The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [167]
Adams looked for a convenient mud puddle, thought, I can fix that part right away. But the land had dried out, more heat than wetness now, the sun already up over the far hills. Adams lowered his voice, said, “What do you know about ours? The new looey.”
“Gibson? Damnedest southern drawl you ever heard. Someone said he’s a VMI man, talks a lot about Stonewall Jackson. I guess we’ll find out what kind of stone wall he is.”
Gibson stood to one side, motioning his men toward the trucks, and Adams moved away from Welty, approached the lieutenant, knew better than to stand at attention, and though no one had heard a sniper in the area at all, Adams erased the word sir from his mind.
“Begging your pardon. I’m Private Adams. Sergeant Mortensen’s squad. Just got back up from the field hospital. I’m happy to be back.”
Gibson nodded, didn’t seem to really see him, said, “Fall in, Private. You do your job, I’ll do mine. Right now you need to load up on phosphorus grenades. We’ll be mopping up for the boys up front, cleaning out some caves. I want to see some dead Japs.”
Gibson was matter-of-fact, no smile, no real energy behind the words. Adams digested the word Japs, rolling out of Gibson’s mouth with two syllables. Jayaps.
“I’ll agree with that, uh …”
“Git on back to your squad. I want everybody loaded up with plenty of ordnance.”
The conversation was clearly over, and Adams slipped away, no salute, Gibson not seeming to expect one. Adams mulled over the man’s slow drawl, thought, God, if we’re under fire, I hope like hell I can understand his orders. He tried to guess Gibson’s age, thought, not as old as the sarge, that’s for sure. Hope he’s up to snuff. He searched for Welty, moved out next to him, said, “Phosphorus grenades. They’re giving us something new.”
“Not new. But nasty as hell. Best way to nail the Japs right in their hidey holes. Just don’t get any of that stuff on you. Burns right through skin, bone, everything else. Hey, we got company.”
Adams saw where Welty was pointing, a squad of men dropping down from an amphtrac, all with large tanks on their backs. Adams had seen plenty of those before, thought, flamethrowers, and a whole bunch of them. Damn, this is gonna be fun.
NORTH OF MEZADO RIDGE, SOUTHERN OKINAWA
JUNE 17, 1945
The prisoners filed past, a dozen men, wearing what looked like loincloths. The Marines who marched them back seemed disgusted by the job, and in front of Adams, Yablonski called out, “There’s a damn cave back around the curve. Dump ’em there.”
One man responded with a spit toward the prisoners, moved past Adams with dead eyes. Adams scanned one of the prisoners, the man rail thin, barefoot, a twisted mess of black hair. The man glanced at the passing Marines, seemed terrified, moving in halting steps, prodded by the next man in line behind him. Yablonski kept up the chatter, said loudly, “We’ll be eating you boys for dinner tonight. Ha!”
“Knock that off.”
The voice came from the rear, Mortensen keeping his squad together, spaced the usual five yards apart. Yablonski’s shoulders hunched, the man clearly angry, but he seemed to appreciate that Mortensen had plenty of temper for all of them. The prisoners were past, and Adams saw a series of low hills, and beyond, a rocky, scrub-covered ridgeline. The rumble of artillery rolled down from the east, and Adams soaked that up, couldn’t just let it pass. The thumps seemed to land somewhere very far away, and yet, inside his own brain, the smoke and smell of burnt explosives drifted through him in hot stinging waves. He focused