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

by Douglas Niles

  “And what makes you so sure—”

  “The Japanese never signed the Geneva Convention. Their men don’t expect to be captured; they expect to die. So when they decide to talk, they don’t have any rules that tell them to keep their mouths shut. Our men will give name, rank, serial number, and stop talking. This Japanese POW, Captain Alexander, he’ll talk. I’ve got a structured list of questions, and by the time I finish, I’ll have everything he knows.”

  Alexander paused. Yamada knew he’d succeeded in upsetting the captain’s worldview just as much as he had Ishimaru’s. “You’d better be right,” the captain growled.

  “I’ve done this a couple of times before, Captain Alexander,” Yamada said. He took a final swallow of coffee, pushed his chair back, and stood up.

  Later, in the infirmary, he asked, “Where are you from, Ishimaru-san?”

  The interrogation had begun.

  • WEDNESDAY, 21 MARCH 1945 •

  BEACH PONTIAC, 0546 HOURS (X-DAY+ 02)

  The huge LST—landing ship, tank—beached itself and the broad ramp of the bow started to come down with a rattle of winch and chain. The LST’s 160-foot length dwarfed the Higgins boats that were continuing to shuttle troops a platoon at a time onto the beach. It was one of a dozen larger ships, flat bottomed and ramped, lined up along the beach.

  The flat bow quickly dropped all the way to the sand, becoming a ramp, allowing egress from the long, cavernous interior of the hull. Two Sherman flamethrower tanks emerged, followed by three trucks of equipment and two jeeps. One of the jeeps flew a two-star flag. Rutted tracks crossed the sand in every direction, but a beachmaster waved the lead tank toward a route marked by temporary flags. The rest of the procession drove slowly behind the leader, rolling through soft sand, between the dunes, until they reached a small depression. Barbed wire and machine gun nests surrounded the location. A log platform supported by sandbags roofed over a dugout in the side of a sand dune.

  Seeing the two-star flag, a major came rushing from the dugout. “General Erskine! Major Breault, sir! Welcome to Beach Pontiac, sir!”

  The general, a look of annoyance on his face, stood and looked around the battlefield for a while. A large number of dead still littered the ground. The smell was beginning to be overpowering. “We need graves registration and some crews in here. These brave boys don’t deserve to lie around on the beach.”

  The major’s eyes widened and he pulled out a steno pad. “Yes, sir! Of course, sir. I’ll prepare the necessary orders so we can get that taken care of immediately, sir.” He scribbled rapidly.

  “Hold on, son,” the general growled. “First rule. Write down everything I tell you needs to be done. But don’t run off and make it somebody’s first priority without checking with me. I know damn well that there are more important problems right now than the already dead. But I don’t want to make these brave boys lie around like that one minute longer than they have to, either. Use your judgment. If you aren’t sure, wait until I look like I’ve got a free moment and ask. But there better not be too many issues you can’t handle, not when you’re wearing oak leaves. Do we understand one another?”

  “Loud and clear, General. Yes, sir.”

  The general had a skeptical look on his face. “Show me what I’ve got as a beach command post, Major. I’m not expecting the Taj Mahal. Make sure I can do my job before you make sure I’m comfortable.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  We’ll see, the general thought. But he was willing to be convinced.

  The headquarters dugout was serviceable, meaning that it was the locus of a web of telephone wires coming from all over the beach, plugged into a switchboard manned by an alert marine corporal. Erskine was satisfied, as far as that went, but he needed to see more. He set his headquarters sergeant and clerks, who had ridden here in the two jeeps, to working getting a desk and map table set up, then stalked up and out of the dugout.

  “Major Breault? I need a driver who knows his way around.”

  “Yes, General, right over here, sir.” The major waved at a marine private who was standing by the general’s jeep. The boy, who looked barely seventeen, hopped behind the wheel and started the little vehicle, maneuvering nimbly through the soft, rutted sand as he drove over to the dugout.

