbridge was targeted, not by artillery but by bands of j.a.panese soldiers who rushed the bridge wearing satchel charges, suicide squads whose work was stunningly effective. As the engineers tried to respond with hastily fired carbines, they could not prevent the j.a.panese from accomplishing their goal. The footbridge was blasted to rubble by men who gave their lives for that one simple task.

As the hours pa.s.sed, the determination of the engineers prevailed. Despite ongoing artillery fire from the hidden j.a.panese positions, the heavier bridges took shape, and the tanks began to roll. Offsh.o.r.e, in perfect testament to the effectiveness of the navy's firepower, the cruiser USS Indianapolis provided supporting fire against the j.a.panese guns that dared to show their position for more than a few seconds. With the tanks finally able to lend support, the Marines on the south side of the river received the orders the officers had expected all along. Crossing the river wasn't enough. Now it was time to continue the drive. To the east, the army divisions and the Marine First Division were facing j.a.panese defenses anch.o.r.ed by the Shuri Castle, and other strong positions dug deep into networks of low hills. To the west, closer to the coast, the Sixth Marines were facing one of the primary goals of the entire campaign: Okinawa's capital city of Naha, and just beyond, the city's major airfield.

Before first light on May 10, the Marines who hugged to whatever cover they could find began to suffer from incoming mortar fire, their positions revealed by the light of green flares, which burst over them, effective even in the driving rain. There was a new weapon as well, already familiar to the soldiers who had spent so many days close to j.a.panese positions. Enormous numbers of j.a.panese soldiers were equipped with a knee mortar, so called because its lightweight portability meant that it could be fired from nearly anywhere, anch.o.r.ed against the ground by a man's knee. But the small size did not diminish its brutal effectiveness against troops within close range. Hidden by ridgelines and any obstacle they could find, the j.a.panese troops began to pour fire into anyplace the Marines were trying desperately to seek cover. The low hills outside the city of Naha were now crawling with Marines, but very soon they learned that close in front of them, behind them and beneath them, the hill was crawling with j.a.panese troops as well.

They slid forward through the shallow mud, thick pools of stench that had flowed into low places in the coral. Adams stayed close to the soles of Ferucci's boots, knew that Welty or someone else was close behind him. Together they snaked their way through a deep draw, cut into the face of a hill that was no more than forty feet high. Around them the more open ground was a sea of uneven wreckage, earthen hills plowed up by artillery sh.e.l.ls, any vegetation long since obliterated, the rough ground offering shallow sanctuary for the Marines. Their goal had been a hill, what Bennett's map had shown to be Charlie Hill, but naming the mound of rocky coral did not mean it was that much more prominent than most of the undulating wasteland around it. As they reached the base of the hill, Adams had glimpsed a single landmark, one lone pine tree, rising above the ragged ridgeline, knew that somewhere an artilleryman was sighting on it as well. The sh.e.l.lfire had come all morning, some from the American 150s back near the river, or from the Indianapolis. The tanks were a.s.sisting as well, rolling up in support of the men who crawled their way through the cut coral. But as the Marines slipped and squirmed their way onto Charlie Hill, the big guns had to stop. Whatever targets there might have been were mostly underground, and the only thing the gunners and their observers could spot now were the specks of dirty green.

The rifle fire was relentless, most of it coming from rocks and crevices above them, keeping the Marines low in their cover. In front of him Ferucci had stopped, no progress now, nothing to do but wait for an opportunity. The sh.e.l.ling had seemed to come in bursts, Adams wondering if the j.a.panese inside the caves and holes knew the timing and so kept low while their gunners did the job. But no one had answers, and there was no time for conversation about anything. He thought of the lieutenant above them, just beyond a hump in the rocks. He'll know more than I do. He'll tell me to shut up and keep my head down. Getting good at that. The rocks close to his left hand shattered, and he hunched his shoulders in, thought, G.o.d, they see me! He wanted to move, anywhere, any direction, but the men around him were in no better position, no better cover than he had now. We can't just sit here! Dammit! He realized now that a roar was coming from below. The sound was familiar, clanking steel, a belching rumble. He eased his head around, saw down the hill, far out in the open, the black smoke, the machine rolling up and over the uneven ground.

"Sarge! A tank!"

"Shut up. I hear it. There's a crack in that rock above us. j.a.p rifles there. If the tank can send one shot in there, we can rush it!"

Adams gripped the M-1, held it close to his chest, saw the men down the hill behind him, some curled into muddy depressions, sh.e.l.l holes, no one seeming to want to rush anything. He watched the tank coming closer, felt a surge of thankfulness, the Sherman keeping back from the base of the hill. Now another appeared, its turret rotating, seeking targets, both machines drawing closer, stopping, and above him, Adams heard the voice, Porter, "Come on, d.a.m.n you! Put one up on this ridge! Son of a b.i.t.c.h, where's the walkie-talkie?"

