The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [120]
As the hours passed, the determination of the engineers prevailed. Despite ongoing artillery fire from the hidden Japanese positions, the heavier bridges took shape, and the tanks began to roll. Offshore, in perfect testament to the effectiveness of the navy’s firepower, the cruiser USS Indianapolis provided supporting fire against the Japanese 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 Japanese defenses anchored 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 Japanese positions. Enormous numbers of Japanese soldiers were equipped with a knee mortar, so called because its lightweight portability meant that it could be fired from nearly anywhere, anchored 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 Japanese 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 Japanese 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 shells, 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 shellfire had come all morning, some from the American 150s back near the river, or from the Indianapolis. The tanks were assisting 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 shelling had seemed to come in bursts, Adams wondering if the Japanese 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.