He stepped back into his presentation. “He told me that there are approximately five thousand aircraft hidden on Kyushu, minus those sent out in attacks to date, dedicated to destroying the American fleet.” There. That got their attention.
He managed to get through the next two or three minutes without an interruption. Then he said, “The Special Attack Units, tokubetsu kogekitai, or just tokko, are going to be an integral part of Japanese strategy from here on out. The first aerial tokko unit was a navy fighter wing—”
“Sounds like something the navy would think up,” Willoughby said.
This drew a sharp look from Sutherland. MacArthur merely waved his unlit corncob pipe at Yamada as a sign the Army Intelligence officer was to continue.
“—called the Kamikaze Special Attack Corps.”
“I have heard the word ‘kamikaze’ before,” MacArthur interjected. “Something to do with the Mongols.”
“That’s correct, General MacArthur, though I must say there aren’t a whole lot of Westerners I’d expect to know that.” MacArthur looked like a man who welcomed all the praise he could get.
The Supreme Commander preened slightly. “MacArthur is one of the few in the West with a true understanding of the Oriental mind,” he pronounced.
Yamada had no idea how to respond to that statement, so he ignored it. “Then for everyone else, I should say that kamikaze translates as ‘divine wind,’ referring specifically to the typhoons of 1274 and 1281 that stopped Kublai Khan’s two attempts to conquer Japan. Each storm appeared in the right place, at the right time, to wipe out the whole invasion fleet. The Japanese now believe that the divine wind, the kamikaze, is in essence a god who, in response to the Emperor’s prayer, protects Japan against invasion by outsiders.
“It’s not working very well this time, is it?” Willoughby interjected, snorting at his own joke.
“Well enough,” snapped Sutherland. “These damned kamikaze fliers are doing one hell of a lot of damage. And look at the casualty figures on the ground!”
Yamada knew he didn’t want to get in the middle of that fight. “Besides the aerial tokko, the Special Attack Units include submersible and surface craft, air-to-air, and land attacks, such as human bombs attacking tanks. They have many thousands of small boats packed with explosives, and even battalions of volunteers who are prepared to carry charges in attacks against our tanks, blowing themselves up as they take out the armor. In this fashion, General, they plan to fight for every square inch of Kyushu, and inflict as much damage on our forces as possible.”
Willoughby interjected, “Remember, their Operation Ketsu-Go plan envisions sacrificing twenty million Japanese if necessary to bring us to the negotiating table to offer ‘honorable’ terms.”
Yamada controlled his surprise. Obviously, Willoughby was receiving direct intelligence from the Japanese from a very high level. Probably reading their codes, he thought.
“Twenty million.” MacArthur put his unlit pipe in his mouth and then took it back out. “How did a fact like that escape our planning process? Charles?”
Sutherland pivoted on his chair to watch his colleague and rival get roasted.
Willoughby, on the hot seat, struck a match and lit a cigarette before replying. “I believe there was a debate about the accuracy of some of our intelligence gathering, and some planners—” MacArthur’s eyes narrowed. Was Willoughby going to accuse the General himself of ignoring intelligence? Yamada noticed Willoughby’s eyes looking up and to the left, which in his experience often corresponded with invention. “Admiral…uh… Spruance comes to mind—seemed to think that those estimates were overblown…”
“Spruance.” MacArthur’s voice was flat.
“General, I’m not entirely sure about that, but I do believe the skepticism was coming from our navy colleagues….” The Prussian-American Willoughby’s accent was getting thicker as his stress mounted. Sutherland seemed to have trouble controlling his glee.
“Are you sure the failure wasn’t in your shop?” Sutherland couldn’t resist sticking his own knife in. Bad tactics, thought Yamada. Not only was he violating the rule of “never interfere with your enemy in the process of destroying himself,” but he was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong while still on MacArthur’s shit list.
“If the General requires assistance, he will inform you,” MacArthur said frostily, confirming Yamada’s analysis. Sutherland shut up, but the damage had been done.
