1945

Chapter 33

The angry bark of a rifle sent scores of soldiers sprawling on the ground. "Sniper!" someone yelled, and a fusillade of bullets, this time from American guns, filled the air. There was silence and then someone screamed for a medic.

Lt. Paul Morrell raised himself to his hands and knees and tried to see what had happened. They had been climbing a heavily shrubbed but not particularly steep hill near Miyazaki in Kyushu, and the men had been moving out in skirmish formation when the shot had been fired.

There was motion to Paul's left so he slithered over in that direction. Other prone soldiers grudgingly moved out of his way.

"Over here, Lieutenant." It was Wills, the medic.

There was more firing and Sergeant Collins profanely called for the men to stop. Paul got up and ran hunched over, expecting every second to be shot by the sniper. He made it safely to where Wills was working on a soldier who lay on his back. Paul threw himself down beside the two men.

It was Haskins, a young PFC about twenty. His throat looked as if it had exploded, and Wills was frantically trying to stop the blood that was gushing out over both of them. Paul tried not to look at the ripped and torn cartilage that was exposed just beneath the young man's chin. Haskins's mouth was flapping and it looked as if he was trying to say something; he couldn't, except for a low gurgling. Haskins's eyes fixed on Paul, silently imploring him to get him out of the mess he found himself in.

Paul looked at the medic, who shook his head. "I gave him morphine. A lot of it." A few seconds later, Haskins's eyes glazed over and he stopped breathing. "Nothing I could do, sir," Wills said, and he began to gather up his gear.

"You did your best," Paul said, conscious of the emptiness of the comment.

Wills didn't respond. Nothing would be said about the overdose of morphine that had hastened Haskins's death. Many of the soldiers carried extra morphine to put either themselves or a buddy out of misery in the event of an awful wound. It was something else the people at home didn't know about.

Haskins was the platoon's first fatality since landing on Kyushu almost a week earlier. A couple men had been wounded, but none killed. They'd been fortunate. The powers that directed their lives had kept their battalion as a regimental reserve until earlier in the day. Thus, they'd left reserve status and moved up to the front only a few hours earlier.

Paul moved a few feet away from the dead soldier and sat down in the dirt. He really didn't know Haskins well at all. He'd been a quiet kid who just did what he had to and pretty much stayed out of trouble. He'd been a late arrival to the company and had replaced one of the earlier men who'd been a total screwup. Now, because he was more competent than the dud whose place he'd taken, he was lying dead on the ground with his throat ripped out.

Sergeant Collins flopped down beside Paul. "We got the sniper, sir. Wanna see?"

Paul realized that he did want to see the Jap who'd killed Haskins. "Yeah."

Collins led him up the hill about a hundred yards to where a couple of men stared at the ground. A body lay half out of a hole. The upper torso, riddled with bullets, barely looked human. Leaves and branches jutted from the webbing of the Jap's helmet, part of his camouflage. The man's rifle lay beside him.

Collins kicked at the corpse and it slid back into its hole. "He wasn't very smart. He was pretty well hidden and should have waited until we passed. Then he could have hopped out and shot a couple of us before we got him. I think he panicked."

Wonderful, Paul thought, and shuddered. He hoped none of the Jap soldiers had the balls to wait while the army had passed by and over them.

Captain Ruger approached and found him deep in thought. "Shake it, Paul. You lost a man. It was your first and it won't be your last."

"I know, Captain. We lost our first American and we just killed our first Jap. That's one for one. Tell me, how many Japs are there on this stinking island?"

"A lot," Ruger said.

"Yeah, just a few minutes on the line and we've got a dead kid. Now I've got to write a letter to his family telling them that he was brave and died both instantly and painlessly, when we all know he was scared to death for several agonizing minutes and flopping like a fish. And all the while he was trying to say something through a hole in his neck that was so big you could stick your fist in it."

Ruger eyed Paul coldly. "You gonna be okay? You've got a right to be upset, but I don't need my second-in-command collapsing on me."

"I won't collapse," Paul said grimly. "This never happened to me, not even when I was in Germany. Of course, the war was almost over so even the krauts were concentrating on staying alive. I had a couple of guys hurt, but it was mainly their own fault. What the hell did Haskins do to get killed like that?"

"He was born," Ruger said, and grasped Paul's shoulder. "Look at the bright side. We took the hill. Only thing, there's another hill right after this, and another one after that."

Paul stood and slung his carbine over his shoulder. "Yeah, and this is supposed to be the gentle part of the terrain around here. What the hell are we gonna do when the ground gets really difficult? You and I both know that there'll be more than one sniper on the next one."

They both turned toward the north. Hill after hill grimly rose in serrated splendor, like so many sword blades waiting to slash them. They were not hills, Paul realized, they were weapons in the Japanese arsenal, and every one of them would have to be disarmed.

Chapter 34

It had been Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto's fond hope that the submarine I-58 would be able to sneak out and around the flank of the American invasion fleet, then attack transports and carriers through what had to be its more vulnerable rear. After all, wouldn't the eyes, ears, and guns of the Americans be pointed toward Japan and not back in the direction from which they'd come? He admitted to himself that this might be a futile wish, but it was the course he would pursue.

First, the Imperial Navy's submarine command had changed their minds and radioed that he should indeed carry the disliked kaiten human torpedoes on his sub when he attacked the American fleet. He had complied without protest. If ever the kaiten were going to prove themselves useful, this would be the time.

This necessitated a delay while he sailed to the hidden supply facility and had the four human-piloted torpedoes attached to the deck of the I-58. His sub could have carried six of the strange things, but the specially adapted torpedoes were in short supply. There were more than enough human volunteers to ride them to their doom, but the American raids had severely affected Japan's ability to manufacture the weapons.

Along with torpedoes, Hashimoto thought ruefully, everything else was in short supply. When he asked for supplies, all he received was a litany of unavailable items, including fuel. He was able to top off his tanks, but a harried supply officer informed him that there were no more fuel reserves. So, this would likely be his last cruise. If that proved to be the case, he could end his part in this dreadful war and return home with honor satisfied.

What really dashed his hope for a rearward assault was even more significant than the delays required for the installation of the kaiten. The utter vastness of the American fleet precluded any attempt to flank it. His executive officer had bitterly surmised that it would be necessary to sail to Australia to find the American flank. As with many a bitter jest, it held a nugget of truth. The numbers of enemy warships off the coast of Kyushu defied counting. There were more American battleships and carriers off Kyushu than the Japanese navy had ever dreamed of having in their fleet, and they were accompanied by vast hordes of smaller cruisers and destroyers. Truly, the American ability to manufacture weapons had tragically been underestimated by the Japanese government. Even though he would fight bravely, Hashimoto knew that his efforts, even if successful beyond his dreams, would be meaningless when compared with the size of the American fleet.

He hoped that his fellow submariners would have the same type of success that he planned on for the I-58. Cumulatively, perhaps they could affect the outcome of the war. Hashimoto had no delusions regarding the ultimate end to the conflict: Japan was doomed to lose. All he could do was what he'd been ordered to, and that was to help cause so much damage to the Americans that they would negotiate a better peace for Japan. It seemed foolish to him. An earlier peace might have found the Americans in a more forgiving mood. Now they would truly be vindictive.

The I-58 approached the American armada frontally, but submerged and with great stealth. Although Hashimoto's main concern was detection by American sonar, he felt that he still had some advantages. For one thing, the sheer volume of shipping made for inconsistent and cluttered sonar readings as hundreds of ships' screws churned the water and, he hoped, sent confusing information to the sonar operators.

Sonar was a devilish weapon. Ultrasonic waves were radiated out by the sending ship and, when they bounced off an object in the water, announced to the world that a submarine might be calling. At first it was thought that sonar would spell the end of submarine warfare. It had not. Sonar, like radar, was a good but imperfect weapon, with many ways it could be fooled by a cunning submariner, and Hashimoto counted on these imperfections to help him.

The volcanic continental shelf that surrounded Japan extended well out into the Pacific and was as hilly and rugged as the islands it surrounded. This meant that the I-58 could skulk about on the ocean bottom and hide among the irregularities in the ocean floor when her captain felt she might be threatened by surface enemies. A submarine lying inert on the bottom was invisible to sonar.

Periodically, however, the I-58 had come to periscope depth to refresh her air through the snorkel, and to see whether she had made it past the defending American warships through the simple expedient of having them wash over the I-58 as they closed in on Kyushu.

But this had not yet happened. Each time the I-58's periscope had poked above the waves, Hashimoto had seen long rows of destroyers and other antisubmarine craft several miles in the distance. This portion of the American fleet showed no indication that it would be closing on Kyushu anytime soon, and any attempt to penetrate the lines of destroyers would be suicidal.

Commander Hashimoto had no doubts that he would probably soon die for Japan, but he wanted his sacrifice to be worthwhile. He had four of the precious kaiten and twenty-four standard Type 95 torpedoes ready to be fired. His orders had been specific- he was to only attack carriers and transports. Other ships were to be left alone.

While he recognized the order as militarily essential, it was also irksome. Although depressed by what he saw as the inevitable outcome of the war, Hashimoto still had a warrior's lust to kill other warships, and while he definitely considered a carrier a warship, he did not extend that title to the fat and sluggish transports. He would have liked nothing more than to loose a spread of torpedoes at the several destroyers currently in his vision. He would sink them as he had the American cruiser Indianapolis. The Indianapolis had gone down with great loss of life, a fact that saddened him deeply.

He ordered down periscope and stepped away. It was almost dawn and it was no longer difficult to see the enemy ships. He did not dare have the periscope visible for more than a few seconds at a time in the daylight lest some eagle-eyed American lookout see its small ripples running contrary to the wind and the sea.

Lt. Sakuo Yokochi, his second-in-command, looked at him in dismay. "Still nothing, Captain?"

Hashimoto wanted to snap at the man for his foolish question, but merely glared at him until Yokochi turned away. It was so frustrating. There had to be a way through the wall of defenders. The American destroyers were like bees protecting the precious honey in a hive.

A distant rumbling sound rolled over the sub and rocked it, causing some of his men to gasp in surprise. Someone was being fired upon, and Hashimoto concluded that the target was probably one of the numerous midget submarines that were also trying to sink American ships. The Americans were alerted and it would now be a time of great peril for the I-58.

He was about to order the I-58 back down to the bottom when a thought struck him and he smiled. It was indeed a time of great peril, but might it not be a time of great opportunity as well?

"Up periscope," he ordered, and enjoyed seeing the dismay on Yokochi's face. Lieutenant Yokochi was a fool and the type of man who would never had made it to the rank of lieutenant had there not been so many casualties in the navy.

Hashimoto stared through the lens as additional explosions vibrated along the I-58's hull. Someone was getting heavily depth-charged. He felt a momentary twinge of regret for the agonies of his unknown countrymen, but he was more concerned by the possibility that this was his chance to penetrate the American destroyer screen.

He looked at the American destroyers and smiled. Like predators moving in for the kill, the warships were streaking away from the I-58. Two Fletcher-class destroyers positively raced past his view in their haste to join in the fun of the final attack. The result was a gap in their lines. It would only exist for a while, but it did exist at this moment.

"Ha!" he exulted, and ordered the still submerged I-58 toward the gap at flank speed. He ignored the sharp intake of breath from his officers, especially Yokochi. He ordered the periscope down and stood by it with his arms folded across his chest. If any of the American ships did detect him underneath the water with their sonar, the I-58 could be doomed.

Minutes of waiting stretched into eternity. The American line of warships had been only a couple of miles away. He calculated time and speed; they were right where the Americans had been. If his gamble was successful, they would now proceed without incident into the heart of the hive and steal the honey. Hashimoto decided he liked the analogy.

If they'd been detected, or if one of the American ships that had left station realized that a mistake had been made and returned to its place, then the I-58 would likely be located and destroyed.

Further minutes crept by and he willed himself to relax, but not show his surging emotions. The men of the I-58 must believe that their captain had everything under control at all times. Beside him, Yokochi had checked his watch and figured it out as well. He smiled timidly at his captain, who chose not to acknowledge it.

