In the plane, Ikeda exulted. He was on his way. As he kept tight control of his erratic steed, he concluded that a low-level night attack might give him an advantage. Coming in low and slow, he might not be noticed until it was too late. Also, the plane was a dark gray. He began to like the idea even better than that of diving out of the sky.
Beneath him, the ground sped by. Even though it was night, he could still see signs of habitation, and sometimes people paused to look up at him as he came upon them so quickly that they could not run and hide. In the distance he could see the flashes and glows that were the battle for Japan's future. He was surprised. The fighting was much closer than he thought.
Then he was over the battlefield. It was marked by the continuing flicker of small-arms fire in both directions, and then he was past and over the American lines. Again, flying low was an advantage. Even though occasional tracers reached out their glowing fingers to pluck him from the sky, he was beyond them before the gunners had a chance to react to him. He thought it amazing that he could actually see American tanks and trucks, along with tents and other facilities as he swept overhead. The Americans made no effort to shelter themselves.
In the distance he saw the flat darkness of the ocean. But before he reached that, he flew over some American supply dumps and saw the immenseness of them. Then he viewed an airfield under construction, followed by yet another one, which already had a handful of planes parked along the runway. If the Americans were confident enough of their position to build airfields, even small ones, then things were truly dire for Japan. He prayed that his effort would help.
Soon he was over the dark waters of Ariake Bay and headed out toward the vastness of the ocean. A couple of American destroyers were anchored just offshore and fired at him with no effect. They could barely see him in the night and were afraid of hitting each other as he flew just over the waves between them.
Ikeda regained some altitude and scanned the area, but saw no tankers or large transports that would be worthy targets, only smaller craft that seemed to scatter beneath him. Again he exulted; they were afraid of him. "Banzai!" he shrieked to the wind.
Satisfied that there was nothing in the bay whose sinking would fulfill his sense of destiny, Ikeda pressed on toward the open sea. As before, his orders were to attack carriers or large transports and to ignore smaller ships, even warships. Only in the case of dire necessity was he to deviate from his orders.
As he flew on, the plane's unreliable engine started skipping. Perhaps the poor-quality fuel was clogging it, or maybe Yokota wasn't quite the mechanic he thought he was. Either way, it didn't matter. His time in the air was now limited, and unless he wished to crash uselessly into the sea, he had better find a target, any target.
Ikeda flew on and prayed. He could not die unfulfilled. He had to find a ship. It was difficult to stay airborne, and soon his altitude fell to under a hundred feet. He could almost feel the waves reaching out to doom his quest. Then, in the distance, he saw a slim, dark shape on the water with an even larger one behind it. American ships, but what type were they? He laughed. Whatever they were, they would have to do.
Ikeda turned his struggling plane toward the larger of the two ships. As it drew closer, the larger ship took on shape and identity as a warship. It had massive turrets and a superstructure that was now taller than the height at which he was flying. Ikeda hoped that it was a battleship. That would be a fine ending to his life.
Bullets and shells reached out toward him from both enemy warships, but it was too late and he flew through them as if protected by a magician's spell. As the American ship filled his view, he closed his eyes and thought of his family.
CHAPTER 41
Seaman 1st Class Tim Jardine felt that he was now living almost all his life within ten feet of the antiaircraft guns that pointed out into the chill night. He comforted himself by realizing that it could have been a whole lot worse. At least some of the maddening restrictions on their behavior and movement had been relaxed. In a way it was funny. The closer they got to Japan, the less edgy the brass had gotten about the possibility of enemy attacks. Maybe they were getting used to it.
It did seem that fewer Jap planes were flying, and it was logical that the Japs had to run out of suicide pilots someday. After all, a kamikaze didn't make many return flights if he set out to kill himself.
