The Final Storm Part 20

"Oh G.o.d! Oh G.o.d! Doc! I need a doc!"

Welty slid back away from his small rock pile, down into the hole, right into the thickest smoke from the blast. Adams whispered, "You okay?"

"Do your job!"

There was no other response, and Adams was frantic now, turned back, searched the ground in front of him for any sign of movement, still trying to hear through the ringing in his ears, wanted to call out, to ask how bad it was, but there could be no sound. He wasn't sure how many men had been down in the deeper hole, had pulled one of the wounded down there himself, helped by another man, anonymous in the darkness. Adams tried to breathe, to clear the misery of smoke and burning powder from his lungs, heard the man cry again, softer, could hear a flurry of m.u.f.fled motion, and now, one more word, a faint, gentle sound.

"Mama ..."

No one spoke, a long second, and then a familiar voice, from beyond the low place, the growl Adams knew well: Yablonski.

"We gotta shut him up!"

Welty responded, an angry whisper.

"Shut you up! He's done!"

Adams looked that way, felt swallowed by the smells from the low ground, the explosives blending with the awful soup of what remained of the men. He knew the deep place had been crowded, the wounded laid together, thought of the men who had tried to help them, no one he knew. He heard more scuffling, a low curse from Welty. Out the other way, along the hillside, Adams heard a soft rustle, and now, a few feet away, a low voice.

"He want mama? You want mama?"

Adams jerked around, nothing, darkness, but the accent was too clear and he yanked the M-1 that way, groped for the trigger, felt the grenade drop onto him, a dull thunk that jarred his helmet. Adams made a shout, desperate fear, felt the grenade with his hand, flung it out toward the voice, dropped his face to the mud, the blast immediate, close, splinters of steel ripping the soft ground around him, a punch striking his arm. He yelped again, pulled the arm in tightly, heard another cry, could see movement in the darkness, the j.a.panese soldier stumbling, a noisy stagger, falling away, groaning. Adams felt his heart exploding in his chest, fired the M-1, the flashes blinding him. The clip popped out of the rifle, and he rolled, tried to reach the cartridge belt, realized his arm was burning, sharp pain. His fear turned again to panic and he heard a sharp whisper, close beside him.

"You hit? Get back here!"

Welty was there now, pulling Adams by the pant leg, lower into the hole, and Adams hooked the unhurt arm through the strap of the M-1, grabbed the wound with his free hand, was shaking, the panic unyielding.

"I'm hit! My arm! j.a.p was right there!"

"Shut up! Get down here."

Adams let Welty pull him down, hit level ground, his feet sliding hard into another man, no protest.

"Sorry ..."

"Shut up. n.o.body alive here. Just sit tight. Might have to use the bodies for cover. Some of 'em are fresh. It'll be different tomorrow."

The smell of the bodies was overwhelming him, combining with the fear, the sweet sickly smell of blood and insides, a powerful odor of excrement. Adams held the arm tight against him, tried to ease his feet off the body, waves of sickness rolling through him. Welty pulled on his arm, Adams resisting, but relaxing now, Welty wrapping something on the wound, a soft whisper, "Best we can do for bandages. It's not bad, doesn't feel like you're bleeding much. You need morphine?"

"No ... don't think so."

An M-1 popped twice from out beyond the low place, where Yablonski had been, and now the thunderous clap from the BAR rolled across, streaks cutting across the hillside. The sounds jarred him, some kind of cheer from Yablonski, and Adams tried to grip the rifle, the wound in his arm like a stabbing torch, his feet now pressed hard into the soft pieces of the man just below him. He stared up into the darkness, skyward, nothing at all, hints of shadows from the rocks, the rolling rattle of sh.e.l.lfire from the fight that still spread across the hill, more from down below, on the flat ground. He couldn't keep the shivers away, tried to answer that, you're not dying, it's just a small wound. Get control of yourself. The enemy is right up there! He slid the gun up the slope, realized it was empty, felt a new panic, one hand fumbling against the cartridge belt. But the shaking in his hands was too much, the shaking now in his brain, pulling him to some other place, warm and dry. The ground beneath him was different now, soft, like a bed, holding him, someplace safe. He stayed with the feeling for a long moment, but something brought him back, a hard crack, a gunshot, startling, dangerous. He tried to fight the dream, gripped the rifle, stared into the darkness. Stop this! Stay awake! But it wasn't sleep, his eyes wide, alert. His heart began to race, the pain and the wetness returning. He thought of Welty, needed help from his friend. From what? What's happening to me? The dream came again, angry this time, and he wanted to shout, the anger rolling over into horror, pieces of bodies, faces, Ferucci, laughing at him, more laughter, his own, sharing the joke, a deep echo inside his brain. The laughter was louder, unstoppable, and he felt a hard claw wrapped around him, pulling him out of the mud, carrying him away. The darkness gave way to more images, faces, men he didn't know, some just pieces, all of them laughing, his brain erupting with too many images, the claw suddenly letting go, dropping him into a great black hole, a surging river of blood and filth and madness.

