by Colin Gee
His only error was in assuming that the wreck on his right flank, trackless and smoking, had been knocked out.
Relaying his vectoring and attack orders to VF-191, he sat back smugly to await the destruction of the Japanese infantry element.
His ordered approach brought the F8F Bearcats up the river line, using the water to orientate themselves.
Three Pershings had already bathed the area in red smoke, as per his orders.
Fourteen Bearcats swooped on the smoke, each depositing a single M29 cluster bomb in turn.
The red smoke was replaced by a wall of sound, coloured yellow, white, and orange, as one thousand, two hundred and sixty 4-pound charges exploded in an area of three football pitches.
Hamuda’s infantry were destroyed.
Many men died, ripped apart by high explosives or rapidly moving metal pieces.
A few men lived, spared by some fickle finger of fate, as the men around them were thrown in all directions like rag dolls, or simply destroyed in place.
A handful more lived, but wished it otherwise, their bodies and limbs torn apart.
More than one hideously wounded man took his own life, the desperate calls for help falling either on ears permanently or temporarily deaf, or those belonging to the dead.
Hamuda arrived, out of breath, his sprint from the command post punctuated by threatening but impotent gestures from his sword, trying to cut the enemy aircraft from the sky in his mind.
Since the US committed fully to the Chinese conflict, Hamuda had seen much of what the technology of the enemy could do to soft flesh, but he was still unprepared for what the charnel house that used to be his infantry position would throw before him.
In a daze, he moved through the unrecognisable pieces of his command, occasionally silently acknowledging a piece of a body that bore some resemblance to a man he had shared rice with, or an NCO he had given orders to in battle.
He knelt beside the shattered body of a corporal, the man’s face wiped away by one of the deadly bomblets, the same charge opening up his stomach and spreading the man’s intestines around the hole like some macabre bunting.
The smashed chest rose and fell rapidly, the exposed heart and lungs damaged but still functioning.
The soft sound that emerged from the dying body was hideous, its animal-like tone leaving no doubt that what used to be a man was in the extremes of suffering.
Without a thought, Hamuda slotted his Katana into the man’s chest, spearing the heart with a single thrust, turning his wrist immediately to open the wound.
The heart stilled instantly, and the man, such as he was, knew no more pain.
Hamuda rose and continued his walk amongst the misery.
A handful of men walked dazed, most zombie-like, their minds melted in a maelstrom of explosions, some moving with no purpose other than to move for movement’s sake, others to reassure themselves that they still retained the ability.
One or two moved with purpose, seeking the living to offer assistance.
One such man found his Captain.
Yamagiri was quiet, his head bleeding from mouth and nostrils, injuries caused by blast concealed within his almost intact tunic jacket.
The sleeves hang tattily, absent material from the elbow down… absent flesh from the elbow down.
He sat on the stumps where once his legs had been, surprisingly little blood spilling from his wounds, the swollen ends partially sealing the awful wounds, twin tourniquets fashioned from webbing doing the rest of the life-saving work.
Hamuda squatted beside the destroyed man and held his shoulder.
Yamagiri smiled, the small act allowing a renewed surge of blood and detritus from his mouth.
“So, Major Hamuda… this is the end eh?”
Both listeners were incredulous that the man could speak at all, let alone coherently, and almost without any indication that he had been mortally wounded.
The young private wiped his captain’s mouth clear of blood.
“Thank you, Saisho.”
The soldier bowed his head respectfully.
Yamagiri made a study of examining himself, his eyes flitting from wound to wound.
“Major, it would appear that I’ll not be making the last charge with you. So sorry.”
“Rest, Hideyo, rest now.”
The dying man laughed, clearly and crisply.
“No, I think not, Major. It’s time to meet my ancestors.”
Yamagiri looked at the bloody stumps of his arms, and turned his gaze back to Hamuda.
No words were needed, his mute request well understood.
Hamuda’s silent reflection was interrupted by the sounds of approaching vehicles, the screech of tank tracks mixing with the revving of heavy engines, as Pershings and half-tracks moved towards the river crossing.
He stood and bowed deeply to the dead Yamagiri, using a piece of paper to wipe the remaining blood from his sword.
A number of survivors, nine in total, had gravitated towards their leader, arming themselves with whatever they could find, ready to offer a final act of resistance.
Two of the men were so wounded as to be unable to support a weapon of any kind, but they were determined to be in the charge.
The men organised themselves with the help of a Corporal, himself wounded and dripping blood as he walked the line.
Hamuda looked upon them; the last of the Rainbow Brigade.
The corporal brought the group to some semblance of attention, saluted Hamuda, and adopted the very best ‘attention’ position he could manage.
Something changed in his mind.
He would not die this day, nor would his men die in some grand gesture of fealty to the Emperor.
‘Enough… we have all done enough.’
“Men… we have done our duty to the Emperor and our country… we have always done our duty… and done it well.”
Hamuda turned and levelled his sword at the advancing armada of power.
“Our duty is clear…”
The sword swept savagely through the air as he turned back to his waiting soldiers.
“Our Emperor has today informed us of it, and you have all heard it.”
