1945

by Robert Conroy

  "Go on," said Truman.

  "Sir, it may just be the vastness of China and Manchuria that is permitting bypassed Japanese units to filter through the Russian armies, but I believe it is something that should be watched carefully."

  Truman said it would be, rose, and dismissed the meeting. Leahy left separately, while Marshall and Bradley drove off together. As their staff car headed down Constitution Avenue in the direction of Arlington, the two generals rode in silence. Finally, Bradley broke the spell.

  "General Marshall, why did you have me attend that meeting?"

  Marshall turned away and did not answer.

  Bradley persisted, "General, you are never a man to waste time, either yours or anyone else's. While it was most interesting, it has nothing whatsoever to do with my new duties at the Veterans Administration. Therefore, what was the reason?"

  Marshall's face was grim. "General Bradley, what did you think of that fella MacArthur's announcement? Did he state a case for his normally overwhelming sense of moral superiority that would end in total and unequivocal victory for him and for us?"

  Bradley thought back over the precise words Mac had used. He hadn't tried to memorize the message, but he felt he recalled the sense of the short document.

  "No," Bradley responded quietly, "it was less than his usual splendid rhetoric, and there were some big ifs implied in it. If I recall correctly, the gist of it was that he prayed for victory, but did not guarantee it."

  "Exactly. General MacArthur started out this summer by saying the invasion of Kyushu would be a cakewalk, and that the Japs would run and quit. Now he's saying we should win, but we just might not. He's finally admitting there are a lot more Japs on Kyushu than anyone dared admit to him, and that the situation could be quite grave. Tell me, General Bradley, what's the largest army Mac's ever commanded?"

  The question puzzled Bradley. "Maybe half a million in the Philippines last year. No, the Philippine campaign was smaller than that. Maybe three hundred thousand."

  "Yes, and now he has more than twice that. And don't forget he's sixty-five years old, the same age as I am. It's the time where most people are thinking of retirement, not commanding vast armies in major campaigns. God knows I wonder if I could do what he is trying to do."

  Marshall grimaced in distaste. "Also, he thinks both Ike and I hate him because of the things he's said about us earlier in our careers. As a result, he thinks I left him and his army out to dry in Bataan in 1942. I am more and more convinced that MacArthur thinks everyone in Washington and the Pentagon is out to get him. I can't prove it, but I wonder if the man's paranoid."

  "I'm curious," Bradley said. "I know he referred to Ike as the best clerk he'd ever had, but what about you?"

  Marshall chuckled briefly. "He said I'd never rise to anything higher than a regimental command. Now, of course, I've got five stars like he does, and he's under my command. Therefore, he thinks I'm out to humiliate him in a quest for revenge."

  Bradley smiled. He'd heard the story before, but only through the rumor mill. "That makes him a lousy judge of character, but do you really think he thinks you're out for him?"

  Marshall nodded grimly. "Yes, and from 1942 on."

  Bradley whistled tunelessly. "And for that reason you think he thinks you've set him up to fail? You're making it sound like we've indeed got an aging paranoid who's in over his head and commanding the American army that just invaded Japan."

  Marshall nodded. Bradley sank back in his seat. "Good grief, General, but just where do I come in?"

  Marshall looked at him grimly. "General Bradley, I want you to do only the minimum necessary work at the VA. For the next couple of weeks, I want you to learn as much as you can about Operations Downfall and Olympic. The implications are obvious. If MacArthur falters or collapses from the strain, and I feel both are very possible, we'll need someone to step in and take over."

  Gen. Omar Bradley looked out the window at the passing Washington scene. They had crossed the Arlington Bridge and were headed toward the Pentagon. Bradley felt as if a tremendous weight had landed on his shoulders and then slid down to the pit of his stomach. He had wanted to be rid of the Veterans Administration assignment and now it seemed he might be relieved of it. But what on earth might he get in return?