They were past the defenses. Now they were in the heart of the American fleet. It would be full daylight in a little while. Once again the I-58 would lie on the bottom and wait for darkness to return. This time, however, when night fell, the sub would be the hunter and not the hunted. This night Hashimoto would be the predator.

Chapter 35

Seaman Tim Jardine rubbed his burning eyes and leaned against the mount of the 40mm antiaircraft gun that was his battle station on the Augusta. He was supposed to be resting while others scanned the darkened sea and skies for signs of the Japanese. Everyone on board the nine-thousand-ton heavy cruiser was tired from days of being at their battle stations. It was so bad Tim wondered if they would be capable of fighting if a Jap plane did manage to find them. All he and the others really wanted was to go to sleep and the hell with the Japs.

At least they were able to let some of the men rest and doze while the others watched and waited through the night. He wished he could have a cigarette, but orders were to keep everything as dark as possible.

Jardine caught the shadow of motion behind him and froze. At the last possible second he recognized the famous silhouette and snapped to attention. He was about to salute when Gen. Douglas MacArthur swept by him, unseeing and apparently deep in thought.

Jardine turned to his mates and hissed, "Hey! You guys see that? It was MacArthur, his royal self."

"You mean Dugout Doug in the flesh?" chuckled Carl Haverman, one of Jardine's buddies in the gun mount. A couple of the others laughed softly as well.

Jardine looked at the disappearing figure as MacArthur headed toward the bow of the cruiser. "Shit, I hope he didn't hear you. I got this thing about not insulting five-star generals. Piss one of them off and he can really make your life miserable."

Haverman snorted. "I don't care if he hears us or not. What the hell can he do to us, huh? Hell, he's the reason we're here, ain't he? If it weren't for him flicking up so badly in the Philippines and all over the ocean, we'd all be home by now."

Jardine looked to see if anyone else had heard Haverman's comments. He was particularly concerned that the ensign on duty didn't take offense, but that young man was hunched over in his chair and snoring deeply.

MacArthur was considered a hero by some for his actions, and a bum by others. There was little middle ground. Either you admired the man or you thought he was scum. Jardine tended to admire him, feeling that people didn't get to five-star rank on charm alone. He rubbed his eyes again and tried to rest. In a little while it would be his turn to look into the night and try to differentiate between twinkling stars and a Jap fighter.

Alone on the bow of the Augusta, Douglas MacArthur gripped the rail and tried to peer through the night toward Japan. Only the slight glint of starlight off his West Point ring of the class of 1903 was visible.

Although an older man who needed glasses to read, his hearing was excellent and he had heard Haverman's comment calling him Dugout Doug. He had heard it a thousand times before and even seen it in print. It wasn't fair. None of the disasters of late 1941 and early '42 were his fault.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt had put him in an impossible position, then blamed him when the Japanese had swarmed over the Philippines and caused the surrenders of Bataan and Corregidor along with tens of thousands of American and Philippine troops. Gen. Douglas MacArthur also held the rank of field marshal in the Philippine army. He had wanted to stay with his men of both nations and fight alongside them, perhaps die with them.

Roosevelt would have none of it. There had been too great a risk that MacArthur would have been captured instead of killed, then displayed as a trophy by the Japs. Instead, Roosevelt had ordered MacArthur to escape to Australia. MacArthur had reluctantly complied and, along with his wife and young son, taken the danger-filled trek across the southern Pacific.

Only when he arrived at Australia did he understand Roosevelt's treachery as augmented by his other enemy, General Marshall. MacArthur's understanding was that he would retain control over the army in the Philippines, but Marshall placed Lt. Gen. Jonathan Wainwright in command. Wainwright had surrendered, not MacArthur. MacArthur had wanted Wainwright to fight on, but Wainwright had received permission from Marshall to surrender not only Bataan and Corregidor, but all of the Philippines. It was outrageous. Some of the land and soldiers surrendered hadn't been threatened and could have held out as armed enclaves for quite some time, perhaps until being reinforced.

Of course, as he later found out, there were to be no reinforcements. Roosevelt had decreed that Nazi Germany was the primary threat to America and that the Pacific war could wait. Instead of an army, MacArthur had been given only handftils of units and dribbles of reinforcements with which to launch limited and bloody offensives. Even so, he had persevered and won island after island and battle after battle, culminating in the liberation of the Philippines in 1944 and now, the ultimate, the invasion of Japan herself.

For that he was still castigated by some in his army, and by members of the press as Dugout Doug. Worse, what should have been his hour of triumph was rapidly becoming very, very hollow. Vital information had been withheld from him regarding true Japanese numbers and strength on Kyushu. He and his staff hadn't gotten true figures until far too late to change their plans. Thus, his army was now slogging and clawing its way inch by bloody inch into Japan instead of advancing triumphantly through its cities.

Some told him that it was his own staffs fault that he'd been misled, but MacArthur rejected that. Generals Willoughby and Sutherland had been with him through thick and thin, and while they certainly made some human mistakes, they were loyal to him and that was that.

He let go of the rail and began to pace back and forth across the narrow bow of the cruiser. Above him, the three eight-inch guns of the forward turret glowered protection for him as he reviewed the combat situation.

The marines on the west of Kyushu had reached the high ground between their landing sites and the deep waters of Kagoshima Bay. They could now look down into the large, sheltered anchorage, but they had not yet forced the west gate to the bay, and the Japs had dug in to prevent that. To deny Kagoshima Bay to the United States, the Japs only had to hold one side of the gate.

To the east, the two army corps were nowhere near their objectives. Only a few small towns had fallen, and the American navy was still unable to use Ariake Bay. Until Ariake Bay was taken, there could be no port or airfields developed. Without a port, there could be no massive reinforcements of men and equipment. Take Ariake and the army could leapfrog into Kagoshima Bay and join up with the marines. Without it, they were forced to live like vagabonds and depend on what was stored on the hundreds of support ships that waited in giant convoys just off Kyushu. It was not an efficient way to run a campaign and had to change soon.

MacArthur wondered how much of it was Krueger's fault. Certainly, Lt. Gen. Walter Krueger was a solid professional soldier, although perhaps a bit unimaginative. The men under Krueger's command seemed to lack a zest for battle and were getting bogged down at the smallest obstacle. Should he replace Krueger with Eichelberger? He would think on it. Eichelberger had wanted the task, but MacArthur had insisted on Krueger having his turn. Now he wondered if he had been too hasty in appointing Krueger over Eichelberger.

The casualties had been appalling. Instead of breaking and collapsing, the Japanese had fought like the devil in most places and showed no sign of changing, although some second-rate units and individual soldiers had given up. How the insidious General Marshall must enjoy seeing MacArthur's battle reports and realizing that all was not going as well as he had predicted.

Marshall now had Truman's ear just as he'd had Roosevelt's, and that situation bore watching. Truman was such an intellectual lightweight that Marshall was bound to dominate him. MacArthur did have to give Marshall his due; he had a keener mind than MacArthur had thought and had used it to his utmost advantage.

At least MacArthur had managed to keep the invasion both an all-American show and an all-white-American war. He had withstood pressure from Roosevelt and then Truman to incorporate three divisions of British Commonwealth troops into his army. Great Britain had offered them, but he had withstood it. The three divisions- one each from Australia, Britain, and Canada- would have been a logistical nightmare to keep in the field. Unlike the European theater, where there were ports and occupied landmasses where vast and differing kinds of supplies could be stored, all of his men would have to live for some time off what was on the ships. MacArthur had rightly convinced Marshall that he didn't have the resources to supply the Commonwealth troops with their own ammunition, food, and weapons. Therefore, the three Commonwealth divisions had to change to American tactics and equipment if they were to join the battle.

With neither the time nor the resources to do this, the British had backed off, although they were beginning to switch over to American gear in anticipation of the second phase of the battle for Japan- Operation Coronet, the invasion of Honshu. This MacArthur could accept. When Coronet occurred, there would be supply depots on Kyushu, and the logistical problem would be over.

As to minority soldiers, MacArthur simply didn't think they would fight well. Roosevelt, doubtless egged on by his aggravating wife, Eleanor, had felt they should be incorporated into the army as fighting men, instead of supply soldiers and laborers, which was their normal use. Truman now supported this incredible idea as well, to MacArthur's astonishment. MacArthur felt that he could understand the political logic and the urgency to widen the population base from which the soldiers were drawn, but he could not permit this to happen to the detriment of his army. Negroes, while fine fellows in their own way, were simply not cut out to be warriors. He had put his foot down before and would do it again. There would be no Negroes in the front lines in the invasion of Japan.

Of course, and MacArthur smiled at the thought, if Eisenhower wanted them in Europe and if that freed up white soldiers to fight in Japan, well, that was fine by him. MacArthur recalled Ike as being a fine chief of staff for him, but he now was one of Marshall's boys and, therefore, part of the cabal against him.

It further pleased MacArthur that he had kept the despised Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, out of his area of operations. He'd heard that they'd done well in Europe, but doubted it. He despised amateurs and that's all they were. Imagine, they'd wanted to use some of his several hundred nisei translators as espionage agents and spies to be inserted into Japan. No, he'd answered. Once there, it was too likely they'd go over to the Japanese side. Let his nisei stay in Australia where they could be watched.

If the OSS, through the navy, wished to send in Japanese Americans, then let them find their own qualified people and run the risk of losing them. He would not help the navy. MacArthur had heard reports that the OSS had managed to land one man, who had done some good, and were following up with others, but they would not use his tame Japanese in the ensuing battles.

Douglas MacArthur was not afraid of the outcome of combat. He accepted that he was far braver than most men. It was not that he was without fear; indeed, he knew it and despised what it could do to a man. But he was able to control it, even conquer it.

Bravery was something that came quite naturally to MacArthur. He'd first seen combat during the 1914 punitive expedition to Vera Cruz, Mexico, where he'd pistoled at least a half dozen Mexican soldiers. He'd been nominated for the Medal of Honor, but denied it because his one-man patrol hadn't been authorized. It had been the first in a long line of personal affronts against him by bureaucrats in Washington. Later, he'd been decorated in World War I and had, of course, been unperturbable under fire several times during the current conflict. Thus, it galled him mightily when people cast doubts on his manhood and courage. He'd thought of personally berating the sailor, but decided it would be useless. Let them judge him on the basis of the victory that would surely come.

MacArthur looked out on one of the several destroyers escorting the Augusta. The heavy cruiser was the center of its own small task force, and his presence on her caused four additional warships to be detailed to protect both him and the Augusta. Someday soon, one of his political enemies would make comments about that, but American ships no longer traveled alone. The catastrophic sinking of the Indianapolis was too fresh on everyone's mind. Even if he hadn't been on board the cruiser, she would not be alone.

MacArthur had heard muted criticism regarding his choosing the Augusta in the first place. The whispers said that he wanted the Augusta because two presidents had sailed on her. What foolishness! He'd selected the Augusta because it had been configured to handle an admiral's staff, which meant it could house his. Admiral Nimitz had suggested they share the resources of Nimitz's command ship, the Wasatch. MacArthur, while appreciating the gesture, had demurred. He'd feared that his presence on the Wasatch would look as if he were under Nimitz's command when the command was actually shared by the two men.

On the other hand, there was no reason for the Augusta to be so far from Japan. They were a full hundred miles behind the fleet, which itself stretched for scores of miles, and this was not what he'd had in mind when he'd voiced the wish to be closer to the battlefields. He would tell Admiral Nimitz it was essential that the Augusta move much closer to Japan.

MacArthur thought and smiled. He would direct that the Augusta be stationed off Ariake Bay; thus, when circumstances permitted, he would be ready to go ashore on Japanese soil at the first opportunity. Wouldn't Gen. George Catlett Marshall like that!

MacArthur chuckled deeply at the picture. Some damn Republicans had contacted him about a presidential candidacy in 1948 against what they presumed would be that country nitwit, Harry Truman. A triumphal entry onto Japanese territory would help that cause, and the cause of America, immensely.