“Suicide attacks or no suicide attacks, the United States had no choice but to invade,” MacArthur intoned. “Therefore, the question of whether the intelligence estimates properly accounted for these…kamikaze…is in some sense moot. However, gentlemen, they are at present a concern and must be stopped. Overall, MacArthur is not satisfied with the progress of Operation Olympic. Some of this is unavoidable and no blame attaches to anyone. It is, after all, the largest amphibious assault in the history of the world, seven times as complex as D-day in Europe, and it would be too much to suppose that it would come off without a hitch. ‘No battle plan,’ gentlemen, ‘survives first contact with the enemy.’ And ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’”
MacArthur continued. “Now, even in the face of this tough nut, we must remember that we are dealing out incredible punishment to the Japanese. General LeMay’s fire-bombing tactic, by all reports, is proving remarkably effective. We burned most of Tokyo to the ground with the first attack. And he is proceeding from city to city—I understand that ten have been essentially burned out as of this time.”
General MacArthur smiled. “Let us therefore not seek after the guilty, nor inadvertently punish the innocent. If our naval friends misjudged certain intelligence estimates, it is hardly the first time in military history, nor are such mistakes limited to the gallant seaborne service that so ably delivers our troops to the decisive point, to fight the ultimate battle against tyranny and thus preserve the future of mankind.”
The General paused, thinking, and Yamada knew better than to interrupt. MacArthur blinked, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “An unanticipated, successful enemy tactic requires a modification in our own tactics,” he intoned.
“True, our initial objective was to occupy the south of the island of Kyushu in total, driving the enemy off of his home territory with a wave of force that would clearly establish our irresistible strength in the enemy’s mind. However, to continue with that plan would entail a level of American casualties that will inevitably escalate to unacceptable levels. Now, what is it that we really need on Kyushu?”
Perhaps understanding the rhetorical nature of the question, none of the generals replied. Smiling tightly, MacArthur went on. “We need the airfields, the flat ground to the south of the island, so that we can cover the next stage of landings, on the large island of Honshu. Most of that ground is already in our possession—has been since the first days of the invasions—since the enemy is making his stand in the mountains. By attacking him there, we are playing into his hands. But if we change our tactics, they will need to change theirs in response.”
The General sat back down, stroking his chin pensively.
Yamada, who had substantially more in his brief, could tell when his audience had finished listening. He stood patiently in the event he was mistaken, and when General MacArthur stood, he said, “Thank you, sir.”
“No, thank you,” said MacArthur, with a wave of his hand that could easily have passed for a papal blessing. “An excellent brief. I presume you have everything in writing as well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Leave our copy with General Willoughby,” MacArthur said, then strode out of the room, his entourage following.
Yamada heard MacArthur mutter on the way out, “This complicates things.”
And a moment later, “Spruance… hmm”
CAMP SHINJUKU, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1036 HOURS
A scared and contrite Lieutenant Kawazoe stood in front of Captain Ogawa Taiki’s desk. “I have contemplated my
conduct in the light of bushido, and I understand how I have brought dishonor on this command.”
Ogawa tapped his fingers on his desk. “I’m glad you’ve figured it out, but it is a bit too late. I spent the early morning calling fellow officers, and I believe I have finally found you that fighting position you’ve been looking for.”
“Really, sir? But after my disgrace…” Kawazoe fell silent as Ogawa pushed a file folder across his desk at the flat-faced lieutenant. He picked up the folder and pulled out the single sheet of paper inside. “A tokko squadron. I see.” He stood quietly for a minute, and then bowed to Ogawa. “Indeed, sir, you are much kinder to me than my poor behavior deserves. Thank you for this opportunity to redeem myself.”
Ogawa smiled and stood up. “I knew you’d see it that way, Kawazoe. It is a great honor for you, and you have accepted it in the spirit it was offered. May the kami smile good fortune upon you.”
