The Final Storm (53 page)

A
RA
S
AKI
H
ILL
, S
OUTHERN
T
IP OF
O
KINAWA
J
UNE
21, 1945

The American command had received no response to General Buckner’s letter, no hint at all that any Japanese officer was ready to offer a surrender of his troops. So the fights went on, mostly in isolated holes, ravines, and hillsides where Japanese troops had lost all contact with their senior command. The Americans had pushed all the way through the Kiyan Peninsula, entire units of Marines and soldiers reaching the southern coastline, finding they had no more enemy to pursue. In response the American command had declared that effective June 21, Okinawa was
secure
. But that designation meant very little to the Japanese, or to the Americans who engaged them, the sounds of various fights echoing still across the hills, pockets of resistance, clusters of Japanese who clung to their duty, who still offered a deadly strike against the unwary.

T
he men climbed the hill in a slow procession, some noticing with comfort the others out along the perimeter, formations of men in every direction, guarding the procession with rifles at the ready. The tanks stayed below, no sounds, the engines shut down, jeeps and trucks nearby, some men huddled there, groups who kept their talk low. To one side there was a chattering of machine gun fire, far distant, beyond another ridgeline no one could see. There was smoke as well, small arms fire, the faint thumps of grenades and mortars, a battle that seemed to contradict the strange peacefulness of this procession. But the order had come from above, General Geiger reinforcing his edict that the victory had been won, and so the ceremony would take place exactly as the commanders decreed it.

Adams moved behind Mortensen, walked in slow steps, saw a hand go up, holding the men back. Mortensen stopped, Adams beside him, the taller man seeming taller still. The ground to one side fell away, a sharp cliff that dropped to the ocean, the ships offshore seeming to stand in silence, observing the moment as did the Marines from the Twenty-second Regiment who moved up high on the hill. At the peak of the rugged coral ridge was a mound, and Adams felt the thick silence close by, the distant shellfire seeming to fade away for a long moment. He looked out across the far hills, smoky ridges spreading inland, away from the sea, tried not to think of what was to come out there, how many more fights there might be, the desperate and dangerous enemy. But his thoughts returned to the moment close by, his eye caught by a procession of four men moving up, climbing to the center of the mound, the highest point. Three were Marines, men he didn’t know, the fourth a navy corpsman. They carried what seemed to be a skinny tree, long and crooked, stripped of branches, chopped at one end by a rough blade. The men moved slowly, appreciating the silence and the solemnity of the audience who watched them, appreciating that out beyond this one piece of high ground, men might still be dying by the hand of the enemy.

He had seen the photograph, they all had, the symbolic raising of the American flag on Iwo Jima, a photograph that so many letters from home spoke of, a photo that had graced the front page of every American newspaper. No one on Okinawa thought ill of that, no one cursed the good show that the photo offered, the American people allowed to absorb and enjoy that single moment of triumph from a fight that was far more brutal than the newspapers would say. But it was not the only triumph, and Iwo Jima was not the most deadly fight.

Adams felt the wind picking up, watched as the rough tree was jabbed hard into soft ground, the men steadying it with careful hands, hovering close, and now another man moved up, raised a bugle. The notes cut through them all with mournful familiarity, and Adams stared through tears as the men unfolded the cloth, attaching it to the tree, releasing it now, the flag fastened securely to the top of the makeshift flagpole. The bugler completed his task, and Adams heard soft cries, sobs close by, Mortensen, and Adams fought it no longer, held his hand up in a brief salute, the tears flowing hard.

On the mound, another man stepped up, older, an officer, and the man spoke out through strained emotions.

Beside Adams, Mortensen grunted, seemed to compose himself, and Adams felt his gaze, turned that way, saw the sergeant looking at him, a hint of respect. The sergeant’s eyes were past him quickly, out toward the others who stood along the windy cliff. After a long moment Mortensen said, “Tokyo. Well, we better get ready, boys. There’s gonna be one more fight.”