The a.s.saults on Sugar Loaf Hill had been many and futile, and after each failure to drive the j.a.panese away, the number of Marine casualties grew to a staggering percentage of each unit engaged. Using darkness as the only protection they had, the platoons who still had their lieutenants, or squads that could depend on a sergeant, obeyed the orders that trickled up the hill from runners and the occasional walkie-talkie: withdraw. In the daylight, from the distant hills to the north, American observers could see the j.a.panese swarming back out into their positions, positions the Marines had no choice but to abandon. Offsh.o.r.e, the enormous battleship the USS Mississippi used its ma.s.sive guns to pour a horrific dose of fire onto the j.a.panese positions, not only on the south slope of Sugar Loaf, but on the other two hills that spread out behind, as much as the navy could do to obliterate all three corners of the triangle. The cost to the j.a.panese was horrific, but, as always, their greatest number had scrambled back down into the deepest caves, which protected them from even the heaviest artillery.

The Marines who could make the withdrawal did so, but many of the wounded could not yet be evacuated, and so the American artillery unwittingly did what the doctors could not: erased their suffering. On the open ground of the hill itself, the bodies of men from both sides could be seen by the observers, and by the men who gathered out beyond the base of the hill, preparing for yet another frontal a.s.sault. Though the Marines did all they could to obey their pa.s.sionate duty to leave no man behind, the bodies of the dead were spread throughout pockets of dead j.a.panese, a scattered ma.s.s of rotting decay, the ongoing fights not allowing either side to offer rescue or a.s.sistance to so many of their fallen.

The fight on Sugar Loaf Hill continued for nearly a full week, with much the same result: conquest and withdrawal, all the while increasing the astounding casualty counts on both sides. By May 20, the vicious pounding from American artillery had silenced most of the heavy j.a.panese guns that had directed fire from Half Moon and Horseshoe, the other two hills. Finally, waves of American tanks swung southward, circling behind the hills themselves, trying to pierce through supply lines to the j.a.panese on Sugar Loaf and adding their firepower to the struggle that would soon follow on the base of the arrowhead. Pockets of j.a.panese troops still occupied many of the caves, but the tanks brought a new weapon to the fight. Many had their 75-millimeter cannons replaced by long-range flamethrowers, the tanks accomplishing what many of the men on the ground could not. Entire squads of j.a.panese troops were obliterated while still holding position deep in the rocky caves.

To the east, the First Marine Division had pressed their attack hard against the heights closer to the Shuri Castle, and the castle itself began taking heavy fire from American artillery, an a.s.sault that required several days to complete. To their east, the American infantry divisions accomplished the same goal, surging toward more of the high ground the j.a.panese generals had a.s.sumed would resist any attack. The cost to all the American divisions was extraordinary, entire companies wiped out, officers swept away en ma.s.se, yet in every case the Americans continued their push, inflicting casualties on the enemy that equaled or exceeded their own. The difference of course was that the Americans could bring in replacements, fill holes in the line, replace officers with new men coming in from the ships that continued to arrive offsh.o.r.e. The j.a.panese had no such luxury.

