by Jeff Shaara
If Mortensen’s loud insistence on accepting the leave wasn’t enough, the veterans had been inspired as well by word of their next mission. The entire Sixth Division was scheduled for a new assignment, occupying the seaports on the Chinese coast, and Mortensen had been as definite about that as Captain Bennett, that the assignment was open-ended, that the Marines might be stationed in some godforsaken hole in some bizarrely strange place for more months than anyone wanted to think about. The talk had rolled through Guam about that as well, the crude disappointment from the new men that they wouldn’t join the party when it came time for the invasion of Japan. The invasion force would mostly be army, not Marines, and the transport ships were already in motion, some bringing men who had already done service in Europe. When the China deployment was announced, there had been plenty of outrage, the newer Marines making a good show of their envy for the soldiers who were going to clean up Jap-land.
And then, word came of Hiroshima.
Adams still knew nothing of their new president, but it had been Mortensen who had announced with vigorous passion that if the opportunity ever came his way, the sergeant would drop to his knees and kiss Harry Truman on the ass. The others had laughed, all but the veterans. Adams knew what those men knew, that this president wanted the war to end so badly that he was willing to use this astounding new weapon against the enemy. Adams wasn’t as outspoken about it as Mortensen, but he imagined the same scene, Truman and Adams, in downtown anywhere, a million people watching, while Adams puckered up.
He stepped down onto the platform, the place noisy, crowded, too much chaos. The shouts came from paperboys and vendors, news about the bombing of Nagasaki, what Adams had already seen in a newspaper in San Diego. He hoisted the bag on his shoulder, searched the crowd, wasn’t sure what he expected to see, smelled something wonderful, saw a hot dog stand, a man stabbing one of the thick dogs with a fork, stuffing a bun, squirting mustard all over the bun and his own hand, the mess handed to a boy who jammed it into his mouth. Adams was suddenly ravenous, hadn’t eaten anything on the train, felt in his pockets, no change at all, nothing but military scrip. It had been his own mistake, forgetting to change the bills for real money, and he ached now, angry at himself. The crowd was more annoying to him now, too many happy people, people with hugs and kisses and hats askew. There were friendly greetings and slaps on the back, the two officers talking boisterously to another pair, big talk of big adventures, lies upon lies. Adams backed away from them, wondered what Captain Bennett would do to them … and now he heard his name.
“Clay!”
He wasn’t sure, too much noise, too many voices, but it came again.
“Clay! Private Adams, you dumb son of a bitch!”
Adams turned, saw the crowd parting, some forcefully, saw the stocky thickness, the massive chest, a limp, unexpected, and the beaming face of his brother.
“Jesse! Oh my God!”
Jesse didn’t slow, shoved himself right into Adams, picked him up, bag and all, crushing his ribs.
“You skinny-assed little peter! There’s nothing left of you!”
His brother set him back down now, and Adams saw only smiles, strangers around them watching the scene.
“Mom’s here! Come on, this way!”
Jesse pulled him by the arm, forcing their way through the crowd, people pushed aside, but the faces of the two young men told the crowd everything, their enthusiasm spreading all across the platform. He saw her now, a faint wave, the frail, exhausted woman, more frail, older, more gray hair. She was crying, still waving, and Adams slowed, Jesse still pulling at him.
“Yeah, okay, go give her a hug. If you’d have written more, she wouldn’t be so damn worried, you know.”
Adams ignored his brother’s scolding, moved up to her, realized suddenly how short she was, and he felt his brother pull the bag from his shoulder, kept his eyes in hers, red and wet. He slid his hands onto her shoulders, then around, pulled himself to her, felt her thin bones, her soft voice, “My boy. God bless you. You’re safe.”
“Yeah, Mama. I’m okay.”
They hugged for a long silent moment, and he couldn’t stop the tears, didn’t try. Finally, Jesse’s voice was in his ear, “You can do that when we get home. Got someone you need to meet. Whole damn greeting party here.”
Adams was mystified, still looked at his mother’s tears, said, “Who?”
He turned now, saw Jesse move back behind his mother, pulling a young woman by the hand.
“Okay, I got a surprise for you, kid. Well, two surprises. But first things first. Nancy, this sorry-looking bag of bones is my little brother, Clay. He’s a Marine, but we try to overlook that. Private Clayton Adams, this gorgeous example of womanhood is Miss Nancy Forbes. We’re engaged.” Jesse leaned closer now, faked the whisper. “She’s a damn nurse. Makes my life a hell of a lot easier.”
Clay saw the beauty in the woman’s face, tears there as well. She held out a hand, said, “Clayton, it’s a pleasure. Your brother’s told me a great deal about you. Mostly things you wouldn’t want repeated, I’m sure. He thinks paratroopers ought to rule the world, and Marines make … good busboys. Sorry. He insisted I say that.”
Adams was overwhelmed, took the softness of her hand, caught the amazing scent of perfume.
“Wow. Engaged? Uh … well, it’s nice to meet you.” He looked at his big brother now, saw the pride, the smile, the couple looking at each other now with that gooey storybook grin. “Damn, Jesse, you serious?”