The katana slid back in its scabbard. With additional drama, Hamuda extracted his Nambu pistol and tossed it on the ground in front of him.
“Our Emperor requires us now to endure the unendurable and limit any outbursts of emotion.”
One or two of the battle-hardened soldiers wept openly as their commander gave them their lives back.
“We are commanded to devote our strength to the future of our country… and we will, men, we will.”
Hamuda pointed at the pistol.
“With honour, and with my thanks, that of the Emperor and the Empire, place your weapons there… now… so that we may unite in the cause of our country and its people…”
One soldier looked near panic, the desire to immolate himself for the Emperor battling with the orders of his commander.
“Kitarane… Private Kitarane!”
The man snapped out of his trance.
“Lay down your rifle, private… our Emperor commands that you preserve your life for the good of and future of the Empire.”
Kitarane dropped his rifle immediately.
“Well done… well done…”
Hamuda gripped the man’s shoulder, the act bringing forth tears from both of them.
The rest of the weapons lay on the ground, the heavy atmosphere occasional punctured by a metallic sound as a grenade or a piece of ammunition joined the growing pile.
The military bearing had improved and the line was straight and more upright.
“Men… soldiers……… comrades… you are the finest troops I ever commanded… so… let us march with our heads held high… undefeated… ready to do what we must… endure what we must… and we will soon see Mount Fuji and our homes again!”
Spontaneously, the men threw their working arms skywards in unison.
“Ba
nzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
A pair of eyes on the northern slopes on Height 404 was naturally drawn towards the sound.
“Here they come!”
Three half-tracks were over the bridge and they had fanned out swiftly, permitting men on foot to move up to support them.
“Sir?”
“Sergeant?”
“Orders were quite clear, Lootenant.”
The young man hesitated.
“Don’t look like they’re doing a banzai to me, Sergeant.”
The NCO looked at the new officer and spat demonstrably, a jet of tobacco juice clipping the top of the .50cal pulpit.
“How many banzai charges you seen, Lootenant Capaldi?”
The officer coloured up.
“None, as you well know… but they…”
“But fuck all, Lootenant. They wounded my brother and his mates on the canal with the games they play. Can’t trust the bastards.”
“But th…”
“And the orders were very clear, Lootenant.”
Vincent Capalde, only a week with the armored infantry unit as a replacement for a well-respected officer on his way stateside with severe injuries, was out of his depth.
He looked at the small group of enemy soldiers, their leader holding a sword in his left hand as he led his men forward.
‘Oh fuck it.’
“Fire!”
1224 hrs, Monday 10th June 1946, Height 404, Zhujiawan, China.
Captain, the Marquis, Ito Hirohata, could not feel his left arm, which, given its condition, was just as well.
When he was blasted out of the Panther’s turret, he had broken it in three places as it connected with the inside of the cupola.
A fourth break occurred when he came down in soft vegetation, the mangled limb flapping across of bridge of wood, snapping noisily at the wrist.
His pain had increased and increased, amplified by the destruction of ‘Masami’, the loss of Hamuda’s tank crew, and the obvious destruction being wrought around him by the terror fliers of the enemy.
His pain had disappeared in an instant as, above his head, an enemy aircraft was destroyed, causing the pilot to bail out.
The US Marine Corps’ pilot landed heavily less than twenty feet away, and was immediately consumed by white silk as the parachute came to earth.
Curses and yelps of pain marked the man’s efforts to free himself from the grip of the vegetation and the stifling presence of the deflated canopy.
Hirohata switched between watching the American lump struggling under a white screen, and the actions of his friend and commander, Major Nomori Hamuda.
He watched as Hamuda paraded his men, as they discarded their weapons, and as they gave three Banzai salutes.
He watched as they marched forward to observe the Emperor’s wishes, and to surrender themselves to the unthinkable for the sake of the future of the Empire.
Cowpens struggled free, partially so, brandishing his Colt automatic in response to the howling that sprang from Hirohata’s throat as the survivors of the Rainbow Brigade were machine-gunned to death.
A bullet flew past his ear, the pistol report lost in the heavy rattle of .50cals from the valley below, Cowpens’ aerial prowess not matched by his handgun skills.
Hirohata’s anguish turned to rage and he grabbed for his own pistol.
Cowpens had managed to jam his Colt, the mechanism snatching at the silk of his chute, jamming the slide half returned.
“Banzai!”
The Marine only had a moment’s fear before the Japanese officer jammed the Nambu pistol in his face and pulled the trigger, blowing the side of the pilot’s head off.
This shot was also lost in the echoes of the slaughter near the bridge, echoes that drew Hirohata back to examine the scene from his vantage point, his thoughts now changed from those of glorious death to feral ones of renewed hatred for all things Yankee, and of revenge.
As the marching soldiers were cut down, Kagamutsu slowly cranked the Panther’s turret round, the blood of the dead gunner making his hands slip as he tried to point the 75mm at the lead halftrack.
Around him, the crew were out of the fight. As well as the gunner, the loader had also perished messily when whatever it was transited the tank, rising up from the front plate and bursting open the rear turret hatch, taking considerable portions of the gunner and loader with it. The two men in the hull were incapacitated and groaning with pain from their wounds.