The men of the Sixth Marine Division who survived Sugar Loaf Hill were given little time for recovery. The city of Naha and its valuable airfield still lay in their path, and with furious pressure on General Buckner to complete the conquest of Okinawa, a campaign that had already exceeded its timetable by several weeks, even the squads and companies that had lost so many of their number on that dismal hill were still needed, still pressed into action. This meant that the men with the light wounds would still be called upon to do their part. No matter their number and their enthusiasm, the replacements could not be as dependable as the men who had already faced some of the worst fighting of the war.

In a bizarre postscript to the campaigns that punched hard against the primary j.a.panese defenses, word had come through the commanders, pa.s.sed along through the ranks, finally reaching the men who held the rifle. On May 8, the war in Europe had ended. Hitler was said to have died, and the Germans had officially surrendered. In towns across America, streets filled with celebration, a nation grateful that in that one part of the war at least, sons and husbands would finally return home. On Okinawa, the announcement of VE Day was virtually ignored.

21. USHIJIMA.

BENEATH SHURI CASTLE, HEADQUARTERS, THIRTY-SECOND ARMY.

MAY 22, 1945.

He had received word of the German surrender with the same stoic resignation he had felt for weeks now. Though others around him seemed injured by the news, as though a good friend had been lost, Ushijima understood that the alliance with Germany had been only one more enormous miscalculation. It was a familiar song, years of soothing rea.s.surances from j.a.pan's Imperial High Command that all was well, that j.a.pan's destiny was being fulfilled. The decisions to expand j.a.pan's inevitable empire by striking hard into China, by striking hard at the British and the Americans, were made by men in grand offices in Tokyo, who drew lines on maps without ever facing the pure devastating reality of what their decisions had done to their glorious army, their invincible navy. The alliance with Hitler had been one more of those wise decisions, aligning j.a.panese interests with Germany's, both nations seeking to spread their superior races over a vast empire that would eventually divide the world into two mighty spheres of influence. No one in Tokyo had revealed to Ushijima what might occur if those two spheres happened to collide. Now that mattered not at all. Germany's sphere had been smashed to rubble, and Ushijima shared none of Tokyo's illusions that j.a.pan could avoid the same disastrous defeat. Yes, he thought, one more miscalculation.

Ushijima walked slowly, carefully, through a shallow pool of water that spread down through the main headquarters cave, a gently flowing creek that poured into the cave from the earthen walls near the main entrance, thought, how many miscalculations does it take to destroy an empire? Was it difficult to convince the emperor that Hitler would be a reliable ally, that Germany's enormous war machine could withstand what the Allies brought to the fight? Is the emperor aware, even now, how many miscalculations have been made by the men he has trusted to expand his glorious empire?

Above him the Shuri Castle had finally been blasted to rubble, the inevitable result of days of constant sh.e.l.ling from the heavy guns of the Americans. The rains had returned the day before, and the shattering devastation to the hills around him had caused ruptures in the carefully constructed supports of the caves. There had been no major failures, not yet anyway, the timbers still preventing any kind of general collapse, but Ushijima could see the result now, the floor coated with a gentle flow of rainwater, a muddy creek that sifted through the dirt above and beside him. He stood silently for a long moment, still thought of the Germans, had never really known any high-ranking German commanders, his counterparts, but there had to be this, he thought. After so much destruction, even the earth punishes us. Surely, in Berlin, in Munich or Frankfurt, there were generals who stood in their luxurious headquarters and mourned the great loss, helpless to hold back the tide. Did they cast blame on their subordinates, or did they stand tall and accept that Hitler had simply miscalculated? He thought of the book, sitting high even now on a shelf in his room. He had used Sun Tzu's The Art of War at the military academy, had kept it with his possessions all throughout his travels. There was annoying irony to Ushijima that j.a.pan would employ so much cultural propaganda about the Chinese, using that as their pretext for the invasion of Manchuria. And yet, he thought, for twenty-five hundred years, there has been no one with a clearer understanding of the art and science of war than a man who was ... Chinese. Sun Tzu's most poignant lesson was painfully obvious now, even more so than it had been in his cla.s.srooms. Know your enemy. Whether the enemy fights with sticks and arrows, or whether he brings tanks and vast fleets of warships, the lesson must be obeyed. In that we have failed, and that failure will cost us our army, our emperor, perhaps our nation. Men like Cho do not read the lessons. Cho believed the Americans would be defeated by the sight of their own blood. Perhaps. .h.i.tler believed that as well. The Americans must certainly teach the wisdom of Sun Tzu to their generals. Perhaps they are better students than we are.