“Watch your damn language. Only first sergeants and paratroopers get to cuss around women, and I got both of those covered. Marines always need to learn manners. Yeah, I’m serious. We’re getting married next month. Oh … one more surprise. We had room in the Nash, so this gal thumbed a ride with us. Said something about wanting to see you. Says she wondered if you’d remember her, and I told her you being all stupid and all, you’d probably forget what town you lived in.” Jesse moved aside, still the smile, slapped Adams on the back, a quick grip on his shoulder. Clay saw her now, her hands clasped in front of her, a hint of embarrassment on her face, a polite hopeful nod. Adams felt something open up inside him, was stunned, his jaw falling open, her name in his mind for months. Loraine Lancaster. The fantasy had been with him from well before high school, the only girl he had thought about, the only girl who had ever stirred that hard ache that made him wonder if there could ever be anyone else. He had stared at her in school, on the street, and in his mind, even thought of her on the beach at Okinawa, that one odd day of blue sky and birds. She was also the girl he was very certain had no idea he was alive. He stared at her, saw more of the shy nervousness, and now she smiled. At him.
Jesse leaned close to his ear.
“Say hi, you idiot.”
“Uh … hi. You needed a ride …?”
Jesse slapped him in the back of his head, dislodging his hat.
“Miss Lancaster, will you please help get the glue out of his brain?”
She laughed again, still nervous.
“I was hoping you’d remember me, Clay. I heard you were coming home, and … I know it’s only a short time, but maybe, when you’ve had a good visit with your family … well maybe, we could have a sundae or something.”
Clay stared at her, felt something new, something he had not felt in a very long time. Joy.
“I’d love to. You came along … to see me?”
“Yes, Clay. Welcome home.”
There was a hand sliding around his arm now, and he felt his mother’s touch, her soft words.
“Looks like you’ll be busy while you’re here. I guess we should get to the Nash.”
Clay looked at her, the tears still there, and he glanced at Jesse, his brother’s arm around his fiancée, realized she was holding a cane.
“Jesse, you hurt?”
Jesse shook his head, shrugged.
“Tore up my knees. You paying attention? I jumped out of airplanes, you numbskull.”
Adams fel
t paralyzed, the faces all looking at him, tears and smiles and happiness. Across the platform, a man began to shout.
“It’s over! The Japs surrendered! It’s over!”
The crowd responded with cheering, shouts, disbelief, a scramble for a fresh stack of newspapers. Adams stared at the mob scene, papers in the air, more cheers, a fat black headline passing by, someone slapping him, “Good work, soldier!”
Others were hoisting women in the air, the army officers down the platform waving their hats, others, civilians, tossing theirs high. Clay felt a burst of confusion, a fog settling in on him, too much emotion, too many shouts. The war can’t be over … there’s too many Japs … Guam, and then we gotta go to China. He felt a hint of panic, glanced to one side, the railroad tracks, thought of the rocks, the dirt, a shovel, the precious sanctuary of a foxhole. He looked at his brother, saw concern, the hard crust of the paratroop sergeant giving way, Jesse’s eyes reading him, no smile now.
“Hey, Clay, I’ll grab a paper, and we can read about it on the way. It’s been coming for a couple days. You might not have known, traveling and all. You’ll be okay. We can talk about … anything you want, maybe later. The old man’s mostly gone, working some shifts at a mine down south. He doesn’t mess with me at all. Knows better. It’s real peaceful at the house. Let’s head for home.”
“Yeah … but I have to go back soon. I’ve only got a thirty-day leave. That’s all.”
Beside him, the voice of his mother.
“For now. But the war’s over. And you’re safe now. Soon, you’ll have all the time in the world.”
AFTERWORD
The sooner the enemy comes, the better. One hundred million of us will die proudly.
—JAPANESE PROPAGANDA POSTER, FOUND IN TOKYO
There was never a moment’s discussion as to whether the atomic bomb should be used or not. To avert a vast, indefinite butchery, to bring the war to an end, to give peace to the world, to lay healing hands upon its tortured peoples by a manifestation of overwhelming power … seemed a miracle of deliverance.
—WINSTON CHURCHILL
The use of this barbaric weapon at Hiroshima and Nagasaki was of no material assistance in our war against Japan. The Japanese were already defeated and ready to surrender because of the effective sea blockade and the successful bombing with conventional weapons.
—ADMIRAL WILLIAM LEAHY, USN
You think of the lives which would have been lost in an invasion of Japan’s home islands—a staggering number of American lives but millions more of Japanese—and you thank God for the atomic bomb.
