The Final Storm (52 page)

J
UNE
22, 1945

It was not yet midnight, but the lack of daylight meant very little inside the dismal cave. Above him the thunder of artillery had been replaced by new sounds, machine gun fire, sounds both familiar and foreign. He knew what was happening, that those officers still remaining who controlled enough men to make a stand were doing so right above him. It was a desperate attempt to drive the Americans off the hill. In the dark corridor, men had been assembled, a scattering of stragglers from various units close by, brought together by staff officers, the only officers these men could find. He knew that Yahara was there, could hear voices, the frantic words of men who were preparing for their last fight. Yahara was at his doorway now, the only light a candle to one side, and Yahara said, “We are prepared, sir. Major Matsubara has given the instructions, and Lieutenants Tsubakida and Yabumoto will coordinate the effort as best they can. We have the advantage of darkness, and the enemy cannot withstand our will!”

Ushijima waved him away, knew the plan was already in motion. There was nothing else to say. The commotion beyond his room increased, the men ordered out toward the main entrance. Ushijima sat silently, stared at the flicker from the candle, thought, at least he did not call this attack a banzai. I would rather them die with dignity, killing the enemy. There is no glory in hurling oneself into the abyss.

He had no illusions that this attack would be successful in removing the Americans from so close to his headquarters. But his troops were still willing, had accepted their role in this horrible drama with as much honor as anyone could hope for. He glanced at his pocket watch, the dial reading just after seven o’clock, completely wrong. Wonderful, he thought. Even
my timepiece fails me. He tapped it gently, useless, slipped it back into his pocket. There were no voices in the corridor now, the only sounds coming from above, the muffled struggle rolling across the hillside a few meters above him.

J
UNE
23, 1945

He found sleep, the steady roar of the fight offering him a strange comfort. But now there were voices, and he lurched awake, blinked in the darkness, the candle extinguished. A light flickered outside, and he pulled himself up, straightened his uniform, the light close, illuminating his room. The voice came softly, one of his aides.

“Sir, I beg your forgiveness. You asked to be notified when it was three o’clock.”

“Yes. Please summon General Cho.”

“As you wish, sir. Shall I leave the candle?”

“I prefer you not stumble about. I will be fine in the dark.”

The man was gone, the light flowing away. At first Ushijima’s room had received a single lightbulb, hanging tenuously from an unconcealed wire. But the power was out now, the cave no more than a warm, damp tomb. The fight still raged above but seemed to slow, the machine guns and thumps of mortar fire exhausted by the long night, a battle of attrition that had spent itself in blood and the death of too many men. He stood, moved in the dark space by memory, thought of Cho, the room next to him, the man’s thunderous snoring apparent even through the thick dirt walls. He heard commotion from that way, knew that Cho had spent much of the evening consuming a generous amount of spirits, and Ushijima had no patience for that now. After a long minute, the candlelight returned, and Cho was there now, said, “Sir. It is time, yes?” Cho’s words were slurring, and there was a strange cheerfulness to the man, something Ushijima had seen before. “I have been waiting for you to awaken, sir. You took a good rest.”

Ushijima fastened the buttons on his coat, said, “You as well, General. Your snoring carries more thunder than the enemy’s guns.”

Other aides appeared now, and Ushijima knew it was the work of Yahara, that word had been passed. Ushijima saw a familiar face in the candlelight, said, “Captain, summon Colonel Yahara.”

Cho stumbled into the room, sat heavily on a small bench to one side, and Ushijima could smell the man’s drunkenness, saw the bottle still in his
hand, something stronger than sake. Cho said, “So. Who will go first? You or me? Shall I die first and lead you to another world?”

“I will take the lead.”

Cho laughed, took a slug from the bottle.

“Sir, you will go to paradise, I to hell. I cannot accompany you to that
other
world.”

Ushijima ignored the comment, could see more men gathering outside the room, emerging from the offices that spread out down the musty corridor. One man stepped forward, dropped to his knees, soft cries.

“Please, sir, accept my respects. It is my honor to serve you.”

Another man came in, one of the staff officers, and the man seemed drunk as well, said aloud, “Sir, I wish to inform the general that our final message has been transmitted to Imperial General Headquarters. I need not read it. The words are imprinted upon my brain, as it has no doubt been received so many times by those in Tokyo. ‘Your army has successfully completed preparations for the defense of our homeland.’ ” The man laughed, slicing through the somber mood of the others. “Is that not what we are supposed to say, sir? Is all well here? Victory within our grasp, then?”