The return of the rains was a blessing that Ushijima knew he had to take seriously. All along the entire defensive line, the American drives had so weakened what remained of his army that the fighting could be brought to a close within a week. The most significant breakthrough for the Americans had come to the east, the j.a.panese right flank, a tenacious effort by the American infantry divisions. That was a surprise, no one in the j.a.panese hierarchy believing that infantry could mount as stubborn an offense as the Marines. Our strongest defensive efforts against the entire front were fruitful, he thought, for a while at least. Their casualty counts have to be astoundingly high, and surely there is hand-wringing, an agony of conscience among the American generals that so many men have died where we invited them to come. I feared the Marines, but I did not expect the American infantry to be as formidable. Sun Tzu speaks again. I did not know them. That is no one's failure but my own.

He moved slowly forward, shuffled his feet through the shallow sheet of water, mud on his boots, the wetness soaking through. He glanced into the map room, men working as they had always worked, doing their duty, no one reflecting his own gloom. But they know, he thought. There can be no cheerfulness now. He realized how bleak the offices seemed to be, thought, of course, it is the flowers. They are gone.

The seeping rainwater had quickly brought deterioration to the sanitary facilities in the caves, one more reason why the women who worked there had been sent away. Whether or not General Cho's recreational activities had been interrupted, the shrinking supplies of food and fresh water emphasized to Ushijima that the time had finally come. The order had gone out through Colonel Yahara that the caves be cleared of all females, including nurses, the women sent southward to a much safer part of the island. Many of the women had protested, had displayed an admirable willingness to die alongside the soldiers. But Ushijima had entertained no argument. What the women could not know, of course, was that there was a greater plan already rolling into play, a plan designed yet again by Colonel Yahara. The withdrawal of the women was only the first step.

Ushijima stared down at the thick brown water, his boots, knew that farther down into the vast network of tunnels the water was much worse. He had come out into the corridor to travel once more to the mouth of the great cave, and Cho had of course notified the guards to accompany him. But Ushijima had sent them away, a change of plans, had stood in the wetness of the softening earth and scolded himself for the romantic notion that he should find any enjoyment from a visit to his favorite vantage point. The lofty perch that gave him a view of Naha, the distant beaches, the vast American fleet, had become itself a far too dangerous place. American tanks were within range now, and any movement on the rubble of the hillside, any sign of a break in the carefully designed camouflage could bring a torrent of sh.e.l.ling. For a brief time he had considered the inevitable a.s.sault on his lookout as somehow appropriate. The plan had formed in his mind, and he retrieved his best-preserved uniform, his medals, had thought that finally, the time had come. He would march to the mouth of the great cave, would pull aside his curtain of protection, and stand there in full view of the Americans who drove toward him. His death would come as one glorious show of defiance, something to inspire his troops, and perhaps they would stand tall and face the enemy with no fear, nothing but a brutal certainty that death was welcome. But that fantasy had slipped away, replaced by the practical. The teacher found one more reason to scold himself, knew that ultimately his leadership was still more important than martyrdom. The shrine will still be there, he thought, and my ancestors can wait a bit longer.

No matter the overwhelming strength of the Americans, his men continued to do what they could to hold their ground, vicious fights from dwindling forces, the dedicated struggle to offer their lives by taking as many of the Americans as they could. It was one advantage of the rains, that the Americans would have to keep their aircraft grounded, could not advance their machinery with as much force. The soldiers would again be swamped by oceans of mud, deepening once more, neither side able to maneuver effectively, an advantage to his men, who kept to their wonderfully designed hiding places. The reports continued to come in from the field that the Americans were adding new equipment to the fight, equipment he had seen himself. His own artillery was nearly nonexistent. What had not been destroyed in the great failure of his counterattack had been virtually obliterated by the ongoing a.s.saults from the American naval guns, or the dive-bombing runs of their carrier planes. Now the tanks had come, and there was little he could do to keep them away. For the first time the deadly attacks on the American armor had almost ceased, not because his men were unwilling to die in the process, but because the supply of satchel charges had been almost completely consumed. The suicide squads no longer had the tools to carry out the job.