Jardine and the other men in the gun mount had also concluded that their officer, Ensign Hollowell, was a pretty good guy, even if he was an officer and young and inexperienced at that. For one thing, he had devised a better way of rotating men at the guns that kept them fresher during the night. He also wasn't a prick when it came to keeping things neat and shipshape in the area. If the navy wanted the guns manned all the time, then certain things had to be considered less important than others. The turret and its occupants may have looked a little casual, but they were ready to fight.
But the best thing about Hollowell was that he was always hungry and had a great habit of getting food and Cokes for the men. Jardine bit into a sandwich and decided that if feeding people made them like you, then Hollowell was going to be very popular.
Haverman handed Jardine his binoculars and stretched his shoulders. They ached from the strain of peering out into the darkness of the night. "Here, your turn."
"Thanks," Jardine said as he settled the straps over his helmet. "Keep an eye out for MacArthur, he was walking around a little while ago."
Haverman grunted but did not make any disparaging comments about their important guest. MacArthur's nocturnal habit of pacing the ship alone was an old story by now. Just about everyone had seen him, although no one spoke to him. MacArthur just wanted to be alone to think, and who could blame him? The invasion was a month old and the Japs were still hanging in there with no signs of their giving up. Jardine shuddered at the thought of the hell the men on Kyushu were going through. Thank God he'd been drafted into the navy.
Jardine looked through the powerful glasses. As usual, there was nothing. Then a star twinkled and went out. What the hell? He checked where the star was and it returned.
"Dammit," he muttered.
"What is it?" Ensign Hollowell asked.
"I'm not certain, but there may be something out there, just over the horizon. I'm kinda certain I saw some motion low in the sky."
Hollowell made a quick phone call. A moment later he hung up. "Lieutenant Greene says there's nothing on radar, so, if it's a plane, it's way the hell out there. The darkness may be playing tricks on you. Greene thinks it might be a bird."
"Okay, sir," Jardine said, but he didn't feel comfortable. He had that gut feeling that whatever he saw was fairly close, and it sure as hell didn't strike him as a bird. Wrong sort of motion, although he had to admit that he hadn't seen all that much. It was just a sense that it wasn't a bird.
So why hadn't radar latched onto it? If it was a plane and was close by, it should have. But where was it written that radar was perfect? The more he thought about what he hadn't quite seen, the more uncomfortable he became.
Oh, hell, maybe he was just a little tense being so much closer to Japan than they had been a few days ago. They'd all been surprised when the five-ship unit had changed its routine and moved well north of their original position. Now, instead of being behind the fleet, they were just within the navy's defensive perimeter. Then he laughed to himself. Like, how did he know that they really were closer? There had never been any land in sight to prove to them that they were actually any nearer Japan than they had been before. Maybe it was all a big joke and they'd wake up tomorrow off San Francisco.
Then he saw it again. It was dark and just a few feet above the waves, and it looked like some weird bird of prey. But it wasn't a bird. It was definitely a plane and it was close, very damn close and coming at them. He yelled and the antiaircraft battery came alive. Ensign Hollowell saw the dark shape and hollered out the range but not the order to open fire.
There was a second's hesitation. What if it was
an American plane? Was the Augusta's floatplane out on some damn fool errand? Hollowell sure as hell didn't want to shoot down an American plane.
At that moment, the portside destroyer opened fire, and searchlights lit up the sky. Instead of helping, it blinded the men in the Augusta.
"Dammit," snarled Jardine as he tried to blink away the sudden loss of night vision.
"Can you see it?" screamed Hollowell.
"No!" Jardine could see nothing except light streaks across his eyes. Then it was in front of him. "Yes!" he yelled back. The guns opened up at the dark plane that was dreadfully close and still only a few feet above the water. Streams of tracers laced the sky, but none seemed to hit the plane that was now only a hundred yards away and closing in with horrifying quickness.
"It's going to hit us!" Haverman moaned, and covered his head. The plane was headed right for them. Then, at the last second, the plane was struck by a shell and shuddered. It seemed to rise up higher by a few feet and flew right over Jardine's head. It was so close that he saw the landing gear above him. With a roar it crashed into one of the eight-inch bow turrets. Explosions and flames racked the bow of the ship, hurling Jardine to the deck. He screamed in fear and confusion as the cloud of burning gasoline swept above them, showering him with flaming debris. Frantically, he pounded at the host of little fires that had started around him until they were out. Only then did he realize that he had burned his hands.