Now, if the Japanese army would only cooperate and begin to shatter. He sighed and bit down on the stem of his unlit corncob pipe. It was incredible that the Japs were still fighting. They had few weapons, fewer supplies, rudimentary organization, primitive communications, and poor leaders. He had to give the Japanese soldier a warrior's credit for being personally quite brave, but they would ultimately be defeated. Then General of the Army Douglas MacArthur would have his revenge, both on the Japanese and on the coterie of enemies conspiring against him in Washington. Yes, he thought, and smiled again, it would be a pleasant time.

Chapter 36

Joe Nomura walked slowly and disconsolately down the dirt path that cut through the overgrown field. He was upset and frustrated. American armies were fighting desperately 150 miles south of him and he had done nothing lately to help them. He had continued his periodic reports, but there had been nothing new to report for a while.

There was still little food for the civilian population, and medicine was in even shorter supply. He had told his listeners that the average Japanese civilian was on the verge of starvation and disease and wanted the war to end, even if it meant surrender. He sometimes wondered if anyone important was actually getting his messages, or whether he was sending them into an electronic mine shaft.

The Japanese people had lost horribly in terms of their homes, their livelihoods, and the lives of their loved ones. The devastation of their cities, even those not atom-bombed, was virtually total. Work and travel were impossible. They cursed the American planes that flew overhead and bombed their homes and few remaining factories with almost contemptuous ease. In one way, the American invasion was a blessing for the Japanese civilians as it continued to siphon off large numbers of American warplanes.

The civilians he saw were sick at heart and discontented with the Anami government, which persisted in fighting a war they saw no way of winning. Strangely, this discontent did not reflect in a dislike for the vanished emperor. Virtually no one in Japan had ever heard Hirohito speak, so no one noticed his absence from the public forum. However, they did understand that Anami was in charge and that the military and the kempei backed Anami. Even with his own Japanese background Joe found it hard to understand their fatalism, but the civilians accepted the situation.

Joe had reported that large numbers of Japanese soldiers continued to infiltrate from north Kyushu to the south after either being shipped by submarine from Korea or having navigated the narrow straits between Honshu and Kyushu in swarms of small boats. He'd identified several major units originally stationed around Tokyo as having been switched to Kyushu, including several Imperial Guard divisions. It confirmed his opinion that Japan's major effort would be on Kyushu. He hadn't reported his opinion. Let the generals figure that out for themselves. He thought it was so obvious that they wouldn't need help from a lowly field operative to draw that conclusion.

Gathering this data had required little in the way of effort. The soldiers he'd met on the trail were more than happy to chatter like magpies when they'd met up with him. After all, he was one of them, wasn't he? Nomura's tattered uniform and missing arm were more than enough to induce the soldiers to tell him everything they knew. It was inconceivable that he could be anything other than what he looked like- an honored Japanese war veteran.

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 that 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

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 gunners 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.

"Sir," Collins asked, "you get through to the captain?"

"Yeah. He's got his own problems but said he'd try to get us out of this mess." The rest of the company was one hill over and had their own problems with Japanese guns. The irregular folds of ground had separated their platoon from the rest of the company. For that matter, Paul thought, they were pretty well separated from the rest of the army. He had the damnedest feeling that he and his platoon were all alone on Kyushu.

Collins risked a quick look at the top of the hill, where the mist now seemed even thicker. "Too bad we can't get a napalm strike on them. Armor or no, that'd cook their goose, literally, and settle things real fast. It's a shame the flyboys don't like to run into mountains when they bomb in the rain."

They gave no thought to sending a man up with a flamethrower. They had one, but he'd be an easy target for the Japs.

With that, they settled down to wait for help or night, whichever came first. As time ground on, they dug in deeper and were able to put substantial mounds of earth between themselves and the machine guns, while the Jap cannon remained ominously silent. It occurred to Paul that the entire platoon had been stopped by fewer than a dozen Japanese.

At first Paul didn't notice the grinding, whining, growling sound in the distance, but as it grew louder, he realized that something big was getting close. Then he and the others grinned hugely as an M4 Sherman tank breasted the hill behind them and descended gracelessly, sliding the last few feet into the ravine where they were hidden. The tank commander positioned the Sherman between them and the Jap guns, and Paul cautiously moved over to the driver's hatch, which opened a crack.

"You guys call for a tank?" came a voice from inside the dull brown armored vehicle.

Paul grinned. "Damned right."

The hatch opened wider and a man with dark, curly hair stuck his upper body out. There was grease on his face. "I'm Staff Sergeant Joey Orlando and this is my tank. How can I help?"

Paul quickly explained the situation with the Jap tank and the machine guns. As if on cue, the Jap tank fired a round that landed farther down the ravine, and one of the machine guns fired a burst that did nothing but make everyone wince. The Japs had seen the American tank and weren't happy.

Orlando grunted. "I make that a thirty-seven-millimeter gun, which tells me that it's a Jap Model 95. She's got two machine guns in her as well, but they're probably useless with them dug in like that. The Model 95 is a dinky piece of shit with thin armor. I've got her outgunned with my seventy-six millimeter. If I can get a clear shot at her, one of my rounds'll go through her like shit through a goose."

"Be my guest," Paul offered. "You going straight up the hill?"

"Naw, and I can't afford to get in a shooting match with that pig. I've only got twenty rounds left. I wanna flank her, and I want some infantry to protect me from any little yellow assholes coming out of holes with grenades or Molotov cocktails. This might be a better tank than the Jap, but she will burn real fast under the right conditions, and I don't want to lose a tread to that thirty-seven of theirs, either. That happens and I gotta sit there and wait for nightfall just like you were. No, I wanna take her in the side or rear. That'll also give me a chance to find a safe way up that hill where my tank won't get stuck or slide back. Who's gonna lead the troops going with me?"

Paul shrugged. "I guess I am."

Sergeant Orlando smiled openly. "Good. I know too damn many officers who would volunteer their mother rather than go up that hill."

"Sergeant Orlando, I am not thrilled at the thought."

"Lieutenant, I'm not either. Y'know there were four tanks in my platoon yesterday? One blew an engine and is being fixed, while another got blown up by a crazy Jap with a bottle full of gas and all five guys in it got burned to death. Then the fourth rolled down one of these hills and rolled over. Nobody got killed in that one, but everybody has broken bones and a couple of my friends may never walk again. So, if you don't mind, I'm a little leery of this place and am gonna take it as cautious as I can."

Paul nodded. "We'll take good care of you, Sergeant."

"Then let's go." Orlando closed the hatch. A moment later, the Sherman rumbled out of the ravine and moved toward the platoon's left flank. Paul, a half dozen riflemen, and one man with the flamethrower scrambled alongside and struggled to keep the tank between themselves and the Japanese on the hill.

Paul had ordered Collins and the rest of the platoon to move up around the right flank and keep the second machine gun occupied. He presumed the cannon in the bunker would concentrate its fire on Sergeant Orlando's hulking tank when it was visible.

They got to where the Jap tank couldn't see the infantry well and started up the hill. The wet ground made the climb difficult for the tank, and a couple of times Paul thought that Sergeant Orlando would say he couldn't make it. But Orlando was both skilled and persistent and they kept inching upward. The flanking Japanese machine gun opened up and bullets rattled harmlessly off the Sherman's turret, while the Jap tank's cannon fired sporadically to no effect. Sergeant Orlando's tank returned fire with the machine gun in her hull, hitting nothing but keeping the Jap gunners' heads down.

The infantrymen stayed in the shadow of the tank and kept an eye out for anything that looked like a camouflaged hole from where a Jap might emerge. Nothing stirred and the men gained confidence as they climbed farther up the hill.

The Americans drew closer until they could see the tip of the barrel of the machine gun as it spewed out its hate. Paul tried not to think of what might be going through the gunners' minds as they saw the American tank approaching. They had to know they were doomed. Why didn't they retreat? What the hell was wrong with these people?

Just as Paul was beginning to wonder when Orlando would use his main gun, he was rocked back by the sound and concussion of the Sherman's 76mm cannon firing. An instant later, the Japanese machine gun disappeared in a cloud of smoke and a shower of rocks.

Safer now, but still moving carefully, the men spread out and advanced on the smoking nest. When they looked in, they saw the shredded remains of what might have been four or five Japs. With all the pieces of smoking flesh lying about, it was hard to be exact.

The Sherman's hatch opened and Orlando looked down on his handiwork. "Not bad," he reasoned. "One shot is all it took."

"Yeah," said Paul. "Now all we got to do is get that buried tank."

Orlando closed the hatch and the Sherman started up again, this time veering for the higher ground above and behind the bunker. Paul understood immediately. Orlando was going to hit the Jap from behind. The way the bunker had been laid out, it probably lacked a firing port in the rear. This meant the Jap would be blind and helpless as they advanced down on it.

Orlando drove the Sherman up the hill to where he was above the bunker and within a hundred feet of it. Paul gripped his rifle tightly and found it hard to comprehend that live Japs were just a few feet from him.

"Get ready," Orlando yelled through the cracked hatch, "and get your men spread out, Lieutenant."

Seconds later, the Sherman's gun fired, then fired again shortly after. When the dust and smoke cleared, they could see the rear of the enemy tank where the shelling had blown away the back of the bunker. One more shot and the Jap tank shuddered and began to smoke. The soldier with the flamethrower ran to the hulk and fired a stream of liquid fire onto the Jap tank, where it stuck to the exposed metal and began to blaze with an insane fury.

"Migod," Paul said as he recoiled from the suddenness of the flamethrower and the heat it was generating. Within a few seconds the Jap tank began to rumble and then it exploded, filling the hill with a small fireworks display as ammunition and fuel blew up. Last, there was one big explosion and the turret of the Jap tank flew through the remaining earthen cover and several feet into the air before coming to a rest a little ways down the hill, where it lay like a child's broken toy.

Paul heard an animal howling and realized it was coming from his throat as he and the others cheered their little victory. The Sherman's hatch opened again and Sergeant Orlando climbed out and shook Paul's hand. "Hot damn," Orlando said, laughing. "My first time in combat and I got me a Jap tank."

"Excellent!" Paul exulted. "Now what about that other machine-gun nest?"

As he said that, Sergeant Collins ran up to them from the other side of the bunker. "Gone, sir. They saw what happened to their buddies and bailed out."

"Look out!" Paul exclaimed, wide-eyed, and fired in Orlando's direction.

A lone Japanese gunner clutched his heart and fell.

"Guess not all of them," Collins said. "We'll do a clean sweep."

Thanks to Orlando's tank, Paul's men had taken the hill, wiped out a bunker with a tank in it, destroyed a machine gun nest, and done it with no additional casualties. Better, they'd caused some Japs to break and run away, which they rarely did.

Now he could send his wounded back to the rear without fear of more casualties, and they could get medical care. "Staff Sergeant Orlando, you and yours got anyplace in particular to go right now?"

Orlando shrugged. "Home, but they won't let me. Why?"

"I think we work well together. You want to stick around?"

"And be your mascot, sir?" Orlando grinned infectiously. "Sounds good to me. Besides, I owe you."

Laughter rang out, a welcome and rare sound.

Chapter 39

OSS field operative Joe Nomura performed an awkward pirouette in front of the small fire, bowed, and laughed at the thought of a kempei officer behaving in such a manner. Dennis Chambers smiled and shook his head at the incongruous sight.

"Dammit, Joe, you look real enough to scare anyone when you just stand there in that toy-soldier outfit, but the shitty little dance you did kind of kills the effect."

Nomura laughed. "I never could dance, that's why. How does the uniform look without the arm?"

"Hell, it looks great, particularly without your arm. It makes you look sinister, like some old-time warrior who's survived a hundred battles and come back a war-wise hero. You'd make a tremendous samurai."

Joe took the compliment with a smile. After a number of false starts and experiments while the two men taught themselves the art of sewing, they'd successfully cut the dead kempei captain's uniform down to where it fit Joe fairly well. It wasn't perfect, but both men felt it would pass casual observation as most uniforms worn by the Japanese military were even more ragged and ill-fitting than they usually were.