Ushijima retrieved his newest uniform coat from his trunk, said quietly, “Thank you for your service, Major. You will retire to your room.”

The man stumbled into the others, took some of them with him, the crowd thinning, nothing else for them to say. Yahara was there now, and Ushijima saw his face in the candlelight, the colonel not hiding the tears. Ushijima pinned a large medal upon his own chest, something he had not displayed in over a year, the uniform coming together in a grand show that few in this command had ever seen. He looked toward Yahara, the man seeming to wait for him to speak first.

“Colonel, is there any change?”

“No, sir. I have not been outside myself, but the last report I received indicated that the enemy was massing near several entrances to the cave. We have blockaded them as effectively as we could, but with their high explosives, and the guns of their tanks, I do not see how we can hold them away. The flamethrowers will certainly follow, sir.”

“They shall not capture us, Colonel, and they shall not have the satisfaction of destroying us.” He paused, looked at the few remaining faces, flickers of candlelight, saw many tears, and now the face of Captain Sakaguchi. “Captain, I am pleased you have come. Are you prepared?”

“I am at your service, General.”

“Then it is time. General Cho, are you able to walk?”

Cho ignored the insult, removed his coat, tossed it on the floor, was now opposite in appearance from his commander, who stood now for a long silent moment, straight backed, one hand touching the display of medals on his chest, each one a small memory of some ceremony, utterly meaningless now. Cho stood unevenly, and Ushijima moved past him, past the others, out into the corridor. The candlelight followed him, lighting the way, and after a short march the cave’s wide opening was visible. Without any order the candle was extinguished, no opportunity offered the enemy to target the entrance from some lookout at sea. Ushijima stood at the opening, felt the warm breeze, could see moonlight on the water, felt a mist rising up from the cliffs below, a spray of salt air. He stepped outside, a ledge to one side, saw that the preparations had been made, exactly as he had requested. A soft mat had been spread on the rocky flat ground, a white ceremonial cloth draped on the rocks just behind. He moved without a word, sat, curled his legs in, faced the sea. Cho followed, settled down clumsily beside him. Cho leaned low, as though peering off the edge of the cliff, one last glimpse of something Ushijima knew nothing about, and he avoided the thought that somewhere below, a woman huddled low in some shacklike corner of this grotesque hell. With Cho’s back revealed to the moonlight, he realized there was writing on Cho’s white shirt, large brushstrokes, the details made clear not just by the moonlight, but the hint of dawn just rising in the east.

With bravery I serve my nation; With loyalty I dedicate my life
.

Ushijima said nothing, thought, he is right, of course. There is nothing more valuable we can claim, no greater message to bring our ancestors. He stared out at the water, knew that very soon the daylight would reveal this piece of ground to the American ships, the white cloth a highly visible target. There was little time to waste. Ushijima turned, a half-dozen men standing close to one side of the ledge, and he saw Yahara, the man’s head low, more tears.

“Colonel, please compose yourself. You may order the staffs to depart. And you will carry out my order for yourself.”

Yahara snapped to attention, made a short, crisp bow. He turned, the word passing quickly, quietly, the men emerging from the cave as though awaiting this very moment. They moved in a single line, no hesitation, dropping onto the steep pathways that wound down the cliff. Ushijima
turned again toward the sea, could hear new sounds now, from above, the thump of grenades. He felt a pang of urgency, his fingers fumbling, then finding the control, loosening the buttons on his coat, and then his shirt. His abdomen was bare, and beside him, the small grunts told him that Cho had done the same. He turned to see Sakaguchi, who held the sword at his chest, the sword that would bring the final blow to both men. Ushijima saw the strength in the man, trained for this ceremony, the man who understood exactly what his duty would be. But first there was a task that only the two men could perform themselves. The aide was there, dutiful, nervous, holding the white cloth that held the ceremonial knives. Ushijima slid one toward him, stared at it for a long second, heard a sharp blast meters behind him, the hillside awakening with more of the fight. Men were shouting on the hill above him, and a Nambu gun erupted a few meters to one side, just beyond the curve of the hill. Ushijima forced that from his mind, did not look at Cho, held the knife out straight in front of him, stared at the point of the blade, aimed just below his heart. He closed his eyes, a brief second, but a soft breeze brought the smell of the salt air up the cliff, erasing the stink of powder, and he opened his eyes, one last glance at the sea. But there was no serenity now, the dawn revealing the spatter of so many ships, the vast display of power from the enemy he could not hope to defeat. He gripped the small sword, let out a breath, and jammed the blade hard into his stomach, twisted, fought the gasp from his lungs, ripped the knife to the side, slicing across. His hands gave way now, dropping down, warm wetness flowing, his mind weakening, the ocean gone, his head falling forward. Close behind him the swordsman raised his blade, swung it down with a mighty shout, finishing the job.

