“That kamikaze scared the shit out of me,” Jones admitted. From the top of the dune where Charley Company had paused to regroup, they could look back over their shoulders and clearly see the blazing transport with the wreckage of the Jap plane on the foredeck. Several escort ships had closed in and were spraying the fire with hoses directing powerful streams of water.
“It scared the shit out of me, too,” the gunny went on. “But that’s one ship burnin’ out there. On Kyushu, there were a couple dozen before we even climbed down the ropes. Then bullets was flyin’ as thick as flies on shit, and Jap artillery was dropping shells down on every side.”
“Where are all the Japs?” Jones wondered.
“You know, kid. I think we’ll find out soon enough. Keep your head down, do what your sergeants tell you, and you’ll be okay.”
“Thanks, Gunny,” Jones said.
Yeah, thanks, Gunny, Pete thought.
He was lying at the crest of the sand dune, looking inland through binoculars. For a few minutes he had been scrutinizing a small cluster of houses that were just beyond the beach road. His veteran eye had picked out several good, concealed routes through a thin grove of ash trees that might be used for an approach. A couple of long, low factory buildings—the outskirts of Iwaki—were visible a little more than a mile beyond the houses. If the Japs had any prepared defensive positions between here and there, Pete had not been able to pick them out.
“Okay, Gunny,” Pete said. “You know the drill. We advance by platoon. Those houses and that stretch of road are the first objective.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Rinehart replied. Pete slid backward down the dune to speak to his platoon commanders, while the gunny scooted off to the side to get the show on the road.
An hour later the farmhouses had been secured. They were shells of buildings, actually, having been pounded pretty hard during the prelanding bombardment. More important to the marines, they had been abandoned. Charley Company had yet to suffer so much as a stubbed toe.
Pete crouched inside one of the houses, using his binoculars again to peer through a gap in the back wall. He was eyeing the factories, noting that they could be reached only by going around the shores of what looked to be several large, rectangular ponds. The dikes dividing the ponds were topped with good roads, but he didn’t relish at all the idea of sending his men out on those exposed causeways.
“I’ll be damned, Captain,” Gunnery Sergeant Rinehart noted laconically from the front of the roofless building. “Will you look at that?”
Pete came to the front door and shook his head in astonishment. A glance at his watch showed him that it was an hour short of noon, some five hours after the first wave of the invasion had come ashore. And yet, big-time help was already on the way. Rumbling along the narrow dirt road that passed just inland of the beach came a column of trucks and jeeps and—so help him God—at least two dozen big, beautiful Sherman tanks.
USS INDIANAPOLIS, 1640 HOURS (OPERATION CORONET,
Y-DAY, N-HOUR + 1040)
The fact that TUSAG was a gigantic diversion was something Major Gregory Yamada, newly assigned to TUSAG G-2, appreciated about his new assignment. Colonel Oscar Koch, Patton’s longtime intelligence chief, a little man—as short as Yamada himself—with a pronounced nose, weak chin, and receding hairline, had asked him only one question in their first meeting: “How do you feel about not taking part in the ’real’ war?”
Yamada laughed. “This is the real war, Colonel Koch. As far as I’m concerned, deception and bluff is the finest possible way to fight. I’m proud to have the chance to serve the world’s only inflatable army.”
“World’s only inflatable army,” Koch repeated. “That’s a good one. I’ve got to share that with the boss. Good to have you on board, Yamada.”
Yamada’s section was responsible for translation, interrogation, and even part of civil affairs, given the language barrier, so he had a pretty full plate. Now he and his chief stood on the deck of the heavy cruiser, discussing the next phase of the deception.
“We need to make the Japs think there’s already an army ashore and another one on the way. How about we get going on those initial broadcasts?” Koch said it like a suggestion, but Yamada knew an order when he heard one.
“Yes, sir!” he replied, ready with the details. “We’ve already got six radios—and twelve of our men—on Jackson, Beauregard, and Forrest beaches. I’ll have them start chattering—anybody listening in will think those fellows are six whole divisions.”
“I only hope someone is listening in,” Koch remarked dryly. “I don’t see a lot of evidence of the Japanese.”
