The Final Storm: A Novel of the War in the Pacific

by Jeff Shaara

  The kamikaze attacks had come continuously, though some were small in scale, sometimes a single aircraft. But it had become clear that there was a method to the Japanese tactics. Every seven to eight days now the attacks were launched toward the American fleet in a massive wave, hundreds of aircraft of every imaginable type ramming their way through the American defenses. The destruction was becoming astonishing, both on board the ships and to the Japanese pilots, almost none of whom survived. Throughout the war, naval casualties had been comparably light, even during the most brutal battles in the Coral Sea and at Leyte Gulf. But now the navy was absorbing losses they had never experienced, and though the most prized targets, the battleships and carriers, had taken some hits, it was the smaller escort and supply ships that were receiving the worst punishment. Dozens of American ships were being sent to the bottom, along with far too many crewmen. The losses were doubly horrifying because they had been so unexpected, and yet the Americans continued to be baffled by Japanese logic. If Tokyo had any expectation that their planes would either destroy the American fleet or drive them away from Okinawa, the tactics being used seemed gruesomely absurd. Radar and lookout stations monitored the incoming waves of Japanese planes, allowing gunners on board the American ships to prepare for the onslaught. The carrier aircraft could combat the incoming Japanese waves before the kamikaze pilots could even see their targets. With Japanese losses in aircraft numbering in the hundreds, the Americans had to wonder just how much more of this kind of attack the Japanese could mount. The loss in pilots alone had to mean that the planes were being flown by men with minimal training, whose sole mission was to end their lives by a desperate gamble that Americans would die in the process. The number of aircraft the Japanese were losing added to the mystery. How many more planes could the Japanese air force sacrifice before they simply ran out?

  COMMAND POST, TENTH ARMY, OKINAWA

  APRIL 23, 1945

  He climbed from the jeep, returned the salutes, waited as Vandegrift slid out the other side. The Marines who stood guard seemed to recognize their highest-ranking commander, most of them showing a little more starch in their salutes toward Vandegrift, a little more enthusiasm than they had for Nimitz. Nimitz smiled to himself, had no objections to that at all. Vandegrift had just received his fourth star, the first Marine general to ever reach that rank.

  In an active war zone, a gathering of high-ranking commanders usually did little more than annoy the men on the ground who were trying to do their jobs. Nimitz had suggested to Vandegrift that the Marine Corps commander spend more of his time visiting his battle-weary divisions, the Fourth in particular, who had been badly mauled at Iwo Jima. Vandegrift had obliged him with a barely disguised anger, the general expecting to be allowed free rein over his units no matter where they might be stationed. After several days with the Fourth in Hawaii, Vandegrift had visited the exhausted Third Division, which held station on the newly secured Iwo Jima. By the time the Marine commander returned to Nimitz’s headquarters on Guam, Nimitz could see that the exposure to the tattered remains of two of his best divisions had worn a hole in Vandegrift’s patience. Nimitz realized that, annoyance or not, if Nimitz was going to Okinawa, he had no right to prevent Vandegrift from accompanying him. To Vandegrift’s obvious delight, Nimitz had conceded that there was probably no one in the entire Pacific theater who had earned a greater right to visit his troops, no matter where they might be.

  Alexander Vandegrift was two years Nimitz’s junior, bore himself with that distinctive straight-backed demeanor that Nimitz always respected. He was a Virginian, the descendant of a survivor of Pickett’s Charge, and surprised no one by his desire to pursue a military career. But the number of influential Virginians who pushed for appointments to the military academies had left Vandegrift behind, and instead he began his own path by attending the Virginia Military Institute. Rather than the army, Vandegrift chose the Marine Corps, serving in the First Division. At Guadalcanal in 1942, Vandegrift commanded that division, and his heroics there caught the attention of Admiral King in Washington. In a short time, Vandegrift’s star rose considerably, and by early 1945 he had become commandant of the Marine Corps. But office politics and a fat desk had not tamed the man known by his officers as “Sunny Jim.” On the long flight to Okinawa, Nimitz had already chastised himself repeatedly for ever assuming Vandegrift would be a pain to anybody.