It did not matter to Sergeant Major Kagamutsu.
All he wanted was revenge.
He manoeuvred the weapon slowly, laying it on the target he had selected, the one that had opened fire first.
The young armored-infantry lieutenant dropped over the side of the half-track, leaving behind the sounds of the heavy machine-gun being reloaded, and the self-satisfied drawling of his sergeant.
Regardless of what the orders had said, Capalde felt that he had just done murder.
The whoosh and explosion joined together in an instant, which immediately turned back and silent.
The half-track burst into flames as the 75mm shell struck home. The five dazed survivors, aided by other nearby soldiers, did their best to drag their comrades clear.
The dead sergeant was consumed by the increasing flames.
Across the river, angry American tankers turned their weapons on the smoking Panther and finished the job.
With the death of Kagamutsu and his men, the last resistance of the 3rd Special Obligation Brigade ‘Rainbow’ ended.
Capalde’s Sergeant, and the other four men who died in the halftrack, were the last known ground force casualties in the war against Japan.
Earlier that day… 0455 hrs, Monday, 10th June 1946, Secret dock, Submarine Division One, Kannonzaki, Kure, Japan.
Lieutenant Commander Nanbu Nobukiyo bowed deeply to his commander, Rear-Admiral Sasaki Hankyu, OC Japanese Sixth Fleet.
“I envy you the opportunity these orders represent, Nobukiyo.”
The Admiral nodded to his aide, who proffered the thick sealed file.
Nobukiyo took the file in both hands, repeating his stiff bow to the Naval Commander, and then to the 1st Submarine Division commander, Captain Ariizumi Tatsunosuke.
The formal party was there to see the two Sen-Toku class submarines depart on the last mission of the Imperial Japanese Navy.
Or, at least, the first stage of it.
The Sen-Tokus were the largest submarines in the world, built to launch an air attack on the Panama Canal, in times before the imminent demise of the Empire.
Inside the two submarines, other architects and key players in the grand plan were already concealed, their goodbyes having been exchanged in an innocuous building near to the dock at Kannonzaki.
On board I-401, Yoshio Nishina, the director of the Riken Institute and head of His Imperial Majesty’s Nuclear Weapon research programme and Major General Michitake Yamaoka, overseer of the ‘Imperial Institute of Sacred Knowledge’, were safely stowed away, complete with numerous crates whose paper contents represented years of important research.
Lieutenant General Takeo Yasuda, Director of the Imperial Japanese Air Force’s Scientific and Technological Team, and Professor Bunsaku Arakatsu, head of a special research team at Kyoto Imperial University, were similarly quartered aboard I-402.
Both were accompanied by numerous senior research staff from their own bailiwicks, as well as some important members of the Institute for Chemical and Physical Research who had been unable to return to the Institute’s base in Hungnam, Korea.
Now they, the two huge submarines, and a number of lesser vessels, all had a crucial part to play in a secret mission to carry the battle into the heart of the enemy.
The mission had been planned sometime beforehand, but only Hankyu, Tatsunosuke, and the admiral’s aide, Commander Iura, knew what horrors were about to spring from the Emperor’s lips.
Which was why I-401 and her sister ship, I-402, were to be set loose, under strict ra
dio silence, with orders to ignore all communications sent from any source unlisted on their secret orders, or any contact without the specific code exchanges.
Apart from their size and unusual carrying capacity, the two I-400 series had another singular quality, which set them aside from other undersea craft.
They carried enough fuel to sail nearly seventy thousand kilometres before needing replenishment.
This key fact brought them into Operation Raduga and delivered a key role for the Japanese Navy, one that the diehards in high places were determined to discharge, surrender or no surrender.
I-401 also carried three Aichi Seiran aircraft in her huge hangar, planes she could launch and recover whilst at sea.
I-402, outwardly identical, save for the forward catapult, carried no aircraft, having been fitted out as a supply submarine.
She had slid away from their base at Kannonzaki three days previously, and was nearly lost immediately.
The secrecy required for the mission meant that the local naval guard force was not informed, and the destroyer Hibiki attacked a submerged contact, only stopping when depth charges ran out.
I-402 was lucky to escape with a few damaged seals and shattered nerves, and made her way to her first rendezvous.
That took place in a covered inlet on the innocuous island of Okunoshima, where Japan had secretly constructed a poison gas manufacturing facility.
I-402’s hangar contained a deadly mixed cargo of Lewisite and Mustard gas, but enough space remained for the next port of call, where the awful products of Units 731 and 516 could be loaded aboard, albeit with the utmost care and respect.
The fanatics intended to bring death and horror to their enemies, regardless of the surrender of their nation.
Continuing with the joint Japanese-Soviet plan seemed to be their best way of achieving their ends.
Revenge for their nation.
Salutes and bows exchanged, the crews of the two Sen-Tokus ran to their stations, readying the vessels for immediate departure.
As the sun rose into the morning sky, 401 and 402 slipped out of the hidden dock and descended into the cool waters, intent on making land in Manchuria.