  PART THREE

  THE WAVES ON KYUSHU

  CHAPTER 33

  The angry bark of a rifle sent scores of soldiers sprawling on the ground. "Sniper!" someone yelled, and a fusillade of bullets, this time from American guns, filled the air. There was silence and then someone screamed for a medic.

  Lt. Paul Morrell raised himself to his hands and knees and tried to see what had happened. They had been climbing a heavily shrubbed but not particularly steep hill near Miyazaki in Kyushu, and the men had been moving out in skirmish formation when the shot had been fired.

  There was motion to Paul's left so he slithered over in that direction. Other prone soldiers grudgingly moved out of his way.

  "Over here, Lieutenant." It was Wills, the medic.

  There was more firing and Sergeant Collins profanely called for the men to stop. Paul got up and ran hunched over, expecting every second to be shot by the sniper. He made it safely to where Wills was working on a soldier who lay on his back. Paul threw himself down beside the two men.

  It was Haskins, a young PFC about twenty. His throat looked as if it had exploded, and Wills was frantically trying to stop the blood that was gushing out over both of them. Paul tried not to look at the ripped and torn cartilage that was exposed just beneath the young man's chin. Haskins's mouth was flapping and it looked as if he was trying to say something; he couldn't, except for a low gurgling. Haskins's eyes fixed on Paul, silently imploring him to get him out of the mess he found himself in.

  Paul looked at the medic, who shook his head. "I gave him morphine. A lot of it." A few seconds later, Haskins's eyes glazed over and he stopped breathing. "Nothing I could do, sir," Wills said, and he began to gather up his gear.

  "You did your best," Paul said, conscious of the emptiness of the comment.

  Wills didn't respond. Nothing would be said about the overdose of morphine that had hastened Haskins's death. Many of the soldiers carried extra morphine to put either themselves or a buddy out of misery in the event of an awful wound. It was something else the people at home didn't know about.

  Haskins was the platoon's first fatality since landing on Kyushu almost a week earlier. A couple men had been wounded, but none killed. They'd been fortunate. The powers that directed their lives had kept their battalion as a regimental reserve until earlier in the day. Thus, they'd left reserve status and moved up to the front only a few hours earlier.

  Paul moved a few feet away from the dead soldier and sat down in the dirt. He really didn't know Haskins well at all. He'd been a quiet kid who just did what he had to and pretty much stayed out of trouble. He'd been a late arrival to the company and had replaced one of the earlier men who'd been a total screwup. Now, because he was more competent than the dud whose place he'd taken, he was lying dead on the ground with his throat ripped out.

  Sergeant Collins flopped down beside Paul. "We got the sniper, sir. Wanna see?"

  Paul realized that he did want to see the Jap who'd killed Haskins. "Yeah."

  Collins led him up the hill about a hundred yards to where a couple of men stared at the ground. A body lay half out of a hole. The upper torso, riddled with bullets, barely looked human. Leaves and branches jutted from the webbing of the Jap's helmet, part of his camouflage. The man's rifle lay beside him.

  Collins kicked at the corpse and it slid back into its hole. "He wasn't very smart. He was pretty well hidden and should have waited until we passed. Then he could have hopped out and shot a couple of us before we got him. I think he panicked."

  Wonderful, Paul thought, and shuddered. He hoped none of the Jap soldiers had the balls to wait while the army had passed by and over them.

  Captain Ruger approached and found h
im deep in thought. "Shake it, Paul. You lost a man. It was your first and it won't be your last."

  "I know, Captain. We lost our first American and we just killed our first Jap. That's one for one. Tell me, how many Japs are there on this stinking island?"

  "A lot," Ruger said.

  "Yeah, just a few minutes on the line and we've got a dead kid. Now I've got to write a letter to his family telling them that he was brave and died both instantly and painlessly, when we all know he was scared to death for several agonizing minutes and flopping like a fish. And all the while he was trying to say something through a hole in his neck that was so big you could stick your fist in it."

  Ruger eyed Paul coldly. "You gonna be okay? You've got a right to be upset, but I don't need my second-in-command collapsing on me."