“Trust me,” Yamada said, with utmost sincerity. “They’re there.”
USS NASHVILLE, 100 MILES SOUTH OF TOKYO, 1730 HOURS
(OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY, N-HOUR + 1130)
The steel-gray sky slowly brightened with the rising sun. The winds had lessened and the whipping lash of the rain had muted to a steady downpour. Douglas MacArthur, wearing an oilcloth slicker, paced back and forth on the exterior bridge platform. His fleet, the mightiest transport force in the history of the world, nearly a thousand ships transporting the U.S. First and Eighth armies, consisting of three full corps with twenty-five divisions, was in disarray. The typhoon had scattered it over the water with the same abandon as a child kicking over a tower of blocks. Some ships had been lost in the storm, and merely pulling the fleet back into a semblance of order so the invasion could go forward would take two days at a minimum, Nimitz had said. MacArthur cursed and yelled, but the admiral held firm to his estimate.
In the meantime, after ordering that damned glory hound Patton to consolidate his landing and wait for the main body so the plan would go forward on schedule, Georgie had blithely radioed, in effect, “Too late.” With his breezy assertions of “beachhead secure” and “opposition light,” he was undoubtedly lying through his teeth.
Even so, there was already enough radio traffic coming off the beach at Iwaki to make it sound like there was half an army ashore, with a lot more on the way. How far would the damned fool stick his neck out with his two armored divisions? Those men were MacArthur’s men, MacArthur’s responsibility! How dare he risk them in some rash, vainglorious maneuvering?
Ostensibly, of course, the transmissions were being made to spook the Japanese, but American and British reporters were already listening in, and soon stories would be filed that said PATTON PATTON PATTON. Glory hound. Grand-stander. “I want an anti-PR man. I don’t want any publicity.” Bullshit.
It was a plot. It had been another plot by the “Get MacArthur” crowd in Washington to take away what MacArthur so richly deserved. Someone had put Truman up to this. Marshall. It had to have been Marshall. Marshall had always been jealous of him. Always.
Three days—or more—before MacArthur could come ashore. Three days with Patton the only story.
But then it would be MacArthur’s turn. Then Patton and his fake army would see what a real army could do.
• SATURDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER 1945 •
IMPERIAL PALACE, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1100 HOURS
(OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY+01)
The Emperor, resplendent in formal robes, entered the chamber, stepped up onto the dais, and sat down. The members of the Supreme Council on the Direction of the War stood as the Emperor intoned a Shinto prayer for the favorable outcome of today’s meeting. This wording was slightly unusual, thought the army minister, General Korechika Anami.
Prince Konoe was once again prime minister, replacing Hideki Tojo. Yamamoto Isoroku, war minister, was also replacing Hideki Tojo, who had held both portfolios. Togo Shigenori, the foreign minister, had been fired in 1942 as a member of the peace faction but was now back in his old position. The important question was how everyone would vote. Would it be a dishonorable peace, or a hopeless but honorable struggle?
“War Minister, what is the current military situation?” Konoe asked.
Yamamoto stood, bowed to the Emperor, the
n to the prime minister, then to the assembled council. “Based on our most recent intelligence, less than an hour old, we are being invaded by a total of four armies. Patton’s Third Army Group, consisting of the Tenth and Twelfth armies, is currently coming ashore at Onahama in Fukushima Prefecture. He has unloaded nearly a full corps so far. The total strength of Patton’s command is estimated at five corps, consisting of twenty-two total divisions.
“Unfortunately, this powerful force has landed farther north than we anticipated. It has put them beyond the range of American land-based fighters on Kyushu, but they seem to have committed an unprecedented number of aircraft carriers to support the operation. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the enemy has complete mastery of the skies over the landing beaches.
“Our tokko aerial forces—and there are more than five thousand aircraft and pilots ready to serve in this role for Your Excellency—are concentrated in the area of the capital. Because of the typhoon, most of these planes have been unable to take to the air. At this hour, the situation in Iwaki is fluid, though the Americans seem to have already taken most of the city. Judging from the size of the fleet offshore, we suspect that this total force is something like two armies.