Behind him, damage-control parties rushed toward them and their hoses sent water hurling onto the major fires. Secondary streams doused Jardine's gun mount and ended any fear of their ammunition exploding. Jardine heard others moaning in pain and realized that, other than his hands, which had begun to blister, he wasn't badly hurt. He whimpered at the joy of it. The goddamn kamikaze, and that's what it had to have been, had tried to kill him, but had failed. He was still lying facedown, with debris on top of him. He had to have a lot of bruises, but all of his limbs seemed to be functioning.
Ensign Hollowell lurched to his feet. The right side of his face was all red and one eye was closed. "Sound off," he ordered, and the men complied, identifying themselves. Everyone was alive, but a couple were injured. Haverman said he thought his leg was broken, and that seemed to be the worst of it, presuming that Jardine's burns weren't too bad. Maybe he could get a trip back to the States out of it?
"I think I'm okay," Jardine responded, "but there's a bunch of crap on my back." He didn't want to move. The debris wasn't all that heavy, but there might be an unexploded shell or something else that might hurt him if he moved it himself. "Somebody check it out, please."
Ensign Hollowell staggered to him and pulled some things off him. Then he looked down. "Aw, shit," Hollowell said, and started gagging. "It's an arm."
Jardine shrieked and jerked away, causing the limb to flop down on the deck where he stared at it in shock and revulsion. The arm had been ripped off at the shoulder and was badly burned. "Ain't one of our guys," Jardine finally said. "Thank God." Somebody had been ripped apart, but it wasn't one of his buddies in the gun mount. He was being heartless, but so what? He was alive and the other guy wasn't and that's all there was. "Hey, maybe it belongs to that Jap pilot?"
Hollowell looked at the severed arm in the light of the still burning gasoline. Damage control had brought the fire under control and there were no more explosions, but flames still flickered in a score of places.
"There's a ring on the hand," Hollowell muttered, and willed himself to examine the ghastly thing further. "Oh, Christ have mercy," he whispered as he turned the charred hand over and examined the ring. "Oh, Lord."
"What is it, sir?" Jardine asked. What the hell was so important about a ring? He looked at it more closely, shocked to recognize a West Point ring, class of 1903.
CHAPTER 42
President Harry Truman's demeanor reflected the shock and sadness of the entire nation. For all his faults, MacArthur had somehow been considered immortal, and his death had been a severe blow to the nation's collective spirit.
"I want a full military funeral for the man, and that includes his body lying in state in the Capitol Rotunda. If his widow will permit it, General MacArthur will be buried in Arlington with absolutely the fullest military honors possible. Like him or not, the man was a legend who died for his nation, and we will not permit his memory to be forgotten."
Marshall and Leahy nodded. For a nation that was still grieving the loss of FDR, the announcement of the death of Gen. Douglas MacArthur in a kamikaze attack on the cruiser Augusta was too much to bear.
"For reasons I will never comprehend, I don't believe he ever liked me," Truman continued, "but I can't hold that against him. Hell, if every man who disliked me stood in a line, that line would likely circle the earth at least a couple of times. What is important is that he is the highest-ranking American killed in this or any other war, and he will be given what he deserves, a military funeral that includes a parade to Arlington."
Marshall nodded. Deaths of ranking officers in combat were rare in modern warfare. Maj. Gen. Maurice Rose, commander of the 3rd Armored Division, had been killed in Europe, and Lt. Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner, the commander of the Tenth Army on Okinawa, had been killed by Japanese artillery on the last day of the fighting on that island. Other generals, such as Wainwright and Sharp, had been captured in the Philippines, but no one even approaching MacArthur's five-star rank had even been scratched.
