1945

by Robert Conroy

  "Jesus," Parker gasped. "We're the attacking force and we'll probably be outnumbered."

  "That's why we need control of the air and a lot of firepower on the ground. Our troopships will be prime targets for the kamikazes, so we'll be moving out of the transports and onto the landing craft as soon as possible, and before that, we won't get on the transports that'll take us to Japan until the last minute."

  "Makes sense, sir. Smaller targets are harder for their planes to hit."

  "Agreed, but don't forget that the term kamikaze means a helluva lot more than just suicide planes. Nimitz's boys say there'll be a lot of midget-submarine activity, along with manned suicide torpedoes and rockets, and there are at least a dozen Jap destroyers unaccounted for. Hell, they've even got suicide divers who'll be waiting to attach mines to our ships. We've got to figure that all of them will be making suicide attacks against us."

  "General, those Jap people are fucking crazy."

  They had just reached the tent flap when one of the NCOs burst out, almost running into General Monck. "Jesus, General, we got real bad news."

  "What now?"

  "Sir," the sergeant almost stammered, "this ain't no rainstorm. Just got word from the navy that it's a full-fledged typhoon and it's even got a name now- Louise. It's gonna hit Okinawa dead on."

  Monck and Parker looked at each other, aghast. The 528th was scattered all over Okinawa, engaged in various types of training. They would have to communicate the news as quickly as possible to the disparate units. Thousands of men would have to hide and ride out Typhoon Louise as best they could.

  Monck then looked at their frail tent and thought of all the other temporary structures that housed his regiment and its equipment. Tens of thousands of other, similar facilities covered Okinawa. Typhoon Louise had the potential to wipe out much of the American presence on Okinawa.

  As if on cue, the wind picked up and shrieked. "All right," said Monck, speaking loudly to be heard over it. "Tell everyone to grab shovels and literally dig in. The hell with the tents and supplies. They can be replaced. Everyone is to save their asses and start right now!"

  CHAPTER 19

  First Sergeant Mackensen told the more than two hundred assembled men of A Company in Okinawa that he had just found the dead Jap in a nearby fold of the earth where the man had died.

  At Captain Ruger's orders, the company gathered in a large circle around the cadaver. The Japanese soldier had a strangely withered, mummy-like look. Quite some time ago, he'd been burned to death, probably by a flamethrower. His bones were only partly covered by charred flesh, and most of his left leg was missing. A helmet covered the top of his head, and the corpse smiled at them through a half dozen teeth.

  They were near what the Japs had called the Shuri Defense Line. When the Americans had invaded, the Japanese had retreated to the hilly southern third of the island to make their defensive stand, and the Shuri Line, anchored on what were now the ruins of Shuri Castle, had cost both sides dearly.

  Captain Ruger strode up to Mackensen, who nodded and stepped away. Ruger glanced up at the darkening sky. Shit, Ruger thought, his men were all going to get wet. Paul Morrell caught the glance as well and shivered slightly. He was exhausted.

  "All right," said Ruger. "Did everybody get a good look at the little son of a bitch? That's a Jap lying there, and one of the best kind- a dead one. Somebody toasted his ass good, didn't they? But look at him. You know they've got shitty rifles and bad tactics, but this joker wouldn't give up, would he? No, he fought with that shitty rifle of his and died with it. I wonder how many Americans he killed before somebody saw where he was shooting from and got him."

  Paul watched in fascination. The lesson was ghastly, but it had the company's complete attention. Only a few months before, that Japanese soldier had been trying to kill Americans, and dead or not, that man was one of the enemy.

  In the weeks of training since they'd arrived on Okinawa, Paul's platoon, the company, the entire regiment, had worked hard to replace skills lost over months of inactivity, and to acquire those they never really had. They'd exercised and marched early each day, then spent the afternoons and evenings in weapons training and small-unit tactics. They'd gotten better, and Ruger had managed to get rid of those who were unable to cope with the demands of training.

  But that's what it had been, training. At least until now. The presence of a real dead Jap changed everything. Before them lay the enemy as well as the brutal reality of death.