“Farther south, our intelligence is sketchy. However, submarine reconnaissance had revealed another large American fleet. This is apparently a second invasion force, and it was proceeding on a course that would have brought it to the vicinity of Tokyo. Those ships have been tossed about by the typhoon, but have not, as we hoped, been destroyed like the Mongols were,” Yamamoto continued.
“They are reforming as we speak, according to intercepted radio traffic. Best estimates are that they carry an additional twenty to thirty divisions, forming at least two additional armies. There are a number of good landing zones available to them in the vicinity of the capital. One estimate—and I find it very credible—suggests that one of these armies will land at Kujukuri Beach on the Boso Peninsula and the other at Sagami Bay, near Hiratsuka. Once on land, these two will move across the Kan to Plain to join together with the Third Army Group when all reach Tokyo.
“Storm damage to our own forces has been great. Defensive positions throughout the Kanto Plain have been flooded. Roads are muddy. Resupply is impossible. For the Allies, this storm has delayed them for a day, perhaps two. Most of our electric power must come from generators, and fuel for those generators is scarce. For us, the typhoon has wreaked havoc on our already limited ability to resist their invasion of the homeland.” Yamamoto bowed toward the prime minister and the Emperor and sat down.
There was a buzz of whispered conversations at the news. Anami, who had contributed to the intelligence report, was unsurprised, yet he was affected far more than anticipated by the cold summary of the bad news.
“Army Minister,” Yamamoto said, “would you describe our military resources and response at the present time?”
Anami took a deep breath. He knew this was coming. The army didn’t have nearly the resources needed to repel the invasion, and Yamamoto wanted Anami to admit it before the council. “Certainly, War Minister. Sea and air tokko special attack units have been unable to function during the storm but are now able to oppose the U.S. First and Eighth Army landings. The Twelfth Area Army, commanded by General Tanaka, is responsible for the defense of the Kanto Plain and Tokyo. It consists of twelve full divisions and a number of mixed and special brigades, with a total of 560,000 men. This does not count army and navy air other than tokko, nor civilian resistance.
“And to counter this group of armies landing in the north, at Iwaki?” Yamamoto asked.
“We have additional forces, of course.” Don’t ask me that. Don’t humiliate me in front of the council.
Yamamoto simply waited.
Finally, Anami answered. “The 113rd Mixed Brigade, a coastal defense unit, is in Iwaki. It will shortly be joined by the 72nd Division from Fukushima and the 332nd Division, another coastal defense unit, currently about six miles south of Sendai.” Two divisions and a brigade against twenty-two divisions. Even I think that sounds pitiful.
The navy minister, Mitsumasa Yonai, picked up the attack. “May I ask, Army Minister, how many divisions originally scheduled for the defense of Honshu were moved to Kyushu?”
“Thank you, learned Navy Minister, for that most insightful question,” Anami said. At last, a straw to grasp. “Because we determined that Kyushu would be the site of the Decisive Battle, it has taken first call on resources. Six divisions were moved from Twelfth Area Army to join that battle.”
The army chief of staff, General Yoshijiro Umezu, joined in. “We have successfully tied up the gaijin invaders for months.”
Prince Konoe interjected, “Do you have reason to believe the Americans are any closer to providing the honorable surrender terms we seek?”
Umezu puffed up his chest. “We will continue to fight until they do! Their will cannot be as strong as ours.”
Yamamoto pressed in once more. “Army Chief of Staff, how many of the divisions both here and in Honshu have ammunition?” His voice was calm.
Umezu’s face was turning purple. “The Japanese people will fight with swords, sticks, and stones before submitting to dishonor!”
“Army Chief of Staff, how many of the divisions both here and in Honshu have ammunition?” Yamamoto repeated.
“You can’t measure the strength of an army using the tools of an accountant!” Umezu protested.
“Please answer the war minister’s question, Army Chief of Staff,” Anami said. There was no use in concealment any longer.
Umezu turned on Anami. “It’s the wrong question! It tells us nothing!”
