The stink had come from other sources as well, and no one had to ask why. The answers lay all around them, shreds of clothing, uniforms of the soldiers from both sides who had fought over this same ground for weeks now. Worse were the bones, and what was still hanging from them, some identifiable, an arm, hand, leg, some just blobs of black filth. The shovels had done quick work, the foxholes easier to dig in the mud, gaps in the coral. But the shovels continued to chop through the remains of the men who had died there. The sickening crunch of bone was never ignored, even by the men who had done this before, who seemed immune to almost any other horror. With every hour the smells had grown worse, had become a part of them, their soggy uniforms, their food, infesting every brain, driving some of the men into nightmares of what ... and who ... they sat in. The nightmares were brief, most of the men not able to sleep at all, and if they found themselves nodding off for blessed moments in the foot-deep water, the j.a.panese flares would come, shattering the darkness with harsh green light. The flares usually meant a mortar barrage, the blasts sudden and unpredictable, since the telltale sounds of the knee mortars were disguised by the storm. The Marines had withdrawn as far as the bra.s.s considered necessary, but no matter their distance from Naha, or the hills they still had to a.s.sault, the j.a.panese were there. In the dark they came as they had before, but in far greater numbers. The rain disguised any sound, no shadows caught by starlight. The grenades and satchel charges were their weapons of choice, stunning blasts of blinding light, enough to terrorize the men in their foxholes, but enough as well to silhouette the enemy who was often so close, some of the Marines claimed they could smell them. When the individual attacks came, it was rare that the j.a.panese soldier did any more than sacrifice himself, falling straight into a foxhole with an armed grenade, taking away his enemy and himself, fulfilling his glorious mission. With the American tanks moving up in a vain effort to support the Marines, the infiltrators would go after those much more valuable targets, the men on the ground ordered to keep watch for any hint of j.a.panese soldiers whose sole mission was to throw themselves and their satchel charges beneath the belly of the tank. Already the armor officers had pulled many of the Shermans farther back, conceding that the j.a.panese suicide a.s.saults were infuriatingly effective. In the rainy darkness it didn't matter how many Marines kept watch, some sheltered by the tank itself. When the j.a.panese came, those men were just as likely to become casualties themselves.

Along the muddy front, the orders from the lieutenants were direct and harsh. At least two men per hole, and as before one had to remain alert, keeping watch, whether there was anything to be seen or not. The ponchos that still held together were all they had for protection, and with no way to dry out clothes or skin, sickness had begun to spread through the men, made far worse by the filth they could not escape. The enemy was suffering as well, but no Marine gave that much thought, knew only that any attempt to leave the foxhole would likely draw fire. The j.a.panese seemed to wait in every low place, rising up from some invisible nook, seeking out the vulnerable, the careless, the unwary, and if any of the sickest men had the desperate need to find a corpsman, or make it to an aid station, it was just as likely he would run headlong into a band of infiltrators. And with the driving rain m.u.f.fling the pa.s.swords, the danger was more intense than ever that he might be shot down by a jittery hand from his own unit.

NORTH OF NAHA, OKINAWA.

MAY 11, 1945, MIDNIGHT.

Adams knew the rot had crept down from his groin, a stinging agony, sore and raw, all the way into his boots. He had tried to ignore it, as much as he could ignore anything around him. But he could not ignore Welty. The redhead sat down slowly, settled into the wetness, his two-hour watch complete. Adams began to pull himself upright, the M-1 a crutch, and he saw the shadows of Welty with his backpack, heard the m.u.f.fled sound of the man rifling through, searching. Adams straightened his legs, the sharp pain in his groin grabbing him, and he made himself stand straight, ignored the M-1 he couldn't see, had given up on whether it was clean or not. But it was his turn to take the watch, two hours of rain flowing down his neck, splattering his helmet, blowing into his eyes. Welty pulled something from the pack, and Adams heard the rip of soggy cardboard.

"Oh G.o.d, are you kidding?"

Welty completed the task, the sound of the tin can opening, replied in a whisper.

"Gotta eat."

"No, you don't. I don't. Can't even think about it. What the h.e.l.l is that?"

"Stew I think. Don't much matter. The rain fills up the can fast as I can eat it. It's like ... seconds."

Adams had grown used to Welty's amazing ability to ignore his surroundings, but this was pushing him too far. He felt the twist in his stomach, bent low, a convulsive surge driving hard up through his throat, the sharp groan. But there was nothing inside of him, just the painful grip of his stomach muscles.

