CHAPTER 57
TOKYO
Relations between senior officers of the Japanese army and the navy were generally formal at best. The rivalry was historically intense. Each had its own priorities and each was bitterly jealous of the other, even to the point of orchestrating assassinations in the decades prior to the war.
The army had argued against the southward push of the navy that had brought the United States and Great Britain into the war. At the time of Pearl Harbor the Japanese army was fully involved in a major land war with China- one it had started without seeking government approval- and wished to finish that war before starting any new adventures.
Within a year of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Imperial Japanese Army could only sit and seethe in impotent fury as the Imperial Japanese Navy lost battle after battle and watch in frustration as enemy warships drew ever closer to Japan.
As 1945 drew to a close, only the army remained to defend Japan, and the naval officers who'd been so proud and smug the years before were scarcely tolerated pariahs whose rash efforts had failed the empire. While the navy licked its wounds and tallied its losses, the army had gone on the offensive in China and pushed the Chinese Nationalists southward, forcing the American air forces to evacuate bases from which they'd been bombing the home islands. As a result, many army officers now looked down on their naval counterparts. The army had always felt that Japan's true adversary was the Soviet Union, and it had galled the generals to have to make peace, however temporary, with Stalin, who had broken it that summer.
In this hostile environment, the unique friendship between Lt. Gen. Masaharu Homma and Vice Admiral Jisaburo Ozawa somehow first developed, then flourished. Both were in their late fifties, and each had experienced glory and despair. Both men had pragmatic feelings about the war and felt that it had to be concluded quickly before Japan disappeared.
They also thought that the code of Bushido, which required fighting to the death, was nonsense in the current circumstances. Homma, who had served two terms as liaison with the British army, was well aware of the fighting capabilities and the industrial might of the West. Ozawa had seen that might in more recent action. He had watched in agony as ship after ship of his fleet sank as a result of the hammer blows inflicted by the overwhelmingly powerful Americans.
In 1941, Homma had commanded the Fourteenth Japanese Area Army in the invasion of the Philippines. He had succeeded, but had paid a terrible price for the victory. Instead of the quick and easy conquest that intelligence estimates had promised, the American and Philippine soldiers had fought bravely and held out for months longer than anticipated. The defense of Bataan and Corregidor had upset the Japanese timetable for conquest, and Homma, upon ultimate completion of his task, had been returned to Japan and left in administrative limbo.
Homma was further stung that the Americans had blamed him for the Death March and other atrocities committed by his subordinates. He had ordered that prisoners be treated fairly, but these orders had been ignored. Homma accepted the blame. Morally, he felt responsible. He had conquered a nation but had lost his career.
Ozawa, on the other hand, had merely lost his fleet. Highly regarded and respected, he had been an early proponent of airpower and had skillfully led his carriers in combat until the last of them was overwhelmed in the climactic Battle of Leyte Gulf. A quiet and basically humble man, he knew there was nothing more useless than an admiral without a fleet, and he no longer had a single major surface ship, much less a fleet.
Each man understood the other and their relationship grew. Had the government of General Anami been aware of it, it might have expressed disapproval. But the Anami government had many other and more compelling problems to resolve than to worry about two old officers getting together for drinks and idle conversation.
General Homma's vivacious and tiny wife, Fujito, beamed happily as she answered the door and admitted the admiral. She bowed and took Ozawa's soggy hat and raincoat, then departed to let the admiral and her husband have their talk.
"Your journey here was uninterrupted?" Homma inquired.
"Safe enough," Ozawa replied. "One innocuous car is not going to attract an attack."
Both men knew it was not quite that simple. With fuel rationing so strict that civilian car usage was virtually nonexistent, American pilots had easily concluded that any car or truck on the road was a legitimate military target. Ozawa had been both prudent and lucky. He did not burden his host with the fact that he and his driver had twice bolted from the vehicle during his ten-mile journey out of fear that he had been sighted by Yank planes. He had wiped most of the mud from his uniform trousers from his having hid in a ditch. Homma was too tactful to comment on the stains.