He stepped back to his room, could not escape the water, a thin and slippery pool, mud oozing down the walls everywhere he looked. On the desks, the maps, the tables and chairs, a film of dank wetness coated every surface. On a small table to one side, a sheaf of papers rested on a china plate. He stared at them for a long moment, knew that once more, Yahara had done the amazing. The papers were a carefully detailed description of three alternatives that remained for the remnants of his army, each part of each plan detailed step by step. Yahara was as meticulous as always, but Ushijima knew that two of those alternatives had been detailed for one very good reason, to convince General Cho that they were two very bad ideas. One of those alternatives was to hold the Shuri Line, allowing the Americans to envelop what remained of his Thirty-second Army, forcing them into certain destruction, far sooner than Ushijima had hoped. Yahara knew that General Cho would likely favor that strategy over any other, but Ushijima did not want that debate, not while he believed that his army still had a fight to give, could still force the Americans into more costly frontal a.s.saults. To his surprise, Cho's fiery nihilism had seemed to temper, brought down perhaps by the great failure three weeks before of his glorious counterattack. The second bad choice involved a general retreat, to the Chinen Peninsula, the southeastern corner of the island. On the maps, Chinen would seem logical, but the landma.s.s there was not large enough to allow Yahara to spread the army into a cohesive defensive position. Yahara already knew that Ushijima had sanctioned the third alternative, and Cho had agreed completely to abide by the plan, adding nothing of his own. Ushijima was more surprised when Cho responded to Yahara's proposed alternatives with a shrug of acceptance, offering the meek explanation that, after all, Yahara was the chief strategist. The colonel's strategy would be put into motion within two days, the length of time it would require for the staffs to organize the paperwork of the headquarters for travel. Everything left behind would, of course, be destroyed. Once the staffs were ready to move, they would withdraw from beneath the remains of the Shuri Castle and relocate in a series of temporary headquarters as they made their way to the Kiyan Peninsula, the southernmost tip of the island. Within a very few days, the senior commanders would follow along with the bulk of the army, withdrawing from the battlegrounds that even now the Americans were pushing through. The Kiyan area would be difficult for the Americans to a.s.sault, was protected by high bluffs that rivaled or exceeded the strength of the heights that had already cost the Americans so much blood. Even an a.s.sault from the sea could be a serious challenge, much of the southern tip of the island protected by tall cliffs that could easily be defended. Yahara had added one more element to the plan, drawing on tactics he had studied from Napoleon to Rommel. The withdrawal of the army away from the Shuri Line had been carefully designed so that overconfident Americans would a.s.sume their enemy had simply scampered away. Instead two powerful forces would remain hidden at each end of the line, and as the Americans advanced, those forces would launch a sudden attack against the Americans on both their flanks. It was a desperate gamble and would most likely sacrifice some of Ushijima's best frontline troops. The victory would come if the inevitable American advance was delayed, for days or even weeks, Yahara predicting that the apparent indecisiveness of the American generals would be heightened over the uncertainty of any other surprises the j.a.panese might have in store. The added time would allow Yahara to position what remained of the army in the most advantageous defensive posture down south, to maximize the last great effort they could make to bring down as many Americans as possible. If the army was to be sacrificed, Ushijima believed that Yahara's new plan would make that sacrifice as effective as possible.

