The Final Storm Part 23

A voice came from the sloping hillside beyond the cave's opening, one man waving, pointing downward.

"Here! Air shaft!"

Bennett called up, "You have phosphorus?"

"No. All out!"

The captain pointed to Adams, surprising him, said, "Take a phosphorus grenade up there. Drop it in."

Adams scrambled to obey, climbed up along the rough ground, toward the Marine who had made the find, saw now it was Gorman, the older man. Gorman was excited, pointed his M-1 down toward a round hole, a piece of pipe, just barely above the level of the ground.

"I love this. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.ds think we're blind or something. People wonder how these sons of b.i.t.c.hes live in caves. Here's how, kid." Adams saw the pipe, no more than four inches across, hidden by a small clump of brush. Adams pulled the grenade from his jacket pocket, felt an odd shaking in his hands, had not used the brutal weapon yet. Gorman said, "Phosphorus? Good! Let the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have it!"

Others were gathering and Gorman seemed jumpy, giddy, unusual. Gorman pointed into the hole.

"Listen! You can hear 'em! They know we're up here! Hurry up. They might blow this whole d.a.m.n hill! They could have a ton of explosives down there. Listen to 'em. Chatterin' like birds."

Another man moved close, said, "Dead birds."

Adams knew the man, another of Bennett's sergeants, and he looked at Adams, saw the grenade. "Do it, kid."

Adams leaned close to the pipe, could hear the voices plainly, men and women, some crying, angry shouts. He glanced down toward Bennett, saw more men moving around the mouth of the cave, rifles aimed, Mortensen backing them off. Welty was holding the shotgun at his waist, staring up at him. Adams knew what Welty was watching for, thought, this is a d.a.m.n test. He's wondering if I'll do this. Adams held the grenade over the hole, pulled the pin, still gripped it, felt a shivering hesitation. He stared into the hole, the voices coming up in a chorus of sound, arguments, orders, more crying, and he waited another second, Gorman standing above him.

"Go on, son. Do it."

Adams dropped the grenade.

He jumped back, waited, and the explosion rumbled beneath them, the mouth of the cave boiling with white smoke. The voices were screams now, but not many, and Adams backed away, wouldn't hear them, the other Marines moving up, taking his place, cheering for the white smoke that spewed up through the pipe, a hot flume coming up through the narrow chimney. Men were cheering, M-1s in the air, saluting him, and Adams moved back down toward Welty, the others still aiming the rifles at the cave. To one side, Bennett glanced at him.

"Good job."

"Thanks."

He looked at Welty, saw cold eyes, a slight nod. Adams caught the smell of the phosphorus, moved farther away, upwind, but the smoke was already in his clothes, his hair, on his skin. Fire had erupted near the mouth of the cave, white phosphorus igniting brush, the men reacting by wisely backing away. The cave was spewing smoke, and nothing else, no one emerging. There was another rumble, a sudden burst of fire from deep inside the cave, something combustible igniting. Adams still walked, his hands shaking, and Welty was there beside him, said, "Now dammit, Clay, don't go all Asian on me again."

Adams held up his hand, still shaking, and Welty said, "Whoa, what the h.e.l.l's with you? You okay?"

"I did it, Jack. Wiped 'em out. They never had a chance."

"I know. That was the idea. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds won't come out, we sure as h.e.l.l ain't going in there to get 'em. You saw what they did, using those d.a.m.n Okies like b.o.o.by traps. They got no reason to live, none at all."

Adams was breathing heavily, sweating in the hot dusty air, the shaking rolling all through him. But it wasn't fear, nothing about the grenade, the smoke, the screams, and the death that bothered him at all. The shaking wasn't fear. It was excitement.

"Over here!"

Adams turned, saw a cl.u.s.ter of men waving from a crevice in a brushy hillside, and Bennett motioned for his men to advance, leaving a small party behind to keep tabs on the smoking hole. Welty began to move, said, "Look! They're coming out. Let's get there quick!"

