1945

by Robert Conroy

  But what had he done lately? Joe wanted to do something that would really help the men who were fighting and dying for him. At least Dennis Chambers was still alive, feeling well, kicking and bitching. Chambers was as frustrated as he was. Living the life of a virtual hermit on a Kyushu mountaintop was driving Chambers nuts as well. An air force pilot, not a recluse, he too wanted to do something.

  When they'd heard of the landings, the two men had discussed the possibility of working their way south and into the American lines. This they'd quickly discarded as an improbable accomplishment. Dennis's white skin would mark him as an enemy to the Japanese, and he'd be shot on sight if he was lucky. Then, Joe's yellow skin would draw fire from every American who saw him, and they'd ask questions later. They'd reluctantly decided they were much better staying where they were and not trying to get through the combatants. If the Japs surrendered, then they would decide how to deliver themselves to the proper authorities.

  What really worried both men was that the war would develop into a prolonged stalemate, causing them to stay in hiding indefinitely in northern Kyushu. Equally frightening was the thought that the fighting would work its way northward and wash over them. This would cause the same difficulties as trying to get through the lines in the first place.

  It wasn't fair, but what the hell else was new? Then he saw the bicycle lying on its side on the edge of the path. He grinned as he saw that no rider was around. If it was abandoned and rideable, it would beat the hell out of walking all over Kyushu in search of information to send back to mama in the States.

  Joe grabbed the handlebars, righted it, and worked the pedals. It was dirty and battered, but the tires had air and it otherwise looked all right. Finally, he might be more useful. He would take the bike back to where Dennis was hidden and they'd discuss it over a shot of their dwindling supply of whiskey.

  The bicycle was painted brown, which meant that it belonged to the military or at least had at some time in its past. This didn't worry him. With the desperate shortage of fuel, bicycles were everywhere, and many had belonged to the military. A brown bicycle would draw no attention, particularly since it would be ridden by a one-armed vet.

  As he turned the bike around and began to pedal awkwardly, he saw something sticking out of the tall grass alongside the path. It was a leg.

  "Hello, hello," he said softly, then grimaced as he realized he'd accidentally spoken in English. He hadn't made that mistake in a while, not even with Chambers.

  Joe got off the bike and walked over to where the body lay facedown. The man wore the uniform of a captain in the Japanese secret police, the kempei. Joe knelt down and checked for a pulse even though the body was cold and graying. The captain of the secret police was dead. Joe rolled the corpse on its back and saw a massive indentation in its skull.

  With no other evidence, he concluded that the Jap officer had crashed his bike and fractured his skull in the fall. A little checking showed a rock near where he'd first found the bike that had what looked like dry bloodstains on it. The officer had probably crawled the few feet away from the accident before dying.

  So now what to do? he wondered. Joe grinned and rifled the man's pockets, finding identification papers and money, along with a ring of keys. Joe took the corpse by one foot and dragged it farther into the underbrush. There, he stripped off the uniform and boots. After hesitating only a second, he took the dead man's underwear, leaving the body naked and unidentifiable. If he wasn't found in a couple of days, he'd be bloated and half-eaten by bugs. The kempei officer would become just another dead body in a country that was filled with corpses.

  All the while he did this, Joe kept looking up and down the path to see if anyone else was coming. No one did and Joe wasn't surprised. Other than the army, or refugees on the main paths leading farther north, everyone tried to stay near the refugee camps, where there was at least a little food. A lot of people had also made the passage across to Honshu to get away from the fighting. He thought the civilian population of Kyushu was half what it had been when he'd first landed.

  Joe made a bag out of the dead man's pants, slung the improvised sack over his shoulder, and remounted the bike. As he pedaled down the path, his spirits were uplifted. He had absolutely no idea what he might do with the kempei uniform, but he had at least done something. Or maybe the beginning of something. Maybe he and Dennis could work on the uniform and make it fit him. It was a shame that the dead Jap was such a plump little shit. It would make alterations that much more difficult. But not impossible, he exulted, not impossible at all.