"You are fortunate," Ozawa commented, "that you live far enough away from Tokyo proper to be relatively free of the bombers and the fires." Ozawa's own small house had gone up in flames during a bombing. He now lived with relatives.
Homma nodded. His home in exile was only twenty miles from the Imperial Palace, but it might as well have been a thousand miles from the source of power. At least until recently.
After tea was drunk and the amenities observed, Homma brought out some rice brandy that a local entrepreneur had made. If not good, it was at least potent. Ozawa smacked his lips in appreciation, then leaned forward and smiled slyly. "Should I congratulate you or offer condolences, my friend?"
Homma chuckled. "A little of both would be in order."
As a result of the death of Field Marshal Hata in the latest nuclear bombing, the army commands had been reorganized. General Homma had been recalled from exile and given command of the Twelfth Area Army, which encompassed Tokyo and most of the area surrounding it.
"At least you have an army," Ozawa said softly. "While I have no surface ships at all. The last destroyer was sunk a couple of days ago. A few submarines remain, but the enormous American fleet is largely unmolested. My trips to headquarters are little more than exercises in futility."
"Good friend," Homma replied, "the truth is that my situation is as bad as yours. The Twelfth Area Army largely exists on paper and in the confused mind of General Anami. Once it consisted of eighteen infantry and two armored divisions, but it now lists but eight infantry and one armored, and these are but terribly depleted shadows of themselves. The other divisions have been sent to the slaughterhouse in Kyushu, while the remaining units have been stripped by transfers and then pounded to pieces by the ever-present American planes. I doubt that I could field fifty thousand trained men and twenty tanks. My soldiers cower in their bunkers all over the Kanto Plain. It would be virtually impossible for me to assemble them into a true fighting force under the circumstances. For all intents and purposes, Tokyo is undefended by the Japanese army."
Ozawa was shocked. "I had no idea it was so bad."
"Nor did I. Until my recent appointment, I was uninformed of the situation. It is the same elsewhere on the home islands. The Fifth Army on Hokkaido has been reduced from five divisions to two, the Eleventh north of here from six divisions to one, the Thirteenth to my south from six to two, and the Fifteenth, which is adjacent to Kyushu, from eight to three. Large numbers of civilian militia have been formed, but they are unarmed and untrained. They will be useless when the Americans come."
"Is it possible that they won't come?" Ozawa asked hopefully, even though he knew the dreaded answer.
"They will come. It is only a matter of time. Anami thinks otherwise of course. He feels that the recent slowdown in American operations on Kyushu means they have been defeated, or at least so bloodied that they have no will to continue. Anami feels the time is ripe for a counterattack that will drive the Americans back into the ocean. Another Decisive Battle, he says, and the war will be won to the extent that we can have a negotiated peace with honor."
Ozawa laughed in derision. "A Decisive Battle? Just how many of those will we fight? Pearl Harbor was a Decisive Battle, as were Midway, Leyte, a number of others. Leyte Gulf was supposed to b
e the battle that ended the war and it almost did. We lost what was left of our navy in it! What a fool he is to believe in that discredited doctrine!"
As the smaller nation, Japan had always looked for a way to deliver a knockout blow against the overwhelming might of the Americans. The naval war had been predicated on sucking the American fleet into a decisive battle with the Japanese fleet off Japan that would end in an overwhelming victory for Japan. It was a shame the Americans hadn't cooperated, Ozawa thought ruefully.
Homma poured a little more brandy. "Major Hori, who has been so successful in anticipating American actions, told Anami the Americans have not been defeated. Instead, Hori feels they have taken all they require of Kyushu for use as a staging area and are now preparing to invade south of Tokyo. For the first time, Anami disagreed with Hori and sent him away after a tongue-lashing. I agree with Hori. The Americans will invade Honshu and will do it soon."