  “I’d like to have a look at the front,” Erskine declared, climbing into the passenger seat. The major, without being invited, quickly scrambled into the back—an act that the general took as a good sign.

  For an hour they drove through a landscape of hellish craters, blackened trees, and random rubble. There had been a few fishing villages and farms along here; now, not a single building remained standing. Bridges had been shattered, and Seabees had laid pontoon spans beside the wreckage. Everywhere Erskine spotted the bodies of his marines, lying where they had died. The carnage stood out as stark proof of the violence of this battle—never before in this war had U.S. marines fallen in such numbers that their comrades could only fight on without them.

  The front itself was only a few hundred yards inland from the shore along the entire stretch of Beach Pontiac. Occasional bursts of enemy artillery exploded along the beach, but the naval guns—and ground attack aircraft—had been pretty effective against the Japanese big guns. It was the machine gun nests, the interlocking fields of fire, the concrete pillboxes, slit trenches, and burrows occupied by individual enemy soldiers that were delaying the advance, and killing so many of Erskine’s marines.

  The general spotted activity near the beach and directed the driver—his name was Smith, and he was a Dakota ranch kid who had learned to drive tractors in the Badlands—to pull up.

  Three men, a lieutenant, a corporal, and a private, were dragging an improvised sledge with two more men on it. Only the lieutenant and the corporal weren’t wounded, though they staggered with exhaustion as they approached the edge of the water. The corporal and private collapsed. The lieutenant, though unsteady on his feet, waved at an incoming Higgins boat, which changed course to beach close to his position. The bowman and the sternman came out to meet them. “Got a couple more for us, sir?”

  “Yeah,” said the lieutenant.

  “We’ll take them from here. We’ll get them back safe and sound. Hey, Lieutenant, you ought to take a rest.”

  “No time. There are too many more.”

  The corporal gave the bowman a Please-help-me look, to which the bowman replied with an I-tried shrug.

  “Come on,” the lieutenant said, and the corporal followed.

  Erskine got out of his jeep and approached the marines, who had apparently not noticed him nearby. “Lieutenant, I’m General Erskine. May I ask what you’re doing?”

  The lieutenant’s face reacted with a combination of fear? Embarrassment? He stiffened to attention, and saluted. “Sir! Retrieving wounded, sir.”

  “Was that your original mission?”

  “No, sir. But somebody had to.”

  “Where’s your platoon?”

  “Mostly dead, sir. The rest got folded in with another platoon. I was with Fox Company, 2nd Battalion of the 3rd.”

  The general nodded. “I see. So you became supernumerary.”

  “I guess, sir, if that means what I think it means.”

  “Surplus. Extra. Not needed.”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, sir.”

  “So you gave yourself this job?”

  “No, sir. The gunny gave it to me.”

  “The gunny? A sergeant gave you this order?”

  “Not an order. Um, more like a suggestion.”

  The general paused. The lieutenant wavered on his feet. “So he suggested you do this job. And he gave you a corporal, too, I suppose?”

  The corporal was trying hard to look invisible and wasn’t succeeding. “Corporal, what do you know about all this?”

  “It was just as the lieutenant said, sir,” he said, coming to ramrod attention.

  Erskine looked at both men suspiciously. Then he said, “All right. Carry o
n. But Lieutenant—”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you to get a good night’s sleep, and then report to me first thing in the morning. We’ll get regular medics here to take over the job, and get you both back into action where marines belong. Corporal, make sure that happens. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir!” the corporal said, without moving a muscle.

  “And also, where in hell can I find Fox Company, and this gunny?”

  The gunny looked like an elderly, grizzled veteran, which meant that he was older than twenty and had seen more than his share of this war. A tech sergeant had called out “Attention” as Erskine’s jeep approached, and the gunny, with the rest of his weary men, pushed up to a standing position.

  “As you were, marines,” barked the general, even before his jeep came to a halt. He stepped out and approached the gunnery sergeant as the rest of the men settled back to their K rations, canteens, or interrupted naps. The company was deployed just behind a crest of dune, and the general was pleased to note sentries posted and machine guns placed for maximum effect. He was saddened to note that this force composed of the remnants of two companies numbered little more than a reinforced platoon.

