The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [74]
The conversations with the Okinawans also revealed how the Japanese treated these people, long regarded as second-class Japanese citizens. The intelligence officers learned of the brutality, so many of the villagers made to dig in the hillsides, hauling dirt and rock for the Japanese tunnel system. The Americans had heard these kinds of stories before. The lack of young women among the refugees was testament to the particular usefulness that kept them hidden away alongside the Japanese troops. The young men were mostly gone as well, and the Americans were told that although the Okinawans might not want to take up arms against the Americans, with Japanese officers leading the way, and Japanese bayonets at their backs, they might have no choice.
NORTHERN OKINAWA
APRIL 12, 1945
“Hit the deck!”
Adams didn’t need the instructions, dropped down hard. He held his breath, dirt in his face, the rocky ground beside him cracking into splinters. He started to move, to scramble back, a desperate slithering crawl, his heart racing, looked for any kind of cover, but the firing came again, a hard ping off the rock beside him. He lay flat again, paralyzed by the terror, felt like screaming, the spray of lead now slapping the rocks just behind him. He spit out the dirt in his mouth, gasped for air, a loud shout down the hill behind him, Ferucci.
“Get back here! Run!”
Adams started to rise up, heard the crack of the bullet past his ear, lay flat again. The burst from the Japanese machine gun came again, tapping high on the hill like a woodpecker. Ferucci continued to shout, a manic tirade.
“Where is that son of a bitch? Anybody see him?”
No one responded, the spray of lead splitting the air overhead, still pinning Adams tight to the ground. He was breathing dust, choking, the terror freezing him, Ferucci again, “Find that bastard! Where’s the BAR? Give him hell!”
The rock beside Adams’s head cracked again, a shower of lead ripping past just above his back. Behind him rifle fire began, men taking aim at nothing, peppering the hillside, desperate, useless. The machine gun continued, seeking new targets, and Adams’s brain screamed at him to move, to run. But there were other voices too, Ferucci again, “He’s gotta be hit! Lay down fire! I’ll get him!”
Adams tried to think, his body still frozen, his arms pulled in tight, and he shouted through the dust in his throat, “No! Stay back!”
The men behind him kept up their fire, and Adams closed his eyes, utterly helpless, his face jarred by the thumps and pops in the rocks. The machine gun kept firing, shattering the ground just past his feet, seeking targets farther down, the men along the road behind him. His brain tried to work, fighting through, shouting orders … maybe the Jap thinks I’m dead. Don’t move, don’t do anything. He’s shooting at them. Just … wait.
And then, the machine gun stopped.
“Run! Now! Get down here!”
Adams waited for a long second, stayed perfectly still, his brain focused on the silence from above. The