Adams could see civilians emerging from the cave, another group of women in filthy dresses, some breaking into a run, escaping as quickly as they could. The captain was on the radio set, an angry demand for more aid workers, for interpreters and prison guards. Another interpreter was there, moving up quickly toward Bennett, no one bothering him with details of what had happened to the last man. Mortensen moved up within fifty yards of the new cave, held the shotgun high above his head, holding his men a distance from the cave's mouth.

"Give 'em room. They keep coming, let 'em come."

To one side Adams saw a pair of Marines moving up, a flamethrower team, the weight of the tank of napalm on their backs a hindrance as they staggered quickly through the rocks. Mortensen's squad was gathering near their sergeant, and Adams moved into place, focused on the man hauling the long spout of the flamethrower. This ought to be something, he thought. Ringside seat. Close by, Yablonski was watching him, said, "Hey Nut Case! Don't let these Okie ladies scare you!"

Welty moved past Adams, toward Yablonski, and Adams could see Yablonski's response, both men bowing up. Welty slung his shotgun on his shoulder, said, "I've heard about all I wanna hear outta your big d.a.m.n mouth!"

"What you gonna do, Four Eyes, kick me in the shins?"

Mortensen shouted, "Knock it off, both of you! There's a boatload of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in this hole! Stand ready!"

The flamethrower crew moved closer, the man with the nozzle looking at Mortensen, waiting for the word to fire. The sergeant shook his head, kept his eyes on the cave, said, "Not yet. Let 'em come."

The women continued to flow up out of the cave, more than two dozen, and now men appeared, ratty uniforms, hands on tops of heads. Mortensen yelled out, "Watch 'em! Any bundles at their waist, shoot 'em! Anybody drops his hands, shoot him!"

Adams wanted to move closer, better effect with the shotgun, heard Yablonski saying something to Welty, some stupid vulgarity, Welty ignoring him. One woman emerged from the cave, men flanking her, close, as though making sure she didn't run, and Adams realized there was something different, the dress not as dirty, a shawl over her head. She looked up, eyes calm, scanning the men, focusing on the men with the flamethrower. Adams couldn't look away, something in her eyes, watched her, wanted to say something, what? There was something wrong, and now he understood. It wasn't a woman at all.

"Hey ..."

She seemed to trip, falling forward, and Adams could see the Nambu gun strapped to her back. Behind another man dropped down, carefully planned, the machine gun beginning to fire, flashes of light, the distinct chatter. The Marines dropped low, some returning fire, but the Nambu had spread its deadly fire in a wide spray, finding its mark, the men with the napalm tanks down, others going down. The M-1s responded, peppering the machine gunner, the Nambu silent now. Adams rushed forward, Mortensen pushing ahead of him, one blast from the sergeant's shotgun, the body of the gunner jumping from the impact. The other j.a.panese soldiers had withdrawn, scrambling back into the cave, and Adams caught a last glimpse of them, faces, some near the cave's mouth, huddled low, firing still. He shouted out a warning and Mortensen dropped low, fired the shotgun into the cave, backed away, others firing as well, the heavy rumble of the BAR, shouts and chaos all around him. Adams saw Yablonski running to the fallen flamethrower, Yablonski shouting out something, curses. He ripped at the straps of the napalm tanks, freed them from the dead Marine, slung the tanks up on his back, yelled out, "Move aside! These stinking b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ..."

He raised the snout of the flamethrower, fumbled with the mechanism, and behind him, Mortensen yelled, "No ..."

But the liquid flowed out, straight into the mouth of the cave, then up, higher, Yablonski losing control, the nozzle rising, pushing Yablonski back, the man tripping, falling backward. The napalm still spewed out, a fountain straight overhead. It ignited now, a thick burst of fire, seemed to hang airborne for a long second, then fell, coming down on Yablonski, around him, the man screaming, the fire enveloping him. Adams stood frozen, nothing to do, Mortensen shouting out, "No you stupid ... no!"