  “Is this Fox Company?” Erskine asked.

  “Yes, General,” the gunny replied. “What’s left of it. Bravo, too, sir. Second of the Third.”

  The general, eyes narrowed, studied the sergeant. He was wiry, thin, unshaven. His uniform was filthy, though his weapon—a Thompson submachine gun—was immaculate. Erskine liked what he saw.

  “Are you in command, here, Gunny?” he asked, trying to read the smudged name on his blouse. “Sergeant…?’

  “Gunnery Sergeant Rachwalski, sir. Yes, sir.”

  “Well, company command is no job for a gunny, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sir, no sir,” replied Rachwalski, without expression.

  “So consider yourself a captain for the duration. I’ll see what we can do about making it official and have some bars for your collar sent up here.”

  The gunny blinked, seemed confused for a moment. Then he allowed himself the hint of a smile. “Sir, thank you, sir,” he replied.

  “No, son,” General Erskine said. He put his hand on the old/young man’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Japan; Okinawa; Washington, D.C.

  • WEDNESDAY, 21 MARCH 1945 •

  CAMP SHINJUKU, TOKYO, JAPAN, 1820 HOURS

  It was dark and the prisoners were in their barracks for the evening. Captain Ogawa Taiki walked around the barbed wire surrounding the prisoners’ compound each evening to ensure the guards were all on duty and alert. The walking pulled at the torn muscle in his leg and caused him pain at every step. That was good. It was a form of discipline, and discipline was always good.

  The guards and barbed wire, Ogawa thought, not for the first time, were in fact unnecessary. Where would the prisoners go if they escaped? They couldn’t blend in with the population. No one would give them shelter or food. And ten compatriots would be killed as punishment for each man who escaped. Still, forms must be preserved. The rules must be followed. It was his duty.

  The prison camp was the largest part of Camp Shinjuku. A dirt road connected the camp’s entry gate to the compound where the guards lived and worked, about fifty yards from the camp proper. Just to the east and south stretched the great valley of Tokyo, the hub of Nipponese history and might. The outskirts of that great city were less than ten miles away from here, but the intervening ridge prevented any direct view of the metropolis from the camp. Once, Ogawa had climbed to the crest of that ridge, but the sight had been singularly unimpressive: night had fallen during his hike, and by the time he reached the summit the blacked-out city was just another dark swath of countryside.

  At the entry gate, Ogawa nodded to the guard sergeant, who in return saluted sharply. Ogawa returned the salute with grave formality, and with that, responsibility for the night rested with the sergeant. Ogawa’s duty day had ended, or at least had ended as much as a commander’s day ever did.

  Ogawa allowed himself to favor his bad leg a bit more on the short walk to the compound. He passed three dohyo, circles made for sumo wrestling. The enlisted men frequently challenged one another to sumo matches, and competition was fierce.

  Barracks, made of weathered wood similar to the ones inside the prisoner compound, made up the camp office and warehouse area. One barracks served as the camp office. Next to it was the mess hall. Then came the officers’ barracks, and four more for the enlisted men. All the buildings formed a horseshoe around a circular road. A bare flagpole stood in the center of the circle. The flag had been taken down for the night.

  Behind the buildings and parallel to the camp were several large sheds where equipment and supplies were stored. A sentry patrolled that area to guard against thieves. Shortages of just about everything made those sheds a tempting target.

  There was some paperwork yet to be done, but it could wait. He needed a drink. Instead of going to his office, he walked to the officer’s quarters two barracks to the right.

  The officers—there were only four—shared a single barracks, in form not much different from the ones occupied by the prisoners. Each officer had his own small sleeping room, containing a futon on the floor, a simple chest, and a rack to hang his uniform. A shoji screen served as the only privacy wall. Ogawa’s was otherwise bare.

