by Jeff Shaara
His knees were soaked, the water pooling in the bottom of the foxhole, and he tried to lean back, felt soft mud everywhere he touched. He glanced toward Welty, knew better than to say anything, thought, you’ll be asleep in minutes. Never saw anything like it. I could be beating hell out of you with a baseball bat and you’d sleep right through it. How’d you even eat in this stuff? The damn stew is bad enough without Okie rainwater …
The short quick steps moved right past him, sharp splashes in the mud, and now another, one behind the other. He felt a stab of panic, started to call out, the sounds choked away by the shock. More steps came, quick, running, and he reached for his rifle, tried to bring it up, his hands wet, clumsy, the barrel jabbed into the side of the foxhole. He kicked Welty, but the man had already heard, was up as well, his M-1 pointed back to where the sounds had gone. Out to one side, the shots came, blinding flashes, a spray of fire from a foxhole close by. Adams hesitated, thought of the mud in his barrel, dangerous, but the fear was overwhelming, men shouting, more shots coming farther down. He strained to see anything in the dark, steady rain, and he held his breath, turned his head away from the rifle, fired. There was no clog in the barrel, and he aimed now, fired again, kept his aim low along the ground, kept firing, blinded by the muzzle blast, by the flashes of fire around him. The shooting spread, contagious, the fear in every man pouring out through the weapons, two dozen rifles firing all across the rolling ground. As the magazines emptied, the shots began to slow, and he heard one voice, loud, the lieutenant.
“Cease fire! What are you shooting at?”
The silence came now, no one responding, and Adams heard a hard whisper, a question from Welty.
“Japs?”
Adams wanted to respond, but he didn’t have an answer. He stared into the rain, no sounds at all but the gentle splashes around him, the swirling wind, the men all watching, as he was, blind and desperate fear that the enemy had finally come close.
The rain had stopped, but the misery of the foxhole had only grown worse. Adams felt the stiff aching in his knees, his back, his skin raw from scratching at the plague of fleas. The endless night had finally given way, a hint of detail, small bumps appearing in the ground around him, the helmets of the others, men starting to move in the dim light. He could feel the water in his boots, the bottom of the foxhole inches deep in soft mud, every part of him wet beneath the poncho. Welty was up now as well, neither man making any effort to sleep. Welty whispered close to him, “No coffee this morning, that’s for sure.”
The joke wasn’t funny. Adams hadn’t had coffee since they left the ship.
He saw one man rising up, crawling toward them, knew by now it would be Ferucci, the sergeant pulling them awake, as though anyone had been able to sleep after the small-scale war they had waged. There had been other shots, scattered farther along the road, panicked men too eager to see enemies in the rain. Ferucci said in a low voice, “Anybody shoots me, I’ll kick your ass. Wake up your buddies.”
Men responded, the foxholes close by coming alive, low talk. Ferucci stood now, and Adams watched him with a hint of alarm, thought, easy, Sarge. What the hell are you doing? The sergeant moved toward Adams, didn’t look down, stepped past in the slop of deep mud, held his rifle low, pointing it forward, and Adams heard Ferucci laughing. Beyond the brush, others were up, and more laughs came, one man calling out, a mocking sound.
“Baaaaah.”
Adams heard the familiar voice of the lieutenant, moving through the foxholes, hard whispers, closer now.
“Pipe down! Get back in cover! This isn’t a damn playground!”
Ferucci returned, knelt down close to his squad, said, “Well, boys, you’ve got fresh meat today. Seems the infiltrators you took out last night had fur. You assholes killed a flock of goats.”
10. USHIJIMA
THIRTY-SECOND ARMY HEADQUARTERS,
BENEATH SHURI CASTLE, OKINAWA
APRIL 5, 1945
“We should not have allowed them to take those airbases. Not without shedding their blood. I offer this only as a respectful suggestion, sir!”
Ushijima did not look at Cho, let the words slip past. He closed his eyes, the smell of the tea comforting.
“You tell me what I already know, General. But the power of the American fleet gave us no choice.”
“What power is that, sir? They only bring numbers, they do not bring the code of the Bushido, they are not warriors!”
Ushijima kept his eyes closed, but Cho’s energy was poisoning his calm. He took a long breath, tried to relax, but Cho’s presence would never allow that. He could hear the man’s agitated breathing, opened his eyes, looked up at him from his cushion on the floor, said, “It will take more than spiritual strength to prevail in this war.”
Cho crossed his arms, his usual stubbornness.
“It never has required anything else! Never! Not in all our history! You were in China, you saw for yourself how easily we prevailed. There were those in Tokyo who thought that we should never awaken such a massive dragon. What kind of dragon did we find? One who steps aside and bows to our victories. It will be the same again, right here! Sir!”
The added show of respect punctuated every outburst from Cho, a theatrical afterthought. It is mere performance, Ushijima thought, for some invisible set of eyes that are watching us, judging us, in every gesture we make. He felt drained by Cho’s energy, but he would never allow Cho to know that. Cho was, after all, his subordinate. He took the small teacup in his hands, soothed by the warmth, tasted the flowery liquid.
