MacArthur's War: A Novel of the Invasion of Japan

by Douglas Niles

  “That’s all he got?” Johnny kept talking, trying to ignore the charnel stench as they drew near the ditch. It was full—the camp was losing more than a hundred men a week. “How do you know?”

  Sarnuss looked away, evasive. “That’s what I heard,” he said, shrugging. “Let’s pitch him in and go back for the other two.”

  “Wait. I want to get his dog tags.”

  They set Max’s body in the shallow trench. You couldn’t dig more than about two feet before hitting groundwater, which is what made this good rice-growing land. Johnny tried not to look at all the bodies, but he could hear the flies buzzing, and he shivered when they started to land on his head. “Hurry up, damn it!” snapped Sarnuss, swatting at the insects.

  For some reason, though, Johnny had to take his time. He opened Max’s shirt, held with only a single cracked button, and gently eased the chain up and over the gory skull, getting blood and brains on his fingers in the process. Holding the metal tags in his hand like the trophy of some private contest, he clenched his fist for a moment and then dropped them into his shirt pocket.

  “Okay, let’s cover him up,” Andy said. They threw enough dirt over the body to cover it and hoped it would be enough. During a big rain, sometimes the dirt would wash away and expose the bodies.

  Johnny looked down, reluctant to move, to go after the second corpse. “I wonder how much longer we’ve got?” he asked.

  Andy looked at him from his five-foot-two-inch height. “I’m not going to think like that, goddammit. I’m going to fucking make it out of here, you got that? You want to hang up your gloves, go right ahead, but not Andy Sarnuss!” Andy turned and started for the second body.

  Johnny paused for a moment before following him. Maybe Andy is right. Maybe I’m giving up too easily.

  Another wave of dysentery sent a cramp through his body. He knew he’d never make the latrine trench in time.

  • FRIDAY, 15 OCTOBER 1943 •

  HIROSHIMA, JAPAN, 1730 HOURS

  “Yoshi! Come in!”

  Ogawa Michiyo recognized her older brother’s friend immediately and almost gave him an impetuous hug. Yet he looked so serious and imposing, in his neat Imperial Japanese Army lieutenant’s uniform, that the girl instead stepped back, holding the door open for him while she bowed demurely.

  “Michiyo!” he said, bowing in return and entering. “You have grown into a woman in the last two years!”

  She blushed, smiling shyly. “Father!” she called. “Look who’s here! It’s Taiki’s friend, Naguro Yoshi! Lieutenant Naguro Yoshi,” she amended proudly.

  “Invite him in!” came the gruff response from the den, where her father spent almost all of his time. “Quickly, Michiyo! And fetch us some tea! No, make it sake!”

  “Come this way,” she invited, her eyes downcast. But she was acutely aware of Yoshi’s eyes upon her. And he certainly looked dashing in that uniform!

  “Come in, Yoshi!” said her father. Ogawa Takeo actually smiled as the young officer came into his study. Michiyo allowed herself a silent prayer to her ancestors: let this visitor bring father out of his shell, at least for a little while.

  She hurried away to get the rice wine, and when she returned her father was talking with some animation, gesturing to the empty ceremonial cabinet behind his desk. “That is where the ancestral sword of our family was displayed, until Taiki took it off to war.”

  A cloud marred the older man’s face, and Michiyo, carefully pouring two small glasses of sake, knew that he was missing his son and worrying about him. “Tell me, Yoshi,” he said gruffly. “Did you see Taiki after he came back from that island, Guadalcanal? We … we have not heard from him. He chooses not to answer our letters.”

  “Yes, Ogawa-san. I saw Taiki in Rabaul, before I was recalled to Tokyo. And I had the honor of talking to some of the men who served with him. They told great stories of his heroism.”

  Michiyo listened surreptitiously. She tried to make herself as small as possible, hoping that her father would not notice her and send her out of the room. But all of Takeo’s attention was directed at the visitor. “Please, can you share some of these stories?”