"Hey, you got the dry heaves again? Oh c.r.a.p. You want me to take your watch? Sit back down."

Adams tried to relax his insides, stood slowly, knew he was exposed from the chest up, ignored that, nothing at all to be seen in the thick wet darkness. He tried to take a deep breath, find some way to cleanse the air in his lungs. The smells were a part of him, had filled his brain and his insides to capacity, but the thought of Welty's stew and rainwater had been the last dismal straw.

"I'm okay. You enjoy your dinner. You twisted b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Welty ignored the insults, had heard them before.

"You'll get used to it. You're not a newbie anymore. And no matter what you feel like now ... you gotta eat. At least drink some water. Got a full canteen here. What you don't drink, you can lube your piece. Or h.e.l.l, rub it all over your skin. You're the one who thought gun oil would keep the d.a.m.n fleas off you. The stuff in this d.a.m.n canteen's gotta be pretty close."

Adams stared into the rain, water dripping from the brim of his helmet. He had done all he could to ignore Welty's strange behavior, had kept the thoughts away that Welty seemed to like this, or that maybe he was just going nuts. It had happened to others, men suddenly crawling up out of their holes, calling out to someone, a girl, their mothers, the brutal conditions so complete that their brains had just abandoned them, gone off somewhere else. Most of those men did not survive long, and the ones who had were back in some place Adams didn't want to think of. He had known a few of those in the hospital in San Diego, the ones who had gone Asian, who simply fell apart. It was a fear he still held on to, that it might be him, that the paralyzing panic would eat away at what sense he had left. But now, in the driving rain, with his buddy chomping down rain-filled stew, Adams could not escape the fear that he might be the only sane man left in the platoon.

With the gray light came the same amazing scene, rolling muddy hills, blasted clean of brush, the rain revealing even more bones, sc.r.a.ps of cloth, pieces of bodies. Adams kept his helmet low, peered up every minute or so, nothing changing but the slow drift of dense fog. Close to either side of him, the tops of helmets were just visible, some men moving inside the sanctuary of their foxholes. He examined the M-1, dripping water, mud on the stock, on the barrel, thought of the drill sergeant, nameless now, some huge monster of a man who tormented the recruits in San Diego, who would find the slightest smudge on a rifle barrel and punish you by making a man lick a dirty rifle clean. But saliva wasn't clean, of course, so the recruit would then use his own toothbrush, soaked in gun oil, then, when the rifle was thoroughly brushed, the DI would make the man brush his teeth. It was obscenely idiotic, and Adams remembered every detail now, stared at the mud and rain on his rifle, wanted to laugh. Hey, a.s.shole, what about this? You want me to lick this son of a b.i.t.c.h clean? Fine, but you gotta come out here and show me how. Where the h.e.l.l are you, anyway? Warm bed, or sitting on the beach, watching the girls? Toughest b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the Corps, that's what you wanted us to believe. If I ever find you, I'll ram this piece right up your cocoa hole. He focused, the daydream shattered by a flash of light, far to the front. More came now, a splattering of blasts in the mud that seemed to come in a line, straight toward him.

"Mortar!"

He splashed into the bottom of the hole, Welty shrinking himself against the far end, shoulders hunched, nothing else to do. The ground shuddered with each blast, mud tossed in on them, a half-dozen thumps coming in close to the network of foxholes. And then, silence. Adams rose up from the thick goo, Welty beside him, listened for the inevitable, and now it came.

"Corpsman! Doc! Doc!"

One man was screaming, a high thick whine, another voice, trying to calm him. But the scream continued, and Adams searched through the mist, saw a fresh heap of smoking mud, dug up by the mortar sh.e.l.l. From behind a man moved up, crawling quickly, closer to the churned earth.

"Coming!"

"Doc! Oh h.e.l.l!"

The corpsman reached the smoking hole, lay flat, peered down, seemed suddenly headless, an unnerving sight, Adams blinking it away. The screaming came again, the corpsman working furiously, still lying flat outside the blasted hole, and within a minute the screaming seemed to drift away, then stopped. The corpsman rose up, rolled over to one side, motionless for a long second, black mud on his arms, his face. Adams saw a glimpse of the man's eyes, empty, staring at nothing, then a slow shake of his head. He began to crawl away, back to his own safe place, and in a thick low voice, Welty said, "Nothing he could do. I bet."

