The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [64]
“Cease fire! What are you shooting at?”
The silence came now, no one responding, and Adams heard a hard whisper, a question from Welty.
“Japs?”
Adams wanted to respond, but he didn’t have an answer. He stared into the rain, no sounds at all but the gentle splashes around him, the swirling wind, the men all watching, as he was, blind and desperate fear that the enemy had finally come close.
The rain had stopped, but the misery of the foxhole had only grown worse. Adams felt the stiff aching in his knees, his back, his skin raw from scratching at the plague of fleas. The endless night had finally given way, a hint of detail, small bumps appearing in the ground around him, the helmets of the others, men starting to move in the dim light. He could feel the water in his boots, the bottom of the foxhole inches deep in soft mud, every part of him wet beneath the poncho. Welty was up now as well, neither man making any effort to sleep. Welty whispered close to him, “No coffee this morning, that’s for sure.”
The joke wasn’t funny. Adams hadn’t had coffee since they left the ship.
He saw one man rising up, crawling toward them, knew by now it would be Ferucci, the sergeant pulling them awake, as though anyone had been able to sleep after the small-scale war they had waged. There had been other shots, scattered farther along the road, panicked men too eager to see enemies in the rain. Ferucci said in a low voice, “Anybody shoots me, I’ll kick your ass. Wake up your buddies.”
Men responded, the foxholes close by coming alive, low talk. Ferucci stood now, and Adams watched him with a hint of alarm, thought, easy, Sarge. What the hell are you doing? The sergeant moved toward Adams, didn’t look down, stepped past in the slop of deep mud, held his rifle low, pointing it forward, and Adams heard Ferucci laughing. Beyond the brush, others were up, and more laughs came, one man calling out, a mocking sound.
“Baaaaah.”
Adams heard the familiar voice of the lieutenant, moving through the foxholes, hard whispers, closer now.
“Pipe down! Get back in cover! This isn’t a damn playground!”
Ferucci returned, knelt down close to his squad, said, “Well, boys, you’ve got fresh meat today. Seems the infiltrators you took out last night had fur. You assholes killed a flock of goats.”
10. USHIJIMA
THIRTY-SECOND ARMY HEADQUARTERS,
BENEATH SHURI CASTLE, OKINAWA
APRIL 5, 1945
“We should not have allowed them to take those airbases. Not without shedding their blood. I offer this only as a respectful suggestion, sir!”
Ushijima did not look at Cho, let the words slip past. He closed his eyes, the smell of the tea comforting.
“You tell me what I already know, General. But the power of the American fleet gave us no choice.”
“What power is that, sir? They only bring numbers, they do not bring the code of the Bushido, they are not warriors!”
Ushijima kept his eyes closed, but Cho’s energy was poisoning his calm. He took a long breath, tried to relax, but Cho’s presence would never allow that. He could hear the man’s agitated breathing, opened his eyes, looked up at him from his cushion on the floor, said, “It will take more than spiritual strength to prevail in this war.”
Cho crossed his arms, his usual stubbornness.
“It never has required anything else! Never! Not in all our history!