The j.a.panese troops in the cave had disappeared, and more of the Marines moved up, no one talking, the men trying not to see the horror, Yablonski's charred body still wrapped in fire, the gra.s.s and rocks around him smeared with burning jelly. Adams saw the second flamethrower crewman, wounded, his shoulder covered in blood, moving up on his knees to his buddy, dropping down. The man with the nozzle had been ripped apart by the Nambu, his buddy curling up with grief, a corpsman there now, working to treat the man's wounds. Adams felt drawn to the flames, moved up toward the dying fire, stared at all that remained of Yablonski, black twisted flesh, saw Mortensen still eyeing the cave, and the sergeant said, "Can't just shoot the thing like a rifle. It kicks like a mule. You gotta be prepared for the kick. Stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Men were coming to life again, focusing on the job at hand, gathering in a wide arc around the cave's opening, some moving up higher, searching for any ventilation hole. More men were moving up, another flamethrower crew, and Adams heard orders from Captain Bennett, the second flamethrower moving up close. The Marines stood back, all of them staying clear of the dying flames around Yablonski. The flamethrower operator aimed the nozzle, braced himself with one leg behind, the nozzle spewing a thick stream right into the mouth of the cave, then igniting, the men doing the job the way it should be done. The Marines kept back, some cheering, but the energy was gone, most of them just staring at the flames, knowing that if the men inside did not die by fire, seared lungs, they would die by suffocation, the flames sucking the air out completely. Adams watched alongside the others, rolling the words through his brain. Roast you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Roast.

"Private!"

He held his stare toward the cave's mouth, raised the shotgun, searched for any movement, but nothing came from the cave but black smoke, brush burning around the opening.

"Private!"

He backed away, turned toward the voice, saw Mortensen down on one knee. Adams saw that the hillside near the dead flamethrower was littered with bodies, the effects of the Nambu gun. Some of them were wounded, corpsmen moving up quickly, Captain Bennett moving among them, guiding the medical men to the ones who could be helped. Mortensen called out again, "Private! Here!"

Adams realized the sergeant was calling him, and he moved that way, Mortensen staring at him with thick tired eyes.

"Your buddy."

He saw now, the red hair, the gla.s.ses askew, Welty's helmet off, lying in the gra.s.s. Adams dropped to both knees, shock stabbing him, and Mortensen said softly, "Sorry. He was a good man. Those dirty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds."

Adams couldn't breathe, stared at Welty's face, the eyes partially closed, blood pouring up through Welty's chest in thick bubbles, one round red hole in Welty's throat, more blood. Adams yelled out, "Corpsman! Doc! Get the doc here!"

No one responded, and Adams grabbed Welty's arm, tried to pull him up.

"Come on Jack! It'll be okay! Come on!"

He couldn't hold the tears away, felt Welty's arm limp, no response from the man's eyes, the blood on Adams now, too much blood. Bennett was there now, stood above him.

"He's gone, son. The Nambu took out a half dozen of us. We need to tend to the ones we can help."

Adams didn't respond, stared through tears at his friend, pulled the helmet back, put it on Welty's head, straightened his arms, saw the shotgun lying to one side, the stock broken, shattered.

"What do I do, Jack? What do I do now?"

"Come on, Private. We've got to keep moving. They'll take care of him. You know his family?"

Adams looked up at the captain, shook his head. There was sadness in Bennett's face, acceptance, and Adams realized that the captain had seen this before, too many times, had already lost most of the men he brought to the island.

"Let's go, son. We've got more caves to root out."

Bennett moved away, and Adams looked across the open ground, the black stain that had been Yablonski, the stink from the cave, the Marines moving on, mopping up what was left of the j.a.panese resistance. He tried to stand, no strength in his knees, stared at Welty's face, could not stop the tears, wanted to say something, anything, some kind of goodbye. But there were no words, his thoughts a jumble of pain and grief. He put a hand on Welty's arm, a thought flickering in his brain, and he raised Welty's shoulder, saw the backpack, reached in, fished his hand around, felt the cardboard box, the K rations. He pulled it out, ripped it open, scattering the contents, picked up the small round can of stew, stuffed it in his pocket.