“I will answer, then,” Anami said. He felt old and tired. “On paper we have a total of sixty-five divisions in the homeland. Many in Kyushu are already at half strength or worse. Even so, we can equip about forty and provide ammunition to only thirty. The rest must rely on their fighting spirit, their love for the Emperor, and their willingness to die.”
Everyone knew the news was bad, but the bald numbers were still a shock.
“Have we, Army Minister, reached a point where further struggle is pointless according to the standard you yourself defined earlier?”
Yes. “Such a question requires thought and analysis, War Minister. It is possible that such a point has been reached. However, regretfully, I cannot fully confirm it at this time.”
Umezu was ready to argue again but fell silent, as did everyone else.
The Emperor was standing.
The ministers and chiefs of staff bowed deeply.
In a high voice, using an ancient and hard to understand dialect, the Emperor spoke. “We have listened carefully to Our ministers and Our military chiefs. After much thought, and as much as it pains Us to say so, We have reached a decision.
“Twice, the Divine Winds saved these islands from the depredations of the Mongol hordes. This time, Our forces have been more damaged than those of our enemies. It is clear to Us that the Gods Themselves have turned Their faces away from Us in this cause.
“It is time to end it. Therefore, We have resolved to endure the unendurable and suffer what is insufferable,” the Emperor said, and sat down.
CHARLEY COMPANY, IWAKI CITY, HONSHU, JAPAN, 1845
HOURS (OPERATION CORONET, Y-DAY+01)
The factories Pete had seen from the beach were two miles behind them now. With the Sherman tanks leading the way, the marines had crossed the causeways of what had turned out to be a vast fish farm. Two thoroughly concealed enemy machine guns had been sited to cover that approach. Their crews had shown good fire discipline, allowing the tanks and accompanying marines to come three-quarters of the way along the exposed dike before they opened fire. Then, in a few short seconds of violence, they had both been knocked out by the tanks’ main guns—though not, unfortunately, before Charley Company had taken its first three casualties.
Two wounded had been evacuated, but the loss of the KIA—a private from Ohio whom Pete ha
d shared only a few words with—had affected the captain with almost gut-wrenching force. The first kid to die in the last battle of war—what a fucking rotten piece of luck.
He had turned his grief to anger, and in short order the company had cleaned out the defenders of the factory. These belonged to a civil defense battalion and consisted almost exclusively of old men and boys. Most of them had not even been armed with firearms and instead rushed to attack with swords, knives, and improvised bombs made from kerosene and glass bottles. Several marines had been wounded in the seventy-five or eighty minutes of furious fighting.
There were no prisoners.
Meanwhile, the tanks had circled the factories and overrun a trench and a few roadblocks on the streets leading into the city. When the factory buildings had been thoroughly cleared, Pete emerged to make the acquaintance of his army counterpart.
“Captain David Allen, late of Manhattan, Kansas,” said the young reserve officer, who had been waiting in a jeep between a couple of the looming, hunchbacked Sherman tanks. “Company D, 117th Battalion, 20th Armored Division.”
“Captain Pete Rachwalski, Charley Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, RCT-1. Looks like we could do some good work together, Captain.”
“You know, Captain, I was thinking the very same thing,” agreed Allen. “My orders are to advance to a crossroads where the main highway comes south out of town.”
“I’m supposed to keep moving inland,” Pete replied. “I don’t see any contradiction there.”
The two offcers agreed to team up on an ad hoc basis, a mutually beneficial relationship—especially since the infantry component of Allen’s company had been delayed in some snafu involving insufficient landing craft. As for the marines, they were more than happy to have some big armored vehicles to walk behind.
City fighting was the dirtiest kind of war, Pete knew. Yet for all of today they had advanced almost at will. They might have been passing through a ghost town—albeit one made lively by the occasional sniper, mortar round, or suicidal charging enemy. The tanks went first and blasted any obstacles with their main guns, their machine guns, or the flamethrowing cannon that equipped about every fourth tank. The marines, meanwhile, pushed through the rubble that was too rough for the vehicles, and on one occasion deployed to take out an antitank gun that had destroyed Allen’s lead Sherman.
MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan Page 50