  Across the open ground, Nimitz could see tents and hastily built metal and wood huts, scattered through a smattering of low-slung palm trees. Anti-aircraft guns ringed the entire compound, the gunners closest to him curious, mostly with their eyes on Vandegrift.

  Nimitz had seen the same kinds of faces on board the USS New Mexico the night before, where he had dined with Fleet Admiral Spruance. The gunners on board the great battleship were nervous, angry men, who focused much more of their attention on the skies than on a parade of brass who strode along their decks. It had surprised Nimitz that little effort had been made on the battleship to hide the stacks of cots, other than to shove them into any nook where they wouldn’t be in the way. It was a clear sign that most of the sailors were using the open deck for sleeping. Even on those days when the rains came, the extraordinary heat prevented anyone from sleeping in the stifling misery of their quarters belowdecks. Nimitz focused now on the faces closest to him, as he had on the ship. He saw the same faces he had seen at sea, fatigued, sad eyes, men going about their jobs with automatic movements, no joking, no laughter. Low morale was as obvious here on the island as it had been on the ship. It was not a surprise. Nimitz knew that the loss of President Roosevelt had certainly cast a heavy dose of gloom among the troops everywhere, but then, there had been one more dreadful surprise, news of a completely unexpected tragedy. Nimitz received the word, as had every commander in the theater, that on April 18 newspaper columnist Ernie Pyle had been killed while accompanying a patrol of the Seventy-seventh Infantry Division on one of the smaller islands offshore. Nimitz knew that the president’s death would have a far more profound effect on the conduct of the war. But the loss of Ernie Pyle would have a devastating effect on the men in the ranks. Of all the reporters who had accompanied the troops in all theaters of the war, Pyle was by far the most beloved. From North Africa to Europe and now to the Pacific, the columns Pyle sent back home had humanized the troops by telling their stories directly, experiences comical, absurd, and tragic. He gave the troops their own voice, when most other reporters were far more interested in snuggling up to the brass. By naming them and offering a nod to their hometowns, Pyle had sent a reassuring hand back to relatives who might otherwise never know of the fate of their own, since mail service took far longer than Pyle’s own dispatches. Everywhere he went, Pyle obliged as many of the troops as he could, moving among the men with his trademark typewriter slung over his shoulder, offering good cheer and an eagerness to listen that the average GI had found nowhere else.

  Nimitz still returned the stares, hard, cold eyes, thought, that’s what this is. So many of these men are veterans, have seen these islands come and go, have faced a viciousness in the Japanese that none of us expected. They’re losing friends in every fight, and Ernie Pyle made himself a friend to every one of these men. Damn it all, I want this fight to end.

  “Ah, Admiral, welcome! Sorry, I was just dealing with a … radio matter. Messages coming in from offshore. Admiral Turner is checking on you, making sure your party arrived safely. I don’t hear much from him, you know. Prefer it that way. Not that he’s a pest or anything. It’s just that … well, his communications can be … well …”

  Buckner was digging himself into a hole, and Nimitz held up both hands, said, “I understand, General. No need for explanations.”

  “Ah, General Vandegrift, welcome! Congratulations are in order. Welcome to the thin air at the top, if I do say. Please, I may not be the first, but I’ll shake your hand, if you’ll allow it.”

  “Thank you, General. I’m at your service.”

  The ple
asantries were already strained, Nimitz wanting to move into whatever passed for Buckner’s headquarters, Buckner’s obvious cheerfulness a poor mask for his anxiety that Nimitz had come to Okinawa in the first place. Buckner was a huge bear of a man, roughly Nimitz’s age, a shock of white hair over deep blue eyes. Buckner was more fanatical about physical fitness than Nimitz was, something Nimitz admired. But there were extremes to Buckner’s devotion to the conditioning of his men. It was one of the major gripes that came from the men who served him, that the general had put even the older officers through so much rigorous exercise that throughout the Tenth Army the senior command suffered from constant physical injuries. Nimitz had heard that some of the meetings resembled hospital wards, generals with various joints wrapped in gauze or hard casts.