24. USHIJIMA.

HEADQUARTERS CAVE,.

NEAR MABUNI, SOUTHERN OKINAWA.

JUNE 21, 1945.

The letter had come from General Buckner on the seventeenth, but the date on the paper showed there had been a week's delay in reaching Ushijima's hand. That made perfect sense to the j.a.panese, since Yahara's plan of retreat had depended on Buckner making the mistake of believing that Ushijima was still at his headquarters beneath the wreckage of the castle at Shuri. The letter had been gracious, polite, as though the American general was trying to reach out with a hand of sympathetic understanding, offering a warm handshake, while the other hand held a grenade.

The forces under your command have fought bravely and well. Your infantry tactics have merited the respect of your opponents in the battle for Okinawa. Like myself, you are an infantry general, long schooled and experienced in infantry warfare. You must surely realize the pitiful plight of your defensive forces. You know that no reinforcement can reach you. I believe, therefore, that you understand as clearly as I, that the destruction of all j.a.panese resistance on the island is merely a matter of days. It will entail the necessity of my destroying the vast majority of your remaining troops.

Ushijima had tossed the letter aside, the others on his staff reacting with loud derision and insults. But Ushijima's reaction had surprised even his staff. The note made him laugh, the first real laughter he had enjoyed in many weeks. Buckner's letter seemed to offer a compliment for Ushijima's skills while also showing what seemed to be pity. It was obvious that Buckner a.s.sumed that Ushijima had options, one of which was surrender. He had not replied to the letter, could think of nothing at all that would educate the American commander in the ways of his army, his culture, in the vows that bound the j.a.panese to only one outcome. Now, as he sat alone in his room, reading the transcript of the radio message from Tokyo, he had another laugh, different this time. For the first time, Ushijima felt pity for the man whose complete ignorance of the j.a.panese had now resulted in an extraordinary piece of history. Ushijima had not believed it at first, a.s.sumed that the dispatch from the High Command was pure fiction, still more propaganda flowing out of Tokyo that only insulted the truth. But on the ground out beyond his headquarters, his own communications officers confirmed what the message said, others, artillerymen, reporting to Ushijima what they had seen. The final confirmation of the news had come from the Americans, the j.a.panese listening posts picking up amazingly blunt transmissions that echoed across their positions.

It had happened as so many monumental events happened, by pure accident. On June 18, Ushijima's artillery spotters had caught the glimpse of a cl.u.s.ter of men gathered in an American observation post, a small clearing that was guarded by tall boulders. The j.a.panese had known of the place for days, Americans staring back at them through binoculars, a guessing game that might result in a duel between the vast power of the American guns and those few that remained tucked into Ushijima's defensive line. The j.a.panese had no reserves of ammunition, and so wasting sh.e.l.ls on an observation post made little sense. But on this one day, the officer in command of Ushijima's only remaining heavy gun along that part of the front had sensed that what he saw through his gla.s.ses were more than observers. And so the j.a.panese gun had fired five sh.e.l.ls in quick succession toward the fat rocks that offered protection to the Americans. The gun had been rolled back quickly into hiding, the officer knowing that five bursts of fire were all he could dare before the Americans would find him with guns of their own. What that artillery officer could not yet know had come to Ushijima days later from Tokyo. In the American observation post, one of those men had been General Buckner himself. As a result of the accuracy of Ushijima's gunner, or more likely, by pure dumb luck, Buckner had been struck by a blast of shrapnel from the rocks and the sh.e.l.ls themselves, and had died in a matter of minutes.

Ushijima sipped from his teacup, thought, it is arrogance, the same arrogance that put the pen in General Buckner's hand, daring to tell me how hopeless my situation must be. It was arrogance that took him to his own front lines, puffed up by the need to strut among his troops, displaying his plumage, like some fat peac.o.c.k. What inspiration has his army drawn from their commander's stupidity?

