1945

by Robert Conroy

  Weapons were stacked in their tents, but they all still wore the steel pots that had protected their skulls since the landing. About a third of the men who had landed with the regiment were dead or wounded. They'd paid a helluva price for a beer and a warm place to sleep.

  Paul walked past a group of enlisted men who were sprawled on the chill ground. "Hiya, Lieutenant," said Weaver, a PFC from Chicago. Weaver had been slightly wounded but had declined a chance to go to the rear earlier. By declining to go, he had probably screwed up his chance for a Purple Heart. Paul made a mental note to see if he could do something about that.

  "Hi yourself," Paul said, grinning, ignoring that none of them had made any effort to come to attention. It was not the time to be tight on military formality. Now was a reminder that it really was a citizen army, with few professional or career soldiers. First Sergeant Mackensen was the only one he could think of, although some would doubtless want to remain in the service after the war ended. If, that is, the war ever ended.

  "Got a question for you, sir," Weaver said.

  Paul stopped. "Okay."

  "Do you think they should have drafted Frank Sinatra like they did Joe Louis?"

  Paul laughed. "I have a question for you- who the hell cares?"

  Weaver pretended to be hurt. "We do, sir. Every day we come up with a topic to discuss, and Sinatra's draft status is today's issue of deepest concern. Hell, sir, it helps keep our minds out of the war."

  Makes sense, Paul thought. Keep the agony at bay with silliness. "What other questions have you come up with?"

  Weaver belched and almost dropped his beer. As it was, he spilled some and it sloshed over his leg. He didn't seem to notice. "Well, sir, yesterday we discussed whether or not Judy Garland fucked the Tin Man, and the day before we decided that smoking really was good for you and wouldn't stunt your growth."

  "Heavy stuff." Paul laughed. "What's the consensus on Sinatra?"

  Weaver looked at the others, who nodded for him to continue. "Well, we think we're better off without him. We think he's so skinny someone would have to carry his gear for him. Also, I don't think he sings that great anyhow and won't last, despite what my little sister writes about him. She just loves his skinny little dago ass. By the way, last week we decided that Scarlett O'Hara probably was a lousy lay. We still wonder, though, whether Jap pussy is slanted sideways like their eyes are. Guess we'll have to find that out ourselves, although none of us are so horny yet that we'll screw someone who actually eats raw fish."

  "You will be soon," Paul told them solemnly. "Keep up the good work, men."

  He walked past where Sergeant Collins, First Sergeant Mackensen, and several others were relaxing as well. Collins had a silly grin on his face while Mackensen's eyes were blank. Sweet dreams, Paul thought. Sergeant Orlando, owner of the M4 Sherman that had proven its worth a dozen times, brushed by him on his way to join the group.

  "Sorry, Lieutenant, but this is the NCO club. Officers' country is two trees and five rocks over to your left."

  Paul slapped him on the shoulder and told him where he could drive his tank and then spin the turret. All the rules were relaxed, at least for the time being, and it was good, damn good, to be alive.

  Just about two trees and five rocks over, Paul found Captain Ruger, Lieutenant Marcelli, and Lieutenant Bergen sitting on the ground. Lieutenant Kinski, he recalled, was resting from a bout of near pneumonia. Kinski was a new guy who'd replaced Houle, who'd been killed a week before.

  "Siddown," Ruger ordered, and Paul happily complied. He squatted on the ground and took a long pull of beer. Each of the others had a beer in his hand and a couple more in the pockets of his jacket. "Ammunition," Ruger added, and patted a full bottle. "Never want to run out of ftickin' ammo."

  Paul sprawled on the ground and looked up at the sky. "What now, brave captain?"

  Marcelli answered, "Live for today. There may not be a tomorrow."

  Ruger cuffed him on the arm. "God, that's dismal. We're getting out of here. All of us! Even Kinski, when he gets over his case of the sniffles."

