The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [55]
Ferucci responded from behind Adams.
“Shut up. You want to haul those belts, fine. The rest of you … well, I told you to drop that crap back at the beach.”
Porter was already moving ahead, watched the scene with weary annoyance, and another of the sergeants passed the order back to the last squad.
“Move it. Five-yard intervals. The looey says we got someplace to be.”
The march continued, the wetness in Adams’s boots less noticeable, his legs aching, moving in a slow, plodding rhythm, keeping the five-yard gap from Yablonski. They crested a low hill, Porter slowing them, cautious, but the far side of the hill was different, a cultivated field, waist high and green, and Yablonski said, “Sugarcane. The bastards could be hiding in here.”
Adams had never seen sugarcane before, took Yablonski’s word for it, followed as Porter waved them up out of the ditch. They moved out in a wide formation, stepping through the soft green stalks, the men separated by at least three neatly planted rows. Adams was focused on the sea of leafy green spreading out for a hundred yards, up and over a rise. The ground beneath his feet was clear, the half-grown stalks a foot apart. To his right, Welty made a sound, a high short whine, and Adams flinched, but Welty was walking slowly, deliberately, staring straight down, his rifle prodding the greenery as he moved. Beyond him, Ferucci said, “Eyes front, Private. Good hiding place for the Japs. Keep sharp. The shooting starts, hit the deck.”
Welty seemed lost in his own fear, and Adams remembered now, the briefing, the captain telling the entire company about the snakes on Okinawa, the place famous for the most poisonous snakes on earth. Welty had been one of those who seemed sickened by the fear of that, and Adams had laughed at them, thought, city boys. In New Mexico there were rattlesnakes as big as a man’s leg, and even as a boy he had learned to step through rocks and brush with one eye glancing down at each footstep. The thorny brush on Okinawa had brought that back to him, not that different from the hostility of the land near his home. The snakes were different, he thought, but a snake’s a snake. As long as you don’t step on them, they leave you alone. The others hadn’t been nearly as calm about that, some of the men more anxious about snakes than they were about the Japanese. Now, in the sugarcane, the fear had magnified, the progress slow as the men kept their gaze downward, M-1s pointing low. Even on the road, as several of the men had dropped out of line for an urgent call of nature, every one of them had stayed in the wide-open spaces, any embarrassment erased by the fear of what might be waiting in the clusters of brush. Adams was more curious about what the snakes looked like, had yet to see one, a mild disappointment. On board the ship, the captain had spoken of vast numbers of them, as though Okinawa was one great snake pit, no place safe enough to step. That was just bull, Adams thought. They’re just keeping us on our toes, keeping these city boys from wandering off into God knows where. I don’t want to be lost out in this stuff, for sure. He thought of Yablonski, the man’s grim certainty. Yep, he’s probably right. There’s gotta be Japs out here someplace. I don’t want to be the guy who finds them.
They crested the hill, and the lieutenant signaled them to slow down, crouched low himself. They did the same, fifty men in a wide row. Adams glanced back and saw fifty more, the next platoon coming up behind, could see the road they had left, more men there, waiting to join them. Up ahead the sugarcane abruptly ended, giving way to a wide, flat field. The lieutenant glanced back to the second platoon, held up his hand, careful, now waved to his own men. Let’s go. Adams moved at the lieutenant’s pace, quick glances down between the greenery, the edge of the field blessedly close. They stepped clear of the cane and Porter stopped them again, the man seeming uncertain, a look of confusion. The