T
he mopping-up phase was continuing all across the peninsula, men who did their brutal work in proximity to the narrowing front, some on the hills that bordered the ocean. Flamethrowers and grenades continued to be the weapons of choice, and there was little mercy shown to any Japanese soldier who still showed a willingness to fight. The casualties continued on both sides, Japanese snipers finding targets, carelessness punished, just as before. The officers and medical personnel were still prime targets but performed their work with no hesitation. Often the dead in the caves included civilians, Okinawans who were still afraid of the Americans, and kept up a loyalty to the Japanese that no American could explain. Even in surrender the Okinawans could be complicit in the most treacherous acts, and so the American soldiers and Marines who continued to press forward were kept on a razor’s edge. From every cave death might emerge in the guise of pitiful innocence, pockets of Okinawans or Japanese offering their surrender, only to ignite hidden grenades as their captors moved in close. The civilians were often not civilians at all, thus the Okinawans were considered to be the enemy still, some eliminated before questions could be asked. Some of the dead inspired a furious guilt in the Americans who had killed them before discovering how innocent they truly were. The dead included mothers with their babies, the sick and horribly wounded, the feeble and the old. Some of the Americans vowed compassion, to be
more careful, more selective before unleashing a horrible death on those hidden in the caves. That care would lead to hesitation, or an act of kindness that might explode in their faces, so the conscience would be shoved aside by the anger, the hate, the viciousness.

It was the face of war.

Many of the Americans had seen too much, had slept in the blood of their friends, had wiped brains and guts from their faces, had suffered through the worst of human behavior, enduring an astounding struggle against an enemy who kills because it is his only reason for existence. Many of the Americans responded in kind, any sense of mercy erased by hatred for an enemy that had become less than human. There had been prisoners, Japanese soldiers offering their surrender with hands high and no treachery. But those were not nearly as plentiful as the number of desperate civilians. It had been a painful lesson for the Americans all across the Pacific that the Japanese troops who surrendered were doing so with the understanding that they were disgracing themselves and their ancestors, and that if they were ever returned home, their shame would make them outcasts. Even those who accepted the kindness shown them by American doctors rarely showed joy. If there were no smiles, there was certainly relief and stoic gratefulness from men who had been hungry or wounded for days, marching out into sunlight, to find, not cannibals and torture, but medicine and water and food. As the caves were exposed and the enemy obliterated, the Americans began to explore, shocked that the shattered remains of the dead were not always the worst that awaited them. In many of the caves, stolen American equipment and food was found, trinkets and souvenirs that showed very clearly that the Japanese showed no mercy either. Letters from American wives and mothers lay among the ruins in the caves, along with photographs of children, Bibles and notebooks, diaries, the forbidden journals written by American GIs who had kept them out of sight of their officers, personal thoughts recorded on burned pages that no one would ever read. Some of the caves held American weapons and K ration boxes, canteens and dog tags, what some must have thought the appropriate spoils of war. But the Americans responded in kind, gathering their own souvenirs, some with a horrifying disregard for the humanity of their enemy. On both sides gold teeth were pulled from the jawbones of the dead and dying, jewelry ripped from fingers and necks. Some of the wounded were killed by torture and physical abuse that caused comrades
to turn away in disgust. The fight for Okinawa had brought out the worst in everyone involved, but in that it was not unique. The veterans had gone through this before, some of them itching to begin again. To some the end of the fight was anticlimactic, the stirring in their gut needing to be fed by a new fight, another invasion, more blood, more death to the enemy they knew only as the
Japs
. There was very little doubt among any of those men that the Japanese who awaited them on the next island, the next landing zone, felt exactly the same way about them.