by Jeff Shaara
Nimitz knew better than to open that door, thought, let it go. He has a permanent bone up his ass for MacArthur, and I don’t really want to hear about it. I hear enough of that as it is.
“You could have sent the reports over here, you know. No need to deliver them yourself.”
LeMay sipped from the glass, seemed to appraise Nimitz’s liquid offering.
“No chance. I wanted you to hear it from me, not some ass-kissing toad who thinks being a messenger will get him a medal.” LeMay paused. “Word is, your boys are rationed a bottle of booze a week and a case of beer to boot. We don’t get a damn drop. No alcohol ration at all. Not your doing, I guess. Someone back in Washington thinks air boys don’t need any favors.” LeMay tipped up the glass, emptied it, appraised again, nodded slowly. “Good stuff. Hate to see somebody in my command do a commando raid on your supply depot, liberate a few hundred cases of this stuff.” He stared at Nimitz, still no smile. “Just kidding.”
“So. Reports? Photos?”
“Right here.” LeMay held the folder in his hand, hesitated, looked at Nimitz again. “Bomb ’em and burn ’em until they quit. That’s been my motto and my strategy since I earned this command. So, here, Admiral. Take a look at this.” LeMay took a long, self-satisfied breath, and Nimitz knew the presentation had been well rehearsed.
“On nine March we threw two hundred seventy-nine Superforts right into Tokyo. I took a new approach, ordered them in at night, flying low, under ten thousand feet. My boys weren’t too happy about that, thought the Jap anti-aircraft fire would chew them to bits. But I knew better. Coming in that low, a few planes at a time, would catch the yellow bastards with their pants down. They wouldn’t know what the hell to do. For whatever reason, they don’t seem to have the kind of ack-ack the Germans threw at us, don’t seem able to adapt to different attack altitudes. I had to convince my boys that the advantages outweighed the risk. Even persuaded them to make room for more payload by reducing weight. Thought it would be a good idea to remove most of the machine guns, and the gunners too. Jap fighters haven’t done much damage to us in night raids, so what the hell do we need all that extra weight for? The boys weren’t too keen on that, but I convinced them.”
Nimitz thought, you didn’t convince anybody of anything. You just ordered them to do whatever the hell you wanted.
LeMay continued.
“The low altitude gave the B-29s a greater bomb capacity, and I loaded up those sons of bitches with incendiaries. No more of this high-altitude tiddlywinks, playing hit-and-miss with targets that are too far below us to pinpoint. This time we didn’t need to pinpoint anything. The target was the whole damn city. Hard to miss that one.” He slapped a folder of papers against his leg. “It worked too. We should have been doing this to those Nip bastards from the beginning. We’ve gutted Germany’s war machine, and now we’re doing it to the Japs. But this is even better. You know what their damn cities are made out of? Paper and wood. I wish I’d have seen it myself, especially at night. Had to settle for the recon reports, but I’ve got ’em right here. In the last ten days, we’ve incinerated what looks to be fifteen or sixteen square miles of the Japanese capital. Incinerated. Gone. Flat damn ground. We have to assume that the number of enemy casualties is in the high tens of thousands, maybe double that. They’re not likely to give us that information on their own. But dammit, Admiral, this is how the war ought to be fought. It worked in Germany and it’s working here. Problem is, I’m having trouble getting an adequate supply of incendiaries from the mainland. Damn pestiferous supply bastards keep telling me that the factories can’t produce them as quick as I’m dropping them. What a load of crap. Some asses back home need to be kicked.”
LeMay tossed the file on the table, reached for his cigar, resting on the nearby ashtray. He jabbed the cigar in his mouth, sat back with a self-satisfied grin, a rarity.
“Learning to smoke these things. Not bad. Prefer a pipe, but can’t keep the mold off ’em out here in this tropical hellhole.”
Nimitz ignored the cigar smoke, pulled the folder close, opened, saw the reports, the number of sorties each night, the bomb loads, and then high-altitude recon photos of the aftermath, the enormous city showing a great gray stain, as though one large hand had simply wiped it away. My God, he thought. How many civilians? He knew LeMay wouldn’t listen to any lecture about casualties, and Nimitz had already heard intelligence reports about Japanese factories spread all through civilian neighborhoods. LeMay knows that too, he thought. So, who do we blame? He’s right on that count. They are all the enemy.