  "I won't collapse," Paul said grimly. "This never happened to me, not even when I was in Germany. Of course, the war was almost over so even the krauts were concentrating on staying alive. I had a couple of guys hurt, but it was mainly their own fault. What the hell did Haskins do to get killed like that?"

  "He was born," Ruger said, and grasped Paul's shoulder. "Look at the bright side. We took the hill. Only thing, there's another hill right after this, and another one after that."

  Paul stood and slung his carbine over his shoulder. "Yeah, and this is supposed to be the gentle part of the terrain around here. What the hell are we gonna do when the ground gets really difficult? You and I both know that there'll be more than one sniper on the next one."

  They both turned toward the north. Hill after hill grimly rose in serrated splendor, like so many sword blades waiting to slash them. They were not hills, Paul realized, they were weapons in the Japanese arsenal, and every one of them would have to be disarmed.

  CHAPTER 34

  It had been Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto's fond hope that the submarine I-58 would be able to sneak out and around the flank of the American invasion fleet, then attack transports and carriers through what had to be its more vulnerable rear. After all, wouldn't the eyes, ears, and guns of the Americans be pointed toward Japan and not back in the direction from which they'd come? He admitted to himself that this might be a futile wish, but it was the course he would pursue.

  First, the Imperial Navy's submarine command had changed their minds and radioed that he should indeed carry the disliked kaiten human torpedoes on his sub when he attacked the American fleet. He had complied without protest. If ever the kaiten were going to prove themselves useful, this would be the time.

  This necessitated a delay while he sailed to the hidden supply facility and had the four human-piloted torpedoes attached to the deck of the I-58. His sub could have carried six of the strange things, but the specially adapted torpedoes were in short supply. There were more than enough human volunteers to ride them to their doom, but the American raids had severely affected Japan's ability to manufacture the weapons.

  Along with torpedoes, Hashimoto thought ruefully, everything else was in short supply. When he asked for supplies, all he received was a litany of unavailable items, including fuel. He was able to top off his tanks, but a harried supply officer informed him that there were no more fuel reserves. So, this would likely be his last cruise. If that proved to be the case, he could end his part in this dreadful war and return home with honor satisfied.

  What really dashed his hope for a rearward assault was even more significant than the delays required for the installation of the kaiten. The utter vastness of the American fleet precluded any attempt to flank it. His executive officer had bitterly surmised that it would be necessary to sail to Australia to find the American flank. As with many a bitter jest, it held a nugget of truth. The numbers of enemy warships off the coast of Kyushu defied counting. There were more American battleships and carriers off Kyushu than the Japanese navy had ever dreamed of having in their fleet, and they were accompanied by vast hordes of smaller cruisers and destroyers. Truly, the American ability to manufacture weapons had tragically been underestimated by the Japanese government. Even though he would fight bravely, Hashimoto knew that his efforts, even if successful beyond his dreams, would be meaningless when compared with the size of the American fleet.

  He hoped that his fellow submariners would have the same type of success that he planned on for the I-58. Cumulatively, perhaps they could affect the outcome of the war. Hashimoto had no delusions regarding the ultimate end to the conflict: Japan was doomed to lose. All he could do was what he'd been ordered to, and that was to help cause so much damage to the Americans that they would negotiate a better peace for Japan. It seemed foolish to him. An earlier peace might have found the Americans in a more forgiving mood. Now they would truly be vindictive.

  The I-58 approached the American armada frontally, but submerged and with great stealth. Although Hashimoto's main concern was detection by American sonar, he felt that he still had some advantages. For one thing, the sheer volume of shipping made for inconsistent and cluttered sonar readings as hundreds of ships' screws churned the water and, he hoped, sent confusing information to the sonar operators.

  Sonar was a devilish weapon. Ultrasonic waves were radiated out by the sending ship and, when they bounced off an object in the water, announced to the world that a submarine might be calling. At first it was thought that sonar would spell the end of submarine warfare. It had not. Sonar, like radar, was a good but imperfect weapon, with many ways it could be fooled by a cunning submariner, and Hashimoto counted on these imperfections to help him.

