The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [175]
“Private!”
He held his stare toward the cave’s mouth, raised the shotgun, searched for any movement, but nothing came from the cave but black smoke, brush burning around the opening.
“Private!”
He backed away, turned toward the voice, saw Mortensen down on one knee. Adams saw that the hillside near the dead flamethrower was littered with bodies, the effects of the Nambu gun. Some of them were wounded, corpsmen moving up quickly, Captain Bennett moving among them, guiding the medical men to the ones who could be helped. Mortensen called out again, “Private! Here!”
Adams realized the sergeant was calling him, and he moved that way, Mortensen staring at him with thick tired eyes.
“Your buddy.”
He saw now, the red hair, the glasses askew, Welty’s helmet off, lying in the grass. Adams dropped to both knees, shock stabbing him, and Mortensen said softly, “Sorry. He was a good man. Those dirty bastards.”
Adams couldn’t breathe, stared at Welty’s face, the eyes partially closed, blood pouring up through Welty’s chest in thick bubbles, one round red hole in Welty’s throat, more blood. Adams yelled out, “Corpsman! Doc! Get the doc here!”
No one responded, and Adams grabbed Welty’s arm, tried to pull him up.
“Come on Jack! It’ll be okay! Come on!”
He couldn’t hold the tears away, felt Welty’s arm limp, no response from the man’s eyes, the blood on Adams now, too much blood. Bennett was there now, stood above him.
“He’s gone, son. The Nambu took out a half dozen of us. We need to tend to the ones we can help.”
Adams didn’t respond, stared through tears at his friend, pulled the helmet back, put it on Welty’s head, straightened his arms, saw the shotgun lying to one side, the stock broken, shattered.
“What do I do, Jack? What do I do now?”
“Come on, Private. We’ve got to keep moving. They’ll take care of him. You know his family?”
Adams looked up at the captain, shook his head. There was sadness in Bennett’s face, acceptance, and Adams realized that the captain had seen this before, too many times, had already lost most of the men he brought to the island.
“Let’s go, son. We’ve got more caves to root out.”
Bennett moved away, and Adams looked across the open ground, the black stain that had been Yablonski, the stink from the cave, the Marines moving on, mopping up what was left of the Japanese resistance. He tried to stand, no strength in his knees, stared at Welty’s face, could not stop the tears, wanted to say something, anything, some kind of goodbye. But there were no words, his thoughts a jumble of pain and grief. He put a hand on Welty’s arm, a thought flickering in his brain, and he raised Welty’s shoulder, saw the backpack, reached in, fished his hand around, felt the cardboard box, the K rations. He pulled it out, ripped it open, scattering the contents, picked up the small round can of stew, stuffed it in his pocket.
24. USHIJIMA
HEADQUARTERS CAVE,
NEAR MABUNI, SOUTHERN OKINAWA
JUNE 21, 1945
The letter had come from General Buckner on the seventeenth, but the date on the paper showed there had been a week’s delay in reaching Ushijima’s hand. That made perfect sense to the Japanese, since Yahara’s plan of retreat had depended on Buckner making the mistake of believing that Ushijima was still at his headquarters beneath the wreckage of the castle at Shuri. The letter had been gracious, polite, as though the American general was trying to reach out with a hand of sympathetic understanding, offering a warm handshake, while the other hand held a grenade.
The forces under your command have fought bravely and well. Your infantry tactics have merited the respect of your opponents in the battle for Okinawa. Like myself, you are an infantry general, long schooled and experienced in infantry warfare. You must surely realize the pitiful plight of your defensive forces. You know that no reinforcement can reach you. I believe, therefore, that you understand as clearly as I, that the destruction of all Japanese resistance on the island is merely a matter