The Final Storm (30 page)

The trucks rolled to life again, the road in front clear. The men rocked against one another, the bumping rhythm returning, more dust, the sun straight overhead now. They rumbled for another half hour, and then, just as before, they slowed, moving into line alongside dozens more. But this time the engines did not shut down. Adams blew the dust out of his nose, coughed it out of his throat, wiped at the grime in his eyes, saw Ferucci up, jumping down, out the rear of the truck. The others followed, filing out through the stink of exhaust, men slapping at the red dust in their clothes, and Porter was there, pulling them off the road.

“Get out this way! The company’s in this field. Space out, dig in, and wait for orders!”

The lieutenant moved away to the next truck, the same instructions, and Adams dropped down off the truck, held his backpack in his hands, his rifle slung on his shoulder. He saw Ferucci eyeing him, then looking toward the others in the squad.

“All right, you heard him. Let’s go.”

As the trucks emptied, they moved away in a roar, the empty caravan rolling back northward. The Marines had been unloaded on a broad hill and to one side were the unmistakable signs of a distant airfield, low buildings and rows of tents, scattered patches of camouflaged netting. Around him the men moved past, most of them with heads down, still spitting out the dust of the miserable ride. Adams began to move, the hillside drawing his eye, and now he stopped, along with a half-dozen men from the truck. On the far side of the hill, away from the airfield, the hill fell away in a gentle slope a mile long, maybe more, and just as wide. To the right he could see the ocean, and southward, in the far distance, he could see a wide swath of smoke settled along another ridge. There was smoke in the deepest part of the valley as well, thin and drifting, and beneath it, the snaking line of a river.

“Move it! Dig in!”

He followed Ferucci, kept his eyes out to the long hillside, caught a smell now, carried on the soft breeze. Around him some of the men were reacting to it, a stink like nothing he had ever experienced. As they moved out into the field, the smell grew worse, the wind driving toward them from the south. The lieutenant had spread them in one section of the wide hilltop, men already digging in on the slope of the hill that faced the airfield. He moved that way, then closer to the ridgeline, the smell curling his
face, sweet and bitter and sickening. He stepped up onto the highest point, could see all across the wide sloping ground, saw that the ground was churned and blasted, trees ripped to splinters, shell craters small and large.

“Let’s go! Get off that ridgeline! The enemy can see these heights!”

Adams turned, saw Porter moving along the high ground, waving at him, at the others who had been as curious what lay in front of their new position. Porter moved up past him, slowed, said, “There’s gonna be hell to pay, kid. Right out there … that’s Jap-land. The party’s over.”

B
ENEATH
S
HURI
C
ASTLE
,
T
HIRTY-SECOND
A
RMY
H
EADQUARTERS
, O
KINAWA
M
AY
4, 1945

H
e had allowed a rancorous debate between his staff officers, unusual for someone in his position. But in the end, no matter how passionately Colonel Yahara had argued against it, Ushijima knew that, finally, he would go along with General Cho’s fiery insistence on launching a significant offensive counterstrike at the Americans.

The banquet had begun late, nearly midnight, a feast to celebrate the commencement of the great battle. The display of luxury had been rare and wonderful, platters of fish and meats prepared by the Okinawan servants, supervised of course by Ushijima’s own chef. Throughout the late evening, the spirits had flowed, sake and the homegrown Okinawan wines, dulling the talk, so that in the early morning the conversation among some of the staff officers had become jovial, almost giddy. The energy for that had come not only from Cho’s boisterous mood but from the girls who served them, who brought the food and drink, who lingered even now, cooing with birdlike compliments for the bravery and the manliness of their Japanese masters. Most of that had been directed at General Cho, who would appreciate it more than anyone on Ushijima’s staff. He had long accepted Cho’s
bad habits
, mainly because he had little choice.

Ushijima had drunk far too much sake himself, but that had stopped two hours ago, when he had withdrawn from the greater festivities, returning to his private room. He sat now, his usual pose, knees bent, his feet pulled in tightly, fighting off the effects of the sake. With the attack not more than a couple of hours away, he needed clarity, a sharp mind. He pulled out his pocket watch, nearly four. His energy was returning, the effects of the partying wearing off, and he focused on the planning, on what was to come. Less than two hours, he thought. And then we shall have our say, we shall find out what kind of enemy faces us.