  Paul thought such fond hopes were the alcohol talking. Unless the war ended soon, they'd have to return to the fighting and take their share of casualties once more. Paul wondered just how many times a man could be shot at before the bullet with his name on it was fired. He decided to change the subject.

  "Okay, Captain, we go home. Then what?"

  "Gotta get home real fast and get out of the army so I can make a lot of money while I can. The Depression was ended by the war, but it sure as hell is coming back. Roosevelt might have fixed it for a little bit, but this Truman character ain't smart enough to keep the wolves from returning. I was poor before and I ain't gonna be poor again."

  Ruger finished a bottle and threw it angrily into the darkness, where it landed with a dull thud. "That's what I hate about being here. All the people who were in the army are getting out and getting all the good jobs and all the good women. Thank God I got a good woman waiting for me, at least that's one thing I won't have to worry about. But by the time we get discharged, there won't be shit left in the way of jobs, and the Depression will come back in all its ugliness."

  Marcelli handed Ruger a fresh bottle. "Some people say that the economy won't go belly-up. They say there's so much pent-up demand for goods that a boom economy will last a long time. I read an article about that in a Collier's I found," Marcelli added brightly.

  "So, how you gonna solve the problem, Captain?" Paul asked.

  "Real estate," Ruger answered quickly. "Nobody's built any houses in years, and there isn't that much room left to build in the cities, and, besides, most city houses are small and cramped. People who have money are going to want something better than the little homes their parents had and will be moving out into the countryside. Hell, a lot of them are still living with their parents in those little houses. I'm going to buy vacant land and build houses on it."

  Paul wondered how that ambition jibed with his earlier statement that the economy would go to hell, but decided not to pursue it with the inebriated captain. However, he was intrigued by the comment that no homes had been built since the war started. No cars had been made, so it made sense that other aspects of the economy had frozen in place as well. If so, it meant that a lot of people did indeed have a lot of money to spend. Large plots of vacant land outside of the city might be a good idea for an investment. All he had to do was get home and get his hands on some money. He had a college degree, liberal arts, and it was time to put it to use.

  "I just want a job, any job," muttered Lieutenant Bergen. "My dad had a farm in Kansas and lost it all."

  Ruger raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were from New York?"

  "I am now. We moved there and lived with relatives and tried to find work. There wasn't much there either."

  Paul thought of his almost privileged background. At times his parents had been worried about money, but they had never been destitute. He had seen people begging in the streets and sifting through other people's trash for thrown-away treasures, but, even during the worst of times, he had never thought it could happen to him. Now he was beginning to realize just how fortunate he'd been and just how much he had taken it for granted.

  Weaver's comments about Sinatra and his being skinny might have been about the Depression as well. He'd known of a lot of guys who'd failed their preinduction physicals simply because they weren't healthy enough to be soldiers. There was nothing apparently wrong with them, but years of poor eating had damaged them physically. He wondered if they would live shorter lives as a result. He laughed. Hell, they might live a lot longer than he would. After all, the Japs weren't shooting at them.

  "Here's to MacArthur." Bergen raised his beer and slopped some onto his chest. "Shit," he said, and wiped it off awkwardly.

  "Fuck MacArthur," Marcelli snarled. "If he'd done this right, we wouldn't be here. We'd have won already. He's dead and good riddance."

  Captain Ruger coughed and fum
bled for a cigarette. "You think Bradley'll do better?"

  "Couldn't do worse," Marcelli answered.

  Paul wondered about that as well. He knew of Bradley from his reputation in Europe and felt they'd gotten a top-notch man to replace MacArthur. Bradley would do a good, solid job and not place his men in unnecessary jeopardy. But, of course, much of what occured would depend on the Japanese, who had, so far, proven damned uncooperative.

  They talked and drank until they ran out of beer. Then they sent Lieutenant Bergen- he was the junior officer present as well as the most sober- back for more, which they polished off. Finally it was time to return to their tents and the luxury of sleeping on cots instead of the ground. They would wallow in the ability to sleep in until the headaches that were going to occur from their drinking wore off. The MP guards around the camp would protect them from any Jap snipers or infiltrators. All they had to do was rest and build up their strength for the next round of fighting.

