The Rising Sun: The Decline and Fall of the Japanese Empire, 1936-1945 (Modern Library War)

by Toland, John

  General Kataoka learned about the skirmish just as he and his two platoons reached the heights north of Limon, a village of several score nipa huts where Highway 2 made a precipitous climb over rugged hills, then circled a commanding ridge to the right before descending again to the coast and Carigara. Kataoka ordered Major Imada to attack the advancing Americans; Imada could expect reinforcements, an antitank battalion. Then the general sent back word for Colonel Miyauchi to bring up a small field piece on the double.

  This order made no sense to Miyauchi, but he loaded the gun into a truck and climbed aboard to direct operations. As the truck rumbled over the bumpy dirt road, he wondered what good one small piece of artillery would do. At Limon he listened politely to Kataoka explain how he was going to stem the enemy advance down near Carigara. The small gun was positioned to command the road where it made the sharpest turn around the ridge.

  All day Miyauchi’s 57th Regiment straggled north along the narrow road toward Limon, harassed by American bombing and strafing attacks. More than two hundred men were killed and scores of others were overcome by the intense heat. Darkness when it came offered little relief. Around nine o’clock the men fell out exhausted along the sides of the highway. They were attacked by mosquitoes; those who had not covered their faces before they fell asleep awoke with eyes almost swollen shut, but their eagerness was undiminished as they resumed their march, this time under dark, lowering clouds. Kamiko’s battalion was the first to reach Limon, and its commander, Captain Sato, was ordered by Miyauchi to take positions north of the village near the emplaced gun.

  On the other side of the mountain range Lieutenant General Walter Krueger, commander of Sixth Army, thought his advance division, the 24th, faced encirclement and annihilation. He knew from aerial observation that a large force of Japanese was marching toward Limon; and he feared the enemy might also land a large amphibious force behind the 24th Division at Carigara. Krueger reacted cautiously. Rather than push forward and take the strategic ridge, breaking through the mountain barrier which as yet was lightly defended, he ordered the 24th Division to halt and prepare to fend off a possible sea invasion in co-operation with the 1st Cavalry Division, which was on its heels.

  At dusk Miyauchi’s regiment started up the winding road toward the crest of the ridge. An eerie white figure approached. It was a survivor of the 16th Division, swathed in bandages, driven back all the way from Leyte Gulf. He passed silently by. He was followed by more walking wounded, helping one another or hobbling on sticks. Word spread down the ranks that General Makino’s division had been annihilated.

  Just ahead lay the highest point of Highway 2, where the road bent sharply to the east. The jagged hill mass on the right was covered with shoulder-high cogon grass. It was a natural fortress. Numerous spurs branched off it toward the sea to the northeast and toward the Leyte River Valley to the southwest. In between the steep rises were dense woods.

  Here the march stopped. Whispered instructions were passed along to jettison all unnecessary items. The men stuffed their small battle haversacks with hardtack and five grenades each and piled their back packs near the road. Kamiko’s company was ordered to take the lead, and his squad led the company—that, he thought proudly, made him the spearhead of Gem Division.

  The sky lightened with dramatic suddenness. With the sun came intolerable heat. The air was acrid with powder smoke. The battlefield must be near but the ridge was silent. A rifle cracked. It was quiet again and then Kamiko heard the chirping of birds. The former schoolteacher’s heart beat faster. His chest constricted. He turned to his companions. Their eyes were glittering. They had been preparing to fight for three years and were as expectant as he was. An order came up to turn off the road and climb the ridge.

  On the other side, GI’s were also nearing the top of the ridge. Krueger had ordered the 24th Division to reconnoiter it; the general attack south was to begin in two days.

  Kamiko pushed through brush and began the ascent toward the crest. Behind, someone shouted, “Squad Leader Kamiko! Wrong direction!” It was the platoon sergeant. A grenade exploded. The sergeant stumbled, clutching his thigh. Kamiko was showered with debris. A soldier grunted, “I’m hit!” Blinded, Kamiko tripped over him. He forced himself to be calm; gradually he recovered his vision. Geysers of earth erupted on all sides. Grenades lobbed over the crest by the GI’s were bounding down the slope like apples spilled from a barrel. Kamiko squirmed toward the sergeant and touched him. He felt warm, sticky blood.

