northward, the land had been stunning in its beauty, a lush tropical paradise. But the beauty was erased too often by the soaking rains. With the fighting in their area almost nonexistent, Captain Bennett’s company had been ordered to dig into the flat fields that overlooked a cliff, a sheer drop to the ocean below. Adams had slung the small shovel into the soft ground, staring out toward waves rolling up on soft beaches, breakers lapping across lines of coral offshore. Beyond, the ships stood guard, as they had all throughout the campaign, smaller gunboats up close, supply and mostly empty troop ships in the distance, and beyond that, the mammoth warships. In the rain the ships were hidden, but when the sun came out, as it was coming out now, the ships speckled the broad blue sea like a painting, some artist’s glorious impression of war that didn’t seem real. Every night there had been incidents, infiltrators sweeping through their positions. Some sought out the careless glow of a cigarette, zeroing in on chatter from the men who thought themselves safe. The infiltrators were as stealthy and as determined as they had always been, intent on killing anyone they could find, dropping a grenade or themselves into a foxhole. Others were raiding the supply and ammunition depots, some of those shot down as they sought out food or a weapon. When the Marines got lucky, when an infiltrator was taken down, the morning would bring the examination, and nothing had changed. The Japanese were ragged, unkempt men, showing signs of malnutrition or the effects of days in the wet, muddy caves. But the Marines knew that whether they came for blood or bread, the enemy’s dedication to the job was absolute. Even with the northern half of the island declared secure, the Marines spent their nights in their foxholes, wary of the sounds, the shadows, cursing the vermin that swarmed out of the ground around them, or the rain that seemed to wait for those times when the men had barely found sleep. The rain seemed to pass right through the shelter halves and ponchos, and no matter how much care the men used to ward off the water, it found them anyway, every man engulfed in mud and misery.
And then it would stop, as it had stopped now. The winds had picked up, and Adams could see patches of blue sky, the clouds above him drifting away, as though shoved aside by the sun. Welty was eating something from a can, ravenous enjoyment, and Adams couldn’t watch him, said, “I’m peeking out. Sun’s coming out, and dammit, I’m too wet and too cold to just sit here. Maybe I can change into some new underwear before the sun goes down.”
Welty shrugged, spoke through a mouthful of something brown, “Ain’t been any snipers all day. Up to you.”
Adams put his hand down into several inches of soft mud, pulled his soaking boots under him, stood slowly. He was surprised to see men moving around, some not in their foxholes at all. Some were gathering close to the edge of a cliff, wringing out shirts, shaking mud from ponchos, every man seeking some comfort from the sudden gift of a setting sun. He saw Porter now, the lieutenant walking quickly past, eyes focused downward. He’s in a hurry to go somewhere, Adams thought. Glad I’m not an officer. Too much work.
He stood straight, stretched his back, stood waist high in the muddy hole, slung mud from his fingers, wiped them on a shirt that was muddier than his hands. To the west the sun was an enormous orange ball, the reflection spread out on the water in a great sheet of silent fire, broken only by the ships. Adams pulled himself up, sat on the edge of the foxhole, reached down for his M-1, slung it over his shoulder. He stood up, felt water running down his legs, thought, yep, clean underwear. They sure as hell better send us a supply truck up here soon. Ran out of socks this morning. He stepped toward the others, stared out past them to the sun, and Ferucci was beside him now, said, “Pretty damn impressive, ain’t it? This would be a hell of a place to bring a gal. Sit up here and drink a little beer, put your arm around her