"How do you know? Maybe he gave him some morphine, shut him up."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Doc! Doc!"

The voice came from the distance, somewhere in the fog, beyond a short rise. Adams saw the corpsman stop, turn, still on his knees, the man's head hanging low, resignation to the awful task. He moved that way, and now another man crawled out of a hole, moving with him, keeping his distance a few paces behind.

"Doc!"

The corpsman didn't speak, just crawled toward the voice, climbed slowly up the incline, the second man moving up faster, sliding in beside him, a carbine in the man's hand. The corpsman peered over, trying to see, to find the foxhole of the wounded man, and now the shot punched the air, the corpsman collapsing in a heap, flat, motionless. The second man ducked low in the mud, then fired the carbine, emptied the magazine, stayed low, reloaded, fired again. Adams watched in horror, saw no movement from the corpsman, the other man still reloading, spraying fire from the carbine out beyond the muddy rise. The man slid back, reached out for the boot of the corpsman, dragging him, and now another man rose up, scampering close, another hand on the corpsman's boots. They slid him through the mud, plowing a shallow furrow back through the foxholes. More men climbed up, but there was a harsh voice from the man with the carbine, sending the men back into their holes. Adams could see now. It was Porter.

The two men pulled the corpsman back past Adams, who stared, frozen, a new sickness, felt a hand on his shoulder, Welty, pulling him down.

"They're right out there, sport. Keep your d.a.m.n head down."

"They shot the doc!"

"j.a.ps know some English, Clay. Doc's an easy one. Don't ever call out a name, the j.a.ps will call 'em right back to you." Adams looked at him, Welty's eyes cold, the same grim stare. "The doc shoulda known better."

Adams looked back, the men already gone behind another low rise, the corpsman's body hauled somewhere off the line.

"Known better? How?"

Throughout the day the positions were shifted, units sliding to one side or another, pulled into position for new attacks on the hills the j.a.panese still controlled. The fire from the j.a.panese positions had come in waves and spurts, whenever targets had appeared. Their aim had been mostly ineffective, but not always, and all through the muddy fields, the men who dared to show themselves for more than a second or two were sprayed with a barrage from machine guns that no one could see. The mortars would come next, no aim at all, their destructiveness by pure chance. If a sh.e.l.l came down directly into a foxhole, even the corpsmen knew not to take chances examining the victims.

By midday the fog had mostly cleared, but the rains still came, and with no hope of moving supply trucks forward, the men had to make do with the food and ammunition they carried. No runner could hope to survive by hauling anything across the open ground in daylight, and when the order came for a new attack, each platoon had been sorted out by their lieutenants, who made sure each man had grenades, and enough clips for his rifle to be effective. Then more orders came, and Adams had seen Porter sitting upright on the edge of his foxhole, wiping down his carbine, as though the danger had pa.s.sed, that anything they had gone through so far was only a taste. The Marines all along the lines were pulled up into position for the a.s.sault again and again, striking at the low rocky hills that served as the strong points along the main j.a.panese defensive line. Porter had told his own men only what had come across his radio, that the bra.s.s was growing more impatient watching casualties hauled back to the command posts, that dead men wrapped in ponchos meant that something more had to be done. It was an easy conclusion to draw by men who stayed dry under their camouflaged tents. But Porter spread the word to his men, who, for once, agreed with their commanders. There was no victory to be had as long as the Marines were sitting still. For two long days they had absorbed a horrific toll trying to take hills that the j.a.panese seemed expert at protecting. Adams had seen the corpsman die because the man was doing his job. Others had watched friends close by ripped apart by shrapnel, cut down by the fire of the Nambu guns, helmets cracked by the deadly fire of a sniper. They knew with perfect certainty that they were facing a very capable enemy who had only one goal: to die by killing as many Americans as he could. The Marines understood what had to happen well before their officers made it official. No matter that they had been driven off the hills, they had no choice but to try again.

NORTHWEST OF "HILL TWO"

MAY 12, 1945.