LeMay seemed to wait for the pat on the back, and Nimitz sat back in the chair, sipped the bourbon.
“Amazing. Impressive.”
“You bet your ass it’s impressive. I don’t know what the hell’s going on in Washington, rather not know. But Hap Arnold needs to shove this report and these photos under every face in the War Department, maybe give FDR a good look too. I’m so damn sick of …” He paused, seemed to catch himself.
“Sick of what, General?”
LeMay’s face curled into a hard, silent growl.
“You know as well as I do that we should have passed by the damn Philippines and put all our energy right into Japan. You know that, don’t you? MacArthur is wasting time and men and supplies to liberate his private little kingdom. He’s taken months away from our timetables, when you know damn well that if he had given you his people, his ships, his planes, you’d be kicking down Hirohito’s palace door by now.”
Nimitz knew that if LeMay was smoking that same cigar in front of MacArthur, it would be Nimitz who was being blasted for whatever incompetence LeMay felt like blasting. Nimitz said slowly, “Whether I agreed with the War Department’s decision to go along with Doug’s invasion of the Philippines isn’t as important now as what he’s accomplished there. I’ve gotten word that Manila is in his hands, that the Japs are routed pretty badly. The harbor is usable, and we’re moving supplies in there as quick as we can. I’m used to him getting the headlines. All the headlines. He needs it. Fortunately for me, strutting across a stage on Broadway has never been my ambition.”
“Oh, there’s only one stage, Admiral. Doug won’t allow anyone else up there, you can be sure of that. But this war would be over …”
“You don’t know that. Hell, the war’s not even over on Guam. Right up in those hills, there are Japs who still haven’t given up, who are dedicated to fight and die for their emperor. I sure as hell don’t understand that, but then, it doesn’t matter whether I understand the Jap brain at all. My job, and yours, is to kill as many of them as we can, and by doing so, end this war.” He raised the file of papers. “I give you credit, General, this is impressive as hell. But even this isn’t going to make those bastards surrender. Every transmission, everything we intercept says they’re going to go down swinging. We know damn well they’re running out of gasoline and rubber and steel, but try telling that to those poor sons of bitches on Iwo Jima, or Peleliu. Or right here. We had a squad ambushed a mile up in those hills two nights ago. Four men didn’t make it. Try telling their families, oh, well, hell, the Jap is beat. Any day now he’s gonna throw up the white flag.”
LeMay shook his head.
“I don’t disagree with you, Admiral. The Japanese is a different breed, nothing like the German, nothing we’ve ever fought before. MacArthur thinks he can intimidate the Japs into ending this war. Never happen. You can’t intimidate a fanatic into doing a damn thing. That’s why I keep telling Arnold and anyone else who’ll listen that the only way to end this war is to wipe those bastards off this earth. I appreciate what your web-foots … what your boys have done by blowing hell out of their merchant ships. Fine, you starve ’em, all you can. That’s your job, isn’t it? You’re, what? Ten days away from hitting Okinawa? I’ve been ordered to give you all the help you need, whether I think there’s a better way or not. I do need those airstrips, for two reasons. We’re still losing too many B-29s who have to ditch on the tri
p back home. Okinawa is that much closer, helps us a hell of a lot if my boys need to put down in a hurry. And once you give me those strips, we can put a thousand more fighters close enough to make strafing runs on those Jap bastards in their own beds. By adding fighter escorts around the B-29s, there’s not a Zero that’ll get anywhere close, and we’ll have full dominance over every square inch of Japan. But …” His voice was rising, the usual show Nimitz was accustomed to. LeMay paused, the hard scowl unchanging, his anger adding fuel to the hiss in his words.
“I need supplies. Incendiaries. For now, all I’ve got is steel, and we’ve already figured out that TNT doesn’t do crap to Jap positions. I’ll bomb anyplace you want me to with steel, but once I get those incendiaries, I’m going back to work on those Jap cities. If MacArthur wasn’t out there fighting his own damn war … if he’d have pushed toward Okinawa instead of Manila, linked up with you, made a combined effort …”
Nimitz knew it was time to throw the leash.