For several days the spies and observers had brought in word of a major shift in the American deployment. Across the southern front, many of the American infantry units had absorbed a terrific pounding from his well-fortified and perfectly camouflaged artillery. The Japanese machine gun placements, engineered by Colonel Yahara, had been brutally effective, and for the most part the American army units had made impressive assaults into positions that almost guaranteed failure. But still they had come, and slowly Ushijima had consolidated his defenses, driven back meter by meter by the infantry units he had come to respect. Cho did not share his feeling of admiration for the American tenacity, and Ushijima understood that the ploddingly slow progress of the Americans was costing their infantry enormous casualties. They do not respect death, he thought. They find no glory in sacrifice, and so they will find another way. With their resources, they will merely pull the depleted units away and replace them with fresh men who have not yet run from our guns. And that is why we must strike now. For once, General Cho is correct.

Ushijima knew that the American commanders would be agonizing over their lack of progress, that surely no American general had the stomach for such a high casualty rate. Unlike the Japanese, who fed their people only what the Imperial High Command chose to reveal, he knew that the American newspapers were sure to announce openly the kinds of losses their soldiers were suffering. It is astounding, he thought, that they believe such openness is a positive thing. War is not about truth. It is about morale and spirit and what officers can drive their men to do. The civilians have no place in such things, and the Americans can never understand that the cost of waging war is honorable death. None of their generals can withstand the pressure that will come from that. Japanese mothers are inspired by the emperor to sacrifice their sons, knowing that every death brings glory and honor. The Americans fight for … what? Because they hate us?
Because we humiliated them at Pearl Harbor? That kind of inspiration has no solid foundation, and so, if we kill enough of them,
their
mothers will not be so accepting. Washington does not have the power of our emperor, or our high command. They will listen to the mothers. And that is perhaps our only advantage.

Cho had insisted that the Americans were losing two thousand men every day, a number that Ushijima knew was ridiculously high, but he did nothing to correct his chief of staff, even if the bluster of that made Colonel Yahara cringe. The Americans might know how high their losses are, but surely they are listening to our communications. Someone out there might believe Cho’s figures, or at least might believe it is possible. If their soldiers who kneel in mud and filth stop believing what their generals tell them, we will have won another kind of victory. We may defeat their morale. Cho’s boasting is certainly improving our own. If we receive no more support from Tokyo, morale might be the only thing my army will have left.

The shift in the American position had been carefully documented, reports confirming that the battered infantry was being pulled back, especially along the western flanks. Ushijima knew that those lines were now filling with Marines who were being trucked down from the north. The first to arrive had been the Marine First Division, filling the positions vacated by the badly mauled Twenty-seventh Infantry. Directly behind the First, he knew that the Sixth Marine Division was moving into place, and it was inevitable that once those forces were in position to attack, they would. He shared the grudging respect many of his commanders felt for the Marines, knew that all throughout the Pacific island campaigns, it had mostly been Marines who had come across the beaches and crushed the Japanese defenses. Whether Tokyo acknowledged that or not didn’t matter. On Okinawa his own defenses had held up well, despite being vastly out-manned by American infantry, and the toll suffered by the Americans had been deeply satisfying. It was after all his primary mission, that if his precious Thirty-second Army was to be sacrificed, they would take as many Americans with them as they could. But the butchery inflicted on the American infantry had not sent them scampering back to their ships as Cho had long predicted. With fresh troops moving in to face him, Ushijima had finally consented to Cho’s wishes that the Americans be attacked in a massive show of Japanese force. Despite Colonel Yahara’s passionate opposition, Ushijima had to accept Cho’s logic, that with so much shifting
of troops, there could be confusion and uncertainty in the American lines. There might be no better time.

A young girl appeared in his doorway, holding a tray, made a short, respectful bow. He waved her in, and she moved close, bent low, offering him a single glass of sake. He shook his head and the girl backed away, a silent exchange that had been repeated for the past couple of hours. She shuffled slowly away and he watched her, focused on her colorful floor-length dress, the slight shift of her hips, hidden by the soft silk. She has no place here, he thought. None of them. Even the nurses. If Cho’s plan is a failure, this army can prepare itself for what we must do. If we fail, it will mean an inevitable withdrawal southward.