Unlike Germany's Gestapo, who had their own distinctive uniforms, kempei officers wore the standard Japanese officer's uniform, but with a distinctive armband displaying the Japanese characters ken and hei, which translated as "law soldier." Usually, as in this case, the characters were black on white, and they made the wearer of them a minor god with enormous power over other people's lives and well-being.

According to his papers, the dead soldier, Capt. Shozo Onichi, had commanded a buntai, or section, in the area. Based on Onichi's rank, the two men guessed that a section would be about a hundred men. Logic also said these would be scattered about Onichi's area of control, which they presumed to be fairly large, but that the men would know who Onichi was and what he looked like. This meant that impersonating Onichi was out of the question. Joe would have to use another identity if he was to wander around in the uniform.

Kempei officers carried a sword and a pistol. Joe kept the pistol but discarded any thought of carrying the sword. For one thing, a one-armed swordsman looked out of place, and for another, the sword had been made especially for Onichi and had been engraved with his name. Joe's possession of it would be extremely difficult to explain.

"Okay, buddy, now what?" Dennis asked. "What're you gonna do? Halloween was months ago."

Joe checked the fit of the tunic. What he was planning frankly scared the hell out of him. "Dennis, I am going to ride that bike into the nearest village or camp and find the kempei field office there. After that, I'm going to make it up as I go along and see what I can turn up."

Dennis shook his head in mock dismay. "That's what I was afraid you were going to say."

Joe grinned. "Who knows, this could be the opportunity of a lifetime." Or the end of a lifetime, he didn't add. Joe wasn't certain why he was going through with this idea, only that the opportunity was too good to pass up.

"What if someone recognizes you?" Dennis asked. "After all, you've been wandering the area for some weeks as a shot-up veteran. How'll you explain yourself?"

Joe shook his head. "Won't have to. I'm the secret police, Japan's Gestapo, remember? Even if somebody should make the connection, they wouldn't dare ask me about it. Hell, I could shoot them on the spot for their insolence. Nah, they know that kempei often go around in plain clothes so they can spy on people. They'd probably think I was the biggest prick alive and then wonder what they might have said to me that would come back to haunt them and get them thrown in prison."

"How long do you think you'll be gone and what should I do about it?" Dennis asked almost plaintively. He was in no hurry to be left alone again. He also regretted that their carefully hoarded supply of liquor was all used up. He could see where he could need a drink if Joe left him alone for any period of time.

"A couple of days, maybe less, maybe more. But I do want you to move away from here. If things go wrong for me, it could be real dangerous for you." Joe looked farther up the wooded hillside and across the valley. "Go up there, or someplace else where you can keep an eye on this camp. You pick the spot so I won't know it and won't be able to tell anyone no matter what they do. You see me come back alone, wait until you're sure it's okay. You see me being followed, or Jap soldiers around me, you run like hell. Oh, yeah, don't forget to take the pistol and don't hesitate to use it on yourself if it looks like you're going to be taken."

Dennis nodded glumly. He was just getting used to the idea that he and Joe might make it through this thing. He had again started to dream and plan of life with Barb back in California when he finally came home to her. Now Joe Nomura's actions stood a good chance of wrecking those plans.

But Chambers had a sense of duty and honor as well, and he understood what Joe was doing and why. It was just that he didn't particularly have to like it. It was one thing to wander through Japanese camps as an innocuous and invisible refugee, but it was completely different to be an officer in the kempei, one of the elite in the Japanese military. It was sort of like sticking your head in the proverbial lion's mouth. He knew Joe to be resourceful and intelligent, along with ruthless, and he could only hope that those talents and traits would be enough to see him through.

Chapter 40

Sgt. Yuji Yokota and Ens. Keizo Ikeda had reached an accommodation concerning their personal differences. After all, with only the two of them remaining at the clandestine base, it made no sense to argue, and it was now obvious to Ikeda that the mechanic sergeant was doing everything he could to ready the plane for its final glorious flight. Keizo acknowledged that it was not Yokota's fault that the other five planes at their hidden base had managed to take off as ordered and fulfill their destiny as kamikazes.

He was wrong, of course. Yokota had been stalling, hoping to delay his transfer back to the army once Ikeda had departed. Yokota had no intention of dying if he could avoid it. He did understand the ensign's motives. Ikeda's family had been destroyed by American bombers and the boy wanted revenge. Yokota disagreed with him, but he respected the young officer's sense of grief and loss. Yokota wondered how he'd react to the loss of his own family. It was an academic question as he had no family. The army had been his family and he was more than ready to disown it.

Thus, as the next day dragged on and the plane was not ready as promised, neither man lost patience with the other. To his dismay, Yokota found there were real problems with the plane that he had great trouble fixing. Finally, well after his estimated completion time, Yokota put down his tools, wiped his face with a greasy rag, stood, and bowed before Ikeda, who was genuinely surprised at the gesture.

"It will fly, sir."

Ikeda beamed in relief. At last. "Thank you, Sergeant."

"Sir, it will not, however, fly very well. Despite everything I've done, and for reasons I do not understand, the plane simply will not fly very high."

Ikeda's face clouded. This was not good. Standard tactics called for a kamikaze to dive out of the obscuring sun and plummet onto a target. This tactic also drastically increased the speed of the plane, which then reduced the likelihood of its being shot down. "What do you recommend?"

Yokota was surprised that the officer, particularly a young pup such as Ikeda, would ask his opinion. "Sir, there is no choice. You must stay well beneath a thousand feet at all times."

Ikeda thought quickly; he would stay well below the thousand-foot figure. Instead of diving from the sun, he would skim the earth. If he could not hide in the clouds, he would seek shelter in the trees and the folds of the hills of Kyushu. It would be extremely difficult flying, but he could do it.

"Will you take off at dawn?" Yokota asked, recalling Ikeda's remark that he wished to be one with the sun. This day was almost over and it would be dark in a little while.

Ikeda smiled. It was curiously beatific. "If the plane is fueled, I will fly now, Sergeant. I've seen enough sunrises."

Yokota disagreed with that as well, as he wished to see many more sunrises, but he helped Ikeda with the final preparations. A few minutes later, the old plane, laden with explosives and tins of carefully hoarded extra gasoline to aid in its immolation, lumbered down the grass runway. The engine ran roughly and it didn't look as if the plane would gain enough speed to become airborne. Yet somehow it did, and the small craft began to curl its way around the nearby hills.

As the old wood-and-cloth plane departed, Sergeant Yokota wished the young ensign a successful encounter with the U.S. Navy and a peaceful eternity. Then he stripped off his uniform and anything else that marked him as a soldier.

In the plane, Ikeda exulted. He was on his way. As he kept tight control of his erratic steed, he concluded that a low-level night attack might give him an advantage. Coming in low and slow, he might not be noticed until it was too late. Also, the plane was a dark gray. He began to like the idea even better than that of diving out of the sky.

Beneath him, the ground sped by. Even though it was night, he could still see signs of habitation, and sometimes people paused to look up at him as he came upon them so quickly that they could not run and hide. In the distance he could see the flashes and glows that were the battle for Japan's future. He was surprised. The fighting was much closer than he thought.

Then he was over the battlefield. It was marked by the continuing flicker of small-arms fire in both directions, and then he was past and over the American lines. Again, flying low was an advantage. Even though occasional tracers reached out their glowing fingers to pluck him from the sky, he was beyond them before the gunners had a chance to react to him. He thought it amazing that he could actually see American tanks and trucks, along with tents and other facilities as he swept overhead. The Americans made no effort to shelter themselves.

In the distance he saw the flat darkness of the ocean. But before he reached that, he flew over some American supply dumps and saw the immenseness of them. Then he viewed an airfield under construction, followed by yet another one, which already had a handful of planes parked along the runway. If the Americans were confident enough of their position to build airfields, even small ones, then things were truly dire for Japan. He prayed that his effort would help.

Soon he was over the dark waters of Ariake Bay and headed out toward the vastness of the ocean. A couple of American destroyers were anchored just offshore and fired at him with no effect. They could barely see him in the night and were afraid of hitting each other as he flew just over the waves between them.

Ikeda regained some altitude and scanned the area, but saw no tankers or large transports that would be worthy targets, only smaller craft that seemed to scatter beneath him. Again he exulted; they were afraid of him. "Banzai!" he shrieked to the wind.

Satisfied that there was nothing in the bay whose sinking would fulfill his sense of destiny, Ikeda pressed on toward the open sea. As before, his orders were to attack carriers or large transports and to ignore smaller ships, even warships. Only in the case of dire necessity was he to deviate from his orders.

As he flew on, the plane's unreliable engine started skipping. Perhaps the poor-quality fuel was clogging it, or maybe Yokota wasn't quite the mechanic he thought he was. Either way, it didn't matter. His time in the air was now limited, and unless he wished to crash uselessly into the sea, he had better find a target, any target.

Ikeda flew on and prayed. He could not die unfulfilled. He had to find a ship. It was difficult to stay airborne, and soon his altitude fell to under a hundred feet. He could almost feel the waves reaching out to doom his quest. Then, in the distance, he saw a slim, dark shape on the water with an even larger one behind it. American ships, but what type were they? He laughed. Whatever they were, they would have to do.

Ikeda turned his struggling plane toward the larger of the two ships. As it drew closer, the larger ship took on shape and identity as a warship. It had massive turrets and a superstructure that was now taller than the height at which he was flying. Ikeda hoped that it was a battleship. That would be a fine ending to his life.

Bullets and shells reached out toward him from both enemy warships, but it was too late and he flew through them as if protected by a magician's spell. As the American ship filled his view, he closed his eyes and thought of his family.

Chapter 41

Seaman 1st Class Tim Jardine felt that he was now living almost all his life within ten feet of the antiaircraft guns that pointed out into the chill night. He comforted himself by realizing that it could have been a whole lot worse. At least some of the maddening restrictions on their behavior and movement had been relaxed. In a way it was funny. The closer they got to Japan, the less edgy the brass had gotten about the possibility of enemy attacks. Maybe they were getting used to it.

It did seem that fewer Jap planes were flying, and it was logical that the Japs had to run out of suicide pilots someday. After all, a kamikaze didn't make many return flights if he set out to kill himself.

Jardine and the other men in the gun mount had also concluded that their officer, Ensign Hollowell, was a pretty good guy, even if he was an officer and young and inexperienced at that. For one thing, he had devised a better way of rotating men at the guns that kept them fresher during the night. He also wasn't a prick when it came to keeping things neat and shipshape in the area. If the navy wanted the guns manned all the time, then certain things had to be considered less important than others. The turret and its occupants may have looked a little casual, but they were ready to fight.

But the best thing about Hollowell was that he was always hungry and had a great habit of getting food and Cokes for the men. Jardine bit into a sandwich and decided that if feeding people made them like you, then Hollowell was going to be very popular.

Haverman handed Jardine his binoculars and stretched his shoulders. They ached from the strain of peering out into the darkness of the night. "Here, your turn."

"Thanks," Jardine said as he settled the straps over his helmet. "Keep an eye out for MacArthur, he was walking around a little while ago."

Haverman grunted but did not make any disparaging comments about their important guest. MacArthur's nocturnal habit of pacing the ship alone was an old story by now. Just about everyone had seen him, although no one spoke to him. MacArthur just wanted to be alone to think, and who could blame him? The invasion was a month old and the Japs were still hanging in there with no signs of their giving up. Jardine shuddered at the thought of the hell the men on Kyushu were going through. Thank God he'd been drafted into the navy.

Jardine looked through the powerful glasses. As usual, there was nothing. Then a star twinkled and went out. What the hell? He checked where the star was and it returned.

"Dammit," he muttered.

"What is it?" Ensign Hollowell asked.

"I'm not certain, but there may be something out there, just over the horizon. I'm kinda certain I saw some motion low in the sky."

Hollowell made a quick phone call. A moment later he hung up. "Lieutenant Greene says there's nothing on radar, so, if it's a plane, it's way the hell out there. The darkness may be playing tricks on you. Greene thinks it might be a bird."

