The Final Storm by Jeff Shaara Page B

an army lieutenant. Old pal of mine from Baltimore. I told him my boys would scoop up a whole pile of those fancy-assed knives, and he’s told his boys to do the same. Whoever gets the most gets a night on the town when we get back home. I might just bring some of you along with me. Don’t let me down, boys. Can’t let any damn
ground pounders
show us up!”
    The response was loud, raucous, Adams joining in, punching a fist in the air. Porter had his hands on his hips again, nodded in approval, then silenced them with a wave of one hand.
    “One April. Four days from now. You get a chance to go topside, do it. Take a good look at what’s around us. We’ll be part of the biggest damn fleet ever put together. Bigger than what they did at Normandy. One April is ‘L-Day.’ In case you’re wondering,
L
stands for
love
. Somebody back at Guam came up with that, thinking it would confuse the Japs.” He paused. “None of those admirals asked
me
what I thought of that idea.”
    The noisy cheers came again, and Porter held up his hand.
    “One April, well before dawn, we’ll board landing crafts and head straight into the beach. The coral reefs are not nearly as big a pain in the ass as we’ve had to cross before. It’ll be a sight. If any Japs survive what thenavy’s doing to ’em right now, there’ll be so many of you ugly bastards hitting that beach, you just might scare ’em away.” He paused again, seemed to realize the stupidity of his comment. “But I doubt it. Use your rifles, use your K-bar, use your damn fists if you have to. Those of you … well, some of you know what the Jap is all about. Kill those bastards, every damn one of them. ’Cause they sure as hell will be trying to kill you. All right, I’m done. Go back to whatever the hell you were doing. You sergeants … keep these boys under control. No fights, and keep the damn gambling under wraps. Anybody in this platoon ends up in the brig … well, I’ll make sure
you’re
the first ones across the beach. You got that?”
    Porter didn’t wait for a response, turned, leaned low through the hatchway, and was gone. Adams felt the thick silence, the fog of clarity that spread through them all, the men absorbing the briefing. One man said in a low voice, “Four days.”
    Ferucci responded, “April Fool’s Day. The joke’ll be on those Japs. If there’s any left. Leave it to the navy to blow hell out of those bastards and spoil all our fun.”
    The talk began again, nervous chatter, the voices louder, an urgency no one could avoid. Adams thought back to San Diego, studying the maps that hung on the office walls, killing time by searching for the islands whose names had become so well known. He had seen Okinawa, wished now he had studied the place in more detail. He couldn’t avoid a strange excitement, knots in his gut. That’s close to Japan, he thought, closer than anyplace we’ve been yet. I guess that’s good. He felt a shiver, but it was not the sweat in his shirt. Beaches, he thought. Finally. Killing those Jap sons of bitches. The words rolled through him, pushed by the energy of the others. Through the hum of anticipation, there was something else, unspoken, no one offering those mindless cheers. Too many of these men were veterans, and those men knew that every assault brought casualties. There were glances, the curious, the angry, morbid examination of the men around them. Who would not come back? Who would do the job … who would fail? Adams saw men looking at him, brief, cold stares. He knew the meaning, looked down, his hands pulled tight, arms crossed, holding down the thunder in his own heart. They’re wondering about me, he thought. Just like the damn replacements. When we get out there … cross that beach … what’ll I do? He could not answer his own question, felt the shiver again. He glanced toward Ferucci, the sergeant leaning back in his bunk, staring away into some other place. Follow him. He