by Jeff Shaara
With bravery I serve my nation; With loyalty I dedicate my life.
Ushijima said nothing, thought, he is right, of course. There is nothing more valuable we can claim, no greater message to bring our ancestors. He stared out at the water, knew that very soon the daylight would reveal this piece of ground to the American ships, the white cloth a highly visible target. There was little time to waste. Ushijima turned, a half-dozen men standing close to one side of the ledge, and he saw Yahara, the man’s head low, more tears.
“Colonel, please compose yourself. You may order the staffs to depart. And you will carry out my order for yourself.”
Yahara snapped to attention, made a short, crisp bow. He turned, the word passing quickly, quietly, the men emerging from the cave as though awaiting this very moment. They moved in a single line, no hesitation, dropping onto the steep pathways that wound down the cliff. Ushijima turned again toward the sea, could hear new sounds now, from above, the thump of grenades. He felt a pang of urgency, his fingers fumbling, then finding the control, loosening the buttons on his coat, and then his shirt. His abdomen was bare, and beside him, the small grunts told him that Cho had done the same. He turned to see Sakaguchi, who held the sword at his chest, the sword that would bring the final blow to both men. Ushijima saw the strength in the man, trained for this ceremony, the man who understood exactly what his duty would be. But first there was a task that only the two men could perform themselves. The aide was there, dutiful, nervous, holding the white cloth that held the ceremonial knives. Ushijima slid one toward him, stared at it for a long second, heard a sharp blast meters behind him, the hillside awakening with more of the fight. Men were shouting on the hill above him, and a Nambu gun erupted a few meters to one side, just beyond the curve of the hill. Ushijima forced that from his mind, did not look at Cho, held the knife out straight in front of him, stared at the point of the blade, aimed just below his heart. He closed his eyes, a brief second, but a soft breeze brought the smell of the salt air up the cliff, erasing the stink of powder, and he opened his eyes, one last glance at the sea. But there was no serenity now, the dawn revealing the spatter of so many ships, the vast display of power from the enemy he could not hope to defeat. He gripped the small sword, let out a breath, and jammed the blade hard into his stomach, twisted, fought the gasp from his lungs, ripped the knife to the side, slicing across. His hands gave way now, dropping down, warm wetness flowing, his mind weakening, the ocean gone, his head falling forward. Close behind him the swordsman raised his blade, swung it down with a mighty shout, finishing the job.
25. ADAMS
The mopping-up phase was continuing all across the peninsula, men who did their brutal work in proximity to the narrowing front, some on the hills that bordered the ocean. Flamethrowers and grenades continued to be the weapons of choice, and there was little mercy shown to any Japanese soldier who still showed a willingness to fight. The casualties continued on both sides, Japanese snipers finding targets, carelessness punished, just as before. The officers and medical personnel were still prime targets but performed their work with no hesitation. Often the dead in the caves included civilians, Okinawans who were still afraid of the Americans, and kept up a loyalty to the Japanese that no American could explain. Even in surrender the Okinawans could be complicit in the most treacherous acts, and so the American soldiers and Marines who continued to press forward were kept on a razor’s edge. From every cave death might emerge in the guise of pitiful innocence, pockets of Okinawans or Japanese offering their surrender, only to ignite hidden grenades as their captors moved in close. The civilians were often not civilians at all, thus the Okinawans were considered to be the enemy still, some eliminated before questions could be asked. Some of the dead inspired a furious guilt in the Americans who had killed them before discovering how innocent they truly were. The dead included mothers with their babies, the sick and horribly wounded, the feeble and the old. Some of the Americans vowed compassion, to be more careful, more selective before unleashing a horrible death on those hidden in the caves. That care would lead to hesitation, or an act of kindness that might explode in their faces, so the conscience would be shoved aside by the anger, the hate, the viciousness.
It was the face of war.
Many of the Americans had seen too much, had slept in the blood of their friends, had wiped brains and guts from their faces, had suffered through the worst of human behavior, enduring an astounding struggle against an enemy who kills because it is his only reason for existence. Many of the Americans responded in kind, any sense of mercy erased by hatred for an enemy that had become less than human. There had been prisoners, Japanese soldiers offering their surrender with hands high and no treachery. But those were not nearly as plentiful as the number of desperate civilians. It had been a painful lesson for the Americans all across the Pacific that the Japanese troops who surrendered were doing so with the understanding that they were disgracing themselves and their ancestors, and that if they were ever returned home, their shame would make them outcasts. Even those who accepted the kindness shown them by American doctors rarely showed joy. If there were no smiles, there was certainly relief and stoic gratefulness from men who had been hungry or wounded for days, marching out into sunlight, to find, not cannibals and torture, but medicine and water and food. As the caves were exposed and the enemy obliterated, the Americans began to explore, shocked that the shattered remains of the dead were not always the worst that awaited them. In many of the caves, stolen American equipment and food was found, trinkets and souvenirs that showed very clearly that the Japanese showed no mercy either. Letters from American wives and mothers lay among the ruins in the caves, along with photographs of children, Bibles and notebooks, diaries, the forbidden journals written by American GIs who had kept them out of sight of their officers, personal thoughts recorded on burned pages that no one would ever read. Some of the caves held American weapons and K ration boxes, canteens and dog tags, what some must have thought the appropriate spoils of war. But the Americans responded in kind, gathering their own souvenirs, some with a horrifying disregard for the humanity of their enemy. On both sides gold teeth were pulled from the jawbones of the dead and dying, jewelry ripped from fingers and necks. Some of the wounded were killed by torture and physical abuse that caused comrades to turn away in disgust. The fight for Okinawa had brought out the worst in everyone involved, but in that it was not unique. The veterans had gone through this before, some of them itching to begin again. To some the end of the fight was anticlimactic, the stirring in their gut needing to be fed by a new fight, another invasion, more blood, more death to the enemy they knew only as the Japs. There was very little doubt among any of those men that the Japanese who awaited them on the next island, the next landing zone, felt exactly the same way about them.
ARA SAKI HILL, SOUTHERN TIP OF OKINAWA
JUNE 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.
The 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 th
ere 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.
This has been a hard fight. In raising this flag we pay tribute to the memory of those brave men who have fallen in action. We shall ever be mindful of their glorious deeds as we continue along the road to Tokyo, and victory.
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.
PART THREE
26. TRUMAN
NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN,
ON BOARD THE USS AUGUSTA JULY 8, 1945
The 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.