by Jeff Shaara
“Sir, the reports from Tokyo continue to insist that the Imperial Navy is on its way here, to relieve us, to destroy the American fleet. If shouting that will make it true, then I will shout it until my voice is gone. I have seen nothing of our fleet, or of the great flights of bombers that were promised us. Every morning I go to the mouths of the caves and I wait for the enemy to begin his assault. The enemy has their own plan, and once they begin their landings it will be too late.”
“Not according to Tokyo. It matters little what the Americans are doing on our soil. Once their fleet has been blasted to smoking wreckage, the Americans will have to admit defeat. Yes, I’ve heard everything you’ve heard. I recall hearing much the same after our attack on Pearl Harbor. Didn’t you? I recall hearing the reports of our great victories in the skies over Midway, our navy’s great triumph at Leyte Gulf, and only last week I received word that General MacArthur has had his army butchered in the streets of Manila. I have asked myself the question: How is it that we have struck such triumphant blows at the Americans and yet they manage to anchor a thousand warships off my beaches?”
Yahara blinked at him, and Ushijima knew the man would not say the words.
“Is it possible, Colonel, that we are not being told that this war has been lost?”
Yahara lowered his head, said in a low voice, “I have refused to believe that, sir. I … cannot believe it. But I felt a great despair when we had to abandon the islands, when the Americans took our bases in the Marianas. I have thought that once they broke through our inner ring, we could not drive them away. Is that what you believe as well?”
“No. We lost this war when we attacked Pearl Harbor. If we had kept our focus on Southeast Asia, if we had invaded Australia, if we had penned the English up in India, this war would be over. Nothing could have prevented us from establishing our new boundaries over lands that would become our new empire. But it was decided by those far more wise than I am, that instead of consolidating our strength in those places we could control, we should creep up upon the world’s greatest monster, and chop off his tail. And now, right out there, we are facing the monster’s wrath. Were you not told that the attack at Pearl Harbor destroyed America’s ability to fight at sea?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then who might those ships belong to out there? Did the great monster cower away, only to produce a twin whose tail is quite intact?”
Yahara continued to look down, and Ushijima knew what the man was feeling.
“Colonel, you took the same path in your younger years that I did. You chose to teach young soldiers the art of war. Teaching is a noble profession. Educated soldiers make for educated officers, and educated officers make for a superior army. We have that army. You should be proud.”
“I am, sir. I did enjoy teaching.”
“Ah, but look at all the time you wasted. Men like Cho, they spent their time serving themselves. They chose to advance their careers instead of shaping the careers of others. There is no blame for that. Cho is ambitious, and an excellent commander. He believes we will win this war and he will do everything he can to make it so. Of course, we do not agree on how that should be accomplished. Your plan for the defense of this island is our best chance to delay the enemy’s invasion of Japan. That is their goal, of course. Everything they have done shows us that they will not stop until American troops stand on Japanese soil. I know very well that General Cho considers your strategy here to be … unacceptable.”
“He is far more vigorous in his criticism, sir. He believes that my plans here are traitorous. He believes that we should meet the enemy at the water’s edge and prevent them from landing a single soldier on these beaches.”
“Yes, yes, I know all that. I have heard his arguments. He would sacrifice our good men in the sand. He is not skilled in mathematics, is he? You know as well as I do how many Marines the enemy is capable of sending to our beaches. You have seen their warships. Your strategy is our only chance to prolong this fight so that some good may come of it. But that good will be of little consequence. Now, of course, General Cho insults me with his deference to my decisions, because unless he chooses to assassinate me, he has no choice but to obey.”
“Sir … do you believe …”
“No. General Cho has chosen to fight the best fight he can, and he has inspired this army to do the same. He will die in his efforts.” He paused, saw a slow nod from Yahara. “So, you are prepared as well?”
Yahara looked at him, a sadness in the man’s eyes.
“Certainly, sir. I know my duty.”
“Ah, yes. The words of the samurai. We do not ask about the wisdom of our mission. We seek only the opportunity to die with glory.”