He tried to drive those thoughts from his mind, punched the side of a fist into his leg. You owe your army more confidence than this, more faith in what they can do. What is wrong with you? Is it the sake? He had tried to convince himself that Cho’s counterattack would accomplish all that Cho insisted it would. But I am not a dreamer, I do not embrace fantasy. There is a simple truth to this plan. I sanctioned this attack because it will be our best opportunity, perhaps our only opportunity to extend this campaign. He saw the girl at the doorway again, holding another tray, some kind of food. He shook his head, tried not to notice how pretty she was, a small flower who was there only for him.

“You may retire. I have need of nothing further.”

She bowed again, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, disappeared into the corridor.

He felt a strange sense of pity, thought, I am not her master, I am not her sanctuary. I cannot be anything to her, to any of them, except … protector. Of everything that surrounds me here, the girls are most vulnerable. If our army does not succeed in driving the enemy back, this place will become far more dangerous than it is now. Whether or not these girls are innocent, whether or not they are here by choice, I will not allow them to be slaughtered alongside our soldiers.

T
he ongoing disagreements among his staff had come to a noisy head on April 29, the occasion of Emperor Hirohito’s birthday. The insistence on a change of strategy had been bolstered by Cho’s emotional appeal that a sharp counterstrike at the enemy could be offered as a gift to
the emperor that would demonstrate Ushijima’s unwavering dedication. Colonel Yahara had been outraged that Cho would tie the two together, as though by waging the most logical and intelligent kind of defense against an overwhelming enemy, they were somehow insulting Japanese pride, violating sacred traditions. The arguments had risen to hot-tempered confrontations between Cho and Yahara, and it was not the first time Cho had belittled Yahara for his emphasis on defense. This time Cho expanded his arguments, even going so far as to badger Ushijima with the uselessness of Yahara’s war of attrition. It had been indiscreet and insubordinate, but to Yahara’s disgust, Ushijima had allowed the display, had encouraged a surprised Cho to present his plan in detail. Throughout the campaign thus far, Yahara had been the primary engineer, the colonel operating with Ushijima’s blessing, both men understanding that the power the Americans brought to Okinawa could not be defeated by old ways, by what had worked in China. But Ushijima was now taking Cho’s arguments to heart, not because of the absurd patriotism Cho was ramming down their throats, but because Ushijima knew that with the infusion of fresh power on the American side, the inevitability of total defeat for Ushijima’s army had just been amplified. Despite Yahara’s intensely effective defenses, the Americans had shown far more tenacity than Ushijima had expected, and with the sinking of the
Yamato
, Cho’s arguments took on new significance. The sacrificial loss of Japan’s greatest warship had been a clear sign that the Imperial Navy had made its last best effort, and in the end, that effort had been a terribly useless waste. Now, with no great battle fleets to protect the supply ships, those ships would not come at all. Despite the cheery radio messages from the Japanese mainland, Ushijima also understood that the only air support his men would receive would come from the
Divine Wind
flights. Operation Floating Chrysanthemum had certainly wounded a number of American ships, but thus far, despite all the mindless optimism from the mainland, the suicide planes had done nothing to drive away the enormous American fleet.

Ushijima had finally silenced Yahara’s protests by pointing out that Cho’s arguments carried an unusual amount of military logic. A sudden counterattack would certainly catch the Americans completely by surprise. The results could be spectacular, an all-out strike that might so shred the American positions that they would have no choice but to retreat. Cho’s song had not changed, the man still believing that kind of retreat would
take the Americans all the way back to their ships. But Ushijima had finally allowed himself to be convinced that if this fight had an inevitable outcome, his duty lay in the most effective way he could damage the enemy. If the Americans could be thrown into chaos by a sudden counterattack, it would buy precious time. The longer the campaign, the greater the number of American casualties. Ushijima knew that, ultimately, those casualties were the only gift he could hope to offer the emperor.