  Ruger's eyes swept the assemblage. "And just because he's dead, don't think he's forgotten how to kill. The Japs have a nasty habit of booby-trapping their dead comrades in hope that some stupid GI will come along to take a souvenir, like that helmet for instance. Look good on a wall, wouldn't it? Or maybe something nice for the missus like a gold filling, or maybe a dried ear, or maybe one of those shitty rifles or a real good pistol. Well, if they've booby-trapped the corpse, and they likely have, you've got to be real careful." He turned to his first sergeant. "Sergeant Mackensen, show us what to do."

  "First," said Mackensen, "all you people step farther away." There was a shuffling as two hundred plus men complied. "Now you'll notice that I very carefully tied a rope around his one remaining leg. I'm gonna step back and pull on it real hard. If he's trapped, it'll trigger whatever he's hiding."

  With that, Mackensen walked a couple of paces away from the cadaver, lay flat on the ground, and yanked the rope. There was a split second of stillness, then a flash of light and the crash of a grenade exploding, sending bones and pieces of dead Jap into the air. Several of the men got parts of Jap on them, and a couple of them started to gag.

  Mackensen got to his feet and saluted Ruger. "Captain, the fucking Jap is now well and truly dead."

  Ruger nodded. "Very good, First Sergeant. Carry on with training."

  As he said that, it began to rain, and the already strong wind started to pick up in power. They had no real rain gear with them, so Paul started to form them up for more work. If it rained, they were going to get wet and that was that. After all, how often did they call off a war because of rain? He wondered how their tents were holding up in what was rapidly becoming a downpour. Captain Ruger, who was only a few feet away, seemed unperturbed.

  A PFC handed a walkie-talkie to Ruger, who listened attentively and then appeared stunned by what he'd heard. "Everybody take cover," he yelled. "This is a typhoon." Ruger then sent runners out to the other platoons and ran out himself, saying that he didn't trust their radios to get through in the rapidly growing storm.

  Typhoon? What the hell does one do when caught on an Okinawan hill in a typhoon? Paul wondered. "Dig in," he yelled to the men, who were as puzzled as he was. "Get to just below the crest of this hill and start digging in for protection against the wind. Push the dirt up the hill and form a bunker in front of you."

  "Why?" asked a soldier, and Paul debated letting him drown.

  "Because, Private Haines, a typhoon is just like a hurricane. That means a ton of rainwater is going to land on us and whatever we dig in is going to be full pretty quick. Push the dirt up front so you don't get washed away. Now shut up and dig!"

  Paul checked on his men as they dug frantically into dirt that quickly turned into mud. The wind had picked up and was slashing at them. "Keep your helmets on. There's gonna be stuff flying around and you don't want to get hit."

  "Like the stuff we left where we bivouacked, Lieutenant?" one of his men yelled, and a couple of others chuckled at the thought.

  "That's right!" Already Paul had to cup his hands and holler to be heard. "So keep your heads down." He then grabbed a couple of men who were earnestly digging too far down the hill. When they protested, he told them they had to watch out for flash floods as well as wind. Chastened, they moved farther up the slope and began anew.

  Paul helped two of his men dig a hole in the ground and push an earthen berm before them. To his surprise it worked fairly well, although the torrential rain quickly filled their s
helter and made life miserable for them. Miserable, he kept reminding them, but safe.

  "Look at that," one of them yelled. Paul looked up and saw a piece of canvas fly overhead.

  "One of our tents." Paul grinned. "Probably mine with all my dirty laundry in it. We're not in Kansas anymore," he said in reference to the movie The Wizard of Oz, "but our gear will soon be."

  The wind threatened to rip their helmets off and they had to hold them down. Sand and spray whipped around their heads, and as they cowered, they lost track of time. All they knew was that it had gotten even darker than before and that it was probably night. The wind developed a keening, shrieking sound like that of a tormented animal.

  During a brief lull, Paul slithered out of his foxhole and crawled around to see if his men were okay. Except for a couple of cuts and bruises, no one was hurt. Bellying his way back to his shelter, he almost ran into First Sergeant Mackensen, who was also crawling about in the mud.