No one responded, the rifle fire from the j.a.panese above them continuing, the sudden chatter from a Nambu gun, somewhere close. Adams lay as flat as he could, heard the whining crack, a dull whump from a j.a.panese rifle, so many odd sounds, different kinds of weapons. He had no choice but to keep flat, sharp coral beneath him, his face turned to the side, dirt in his ear. The rifle fire seemed to increase, more j.a.panese joining the fight, some response from below, the rattle of a BAR, pops from the Marines who crouched along the base of the hill, waiting for their own lieutenant to order the advance. The Nambu gun kept up its fire, a spray that ricocheted across the coral just behind Adams, and he heard shouts, a short scream, "I'm hit! Doc!"

Ferucci did not move, shouted, "We've got wounded up here! Corpsman!"

Others took up the call, voices from behind, "Corpsman!"

"Get a doc up here!"

"Got him!"

Adams let out a breath, the rifle fire close again, a splatter on a rock beside him, and he pushed against Ferucci's boot heel.

"We gotta move. They see us!"

Ferucci didn't speak, crawled away up the trail, a short scramble, and Adams stayed close to him, the smell of powder rolling over them. From below a tank fired, the sh.e.l.l pa.s.sing overhead with a sharp whistle, impacting against the hilltop. Adams felt the ground shake beneath him, turned toward the tank, could see smoke from the barrel of the tank's 75. Yes! Again! Blow them to h.e.l.l! He saw movement now, close to the tank, a man, another, emerging from some hidden place. They moved with quick steps, scurrying toward the tank. The uniforms were light, tan, and his heart leapt in his throat.

"Sarge!"

But there was no time, and two more j.a.panese soldiers appeared, the men running low toward both tanks, a mad crawl right under the belly, and now the blasts came, one quickly after the other, bursts of fire and black smoke. Adams stared in horror, swung around with his rifle, but there were no targets, the tanks engulfed in fire. He saw one hatch open, a man scrambling out, billowing smoke from inside the tank, but the Nambu guns were taking aim, the man falling, cut down by the j.a.panese fire. Another tanker emerged, b.l.o.o.d.y, bareheaded, staggering up out of the machine, was punched backward by the machine gun fire, fell in a heap to the muddy ground. Adams stared, sick, expected more men to emerge, the smoke coming out of both hatches in a thick plume. But there was only silence now, the fire curling up around each tank, a thump of a blast as a gas tank ignited, fire now spewing straight up through the open hatches.

"Sons of b.i.t.c.hes! Satchel charges!" Adams looked at the voice, Welty, below him.

Adams said, "They just blew themselves up!"

Welty said nothing more, turned toward him, black calm on the man's face, and above him, Ferucci said, "Stay down!"

Porter shouted now, from his hidden perch.

"Give me covering fire! I'm going up!"

Adams wanted to shout out, no! Going up ... where? He looked past Ferucci, saw the lieutenant emerge from a shallow hole, a grenade in his hand. The men responded with fire of their own, Adams raising his rifle to his shoulder, aiming up toward the ridge, nothing to see, no targets at all, just cuts in the rock. Porter seemed to pause, and Adams saw his face, red, bathed in sweat. He leapt out now, ran up over the rocky hillside, fell flat again, and now Adams saw the rifle barrel just above him, the j.a.panese soldier showing himself. Porter tossed the grenade up, into the opening, then rolled away. The blast came, a thumping billow of smoke and rock, and Porter was up again, threw another into the same hole, then stood, fired his carbine into the narrow gap. Ferucci yelled, "Let's go! Move!"

The sergeant rose, moved away quickly, darting into the shallow cover, closer to Porter. Adams followed, automatic, no thought, his eyes on the black ground, rocks and mud and smoke.

The rifle fire came from the left now, a burst from another machine gun, the rocks around him erupting in small splatters. Adams fell flat, no cover, men stumbling beside him, one man crying out. The Marines answered, M-1s from below, firing into the new target, no target at all. There was no other sound, just the steady firing from both sides, and Adams felt the paralysis, immobile against the rocks, staring sideways, a man's body close beside him. Run, you stupid ...

He leapt up, climbed frantically, searching wildly for anyplace to come down. There were small rocks in a heap, and he moved that way, dove, landing hard, rolled over them, saw a crack in the hard rock, slid that way, more fire, close by. He hugged the rifle close to his chest, terror holding him hard against the rocks, the crack inviting, a small cave. And now he saw the helmet, eyes staring back at him from inside the rock. He yelled, animal sounds, jammed the rifle forward, fired, fired again, kept firing until the clip clinked out of the M-1. Smoke filled the narrow gap, blinding, and he heard noises, voices, more men farther back in the rock. His legs tried to pull him away, to run, but there was no other place to be, and he dropped the M-1, no time, grabbed a grenade, jerked it from his shirt, blind instinct, pulled the pin, threw the grenade into the hole. He ducked now, just below the opening, the voices louder, a hard shout, but the blast came, knocking him backward, rolling him away from the rocky face. His ears were ringing and he tried to stand, saw splinters of rock around him, the j.a.panese machine guns still seeking him, punching the ground close to him. He scrambled back up into the cloud of dust and smoke, hugged the rock, saw the M-1, grabbed a clip from the cartridge belt, jammed it home.

