The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific by Jeff Shaara
Even as he deflected their conversation, the question had come to him. What must they hear? Why do they care what I went through, how many dead men I saw, how many Japs I killed? This war wasn’t for anyone’s entertainment, for God’s sake.
He had heard about the military hospital, a visit by the movie star John Wayne. It was pure Hollywood, some press agent’s good idea that the star saunter into a ward of badly injured men in full Western regalia, as though by Wayne’s heroic presence, a pair of six-shooters and jingling spurs, he would brighten the mood of broken and bloodied men. The response had shocked even the doctors, the wounded troops greeting this big-time star with a chorus of boos and catcalls. If I had been there, I would have done the same thing, he thought. Blood is not ketchup, a friend’s death is not about dragging tears from the girl in the front row. Those wounded men are changed for all time, and some fake hero isn’t going to erase anything they did, or bring back anyone they lost.
Adams stood, the crowd in the aisles thinning out, gathering outside on the concrete platform. He felt strangely nervous, reached for his seabag, would never look at the heavy green canvas without thinking of Guam.
The Marines had been sent there from Okinawa, mostly to rest and refit, and Adams had witnessed a scene that had stunned him. Massive piles of the green duffel bags, what the sailors and Marines called seabags, had been tossed into a pile, doused with gasoline, and set on fire. There had been only one explanation. Those bags, and all they contained, had belonged to the men killed in action. According to some rule Adams would never understand, the seabags were simply burned. He had watched the pyre with a sickening sense of loss, had been forced to think of Welty and Ferucci and everyone else, wondering if their possessions were in that fire, wondering if someone had had the decency to sort through, to send home anything that the family might treasure. He did not stay there long enough to find out, knew only that his own bag contained no treasures at all. The only souvenirs he carried would not catch anyone’s attention. He still had the single can of Welty’s stew, and with that, the shattered eyeglasses that his friend had worn. He had no explanation for it, but Adams had seen the blackest pieces of his own heart, knew with perfect certainty that if anyone tried to take those from him, he would have killed them with his hands.
Soon after reaching Guam, the veterans had been given the astounding luxury of a thirty-day leave. Adams had absorbed that news with decidedly mixed feelings, but it had been Sergeant Mortensen who had kicked him hard in the ass, a dressing down about feeling sorry for himself. There was family, after all, all of them had somebody, and Mortensen wouldn’t hear excuses from anyone lucky enough to get a leave. The Marines were offered a ship to San Diego and a train ticket to anywhere beyond, with enough time to make the visit worthwhile. Mortensen was not about to let any one of his veterans pass that by, especially since, in a platoon of fifty men, Adams was one of only six who had been with the unit since the invasion of Okinawa. The faces of the veterans were familiar, but no one was close, pure chance that any cluster of friends had long been shattered by the brutality of the fights. New friendships seemed nonexistent, the other veterans seeming to stay away from anyone else, just as he did. The replacements were learning quickly to keep their mouths shut, too many broken teeth pounded into the mouths of idiot recruits who did what they always did, asking for advice, or even more stupid, digging the veterans for some tale about the great adventure of combat. Adams had been lucky, so far. None of the new men on Guam had approached him, not even the tough guys, who heard talk of his reputation with the boxing gloves. There was something dangerous in the veterans now, deep beneath the calm and the distant stare. Even the captain had let him be, no suggestion that Adams should participate in the never-ending rituals of the boxing matches. For Adams those days were past, no desire in him at all to break another jawbone. That need had been fulfilled for the last time by a Japanese soldier on Sugar Loaf Hill.