"Okay, sir," Jardine said, but he didn't feel comfortable. He had that gut feeling that whatever he saw was fairly close, and it sure as hell didn't strike him as a bird. Wrong sort of motion, although he had to admit that he hadn't seen all that much. It was just a sense that it wasn't a bird.

So why hadn't radar latched onto it? If it was a plane and was close by, it should have. But where was it written that radar was perfect? The more he thought about what he hadn't quite seen, the more uncomfortable he became.

Oh, hell, maybe he was just a little tense being so much closer to Japan than they had been a few days ago. They'd all been surprised when the five-ship unit had changed its routine and moved well north of their original position. Now, instead of being behind the fleet, they were just within the navy's defensive perimeter. Then he laughed to himself. Like, how did he know that they really were closer? There had never been any land in sight to prove to them that they were actually any nearer Japan than they had been before. Maybe it was all a big joke and they'd wake up tomorrow off San Francisco.

Then he saw it again. It was dark and just a few feet above the waves, and it looked like some weird bird of prey. But it wasn't a bird. It was definitely a plane and it was close, very damn close and coming at them. He yelled and the antiaircraft battery came alive. Ensign Hollowell saw the dark shape and hollered out the range but not the order to open fire.

There was a second's hesitation. What if it was an American plane? Was the Augusta's floatplane out on some damn fool errand? Hollowell sure as hell didn't want to shoot down an American plane.

At that moment, the portside destroyer opened fire, and searchlights lit up the sky. Instead of helping, it blinded the men in the Augusta.

"Dammit," snarled Jardine as he tried to blink away the sudden loss of night vision.

"Can you see it?" screamed Hollowell.

"No!" Jardine could see nothing except light streaks across his eyes. Then it was in front of him. "Yes!" he yelled back. The guns opened up at the dark plane that was dreadfully close and still only a few feet above the water. Streams of tracers laced the sky, but none seemed to hit the plane that was now only a hundred yards away and closing in with horrifying quickness.

"It's going to hit us!" Haverman moaned, and covered his head. The plane was headed right for them. Then, at the last second, the plane was struck by a shell and shuddered. It seemed to rise up higher by a few feet and flew right over Jardine's head. It was so close that he saw the landing gear above him. With a roar it crashed into one of the eight-inch bow turrets. Explosions and flames racked the bow of the ship, hurling Jardine to the deck. He screamed in fear and confusion as the cloud of burning gasoline swept above them, showering him with flaming debris. Frantically, he pounded at the host of little fires that had started around him until they were out. Only then did he realize that he had burned his hands.

Behind him, damage-control parties rushed toward them and their hoses sent water hurling onto the major fires. Secondary streams doused Jardine's gun mount and ended any fear of their ammunition exploding. Jardine heard others moaning in pain and realized that, other than his hands, which had begun to blister, he wasn't badly hurt. He whimpered at the joy of it. The goddamn kamikaze, and that's what it had to have been, had tried to kill him, but had failed. He was still lying facedown, with debris on top of him. He had to have a lot of bruises, but all of his limbs seemed to be functioning.

Ensign Hollowell lurched to his feet. The right side of his face was all red and one eye was closed. "Sound off," he ordered, and the men complied, identifying themselves. Everyone was alive, but a couple were injured. Haverman said he thought his leg was broken, and that seemed to be the worst of it, presuming that Jardine's burns weren't too bad. Maybe he could get a trip back to the States out of it?

"I think I'm okay," Jardine responded, "but there's a bunch of crap on my back." He didn't want to move. The debris wasn't all that heavy, but there might be an unexploded shell or something else that might hurt him if he moved it himself. "Somebody check it out, please."

Ensign Hollowell staggered to him and pulled some things off him. Then he looked down. "Aw, shit," Hollowell said, and started gagging. "It's an arm."

Jardine shrieked and jerked away, causing the limb to flop down on the deck where he stared at it in shock and revulsion. The arm had been ripped off at the shoulder and was badly burned. "Ain't one of our guys," Jardine finally said. "Thank God." Somebody had been ripped apart, but it wasn't one of his buddies in the gun mount. He was being heartless, but so what? He was alive and the other guy wasn't and that's all there was. "Hey, maybe it belongs to that Jap pilot?"

Hollowell looked at the severed arm in the light of the still burning gasoline. Damage control had brought the fire under control and there were no more explosions, but flames still flickered in a score of places.

"There's a ring on the hand," Hollowell muttered, and willed himself to examine the ghastly thing further. "Oh, Christ have mercy," he whispered as he turned the charred hand over and examined the ring. "Oh, Lord."

"What is it, sir?" Jardine asked. What the hell was so important about a ring? He looked at it more closely, shocked to recognize a West Point ring, class of 1903.

Chapter 42

President Harry Truman's demeanor reflected the shock and sadness of the entire nation. For all his faults, MacArthur had somehow been considered immortal, and his death had been a severe blow to the nation's collective spirit.

"I want a full military funeral for the man, and that includes his body lying in state in the Capitol Rotunda. If his widow will permit it, General MacArthur will be buried in Arlington with absolutely the fullest military honors possible. Like him or not, the man was a legend who died for his nation, and we will not permit his memory to be forgotten."

Marshall and Leahy nodded. For a nation that was still grieving the loss of FDR, the announcement of the death of Gen. Douglas MacArthur in a kamikaze attack on the cruiser Augusta was too much to bear.

"For reasons I will never comprehend, I don't believe he ever liked me," Truman continued, "but I can't hold that against him. Hell, if every man who disliked me stood in a line, that line would likely circle the earth at least a couple of times. What is important is that he is the highest-ranking American killed in this or any other war, and he will be given what he deserves, a military funeral that includes a parade to Arlington."

Marshall nodded. Deaths of ranking officers in combat were rare in modern warfare. Maj. Gen. Maurice Rose, commander of the 3rd Armored Division, had been killed in Europe, and Lt. Gen. Simon Bolivar Buckner, the commander of the Tenth Army on Okinawa, had been killed by Japanese artillery on the last day of the fighting on that island. Other generals, such as Wainwright and Sharp, had been captured in the Philippines, but no one even approaching MacArthur's five-star rank had even been scratched.

As they discussed an outline for the funeral, Truman realized that the death of MacArthur removed a strong Republican candidate for the presidency in '48. Realistically, that only left New York's Tom Dewey as a threat to his election as president in his own right.

Truman hated himself for thinking of partisan politics at a time like this, but he'd been at it for so long it was impossible not to. At least MacArthur's tragic end had deflected questions regarding Japan's so-called list of prisoners they'd received from a Swedish emissary. He'd promised a response to it as soon as the people at the Pentagon had finished examining it, and a lot of parents and wives were getting angry and frustrated at the length of time it was taking.

Truman shook his head. It was all so futile. "What were the total casualties on the Augusta?”

Leahy responded, "Besides MacArthur, ten killed and seventy-two wounded. All of the dead and most of the seriously wounded were in the forward turret which was directly hit by the plane. The men in that turret were burned by the gasoline from the plane. Fortunately, the ammunition in the Augusta's turret did not explode, so she'll be back on station fairly shortly. The majority of the other wounded are light to moderately so and will return to duty within a couple of weeks."

"All right," Truman sighed, "just bring MacArthur's body home as soon as possible."

As a result of the explosion and fire, little had been found of Douglas MacArthur's mortal remains. The largest portion identifiable as his was his right arm, and that only because the hand wore his West Point ring. Other body parts had been found but were too badly damaged to determine whether they were his or somebody else's. Ironically, more of the Jap pilot's body had been found strapped in the cockpit of the wreckage of his plane than had been found of MacArthur's. The navy had even identified the Jap before burying him at sea. Sometime in the future, some scholar or military historian might want to find out more about the otherwise insignificant man who had struck down General of the Army Douglas MacArthur.

"General MacArthur was a most difficult man," Truman added. "He was pompous, obstinate, arrogant, and a genius. But most of all, he was ours. Like I said, he gets a funeral almost befitting a head of state."

"Sir," Marshall said, "this may be distasteful, but, whether we wish to or not, we must quickly appoint a successor to MacArthur."

"Anybody in mind?" Truman had no doubts that Marshall already had an heir designated for MacArthur's position. Marshall was always a number of steps ahead of everyone else when it came to planning, which made him without peer in his position.

"Mr. President, I wish to appoint General Omar Bradley to succeed General Douglas MacArthur."

"A good choice, General Marshall, but why him in particular?"

Marshall was prepared. "Sir, while only the Sixth Army under General Krueger is currently active in Kyushu, the First and Eighth armies are preparing to invade Honshu, near Tokyo. Put together, you have an army group, and General Bradley has extensive experience at that command level having led one in Europe."

Truman had read his mind. "What about yourself?"

Marshall smiled. "Other than the fact that you wouldn't let me go, I have to admit that I can serve the war effort better here in Washington than I could over there."

Truman concurred but was insistent. "Then what about Patton, or Eichelberger, or even General Krueger, for that matter?"

"Sir, General Patton is the wrong type of commander for this war. The very aggressiveness that made him successful against the Nazis would hinder him in Japan. Kyushu represents a grinding type of assault and not the war of motion and maneuver that is Patton's specialty. I'm afraid the result would be still more casualties and little gained from it.

"Generals Eichelberger and Krueger are fine men, but they suffer from two flaws. First, neither has commanded at the army group level, and it is not time to experiment or train someone. Second, neither Eichelberger nor Krueger are reconizable names to the American public. The death of MacArthur is a terrible shock, and in order to keep the confidence of the American public, that shock must be countered by naming someone of great stature and high regard to replace him. By all aspects, General Omar Bradley is the best- no, the only- choice."

"Agreed," Truman said softly. Marshall was right on both counts, particularly the second. Marshall's political acumen and sense of what the nation wanted did not surprise him. It reinforced his opinion that Marshall might be an excellent replacement for Byrnes at State. Byrnes's health had begun to fail, and at sixty-six he wasn't getting any younger. Hell, Truman snorted, who was?

"Sir, I've included General Bradley on everything about Olympic and the subsequent plans for Coronet for more than a month now. He is as well prepared as he possibly could be."

Truman was surprised and wondered why he felt that way. Marshall was always doing these things. The man was incredible. "And why, may I ask, did you presume to do that?"

"Mr. President, I had no idea that General MacArthur would be killed. I did, however, have serious concerns that he might not be physically or emotionally up to the monumental task before him. I was worried that he might have problems that would require him to be replaced very quickly, and I made certain that General Bradley was well groomed to succeed him in the event that occurred."

Truman smiled. "God, you are a coldhearted bastard. But I'm damned glad you're on our side and not theirs, and I'm even more glad you did what you did, distasteful though I find it."

"General Bradley found it distasteful as well, but I prevailed on his sense of duty and he agreed to spend his time boning up on Downfall. I am confident that he is as knowledgeable as he could be without actually being there."

"When can he be ready to leave for Japan?"

Marshall checked his watch. "General Bradley is packed and ready to depart at a moment's notice. Planes are ready to begin relaying him across the country and then across the Pacific. If all goes well, he could be with Nimitz on Guam or Okinawa in twenty-four to thirty-six hours."

Truman was pleased. "Where is he now? I would like to make an announcement of his appointment, and he should be standing beside me when I do it."

Marshall again smiled. "Sir, he's waiting in the next room."

Chapter 43

Joe Nomura pedaled carefully through the narrow and littered streets of the squalid camp. It wasn't easy to maneuver the bike with only one arm, and the dirt paths between the hundreds of tents were filled with hordes of displaced humanity. The areas between the rough living quarters were strewn with trash, a most un-Japanese phenomenon. To Joe it meant that the fabric of Japanese civilization was unraveling.

It amused him to watch the reactions on the faces of the Japanese civilians. Their eyes immediately went to the kempei armband and they moved out of the way as quickly as possible to let him pass. Don't stop here, they silently told him. No one wanted to be on the kempei shit list, he decided. From what he'd heard about the kempei's more recent methods of punishment and extracting information, he couldn't blame them. The kempei had not always been overly brutal, but the desperation of the times was driving them to it.