—WILLIAM MANCHESTER (USMC)
On August 10, 1945, after absorbing the impact of the second atomic bomb, Japan’s senior officials meet to debate what course to follow. They are almost evenly divided as to whether or not Japan should continue to fight the war. Led by Prime Minister Suzuki, the moderate faction pushes for surrender, but there are just as many, particularly from the army, who insist vehemently that the war be continued. To those highest-ranking commanders, including Field Marshal Hisaichi Terauchi and General Yasuji Okamura, surrender only betrays the army, those soldiers in the field who should still be allowed to end their lives with honor by fighting to the death. It is Emperor Hirohito himself who breaks the stalemate and orders his ministers to accept the terms of the Potsdam Declaration. Throughout the war, a fairly complacent Hirohito has allowed the Imperial High Command to operate mostly on its own terms. By stepping forcefully into the debate, he gives his ministers no alternative, and the Japanese government obeys their emperor. But radical elements of the army do not accept the emperor’s order gracefully, and a coup is launched, an attempt to assassinate the emperor. The coup fails, the conspirators brought down in part by those generals who are still vehemently opposed to surrender. Even the radicals come to understand that, no matter the humiliation of surrender, the nation’s outright suicide is not the most preferable course.
On Sunday, September 2, 1945, the Japanese formally surrender to the Allied forces on board the American battleship USS Missouri, at anchor in Tokyo Bay. The ceremony is stiff and somber, with signatures affixed to the documents by representatives of the United Nations, the United States, Great Britain, China, the Soviet Union, Australia, New Zealand, France, Canada, and the Netherlands. Signing for the Japanese are Foreign Minister Mamoru Shigemitsu, General Yoshijiro Umezu, and nine other officials. In one important gesture of concession, the American government does not require the document to be signed by Emperor Hirohito.
General Douglas MacArthur commands the ceremony, and signs the document on behalf of the United Nations. Immediately after the signatures are affixed, nearly two thousand American fighter planes and bombers roar overhead in mixed formations, a show of force that cannot be lost on the Japanese.
On the Missouri, a great many of the American generals and admirals are present, including Admiral Nimitz, who signs for the Americans. But no one’s presence is more poignant than that of General Jonathan Wainwright, who surrendered the American forces at Corregidor, and British general Sir Arthur Percival, who surrendered the British bastion at Singapore. Both men arrive at the ceremony just released from prisoner-of-war camps in Manchuria. Their skeletal appearance is an appropriate symbol of the suffering imposed on so many by their captors.
To honor his efforts as the Allied commander in chief, MacArthur is invited to meet with President Truman in Washington, a gesture of gratitude from Truman, as well as an event certain to please the newspapers. MacArthur refuses the invitation, and many subsequent ones, claiming his duties are too numerous to be bothered with such ceremonial formalities. It is a glaring insult to Truman and will lead to a great deal of controversy between the two men that will only culminate in 1951, during the Korean War. Truman will prevail.
THE JAPANESE
COLONEL HIROMICHI YAHARA
General Ushijima’s confidant and the primary tactical planner for the Japanese defense of Okinawa escapes the collapse of the Japanese command. Shedding his uniform, he makes every effort to blend in with a group of soldiers attempting to pass themselves off as Okinawan refugees, intending to find a boat that will carry them away from Okinawa. After several days in hiding with groups of terrified Okinawans, the inevitable occurs, and American soldiers discover them hiding in a cave. Yahara, who speaks English, beseeches the Americans to do no harm, and the entire group is captured. Passing through the refugee camps, along with thousands of others, both Japanese and Okinawans, he is recognized by several Japanese soldiers, though his secret is not revealed to his captors for several weeks. Finally he is interrogated by Japanese prisoners working in service to American intelligence, where his identity is finally revealed. He continues to be questioned by various American intelligence officials, all the while seeking the means to escape his captors. But the atomic bomb changes his mind. On August 15, he is shown a transcript of Emperor Hirohito’s official surrender order, and Yahara realizes his war is over. He is repatriated to Japan at the end of 1945, and reaches Tokyo Bay on January 7, 1946, on board the American transport USS Gable. He sees for the first time the utter devastation of the Japanese capital, few details of which had ever been communicated to his command on Okinawa. Still considered a high-ranking officer in the Thirty-second Army, Yahara is assigned to deal with the organizational paperwork that remains in repatriating those few soldiers who have survived. He reports to what remains of Imperial General Headquarters, which of course is completely dominated by the occupation forces of the Americans. Nonetheless, he makes his full report on the outcome of the battle for Okinawa to the highest-ranking general he can find, thus fulfilling his last assignment. By the end of 1946, he completes his wrapping up of the final paperwork for the Thirty-second Army.
Yahara is acutely aware of the disgrace that comes from being a prisoner of war, and never admits to any such status, convincing others, and himself, that the war ended with him still in the service of the emperor, and still trying to find a way to aid
his country’s cause. He agonizes frequently about his own survival, suffers frequent bouts of depression and guilt that his beloved commanding general took the more honorable way out.
As Japan organizes a national police force, Yahara is called upon to serve as instructor for new recruits, but his taste for uniforms has soured, and he refuses. Instead he writes his memoir, careful to define his role in such a way that there will be no shame in his capture, an awareness he carries even decades after the war’s conclusion. The memoir is published in 1972, and surprises him by becoming a commercial success. He writes:
A nation should never be sacrificed for the sake of its leaders. Japan’s leaders got us involved in the China incident out of a sense of self-preservation. They started that war to preserve their own power, status and honor. Who would not despair knowing that soldiers were dying in the interests of such leaders?