  While he was wondering what to do, he heard the hollow thump of mortars, then the deep cough of a machine gun. Bullets whipped through the brush, thumping into bodies and bringing cries of surprise and pain. The first squad was being wiped out without a fight! He fought a paralyzing panic and finally forced himself to shout “Fire!” Rifles crackled. Kamiko looked at his watch. It was exactly ten o’clock on November 5 in the nineteenth year of Showa. It might be his last moment as a human being.

  Kamiko fired blindly round after round. He stopped to reload and peered above the brush. There was a thunderous shock, a blinding flash, and darkness. Earth and sand showered him, but he was unhurt. According to the manual, shells from the same gun never landed in the same spot, so he sprang into the newly made crater.

  He was immediately joined by two comrades, a light-machine-gun team. They set up their weapon and were about to open fire when mortar rounds began bursting so close that the operator, Ogura, shouted, “It’s dangerous here, Squad Leader!” and scrambled out of the hole with his gun.

  The entire squad moved laterally, and frantically dug takotsubo among the roots of rotting palm trees. The mortar barrage ceased. Kamiko held up his helmet on a bayonet, and a hail of bullets battered the helmet “like a wind-bell.” He crouched down again but the firing from the top of the ridge had stopped. He wondered why the GI’s, after pinning them down, had fallen back.

  Kamiko told his men to eat while they had the chance. They had hardtack but no water. He ordered a man with a slight leg injury to report the situation to the company commander, Lieutenant Yahiro, then crept along the slope to make a personal reconnaissance. The other two squads had been trapped by the mortars and machine guns and only three men in all were alive. If it hadn’t been for Ogura, his squad too would have been wiped out.

  At dusk he gathered his remaining five men and told them they alone held the hill. He ordered them to collect ammunition, arms and supplies from dead comrades. By midnight they were prepared for the attack that was certain to come at dawn, but their thirst had become unbearable. Kamiko remembered seeing coconut trees somewhere near the crest. He removed all clothing except for his loincloth, tied a washcloth around his head and stealthily crawled up the hill. In the moonlight he found a coconut tree and started shinnying up it.

  “Squad Leader!” The whispered voice startled him and he almost lost his grasp. “Get down fast or you’ll be shot!” It was Ogura, who had followed him. But Kamiko continued until he reached a cluster of coconuts. He yanked one free, dropped it with a heavy thud. He expected a burst of fire but none came. He dropped ten more before rejoining Ogura. Together they carted the coconuts back to the squad. Kamiko chopped off the tops and distributed the milk. It reminded him of a soft drink.

  During the night they were joined by the 4th Squad, headed by the platoon leader himself, Warrant Officer Hakoda. A year younger than Kamiko, he looked like a schoolboy. He apologized for arriving so late. Kamiko roused his own squad before dawn. He was surprised to find that despite the heavy losses, he anticipated battle as eagerly as he had the day before. He surveyed the area. A hundred feet below was winding Highway 2. Above them loomed the crest of the ridge and he guessed one could see Carigara Bay from there. There were now nineteen men on the strategic hummock, the southeastern spur of the range.

  At about nine o’clock he heard distant commands in English. Bullets pounded into the earth along the takotsubo line. Ogura, eyes “as big as saucers,” began firing his machine gun as if
possessed. The fire let up briefly and Kamiko called out the names of his men: “Aoki! Shimizu! Otsuka! Ishii!” Each shouted “Hai!” (Yes!) from his own hole. “If they get close enough, throw grenades,” Kamiko instructed them.

  Enemy fire resumed, augmented this time by the sound of heavy machine guns. “Squad Leader!” It was Aoki in the next hole. “The brush is burning!” Smoke swirled across the slope and the crackle of burning cogon grass rose above the din. “Squad Leader!” Aoki again. “The enemy is coming!”

  Partially hidden by smoke, the Americans (I Company, 3rd Battalion, 21st Infantry Regiment, 24th Division) had charged over the ridge and were closing in. “Third Squad,” Kamiko shouted, “fix bayonets and prepare grenades!” He heard the click of bayonets as he fastened his own and armed his grenades.

  “Charge!” screamed the baby-faced Hakoda.