Adams saw the others beginning to move, Mortensen turning away, the ceremony concluded. He followed his sergeant, fought the memories, the faces he could never forget, stepped over rugged coral, stayed in the footsteps of the others, moving down off the hill, Mortensen’s words still inside him.

One more fight
.

N
ORTH
A
TLANTIC
O
CEAN
,
O
N
B
OARD THE
USS
A
UGUSTA
J
ULY
8, 1945

T
he swells were gentle, made more smooth by the escort ship that broke the waves before them. She was the USS
Philadelphia
, another cruiser, designated not only as escort to smooth rough waters, but one more powerful piece of security. He was, after all, the President of the United States.

He stood against the rail, weary of meetings, the various officials mostly belowdecks, some sleeping, certainly. He knew there was seasickness, but not much, and the men who traveled with him would be unlikely to admit it to their boss anyway. The sea didn’t bother him as much as he had feared, but the memories did. He had made this crossing before, in the first Great War, as an artillery officer. In 1917 the training had been brief and virtually useless, no one in his small command having any way to know what awaited them in that place they called the Western Front. But the fear was there, would stay there throughout the entire campaign, something an artillery captain could not admit to anyone, certainly not to the men who looked to him for authority, for leadership. He stared out at the swells, the hint of moonlight, thought, it is no different now. Well, maybe it is. This time I have a hell of a lot more authority, and a hell of a lot more
people looking at me for answers. Three months ago I didn’t even know the questions.

He had served as vice president for a total of eighty-two days, and during that time it had been made plain to him that President Roosevelt was not exactly his best friend. Vice presidents were chosen to help win an election, and Truman was under no illusion that his greatest benefit to Roosevelt’s fourth campaign came from geography. FDR was a New Yorker, an
easterner
, something that concerned the campaign strategists even though Roosevelt’s election to a fourth term was never really in doubt. But
balance
had always been the key word, and they had sought a midwesterner to round out the ticket. The previous vice president had been another midwesterner, an Iowan, Henry Wallace, but Wallace had caused rumbles around FDR’s closest advisors for what some said was a kind of bizarre religious zealotry. It was the excuse made behind closed doors why Wallace should go, but Truman knew that the more likely reason Wallace had been replaced on the ticket was that Winston Churchill despised him. Whether Truman, a plain-spoken senator from Missouri, would do any better job than his predecessor seemed not to matter. The key for the political strategists was whether Truman was a liability to Roosevelt’s presidency. Truman had never considered himself a liability to anyone, but then, his own career in politics had been turbulent only on a level that was invisible to anyone outside Missouri. And since Roosevelt’s death, Churchill had surprised Truman by accepting him with far more helpfulness than Truman had any right to expect. It was a sad irony to Truman that Churchill seemed willing to support the new president with even greater zeal than many of the men in Washington, who were now Truman’s subordinates. The grumbling about him in the halls of various government departments had not been a surprise. While Roosevelt was alive, Truman was very much a fifth wheel, kept outside FDR’s inner circle, the president rarely conferring with Truman at all. The vice president’s job had included presiding over the Senate, and Truman was perfectly content in that role. He was comfortable there, the familiar faces, the familiar squabbles. But on April 12, the world had changed. The man who was so much the country’s grandfather had suddenly gone away. Truman had seen clear signs of Roosevelt’s physical decline, but the reality of that had not sunk in until the president’s sudden death. Truman the anonymous was now Truman the president, and more important, to the men who confronted the astounding challenges of waging a world war, he was Truman the Commander in Chief.