  He followed Buckner, glanced at the stiff-backed MPs who stood guard, grim-faced men who reminded Nimitz of his own Marine guard on Guam. He turned over the name in his head, Turner, the admiral who now held overall command around the Okinawan operation. Turner had remained on board his own command ship, the USS Eldorado, and had seemed relieved that Nimitz had not asked him to come along. There were other reasons why Nimitz was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the man he had chosen to oversee Buckner’s Tenth Army and the fleet anchored offshore.

  It had been a particular thorn in Nimitz’s side, the scuttlebutt that Admiral Turner couldn’t stay away from the bottle. But his performance in the fights for Saipan and Guam had been outstanding, and Nimitz knew that performance mattered more than a man’s personal habits. But worse for Nimitz, Turner was physically opposite from the lean, hard commanders that Nimitz tried to keep in his command. Turner had a soft paunch, a belly that spread out well over his belt line. It made Nimitz wince to think about that, a violation of Nimitz’s philosophy that officers should be as lean as their men. That’s worse than the booze, he thought, and he should know that. I can’t dictate orders about being a slob, when a man comes by it naturally. The drinking … well, if I see it’s really affecting his performance out here, I’ll have to do something. No doubt about it.

  Richmond Kelly Turner had been chosen by Nimitz himself to command the overall assault on Okinawa, a decision that even now Nimitz believed had been a good one. There had been failures though, hard grumbling from the Marines that Turner had refused to shell the landing zones at Iwo Jima, causing casualties to the Marines that could have been avoided. That kind of accusation was speculative at best, no one really knowing how much of the Japanese resistance would have been obliterated by naval fire. And Nimitz knew that the others who could have been chosen for the job, men like Bull Halsey, who gathered more headlines than Turner, had their failures as well. No matter whom he had picked for the job, there would be bellyaching. The only problem for Turner would be if Nimitz developed a bellyache of his own.

  Nimitz had already briefed the few members of his staff who had come along, some of those remaining on board the Eldorado with Turner. Nimitz had confidence that each of those men understood his role, would purposely engage in casual chitchat with the Eldorado’s junior officers that might reveal more to Nimitz than what was said in the official meetings.

  “Sir, if you please …”

  Nimitz obliged Buckner, stepped through the doorway of a low concrete block building. Buckner led the way again, past a makeshift office, an aide rising to quick attention, two more standing at their desks, typewriters stuffed with paper. To one side he heard the commotion of a radio room, and Nimitz glanced that way, saw a row of men with earphones, could hear the clatter of a teletype machine. This has got to be for show, he thought. He sure as hell doesn’t keep his quarters here, and I bet there are more comfortable places for us to meet. But I’ll give him slack. Pretty damn sure he just wants us the hell out of the way.

  He followed Buckner into a white-walled room, saw a narrow rectangular table, a half-dozen chairs, one large map on the wall. Buckner gave way and Nimitz sat at the head of the table, Vandegrift on the far end, Buckner now between them. Nimitz caught the unmistakable odor of hot food, and Buckner seemed to wait for that, said, “Once again my cook has outdone himself! We found a few locals who were kind enough to offer us baskets of fresh vegetables, sweet potatoes, and a rather nice string bean. My cook has a way with the vegetables that you should find appealing. The fresh fish is a wonder. The Okinawans certainly don’t want for good food. I can have them serve lunch in here, or we can adjourn outside and enjoy the air.”

  The cheer in Buckner’s voice was offset by the counterfeit smile of a man who knew his superior wasn’t there for anything appealing. Nimitz stared at the map, thought, adjourn? Why don’t we begin first.

  “Is this map up-to-date?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  His eyes stayed on the southern half of the island, pins marking the army units that Nimitz knew were bogged down against the Japanese defenses. He avoided looking at Buckner, said, “Tough nut. We knew it could be this way. All that damn optimism after the landing, like we’d beaten the bastards without a fight.”

  “Yes, sir. We were rather surprised by that. So, how soon would you like lunch?”

  “It can wait.”

  Vandegrift stayed silent, conceding the floor to Nimitz, but Buckner seemed to concede nothing, shook his head, an indiscreet show of disappointment.