  Kamiko was about to relay the order to his own squad, but it didn’t make sense. A charge should always be preceded by some kind of covering barrage. Impulsively he yelled, “Third Squad, hold!” The enemy was still screened by the flaming brush. “Target, right oblique!” Kamiko shouted. “Fire!”

  Ogura turned his machine gun to the right.

  “Totsugeki!” It was Hakoda again, urging the 4th Squad to charge into the murderous fire. Hakoda fell and his new sergeant was hit. “Take command,” he called out to Kamiko. The Americans were almost upon them. It was all over. Kamiko shouted desperately, “Fire everything you have!”

  Suddenly the sky overhead was split with a long screech which was cut off abruptly by an explosion on the slope ahead. Stunned, the infantrymen on both sides stopped shooting. Another big shell landed in front of Kamiko in the midst of advancing Americans. A third shell whined over, plummeting into the enemy’s heavy-machine-gun positions. The three rounds had come from a single big Japanese gun just hauled into position.

  Kamiko jumped to his feet and shouted, “It’s ours!”

  Several American machine guns resumed their chattering. A fourth shell exploded. There was silence ahead. This time the enemy machine guns remained silent.

  There was no rifle fire from the takotsubo on the left and Kamiko crawled over to investigate. Ishii was bent over, head down. “What’s the matter?” asked Kamiko and took off Ishii’s helmet. His eyes were open but there was a hole the size of a bean in the middle of his forehead. The back of his head was like a burst pomegranate.

  Kamiko ground his teeth in anger. Ishii was his best friend—a university man, full of spirit and compassion. He felt heat on his back and whirled around. The wind was driving the grass fire down the slope. Where was the wounded Hakoda? Kamiko began searching to save him from the flames but all he could find was an officer’s leather belt, saber and pistol. Had the Americans taken Hakoda prisoner? Machine guns sent him tumbling back to his hole, clutching the platoon leader’s possessions.

  Aoki called out to him, “Enemy approaching!” Aoki was about to toss a grenade but Kamiko stopped him; the enemy was too far away. Kamiko crawled forward with his own grenades, followed by Ogura. He crouched, ready to stand up and throw—and die. Again a shell—this from a recently positioned four-gun battery—whistled overhead, exploded up the slope.

  “Hit! Direct hit!” someone shouted excitedly. “Five or six were blown up!”

  Then he heard another voice—that of the company commander, Lieutenant Yahiro! The main force of the company had arrived. Kamiko leaped to his feet. Wiping tears away with the back of one hand, he activated a grenade by slamming it on his helmet and heaved it as far up the hill as he could. His men joined him. There were five quick explosions.

  “Charge!” Kamiko shouted. He felt as though nothing could stop him as he hurtled up the charred, smoldering field toward the heavy-machine-gun position with fixed bayonet. Behind pounded his squad. Dead Americans were everywhere, their bodies scorched and swollen; one seemed to be overflowing with yellow grease. Kamiko, followed by eight men, swarmed into the machine-gun emplacement. Gunners had been blown apart; cartridges on their belts were detonating like firecrackers. Every so often one of these explosions set off a grenade. Kamiko was rooted, erect. Amid all this carnage he found himself alive. It was as if he were coming out of a dream. Reality swept over him again; he crouched and once more plunged up toward the crest of the ridge. As he burst over the top he saw spread before him the breath-taking panorama of Carigara Bay. The Americans were scrambling down their side of the ridge; here and there a fleeing figure tumbled haplessly from the fusillade which followed them from the crest.

  A single platoon, with the help of a dozen artillery shells, had blunted a determined enemy attack and given the strung-out regiment time to reach the front and turn the ridge into a fortress of takotsubo, trenches and gun emplacements.

  Kamiko remembered how the samurai of the civil-war era took the head of an enemy, and reached for an American officer’s helmet. The liner was wet with blood and he hesitated—was it proper for a modern man to take booty? But he still had helmet in hand when he reported to his company commander. Lieutenant Yahiro’s face was black with dust and gunpowder, his arm in a sling. He grinned boyishly. “Thank you very much for enduring such hardships,” he told Kamiko.

  Their battalion commander, Captain Sato, called for the merits list and wrote on the first page. It was an unimaginable honor for an infantryman, the “dream flower.” Usually only fliers and sailors were officially commended. Sato was curious about the American helmet. Kamiko apologized for the blood but the battalion commander put it on, waggling his head several times. “This is light and feels good.” Was there one without a bullet hole?