Joe found a policeman and harshly ordered him to direct him to the kempei field office. Joe had almost asked him politely, but recalled that Japanese officers habitually treated those of lesser rank and stature with cold contempt. His rudeness was expected and in keeping with his position.

The kempei office in Camp 10 was a wooden structure that might once have been the house of someone fairly well-to-do. As such, it was one of the few real buildings in the area with a roof, and it did not surprise him that the kempei had taken it over for themselves. Everything else in the camp was tents or hovels largely made of debris. A disturbing number of people were living out in the open, and the weather was definitely cooling. He pitied them. With bad weather accompanying chronic food shortages, many would succumb to illness in the weeks and months ahead if the war continued.

He laid his bike against a wall, confident it would not be touched by the people watching him, and tried the door to the house. It opened easily and he entered. An oil lamp was on a table and he lit it with one of the matches that lay beside it. There was no electricity in the camp.

The room contained several file cabinets, a desk with a typewriter, and several chairs. A telephone hung on the wall, and when he tried it, there was no dial tone or the voice of an operator. A shortwave radio by another wall was set on one of his frequencies, which he did not consider comforting. A hand-crank generator connected to another bicycle powered it.

The cabinets were locked, but he found that he had the key to them, along with the key to the desk drawers. In the desk he found what he wanted- blank kempei identity cards.

Humming contentedly, he set up the typewriter and tried to recall what his mother had taught him about typing Japanese characters. After a few mistakes, he managed to give himself an official kempei identity card, using his own name, Jochi Nomura. His OSS handlers had mentioned in passing that, since it was so easy to forget an alias, an agent should use his own name whenever possible. Why not, when no knew him from Adam anyhow?

Joe had just signed the card in the name of the regional commander and put it away in the wallet that had once belonged to the late Captain Onichi when the outside door opened and a young private entered. The man stared and blinked at him for a second and snapped to attention.

Joe took the initiative. "Why was no one here?" he demanded. "Do you always leave the office and official files in such a manner? Is there no sense of security here?"

"Sir," the private stammered, "there are only two of us and my corporal was out investigating an incident when I received word of a disloyal act occurring. Someone had put up a white flag and I did not feel I could wait for his return before tearing it down."

Good, Joe thought, only two people at this little station. "I presume that you resolved it satisfactorily," he said haughtily.

"Yes, sir. The man who put up the flag was identified by his neighbors and beaten thoroughly."

"Very good," Joe said, and the private relaxed. The unknown captain was not going to punish him. "Where is Captain Onichi? I was expecting to find him here."

"Sir, I have not seen him in a couple of weeks. This is a very small station and he spends very little time here. You will more than likely find him at Camp Seven." The private pointed to a map. It showed that Camp 7 was about ten miles farther away and to the west.

"Indeed. Why would he be there? Is Camp Seven all that much larger or more important than Camp Ten?"

The private looked puzzled. "Sir, the camp is about the same size as this is, and I'm not certain about the reason he spends his time there."

Joe thought that the fat little captain whose body was rotting in a field was either getting laid or fed at Camp 7. Maybe even both, but he was curious at the look in the private's eyes and the tentative tone of his voice. Joe decided to probe a little more about the late Onichi's actions.

"Then tell me what it is you are not certain about."

Now the private was definitely uncomfortable. "Sir, it's only a rumor, but I have heard it said that there may be a very important member of the government under guard in the hospital at the camp."

Joe was intrigued and wondered who it was. More important, was it information that was worth forwarding to his handlers. "Really? What makes you think that?"

The private clearly wished he were elsewhere. This was the longest conversation he'd ever had with an officer. Even shorter ones had usually resulted in his being punched. He was deathly afraid he'd make a mistake and be punished.

"Sir, one of my fellow soldiers went there once with Captain Onichi. There is an area of the medical compound that is restricted and protected by soldiers of the Imperial Guard, who are commanded by a guards colonel. The soldiers are disguised as hospital workers and allow no one in or out of the restricted area without the colonel's permission."

Interesting, Joe thought. Disguised as hospital workers, they could not be identified as soldiers from the air and thus compromise whatever they were doing. Why were they going to all that effort, and whom were they protecting? "And you believe that your captain should be there now?"

"Yes, sir," the soldier responded eagerly. Perhaps the unknown officer would leave right now if he was encouraged. "Captain Onichi and the guards colonel are working very hard together to capture the spy who is active in the area."

"I know," Joe lied glibly, although his heart was racing. The private had just confirmed that the radio setting was no coincidence. "That is why I am here. Catching the spy is very important."

The private was even more eager to please. "Perhaps you would like to see the latest radio intercepts we got from the spy? We get copies of what we don't hear ourselves so that they will help us catch him."

Joe would indeed like to see them, and the private got them. As he read the partial transcripts of his messages to the OSS, Joe congratulated himself on not telling the outside world what he was doing. As he'd suspected, the Japanese were reading and decoding his messages, and any reference to his being disguised as a one-armed kempei officer would have meant his doom. He still had an ace up his sleeve in the form of another way of sending a coded message, but he'd been told to save it for something truly important, as any code could be broken over time. He would use the second method as a last and desperate resort when there would not be enough time for the Japs to decipher it.

Then he wondered. Why would the guards colonel and the late Captain Onichi be so concerned about the actions of the spy? Why would they consider one spy such a threat to whatever it was they were doing? Whom or what did they have at Camp 7 that they were so desperate to hide? Joe had the nagging feeling that whoever was in seclusion at Camp 7 was more important than the average wounded general or admiral.

Joe walked over to the map and checked the coordinates. If he left immediately, he could be in Camp 7 in a little while.

Chapter 44

Joe Nomura stood at attention in the tent that served as a command post and tried to analyze the man he'd just reported to. Col. Tadashi Sakei was a strong and dominating presence, but seemed to be on the edge of an emotional cliff. The colonel's left eye twitched and he looked exhausted, almost haggard, as he questioned Joe about his background. Something was clearly bothering the colonel.

Joe wondered what pressures the man was under. Camp 7 was almost a mirror image of Camp 10, where he'd gotten the phony identification that Colonel Sakei had insisted on seeing and examining carefully. This in itself was unusual. The uniform and the armband had so far been more than sufficient to ensure cooperation. No one had asked for proof that he was a kempei officer, and he had begun to wonder if he had wasted his time by forging the document. Now he knew it was time well spent as the hawk-eyed colonel stared at the piece of paper.

But why the concern and the elaborate disguise? Camp 7 was crowded and dirty, filled with thousands of confused and frightened civilians who lived in disorganized and shabby clusters. The focal point of the camp was the hospital in which Nomura now stood. Sakei wore a medic's jacket over his uniform and immediately insisted that Joe do the same. There had been no explanation for this behavior except the obvious one- Sakei wanted no one flying overhead to detect soldiers on duty in what was otherwise a civilian hospital. Why? Why the hell were armed soldiers disguised as orderlies guarding a small tent complex?

Sakei finally returned Joe's identification. "Be seated, Captain Nomura." When Joe complied, Sakei went on, "Tell me, where is Onichi? He was supposed to report to me yesterday."

"I don't know, sir. He hasn't been seen in several days." True enough, Joe thought. Even if he was found now, no one would be able to recognize him. "It is possible that he could have been killed or wounded by an American plane."

"Or he could have run off and tried to save himself. I hope this doesn't offend you, Captain, but Onichi did not strike me as a strong-willed person. Certainly he did not have your combat experience. Where did you say you lost your arm?"

"Guadalcanal. I was wounded in the early fighting and was fortunate to be evacuated." He managed to look sad as he said that as if in memory of lost friends. The vast majority of the Japanese sent to fight the Americans on Guadalcanal were dead and rotting in the jungle. The Japanese navy had performed marvels in getting at least some of them off, but many thousands did not make it.

Sakei examined a fingernail. "How were you evacuated? Destroyer or submarine?"

Joe wondered, Is he trying to trip me? "Colonel, I really don't recall. My arm was badly infected, gangrenous, and I was heavily sedated. My only recollection of the entire trip is that of pipes overhead. I have no idea whether they were from a submarine or a destroyer. To be honest, sir, I really don't care."

To his surprise, Sakei laughed. The nonanswer seemed to satisfy him. "Someday you'll have to find out which it was and thank them properly. And now, what is your reason for being here in Camp Seven?"

"Sir, I was directed to work with Captain Onichi and you regarding the American spy and the radio broadcasts that we've intercepted."

Sakei registered surprise. "Why do you think he's an American?"

Oops, Joe thought. Shouldn't have said that. "Sir, it's the opinion of those who've read his reports, which are in English. The speech patterns are distinctively American."

"Ah," said Sakei. "Do you speak English, Captain?"

"Yes, sir, and quite well if I might say so."

"And do you agree with that assessment?"

Joe took a deep breath. "Sir, I believe it is either an American or someone who has spent a great deal of time in the United States."

"Is he of Japanese descent, in your opinion?"

Joe hoped Sakei's next question wasn't whether the spy had only one arm. "Possibly, but not necessarily," he answered, forcing himself to be calm and dispassionate in what amounted to a discussion of himself. "The spy, and we do think there is only one although he is traveling with an escaped POW, could be another escaped prisoner, or even a pilot who crashed and has managed to escape detection. Either alternative would raise the question of how the spy got his radio. Therefore, it is most likely someone who was landed by submarine or small boat. In that case it does not necessarily follow that the person would be Japanese. Someone who is stealthy, good at disguises, or perhaps just extremely bold might get away with what he's doing."

Sakei took a cigarette from his jacket pocket and offered one to Joe, who took it gratefully. It was a Chesterfield and he wondered how Sakei had gotten it this late in the game. Probably off a POW, or even a body.

"Captain Nomura, I want you to continue looking for the spy. I don't think Onichi will ever turn up, and I want you to work directly with me. Is that a problem?"

"No, sir."

"Good. Do you understand why I am so concerned about this one spy?"

"No, sir, I am not. I do presume that it has something to do with the presence of you and your men in this compound and the fact that you are disguised as medics." Joe decided to add another truthful statement to his story. "At Camp Ten, I read Onichi's files and they made reference to someone of importance being in this hospital. Again, I presume that is the reason."

Sakei looked at him thoughtfully. "Captain, do you play chess?"

Joe blinked in surprise. "A little. Truthfully, I haven't played in years." Joe recalled being taught by a thirtyish schoolteacher who'd been on vacation one summer when he was seventeen. She'd also taught him some amazing new sexual adventures that had been much more interesting than chess.

"Are you intimidated by extremely important people, Captain?"

"I don't think so, sir. I respect them, of course, but I am not intimidated to the point where I am unable to function properly."

"Good. Somehow I did not think that a veteran who'd faced death in the jungles of Guadalcanal would be incapable of thought or action in the presence of a high-ranking personage. The individual we are protecting is an extremely important member of the royal family. Let's just say he is not fully behind the current war effort and is being kept out of the public eye for his own good as well as that of Japan."

"I see," Joe said thoughtfully. Who the hell was it? One of the princes? Hirohito had two brothers and a son.

"The gentleman is bored and is constantly after me to play chess with him. While playing, he harangues me with reasons why we should quit the war. If he were a lesser personage, I would beat him with my fists as well as at chess. He is but a mediocre player, and I am confident you would be able to hold your own with him as well as refute his misplaced logic, or at least not be affected by it."

Joe allowed himself a smile. "I share that confidence, sir, but how will it affect my search for the spy?"

"You will have to do both, Captain. I will give you a small traveling chess set that I have. Please refresh yourself and practice. If you would like, I will play you and give you some pointers."

Joe smiled ingratiatingly. "At this time I do not think I would be a worthy opponent for an infant. I will, however, take you up on your challenge in a couple of days."

Sakei laughed. "It is good to be with a soldier. You have no idea how weak Onichi was. He was so squeamish during interrogations of civilian suspects that he had to turn them over to his underlings. He did not know that a few painful and necessarily brutal deaths were but a small price to pay for victory."