If Mortensen’s loud insistence on accepting the leave wasn’t enough, the veterans had been inspired as well by word of their next mission. The entire Sixth Division was scheduled for a new assignment, occupying the seaports on the Chinese coast, and Mortensen had been as definite about that as Captain Bennett, that the assignment was open-ended, that the Marines might be stationed in some godforsaken hole in some bizarrely strange place for more months than anyone wanted to think about. The talk had rolled through Guam about that as well, the crude disappointment from the new men that they wouldn’t join the party when it came time for the invasion of Japan. The invasion force would mostly be army, not Marines, and the transport ships were already in motion, some bringing men who had already done service in Europe. When the China deployment was announced, there had been plenty of outrage, the newer Marines making a good show of their envy for the soldiers who were going to clean up Jap-land.
And then, word came of Hiroshima.
Adams still knew nothing of their new president, but it had been Mortensen who had announced with vigorous passion that if the opportunity ever came his way, the sergeant would drop to his knees and kiss Harry Truman on the ass. The others had laughed, all but the veterans. Adams knew what those men knew, that this president wanted the war to end so badly that he was willing to use this astounding new weapon against the enemy. Adams wasn’t as outspoken about it as Mortensen, but he imagined the same scene, Truman and Adams, in downtown anywhere, a million people watching, while Adams puckered up.
He stepped down onto the platform, the place noisy, crowded, too much chaos. The shouts came from paperboys and vendors, news about the bombing of Nagasaki, what Adams had already seen in a newspaper in San Diego. He hoisted the bag on his shoulder, searched the crowd, wasn’t sure what he expected to see, smelled something wonderful, saw a hot dog stand, a man stabbing one of the thick dogs with a fork, stuffing a bun, squirting mustard all over the bun and his own hand, the mess handed to a boy who jammed it into his mouth. Adams was suddenly ravenous, hadn’t eaten anything on the train, felt in his pockets, no change at all, nothing but military scrip. It had been his own mistake, forgetting to change the bills for real money, and he ached now, angry at himself. The crowd was more annoying to him now, too many happy people, people with hugs and kisses and hats askew. There were friendly greetings and slaps on the back, the two officers talking boisterously to another pair, big talk of big adventures, lies upon lies. Adams backed away from them, wondered what Captain Bennett would do to them … and now he heard his name.
“Clay!”
He wasn’t sure, too much noise, too many voices, but it came again.
“Clay! Private Adams, you dumb son of a bitch!”
Adams turned, saw the crowd parting, some forcefully, saw the stocky thickness, the massive chest, a limp, unexpected, and the beaming face of his brother.
“Jesse! Oh my God!”
Jesse didn’t slow, shoved himself right into Adams, picked him up, bag and all, crushing his ribs.
“You skinny-assed little peter! There’s nothing left of you!”
His brother set him back down now, and Adams saw only smiles, strangers around them watching the scene.
“Mom’s here! Come on, this way!”
Jesse pulled him by the arm, forcing their way through the crowd, people pushed aside, but the faces of the two young men told the crowd everything, their enthusiasm spreading all across the platform. He saw her now, a faint wave, the frail, exhausted woman, more frail, older, more gray hair. She was crying, still waving, and Adams slowed, Jesse still pulling at him.
“Yeah, okay, go give her a hug. If you’d have written more, she wouldn’t be so damn worried, you know.”
Adams ignored his brother’s scolding, moved up to her, realized suddenly how short she was, and he felt his brother pull the bag from his shoulder, kept his eyes in hers, red and wet. He slid his hands onto her shoulders, then around, pulled himself to her, felt her thin bones, her soft voice, “My boy. God bless you. You’re safe.”
“Y
They hugged for a long silent moment, and he couldn’t stop the tears, didn’t try. Finally, Jesse’s voice was in his ear, “You can do that when we get home. Got someone you need to meet. Whole damn greeting party here.”
Adams was mystified, still looked at his mother’s tears, said, “Who?”
He turned now, saw Jesse move back behind his mother, pulling a young woman by the hand.
“Okay, I got a surprise for you, kid. Well, two surprises. But first things first. Nancy, this sorry-looking bag of bones is my little brother, Clay. He’s a Marine, but we try to overlook that. Private Clayton Adams, this gorgeous example of womanhood is Miss Nancy Forbes. We’re engaged.” Jesse leaned closer now, faked the whisper. “She’s a damn nurse. Makes my life a hell of a lot easier.”