Ushijima set the cup down, tried to find some comfort on the hard mat beneath him, the wetness in the earth around him sucking any joy out of the moment. He had watched his staff react to the news of Buckner's death with outright joy, and Ushijima thought, that is appropriate, certainly. Is that not what war is about? My equal, my foe has been destroyed by my guns. Not so long ago that would mean victory for my army, the enemy crushed by the mere symbolism of it, the slicing off of their head. Throughout history, how many wars have been lost by the death of a single man, the leader who would inspire his army by bearing the mantle as his army's greatest warrior? But, no, the times have changed. The warrior has been replaced by the weaponry, so that even the coward may destroy his enemy from great distances. Even the unwilling can be ordered onto the battlefield, protected by steel. A single general cannot claim any victory, no matter what General Cho might believe. By pure chance we killed one arrogant fool, and there is not even a pause in the fighting. Already another fool has taken his place. Ushijima had received those reports as well, that Buckner's position at the head of the American Tenth Army had been filled by the Marine general, Roy Geiger. So, he thought, what has been lost? Buckner will be denied his victory celebration, his promotion, the glory of a parade in his honor. And still we sit in mud and our own sewage, infested with lice and dysentery, waiting for the final battle. Or has that battle already been fought?

The cave that Yahara had secured for the new headquarters faced away from the enemy advance, with its primary entrance on a spectacular promontory that offered Ushijima a serene view of the wide-open ocean to the south. The hill overhead was yet another lush tropical landscape, the slopes bathed in sago palms and low pines, coral and rock chiseled by millennia of tropical storms. From the main entrance Ushijima could view the flat sugarcane fields to the west, a panorama of the small villages that dotted the coast. Though the cave was a poor comparison to the relative luxury at Shuri, Ushijima knew that Colonel Yahara had done his job, had located the most suitable place available, and there would be no complaints, not even from General Cho. But the serenity was short-lived, and already the Americans had disturbed the beauty of the ocean with their warships, and very soon the ground across the peninsula where his troops found new shelter was tormented by the ongoing a.s.sault of the American navy's enormous guns. With the dryer weather, the planes came as well, daylong bombing attacks, strafing from the fighter planes, no safe place for his men to be, except the dark stinking holes in the ground. The fight to the north and east of his hill was going as badly as he had expected, the American army divisions there delayed only awhile by the valiant spirit of those few men he could place on the line. That spirit was no match for tanks, and from their caves the j.a.panese troops could not hold back the relentless push by American troops who knew that the end of this great fight was drawing closer every day. In a few short days after the retreat from Shuri had been completed, the lush hills around his own headquarters had become targets. The j.a.panese withdrawal had put his troops in a more compact defensive position, making them an easier target for the overwhelming American wave. There was no sanctuary at all, not even for Ushijima and his staff, the rumbles filling the caves, artillery and bombs already blowing away the vegetation, the hillsides above and around him churned up and denuded of anything green. The tropical paradise had been replaced now by the rotting corpses of his own men, too many for anyone to retrieve, too many for the meager memorial he knew they deserved. There was simply nowhere else to put them, and so they would be left where they fell. Each night now, instead of retrieving bodies, the patrols had one primary mission. The caves above Mabuni had no drinkable water at all, so patrols had to be sent down to the farmland for fresh water and anything edible, mostly sugarcane and sweet potatoes. Ushijima's staff had been reduced to eating filthy b.a.l.l.s of rice, the barest minimum to maintain their stamina, and the vegetables had been welcomed as a rare luxury. Even Ushijima had been forced to limit his own meals to the same fare his men relished, along with a few remaining cans of pineapple. But there was no illusion that his soldiers were enjoying even that much luxury. Along the front, food was usually nonexistent, some men scavenging any way they could. That might include stripping the bodies of dead Americans for the precious K rations or ravaging what remained of the food that might be held by the desperately terrified Okinawans. Reports of brutality reached him, but Ushijima chose not to punish anyone. There was no longer any time for courtesy to the farmers, to anyone who was not a part of his dwindling army. Ushijima had erased any thoughts of the civilians from his mind, had rationalized their plight completely. On every battlefield across the island, the Okinawans had experienced the consequences of staying put.