  "Don't bother saluting," Paul said.

  Mackensen, who rarely deviated from a stern expression, looked at him funny for a minute then smiled slightly. "Wasn't planning on it, Lieutenant. Captain wants to know how you're doing."

  Captain Ruger was probably out on his belly checking on his other platoons. "We're fine, top. We'll be all right. How's everybody else?"

  "So far so good."

  "Great. By the way, that was a damn good dog-and-pony show you and the captain put on."

  Mackensen had started to crawl back but stopped. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that it was an impressive display, blowing up that Jap and all that. But I think it was more than a coincidence that you just happened to find that body and that it just happened to be booby-trapped at just the right time for our men to get shocked and serious about war."

  Mackensen put on a look of mock hurt. Then he actually chuckled. "Captain said you'd figure it out. Buddy of mine found the Jap a while back and was driving around the island with it on the front fender of his jeep like it was a dead deer. I took it from him and we've had it hidden until the right time. The real bitch was fixing the hand grenade to that fucker. He kept falling apart and we had to tape him back together."

  The wind roared again, Mackensen nodded and departed for the dubious comfort of his own hole in the ground, while Paul crawled to his. By the time he got there, the wind was raging harder than it ever had, and the two others had to drag him into the hole, which caused his head to go under the muddy water.

  "You okay, Lieutenant?" Both men were laughing as Paul emerged from his ducking, and he joined in even though he was cold, wet, miserable, and scared.

  "Did either of you two volunteer for this shit?" he asked.

  "Nah"- they grinned- "we all got drafted too, sir."

  A good-sized piece of debris tumbled by. It looked like a piece of wood from a house. Had he been standing, it could have impaled him. Paul wondered just what the hell the rest of the island looked like.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the wind abated to where it was simply savage, and the rain became merely a torrent. Considering themselves safe, the men crawled out of their water-filled burrows and stood up. It was getting lighter, and a check of his watch told Paul that it was almost dawn. Again a nose count was taken and he was more than gratified to find that everyone was safe and, except for cuts and bumps, no one was seriously hurt.

  Paul waved his sergeants over. They all looked so sodden and despondent he had to chuckle.

  After a moment's hesitation, they joined him in a spate of nervous laughter. They had passed the test. They were alive. They had handled that bitch, Typhoon Louise.

  The passing of the storm brought General Monck and his staff from their trenches. This time it was appallingly easy to look around and see for a great distance as the typhoon had swept the area clean of anything but bare ground. Where once there had been a great city of tents and an army preparing to attack Japan, there was nothing more than a barren plain on which large numbers of men were emerging. Everything they owned was gone, and they were reduced to standing and looking about in confusion.

  "Parker," Monck said hoarsely. "Where the hell is my regiment?"

  Parker's left eye was swollen nearly shut. He'd been struck across the head by a pot from someone's field kitchen. "Sir, if we're safe, then there's a real good chance they are too."

  "We've got to reach them, get in contact with them. Jesus, they're sure to have injured and we've got to get them medical help."

  Parker took a look at where there had once been a first-class radio operation. Nothing. There was no way of contacting their separated units, and sending runners wasn't a good idea because the runners wouldn't know where to find the scattered regiment.

  "We'll do our best, General."

  Monck gave Parker's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I know you will. I'll go and throw some general-like weight around and see if I can scrounge up some fresh radio gear from someone. You organize what men we have here and start salvage and cleanup."

  Parker snorted. "Salvage? Ain't nothing to salvage, sir."

  Monck agreed with that observation. "Well then, gather what flammable debris you can and see if you can get some fires going. It's not all that warm and we don't want these men coming down with pneumonia. Get them dried out and under some kind of cover. If you can," he added softly.

  Lt. Col. Don Parker threw him a salute and took off to gather heads. Brig. Gen. John Monck looked again at the moonscape that had been an impressive military facility only a few hours earlier.

  It was October 9, 1945, and in only three weeks the U.S. forces on Okinawa were to commence attacking and land on the Japanese island of Kyushu. With what? Monck thought harshly.