Clay saw the beauty in the woman’s face, tears there as well. She held out a hand, said, “Clayton, it’s a pleasure. Your brother’s told me a great deal about you. Mostly things you wouldn’t want repeated, I’m sure. He thinks paratroopers ought to rule the world, and Marines make … good busboys. Sorry. He insisted I say that.”
Adams was overwhelmed, took the softness of her hand, caught the amazing scent of perfume.
“Wow. Engaged? Uh … well, it’s nice to meet you.” He looked at his big brother now, saw the pride, the smile, the couple looking at each other now with that gooey storybook grin. “Damn, Jesse, you serious?”
“Watch your damn language. Only first sergeants and paratroopers get to cuss around women, and I got both of those covered. Marines always need to learn manners. Yeah, I’m serious. We’re getting married next month. Oh … one more surprise. We had room in the Nash, so this gal thumbed a ride with us. Said something about wanting to see you. Says she wondered if you’d remember her, and I told her you being all stupid and all, you’d probably forget what town you lived in.” Jesse moved aside, still the smile, slapped Adams on the back, a quick grip on his shoulder. Clay saw her now, her hands clasped in front of her, a hint of embarrassment on her face, a polite hopeful nod. Adams felt something open up inside him, was stunned, his jaw falling open, her name in his mind for months. Loraine Lancaster. The fantasy had been with him from well before high school, the only girl he had thought about, the only girl who had ever stirred that hard ache that made him wonder if there could ever be anyone else. He had stared at her in school, on the street, and in his mind, even thought of her on the beach at Okinawa, that one odd day of blue sky and birds. She was also the girl he was very certain had no idea he was alive. He stared at her, saw more of the shy nervousness, and now she smiled. At him.
Jesse leaned close to his ear.
“Say hi, you idiot.”
“Uh … hi. You needed a ride …?”
Jesse slapped him in the back of his head, dislodging his hat.
“Miss Lancaster, will you please help get the glue out of his brain?”
She laughed again, still nervous.
“I was hoping you’d remember me, Clay. I heard you were coming home, and … I know it’s only a short time, but maybe, when you’ve had a good visit with your family … well maybe, we could have a sundae or something.”
Clay stared at her, felt something new, something he had not felt in a very long time. Joy.
“I’d love to. You came along … to see me?”
“Yes, Clay. Welcome home.”
There was a hand sliding around his arm now, and he felt his mother’s touch, her soft words.
“Looks like you’ll be busy while you’re here. I guess we should get to the Nash.”
Clay looked at her, the tears still there, and he glanced at Jesse, his brother’s arm around his fiancée, realized she was holding a cane.
“Jesse, you hurt?”
Jesse shook his head, shrugged.
“Tore up my knees. You paying attention? I jumped out of airplanes, you numbskull.”
Adams felt paralyzed, the faces all looking at him, tears and smiles and happiness. Across the platform, a man began to shout.
“It’s over! The Japs surrendered! It’s over!”
The crowd responded with cheering, shouts, disbelief, a scramble for a fresh stack of newspapers. Adams stared at the mob scene, papers in the air, more cheers, a fat black headline passing by, someone slapping him, “Good work, soldier!”
Others were hoisting women in the air, the army officers down the platform waving their hats, others, civilians, tossing theirs high. Clay felt a burst of confusion, a fog settling in on him, too much emotion, too many shouts. The war can’t be over … there’s too many Japs … Guam, and then we gotta go to China. He felt a hint of panic, glanced to one side, the railroad tracks, thought of the rocks, the dirt, a shovel, the precious sanctuary of a foxhole. He looked at his brother, saw concern, the hard crust of the paratroop sergeant giving way, Jesse’s eyes reading him, no smile now.