A plane flew low over the house, and the frail structure began to shake. Both men looked at each other as they recognized the now distinctive growl of an American P-51. It was so symbolic of their total helplessness that an American fighter could gaze down on them from only a few hundred feet and nothing could be done about it.
"Admiral, so many of the fine young men we've sent to Kyushu have been killed or wounded in the fighting, while many others never even made it to the cursed island. It is a closely guarded secret, but only about half the men sent on the journey ever arrive. The American planes kill them en route or sink their boats in the straits. The same is happening with the men we are trying to bring from Korea. The slaughter of the young is incredible. An entire generation of Japanese men is being destroyed. If we do not end this, we will be like France was after the last war. Emasculated."
Ozawa thought for a moment. There was something he had to say, but it had to be said carefully. "In your opinion, is the military situation hopeless?"
"Yes."
"Is nothing going right for us?"
"Well, the Americans haven't quite figured it out, but with our hidden airstrips on Kyushu just a few miles behind the front lines, suicide attacks are no longer as necessary as they had been. The planes can actually load up with bombs and return without too much difficulty. Many now fly but a few feet off the ground, bomb, and return to their hideouts. American supplies are in such abundance that it is virtually impossible for even the most inexperienced pilot to miss dropping a bomb on something important. Our fliers will not resume actual suicide attacks until the counterattack, which will not come until the weather grounds the American planes."
"But what about the secret weapons? Are they but rumors?"
Homma shook his head. "Some of them are real, but may bring more harm to Japan than to the Americans. We have quantities of poison gas and plague germs to use against them, but I fear for American retaliation, which could utterly destroy what little remains of Japan."
Gas? Germs? Ozawa was appalled. What kind of war was Anami waging? Ozawa's voice nearly broke in despair. "Is there nothing we can do?"
Homma laughed harshly and took the leap of faith that Ozawa was with him. "Are you suggesting a coup?"
"Why not? That's how Anami came to power, isn't it? It would be justice to turn the tables on that drunken buffoon."
"Indeed, but Anami has the emperor and claims to speak for him. As long as that is the case, any coup would be ignored. Besides, Anami has surrounded himself with those loyal to him and they are not under my command. He is very careful and trusts very few in the army. Myself, I am watched very closely when I am near his headquarters. I believe I was chosen for my current assignment because I was available, not out of any great confidence in my abilities or in my loyalty."
Interesting, thought Ozawa. "Where is the emperor? We've heard rumors, but what is the truth?"
"The emperor is at some undisclosed place on Kyushu. Incredibly, he was sent there before the invasion because it was deemed safer than Tokyo. It is now considered too dangerous to try and bring him back."
"Amazing," the admiral commented. "So we will continue to fight until the last young man is dead and until the Americans have stormed the Imperial Palace. But what if we found the emperor and he announced a desire for peace?"
"Then much would be changed, my friend. Perhaps what remains of Japan could even be saved."
They spoke for a while longer, this time of families and friends, many of them recently dead. Much later, the admiral departed and Homma fervently wished him a safe journey.
Homma went to his bedroom, undressed, and lay down on his back on the sleeping mat. Fujito came and knelt beside him. She was his second wife and younger than he. She was one person who had brought stability to his otherwise wild and erratic youth. She was priceless to him. Without her, he would have wound up an irresponsible and drunken fool.
"Did it go well?" she asked as she ran her hands down his muscular chest.
"Very well," he said with a smile as he enjoyed the gentle touch of her hands. He knew full well that she had been listening all the time. "The good admiral understands everything. I believe I have planted a seed, although there may have already been one present. We will now have to see what grows."
Fujito's hands roamed lower. "Ah." She giggled softly. "I have found something that is growing already!"
