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

by Jeff Shaara

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

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

  MAY 29, 1945

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You should be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Yahara shook his head.

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

  Cho stepped close again, the old fury showing itself.

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

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

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

  22. ADAMS

  FIELD HOSPITAL,

  NORTH OF THE ASA KAWA RIVER, OKINAWA

  MAY 31, 1945

  “Good God, what are you two doing here?”

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

  Mortensen shook his head, the older man interrupting.

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