  CHAPTER 37

  The U.S. Army's I Corps headquarters was in a badly damaged brick building in the small port city of Miyazaki. The shattered windows were covered with wood, and it was ringed by grim-faced American sentries. Even though the town was considered secure, no one was taking chances on suicide attacks.

  After meeting briefly with the commander of the 41st Infantry Division, Brig. Gen. John Monck walked out into the shattered streets and up to his chief of staff, Colonel Parker. As they walked, their four-man security detail formed a loose perimeter around them. Monck hating having them, but, like the situation at I Corps, it was better to be safe than sorry. More than one senior officer had already been killed by Jap snipers.

  Parker was his usual almost insolent self. "Well, what new tidings did they give you, General? Will the war be over by Christmas? The way the Japs are still fighting, the only way that could occur would be for us to surrender to them."

  Monck sighed. He was exhausted and not really in the mood for Parker's often snide comments. As usual, though, he said nothing. Parker was far too valuable to him for him to be put off by his attitude. Besides, Parker was so often right.

  "Parker, Major General Doe says we are doing a fine job and that we should keep up the good work. We are to continue plugging our way north, killing Japs and climbing hills as we go. Before you say anything, let me agree with you. It isn't much in the way of grand strategy, or innovative tactics, but then, there isn't much we can be strategic or innovative about in this campaign. At this point, this is nothing more than a slugging match."

  Parker raised his hands briefly in mock surrender. "What about our casualties? Did General Doe have any comment there?"

  Monck shook his head sadly. "When I told Doe we had taken eighty dead and more than two hundred wounded in less than a week of actual fighting, he didn't seem unduly disturbed or impressed. When I reminded him that it was about eight percent of my regiment, he just shrugged and said he'd see what he could do about getting us some replacements."

  "God," Parker muttered. Both men could do the arithmetic. At the rate they were losing men and without replacements, the regiment would cease to exist in a relatively short while. They both knew that the dead and wounded had all been incurred in what news releases referred to as "minor skirmishes." The entire battle for Kyushu so far consisted of hundreds of such minor skirmishes.

  "General, what'll we do when the Japs counterattack in strength as they must? Did General Doe have anything to say about that? And what about Swift?" Parker asked, referring to Maj. Gen. Innis Swift, who commanded I Corps.

  "Swift wasn't there. He's off conferring with Krueger, who's probably getting more orders from Mac. Krueger, by the way, has finally gotten his headquarters ashore. He's set up shop on a hill just off Ariake Bay. Look, don't be so harsh on Doe, or Swift, for that matter. Everybody's taking it on the chin from the Japs, and some of the people who started fighting before we did are in even worse shape."

  "I know, I know," Parker said. "It just seems like such a waste. What did he say about us getting better artillery support?"

  The U.S. Army possessed virtually total air and artillery superiority, but had been unable to knock out very many of the numerous Japanese strongpoints. While they had gotten a high percentage of them, the better-sited and stronger Japanese positions remained impervious to bombing and indirect artillery fire. What was needed was close-in firepower th
at could shoot right down the throat of a bunker or cave. Artillery could plow up the ground nearby, but the hidden and dug-in Japs remained impervious to anything but the fortuitous direct hit on a gun embrasure. Ultimately, it was then necessary for the infantry to root them out, and this was wasting lives.

  "Doe understands. He's trying to get some tanks and mountain howitzers assigned to forward units."

  "Great. I just hope it occurs soon."

  Monck agreed. He looked around and saw they were not headed back to their jeeps. "Colonel, just where the hell are you taking me?"

  "To this dismal excuse for a town's waterfront, General. There're a couple of things I thought you'd like to see."

  Monck allowed himself to be led to the shore, where low waves sloshed among a number of small and ruined wooden fishing ships. Some of them clearly showed bullet holes where they'd been strafed by low-flying aircraft. Their broken remains were either on the beach or in the shallow water. The livelihood of Miyazaki had been smashed, which might be one of the reasons there were so few people in the firebombed town. With the exception of a few old men and women, the civilian population appeared to have fled, doubtless to the north.