  “Indeed, Ogawa-san. That is the reason that I came. One reason, anyway.” He shot Michiyo a look but quickly proceeded to talk of the war. “Taiki is indeed a hero, though he is too modest to apply the term to himself, or to allow others to use it in his hearing.”

  “Yes. That sounds like Taiki,” the father said approvingly. “Good.”

  The young officer continued. “He led his company on an attack against the American marines on a ridge near their airfield. They had to march through terrible jungle for days, just to get into position. But he was ready to attack when ordered.” Yoshi indicated the empty cabinet. “He carried the very sword of your ancestors as he charged up a hill into terrible machine gun fire and artillery. Many men were killed, but Taiki made it far into the American ranks. It was a very close battle, and almost ended in a great victory.

  “Unfortunately, the enemy had too many men, and too many guns. And, though it grieves me to say it, there were other Japanese companies that did not perform with the same valor. Taiki was to be part of a regimental-strength attack, but instead only a battalion of soldiers was in the proper place at the proper time. The Americans shattered the attack in the end. Taiki would have perished, except that he was knocked unconscious by the concussion of a shell.”

  Michiyo gasped and her father grunted. After a respectful silence, Yoshi continued. “When he awakened, the battle was over, and he escaped with a very few of his men. They speak of his courage with awe, Ogawa-san. He slew many Americans with the sword. Some of them were like giants, but he never faltered, never showed fear.”

  “Ah, good,” said the older man. He took a small sip of his sweet wine, seemed to search for the right words. “We heard that he was injured. His … wounds. Have they healed?”

  Yoshi frowned slightly, shifting in his chair. “For the most part, yes, Ogawa-san. His leg was badly injured by an enemy bayonet, but now he walks very well, with just the slightest limp.”

  “I wish he would write to us,” Takeo said. “I should like to hear from him.”

  “I will tell him, sir. I believe that I will be seeing him soon. We are both being posted to Manila.”

  “So far from the front?” said Michiyo’s father with a frown. “But what about Rabaul? And the Solomon Islands?”

  Yoshi cleared his throat. “Naturally, Ogawa-san, it is not for a humble lieutenant to question such things. But the battles in the Solomons following the fall of Guadalcanal are far from the zones of strategic importance to the empire. I believe there is some concern in army headquarters that the American general, MacArthur, is very determined to reconquer the Philippines. Of course, we will make sure this does not happen.”

  “Of course. Thank you for coming to see us and bringing us this news, Lieutenant.”

  “It was my honor, sir.” Flashing Michiyo a thin smile, the officer bowed to her father. “Ogawa-san, I would consider it a great privilege if you would allow me to escort your daughter on a walk to the river. That is, if she would like to accompany me on a brief stroll?”

  “Oh, yes!” Michiyo cried, then clapped a hand over her mouth at Takeo’s look of disapproval. But after a second her father looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, and then scrutinized the polite and handsome young lieutenant.

  “Very well,” he said with a curt nod. “Please return before dark.”

  Yoshi made his farewells to the older man while Michiyo changed into her finest kimono. She combed her long black hair, using several pins to arrange it in a neat bun. After kissing her father on the cheek, she accompanied the soldier out the door.

  The little lane on which the Ogawa house stood was near the city’s main crossroads, almost in the shadow of the towering edifice of Hiroshima Castle and around the corner from the large, modern Fukuya Department Store. Michiyo walked along with Yoshi, past the store, s
imply taking in the sights in the bustling city. The war seemed far away. Even though there were fewer automobiles than there had been a few years before, bicycles crowded the roadways, especially now as workers made their way home from their jobs. They stopped at a stall and Yoshi purchased some sushi and rice balls, which they ate on the sidewalk.

  They followed the sidewalk onto the grand Aioi Bridge over the River Ota, then paused in the middle of the span to look down at the deep but rapidly flowing water. Michiyo told the officer about little details of her life: her mother’s youngest sister, Auntie Ui, had just married a navy flier; Michiyo herself had a part-time job as an aide at the Red Cross hospital, across the street from Hiroshima University, and she was thinking of becoming a nurse. He seemed impressed, and his praise made her glow.