Around them the entire battalion had gathered, brought closer together for an a.s.sault someone far behind them seemed to think would end their problems. Charlie Hill now lay to their east, the place a.s.saulted repeatedly, but this time, when the men of Bennett's company had been marched through the muddy fields, it was more to the west, away from the familiar ground they had expected to climb. In the darkness there were no features to the ground at all, beyond the dips in the terrain, and the familiar mud. The only light came from the strange storm of flares, mostly in the distance, silhouetting the distant hills, or star sh.e.l.ls, American, sent aloft to aid the artillery and tank fire. The rumble from the big guns had been almost continuous, and as Adams plodded along, keeping his boots in the sloppy tracks of the men before him, he had stopped hearing the peculiar differences between all the varieties of sh.e.l.ls. He had still not been able to eat much of anything, had munched down a brick-hard cracker from a K ration box. The oily water had become a part of the routine, the nauseating taste just another piece of the torturous test of endurance that to most of the Marines had become normal. But the crack-up cases were increasing, Adams watching as one man from Porter's platoon suddenly leapt out into the rain, running in wide circles, shouting at the nonexistent sun, outraged that there hadn't been any sign of a sunset. It was a ridiculous show of utter insanity, the man attracting a storm of machine gun fire, standing perfectly upright in the wide open, arms raised, fists shaking, curses directed at no one else but the man's own decaying version of G.o.d. He had been tackled finally, completely unharmed, but the corpsmen had sedated the man, and in minutes the strange rant was now just one more nightmarish memory to the men who still had their job to do.

The column in front of Adams slowed, halted, the men dropping down, no instructions necessary. Adams did as the others did, knees in the mud, the poncho serving as a small makeshift tent. He tried to see anything at all, caught only shadows in the rain, realized that a man was moving up close to him, hard whispers.

"Check your weapons. Grab every grenade you can carry. Moving out in five minutes."

Adams saw more figures, heard the splashing thud of a heavy crate. He caught a new, oily smell, suddenly realized there was a tank a few yards in front of them, a silent, hulking ma.s.s, men climbing up, boxes unloaded. The men around him began to move, and he followed, mindless, his legs stiff, cold, achingly sore. The grenades were uncrated, the men dipping down, filling their hands, pockets, shirts, anyplace they could be stashed. Adams did the same, gave it no other thought, the order logical, the obedience automatic. The voices around him were low, serious, none of the cursing banter of the men. Near the tank he caught a low conversation, stepped that way, knew the sound of officers, perked up, curious, heard Porter, others, and now, Captain Bennett.

"No more than a third of them are left up there. The Twenty-ninth is shot for now, and we've got to move in to replace them. The colonel says to get to the top, hold on for everything we can. At dawn the navy will help, unless we can make it all the way up there first."

"How the h.e.l.l is the navy supposed to know that? You want me to stand up and wave?"

The question rolled through Adams's brain in sleepy logic. He stepped closer, had to hear the response, expected some kind of punch line, like a bad Bob Hope joke, nonsensical lunacy. Wavy at the navy.

"Just get your people up that hill as quick as you can. The colonel is watching from his CP, and I'll have a radio. There's probably a bunch of wounded up there. n.o.body really knows. That's why you have to get there quick. Do whatever you can to scrub those j.a.p b.a.s.t.a.r.ds off that hill. Dawn should come in a half hour. Now, move out."

The men began to separate and Adams felt a strange disappointment, nothing funny at all in the officer's instructions. But the nonsense of it all still rolled through him, and he tried to form a picture, his brain dancing strangely. Scrub a hill? This whole d.a.m.n place needs scrubbing. This rain keeps up, the whole place might wash into the sea. The new image flickered through his brain, soldiers suddenly caught in some giant whirlpool, a flow through the great drain of a sewer, sliding down a long chute of mud, the entire island, airfields, straw huts, rats, snakes, and people, all washed out to sea. Wavy at the navy.

"Now!"

The word punched him, close to his ear, and he seemed to wake, blinked through rain in his eyes.

"What?"

"Move out, Private. You waiting for a taxi?"

It was Ferucci, and Adams realized others were close beside him, the familiar smell of Welty, distinct now, a low voice, "Got him, Sarge. Let's move out."

Adams felt his feet in motion, tried to blink through the fog in his brain, heard Welty beside him.

"You going crackers, sport? What's so funny?"

Adams tried to sort out his friend's words, said, "What? Nothing."

"You were laughing like h.e.l.l, couldn't get you to stop. The looey was about to call for the doc to check you out."

Adams felt his head clearing, the march awakening him, the thumping weight of the grenades throbbing against him with each step. He had a surge of panic, thought of the crack-ups. No, G.o.d no. Not now. Can't leave these guys. He sorted through the officer's words, a hill to take, our guys up there. Wounded. That's bad. Gotta help 'em out.

