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 shells 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 damn 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 Japs 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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