Joe took the small case with the chess set, saluted, and left. He hated chess, but if he was going to find out what was going on in Camp 7 and determine whether it was important enough to report, then he would play the damn game. But Sakei's comments about interrogating suspects surprised him. The kempei in Japan rarely physically abused Japanese citizens. They might kick or punch someone, but Sakei had strongly implied brutal torture. The kempei preferred more subtle methods of intimidation to inspire terror.

So what then was so important that people had to die for it? Who the hell was the haggard Colonel Sakei trying to protect? Who could be so important? Then it dawned on him. Sakei hadn't been referring to one of the princes or even the crown prince when he said it was one of the royal family. The man in the hospital was Hirohito himself!

Chapter 45

"Marine, you die!"

Lt. Paul Morrell nudged Sergeant Collins. "Maybe we should tell him we're U.S. Army and not marines."

Collins coughed deeply and spat on the ground. Like most of the men, the chill air had given him a bad cold. "Let'm die happy, sir. If he wants to think we're marines, it's just fine by me. I'm just a little surprised he pronounced his r so well. Don't they have difficulty since it's not in their alphabet?"

Once again, they lay prone on a hill and faced upward at a Japanese strongpoint. This one was a cave that had been pounded by artillery without destroying it or killing the occupants. The machine-gun fire from its narrow opening had stalled the advance, and the ground leading to it was too steep for Sergeant Orlando's tank to negotiate. Attempts to burn them out with a standard infantry flamethrower had also been futile. They were less than a hundred yards away from the cave and the inhabitants had started yelling at them in bad English.

"You die like MacArthur!"

One of the men near Paul asked, "Should we yell back, sir?"

"Don't let me stop you."

Morrell checked the shadows on the ground. In a few minutes it would be night and the advantages would shift, but to whom? Maybe he could get some men close enough in the dark to throw in a satchel charge and blow up the cave entrance. He thought back to the lecture on Okinawa and shuddered at the thought of people, even Jap soldiers who had it coming, being buried alive. He hadn't had to do that yet, but it looked as if the time was coming.

On the other hand, there was the distinct possibility that the Japs in the cave were working up enough nerve for a banzai attack, which would end it all and take them out in a blaze of fanatic glory. If that was the case, he didn't want his men out of the holes they'd dug when it occurred. They'd wait awhile.

The sky darkened and the cloud layer made it even more gloomy and difficult to see. Paul checked by radio with Captain Ruger and was told that mortars with flares were ready for firing. Paul and Ruger wished they weren't so damned close to the cave. As always, the Japs had waited until the platoon was on top of them before revealing their existence. Once again, he had wounded to care for.

"MacArthur dead! You dead too!"

"How the hell do they know these things?" Sergeant Collins wondered. "They get a newspaper in there or something?"

"Beats me," Paul answered. "You have any thoughts as to how many of them are in that cave?"

"I gotta guess at least ten or so, but not too many more. Goddamn cave just doesn't look that big."

That was close enough to what Paul was figuring. Not that many Japs, but they were so damn close to them. If only the flamethrower had killed them, but it hadn't. Maybe the cave was deep enough for the Japs to hide in and save oxygen, which also meant that there might be more Japs inside than they thought. Or maybe the enemy had built baffles or walls within the cave that the fire from the flamethrower could not negotiate its way past. It hadn't taken long for the Japs on Kyushu to figure out that a flamethrower's stream could be deflected by a wall of rocks and that the persons behind the barrier would be reasonably safe as long as their air held out.

"I want a flare," Paul ordered. A few seconds later, the hillside was illuminated with a harsh, artificial light that floated down to the earth, where it gradually faded away. There were no Japs under it.

"Nimitz eat shit!"

"Nimitz's a sailor," Paul found himself saying. "What'd you expect?" That got more laughter from those who heard it, causing Paul to wonder again just how men could find humor in such deadly circumstances. The resiliency of both himself and the men under his command was incredible.

"Banzai!"

They froze. Was there motion by the cave? Paul called for another flare. It revealed nothing.

"Banzai!" The voice was a lament and a scream. A frightening call to arms.

"Sergeant," Paul said, "you know what the hell they're doing?"

Collins was chewing gum nervously. "I think they're working up the nerve to come out. Probably liquored all to shit as well."

"Banzai! Banzai!"

"Flare," Paul ordered, and again the lights came on. Still no Japs.

Then, just as the light faded, Japanese soldiers spilled out of the cave like ants erupting from a disturbed colony. In an instant of shocking clarity, Paul could see that only a couple of the dozen or so Japanese running at them had rifles. Most carried grenades and ran toward them with their mouths wide-open and screaming incoherently. In front of them, one man, obviously their leader, waved a sword and exhorted them on.

"Fire!" Paul screamed. "More flares!"

Rifle and BAR fire rippled down the American line. Japs were hit, tumbled, and jerked about. Within seconds, a half dozen were down and writhing on the ground, but another handful had made it through. More gunfire erupted and additional enemy soldiers thrashed and twitched and rolled downhill. They were dead, but their momentum carried them forward.

A couple of them were still unhit. The officer with the sword was nowhere to be seen, but two men with grenades in each hand were almost on them. Then there was one. He stopped a few yards in front of them and hurled both grenades just as his body was ripped to bloody pieces by a score of bullets.

One grenade exploded harmlessly in front of them, but Paul watched in horror as the second grenade arced through the air toward the soldiers to his left. First, he heard screams of panic, then a loud PHUMP! and finally a call for a medic.

While the rest of the platoon continued to shoot the fallen Japanese to make sure they were dead, Paul raced to where the cry for a medic continued with rising intensity. He leaped into a ditch where two previously wounded men looked on in shock at the body of their medic, Corporal Wills. Wills lay facedown with his arms stretched out. Blood and gore saturated the ground on all sides around his abdomen. Sickened by what he knew he would find, Paul turned the man over.

Wills's body from the chest cavity to the hips had been hollowed out as if a giant scoop had spooned out his body organs. Paul could see his heart along with his spinal cord and hip bones. The heart twitched a couple of times and stopped. Wills's face bore a look of surprise.

Paul turned away and vomited while the two wounded men began to whimper. He returned Wills to his facedown position and the whimpering stopped.

When he could finally speak, Paul asked the two wounded men what had happened. One spoke while the other nodded agreement. "Sir, the grenade rolled in and Wills jumped on it. Maybe he thought he could throw it out, but there wasn't time. He jumped on it and it blew him all to shit."

A second medic arrived, and a shaken Paul Morrell left the site to find Captain Ruger. Collins told him Ruger had arrived and was at the Jap cave. Paul climbed the darkened, body-cluttered ground to the cave mouth. He flinched as someone emerged from the cave and into the night. It was Ruger.

"Try not to shoot me, Mr. Morrell."

Paul's left hand had started shaking. "Sorry, sir."

"The cave is empty. A couple of dead bodies, but nothing else." Ruger ignored Paul's nervous reaction to the fight. "The place wasn't booby-trapped and they left nothing useful. Just some ammo cases and a few bottles of what looks like home-brewed whiskey. The filthy swine drank everything before they attacked and didn't leave a damn thing for us. Good job stopping them, Paul. That was a helluva fight."

Paul disagreed. "One of them got through and killed Wills. I had thirty men on line and they couldn't stop a dozen Nips who were at point-blank range."

"Couldn't be helped, and you're being too hard on yourself and them. The Japs were running downhill and had only a little ways to go. Your men didn't have time to choose targets, so I'll bet most of your men, those who fired, all hit the same targets. Hell, that officer with the sword probably got shot a hundred times. I'll bet everybody wanted a chunk of his skinny yellow ass."

Paul recalled how only a few had gone down in the first fusillade. "Yeah. But what do you mean 'those who fired'? Everybody shot, didn't they?"

Ruger laughed. "In a situation like that I'll bet half your boys were so shocked shitless by the sight of real live Japs running down their throats that they couldn't shoot at all. Either that or they fired so wildly they stood a better chance of hitting the moon than they did the bad guys. Tell me, how many of them did you kill with that popgun of yours?"

Paul thought for a second, and the answer stunned him. "I was so scared of the Japs, and so busy yelling for someone to shoot them along with calling for more flares, that I never did a thing with my carbine. I might as well have left it at home."

"That's what I mean, Paul. And your boys probably did better than most would've. After all, we're veterans now."

There was no sarcasm in Ruger's comments. Once again, hours of boredom had been followed by seconds of sheer terror. Some soldiers had done well, others poorly. All had behaved normally.

"Captain, I want Wills decorated," Paul said, and explained that the young medic had thrown himself on the grenade in an apparent effort to save the other two men.

"You sure he actually fell on it intentionally?" Ruger asked. "Maybe he just stumbled trying to throw it away or while trying to get out of there himself?"

"Two men will testify that he made no effort to save his own life, even if he could, and that he jumped on the grenade to save his men."

Ruger started the walk down the hill. Paul saw that he was carrying the Jap officer's sheathed samurai sword. "What're you going to do with that thing, Captain?"

Ruger paused and waved it awkwardly with one hand. The long, single-edged blade was designed to be gripped with two hands. "Keep it as a trophy for the company. If I left it here, some rear-echelon asshole would pick it up and send it home as a souvenir of his bravery. These things are individually made and may have belonged to that Jap's family for generations, maybe longer. If I can, I'll try to get it back to his relatives after the war is over. If not, I'll keep it or give it to a museum. The Jap was a brave man. Incredibly stupid, but brave."

"So was Wills, sir. Brave that is, not stupid."

"So put him in for something, Paul. How 'bout the Distinguished Service Cross?"

Paul could see Wills's mutilated body and the eternal look of surprise on his young face. Wills had been one of the good guys in the platoon, although Paul now thought of just about all of them as good guys. "No, sir, let's go all the way. Let's put Wills in for the Medal of Honor."

Ruger thought for a moment. Politicians and senior officers getting honors for just being in the vicinity of the shooting, and not for doing anything even remotely heroic. What Wills had done on a bleak hill on Kyushu definitely deserved to be remembered.

"Yeah," Ruger answered softly, "let's do it."

Paul felt better. Wills's death would have some reason for occurring. "And another thing, Captain. You'd might want to stop waving that sword around. Some Jap sniper's likely to get a little pissed at you for having it instead of the original owner."

He laughed out loud when Ruger quickly dropped the sword down to his leg and looked nervously about.

Chapter 46

Light feathers of icy snow whipped the barren hill overlooking the frosty brown waters of the Han River. A few miles to the west was the ruined city of Seoul. It could only be seen as a distant and still-smoking blur on the horizon, but it marked the only part of Korea south of the muddy and ice-swollen Han River currently occupied by Soviet forces.

To Marshal Aleksandr Vasilevsky, commander in chief of the Red Army's Far Eastern Forces, the city of Seoul and the Han River line constituted only a temporary halt in the inexorable advance of the Soviet forces against the Japanese armies. That the halt was essential and commanded by Moscow did not affect his opinion that it was temporary.

On August 9, 1945, the same day the Americans dropped the second nuclear bomb, on Nagasaki, a million and a half Soviet soldiers and airmen had surged into Manchuria and then on into Korea and China. Organized into three army fronts- the Trans-Baikal, the First Far Eastern, and the Second Far Eastern- they consisted of eighty infantry and armored divisions, which contained five thousand armored vehicles and twenty-six thousand guns and mortars along with a fleet of five thousand planes. This overwhelming and battle-hardened force was hurled at the Japanese, who were pitifully short of manpower and modern weapons.

With few exceptions, Japanese forces confronting them had already been depleted by the need to transfer so many frontline soldiers back to Japan and had been swept aside or bypassed. Japanese airpower was nonexistent, and Japanese armor was laughably inadequate against the Soviet T-34, the finest tank in the world. The vaunted Japanese soldier had no chance to stand and fight against Soviet armor and firepower. In the face of the ferocious Soviet onslaught and far away from home, many Japanese units had crumbled and run, making the code of Bushido a joke. Within a few weeks, Manchuria, northern Korea, and northern China had been overrun with only moderate losses to the Red Army attackers.