He swallowed the last of the tea, thought, they are an amazingly inferior people. They observed all the work we did, did much of it themselves, giving up their tombs so we could anchor machine guns among their ancestors. They chopped and shoveled to build Yahara's caves, they saw our guns, they saw our soldiers, and when the Americans came they suffered the bombardments worse than we did. And yet, through all of that, so many of them have kept to their soil, their meager homes, their primitive protection, as though they believed all of this noise would just ... pa.s.s them by. When we left Shuri, we warned them what would happen there, and yet so many of them chose to remain. We told them we were occupying these heights, and yet, right here, in these villages close to this hill, they still keep to their huts. Are their lives so miserable, so limited that their only source of hope comes from staying in their homes? Hope is not a part of anything we do now, and the Okinawans should know that. If they do not, it is not my fault. If they insist on remaining in the line of fire, that is a choice I cannot help. If my men find them to be of use, either in fighting the Americans or in other ways, then my men shall have what they need. He knew that his soldiers carried a new desperation, that the urgent retreat from the Shuri Line had crushed their morale. He had stopped paying attention to any protests from Okinawan officials, who begged him to give protection to their people. There are only so many caves, he thought, and only so many places where my men can fight the enemy. That will take priority over any civilian's safety. Yes, civilians have been ma.s.sacred, some in their own homes, some huddling beside the urns that hold their ancestors. But there is no time for pity. I have nothing to give them, and Tokyo has nothing to give me. There is no more mercy, for any of them, for any of us. It is, after all ... war.

For the past two days, as the Americans understood that Ushijima's diminishing army was now anch.o.r.ed in a much more compact area, the intensity of the American bombardment had increased dramatically. Worse for the j.a.panese, the Americans were using a new weapon, napalm, dropped from aircraft on those places where the Americans suspected anyone could be hiding. Often they were accurate, the gelatinous fire engulfing the occupants of a cave, usually with no survivors. The blessing, of course, was a quick death, and Ushijima had convinced himself that it was the best way, that his soldiers accepted that as he did. The Yasukuni Shrine will welcome us all, he thought. There need not be suffering in this life for men who have done their duty.

Outside, the American loudspeakers could be heard, broadcasting messages in perfect j.a.panese, that his soldiers surrender themselves, that no one would be tortured. The civilians were receiving those messages as well, a rain of paper leaflets in every populated area, urging them to come over to the American positions, where food and safety awaited. Ushijima doubted that many of the Okinawans would believe the promises, the people too ignorant and too easily swayed by the j.a.panese propaganda that had been fed to them even before his army had arrived. Reports had also reached him of ma.s.s suicides, civilians and soldiers both, a.s.sembling in groups within the caves, grenades most efficient when detonated amid a tightly packed gathering. For his soldiers it was the proper way to die, to pa.s.s on to the afterlife without the humiliation of capture. For the civilians ... Ushijima pondered that for a moment. I have no explanation for what they do. They believe the enemy is evil, and so I suppose that death is a preferable choice to capture. Whether they have honor at all ... he stared at the earthen walls close to one side of him. I have no idea. Some of them serve us in honorable ways. For that we should be grateful. The women, certainly, and not in the ways Cho uses them. The nurses, yes, I do respect the nurses. He felt better now, as though some part of his conscience had been addressed.