To the west, along the coast, the Oroku Peninsula held the major airfield west of the city of Naha, and Ushijima was well aware that the American Marines on that part of the line had both the city and the airfield as their goals. The city itself was mostly ruins, a victim of constant bombardment by American ships and planes. But west of the city, in carefully designed fortifications, the peninsula held some three thousand j.a.panese naval troops, troops over which Ushijima had no direct authority. Their commander was Admiral Minoru Ota, who had enthusiastically offered his men for whatever operation Ushijima might appreciate. Despite Ota's willingness to help, Ushijima knew that the naval troops had almost no training in the field and weren't likely to fare well against the Marines. Up until now the sailors had only been used as part of small infiltration squads. But as the fight dragged on, even those efforts had been futile at best. Too often the effectiveness of their raids had been a complete mystery, since once they went into action, no one had ever heard from them again. Even if they weren't effective fighters, Colonel Yahara still believed they could be effective in adding manpower to the defense of the Kiyan Peninsula by moving south with the army, hopefully escaping the American drive that was sure to engulf the capital city. Admiral Ota disagreed, feeling that his men would best serve the j.a.panese cause by keeping to their well-designed fortifications on Oroku. Added to the naval force were five thousand Okinawans who had been pressed into service supporting the navy's defenses across the peninsula. Whether those troops would be effective as fighters mattered little now. Ushijima could not order the admiral to comply with any plan, so, for now anyway, the naval troops would make their stand by keeping to their artillery and automatic weapons dug into the rough ground closer to the airfield. The goal on the Oroku Peninsula was much the same as throughout the entire campaign, to delay the Americans, this time the Marines, in their inevitable efforts to capture the airfield. Also, Ushijima knew that any fight that kept a full division of Marines bogged down on Oroku meant fewer Americans joining the ultimate a.s.sault against Ushijima's bastion down south. Any delay would prolong the fight.

The plan was as sound as any that Ushijima could have imagined, but there was nothing in Yahara's strategy that predicted a defeat of the Americans, none of Cho's manic boastfulness that this time the Americans would be driven back to their ships. The plan had one inevitable outcome, no matter if it was successful by Yahara's standards or not. Ushijima knew that it was his army's final effort, their last stand.

MAY 29, 1945.

They escaped from the Shuri Heights through a thicket of artillery blasts, slipping in the darkness down treacherous pathways that led through hillsides of rubble. For the first few miles, the artillery had continued, terrifying rips through the night sky, the Americans blanketing the entire area with firepower that the j.a.panese could never equal. But luck followed them, Ushijima and his senior staff making their way mostly on foot until the most immediate danger of the American artillery was past.

He rode now in an old truck, Yahara and Cho piled in like so many farm laborers, their dignity erased by the urgency of the escape. As they moved farther south, the roads became better, less of the paralyzing mud, harder surfaces. But the truck itself was wholly unreliable, one more symptom of the diminishing supplies. As though on schedule, the truck's engine had gasped into silence, the officers disembarking onto the wet roadway once more.

Ushijima moved away from the turmoil of his aides, the men fumbling beneath the truck's open hood, desperate to remedy the problem. Cho was there, would do as he had done before, stand watch behind the men, as though by his threats of punishment the truck itself would be as fearful as the men and respond with proper behavior.

Ushijima wandered farther from the chaotic scene, listened instead to the artillery, a barrage coming down closer to the sea, along the western coast. There was little noise from the south, a good sign, the advance staff reporting that the American fleet had not anch.o.r.ed any of the larger warships off the island's southern tip. So far, he thought, they have ignored those places we have not been. But surely they must know we will occupy the high ground there. Surely they know I will not surrender to them, that the peninsula is the one place I will gather my army, that we shall end this the only way we have ever ended any fight. Surely they know that.

He moved out through a thin stand of trees, some kind of orchard, the land around him undisturbed by sh.e.l.ling. The wet smells washed over him, and he glanced back, caught the shadow of a single guard. The man kept his distance, and Ushijima knew that the guard would be Cho's idea, a.s.signed no doubt to make sure Ushijima did not wander off or stumble into some dangerous place. There is no danger here, he thought. No Americans, certainly. The worst we have encountered are the civilians, and they must endure a danger far greater than our own. They are, after all, not j.a.panese. They do not appreciate the sacrifice we make, that it is the most positive end we can seek.