“Of course, sir.”
There was no enthusiasm in Yahara’s words. Ushijima emptied the teacup, reached for the pot, poured again, said, “General Cho believes that there is shame in putting up an effective defense. He would have us charge to our deaths in one great blaze of fire. I will no longer entertain his musings on that subject. Your men have positioned themselves as I have instructed, and we shall do what we can to make this a good fight. I do not concern myself with what will follow. The end is inevitable, and the only variable is time. I no longer concern myself with anything Tokyo will say, and I do not care how history will judge what we do here. There is no confusion or doubt what all those American ships mean to us. They have come here to kill us. In that, Colonel, the Americans will do us a favor.”
5. NIMITZ
HEADQUARTERS, CINCPAC, GUAM
MARCH 31, 1945
He tried to lose himself in the music, closed his eyes, conducting the orchestra with his fork, but the distraction didn’t help. The specter of what he had seen on Iwo Jima had stayed with him, no escaping that what the Marines had done there had come at a dreadful cost. It had become a recurring theme in nearly every battle for the islands. The enemy fought as though they had no other alternative, and the Marines had come to understand that when the enemy had no intention of surrendering, you had to kill every man you saw.
Nimitz had very little appetite, forced himself to finish the meal. The orderly waited to one side, prepared to take away his plate, and Nimitz sat back, waved his hand, spoke over the music.
“Go ahead, son. I’ve had enough. Tell the cook he did another fine job. It’s just my gut. And send Lieutenant Lamar in here.”
The man moved quickly, the table cleared.
“Right away, sir.”
Lamar came in now, seemed to hold his position right outside Nimitz’s dining room. There was no surprise in that. Arthur Lamar had been the admiral’s flag secretary since early in the war, and Nimitz knew there was no one on his staff more dependable.
“Sir. Was the meal acceptable?”
“You know it was. Sit down. Bourbon?”
“Perhaps later, sir. We’re monitoring communications from Okinawa, and I’ve been told to expect a report from Admiral King’s office.”
Nimitz kept the frown to himself, thought, King is the crankiest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Thank God he’s eight thousand miles away. If he decided to leave Washington and put his office out here, I’d probably end up saying something really stupid, cost me my career. How can one man make so many people so damn miserable? At least he didn’t feel obliged to join me on Iwo Jima. That was rough enough.
He poured a shallow pool of bourbon into his glass, moved one hand in time to the music, a reflex he didn’t notice. He saw a slight wince on Lamar’s face, knew the music was loud, louder to the young man with the sharper hearing.
“All right, turn it down. Just a little. Don’t screw around with Mozart.”
Lamar complied with a grateful nod, leaned over toward the record player, adjusted the volume. Nimitz held the glass in his hand, said, “Iwo Jima surprised us all, Arthur. But we’ll save some lives now. LeMay’s already putting some of his B-29s down there. I saw one busted to hell, tail nearly shot off. Amazing the thing could still fly. Oh hell,
you were there. You saw the thing.”
“Aye, sir. Terrible sight. Very happy the crew survived that one.”
Nimitz sipped at the bourbon.
“Hell of a place though. Not a tree standing, nothing but rocks and smoke. Not sure when the casualty counts will be complete, not for the public anyway. Hard to convince some mother in Iowa that having her son blown to hell will save lives. Doubt it matters much.” He looked to one side, the letter still on the table. He stared at it, the words dug into his mind.
You killed my son … and every year on this day … I will write you to remind you what you did …
“Very sorry, sir. I’ll remove that.”
“Leave it be, Arthur. I’ll never fault a mother for blaming me, or anyone else in this place for what we’re doing. You can’t expect a civilian … a mother for God’s sake, you can’t expect them to understand that death can be positive. Don’t ever say that to a newspaperman. He’ll twist it around, make it sound like I’m the grim reaper, that I love killing people. Nobody loves killing, Arthur, nobody. Not LeMay, not MacArthur, not Howlin’ Mad Smith. It’s the job. And in case anyone forgets, we didn’t start this thing.”
