MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  “I—I think so.” In her mind she pictured the maps she had studied in school and for the first time saw the war as a thing that was approaching, like some vague but no longer distant menace. “Okinawa is not terribly far from Kyushu, is it?”

  “No, it is not.”

  “Do you think the Americans will come to Kyushu next?” The idea burst on her like a clap of thunder; she had never considered it before.

  “If they do, I hope I can fight them. But I am still posted far away from the battlefields!”

  “Where is your company now?” she asked, secretly hoping he would say Hiroshima.

  Instead, he replied, “The Kinai Plain, near Osaka,” which was glad enough news: only a half-day train ride away from here! She was going to tell him that she was proud of him, but he went on. “If you can call it a company! Old men and farm boys, mostly. We have ten rifles and almost a hundred men. If the Americans come, we will probably throw spears at them!”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she just squeezed his arm again and, tentatively, laid her head upon his shoulder. For several minutes they remained silent, close together, warm in spite of the chill.

  “Did Taiki come home for your father’s funeral?” Yoshi asked abruptly.

  “No. We still have not seen him since before he left for Rabaul and that other island—what did you call it?”

  “Guadalcanal.”

  “Yes. Have you seen him since that time in Manila?”

  “No. And I think I told you in my letter, even when I found him at the prisoner camp, he didn’t want to talk to me. The war was close, but neither of us were fighting—and I think that deepened his shame. We both came back to Honshu on ships full of American prisoners. But I haven’t seen him since.”

  “We hear that he is a camp commandant somewhere near Tokyo,” she offered, feeling again the dull ache of her brother’s absence.

  “I hear that, too. In truth, there is a reason I’m glad that he is not here right now.” He looked at her again, strangely serious and yet somehow imploring. “Your father has died, so I would speak to your brother if he were here. But he is not, so I hope you will forgive me speaking directly to you.”

  “About what?” Michiyo asked—and then, by that intent look in his eyes, she knew. Her heart fluttered, and she felt a light, anticipatory joy that seemed like it belonged only in memories.

  He removed something from a small felt pouch he had been carrying. It was a jade figurine, a Buddha, suspended from a leather thong. “I offer you this gift of peace and beauty. I bought it for you when I was in Nanking, after we saw each other in the marketplace all those years ago. I have been thinking about you since that day.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Michiyo breathed. “I will treasure it always!”

  “And now, now I must ask you: Ogawa Michiyo, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife? Will you marry me?”

  She swayed, clutching the strong stone railing of the bridge for support against the sudden onset of dizziness. “Yes, Yoshi—a thousand times yes!” she cried, throwing her arms around him. His arms were strong, and his lips were surprisingly soft as they met hers in a sudden, impetuous kiss.

  A moment later the jade figure was suspended around her neck. They were somewhere on the street, walking back to the house, but Michiyo didn’t even remember leaving the bridge.

  FOURTEEN

  Kyushu

  • MONDAY, 19 MARCH 1945 •

  USS GEORGE CLYMER (APA-27), ROADSTER BEACH ZONE,

  OFF THE WEST COAST OF KYUSHU, JAPAN, 0045 HOURS

  (OPERATION OLYMPIC, X-DAY, N-HOUR - 0515)

  Reveille sounded over the ship’s loudspeakers, and more than a hundred enlisted men of Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marine Regiment stirred fitfully in their hammocks. The 3rd Marines was one of the three regimental combat teams, or RCTs, making up the 2rd Marine Division, V Amphibious Corps, United States Sixth Army. Fox Company and the rest of the RCT would be landing on Pontiac Beach. Every man present knew that, by tonight, some of them would have drawn their last breaths.

  Pete Rachwalski, as the senior sergeant of Fox Company, had made a private deal with one of the petty officers to wake him up a half hour before anybody else, and he woke up the platoon sergeants. It was part of the image. “Rise and shine, boys!” he shouted in a cheerful voice. “The faster we eat breakfast, the faster we can go have fun today!”