The few doctors still serving his army had long exhausted supplies of useful drugs for treating the wounded, and even bandages were rare. Now those same doctors had begun to respond to the misery of their patients by administering one of the few drugs they had in their a.r.s.enal, cyanide. Some was used to silence the worst of the suffering, but more was given to those who asked for it, soldiers who might survive the caves, who would not accept that their fight was over. Some of the doctors had dealt with the overwhelming futility of what they saw by using the cyanide on themselves. Beyond the wounds there had been new suffering, outbreaks of every tropical ailment imaginable, diseases birthed by the deepening pools of blood and filth. In the larger caves, where hundreds of men might be packed side by side, those few doctors who kept their spirit were aided by nurses who suffered from the same disease and who endured the filth and starvation diets alongside the soldiers and medical men. But there had been a singular tragedy as well, a note brought to Ushijima that even he could not dismiss.

From one of the high schools on the island had come more than one hundred fifty young Okinawan girls who had volunteered to serve the j.a.panese as nurses, though their medical skills were nonexistent. With the number of sick and wounded increasing dramatically, with stacks of corpses and every kind of misery infecting everyone in the caves, the girls endured the same suffering as the dying men and overburdened doctors. The Himeyuri girls were relegated to the worst tasks imaginable, and what had once been carefully guarded innocence had been ripped away by the filth and horrifying duties they were forced to perform, the most basic tasks for the sick and broken men who could do nothing for themselves. When the Americans approached the cave where the Himeyuri girls were hiding, most of the soldiers who occupied the miserable place were already dead, or too sick to respond to the American calls to vacate their hiding place. The loyalty from the girls meant silence, and silence from a large cave brought the usual response from the anxious and exhausted Americans, who had already endured b.o.o.by traps and all forms of deadly trickery. With few inside willing to surrender, the cave was bombarded by phosphorus grenades and blasted by flamethrowers. Nearly all of the girls were annihilated. In time the Okinawans who became aware of the astounding tragedy were calling the blasted hole in the ground the Cave of the Virgins.

Ushijima set the teacup aside, thought, girls die. Boys die. Babies and the elderly. The Okinawans can mourn their own, their farmers and their fishermen, their virgins and their grandmothers. I did not bring this upon them, and I will not accept that any of this is my fault. That is another antiquated notion, that the general will be blamed for the deaths around him. My army is dying, is nearly dead now. Even for that I will accept no blame.

He felt suddenly defiant, thought of the High Command. They accept none of the responsibility and yet it is their orders that put me here. They make the decisions. So they must bear the burden. Instead, they wash their hands of failure and ask the emperor for forgiveness. And he will oblige them. That is what he does, after all. He will accept this defeat as his own, and as long as we have served him with loyalty, we shall carry none of the guilt. For that we should be grateful.

It wasn't working, nothing in those words soothing to him at all. That speech had been driven into him for too many years, but his faith in the perfect logic of his own culture had been battered. He had been surprised by his own reaction to the sight and the astounding smell of the dead from his army, spread out on the hillsides close to the cave. The unmerciful heat of the Okinawan summer was working quickly, driving their smell inside, into every small room, every dismal corridor. No, I do not care about virgins and farmers and goat herds. But my army ... no, there will be no asking forgiveness from the emperor for what has happened to us here. I will not stand up and explain that we have done our best, not when Tokyo has forsaken us. These men have done what I asked them to do. How can any one man expect so much loyalty ...

"Sir. Forgive me."

"One moment, Colonel."

Ushijima turned away, retrieved a silk handkerchief from his pocket, dabbed at his eyes.

"I can come back later, sir."

"No, come in, Colonel."

Ushijima saw gloom on Yahara's face, the same expression the man had worn for days now.

"You bear no responsibility for our defeat, Colonel."

Yahara seemed puzzled by the comment, said, "Thank you, sir. I do not agree, but I bow to your authority. I have been speaking with many of the officers. Your message to them was received with much appreciation. They have communicated that to their men, whenever possible."

Ushijima nodded.

"Thank you, Colonel."

The message had gone out two days earlier, a broad offering of congratulations for the fighting spirit of his army. But there was one line that sat heavily inside him even now, the message that he knew some would dismiss.

Now we face the end.

"They are fighting, still?"

"Of course, sir. It is the only course. We have mobilized a force to rush the enemy positions closest to the headquarters."