  A number of them, however, must be dead, killed in the attacks that sank their ships and leveled their buildings. The air was filled with the lingering stench of rotting flesh. It was nothing new and they almost took it as normal, along with the scent of smoke from countless still-smoldering fires. They had been breathing the stink of decay since the moment they had landed. Fresh, clean air was an almost forgotten memory.

  "Look, General."

  Monck followed where Parker was pointing. "What the hell is that?" Monck asked as he stared at a small wooden boat about ten feet long that was lying on its side on the beach. It had an extremely low freeboard and a single seat in the back. The whole thing, with the exception of where the seat was, was covered by wooden decking. It reminded him of a kayak.

  Parker walked over and towered over it, and it almost looked like a child's toy. "That, General, is a suicide boat that never made it out to sea. There are a lot of them around here. The front of the damned thing is supposed to be stuffed with explosives, and the driver sits in the rear with his legs covered by the decking. Then it scoots out into the water, and he tries to ram one of our ships. At that point the whole thing is supposed to blow up, taking the Jap to the Happy Hunting Ground or wherever dead Japs go, and sending the unlucky target ship to the bottom. There was a small outboard motor, but it looks like someone liberated it since I saw it a few minutes ago."

  Monck tried to imagine going out to sea in such a frail craft, with waves crashing around and over it, and knowing that death was the only goal. The little boat pointed out the alienness of the Japanese way of fighting, and the desperation that made them such formidable enemies.

  Parker wasn't through with his tour. He led Monck a ways down the waterfront to where a set of railroad tracks led directly into the water.

  "This one's really something else, sir." They followed the tracks less than a hundred yards inland, to where a cave had been dug into a low hill. Inside, a long tubular shape rested on a flat handcar.

  "General, this is one of their human torpedoes. They call it a kaiten. The intelligence boys were all over it since they thought all the kaiten were launched from ships. Now they know the Japs can send them down tracks like this, and into the water, from anyplace along the coast of Japan. Intelligence is particularly concerned that some of these bastards will be launched at us from the confines of Ariake and Kagoshima bays where the bigger ships won't have so much freedom to maneuver and escape."

  "What happened to this one?"

  "There were a couple of dead Japs lying around a little earlier, and one of them was probably the pilot. My guess is that a near miss from a bomb killed them. Maybe the same thing happened to the guys who were supposed to man the little boats. Who cares, just so long as they never got launched."

  "Good," Monck muttered as he thought about the ships lying offshore. A number of them could be seen from where he was standing. Human torpedoes came in several types and had effective ranges that began with several thousand yards and went up to several miles. Again it was appalling to think of someone riding a torpedo as if it were a horse and sending it crashing into the hull of a ship.

  Monck shook his head and thought of the men who were fighting and dying at sea, and then of his own men, who were clawing their way up each hill they confronted. Like most soldiers, he had often been jealous of the navy and that their war was relatively clean. It seemed to have just gotten a whole lot dirtier.

  "Parker, just what the hell have we gotten ourselves into?"

  He had no answer. Monck gestured to their guards and they began the journey back to their regiment.

  CHAPTER 38

  KYUSHU, NORTH OF MIYAZAKI

  Platoon Sgt. Frank Collins slithered down the steep and rain-slicked hill oblivious to the light but constant rain. His clothing and the soft flesh underneath were cut where the small, wet rocks that jutted from the volcanic soil had sliced at him. He ignored them all. His only urge was to make himself one with the hateful ground and thus not be seen by the guns on the hill above him.

  The thought that some Jap was looking down at him and aiming either his cannon or machine gun at him made him whimper with fear. With every jerky motion of his arms and legs, he prayed that he would be allowed to make another. He tried desperately to stay within the folds of the hill, but he had that nightmare feeling that scores of slanty eyes were glaring at him and laughing at his slow, painful progress to shelter.