  Two officers had their quarters on each side of the main entrance. A small common room occupied the space in the middle. The room contained a low table and a few rolled pillows. A cast-iron stove gave off heat. There was a bare electric lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, but it was off. Light came from a candle stuck into an empty bottle that sat in the center of the small table.

  All three of his lieutenants were waiting for him. Two were seated on the floor at the small table. Lieutenant Kawazoe Takumi had already placed a small pan of water on the cast-iron stove and was heating a bottle of sake. Lieutenant Kawazoe had a flat face and unusually big ears. He was a young man, one who would normally be serving at the front, but some administrative mixup had sent him to Shinjuku instead. Ogawa had endorsed his request for transfer several times, but nothing had happened yet.

  “Konichi-wa, taii-san,” Kawazoe said, standing and greeting his captain with a bow.

  Ogawa grunted an acknowledgment as he unfastened his Sam Browne belt and removed his cap, placing them next to the door. He sat on the floor and pulled off his boots and placed them with his other equipment. He stood and put on a pair of slippers before joining the rest of them. He crossed his legs in a lotus position, which stretched his wound again, and took one of the small pillows and wedged it into the small of his back. Meanwhile, the lieutenant had taken the warm sake bottle from the simmering water and poured some into a flask. He sat down and poured sake into four small cups.

  It was up to Ogawa to make the first traditional toast. He lifted his small sake cup and said, “Banzai!” The wish for ten thousand years was both for the emperor’s prosperity and for long life and happiness for all the guests.

  The three lieutenants dutifully repeated the toast and all four men downed the warmed rice wine. Ogawa shifted the small rolled pillow that supported the small of his back and gestured at Kawazoe to pour a second round. That emptied the flask, and Kawazoe filled it from the bottle on the stove.

  “How have our flower sniffers behaved today?” Ogawa asked, downing another cup of sake.

  “The holio were shiftless, lazy, clumsy, and stupid. Which is to say it was a normal day in all respects,” Lieutenant Saruwatari Taiki answered. Saruwatari was the tallest of the four. Half his face was scar tissue, a souvenir of his encounter with an American flamethrower on Luzon. He had been evacuated on one of the ships carrying prisoners—a lucky ship, one that ran the gauntlet of American air and sea power to make it all the way back to Japan.

  Lieutenant Watanabe Kaito laughed. Kaito didn’t speak much. His shaved head was a mark
of his practice of the forty-eight vows of the Amida Buddha. He was much more serious than the other lieutenants and spent much of his free time chanting, meditating, or praying.

  “Our gesuonna was in fine form today,” Saruwatari continued. “I shouted at him and I thought he was going to piss himself, he was shaking so hard.” He laughed. “I gave him a good slapping, but it didn’t do any good. Some of the other prisoners are almost like men, but this one—what a mewling coward he is.”

  “There is one important thing to remember,” Ogawa said, his voice somewhat thickened by the sake. “Some of these men surrendered and bear all the dishonor themselves. But many did not surrender themselves. Their leaders surrendered, and thus the leaders, not their troops, bear the dishonor. Some of these men might have kept fighting and kept their honor.”

  “I would! I wouldn’t dishonor myself, even if it were an order!” Kawazoe, the youngster, blurted out.

  “So sorry, but if it is a lawful order from those placed over you, disobeying is a greater dishonor,” Watanabe interjected. His voice was calm. “Obeying is the highest virtue.”

  “But how could an order to surrender be lawful or correct?” argued Kawazoe. “Wouldn’t such an order condemn the man who gave it?” He looked at the other lieutenants for support.

  Watanabe shrugged. “I do not always know or understand the reasons behind each order I am given. Perhaps the order might appear wrong or useless based on my limited view. But my view is limited. Thus, I merely obey. That is my duty.”

  Ogawa put his fist down hard on the little table, causing the molten wax on the candle to splatter. “Correct! That is true wisdom, Lieutenant. We do not always know the reasons behind our orders. Therefore, we must obey.”