  As Paul staggered into his tent and stripped down to his Skivvies, he wondered just what life would be like when he got back home. He wondered what Debbie's reaction would be when he finally got back to her. In a way, he felt guilty. It'd been a while since he'd had the time and the opportunity to even think of her, much less write her. Their mail hadn't caught up with them so he didn't know if she had written lately or not. He closed his eyes and conjured up a vision of her face. She seemed to smile at him and then he was asleep.

  CHAPTER 50

  ARIAKE BAY, KYUSHU

  Men stiffened to attention as the four-seater R5 A helicopter lowered itself awkwardly onto the ground. When the rotors stopped their insane whirling, Lt. Gen. Robert Eichelberger saluted General of the Army Omar Bradley as Bradley emerged gingerly from the ungainly machine.

  "Welcome to paradise," Eichelberger said as Bradley returned the salute. The two men then shook hands warmly. "Did you enjoy your helicopter ride?"

  "Incredible machine. I knew we had them, but this is the first time I've ridden in one. And it was a fine idea having me ferried out from the Wasatch in it. How many others are there and what are we using them for besides limos for generals?"

  Eichelberger laughed. "We have nearly a hundred in total, although many are smaller than the one you rode in. We use them for courier service because the roads here are nonexistent, and you'll be pleased to know that we are using choppers for medical rescues and evacuations. Of course, the wounded have to be heavily sedated or they'll go into shock from the realization of what they're flying in."

  "Wonderful," Bradley said sincerely. The care of his wounded was always a primary concern.

  "We first used them in the jungles of Burma a year or so ago, and under the circumstances, it was a logical thing to do here. We've also outfitted some choppers with rockets and machine guns and have had a little success with them as gun platforms. Unfortunately, they're so damned vulnerable to almost any kind of gunfire that we've put that idea on the back burner. Pretty soon I'm confident that someone will come up with a helicopter that's larger and will be armored enough to stand small-arms fire."

  "Good idea," Bradley said as they walked toward the miscellany of huts and tents that were the headquarters buildings of the American army in Kyushu.

  Bradley halted. "Is the air force here?"

  "Yes, sir. Per your instructions, you'll talk with LeMay alone, and then with Krueger, Hodges, and myself tomorrow."

  "Good." What he had to say to Maj. Gen. Curtis LeMay would best be said in private. The air corps was a young service, and Curtis LeMay, at thirty-nine, was a very young general who was brilliant, hard-driving, and innovative. His idea to strip the B-29s of machine guns so they'd be lighter and then fly low-level bombing runs on the Japanese had worked brilliantly. Many Japanese cities had been reduced to flaming rubble with few losses to the B-29 fleet. As recently appointed commander of the Twentieth Air Force, LeMay was the senior air corps officer in the Pacific.

  Sometimes, however, LeMay's aggressiveness caused others to question his judgment.

  Bradley entered the hut Eichelberger indicated. LeMay, a burly man, stood and snapped to attention. Bradley gestured for him to sit down.

  When both were comfortable, Bradley began, "General LeMay, you have a reputation for directness. I want some straight answers to some simple questions. First, who ordered the atom bombing of the straits between Honshu and Kyushu?"

  "I did," LeMay answered without hesitation.

  "On who else's orders?"

  "President Truman's."

  Bradley hid his surprise. Marshall had radioed him that the bombing had come as a complete surprise to Truman. This meant that LeMay had liberally interpreted his orders. Or disobeyed them. "Clarify that for me, General."

  LeMay's eyes registered mild surprise. "General, following Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we then bombed Kokura. Washington was informed that there were no other targets remaining in Japan that were worthy of an atomic bombing, even though one city, Niigata, did remain from the original list of four. I did not quite agree with the decision, but complied. However, we were able to continue firebombing cities and other targets with conventional bombs, and it was clearly understood that atomic bombs could be utilized in the future against targets that were purely military in nature."