The civilians had poured out onto the roads from Naha and the smaller villages, a dreadful parade of filthy, frightened people in a ma.s.s exodus that led anywhere the sh.e.l.ls did not fall. His troops had been unmerciful in moving them aside, the army's retreat far more of a priority. Colonel Yahara had issued instructions that any civilians encountered be ordered to clear the way by moving to the east, to the Chinen Peninsula, the one place on the southern half of Okinawa where there would likely be no fight. Some of them actually listened to the officers, slogging along muddy roads with wagons and carts, or carrying what remained of their possessions on their backs toward a place many of them had never seen. But many others ignored the officers, and so endured brutal punishment by the army who moved past them, all of them heading to the south. Most of the soldiers were as desperately ignorant of their destination as the civilians, the agonizing misery of a march through mud that to some would end along the way. Unseen by Ushijima were the vast fields of civilians, shoved off the roads by the army. Many seemed too bewildered to obey anything the officers told them; they huddled along the muddy ground, enduring sickness and wounds, caring weakly for children or the very old, watching the j.a.panese retreat with blank hopelessness, or utter disinterest.

As their retreat pa.s.sed through the smaller villages, Ushijima had seen some of the civilians up close. The sight of young men had grabbed his attention. Those were few, and usually they tried to shirk away, to be unnoticed. Ushijima said nothing, gave no orders to anyone on his staff to gather those men into the army's ranks, ranks they may have deserted. He knew they would serve very little usefulness now. Whether they were laborers or had been issued a j.a.panese rifle, Ushijima knew that those men would know the truth about what was happening to their island. They would know that the army was retreating, and if they believed the outrageous propaganda fed to them about American brutality, they would be far more desperate to escape, would seek out their families and their homes. Despite what Tokyo had preached, the Okinawan people had no loyalty, no patriotism for j.a.pan's great cause. He also knew that General Cho would have had any deserters executed, had Ushijima allowed it.

Ushijima felt a slight breeze drifting through the trees, the rain a heavy mist. In the distance the rumble of artillery continued, m.u.f.fled by the rustling of the leaves above him. The air was strange, pungent with the soggy earth, and, he realized, it was clean. He had not experienced fresh air for many weeks, thought, do not forget this moment. The new headquarters will be ... less than perfect. Yahara is full of apologies for that, but it cannot be helped. The caves at Shuri were the best we could have provided, and that has pa.s.sed. While this fight continues we will once again huddle low in the stink of our own making, dug into the earth like rats, awaiting our fate. He glanced toward the truck, thought of Cho. Even he has accepted the obvious. He rides alongside me in a broken-down truck, and instead of his ridiculous speeches and rabid p.r.o.nouncements, he endures this journey with patience and silence and reflection. Ushijima could not help a small laugh, thought, well, there is a first time for everything.

He focused again on the artillery, a low thunder, a strange kind of silence to it. He looked up, the mist on his face, thought, for one brief moment, this war is very far away. But you are not allowed to think that. This war is inside you, you carry it with you even now. The Americans are still pouring out their vast firepower. But we will surprise them. So many of those sh.e.l.ls are falling on empty s.p.a.ces, caves we have already left behind. This might actually be working, he thought. So far there is no indication that the enemy knows what we are doing. General Buckner must believe that we have been crushed beneath the weight of his steel and that the Shuri Line is just a mopping-up operation. The rain has helped us, has kept his reconnaissance planes on the ground, and so has kept him blind to our plans. Yet he knows he has all the advantage. A good general would have been prepared for a final blow, would have sensed our collapse. He would keep strong reserves in position to push past the worst of the fighting, seeking what lay behind. Buckner relies on his eyes in the sky, and of course, that is his greatest advantage. But the weather is ours. If there is anything about this miserable island that I should be grateful for, it is that the weather has helped equalize the fight, has given us precious days, lengthened our war. Now we will lengthen it again.

The truck erupted in an uneven rumble, coming to life, success for his aides. He stared out through the black mist, took a deep breath of the soggy air. His guard was still there, patient, waiting, and Ushijima moved that way, the guard letting him pa.s.s, then following him to the truck. The guard joined the others, climbed up in the rear of the truck. Inside the truck itself, Ushijima pressed in close beside Yahara, Cho just behind them, and Cho said, "It is not wise to drift off in the dark like that. We thought you had gone over to the enemy!"

"That would leave you in command, General Cho. Tell me this. If I was to present myself to General Buckner, what should I tell him? What great secrets could I carry to the Americans that would label me a traitor? Oh yes, I forget. Just by the act of surrender, I am a traitor. That is one of my own lessons, of course. I taught that to many of the officers who still fight in those hills. Do you truly think I would ... wander off?"