  CHAPTER 20

  Tonight was the night, Dennis Chambers decided. He could no longer live with the thought of two Jap planes and four Jap airmen being so close to him. He would have to do something about it. He knew he wasn't being terribly logical, but he was also driven to distraction by the bags of rice that the four men had stashed in their tent. If he could only get ahold ofthat food, he stood a chance of lasting for months, and perhaps the war would be over by then.

  While the weather was still mild, the night air had a definite chill, and he could visualize his source of vegetation and insects literally drying up. If that happened and he had nothing to fall back on, he'd starve.

  Desperately trying to be quiet, he crawled over the crest of the hill and down through the grasses and small evergreens to within a few yards of where the two pilots and the two mechanics sat facing each other. They had not lit a fire. The glow of fires might attract unwelcome visitors from the sky, but the Japanese had cooked and eaten during the day, and the scent of the cooked food was almost overwhelming to Dennis.

  The four Japanese were jabbering on about something that Dennis couldn't understand. At first he thought it was a dialect that his limited knowledge of Japanese didn't allow him to comprehend. But then it dawned on him and he thought that his foray might not be as risky as he had first thought. The four Japs weren't speaking an unknown tongue; they were shit-faced drunk.

  He crawled to a point that was almost insolently close to them. They had several bottles of what looked like American whiskey that they passed around and swallowed with abandon. Obviously they felt they would not be called upon to fly this night. He chuckled as he realized he could stand up and they wouldn't even notice him in their alcoholic stupor. Dennis's only fear was that one of them would fall over him on his way to relieve himself. He grasped the sharpened piece of metal that was his only weapon and waited.

  After a couple of hours, the drinking bout ended and the four men staggered to sleeping mats that had been laid on the ground. As they snored loudly and occasionally belched or made other noises in their sleep, Dennis crawled up to the closest of the four. Cautiously, he took the piece of metal from his belt and, grasping it as firmly as he could, leaned over the sleeping enemy. Then, with strength and quickness he'd forgotten he ha
d, he slashed across the Jap's throat. The man's eyes opened and he convulsed, but made no sound other than a gurgle as his blood spouted out all over the two of them. The first Jap was dead.

  Dennis looked at the others and saw no sign of their awakening. Then he checked his victim. The dead man's eyes were wide-open and looked to the sky in disbelief. The Jap had bled profusely on Dennis, and the sticky feel of the liquid sickened him.

  He steeled himself to his task and crawled to the next mat. Again, the makeshift knife slashed and blood poured out. This time, however, the second victim's death throes included a wild swing of his arm that hit Dennis across the face and knocked him back. Dennis tried to get up, but the world began to swim and he realized he was hurt and at the end of his strength. He tried to will himself to stay conscious but it was futile and he sagged to his knees.

  As darkness enveloped him, he saw the silhouette of another Japanese soldier standing over him and he groaned. Somehow he had miscounted. There were five, not four. Where the hell had the fifth man been hiding? He could only hope they would kill him quickly and not torture him to death as he knew he deserved from them.

  Shit, thought Joe Nomura as he looked over the prone body of an emaciated white man wearing the ragged remains of an air force uniform. He had to be either a downed pilot or a captured crewman. What a helluva fool to try something like this. The guy was obviously too weak to have finished the task even if he hadn't gotten bashed in the head by the man he'd just killed.

  Joe had also been stalking the little Jap air base when he'd caught sight of someone else trying to skulk through the trees. When he'd figured out what the other man was up to, he'd been aghast. Not until he'd gotten much closer did he realize that the assassin was an American.

  And, Joe thought grimly, one who was in bad shape as well as a whole lot of trouble.

  Joe moved toward the two remaining Japanese, who still slept deeply and drunkenly. He drew his knife and, far more expertly than Dennis, killed the third Jap. The fourth was lying with his throat covered, so Joe sheathed his knife and brought the heel of his hand down on the back of the man's neck in a vicious chop. He waited a few seconds before checking for a pulse and found none. The money he'd spent for karate lessons as a kid had finally paid off.