“Let it go, General. The plans were put in the books months ago. I’ve had too many arguments with Washington about strategy, and when it comes to Okinawa, I’ve got the backing to do the job I want to do. Five days ago, Iwo Jima fell into our pocket, and it won’t take long before you’ll have your airstrips there in top shape. I’m heading out there in a couple days, see it for myself. We took some hellacious casualties there, and I need to pat some people on the back. With all due respect, General, right now my attention is on the men who have to cross those beaches. And the next beaches we’re hitting are on Okinawa.”
“I told them we should have used gas. Still can.”
Nimitz knew this conversation too well. It had begun with a loud call coming from newspapers in the States that poison gas would quite simply save American lives.
“Not on my watch, General. Until the president tells me he’s tossed the Geneva Convention in the crapper, gas is not an option. You already know that.”
LeMay nodded.
“It would work. Pretty sure of that. But, fine. Just … if there’s anybody you can talk to … Admiral King, Forrestal, hell, William Randolph Hearst, I don’t care. Find a way to get me some more incendiaries.”
Nimitz was growing weary of LeMay’s surly energy.
“How about I find a way to get you those airbases closer to Japan? Right now there are several thousand Jap planes anchored on Formosa and Kyushu, and God knows where else, and every damn one of them is fired up to go out in some asinine blaze of glory. I’m scared as hell of those kamikaze strikes. You hear what they did to the Franklin?”
LeMay shook his head, still scowling, and Nimitz said, “I just received the report this morning, General. The Japs took a hell of a swipe at us, after you bombed those airfields on Kyushu.” Nimitz felt his own heat rising. “Five carriers took direct hits from those sons of bitches. But the Franklin got it the worst. More than seven hundred sailors were lost, blown to bits, burned to hell. So, if you’re having trouble getting incendiaries, then use high explosives and give me a hand somewhere besides Tokyo. Just because you can beat the hell out of somebody doesn’t mean you should. The Jap civilians aren’t our priority right now. The Jap troops waiting for us on Okinawa are. I don’t want my boys going across those beaches worried about what’s about to drop on them from the air. You want air superiority? So do I. So let’s start by giving it to those boys who have to worry more about Jap bayonets than Jap fighter planes. I’m authorized to call upon you for B-29 support, and I’m doing just that. Put your people over those Jap airbases, drop a thousand mines in the Jap harbors, keep their warships the hell out of our way.”
LeMay seemed to sulk.
“No B-29 is going to stop any damn kamikaze. We blow hell out of their airfields, and they take their Zeroes or their crop dusters or whatever the hell else they’re using back into the brush, hide ’em until we’re done. I’ve seen those reports too. We bust up an airfield, and slave labor fills in the holes the next day.”
“No arguments about this, General. I know your orders. Until the Okinawa landings are completed, and that island is secure, your bombers will do everything I need them to do. Supply will catch up, and I’m certain that you’ll get your incendiaries. But right now …”
“Fine. Put your staff in touch with my logistics officers. For now, there’s not much else I can do.”
“Plenty you can do. Just do it for me, instead of Hap Arnold. I promise you, he won’t mind. He doesn’t want Admiral King beating down his office door, bitching about your lack of support.” Nimitz paused, thought he saw a hint of a smile from the man who almost never smiled. Nimitz had calmed, took a sip of the bourbon, savored the sweet burn. “General, how about we put every ounce of energy into capturing Okinawa? You’ll have your emergency airstrips, and you’ll have your staging area for your fighters. In no time we’ll have that place fixed up so your boys can get back to work on those Jap cities. I know damn well you’ll pin a medal on the first fighter pilot who machine-guns the emperor’s front door.”
LeMay seemed to ponder the image, nodded slowly.
“Yep. Suppose I will. Look, Admiral, I’m not oblivious. I know what it’s going to cost to rout a hundred thousand enemy soldiers off Okinawa. I know what it cost to take Tarawa and Peleliu and all the rest. All I want is for you to give me the airbases, get me close enough to do my job like it needs to be done. Hell, I’ll bomb MacArthur’s headquarters if it’ll end the war any sooner.” Nimitz flinched, and LeMay seemed to know he had crossed the line. LeMay lowered his voice, one fist slowly pounding the table in front of him, his words following the steady rhythm.