"I'm okay. Just fell asleep I guess."

"Here. Eat this."

Adams took the cracker, softened by the rain, felt a different rumbling in his gut, healthier. It was actual hunger. He wolfed down the cracker, said, "d.a.m.n. Pretty good. You got more?"

"You've got plenty, you idiot. Your backpack's full of K rations. I saw 'em. No time to eat now. We've gotta move. Somewhere, another hill. Light's coming soon."

The clarity seemed to flow through him, and he put a hand on a pocket of his jacket, felt a heavy wad of grenades. Good.

"You got a D ration?"

"Jesus, Clay. Been trying to feed you for days. Now you're hungry? Hang on, I'll grab one out of your pack. I know d.a.m.n well you've got those too."

Welty reached under the poncho, pulled something from Adams's backpack, stuffed it in his hand. Adams ripped off the thin cardboard, stuffed it in his mouth. The chocolate bar was syrupy and delicious, and Adams felt an urgent need to eat a dozen more.

"Shut up! s.p.a.ce out!"

Adams knew Ferucci's growl, savored the last thick taste of the chocolate, felt energized now, clamped his arm against the M-1 that hung from his shoulder. He raised his head, peered out past the hood of his poncho, saw the green glow of a distant flare, a clear image of the hill. But the sky was lightening, the first hint of sunrise, and he realized the rain had stopped. The men in front of him were visible now, shapes more clear, helmets and ponchos, rifle barrels, one man with a BAR slung up on his shoulder. More columns marched out beside them, a few yards away, and he saw a machine gun crew, three men, hauling the weapon, with the tripod and ammunition boxes. He looked out the other way, saw faces mostly looking down, the men s.p.a.ced apart, more columns, all moving together, realized they were in the hundreds. The officer's words came back to him, battalion. That's us. Several companies. All going ... where? A hill. He looked forward again, fog and mist, but the sounds were increasing, louder, the steady chatter of machine guns. He felt his heart beginning to race with a new energy, something he hadn't felt before. He could see only glimpses of the hill, the fog thick, drifting. The machine gun fire opened up suddenly to the right, from some hidden place, some of it American, hard shocks from artillery sh.e.l.ls coming down far into the fog. More of us, he thought. He shivered, the wetness still chilling him, but the excitement was growing as well. Across the rolling fields, in every direction, Marines were moving as he was, toward the same place, the fight that continued to spread out all across the ground he couldn't see. He wanted to run, to jog, the aching stiffness in his legs gone, the energy building. It's time, Clay. Look at these guys. And the j.a.ps. They gotta know we're coming. The fear was still there, the officer's words coming back. So, this is very bad. We're chewed up. They're killing corpsmen, for G.o.d's sake. Scrub the hill. He thought of a prayer, something he rarely did, but he couldn't form the words, nothing meaningful. G.o.d doesn't care, he thought. This is about men. Kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. We'll tell G.o.d about it later.

The scream of an artillery sh.e.l.l came straight past him, coming down close behind. More came now, hints of red streaks in the dull light, coming toward them from far to the left. The calls went out, the men hurrying their pace, the impacts coming in closer, enemy gunners in far places finding the range. But there was no cover, no stopping, no orders to dig in. He saw Porter doing as others did, waving his men forward. Adams crossed a two-rut trail, a road thick with mud, the wreckage of a jeep, something else, black metal, destroyed, swallowed by the mud. Beyond the narrow road was open ground, and through black smoke he could see a round pit, nothing like a sh.e.l.l hole. It was wide and clear, and men were moving down into the natural cover. The edges were neatly formed, concrete in a circular arc. He had seen this before, in the north, one of the many tombs the Okinawan people had constructed for the interment of their ancestors. The C-shaped depressions were a natural defense for avoiding shrapnel, but as every lieutenant had pointed out, a direct hit would likely shred every man in the depressed hole. The sergeants were moving quickly now, cursing shouts at the men to get up out of the concrete cover, to keep up the advance. Some obeyed, but Adams saw others, lumps of green, helmets and ponchos, sitting motionless against the low solid walls, too terrified to move. He ignored them, could not be angry at them, knew the fear, the terror, tried not to think of that. The tombs were everywhere, like some oversized cemetery, spread out across the open ground. Each one held men now, the sh.e.l.lfire driving them into cover. Adams wanted to follow, pure instinct, the luscious allure of a concrete wall, saw Porter yelling something, waving still, pulling his men past one of the round gaping maws. Above all the sounds, one rose, louder, the freight-train roar coming closer. Adams didn't hesitate, dropped flat, the sh.e.l.l pa.s.sing close to one side, erupting with a deafening concussion of fire and smoke directly in the arc of the closest tomb. He hugged the muddy ground for a long second, the ringing in his ears sharp, painful, but he saw men rising up, Porter again. The lieutenant was moving back through his men, grabbing them, pushing them forward, and Adams saw his face, furious eyes, a glimpse back at Adams, a sharp nod, words, and Adams was up again, blew mud from his mouth, breathed in a lungful of smoke, fought it with a violent cough. He looked toward the tomb, concrete in huge pieces, scattered around a smear of black in the circular arc, pieces of ... men.