  After a few minutes, they moved on, following the bank of the great river, and finally came to the Asano Sentai Park, right on the water. Strolling beneath the tall pine trees, Michiyo found that she could almost forget about the war, the terrible things her brother had experienced, the deepening gloom that had been surrounding her father as Taiki continued to ignore their letters.

  But she sensed that Yoshi was holding something inside. They came to a bench near the riverbank and sat, watching the sun as it began to set. She was wondering if he would ever speak his mind, when he looked at her seriously.

  “What is it, Yoshi?” she prodded gently. “Do you have more to say?”

  He nodded, staring at the ground for a moment before meeting her eyes. “Yes. I am worried about your brother. I did not speak of this to your father, but I think you should know.”

  “What is it? Are his wounds worse than you let on?”

  “No … his physical injuries are as I described. But the battle on Guadalcanal did something to his spirit. I believe he wishes that he died there. He is angry and bitter, in a very sad way. He carried your father’s sword into the battle but lost consciousness when he was wounded. When he awakened, the sword was gone—it is probably an American’s souvenir, now—and he feels that shame as deeply as the shame of the failure of the attack. He does not want to talk, or even have my company—or anybody else’s.”

  “That’s why he doesn’t write back to us, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes. He feels that he has dishonored himself, and your family—all of your ancestors. I wish I could help him.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” she said, daring to take one of his strong hands in both of hers.

  “Me too,” he agreed. “And I am glad that you could walk with me.” He sighed and looked at the sky as it shaded toward twilight. “Now we had better go back, before your father starts to worry.”

  They made their way slowly to the little house, arriving just before the appointed hour of sunset. Yoshi promised that he would call again before he shipped out to the Philippines.

  It would have been a perfect day, except for the miasma of worry that settled around Michiyo like a dark and ominous cloud.

  TEN

  Southern California; Hawaii

  • WEDNESDAY, 17 NOVEMBER 1943 •

  THE PRESIDENTIAL TRAIN, APPROACHING SAN DIEGO,

  CALIFORNIA, 0234 HOURS

  The civilian in the top berth was snoring again, drowning out the clickety-clack and gentle swaying of the rolling train. The loud cacophonous sound woke Frank Chadwick, trapped directly underneath in the lower berth. Frank could also hear the creaking of springs and had the feeling that the top of his coffinlike sleeping compartment was in danger of giving way under the weight of the fat man in the upper booth. The smell of stale air and human sweat gave him the same claustrophobic feeling as being on a submarine—his least favorite navy experience.

  It had been years since Frank was forced to share a bunk with anyone. Navy captains normally received private quarters when in transit, but not when traveling with the presidential party on the presidential train. Berths had been assigned in the order of White House rank and status; that’s how a heavyset deputy assistant undersecretary ended up in the upper berth.

  The President had his own railcar; a lavishly decorated Pullman named Roald Amundsen. It had been built in 1928, when Hoover was still president, for a little over two hundred thousand dollars—the President’s salary was seventy-five thousand. Following the presidential car was a formal dining car serving only the most important guests. Then came a Pullman with six staterooms for the most senior of the president’s entourage and then Frank’s car. Frank’s Pullman was configured with seats for twenty in the daytime and could be changed into a double row of ten bunks at night. A second, less luxurious dining car fed the staff, and then came cars identical to Frank’s but for less exalted persons. The only indication of his rank was the car’s proximity to FDR. Otherwise there was no difference between Frank’s berth and that of, say, the radio operator who ensured the President was linked to the White House at all times.

  Not that Frank was particular. He didn’t mind the bunk at all, but he definitely minded the snorer. He was prepared to argue that the snoring was louder than the roar of a six-inch gun. It was certainly more irritating.

  Giving up the futile attempt to go back to sleep, Frank pulled back the privacy curtain and slid himself out of the berth. If he was awake, he ought to tackle some more of the work he’d brought along with him. A few days away from easy telephone contact and some physical separation from Washington was a welcome luxury.