  Mud-covered and exhausted, he slipped into a small ravine and felt a surge of relief. He was safe. At least for the moment. Collins sucked a few lungfuls of air and moved over to Lieutenant Morrell, who looked at him with concern.

  "You okay?" Paul asked.

  "Other than scared shitless, Lieutenant, I'm just fine, thank you." Morrell offered Sergeant Collins his canteen, and Collins accepted it gratefully. The water, warm and rancid, tasted undeservedly delicious. Not even the purification tablets could rob it of its taste. Collins took a dirty rag from his pocket and wiped sweat and cold mist from his face. "I want to take up another line of work, sir."

  "Don't we all, Sarge. Now, what'd you see up there?"

  The platoon's advance up the fairly steep hill was halted by a brief cannonade and the staccato crackle of Japanese machine guns. They'd dropped where they were, then scrambled downhill for cover and dug in as the previously unseen cannon again fired from a bunker about two-thirds of the way up the hill. At that point, they realized the Jap gunners had them pinned down. They could not advance and they couldn't retreat without exposing themselves to additional casualties.

  First they'd called on artillery support, which hadn't been effective. The rain obscured their spotter's vision and the maps of the area were inaccurate. With logic firmly on their side, the regiment's artillery was reluctant to loose a heavy barrage on the Jap position when American soldiers were only a couple of hundred yards away. As a result, only a few rounds had been fired onto the hill, and none had shut down the Jap gun.

  Air cover was equally unavailable because of the layer of mist that touched the top of the hill. The planes would not fly and bomb blindly either. The platoon was on its own. They'd plunked a few mortar rounds at the Jap position, but these had merely churned up some dirt.

  Then Sergeant Collins had made his solitary patrol.

  "Sir, it's a standard Jap bunker setup. There's one main fortification and at least three machine-gun nests connected to it by zigzagging trenches. There may be a fourth on the other side of the hill, but I kinda doubt it. For once artillery did help out, at least a little. They nailed the nest directly in front of the main bunker. Ain't nothin' left but smoke and dead Japs. However, the big bunker and the two light machine guns flanking it are operating just fine, thank you."

  Paul nodded. The Jap complex had been well hidden, and had the enemy gunner
s showed any fire discipline at all, the platoon would have walked right up to it and been slaughtered. As it was, they'd still been hurt. Jap light machine guns had thirty-shot clips, and he considered them the equivalent of an American Browning automatic rifle, or BAR, and not a true machine gun, which was belt-fed. Even so, they could be quite lethal and were helping to keep the platoon pinned down.

  "How're my guys?" Collins asked.

  "Holcomb took a bullet through the hand that ripped off at least three fingers," Paul answered, thinking of the grisly mess of tendons and flesh that was Holcomb's hand. "He's okay, but in shock. Keye was shot in the thigh and lost a lot of blood before someone got a tourniquet on him. Unless we can get them to the rear sometime soon, they may not make it."

  Both men understood. The healthy could wait in wet misery for darkness and then make their escape, but the wounded needed help immediately.

  Paul sighed. "What's in the bunker?"

  "Jap tank."

  "A what?" said Paul, astonished. Since landing on Kyushu, no one had seen a Jap tank. For that matter, they'd seen precious few American ones.

  Collins grinned through his fatigue. "Yessir, it's a real live Jap tank, and she's dug in hull-down in the bunker and covered with dirt and logs. Nothing but a direct hit is going to knock her out, and there's damn little of her poking out from the bunker besides her big gun."

  It was commonly accepted that Jap tanks were small, thinly armored, and carried a small-caliber cannon. Thus, they were no match for American M4 Shermans, or even the lighter M24 Chaffees. But even a small-caliber cannon was more than Paul's platoon had.

  However, that was not his main problem. He had two men who might die if he didn't get them some help, and he might lose still more men if he tried to move them back. There was only one answer. He would not sacrifice additional men for his wounded. They would have to wait until darkness or until help came.