"Move!"

"No stopping! Keep moving!"

He kept his eyes on the b.l.o.o.d.y awful scene, boots and a gathering pool of black ... something. He turned away, tried to find the energy, saw Porter again. Adams saw him look into what remained of the tomb, of the men who had sought safety there. Adams felt a punch of fear. Who? Does he know? But there was no time for that, the lieutenant waving again, pushing his men past the awful scene. The sh.e.l.lfire came down in a new pattern now, to one side, splattering rhythmically into the muddy ground, bursts of water and dirt tossed skyward. One sh.e.l.l struck a piece of steel wreckage, and he saw men going down around it, like petals of a flower, blown out by the burst of shrapnel. Adams tried to ignore that, pushed his legs forward, searched for Porter, anyone familiar, but there were no faces, just smoke and mud and fire. The hill was close, squatting in the rolling plain like a fat loaf of bread, no more than forty yards high. Out in front of the hill there was no cover at all, just a gently sloping plain, streaks of tracer fire ripping across from several directions. On the hill itself came flashes from the muzzles of a hundred rifles, more, every rocky hole alive with men and guns. He hunched his shoulders, as though fighting off the rain, ran forward, following another man, rapid steps, muddy splashes, saw a fat rock at the base of the hill, men huddled low. Behind it one man was lying flat, blood on his head, the uniform ripped away, the man's arm ... gone. Machine guns ripped the air all around him, pinging on the rocks, the smell of burnt coral, the pop and whine of rifle fire, mortar sh.e.l.ls coming down all out across the open ground behind them. Adams glanced around, panicked, didn't know what to do, saw men falling around him, some diving for bits of shelter, some just collapsing. He leapt past the rock, saw men climbing, this hill so much like the one before, deep crevices and shallow cracks, overhanging rocks and jagged edges of coral. The smoke was thick, blinding, suffocating, every kind of projectile flying past, steel and rock. The blasts were growing in number, fiery eruptions small and large, the thumps and thuds and cracks blending together into one great deafening roar, punctuated by screams, shouts, the broad hillside its own perfect h.e.l.l.

The bombing and sh.e.l.ling of the hill from American air strikes and naval guns had gone on for several days, long before the Marines had actually reached the hill itself. American artillerymen and tankers had naturally a.s.sumed they had so badly damaged the j.a.panese position that few of the enemy would be left to offer any kind of heavy resistance. That foolishness had been erased days before as the Sixth Division's Twenty-ninth Regiment and one battalion of the Twenty-second had attempted to capture the position, only to be ripped apart by the mostly unseen enemy. With those Marines so badly mauled, another battalion of the Twenty-second had been ordered in to make another attempt, continuing what had become a ma.s.sive slow-footed a.s.sault against the entire j.a.panese defenses, what the maps now labeled the Shuri Line.

But Hill Two was becoming more than just a number on a map. The network of hills that lay behind it was part of the interconnecting defenses that ran in an undulating line through the j.a.panese strongholds that belted the entire southern half of the island, the extraordinary defensive wall created by General Ushijima, crafted by the perfect efficiency of Colonel Yahara. Since the American command had dismissed the notion of bypa.s.sing the line with amphibious a.s.saults, General Buckner's troops were under orders that made it clear that if the j.a.panese defenses were to be broken, it would be up to the two army divisions now to the east, the Seventh and the Ninety-sixth, and the two Marine divisions, the First and the Sixth, to ram headlong into whatever the j.a.panese had prepared for them. Against Ushijima's eastern defenses, the army divisions faced the same kinds of b.l.o.o.d.y challenges, while in the center, the First Marines pushed toward the enormous stronghold anch.o.r.ed by Shuri Castle. But none of the Americans were finding easy success. In the west, what was now the right flank of the American drive, the Sixth Marine Division was charged still with securing the low hills that offered artillery protection for the city of Naha, and then capturing Naha itself. But the rugged rocky formations held far more power than the Marines had expected. Once they finally rolled over Charlie Hill, they encountered a larger, more elaborate section of the j.a.panese defenses, the maps showing only a series of low hills that seemed to resemble an arrowhead, aimed directly at their advance. With perfectly interconnecting fields of fire from the three hills, the j.a.panese had antic.i.p.ated that any American a.s.sault would be decimated before any of the hills could be taken at all. Thus far, they had been right.