  There was a thin line of light where the thick Pullman curtains joined. Frank pulled them aside and got out of bed. He blinked a few times in the comparatively bright light. The ubiquitous train smell, which had been kept at bay by the curtains, was particularly noticeable, coal and diesel fuel and creosote and the occasional reminder that lavatories emptied directly onto the tracks.

  His clothes were in the closet at the dining car end of the Pullman, and there was a washroom in which he could wash his face, shave, and dress. As he started to move down the corridor, the black porter, immaculate in a white jacket buttoned up to his neck, got up from his chair at the end of the corridor and walked slowly toward Frank. “Is there anything I can do for you, Admiral, suh?” Frank had tried correcting him, but then he noticed the porter referred to anyone in the navy as “Admiral”—including ordinary seamen.

  “Can you stuff a sock in his mouth, Willie?” Frank replied, jerking his finger in the direction of the upper bunk. The snoring was surprisingly muffled outside the thick curtain material.

  Willie laughed. “I sure wish I could, Admiral. I sure wish I could. He’s snorin’ to beat the band. Snorin’ something awful.” He shook his head sadly.

  “Well, looks like I’m up for good. At least there isn’t going to be a line for the washroom at this time in the morning,” Frank replied.

  The porter laughed obligingly. “Can I fix you some coffee, Admiral, suh?” he asked. “I can make breakfast for you too, if you’re ready for it.”

  The thought of food was not a pleasant one. “Let’s stick with coffee for now, okay, Willie?”

  “Coming right up, Admiral,” Willie replied. “Coming right up.”

  It was probably unfair to blame the snorer exclusively for Frank’s being awake. Some of the nagging problems and worries he’d brought with him weren’t helping his sleep, either. The torpedo case, for example. He had a briefcase full of papers to boil down into a report that had to balance Frank’s responsibilities to the President and Frank’s responsibilities to the navy.

  The magnetic detonators on the prewar torpedo designs simply hadn’t been tested adequately. Earth’s magnetic field distorted the detonators so that, in the South Pacific, they went off prematurely. About 80 percent of them were duds. Fierce turf protecting by the Bureau of Ordnance and congressmen from torpedo-producing states hugely complicated a task that would otherwise involve fairly straightforward engineering. That was what brought it to the presidential level. His orders from Admiral King were to “solve this damned problem before that bastard MacArthur gets hold
of it. By the time the President finds out about this, I want to tell him that it’s already taken care of.”

  Meetings with Secretary Knox, Congressman Vinson, and other Washington powers that initially intimidated him were now old hat. By making sure that blame was deflected from the guilty, Frank had been able to get things moving. The quality of torpedoes reaching the submarine fleet was much better. When the President asked, Frank would have the right answer, with a complete report ready for his desk—his current project.

  Frank had not quite realized how much work went along with being naval aide to the President. He had three other projects as technically and politically difficult as the torpedo project. Only one concerned navy business: coordinating the distribution of intelligence gathered by navy code breakers. Frank was surprised, though pleased, to find out that the navy was reading Japanese codes routinely. That was an important secret. But White House status depended on how many important secrets you were in on, so Frank was the recipient of regular political pressure to put one more person on the distribution list. Learning to say no to people who seriously outranked him was a new skill; his training as a navy officer was about following orders, not rejecting them.

  In addition, he had protocol responsibilities whenever the President’s guests had navy connections. His formal dress uniform with the short unbuttoned jacket and white bow tie had seen more use in the past six months than in his entire navy career. He even contributed to the occasional speech when the topic fell in his areas of expertise.

  POTUS—President of the United States—habitually called him “Frank” and loved to introduce him to others as “the hero of the Solomon Sea,” which embarrassed him. He understood why POTUS wanted the association with a hero, and that it was in the navy’s best interest for him to act the part, but there were a lot of other men who had been real heroes. Bill Halsey came to mind—his audacity during the Solomons battle, Frank felt pretty certain, would end up winning the war.