The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [186]
He had seen the photograph, they all had, the symbolic raising of the American flag on Iwo Jima, a photograph that so many letters from home spoke of, a photo that had graced the front page of every American newspaper. No one on Okinawa thought ill of that, no one cursed the good show that the photo offered, the American people allowed to absorb and enjoy that single moment of triumph from a fight that was far more brutal than the newspapers would say. But it was not the only triumph, and Iwo Jima was not the most deadly fight.
Adams felt the wind picking up, watched as the rough tree was jabbed hard into soft ground, the men steadying it with careful hands, hovering close, and now another man moved up, raised a bugle. The notes cut through them all with mournful familiarity, and Adams stared through tears as the men unfolded the cloth, attaching it to the tree, releasing it now, the flag fastened securely to the top of the makeshift flagpole. The bugler completed his task, and Adams heard soft cries, sobs close by, Mortensen, and Adams fought it no longer, held his hand up in a brief salute, the tears flowing hard.
On the mound, another man stepped up, older, an officer, and the man spoke out through strained emotions.
This has been a hard fight. In raising this flag we pay tribute to the memory of those brave men who have fallen in action. We shall ever be mindful of their glorious deeds as we continue along the road to Tokyo, and victory.
Beside Adams, Mortensen grunted, seemed to compose himself, and Adams felt his gaze, turned that way, saw the sergeant looking at him, a hint of respect. The sergeant’s eyes were past him quickly, out toward the others who stood along the windy cliff. After a long moment Mortensen said, “Tokyo. Well, we better get ready, boys. There’s gonna be one more fight.”
Adams saw the others beginning to move, Mortensen turning away, the ceremony concluded. He followed his sergeant, fought the memories, the faces he could never forget, stepped over rugged coral, stayed in the footsteps of the others, moving down off the hill, Mortensen’s words still inside him.
One more fight.
PART THREE
26. TRUMAN
NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN,
ON BOARD THE USS AUGUSTA JULY 8, 1945
The swells were gentle, made more smooth by the escort ship that broke the waves before them. She was the USS Philadelphia, another cruiser, designated not only as escort to smooth rough waters, but one more powerful piece of security. He was, after all, the President of the United States.
He stood against the rail, weary of meetings, the various officials mostly belowdecks, some sleeping, certainly. He knew there was seasickness, but not much, and the men who traveled with him would be unlikely to admit it to their boss anyway. The sea didn’t bother him as much as he had feared, but the memories did. He had made this crossing before, in the first Great War, as an artillery officer. In 1917 the training had been brief and virtually useless, no one in his small command having any way to know what awaited them in that place they called the Western Front. But the fear was there, would stay there throughout the entire campaign, something an artillery captain could not admit to anyone, certainly not to the men who looked to him for authority, for leadership. He stared out at the swells, the hint of moonlight,