As they discussed an outline for the funeral, Truman realized that the death of MacArthur removed a strong Republican candidate for the presidency in '48. Realistically, that only left New York's Tom Dewey as a threat to his election as president in his own right.
Truman hated himself for thinking of partisan politics at a time like this, but he'd been at it for so long it was impossible not to. At least MacArthur's tragic end had deflected questions regarding Japan's so-called list of prisoners they'd received from a Swedish emissary. He'd promised a response to it as soon as the people at the Pentagon had finished examining it, and a lot of parents and wives were getting angry and frustrated at the length of time it was taking.
Truman shook his head. It was all so futile. "What were the total casualties on the Augusta?”
Leahy responded, "Besides MacArthur, ten killed and seventy-two wounded. All of the dead and most of the seriously wounded were in the forward turret which was directly hit by the plane. The men in that turret were burned by the gasoline from the plane. Fortunately, the ammunition in the Augusta's turret did not explode, so she'll be back on station fairly shortly. The majority of the other wounded are light to moderately so and will return to duty within a couple of weeks."
"All right," Truman sighed, "just bring MacArthur's body home as soon as possible."
As a result of the explosion and fire, little had been found of Douglas MacArthur's mortal remains. The largest portion identifiable as his was his right arm, and that only because the hand wore his West Point ring. Other body parts had been found but were too badly damaged to determine whether they were his or somebody else's. Ironically, more of the Jap pilot's body had been found strapped in the cockpit of the wreckage of his plane than had been found of MacArthur's. The navy had even identified the Jap before burying him at sea. Sometime in the future, some scholar or military historian might want to find out more about the otherwise insignificant man who had struck down General of the Army Douglas MacArthur.
"General MacArthur was a most difficult man," Truman added. "He was pompous, obstinate, arrogant, and a genius. But most of all, he was ours. Like I said, he gets a funeral almost befitting a head of state."
"Sir," Marshall said, "this may be distasteful, but, whether we wish to or not, we must quickly appoint a successor to MacArthur."
"Anybody in mind?" Truman had no doubts that Marshall already had an heir designated for MacArthur's position. Marshall was always a number of steps ahead of everyone else when it came to planning, which made him without peer in his position.
"Mr. President, I wish to appoint General Omar Bradley to succeed General Douglas MacArthur."
"A good choice, General Marshall, but why him in particular?"
Marshall was prepared. "Sir, while only the Sixth Army under General Krueger is currently active in Kyushu, the First and Eighth armies are preparing to invade Honshu, near Tokyo. Put together, you have an army group, and General Bradley has extensive experience at that command level having led one in Europe."
Truman had read his mind. "What about yourself?"
Marshall smiled. "Other than the fact that you wouldn't let me go, I have to admit that I can serve the war effort better here in Washington than I could over there."
Truman concurred but was insistent. "Then what about Patton, or Eichelberger, or even General Krueger, for that matter?"
"Sir, General Patton is the wrong type of commander for this war. The very aggressiveness that made him successful against the Nazis would hinder him in Japan. Kyushu represents a grinding type of assault and not the war of motion and maneuver that is Patton's specialty. I'm afraid the result would be still more casualties and little gained from it.
"Generals Eichelberger and Krueger are fine men, but they suffer from two flaws. First, neither has commanded at the army group level, and it is not time to experiment or train someone. Second, neither Eichelberger nor Krueger are reconizable names to the American public. The death of MacArthur is a terrible shock, and in order to keep the confidence of the American public, that shock must be countered by naming someone of great stature and high regard to replace him. By all aspects, General Omar Bradley is the best- no, the only- choice."
"Agreed," Truman said softly. Marshall was right on both counts, particularly the second. Marshall's political acumen and sense of what the nation wanted did not surprise him. It reinforced his opinion that Marshall might be an excellent replacement for Byrnes at State. Byrnes's health had begun to fail, and at sixty-six he wasn't getting any younger. Hell, Truman snorted, who was?
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