Cho's joke was silenced now, his reply unusually meek.

"I would not suggest that any of us would do such a thing. Forgive me for my poor judgment."

It was the wrong word, and Ushijima knew that beside him, Yahara would chew on that, would know that Cho's judgment had been the greatest failure of this entire campaign. Ushijima leaned forward, tried to see the driver's face, knew only his name, Inko. Yahara seemed to read him, said, "We have four kilometers to the next station, sir. There is a radio there, with reports of the flank attacks. I admit, sir, that I am anxious to receive whatever word awaits us."

"You should be."

Ushijima sat back, tried to be as comfortable as possible on a seat that had not offered any kind of comfort for years. The truck rattled along in total darkness, no lights of any kind, the road scattered with the glimpses of moving shadows, no way to see if they were soldiers or civilians. The next station, he thought. Well, we might receive some good news.

Yahara held his ear to the radio receiver, stared down. Cho stood close to him, energized, rocking back and forth on his heels, staring at Yahara with brutal impatience. Yahara spoke into the radio, said, "I have received your report, Colonel. I shall communicate it directly to General Ushijima. You have performed your duty with glory and loyalty. There is no greater gift you can give our emperor."

Yahara set the receiver down slowly, a deliberate pause, and Ushijima could see now that the man had tears in his eyes. Cho was in the colonel's ear now, an impatient shout, "What? Are we successful?"

Yahara seemed to slide away from him, turned to Ushijima, composed himself.

"I regret to inform the commanding general that our retreat-and-attack plan has not been a success. The forces we positioned on the enemy's flanks were not sufficient to accomplish the task we a.s.signed them. The enemy has succeeded in destroying our efforts while preventing us from driving into their positions with much effectiveness. Our losses have been substantial. We just did not have the artillery to support our troops."

Ushijima absorbed the words in stoic silence, had suspected this might be the result of Yahara's grand plan, though, he knew, Yahara had to make the effort. It was, after all, sound strategy.

"No excuses are required, Colonel. It was necessary that we do everything we could to inflict doubt and uncertainty on the enemy. Our troops have surely made a valiant effort. Do we know if the enemy advance has been slowed at all by our efforts?"

Yahara shook his head.

"That is something of a mystery, sir. Colonel Ieko reports that the enemy was not making much effort to advance at all. They seem more engaged in consolidation, and there is little evidence that they know we have abandoned the front. If they are aware, they are not making any significant effort to pursue our retreat."

Cho stepped close again, the old fury showing itself.

"Then your grand flank attack should have caught them by complete surprise! What kind of treachery is this? We fail to inflict losses on an enemy who does not plan a fight? Colonel Ieko shall be pulled by his ears to my headquarters ..."

Ushijima held up a hand, a clear signal that for once Cho obeyed, the fury silenced.

"I will not condemn the men who made this effort. Colonel Ieko was once a student of mine. He understands tactics, and when he says we could not give him artillery support, that is a sufficient explanation. The Americans have secured every advantage, in men and in machines. In case you have forgotten, General, that is why we are making this retreat."

22. ADAMS.

FIELD HOSPITAL,.

NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA.

MAY 31, 1945.

"Good G.o.d, what are you two doing here?"

Clay sat up on the bed, stared in amazement, the two Marines in front of him more like filthy scarecrows than men. Welty had not shaved in days, his red beard more like a growth of some odd fungus, and beside him, Sergeant Mortensen looked older and leaner than any time before. Welty smiled, said, "Got leave to come get you. The captain checked with the bra.s.s, and they said a lot of the cases ... the guys who got sent back ..."

Mortensen shook his head, the older man interrupting.

"Some of the nut jobs aren't in such bad shape after all. Like you. The captain called back here to some chief headshrinker, and the guy said you hadn't gone totally Asian, that he thought you were fit. He said you just needed a few days on some white sheets, maybe a nurse or two to rub your feet, trim your toenails, and you're good as new."

Welty seemed embarra.s.sed for Mortensen's lack of delicacy.

"Look, Clay, they said you could come back to the outfit. That okay with you? You doing all right?"

Adams felt a strange rush of glee, smiled broadly.