Kawazoe saluted, spun on his heel, and marched out.
One problem down, one to go, thought Ogawa. He sent for his senior sergeant, Ishikawa, back from Tokyo. Ishikawa’s family had been in the half of the city untouched by fire. Lieutenant Saruwatari had not been so fortunate. He was not able even to enter the section of the city where his family lived. It was not yet certain they were dead, but it was highly likely. He had given Saruwatari several extra days to search. Ogawa and Lieutenant Watanabe could run things by themselves.
“You know what happened last night,” Ogawa began.
“Yes, Captain.”
“The prisoners are to be treated like men as a sign of respect for the one true man among them. At least for a week or so. Make sure your guards know.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Oh—and about the eunuch. I think it would be better for all concerned if he were transferred to a different camp. Not killed, not even hurt, but moved someplace else, neh? I think someplace up north would be good. Away from here.”
“I’ll take care of it, Captain.”
“Very good, Ishikawa. This will wipe out the stain on our honor. In the meantime, I have good news.”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I have my orders. I’m considered fit for line duty again. I must have passed the last physical.”
“Congratulations, Captain. Any idea when?”
“As soon as I can arrange replacements. I’m thinking Saruwatari for camp commander. And I’m not sure I ever really needed two lieutenants, not with well-trained sergeants like yourself.”
“Thank you, sir. I think either of the lieutenants would be quite suitable for advancement, sir.”
The rhythmic sound of the train engine and the clacking of the track were the only evidence Andy Sarnuss had that he was actually moving. He was forbidden to lift the shades that blocked the window of his first-class compartment. He shared it with a single guard, a man with no English. They communicated in grunts and sign language as needed.
He was forbidden to lift the shades not so much to prevent him from seeing out but rather so his gaijin features wouldn’t disgust the natives. The rocking train pulled at his stitches; he was still sore. On the other hand, it was a relief not to walk with the beriberi shuffle anymore. He was still in shock; he hardly thought about the nature or consequences of his injury except to wonder if this entitled him to a Purple Heart.
He could tell they were going north because every time the train stopped, a blast of colder air would rush through the car. It was a long journey, about ten hours. At its end, he was very happy to get off. He walked ahead of the guard, who directed him with pushes to the left or right shoulder as necessary. The town—he didn’t know the name, it was all in Japanese—was small, and with fuel scarce, he and the guard walked the several miles to the camp. It was past dark when they arrived. The guard signed over his prisoner and Andy was pushed into the general prison population. He had missed dinner and hadn’t eaten on the train. Although he was ravenously hungry, there would be no food until breakfast.
The senior POW was a British colonel. The colonel did a quick, brusque interview, and when he learned what had happened to Andy, he sent him to the hospital for inspection and treatment. Andy went gladly.
Word gets around a prison camp quickly, especially if there’s something new. “There’s someone here to see you,” said one of the doctors. “Says he’s an old buddy.”
“Jeez, I hope I don’t owe him money,” Andy said. He couldn’t imagine who might be visiting him at this hour.
In the dimly lit hospital ward, he saw the shadow of the approaching body before the face came into view.
It was Johnny Halverson.
• WEDNESDAY, 11 APRIL 1945 •
BATAAN HOUSE, SWPA FORWARD HEADQUARTERS,
HAGUCHI, OKINAWA, 1859 HOURS (X-DAY + 23)
The General stood at his window, looking out across the deceptively peaceful bay. He was alone, but even so he posed, the cigarette held like a baton in his right hand, the elbow crooked to bring his forearm parallel to the floor. He frowned, watching the reds and oranges of a spectacular sunset.
The view was soothing but couldn’t distract him from the painful truths writ across the pages of reports littering his normally tidy desk. The casualty reports were appalling, and they spread across the spectrum of the services. So far during Operation Olympic the navy had lost more than two hundred ships, many of them transports crowded with troops. The marine and army casualties on land had, in the first days of the battle, surpassed the estimates for the entire campaign. And the air forces…what did it matter that the USAAF and navy pilots ruled the skies, when the enemy planes were not trying to challenge that air superiority? When the enemy pilots, instead, gave up their lives willingly, even enthusiastically, in the cruelly effective kamikaze attacks?