Homma laughed. She slipped off her robe, then swung her slender, naked body over his and led him into her. He was strong tonight and she moaned happily and reveled in each powerful upward thrust. The inaction of the previous years had almost driven him to despair and sometimes sapped his manhood. He was a tiger, not a domestic animal to be kept penned. His new command and its challenges were so much better for both of them. Fujito had sublime confidence in her general. If anyone could solve Japan's terrible dilemma, she was confident that her husband could.
CHAPTER 58
KYUSHU, NORTH OF MIYAKANOJO
When Captain Ruger had dictated what Paul Morrell referred to as his "last will and testament" while on the troopship off Kyushu, both had thought that the personnel changes in it would occur after his being killed or wounded. Promotion had not been a thought.
The killing of Major Redwald, their battalion commander, had changed that. Ruger had been promoted to the temporary rank of major, and Paul was given Ruger's old command, although not the rank of captain. First lieutenant was a common enough rank for an inexperienced company commander. In the absence of any other available junior officers, Sergeant Collins assumed command of Paul's old platoon. Sergeant Orlando continued to provide support with his tank.
Both Paul and Major Ruger had made it clear that they didn't want to break in any rookie second lieutenants at this stage of the battle. Paul in particular found that amusing. Only a few months earlier he had been the unwanted and untested rookie. Now he was considered experienced and part of the old guard.
First Sergeant Mackensen put down the field phone. "Lieutenant, there's a problem with Lieutenant Marcelli. I think you'd better go over."
Paul swore softly and scrambled out of his foxhole and through the light cover of brush to where the second platoon was dug in. Mackensen and a radioman followed close behind.
The company had been back in the lines for several days after their all too brief respite. Little had changed in their absence, although a cockamamy rumor said that they were to seize some good defensive ground and hold on until the Japs starved to death.
Bullshit. They had continued to inch up increasingly steep hills and fight their way through strong Jap positions. Paul had lost track of the date. Was it Christmas yet? If so, he thought as he stumbled on a rock and almost lost his helmet, how would Santa find him? At least he'd gotten some mail and managed to send some good letters off to Debbie. Thank God he could count on her.
"Over here, Lieutenant," one of Marcelli's soldiers yelled.
Paul covered the last few yards to where a small group of men clustered about a large lump that lay in a foxhole. It was Marcelh. He was facedown and still,
but his chest moved from the effort of breathing.
"What happened to him?" Paul asked. The men shrugged and moved off. They didn't want to know.
Mackensen slid into the hole and tried to move Marcelh. He was curled up in a fetal position and unresponsive. The stink of feces and urine wafted up from the hole. Lieutenant Marcelh had fouled himself.
When Mackensen moved Marcelh's head, his eyes were squinched shut as if daring the world to make him look. Mackensen tried to straighten him out, but he returned to his curled-up ball position like a preformed rubber toy. It was ghastly to look at. This creature looked nothing like the eager young officer who was Paul's friend.
"He's shell-shocked, Lieutenant," Mackensen announced softly. "He's gone someplace else, the lucky bastard."
Paul slid down beside the lieutenant, shook him gently, and patted him on the cheek. "Jerry, can you hear me?" he whispered in Marcelli's ear. "Jerry, c'mon, buddy. We got a job to do and I need you. Help me out this one time and we'll all get to go home."
He heard a low moan and saw a thin line of drool starting to run down Marcelli's chin. Seeing a man like that was even more awful than seeing one wounded by a bullet or shrapnel. Bullet wounds you could bandage, but what the hell did you do when a man's mind snapped? No wonder the other soldiers didn't want to hang around. They were afraid it was contagious. It wasn't, of course, but each man knew that he had his own breaking point. They just didn't want to be reminded of it. Paul had to get rid of Marcelli before his condition played havoc with the rest of the company's morale.
Paul snapped at his radioman, "Get a medic up here with a stretcher. I want him out of here right now." The operator gulped and sent the message.
Paul found a blanket and covered Marcelli. He wanted to keep him warm, but he also didn't want anyone else staring at him as if he were some kind of freak. "Well, First Sergeant, what do you think happened?"
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