  "And the straits bombing fit this description?"

  "It did absolutely. Two divisions of infantry were out in the open and packed together like little yellow sardines. We bombed them and we killed all of them."

  "What about civilian casualties? I was led to believe that Jap refugees crossed the other way from Kyushu to Honshu."

  "Could've been some, but I doubt that. Our eavesdroppers said that the Jap army had grabbed everything that floated for this effort. There would have been damn few civilians, if any, out on the water that night. Besides, who cares? There isn't a target in the world that's one hundred percent military. Civilians have been getting in the way since man invented the club, and that's just too bad for them."

  "What about our POWs?" Bradley asked. "Were any of them in the area as hostages?"

  "Possibly, although probably not. This was a secret move on the part of the Japs so they wouldn't broadcast the fact that our boys were out there as hostages. It would give away their little scheme. And if any of our guys were killed by the bomb, then it was the fault of the Japs for putting them there instead of in proper camps. Sorry, but it wouldn't be the first time Americans were killed by our own bombs. You do know that a couple of dozen were killed at Nagasaki, don't you?"

  Bradley concurred grimly. Japanese usage of Allied prisoners in military and industrial work was contrary to international law and had caused a number of tragic casualties. "General LeMay, are you aware that many of the world's countries are calling us butchers and barbarians for dropping yet another atomic bomb?"

  LeMay laughed harshly. He started to take a cigar from his shirt pocket and then thought better of it. "General Bradley, that's bullshit and you know it. Hell, I've killed ten times as many Japs, civilian and military, with conventional weapons as I have with nukes. And don't let them snow you with that crap about radiation. As I see it, anything that kills Japs, whether today or next month or even the next century, is fine by me."

  LeMay again grabbed for that elusive cigar and retreated. He was not certain what Bradley's reaction would be to his smoking it. "What the hell do those people want, General? Should we go back to crossbows? Nah, the more we kill, the sooner this war ends and the killing stops. Then we can get prepared for the next one against the Russians. The commies are going to be a helluva lot harder to fight than the Japs."

  No argument there, Bradley thought. He too felt that the Russians were the real threat to a peaceful future. "General, don't you think it would have been appropriate to inform your commanding officer of your intentions to bomb the straits?"

  "General Bradley, the opportunity came up quickly and we didn't think we'd be able to communicate with you and explain the situation in time. We know the
Japs are trying to pick up our broadcasts, and we were afraid they'd realize we were up to something. We also thought you'd approve, even if after the fact."

  Bradley leaned back in his chair and glared. "You're right about my approving it. I would have. It's the best possible use of a terrible weapon. But the rest of what you said is pure crap. You don't just throw on a nuclear mission just like that and take off in ten minutes. You've been listening to the Japs planning this thing from the beginning, at least days and perhaps weeks, and decided a long time ago that getting me, or whoever else might have replaced MacArthur, angry was a risk worth taking. You weren't going to take the chance of being turned down, were you?"

  LeMay shrugged unconcernedly. "Guilty. I got a war to win and Japs to kill. Screw it, sir, it was a target handmade for an atomic bomb. Conventional bombing would have been worthless because of the bad weather. With an atomic bomb, the bombardier only needed to drop the damn thing in the general vicinity of the straits and accuracy wouldn't matter one damn bit. Colonel Tibbets commands the squadron that's dropped all the atomic bombs and he flew the plane himself, and they managed to drop it right on the bull's-eye. The dumb Japs didn't know that the mist hung only a couple of hundred feet above the water so the bombardier had some recognizable mountains to use as aiming points. We bagged ourselves two full divisions and one field marshal. Not a bad night's work if you ask me, although the scientists say that the mist actually held down deaths from the flash."

  Damned if LeMay doesn't remind me of Patton, Bradley thought with some satisfaction. He and Patton had once been friends until it was necessary for Bradley to rein him in once too often. He would try to avoid that problem with the belligerent LeMay.

  "General LeMay, do you want that third star?"