  “I’m sure I can find one,” Kamiko volunteered.

  “If you do, I’ll use it.”

  Yahiro grinned as he hefted an American carbine. “This is light too. I may use it from now on.”

  That night Kamiko was appointed platoon leader in place of Hakoda. He couldn’t sleep; the corpses of comrades lying out front unattended haunted him. From the darkness he heard someone say, “Why do American soldiers die on their backs?” Another voice answered, “The Japanese are well-mannered; even after they’ve died they hide their private parts.” Both laughed.

  Just before dawn Kamiko and the two other platoon leaders were ordered to report to the company commander’s dugout. Yahiro told them that the rest of their battalion had been ambushed on the way up front and practically wiped out. So their own hummock (it had been renamed Yahiro Hill by Sato in honor of the company) had become the spearhead again—and was isolated. “Reinforcements are sure to come. When the main force of the division arrives, it will be easy to wipe out the enemy. Until then we must defend this position to the end. I hope that each platoon leader will do his best, with resolution, despite the condition of the men.”

  The Americans who had been forced back resumed their assault on the escarpment—it was nicknamed Breakneck Ridge—with the help of men from the 1st Cavalry Division. This time they attacked on a broader front but still concentrated on the hill where the eighty men of Kamiko’s company were waiting, with orders to hold fire. When the GI’s were seventy-five yards away, Lieutenant Yahiro shouted “Fire!”

  The fusillade of rifle and machine-gun bullets toppled over the enemy “like bowling pins.” But the onslaught was stemmed only momentarily. Kamiko grudgingly admired the Americans’ ability to advance over the bodies of their comrades, throwing grenades like baseballs. The carnage along the defense line was far worse than the day before, and Kamiko doubted that Yahiro Hill could be held against such determination and firepower. He was impatient with his own single-action Model 38 rifle; it was accurate, but after every shot the five-bullet clip had to be pushed down. He shouted to Ogura to concentrate his machine-gun fire to the right where the American advance was slowing. Perhaps they could be panicked. Grenades, tossed by comrades behind him, flew overhead and bounced toward the enemy. The Americans wavered. One or two turned back and the rest followed pell-mell down the hill.

  Yahiro
Company had held again, but only twenty-five were alive. The survivors were sent back in relays down to a stream on the other side of Highway 2. They washed their faces in the cool water, filled canteens and ate hardtack. This, Kamiko thought, is the pleasure of nothingness.

  The American failure to seize Breakneck Ridge had immediate repercussions. Major General Franklin C. Sibert, commander of X Corps, which included the 24th Infantry and 1st Cavalry divisions, came up front at noon, and without waiting to go through channels, summarily relieved a regimental commander and replaced him with his own intelligence officer, Colonel William J. Verbeck.

  Verbeck quickly proved he was one staff officer who was more aggressive than the average line officer. No sooner had he taken command than he sent a company to flank the ridge. It too was pushed back. Undeterred, Verbeck ordered the 2nd Battalion, with Company L attached, to attack the ridge in force the next morning.

  November 8 dawned gray. Then the skies darkened dramatically, and rain, whipped by typhoon winds, swept the ridge. Palms bent like bows, and some snapped, others were uprooted. The cogon grass lashed like a turbulent sea. Even so, Verbeck’s attack began on schedule. It opened with a heavy-artillery barrage, the boom of cannons competing with the thunder and screaming wind. Infantry moved out through the beating rain, floundering on the muddy slopes. Their maps were inaccurate and it took hours for some units to get into position.

  Mortar shells, however, had zeroed in on the crest of the ridge. The effect was so devastating that Yahiro ordered the company to fall back to their original takotsubo near the highway, and there make the final stand. The men skidded and bumped their way down to holes, which were already deep with water but nevertheless offered refuge from the mortar rounds that flew overhead.

  Fog engulfed the slope; nothing could be seen beyond ten yards. As he waited, soaked and miserable, Kamiko re-evaluated the enemy. First, he was no coward; second, he could throw grenades twice as far as the Japanese; third, and most important, he always seemed to be rested. Kamiko’s squad was perpetually exhausted; perhaps it was the constant battle without relief, perhaps the lack of food.