"Pull back!"

"No! j.a.ps! Right here!"

"Pull back!"

He knew Porter's voice, but the words seemed to echo from very far away. The smoke cleared around him, and he saw movement down below, the men moving back down the hill, some in a run, some dropping, rolling, some not moving at all. He coughed from the smoke, wanted to see inside the rocky opening, to see the j.a.panese soldiers, the dead, his dead.

"Pull back! Get back! Move it!"

The hillside was alive with movement, men crawling down, some firing up toward the crevices, the enemy answering, flashes from the hidden places, smoke drifting past him in thin, stinking clouds. He kept his back to the rocks, heard more voices now from behind him, more men inside the rock hole, the voices urgent, silly, meaningless words. He grabbed another grenade, jerked the pin, held the grenade for a long second, his hand shaking, then with one motion stood back from the rock and threw the grenade hard inside. He ducked again, braced for the blast, one hand on his ear, the rocks jumping under him, a fresh cloud of blinding smoke.

"Pull back! Now!"

The smoke was all around him, a cloud of camouflage, and he dove down through it, struggling to keep his feet, jumped down to the crevice, past the rocks, more muddy holes. There were bodies, Marines, and he hesitated, reached down, grabbed a man's hand, no one left behind ...

"Get down! Pull back!"

The hand did not move, and his own momentum pulled him away, the Nambu gun chipping the rocks, whistles and cracks around his head. He released the hand, no choice, saw a low place in the rocks, jumped down, the hillside flattening, deeper mud, sh.e.l.l holes and torn ground. There were others moving around him, pulling back, no one stopping, and he kept running, tripping, stumbling, a desperate scamper, saw more of the others, men all across the muddy uneven ground, settling into cover. Faces watched him, terrified, some with dead eyes, and he saw Ferucci, on his knees, the sergeant cursing him, waving at him.

"Here! Take cover!"

Adams slid to a stop, felt mud inside his shirt, the sergeant grabbing him hard, pulling him flat to the ground.

"You stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You hear the order to withdraw, you withdraw!"

Adams didn't know how to respond, wanted to say something about the j.a.panese in the rocks, but there was no voice, his breathing in furious gasps, the smoke still in his lungs. There was a calm moment, strange, no firing, a wafting black cloud rolling past, the stink of the smoke that poured toward them from the tanks. Adams tried to sit, roll over, see up the hill, but the order came from far down the line.

"Tanks are coming up! Withdraw!"

The words seemed nonsensical, foolish, someone's stupid mistake. Tanks get blown to h.e.l.l! He searched the faces, saw some with helmets low, staring into the mud, some looking back up the hill, some with rifles aimed. The tanks came with hard rumbles, the squeaking of steel, and the big guns fired, a steady thumping rhythm into the hill. He thought of the bodies, could see them, splayed out, filthy green heaps, but the tankers aimed high, were blasting the crest, and now a hand jerked his shoulder, sharp words.

"Let's go!"

He rose up with the others, the j.a.panese opening up again from hidden machine guns, the firing from the tanks continuing, their own machine guns answering. The Marines flowed back away from the hill, into the undulating ground, thick deep mud, some men seeking cover around the tanks, but the tanks did not stay, were already in motion, pulling away, their machine guns continuing to fire, offering cover to the retreating Marines. Adams scrambled to keep up, searing pain in his chest, legs bogging down in the mud, saw some men jumping up on the tanks, grabbing on, some sliding back off, the bouncing motion of the tanks too unsteady. He followed the men on foot, no faces now, just backs, helmets, rifles and carbines and BARs, a mad scramble away from the hill, the hill they couldn't take.

18. ADAMS.

NORTHEAST OF NAHA, OKINAWA.

MAY 11, 1945.

The brief respite from the rains had ended, a new storm washing over them with a fury that felt like the clouds were making up for lost time. The winds were bl.u.s.tery, sweeping away the shelter halves, no kind of cover for the muddy holes strong enough to keep the storm off the men who kept low in their foxholes. From hills and hidden places in what seemed every direction, the j.a.panese continued to choose their targets, anyone leaving his hole likely to draw attention from a dozen machine guns, a hail of rifle fire. And so the men stayed put. They were getting used to the oily water, but only because they had no choice.

In the foxholes themselves, the misery of the mud was made worse for another more personal reason. Those, like Adams, whose guts were twisted into sickening turmoil, had no place to go to relieve themselves, no latrine, no slit trench. But their pants came down, brief seconds of embarra.s.sing h.e.l.l, the new stink adding to the mud and water in the only place they could stay, the only place there was cover from the j.a.panese guns, the only kind of comfort there could be.