With orders to continue, the American field officers directed the attacks from command posts where the smoke ran thick. Those men did more of their work with binoculars than maps, and so the numbers and grid lines were not as important as what they could see for themselves. Quickly, labels on maps were replaced by names that more perfectly described the shapes of the obstacles the officers and their men could actually see. The names were mostly innocuous, but they gave memory to the struggles, would resonate with the fighting men far more than any simple number. Across the rear of the arrowhead, the larger, more spread-out promontories were now referred to as the Half Moon and the Horseshoe, each one labeled with perfect obviousness. But at the point, Hill Two was very different. Some described it as a half watermelon, a red-rock dome that rose little more than fifty feet high and three hundred yards long. But the name that stuck, the name the Marines would remember, was Sugar Loaf Hill.

SUGAR LOAF HILL, EAST OF NAHA, OKINAWA.

MAY 14, 1945.

They made progress in inches, feeling their way up into any kind of low cover, but no hole was safe, no rock or slash in the coral secure. The hill was draped and shattered with sh.e.l.lfire, small arms close by, artillery sh.e.l.ls coming down on the Marines from distant caves, mortar sh.e.l.ls impacting from knee mortars that could be anywhere at all. The low hilly formations beyond Sugar Loaf might have seemed to be an arrowhead, but to the j.a.panese artillery officers they created the other two points of a triangle, each one offering hidden gunners easy range toward the entire position, protecting the j.a.panese soldiers who the Marines now realized were right beneath them. Sugar Loaf Hill was hardly a solid chunk of rock. The Marines were a.s.saulted from a network of caves and tunnels that made the hill more like a great fat honeycomb, hollow in ways the Marines were just figuring out. For most of the day they had no choice but to lie flat, seeking cover while trying to fight an enemy who might be anywhere at all. Some who had managed to reach the ragged rocks higher up the slope soon found rifle fire coming at them from behind, j.a.panese troops firing through narrow slits and spider holes that a man could step right over. Out in the open fields, American tanks attempted to drive close, but other than scattered shots at fleeting glimpses of targets, the gunners had little to do. The Marines were spreading out right in the midst of their enemy, and any sh.e.l.lfire would just as likely kill friend as foe. Worse for the tanks, the Marine riflemen who had been ordered to stay close, protecting the armor from suicidal j.a.panese soldiers, found that the tanks offered no protection at all from the impact of mortar sh.e.l.ls. The tanks themselves were immediately vulnerable to a new threat, expertly aimed anti-tank weapons, fired, like everything else, from carefully disguised positions. Realizing their chaotic predicament, the tanks that were not quickly destroyed were forced to withdraw, seeking shelter far back from the network of hills. Most of the Marines were too occupied with survival and raw combat to notice that the tanks had left them to fight on alone. But any Marines who remained out on the open ground, or who attempted to reach the base of the hill, suffered the worst. With nowhere to hide, many of them were simply swept away in a storm of fire.

