The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [56]
Adams saw Marines emerging from distant brush, and barely visible, a cluster of low white buildings. Porter scanned the open ground, motioned to the walkie-talkie man, another quick conversation. Adams saw a smile, strange, and now the lieutenant waved the men out in both directions. The men responded by moving quickly, short steps across the open ground. Adams could see farther out in front of them, the field pockmarked by shell holes. They moved toward the buildings, the other Marines moving in and out, gathering. Adams could see sheets of camouflage up on poles, flapping in the gentle breeze. What the hell is that? Marines were gathering beneath the camouflage, the only shade in the area, and Adams saw now that the poles were arranged in the shape of airplanes. There were wooden crates beyond the strange shelters, stacked in odd configurations. Men were talking, laughter, one man climbing up on the crates, spreading his arms like wings. Adams understood now, the others as well, Ferucci saying it aloud.
“Fake airplanes. The Japs made fake airplanes. I guess … it’s all part of the joke.”
Adams moved closer to the gathering Marines, said, “What joke?”
Ferucci looked at him, a short laugh.
“One April, Private. Seems the Japs have played the world’s greatest April Fool’s joke on us. A pretend air force. Maybe this whole thing is pretend.”
As he moved closer to the camouflage, Adams saw a pile of black wreckage, what used to be a truck. Beyond was more of the same, another truck down in a crater, pieces scattered. Porter moved out past them, a quick order.
“Easy. Stay here, stay alert. We’re in the wide-assed open here. Be ready for incoming fire. I need to find the captain.”
Porter moved away, and Adams saw one of the Marines moving out toward him, the unmistakable stride of an officer. The two men spoke for a long minute, pointing, and now a radioman appeared. There was more talk, another officer joining the conversation. The curiosity was digging hard at Adams, but he thought of Porter’s words, wide-assed open. He looked out toward far hills, thought, anyone up there can see us clear as hell. Suddenly, from the officers and the men close to them came a new sound: celebration. Around him the platoon inched forward, the others as curious as he was. Adams still watched the higher ground, nervous, said to Ferucci, “Sarge, what the hell is this place?”
“I guess the looey’s gonna tell us.”
Porter was walking toward them, shouldered his carbine, beamed a broad smile.
“Congratulations, gentlemen.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Not even noon. Well, it seems that halfway through our first day on this slice of paradise, we’ve captured our third day’s objective. Welcome to Yontan Airfield.”
8. ADAMS
YONTAN AIRFIELD, OKINAWA
APRIL 1, 1945, 7 P.M.
“Don’t stop digging until the two of you can sit with your helmets belowground. Snipers are good at picking off helmets, and once it’s dark, the Japs will probably move in to take a better look at us. I hear any more bitching about rocks, you can toss me your shovels and dig with your damn hands!”
Porter prowled through his platoon like an angry cat, the smartest men keeping their comments to themselves. Adams worked as they all worked, chopping, digging, cutting down through the tough mix of dense sand and coral rock, hacking and probing with the small shovel. Close beside him, Welty worked as well, but Adams knew Welty didn’t have the strong back, not for the ridiculous effort it took to make a hole in this kind of ground.
To one side, a voice, and Adams glanced that way, saw Gridley, shirtless, wide shoulders, streams of sweat, digging his hole close to Ferucci.
“Hey Sarge. I’m digging, but I gotta wonder why? There ain