There was a great map on the wall of the conference room, but the General didn’t so much as glance at it—for he had it fully memorized, including the daily, and all too insignificant, advances since yesterday. The truth remained: only a small portion of Kyushu had been taken. In some of the coastal valleys the infantry had advanced far enough to secure some small airfields—only 30 percent of the runways planned for the eventual Kyushu base. That base was necessary for the next phase of the operation—but how could there be a next phase? If it was like this all over again…
All those troops, advancing at such cost, clawing their way for each square yard of ground—and paying for that real estate with irreplaceable blood! It was too much, and it could not continue. Everyone was second-guessing him: Marshall, the President, the Chiefs, even his normally dependable friends in the press.
He would not be pressured, but he could see the future better than the rest of them. There was only one thing to do: halt offensive operations on Kyushu. The army and marines would have to dig in where they were and hold on for dear life against the inevitable counterattacks. But at least it would bring an end to the litany of disaster, of loss, that had thus far been the story of the campaign.
The Battle of Kyushu would be declared a victory, of course—Sutherland could handle that task. But the losses could not be denied. And even armchair generals would be able to see that the advance, on any map, came up well short of logical objectives.
But he knew what he had to do, and he would do it. He pressed a buzzer on his desk, summoning a stenographer, and even before she came in he was drafting the simple statement of orders in his mind.
There will be a general consolidation along the current lines. Marine and army formations are not to advance, except in cases of clear tactical importance. Instead, they are to entrench and prepare to defend the ground already seized….
• THURSDAY, 12 APRIL 1945 •
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC, 0918 HOURS
(X-DAY + 24)
For once, the President’s office was not Grand Central Station, home to five simultaneous debates and four phone calls. The frail man in the wheelchair sat quietly, hands in his lap—his fingers had grown clubbed. There was a shawl around hi
s shoulders and a blanket over his lap. On the sofa next to the President’s desk sat a vice admiral in dress whites; an oak-leaf insignia on his shoulder boards showed him to be in the Medical Corps.
Outside the Oval Office windows the sky was iron gray. Spring in Washington fought an uphill battle; this was a February day transplanted into April.
Grace Tully, the President’s secretary, opened the door to the Oval Office. “Mr. President, it’s Fleet Admiral Nimitz. He’s a few minutes early.”
FDR managed a weak smile and turned toward the vice admiral, the President’s personal physician. “Ross, is it okay to let Chester visit, or do you want to tell him to go away until later?”
Vice Admiral Ross McIntire laughed. “Are you trying to get me court-martialed, Mr. President?”
Tully opened the door more fully, and Fleet Admiral Chester Nimitz, chief of naval operations, walked in. Admiral McIntire stood up.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Nimitz said.
“Good morning, Chester,” replied Roosevelt. “You’re here at the sufferance of Ross McIntire, you know. I wish you’d speak to him. He’s determined to keep everyone out of my office. I had to argue with him before he’d let you in.”
Nimitz smiled slightly. “He’s following my orders, Mr. President. If he thinks it’s best, he has the authority to throw me right out of here.”
FDR started to chuckle and it ended in a cough. McIntire was at the President’s side instantly, offering a glass of water. The President waved it away. “I’m all right,” he said. “Never felt better in all my life. He can throw you out? That would be quite a sight. But not today. I’m glad to see you. What’s the news?”
“I presume General Marshall has told you about General MacArthur’s change of strategy.”
“Yes, yes indeed,” replied the President. “Douglas has surprisingly good sense about changing his own plans. What’s your opinion?”
“I agree, sir. We have to focus on what we actually need to accomplish, and sometimes that means we don’t have to take every objective.”
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 38