The rain came again, but only a brief shower, muddying the already wet soil beneath him. Adams had squeezed himself between two sharp rocks, filling a gap no more than the width of his chest, the ledge beneath his feet less than a yard wide. Around him men were firing in every direction, some lying flat in shallow remnants of burned brush, others rolling over in the mud, then rolling again, trying desperately to avoid the enemy fire as they fought in the wide open. Adams had reached the narrow ledge by climbing up past several of the other men, no one paying any attention, each man fighting his own war. He had given himself a single minute of rest, trying to catch his breath, to gather his senses, the roar of sh.e.l.lfire and weapons around him relentless. After a painful moment he loosened himself from the tight squeeze, struggled to pull a clip from the belt across his chest, rammed it into the M-1, stared straight up, a craggy rock jutting out a few feet over his head. There had been a stream of fire coming from above the rock, and he was close enough to hear hints of shouting in j.a.panese. Already Adams had tried to warn anyone who drew close, but his own shouts were useless, drowned out by the noise, the men below him mostly beyond his sight, focused solely on avoiding the steady storms of machine gun fire. A fresh cloud of smoke flowed along the face of the hill, settling into low pockets in the rough rock, and he struggled to breathe, the smoke offering momentary cover to the men most vulnerable. He saw flickers of motion, some of the Marines below him trying to move up, to advance away from the flatter depressions, several climbing up where he could see them. There were familiar faces, all of them plastered with dirt and sweat, staring up and out with wide-eyed terror. To one side, beyond the rock that jammed against him, he knew Yablonski was there, and close below him, Gridley had the BAR. Adams caught a glimpse of the big man's helmet, had seen Pop Gorman's face, a brief glimpse of the man who fed the BAR, more fear than Adams wanted to see. Within his limited field of vision, Adams caught sight of rifle barrels, heard the close rattle of a thirty-caliber machine gun, a crew somehow hauling their weapon up through the rocks. In the moments of calm, brief seconds of silence, Yablonski's curses came from the left side of him, a chorus of furious yelling, more frustration than anger. Adams couldn't see where he had gone, what kind of cover he had found, but Yablonski was firing his M-1 in a manic attack all his own. Whether Yablonski had any actual targets, Adams had no idea.

He leaned slightly away from the rocks, the rifle ready, no one in sight but glimpses of Marines. He realized he hadn't seen Ferucci since the climb had started, or Welty, had no time to pay attention to faces and names as he scrambled up into cover. Above him there had been a steady mix of Nambu fire and the distinct pop of a carbine, plus scattered rounds coming from M-1s in places Adams had not yet seen. He thought of Porter, hadn't seen him either, felt the usual stab of panic, thought, if he's dead ... what do we do? How in h.e.l.l does anybody give orders up here? His brain fought with itself, forcing his panic away. Just do what he said. Climb. Get to the top. Kill j.a.ps. He repeated that to himself. Kill j.a.ps. But you're safe here. Right here. Maybe. The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are everywhere. But so are we. This is stupid as h.e.l.l! Is this what we're supposed to do? Porter would know. Welty knows. He's done this before. Where the h.e.l.l is he? He can't be dead. Can't be. Dammit, I can't just stay here.

From his wedged-in position, Adams could see nothing but smoke, movement out to one side, in one low depression, the thirty-caliber, the men changing position, one man holding two ammo boxes. Good. Ammo. Use it! The man suddenly crumpled, as though the boxes were too heavy, dragging him down at the knees, but Adams shook his head, one word, "No!"

The others in the crew pulled the man into someplace Adams couldn't see, and he pressed himself back into the craggy gap, closed his eyes. I can't just watch this. That man was shot. Dead maybe. What the h.e.l.l do I do? He felt like crying, the fear draining everything away, and he tried to keep the shivering away, furious at himself. Coward! Do something! His best view was straight up, the rock, the j.a.panese voices, and the Nambu gun began to fire again, the woodp.e.c.k.e.r chatter close above him. He stared at the rock, black, thick, ugly, caught movement at his feet just below the ledge, and he jerked the M-1 that way, terrified surprise. He saw the helmet, the poncho, a hand on the ledge, gripping rocks, one leg swinging up on the ledge, the man rolling close to Adams's wedge in the rocks. The man was on his knees, low on the narrow strip of flat rock, and the face turned up toward Adams, a shock for both of them. He saw white circles around the man's eyes, his face blackened with mud and ash and a smear of blood. It was Ferucci.

"Sarge!"

Ferucci stared at him with pure frozen hate, said nothing at all, seemed confused, but then came clarity, recognition, and the sergeant nodded toward him, still silent. Behind him, below the ledge, a mortar sh.e.l.l suddenly erupted, showering both men with muddy ash, Ferucci down flat on the narrow slab of rock. Adams blew the dust away, blinked through the smoke.

"Sarge!"

Ferucci rose to his knees again, didn't seem to be hit, and Adams was crying now, didn't know what else to do. Ferucci stood suddenly, fell hard against Adams, pushing himself into the narrow crack, jamming Adams back even harder in the rock, hissed sharply into Adams's ear.