  The cavernous hold where they were billeted had the ambience of a jail cell, except it was painted white. Exposed pipes ran along the ceiling; rivets were everywhere. The air was damp and thick, the bulkheads slick with a mixture of oil and condensation. Bunks for the entire company, plus a few extras, were laid out four across, three high, and fifteen deep, crowded so close together that you had to move single file through the aisles. There was a hatch at one end, the only way out. It was no place for a claustrophobe.

  He expected the grumbling as his men stumbled blearily to their feet and got in line for the head. It was the first of many lines they’d stand in today.

  The second line was for breakfast. The mess hall could handle better than two hundred at a time, but the full battalion consisted of nearly a thousand men, and they were all aboard. So they ate in shifts, as quickly as possible.

  The food was plentiful and good: eggs, steak, and potatoes. The steak was tough, but it was steak. It would be a while before any of them would see hot food again. For some—for too many—this would be a last meal.

  Some men ate heartily and some not at all. There were risks with either strategy. Pete grabbed a tray and piled it high, even though he had no appetite. This was his fourth landing. It didn’t get any easier. In fact, he was more frightened of today’s landing than he’d been at Guadalcanal, Leyte, and Okinawa.

  He sat with the senior NCOs, and that was a relief. He didn’t know how well he could conceal his fear from the men. He could talk to other sergeants, though. Several of them looked as gray faced as he felt.

  There wasn’t a lot of conversation. There wasn’t really a lot to say.

  After breakfast, the men of Fox Company joined a third line—well, a series of lines, actually—for equipment and supplies they hadn’t yet been issued. Walking from one station to another, each marine stopped and had something else piled on his outstretched arms. When finished, the typical marine was equipped with his Springfield 30.06 rifle, ammunition, a bayonet, a combat knife, a full canteen, a map case, a life belt, and a combat pack that contained a poncho, three changes of socks and underwear, a three days’ supply of C rations, and three packs of cigarettes. A few were armed more exotically, with Thompson submachine guns or Browning automatic rifles. Others carried sections of mortars or machine guns, or ammo for those heavy weapons.

  Bargaining started almost immediately. “I got Pall Malls here. Anybody got menthols?”

  “Cigarettes for canned peaches over here!”

  “I’ll trade these fucking egg and bacon packs for damn near anything!”

  “Pipe down! Do your trading up on deck!”

  By the time they were fully outfitted and topside, each marine labored under more than fifty additional pounds. They needed the equipment, but the weight was dangerous. On deck, Pete announced, “Line your packs up by platoon. Then take a load off. The smoking lamp is out.”

  The night was still very dark, but the air was refreshingly cool after the stifling hold. The ship rolled gently, making very little headway, and Pete deduced that they were very nearly in position to launch the landing.

  Fox Company was on the starboard side of the large central deck. The forward third contained the bridge, crew quarters, and other ship functions and was generally off-limits to passengers. The after third held officers’ quarters, wardrooms, medical facilities, and the officers’ mess. In between was a large open deck, with ship’s boats and other cargo competing for room with the marines who would be embarking in the initial waves. The rest of the enlisted men and cargo rode below. The blackout was complete, and there
was a background of quiet cursing as the men bumped each other, stepping on feet, stumbled over the piles of equipment.

  Fox Company was in the second wave of 2nd Battalion but in the third wave of 3rd Marines. That was still uncomfortably close to being at the head of the line, but it could have been worse.

  It was 0300 now.

  Captain Rod Gilder, company CO, called the platoon leaders together. Gilder had been a shavetail back on Guadalcanal three years ago, although Pete hadn’t been in his platoon. They both had moved from 2nd Marines to 3rd Marines when the latter regiment was being created. That was when Pete had first advanced from PFC to lance corporal. After three long years of combat, Gilder and Rachwalski had a lifetime’s more experience than the vast majority of their peers.

  That doesn’t stop me from being scared shitless, Pete thought.