“You send that damn Buckner out there to get me those airstrips. That’s what I want.” He stood, clamped his hat hard under his arm. “One more thing. When you go out to Iwo Jima, pat a couple of those Marines on the back for me. We’ve got a hell of a flock of Superforts who need those landing strips, and I know your boys got beat to hell grabbing them. Hope it’s not as bad on Okinawa.”
3. ADAMS
AT SEA, NEAR THE CAROLINE ISLANDS
MARCH 23, 1945
“Bust him up!”
“Left hook! Come on! One more!”
Adams heard the roar of voices, ignored them, his brain focused only on the man in front of him, a flicker of motion from the curled brown glove, a lightning jab that whistled past his ear. He ducked, too late, another jab thumping hard straight into his face, square on his nose, watering his eyes. He backed up a step, the man coming forward, closing the gap, sensing some vulnerability, but Adams was angry far more than he was hurt. The jabs had been a nuisance, nothing more, but had kept him off balance just enough to keep him from setting his feet, getting in the good shot of his own. He ducked again, moved to one side, frustrated, but kept his focus, an unshakable stare on the man’s chest, the one place the fighter couldn’t feint. Adams tried not to look at the man’s gloves, knew to ignore the flickers of movement, the quick shift of the man’s head, all the fakes designed to mislead. Adams held his own gloves up tight to his chin, his elbows in against his ribs, protection from a man who was becoming less and less of a threat. There had been a few hard punches, one catching Adams flush on the side of the head, but there had been no thunder behind it, no effect at all, and from those first few moments, Adams knew it was only a matter of time. Adams continued to back away, watched as the man pursued him with a clumsy bobbing of his head. His opponent was tall, lean, spiderlike arms, his best asset, used them perfectly, keeping Adams away with the jabs to his face. But there was no damage from that, just the massive annoyance, infuriating frustration from the man’s pecks and probes, the occasional attempt at a heavier shot into Adams’s face. But the man’s lack of power had seemed to discourage him, and as the fight moved into the third round, the gangly man worked harder to keep Adams away. Adams had seen this before, a man no longer fighting to win, but just to survive. The jabs continued to come, flickers that mostly slipped past Adams’s ears, bouncing off his gloves, anything to
keep Adams out of close range, keep him off balance. In his corner the sergeant was spewing out words, instructions, advice, words that melted away with the shouts and cheers of the Marines on the open deck around them. Adams had forgotten about the plan, the careful strategy, the sergeant’s instructions meaningless now, the only thought in his brain the search for the opening, seeking the gap, the space, the target. He saw the man glance away, toward his own corner, and Adams jumped, no time for thought. He sent the left out in a sharp curl into the man’s ribs, heard the grunt, the man’s gloves coming down slightly, helpless reaction. Adams saw the opening, moved with perfect instinct, rammed a short hard right hand to the man’s chin, opening his mouth, twisting his jaw, a spray of blood coming off the man’s wounded lips. The man bent low at the waist, staggered back into the ropes, another glance toward his corner, seeking … help. Adams dropped his arms for a quick second, flexed slightly, fighting the stiff pain, the exhaustion in his muscles. The man was shaking his head, blinking hard, scrambled eyes, trying to focus, and Adams saw the flash of fear. The man pulled his gloves up to his face, feeble protection, and Adams was there, ignored the one weak jab, the man’s last desperate punch. There were no more feints, no dancing, the man still against the ropes, and Adams moved closer still, his eyes on the man’s chin now, made a quick short step to the right, and in one motion turned into the man, driving his right hand past the man’s left, a compact bolt of lightning against the man’s exposed jaw. The left followed, a tight upward swing, but there was no target, only air. The tall man had gone down, crumpling into the ropes, rolling over onto his back. Adams leaned low, ready, his arms cocked again, the anger spilling onto the fallen man, words in his brain, get up! I’m not done! The man still held his hands up in front of his face, pawing the air, but there was nothing else, blank eyes, his brain off in some other place. Adams was breathing heavily, felt a hard arm across his chest, pulling him away. He turned, furious, cocked his right again, I’ll kill you, you bastard … but the distractions came, his brain letting go, a green shirt, the referee, holding a steel grip on his shoulder, the referee’s other arm waving, shouting the words, “Seven … eight … nine …”