The air was warm, the only breeze coming from the movement of the ship, and he treasured the solitude, so rare now. He knew his plush quarters belowdecks was the appropriate place for him to be, catching up on whatever sleep he could. If the sleep wasn’t there, the worries were, so many details about policy and personality, who among his party were dependable, and who were just along for the ride. He pushed his shoulders back, felt the first rumblings of a headache, thought, if my posture was sound before, it is miserable now. People bitch and moan about carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. I can honestly say, I am one of them. But I’ll put my bitching up against anybody’s. Try this job for a few weeks, pal. See how
your
shoulders droop. FDR suffered through that with more grit than anyone I’ve ever known, and no matter how much adulation or respect he earned, he refused to let it go. I suppose he believed that no one else in Washington could do it, no one had the
shoulders
for it. He may have been right about that. I don’t know of a single senator or anyone else who was worthy, no one who could have pulled the country together. Well, most of it, anyway. Now, in every corner of the globe, the question being asked is whether I’ve got the shoulders, whether I’m worthy. Hell if I know. Damn if I can find the instruction book. My job is to … do my job. Lead, for God’s sake. Keep my nose out of places where the machine is working, and stick it in deep where it isn’t. Thank God this war is on the downhill side. At least, they tell me it is. We won in Europe, we’re winning in the Pacific. Maybe the biggest challenge I’ll have to face is figuring out how to manage the peace. I can’t leave that to military men.

Already a dark cloud was forming over Europe, the very reason for this voyage. His destination was Potsdam, near Berlin, a formal summit with Churchill and Joseph Stalin. Truman winced, thought, Old Joe has made it pretty clear that his best interests are in
his
best interests. Our best interests are an inconvenience. Tough nut, this one. Screw this up, Harry old boy, and we could find ourselves in another war. Europe needs a little quiet for a change, a few cities allowed to rebuild themselves, the people allowed to find some kind of life again. No one needs the kind of crap Stalin is inflicting on those people. How in hell do I stop that? Do I? With Stalin you either need extraordinary diplomacy … or a baseball bat. I think he’s bigger than me, so the bat would have to be a surprise. But so far, every communication I’ve had with the man tells me he’s got the big bat, and the big glove, he owns the ball park, and the umpire’s in his pocket. Thank God for Churchill. At least he knows the man, knows how to talk to him,
knows what to expect. But we’re not getting any respect from the Russians for what we did to the Germans, for the help we gave Stalin’s people. Respect? Hell, they don’t even acknowledge us. That’s not blind pride either. It’s calculated. He’s going to push us as far as he can, and that might mean he’s going to push us right out of Europe. That won’t happen. Can’t. Churchill knows that, but he’s not in a position to stand up to the Russian tanks like we are. From what they tell me, Old Joe has one hell of a lot of tanks. We have Ike, Marshall, Bradley, good people. And a few tanks of our own.
Tanks
. He pondered the sight of that, what it must have been like for the Germans to watch a sea of Russian armor pouring into Germany, crushing their army, their cities. We did most of that kind of work from the air, I suppose. Germans learned the hard way, that no matter what your boss is telling you, you aren’t going to win a war when your factories are getting blown to hell every night. And the cities. And the people. Tough decision, there, Franklin. How do you bomb cities and not accept that you’re bombing the civilians right along with the munitions plants? Churchill pushed FDR hard on that one, had every right to. Hitler was happy blowing London to hell, and we had to return the favor. It was sure as hell the right decision. And it worked.

And now we’re going to do it again. Been doing it, of course, those puff-chested boys out there in their B-29s, torching every square mile of Tokyo and anywhere else they can find a target. Keep it up, that’s all I can say. That’s working too. Now … it might work even better. I’ve given them the
okay
, and if what they tell me is accurate, this war oughta be over pretty damn soon. If they’re wrong, we’ve gotta send a whole bunch of American boys into Japan, to fight the most fanatical people who’ve ever tossed a grenade. No, not
we
. I.

Batter up, Harry.

He turned, looked up at the lights from the bridge, could see more lights beyond the bow of the cruiser, beyond the pair of three-gun turrets that aimed past the
Philadelphia
. The warships had no need to run in darkness, a wonderful change from the days of the U-boats. But there were no other escorts close by, no aircraft overhead, no great fleets of patrol boats keeping an eye on the new Boss. I wanted this trip kept secret as long as possible, and, by damn, they obliged me. I rather like that, asking for something and nobody arguing about it.