“Aye, sir. I know, sir.”
Nimitz downed the rest of the bourbon, looked at the young man, saw calm and confidence, something he rarely saw from his most senior commanders. Comes with the territory, he thought. Whoever said that thing about the squeaky wheel never met these characters I have to handle out here. There’s not enough grease in the world to keep these people from shooting off their mouths. Or starting feuds with one another. Good thing Halsey and LeMay are in two different branches of the service. They’d probably end up fighting a duel. Nimitz glanced around behind his chair, said, “Where’s Mak?”
“Must be in the mess, sir. The staff keeps feeding him table scraps.”
Nimitz laughed.
“Trying to fatten him up so they can outrun him. Won’t work. If he can’t chase you down, he’ll ambush you. Never saw a dog who so enjoyed biting people in the ass. Reminds me of Halsey.”
Lamar stifled a smile, said nothing.
“Sorry, Arthur. I’m just jabbering. That trip to Iwo Jima set me off a little. I knew it was bad, but I wasn’t sure it would be … well, what it was. We won the damn place, gave LeMay his airstrip. But I sure as hell wouldn’t want to spend any time there.”
“Did you see the sulfur springs, sir?”
“The what?”
“On Iwo, sir. The place is still pretty active as a volcanic island. There are hot springs scattered about in the old lava beds. Some of the Marines were taking advantage. I saw lines of men waiting at one of those places, a steaming pool. Seemed to be a pleasant surprise … after what they went through.”
“Sulfur hot springs? Like some damn health spa? Well, I guess that’s good. Any man who can find some way to have liberty on that rock deserves it.”
Lamar nodded in agreement, leaned over to the record player, adjusted the volume again, lowering the music another notch.
“What you do that for?”
Lamar straightened, said, “I thought … you were talking and … my apologies, sir.”
“You know damn well I’m a little deaf. You and no one else, right?”
“Aye, sir.”
A man appeared at the door across the room, one of the aides.
He glanced at the record player, stiffened, said, “Excuse me, sir. We have received Admiral King’s communication. He has forwarded a copy of General MacArthur’s report from Manila.”
Nimitz let out a breath, looked at the empty glass, only a film of the dark liquid in the bottom. No, let it go. It shouldn’t take a bottle of bourbon just to read something from MacArthur. He saw the paper in the man’s hand, pointed to the dining room table.
“Drop it here, son.”
The man placed the stack of papers carefully, and Nimitz nodded toward him, the silent dismissal. He glanced at Lamar, saw no emotion, said, “Sometimes, Lieutenant, I feel like I’ve got dogs chewing on both my ankles.” He paused. “Don’t repeat that.”
“Never heard it, sir.”
The reports coming from Manila were far more gruesome than Nimitz had ever expected. MacArthur had succeeded in securing the primary airfields and most of the once-grand city, but the casualty counts had surpassed even the most pessimistic estimates. The worst catastrophe came from the body counts of the Filipino civilians, tens of thousands massacred by the Japanese, and nearly that many more falling victim to the heavy shelling MacArthur had thrown into the city itself, the city he claimed to love.
Nimitz turned the pages, shook his head. That had to hurt like hell. Doug’s a lot of things, but he does love those people and he does have his sentimental streak. He’d rather be in the Philippines than anyplace else on earth, and he had to blow hell out of most of the place to chase the Japs away. Not sure what he expected to find there. Can’t imagine that he thought all he had to do was show up and the Japs would hand him the place. But I know damn well he’s overdoing it, trying to scrape every Jap out of every cave. It’s costing us casualties we shouldn’t be losing. He has to know that. And he has to care about it. But he just can’t help … being Doug.
He put the papers down, looked toward the suddenly silent record player, the Mozart complete.
“Look through that stack of records, Arthur. I need some Tchaikovsky.”