  The battleships opened fire at 0330. Huge flames from the sixteen-inch guns rose into the air like the biggest fireworks anyone had ever seen, and the shells arced slowly toward the beach. Then there was a tremendous flash and a few seconds later the sound of a terrific explosion. The explosion made his bones shake. The flames outlined the dark, inhospitable landscape, rendering into a place more closely resembling hell than any place on planet Earth.

  That initial salvo was the signal for the other ships to join in: cruisers firing their eight-inch and six-inch guns, destroyers adding to the racket with their five-inch guns, until the explosions started coming so close together it sounded like gods firing machine guns. The earth lit up with a white light that flickered on and off, making the landscape look like a slightly out-of-synch movie projector image.

  The bombardment continued without pause. It was 0430. Half an hour to go.

  Pete called the company together, and Captain Gilder gave the locker room talk. “Let me start by reminding all of you that we know the mission, we’ve rehearsed this many times, and every one of us is a marine. Do it like you did in practice and it’ll be just another walk in the park. Second of the Third is going to clean out the southern section of Beach Pontiac. Fox Company is in the second wave, and the first wave has generously promised to leave us a few Japs to kill. After that, we’ll unite with 1st Brigade, and then 3rd Marines will push south into the Japanese city of Kagoshima. That’s the major port for Kyushu.”

  The overall command, V Amphibious Corps, with its three marine divisions, the 3rd, 4th, and 5th, was simultaneously invading a total of nine beaches in what was called the Roadster Beach Zone. Each battalion had to take about two thousand feet of beach and clear it so that the next wave of heavier equipment and fresh troops could come in.

  And that was just Roadster. There were six other beach zones and twenty-six more beaches. Ten army divisions grouped in three corps would take them. Three more divisions had already taken some of the surrounding islands to use as air bases. Two divisions were feinting to Shikoku in hopes of drawing off some of the defenders. Two more divisions were ready for follow up, and another corps was in reserve afloat. That totaled more than four hundred thousand invading troops. In addition, over two thousand ships and three thousand aircraft—the largest armada ever assembled—supported the invasion.

  The captain looked relaxed and in control, exactly the way a company commander should act. Pete, however, observed the fidgeting of the captain’s hands. He couldn’t keep them still.

  We’re all petrified.

  Gilder continued. “We got some messages. Okay. Here’s the first one.” He unfolded a small sheet of paper. “‘From the Supreme Commander, Pacific: We are united this day in the single greatest military operation in the history of the world. We undertake this supreme challenge in the name of those who have suffered and died in service to this nation and at the hands of our enemy. We pledge ourselves that freedom shall prevail and justice shall triumph. With God and the right as our sword and shield, we go forth together. God Bless the United States of America.’ It’s signed ‘General of the Army Douglas MacArthur.’”

  About a third of the men clapped and cheered, a third rallied halfheartedly, and the remainder rolled eyes, spat, and made groaning noises. Pete glared at one loudmouth, who shut up immediately—but not before attracting the attention of his platoon sergeant, who loomed in his face with an unamused expression.

  Gilder looked around, officially oblivious to the dissenters. “Okay. Here’s the next one. ‘From Commander, United States Sixth Army: In the long months of planning and training, I have daily grown in respect for the soldiers, sailors, and marines I am honored to lead. I am confident that you will continue to demonstrate the exceptional performance that has been the hallmark of Sixth Army. God bless you all.’ This one is signed ‘General Walter Krueger.’” He looked around. Pete also looked. The dissenters, having expressed their opinion, were quiet now. His platoon sergeants were doing their job.

  The captain continued, “I’ve got more notes. There’s one from Commander, V Corps; one from Commander, 3rd Marine Division; and…well, they all say pretty much the same thing. Everybody thinks you’ll do just fine. I do, too. Good luck, men.”

  He paused. “The General’s cousin will now say a few words.” Snickers and guffaws burst out.

  “The General’s cousin” meant Pete.

  Pete was used to people who couldn’t spell his name. He’d heard all the Polack jokes. But when people learned that the commander of Sixth Army, General Walter Krueger, was also a Pole, they started kidding him about his supposed connections in high places.

