by Jeff Shaara
“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 Japanese 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! Jap 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. Nobody 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 shellfire 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 assaults on Sugar Loaf Hill had been many and futile, and after each failure to drive the Japanese 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 Japanese swarming back out into their positions, positions the Marines had no choice but to abandon. Offshore, the enormous battleship the USS Mississippi used its massive guns to pour a horrific dose of fire onto the Japanese 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 Japanese 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 assault. Though the Marines did all they could to obey their passionate duty to leave no man behind, the bodies of the dead were spread throughout pockets of dead Japanese, a scattered mass of rotting decay, the ongoing fights not allowing either side to offer rescue or assistance 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 Japanese 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 Japanese on Sugar Loaf and adding their firepower to the struggle that would soon follow on the base of the arrowhead. Pockets of Japanese 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 Japanese 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 assault 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 Japanese generals had assumed would resist any attack. The cost to all the American divisions was extraordinary, entire companies wiped out, officers swept away en masse, 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 offshore. The Japanese 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 Japanese defenses, word had come through the commanders, passed
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 reassurances from Japan’s Imperial High Command that all was well, that Japan’s destiny was being fulfilled. The decisions to expand Japan’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 Japanese 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 Japan 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 shelling 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 Japan 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 classrooms. 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 Hitler 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 Japanese right flank, a tenacious effort by the American infantry divisions. That was a surprise, no one in the Japanese 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 shelling. For a brief time he had considered the inevitable assault 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 dwin
dling 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 assaults 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 assaults. 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 landmass 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 assault, 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 assault 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 assume 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 Japanese 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.