  The volcanic continental shelf that surrounded Japan extended well out into the Pacific and was as hilly and rugged as the islands it surrounded. This meant that the I-58 could skulk about on the ocean bottom and hide among the irregularities in the ocean floor when her captain felt she might be threatened by surface enemies. A submarine lying inert on the bottom was invisible to sonar.

  Periodically, however, the I-58 had come to periscope depth to refresh her air through the snorkel, and to see whether she had made it past the defending American warships through the simple expedient of having them wash over the I-58 as they closed in on Kyushu.

  But this had not yet happened. Each time the I-58's periscope had poked above the waves, Hashimoto had seen long rows of destroyers and other antisubmarine craft several miles in the distance. This portion of the American fleet showed no indication that it would be closing on Kyushu anytime soon, and any attempt to penetrate the lines of destroyers would be suicidal.

  Commander Hashimoto had no doubts that he would probably soon die for Japan, but he wanted his sacrifice to be worthwhile. He had four of the precious kaiten and twenty-four standard Type 95 torpedoes ready to be fired. His orders had been specific- he was to only attack carriers and transports. Other ships were to be left alone.

  While he recognized the order as militarily essential, it was also irksome. Although depressed by what he saw as the inevitable outcome of the war, Hashimoto still had a warrior's lust to kill other warships, and while he definitely considered a carrier a warship, he did not extend that title to the fat and sluggish transports. He would have liked nothing more than to loose a spread of torpedoes at the several destroyers currently in his vision. He would sink them as he had the American cruiser Indianapolis. The Indianapolis had gone down with great loss of life, a fact that saddened him deeply.

  He ordered down periscope and stepped away. It was almost dawn and it was no longer difficult to see the enemy ships. He did not dare have the periscope visible for more than a few seconds at a time in the daylight lest some eagle-eyed American lookout see its small ripples running contrary to the wind and the sea.

  Lt. Sakuo Yokochi, his second-in-command, looked at him in dismay. "Still nothing, Captain?"

  Hashimoto wanted to snap at the man for his foolish question, but merely glared at him until Yokochi turned away. It was so frustrating. There had to be a way through the wall of defenders. The American destroyers were like bees protecting the precious honey in a hive.
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  A distant rumbling sound rolled over the sub and rocked it, causing some of his men to gasp in surprise. Someone was being fired upon, and Hashimoto concluded that the target was probably one of the numerous midget submarines that were also trying to sink American ships. The Americans were alerted and it would now be a time of great peril for the I-58.

  He was about to order the I-58 back down to the bottom when a thought struck him and he smiled. It was indeed a time of great peril, but might it not be a time of great opportunity as well?

  "Up periscope," he ordered, and enjoyed seeing the dismay on Yokochi's face. Lieutenant Yokochi was a fool and the type of man who would never had made it to the rank of lieutenant had there not been so many casualties in the navy.

  Hashimoto stared through the lens as additional explosions vibrated along the I-58's hull. Someone was getting heavily depth-charged. He felt a momentary twinge of regret for the agonies of his unknown countrymen, but he was more concerned by the possibility that this was his chance to penetrate the American destroyer screen.

  He looked at the American destroyers and smiled. Like predators moving in for the kill, the warships were streaking away from the I-58. Two Fletcher-class destroyers positively raced past his view in their haste to join in the fun of the final attack. The result was a gap in their lines. It would only exist for a while, but it did exist at this moment.

  "Ha!" he exulted, and ordered the still submerged I-58 toward the gap at flank speed. He ignored the sharp intake of breath from his officers, especially Yokochi. He ordered the periscope down and stood by it with his arms folded across his chest. If any of the American ships did detect him underneath the water with their sonar, the I-58 could be doomed.

  Minutes of waiting stretched into eternity. The American line of warships had been only a couple of miles away. He calculated time and speed; they were right where the Americans had been. If his gamble was successful, they would now proceed without incident into the heart of the hive and steal the honey. Hashimoto decided he liked the analogy.