  Only staff sergeants and above could get away with kidding him to his face. The captain, of course, could say whatever he damn well pleased. Considering the laugh he got, it was probably a good idea. Pete didn’t mind taking a joke for the sake of morale. Especially not this morning.

  He stepped up beside the captain. As a gunnery sergeant, his job was to give a different kind of speech. “My Uncle Walter says…excuse me, I mean General Krueger says…” He let the laugh get past the midpoint, then continued. “General Krueger says you’re doing great. Everybody including the captain thinks you’re great.” He looked around at his marines. They were sprawled around the deck under several of the small ship’s boats. “But as for me…”

  He gave them his “sergeant look”: eyes narrowed, shoulders forward, chin out. “I don’t think you’re doing all that great. I think you’ve been lazy. I think you’ve been half-assed. So you stumblebums better act like real marines out there, instead of a bunch of candy-assed sailors, or you won’t have to worry about the goddamn Japanese because you’ll have me on your ass. Got it?” He was actually fairly pleased with them, but there were rules to this game, and he had learned that sometimes you needed both a kiss and a kick to get the job done.

  “Yes, Gunny.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sailors? Are you kidding?”

  “Got it, Gunny.”

  “Maybe if you tell the Japs who your uncle is, they’ll all run away.”

  “Who said that?” A platoon sergeant.

  But in the predawn stillness, the soldiers all looked alike.

  “I gotta piss before I get in the boat.”

  “Why? You’re gonna piss yourself as soon as you see a fucking Jap!”

  “Yeah? Fuck you.”

  “Fuck you too.”

  “Fuck you twice.”

  “Pipe down, assholes, or I’ll give you a reason to piss yourself right now.”

  Nervousness and tension increased. As a sergeant, he could pace; lower ranks had to stay seated except to go to the head. He couldn’t read his watch and he was suddenly desperate to know the time. He wandered closer to one of the lights, skirting the edge of a ship’s boat covered with a tarp.

  His watch said 0442. The sweep second hand took forever to get around to 0443.

  He waited a good ten minutes before checking again.

  Now it read 0445.

  He held the watch to his ear and shook it. It had to be broken. That couldn’t be right.

  The watch made a t
ick tock sound. It was working. Damn.

  Screw it. Let’s go to work.

  “Rise and shine, ladies,” he announced. “It’s off to work we go.”

  “Gunny, we’ve got another twelve minutes,” came a plaintive cry.

  “It’ll take that long to get your packs on and get inspected.”

  “Inspected?”

  “Damn right. I want each man checked head to toe. No mistakes.”

  Pete didn’t care about the resultant grumbling. Men died for minor mistakes.

  Ten minutes of strap tightening, load adjusting, and safety hooking later, it was time to go over the side.

  Captain Gilder had a final word. “Stay together, keep an eye on each other, and remember the mission. Gunny?”

  “Keep your heads down and your weapons up. Get scared all you like, but keep moving until you’ve got good cover. Fight like hell. Fortes fortuna juvat!”

  The men shouted back. “Fortes fortuna juvat!” That was the 3rd Marines’ motto: Fortune favors the brave.

  Then I’m shit out of luck, he thought.

  But he was committed.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  At 0500, dawn had progressed enough to illuminate the dark water and the gray shapes of the neighboring transports. The first elements of the regiment began boarding the transports, climbing down a swaying cargo net in the dark to a Higgins boat that was itself bobbing up and down. This called for careful handling. A few men thought climbing down the net was worse than the actual invasion. It was important to be secure with each handhold. One slip and you were in the water. With fifty pounds of gear, it was straight to the bottom. There had already been a few casualties that way. It was a hell of a dumb way to die.

  The Higgins boat, also known as the LCVP (landing craft, vehicles and personnel), was a shallow draft boat that could operate in as little as eighteen inches of water. It could run at high speed through vegetation, logs, and debris without fouling the propeller or damaging the hull. It could land a platoon of thirty-six men with equipment, turn around in the shallow water, and go back for more.