“Hey, Clay, I’ll grab a paper, and we can read about it on the way. It’s been coming for a couple days. You might not have known, traveling and all. You’ll be okay. We can talk about … anything you want, maybe later. The old man’s mostly gone, working some shifts at a mine down south. He doesn’t mess with me at all. Knows better. It’s real peaceful at the house. Let’s head for home.”
“Yeah … but I have to go back soon. I’ve only got a thirty-day leave. That’s all.”
Beside him, the voice of his mother.
“For now. But the war’s over. And you’re safe now. Soon, you’ll have all the time in the world.”
AFTERWORD
The sooner the enemy comes, the better. One hundred million of us will die proudly.
—JAPANESE PROPAGANDA POSTER, FOUND IN TOKYO
There was never a moment’s discussion as to whether the atomic bomb should be used or not. To avert a vast, indefinite butchery, to bring the war to an end, to give peace to the world, to lay healing hands upon its tortured peoples by a manifestation of overwhelming power … seemed a miracle of deliverance.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
The use of this barbaric weapon at Hiroshima and Nagasaki was of no material assistance in our war against Japan. The Japanese were already defeated and ready to surrender because of the effective sea blockade and the successful bombing with conventional weapons.
—ADMIRAL WILLIAM LEAHY, USN
You think of the lives which would have been lost in an invasion of Japan’s home islands—a staggering number of American lives but millions more of Japanese—and you thank God for the atomic bomb.
—WILLIAM MANCHESTER (USMC)
On August 10, 1945, after absorbing the impact of the second atomic bomb, Japan’s senior officials meet to debate what course to follow. They are almost evenly divided as to whether or not Japan should continue to fight the war. Led by Prime Minister Suzuki, the moderate faction pushes for surrender, but there are just as many, particularly from the army, who insist vehemently that the war be continued. To those highest-ranking commanders, including Field Marshal Hisaichi Terauchi and General Yasuji Okamura, surrender only betrays the army, those soldiers in the field who should still be allowed to end their lives with honor by fighting to the death. It is Emperor Hirohito himself who breaks the stalemate and orders his ministers to accept the terms of the Potsdam Declaration. Throughout the war, a fairly complacent Hirohito has allowed the Imperial High Command to operate mostly on its own terms. By stepping forcefully into the debate, he gives his ministers no alternative, and the Japanese government obeys their emperor. But radical elements of the army do not accept the emperor’s order gracefully, and a coup is launched, an attempt to assassinate the emperor. The coup fails, the conspirators brought down in part by those generals who are still vehemently opposed to surrender. Even the radicals come to understand that, no matter the humiliation of surrender, the nation’s outright suicide is not the most preferable course.
On Sunday, September 2, 1945, the Japanese formally surrender to the Allied forces on board the American battleship USS Mi
General Douglas MacArthur commands the ceremony, and signs the document on behalf of the United Nations. Immediately after the signatures are affixed, nearly two thousand American fighter planes and bombers roar overhead in mixed formations, a show of force that cannot be lost on the Japanese.
On the Missouri, a great many of the American generals and admirals are present, including Admiral Nimitz, who signs for the Americans. But no one’s presence is more poignant than that of General Jonathan Wainwright, who surrendered the American forces at Corregidor, and British general Sir Arthur Percival, who surrendered the British bastion at Singapore. Both men arrive at the ceremony just released from prisoner-of-war camps in Manchuria. Their skeletal appearance is an appropriate symbol of the suffering imposed on so many by their captors.
To honor his efforts as the Allied commander in chief, MacArthur is invited to meet with President Truman in Washington, a gesture of gratitude from Truman, as well as an event certain to please the newspapers. MacArthur refuses the invitation, and many subsequent ones, claiming his duties are too numerous to be bothered with such ceremonial formalities. It is a glaring insult to Truman and will lead to a great deal of controversy between the two men that will only culminate in 1951, during the Korean War. Truman will prevail.