The young lieutenant obeyed, and Nimitz waited for it, a soaring burst of brass and strings. He looked again at MacArthur’s report, thought, I’ll probably have to go there. Sure as hell he’ll set up some formal reception, where all the brass can offer him their congratulations. Not looking forward to that. He’ll put on a whale of a show, try to put a smiling face on what was nothing more than a disaster that should never have happened. But … he’s that much closer to Japan, and somewhere in Tokyo, somebody’s gotta be scared as hell of that. I imagine it’s just like Patton, big mouth and big guns ripping hell out of everything in the way. As long as you win, that kind of noise works, and no matter what Jap general is over the next hill, they’ll be paying attention. I don’t care how much propaganda they throw out to their people, every Jap general has to dread any thought of mixing it up with Doug.
He leaned back in the soft chair, the music rolling over him, a passage that always made him stop his work. He set the papers aside, closed his eyes for a brief moment, pushed MacArthur away. I’ve got bigger things to think about, he thought. Much bigger things. I should be out there, watching it, making sure. He glanced at Lamar, still sitting across the room, jotting notes on a pad of paper. He sat up, thought, no, Okinawa is not where you need to be at all. Let them handle it. Some of the best officers I’ve got. But, by God … it’s tomorrow. And it’s out of my hands.
He had wanted to be there, to see the bombardment, the largest armada ever assembled, his armada. The reports had come to him regularly from Admiral Turner, from the USS Eldorado, and even the admiral’s flagship had contributed to the astonishing volume of destruction the navy had inflicted on Okinawa. Turner would command the invasion and support forces, while General Buckner, also on board the Eldorado, would command the Tenth Army, the combined army and Marine divisions that would drive ashore.
Nimitz pictured Buckner in his mind, tall, gray hair, the picture of what a general should look like. Not sure how the Japs feel about him, he thought. For all I know they never heard of him. No, the best thing we have going for us on Okinawa is the Marines. I’ll bet it doesn’t make a bit of difference to the Japs that two-thirds of our people there will be army. By now they have to think that anybody coming across a beach is a Marine. That can’t hurt. He knew that the offices in Washington had as much anxiety about the invasion as he did, thought, King’s pissed as hell that MacArthur gets the headlines. Not much I can do about that, except my job. King’s gotta be busting at the seams for us to get our people on Okinawa, grab some attention for ourselves. Hell, Iwo Jima wasn’t enough?
He kne
w it wasn’t. Despite any glorious photographs that reached stateside, the newspapers would not be told the casualty figures from Iwo Jima, at least for a while. The same would happen in the fight to come. That’s not the kind of press we want, he thought. MacArthur can disguise that kind of news by being … well, MacArthur. Out here, there’s not much else we can tell anyone. We fight like hell to take an island, and get chewed up doing it, and that’s pretty much the whole story. Hard for any newspaper to crow about our wonderful conquest of someplace they can’t even spell.
There was a sharp rap on the door, and he looked up, saw another of his aides, a red-haired ensign.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt you …”
“I’m done here. What is it, Greg?”
“Report just received from General Buckner, sir.”
Nimitz glanced at the empty glass of bourbon, his second, thought about filling it again.
“Yeah, I’ll bet he’s jumping around like he stepped on a beehive.” He passed on the bourbon with a hint of reluctance, pulled himself from the chair.
“I’m coming, Greg.”
The man stood aside, and Nimitz led Lamar out into the warm hallway, both men turning quickly into the radio room.
“Well, Arthur, what do you think? Is Buckner annoying the hell out of Admiral Turner? Bad idea to put two senior commanders on the same ship.” He saw a slight frown on Lamar’s face. “Yeah, I know, Lieutenant. It was my idea. All right, Ensign, what’s Buckner saying?”
“Just a general update on their preparedness, sir. The boys will be loaded onto the landing craft very soon. The offshore islands are secure, and we’ve captured a whole fleet of suicide boats.”
“Good. He’ll crow about that for a while. I promise you, later on, his after-action report will point out how the army saved the navy from certain destruction. He’s big on those kinds of details. That’s a West Pointer for you. Anything else I need to read?”