“I was not aware the war in China has concluded. From my experience there, we were victorious over armies of poorly armed peasants. We swept away troops who were more suited to fight Neanderthals. But China has changed. There are greater forces against us there, perhaps too great. China has rallied her friends and those friends have brought better troops and better arms. And the Chinese are fighting on their own soil. Never forget that. No matter how weak an army, they are strengthened when they fight to protect their own homes.”
Cho bent low, as though testing Ushijima’s vision, a mocking test of whether he was ill, and Ushijima thought, he was never in a classroom, he has never studied the great lessons of history. Why do I waste my words?
Cho’s response came in a syrupy, patronizing tone.
“We have won every battle. We occupy an enormous amount of Chinese territory, territory in Burma, Indochina, Korea. Soon the entire Asian continent will lie in peace beneath our emperor’s flag. The Chinese do not know of honor, of the code of the Bushido.”
“And yet they fight us. No one in Tokyo has indicated to me that there is any end to that campaign, that we are close to conquering China … we might as well try to conquer the moon. If our army here was to be increased by a handful of those divisions, those good men who are buried in the mud in Manchuria …”
“Manchukuo, sir! Forgive me for correcting you.”
“Yes, yes, Manchukuo. I will play the game. That is what our children will be taught. I suspect the Chinese maps will still read Manchuria.”
He knew he had crossed a dangerous line, that Cho still had influence in Tokyo that would treat this kind of talk as treasonous. But Ushijima clearly understood his place now, his role in the spectacle that was being played out for the emperor’s benefit. When Manchuria had been conquered, a government had been put into place there, a Chinese aristocrat who of course answered only to the Japanese army that kept him in power.
Cho stood straight, stared past him, the arrogance unyielding.
“If there are Chinese fools who do not accept their fate, then we shall manage that in the only way possible. They would play with maps? We shall burn every last one of them, until they accept their destiny.”
Cho’s dreamlike confidence was overpowering, and Ushijima had no patience for it. He had not slept well for days now, not since the Americans had come ashore. The preparations for the Shuri defensive lines had been intense and continuous, and h
e had marveled how the tireless Colonel Yahara seemed to be everywhere at once, every hour of the day and night. Ushijima pulled himself to his feet, the tea forgotten, any pleasantness swept away by Cho’s noisy version of patriotism. Cho stood back, hands clasped behind his back, rocked slowly on his heels, a show of impatient obedience, waiting for Ushijima to speak. Ushijima tugged at his jacket, straightened his uniform, stretched his back.
“General, let us pay more attention to those things we can control. I agree with you about the airfields. I very much regret that we could not hold the Americans away. But you are certainly aware that if Tokyo had not thought it so wise to take away the Ninth Division, this army would have had the manpower to put up a far more formidable defense. But I will not make excuses. Had we done as you proposed, and manned those positions near the water’s edge, those men would have died uselessly. You saw the American bombardment, you saw how they targeted the coastline. As much as I mourn the loss of so many fine soldiers, sacrificing them would not have prevented the enemy landing. We must fight the war with the tools we have been given.”
“We have been given the code of the Bushido. That is the greatest tool of all. Sir!”
Ushijima knew there was nothing to be gained by continuing any argument with Cho, thought, does he truly believe that? We shall win because we are more spiritual than the Americans? Ushijima moved out of his room, turned toward the map room, a short walk down the hall. Cho moved with him, stayed a pace behind, appropriate. There, two officers were staring at the enormous map of the island, one man with a thick stub of blue chalk, marking a line across Okinawa’s narrow center. They were suddenly aware of the commanders, stood back at stiff attention, and the man with the chalk said, “Forgive me, sir. I was adjusting the enemy’s position.”
“Yes, I see that. Then it is confirmed? They have reached the eastern coast, severed our connection with the north?”
The man seemed to hesitate, a glance at Cho. Ushijima knew why, said, “You may speak, Major. Give me the report. The accurate report.”
The man nodded toward the table close to the large map.
“Just arrived, sir. I was going to bring it to General Cho in one minute. I had been ordered to correct the maps as quickly as possible. My apologies for the delay.”
Cho started to speak, and Ushijima interrupted him, knew that the major would get a lashing for no good reason. It was Cho’s way, bombast and fear, as though no one would do their jobs without the crack of his whip.
“Thank you, Major. Have all the line commanders communicated with us?”
“Those in the south, yes, sir. We have been unable to reach Colonel Udo.”
“No, I suspect not.”
Cho stepped forward, pointed at the northern part of the island.
“Udo will do his duty. He will bloody the enemy and drive them into the sea!”