  “Well, then, perhaps later. Oh, I wanted to say … awful shame about Ernie Pyle. Some damn fool colonel, out joyriding, and I suppose Pyle went along to see the sights. Ran slam into a Jap machine gun nest, or sniper. Something. Well, I assume you got the report.”

  Nimitz turned back toward Buckner, nodded.

  “Saw it. I met him a few times. Decent man, I think. The boys will miss hell out of him.”

  “His death will give ’em a spark, that’s what I say. Fire ’em up, kill hell out of the Japs.”

  Nimitz tried to avoid looking at Buckner’s beaming smile.

  “We shouldn’t need that kind of spark. Civilians shouldn’t be out here at all. Everybody cut Pyle more slack than usual because he was so popular with the men, and Pyle did his part. But I don’t need to hear details about some line officer hauling Pyle’s ass into a hot spot. Pyle knew he was taking risks, and he paid the price. Could happen to any of us. It’s the risk we all take. If you don’t mind, General, can we get this briefing under way?”

  Buckner seemed to flinch and Nimitz thought, dammit, no reason to ream him out. Not yet anyway. You’re just pissed at everybody. Long trip, and it’s been a crappy couple of weeks all around. After a short pause, Nimitz said, “We may have more problems back home than you’ll hear about out here, at least for a while.” He paused. “I was in Washington, you know, early last month. My daughter got married. Saw the president while I was there. He didn’t look good, not at all. But I’d been hearing for more than a year that he was in rough shape. Didn’t give it much thought. Now … he’s gone. Just like that. Hard to swallow. Damn hard. There have been enough pissing matches in Washington between the War Department and … well, everybody. This won’t help. Forrestal will probably go. I imagine the new president will want his own navy secretary. He won’t touch King, pretty sure of that. King’s got too much dirt on everybody else, and he’ll kick down doors before he lets some wet-behind-the-ears president tell him anything. Marshall is bound to stay as well, Hap Arnold too. Truman can’t possibly be stupid enough to clean house of the experienced chiefs of staff.” He paused. “Truman.”

  He rolled the name around in his brain. God help us. Buckner seemed desperate to respond, held his hand poised in the air, one forefinger extended, then said, “He fought in the first war, you know. I heard that about him.”

  “Who? Truman?”

  “Yep. Infantry, maybe. Or artillery. At least he knows about fighting.”

  Nimitz kept his response to himself, thought, you’ve said enough already. But that’s just perfect. A damn infantryman in the White House. Hut two three. Maybe he can come out here and tell Buckner how to ki
ck his people in the ass. Nimitz was out of patience, the windowless room already stifling, sweat soaking his shirt. Buckner seemed not to be sweating at all.

  “Well, gentlemen, shall we get down to it? If we’re lucky, the cook will still have us some hot chow.”

  Nimitz glanced at Vandegrift, saw rigid impatience. Buckner suddenly rose, a quick shout to the outer office.

  “I need Colonel Harper and his secretary, and I want MPs inside and out! What the hell’s going on around here? Lunch can wait! We’ve got guests. Let’s show these men how the army throws out a welcome mat!”

  Nimitz let out a breath, thought, we’re not guests. I run this damn show. Maybe the army has forgotten that.

  It was the challenge for every operation like this, trying to blend the different branches in the service into a smooth command. He glanced at Vandegrift, who seemed content for things to run on Buckner’s timetable. The two men sat in sweltering silence, Vandegrift focusing more on the map to one side. Buckner was outside now, gone altogether, and Nimitz suddenly realized, he’s stirring this pot for my benefit, showing me how hands-on he is. Dammit, I don’t need a show. I need to know he’s got what we need to handle this operation.

  An aide suddenly appeared, two glasses of what seemed to be tea, each with a rapidly disappearing ice cube. The man hustled away without a word, and Vandegrift took a short drink, set the glass down.

  “I’m not much for fruit juice. You bring any bourbon?”

  “You waited until now to remind me?”

  There was no humor in the words, Nimitz growing more annoyed, the sweat stinging his eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his face, said, “I suppose it’s painfully apparent that a visiting blue jacket here is more trouble than he’s worth. Not sure I’ve had anyone under my command communicate that to me before.”