Ushijima did not respond, moved close to the map. He had studied every detail of the geography, stared at the curving lines that represented the hills over the northern half of the island. Udo will fight with what he has, he thought, and we can give him nothing more. He knew Udo well, had studied alongside him at the Imperial Military Academy. But Udo had shown very little of the dignity Ushijima had expected, seemed to spend his energies endearing himself to General Cho. Colonel Udo was said to have brutalized the Okinawan civilians in the north, which kept many of them from willingly serving the army as much-needed laborers. Ushijima had planned that the north be lightly defended, and so Udo was given that command, which kept Udo out of the way from the more critical defenses in the south. Ushijima understood that he did not have the luxury of replacing Udo with another experienced commander. If Udo’s bad habits got in the way of his performance against the Americans, Ushijima just didn’t want to hear about it. After a long silence, Ushijima said flatly, “Colonel Udo knows his duty. He will do what we have asked him to do.” He glanced at the paper, troop movements, brief reports from several of the field commanders, all communicated through the radio room nearby. “The American Marines are driving northward, which will weaken the forces who face us here. That is the best we can do with the resources we have. We shall continue to strengthen our position in the south, using this part of the island to our advantage. I expect Colonel Udo to do what he can against the Marines, engaging them at every suitable opportunity. His greatest duty is to allow the passage of time, to keep the Marines far from our strongest point.”
“He shall succeed! And he shall accomplish much more! I am certain of it! Sir!”
Ushijima ignored Cho’s bombast once more, studied the southern half of the island.
“I am greatly pleased with the work we have done to strengthen our defensive lines.” He turned to Cho. “You are pleased with the strength of our lines, yes?”
Cho seemed not to notice the change of subject.
“I accept the shame we must endure by fighting from the defensive, sir. But I must admit that our men have shown the kind of spirit we must have, even as they bring shame upon their ancestors.”
Ushijima felt his patience slipping, but there were too many ears in the offices around him, and he would not reveal any anger to the staff, to the many secretaries who labored close to the map room. He held his breath for a short pause, fought to calm himself.
“There will be no shame for any soldier who kills his enemy. You would agree with that?”
“Oh, most definitely, sir! I should expect my own death to come while taking ten or a hundred of the enemy with me! I can think of no greater gift …”
“I would rather not have this army meet their ancestors just yet. Even the most junior private understands that if we are all dead, there is not much of a fight we can offer.”
Cho seemed unwilling to respond, and Ushijima knew the moment had come.
“You are dismissed, General. Thank you for your counsel. Your spirit is most valuable to this army, and I trust you will continue to inspire our men. Perhaps you should inspect the caves closer to the Naha airfields. That is a key position in our defenses … in our quest for victory. I will have no weakness there. Do you agree?”
Cho seemed to brighten.
“Sir! I will inspect the Naha caves. There will be no weakness! I will stand that ground myself, if the enemy requires it!”
Cho turned crisply, was gone, and Ushijima felt himself sagging, his usual reaction when Cho left the room. He glanced at the two officers, silent, respectful, and he thought of returning to the tea. He stared at the map once more, the thick chalk line across the island’s waist. The ground shook slightly beneath him, and he heard a distant rumble, an echo that drifted through the vast network of caves.
“Those are our guns, yes?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Excellent. I must take time to mention this to Colonel Yahara. He has done a magnificent job in building these positions.” He moved out into the corridor, thought, I must also apologize to him for ordering Cho to march out there and stare over his shoulder. But one officer’s pleasure often comes at another’s grief. Right now I have had enough grief for one day.
He looked into one of the smaller offices, an aide snapping to attention.
“Summon the guards to escort me to the opening of the primary cave.”
“Right away, sir!”
The man hurried out of the office, and Ushijima saw the others looking up at him, two women, backed by three other men, all of them sitting at small desks, papers stacked neatly in front of them. He knew they were dealing with the enormity of the supply problems, finding the means to move food, water, and medical assistance where it was most required. He felt a stab of guilt, knew that those in the north could not be reached at all. Two nights earlier they had attempted to launch small boats in the darkness, carrying food and ammunition northward along the east side of the island. But the Americans were vigilant, patrol boats with searchlights scouring every beach, every cove. Ushijima had not heard anything more from the small flotilla, had to assume that the Amer
icans had destroyed them. So, those men in the north will fight with what they have.
The guards were there now, eight men, heavily armed, stiff at attention. He moved past them, knew they would allow him ten meters before they marched behind. It was the usual routine, ordered of course by General Cho. Ushijima accepted the added security grudgingly, thought it ridiculous, had yet to hear any reports of assassins lurking in the cave beneath the castle. But he had learned to save his energy for the battles that mattered.
To save power, the offices were dimly lit, and he moved past the doorways quickly, did not want anyone’s show of fealty. The thick mustiness of the deeper caves gave way now to fresher air. He glanced to one side, another, smaller corridor, and he changed course abruptly, knew the guards would adjust. Yes, I will see this for myself. Another sharp thump rolled through the corridor, much louder, and he was carried forward by the power, the energy of that. Talk is tiring, he thought. There is much more value in artillery fire. If these men are firing, it means they have a target. I should like to see it. He laughed silently, hid the smile. Cho will tell them I have visited their battery because I am so brave.
The passageway narrowed, and he saw hazy sunlight, heard voices, a quick shout, men suddenly scrambling into position to one side of their gun. He knew he had surprised them, regretted that, had no interest in a show of obedience to some mindless inspection. He wasn’t there to see the men at all. The officer stepped forward, and Ushijima put up his hand, said, “Captain, please relax your men. I am here to examine your field of fire.”
The man stood straight, a perfect show of respect.
“As you wish, sir. You honor us with your inspection!”