On orders from the Stavka, the Soviet military's high command and in reality the word of Joseph Stalin, Vasilevsky had diverted forces from the drive on Korea to concentrate on the efforts in China. The Korean peninsula was an apple that could be plucked at any time, while the opportunity to take China from the Japanese, and to help the Chinese Red Army at the same time, was too great to be ignored.

It also mattered that the tenuous Soviet supply line from west of the Urals to Manchuria was overloaded and could not sustain Vasilevsky's entire army with food, fuel, and ammunition. When the Siberian winter closed down roads and rail lines, choices had to be made as to which areas would be supported by the limited resources, and sustaining operations in China was the choice.

Vasilevsky had halted his operations in Korea while focusing his efforts in China and had been pleased with the results. Beijing and Shanghai had fallen along with a number of other major cities, and the Soviets still drove southward.

But now, as he watched the columns of antlike figures cross the pontoon bridges of the Han River, Marshal Aleksandr Vasilevsky was no longer quite so pleased with his success. That was because Lazar Kaganovich stood beside him on the frozen hill overlooking the Han. Kaganovich was the deputy premier of the Soviet Union, theoretically second only to Joseph Stalin.

The fifty-year-old Vasilevsky had originally been a czarist officer and had, before that, even studied for the priesthood. Both occurred before the Revolution, which, when it came, he endorsed with fervor. With his background, along with his tendency to be cultured rather than affect the crudeness of so many other Soviet officers, Vasilevsky had never felt comfortable in the inner circles of the Soviet hierarchy.

Even though Stalin himself had once considered taking holy orders, Vasilevsky was still concerned that his relatively elitist background might come back to haunt him. He had worked closely with Stalin and knew that he had the power of death at his whim. Vasilevsky's command at the far end of the Soviet empire pleased him because it meant he was far from the reaches of Joseph Stalin and the murderous intrigues of the Soviet empire.

However, Lazar Kaganovich's presence on the Korean hill meant that Stalin had reached out to him. To some people, the huge but cadaverous-looking Kaganovich personified evil. Years earlier, he had delivered his own teenage daughter to be seduced by Stalin, then permitted his own brother to be executed. Kaganovich had further demonstrated his loyalty to Stalin when he orchestrated the death by starvation of the millions of prosperous farmers, the kulaks, whose continuing prosperity insulted the egalitarian ideals of communism. As deputy premier to a man who kept everything to himself, Kaganovich's main role was to be Stalin's executioner.

"Does the sight please you?" Kaganovich asked.

Vasilevsky wondered how any man could permit Stalin to flick his own daughter, murder his brother, and still work for him. Kaganovich's degree of devotion to Stalin was frightening.

"Indeed it does, comrade, as does anything Comrade Stalin wishes."

"Some might say that we are letting the Japanese get away," he said, gesturing to the columns of Japanese infantry that moved across the bridges in plain sight and under scores of silent Soviet guns.

Vasilevsky recognized the clumsy probe and deflected it. "Anyone who felt that way would be disloyal. Comrade Stalin knows what he is doing and has proven that many times over."

"Good. Even though we all felt you would understand and comply, it was considered important enough that I come here to bring you the message in person."

"I understand." Vasilevsky also understood that the penalty for hesitation in complying with Stalin's order would have been a bullet to the brain from Kaganovich's pistol. It had been widely rumored that Stalin had gotten Kaganovich's daughter pregnant as a result of the seduction. Vasilevsky wondered what had happened to the unfortunate girl and her bastard child. He doubted that either still lived.

Yet, despite his personal and unrevealed misgivings, Vasilevsky had to admire the audacity of the new situation. Kaganovich's message was that Stalin had reached a secret accord with the Japanese government. Under it, the Red armies in Korea would halt in place and safe passage through the Russian lines would be granted to the Japanese forces in China and other parts of Asia. The results of the agreement were below Vasilevsky. Long lines of Japanese soldiers, including many taken prisoner in the preceding battles, were crossing over the Han and back into Japanese control.

"Comrade Kaganovich, how long do you think the secret of the accord will endure?"

Kaganovich's laugh was a sharp cackle. "Long enough for many tens of thousands of Japanese to escape to Korea, and long enough for us to tilt the balance of the war of liberation against the corrupt Chiang Kai-shek regime in the favor of Mao Tse-tung's Marxist forces. Then, like Poland and eastern Germany, we will present the United States with a fait accompli which they can only undo by force of arms. They will not fight for China any more than they will for Poland or any other country we desire to control."

"Do we care what ultimately happens to the Japanese crossing our lines? Have we made further arrangements to get them to Japan itself?"

"We care nothing about them," Kaganovich snarled. "Once the stinking yellow shits are across the Han, they are Japan's problem. Let the Americans bomb them to pieces when they try to cross the straits to Honshu and Kyushu. But those that do make it to their home islands will go on fighting and further weaken the United States by the casualties they will inevitably inflict. This is all part of Comrade Stalin's grand plan. He is delighted when the capitalist nations such as Japan, Germany, Great Britain, and the United States fight each other. Each battle between them weakens them all and makes the ultimate victory of communism that much more likely to occur soon.

"Japan," Kaganovich continued, "cannot win this war no matter what awful weapons she decides to use. All she can do is make her defeat and destruction all the more absolute. At the same time, she will drag the United States down with her. After a while, we shall take over the remainder of Korea and excise the Japanese army with as much difficulty as I would have squeezing a ripe yellow pimple. Then we will be in a position to take over Japan itself once the Americans are through exacting their revenge."

Vasilevsky shivered and it wasn't from the cold. What if the American reaction to this betrayal by Russia was not what Stalin predicted. The Americans had the atomic bomb. Would they use it in revenge against the Soviet Union? He shivered again. If that occurred, millions would be slaughtered and the fighting might go on forever. What kind of world might be left for the descendants of Lenin's cause to inherit?

Chapter 47

Adm. Chester Nimitz greeted Gen. Omar Bradley with his usual casual cordiality. Bradley had been about to salute the five-star Nimitz when he found his hand grasped firmly and shaken by the admiral.

"Good to see you, General." Nimitz's smile was wide and sincere. It was easy for Bradley to respond in kind.

Bradley had been in the air in a miscellany of transports and bombers for what seemed an eternity and had not, other than for catnaps, had much sleep in the last couple of days. Arrival at the Okinawan air base had energized him. Overflying the island, now an even vaster military camp than it had been prior to the invasion of Kyushu, he had been reminded of the vast accumulation of men and matériel in England just before the Normandy landings. Better yet, the affable Nimitz seemed genuinely pleased to have him here to take over control of the suddenly leaderless army and its accumulating woes.

They walked briskly to a hangar that Nimitz had converted into an instant meeting area. Bradley had flown with only a few lower-ranking aides, and Nimitz, seeing that his own staff outnumbered and outranked Bradley's, sent most of his men away. Such tact and concern were typical of Nimitz, and Bradley wondered if Mac Arthur had ever appreciated it.

"Before we get started," Nimitz said, "this is for you." He held out a small package, which a puzzled Bradley took and opened. Inside were two sets of five stars. "I just got word a couple of hours ago that you've been promoted," Nimitz continued. "This is an extra set of mine. I'd be honored if you'd wear them."

Bradley's face flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. He grinned and cheerfully allowed that he'd be deeply honored to accept them. Nimitz pinned them on him while the handful of aides applauded, and the two men sat on comfortable chairs that faced each other. There was no table and Bradley commented that there was nothing between them. The two men realized that Bradley's promotion meant a continuation of the divided command structure: Bradley would command on land, while Nimitz commanded at sea. Each had his own substantial air arm. The command issue remained touchy. Cooperation would be required.

"General Bradley, where do you intend to exercise command?"

Bradley had given that a lot of thought on the flights over. "I've sent orders that MacArthur's staff is to move to Okinawa immediately. The Philippines are just too far away from the war. Lord, in Europe I thought a hundred miles behind the lines was a long ways, but the Philippines are thousands of miles from Japan. I can't command from that far away. As there is no real central point where land forces for the next phase of the operation are gathering, there's no reason not to be closer."

Nimitz chuckled. "The concept of distance is radically different in the Pacific. Are you keeping all of Mac's staff?"

The question was a careful reference to the problems Nimitz and his people had had dealing with MacArthur's arrogant chief of staff, Gen. Richard K. Sutherland, and the arguments over intelligence estimates with his intelligence expert, Gen. Charles A. Willoughby.

"Willoughby and Sutherland are gone. Willoughby was wounded in the attack on the Augusta, and I'm having Sutherland reassigned stateside. As to the rest of his staff, I don't think it's wise to change too many horses in midstream, so I'm just going to keep his people for the time being and see how they work out. If people need replacing, it will be done on an individual basis. I'm not planning any housecleaning. Willoughby and Sutherland will be replaced by their immediate subordinates, although I am bringing Matt Ridgway in from Europe with an open-ended assignment to assist me."

"Makes sense." Nimitz did not add that Willoughby and Sutherland's absence might improve the army's willingness to accept intelligence estimates from sources other than their own. The choice of Lt. Gen. Matthew Ridgway as an apparent liaison to serve where needed was wise as well. The fifty-year-old Ridgway had distinguished himself in the European theater and would be well placed to step in if any field commander faltered.

"Mac's staff should be arriving in a steady stream over the next several days," Bradley said. "I can't imagine they'll all be thrilled to leave the relative comforts of Manila for the tents and huts of Okinawa, but I think it best."

Nimitz smiled at the thought of some of Mac's staff actually having to rough it a little. So far, he was pleased with the army's new commander. Bradley was living up to his reputation for common sense and plain dealing.

"Admiral, in a little while I plan on visiting Krueger on Kyushu, along with Eichelberger and Hodges, and getting some real up-to-date information on the army. But what about the navy's situation?"

Nimitz sighed. "We have suffered more losses at the hands of the Japs than we did in any battle or campaign all throughout the war. The kamikaze aircraft in particular have been devastating. We haven't lost any major ships- no battleships, fleet carriers, or heavy cruisers- but a score of small carriers have been sunk along with a number of light cruisers and destroyers. At least a hundred transports have gone to the bottom, which is causing real problems in supplying the army. Many, many ships, including an additional number of transports as well as the largest warships in our fleet, have been struck and damaged to some degree. A number of them have had to leave Japanese waters for repair.

"We are fairly safe here on Okinawa, but the ships off Kyushu live in fear twenty-four hours a day. The attack on the Augusta seems to have energized the Japs. From a manpower standpoint, the navy's suffered more than thirty thousand casualties with half of them killed, and many of the wounded very seriously so. Our only hope is that the Japs will soon run out of planes and suicide boats."

"How many of their planes have been shot down?" Bradley asked, recalling that the Japs had an estimated ten to twelve thousand planes when the invasion started.

Nimitz laughed. "If you believe my pilots and gunners, then all of them and at least twice over. Realistically, we may have shot down five thousand, but more than eight hundred have struck their targets. Based on intelligence estimates and message intercepts, another thousand or so never got near the fleet and crashed because of mechanical problems or other defects. However, a good estimate is that there are somewhere between three and six thousand planes still waiting in Japan for us. Good news is that we seem to have the submarine threat under control, and other types of suicide craft- small boats, divers, and such- have been pretty well eliminated. All that remains are the darned planes."

To Bradley it sounded as if the navy was taking a beating. Yet the fleet was still close to Kyushu and naval planes continued to fly close cover for the men on the ground. If the navy gave up, it would be impossible for the men on the ground to sustain their slow but steady advances. The kamikazes would also be free to find targets of opportunity on Kyushu, with supply and fuel depots being particularly vulnerable.

"Admiral, I understand that you made an offer to share the facilities on the command ship Wasatch with General MacArthur, and he, uh, did not think it appropriate."

Nimitz grinned at the memory of it. MacArthur had been polite but there was no misinterpreting his feelings that he would be subordinate to Nimitz if he and his staff were on the Wasatch. "That's one way of putting it," Nimitz said drily.

"Well, if the offer still stands, I'd like to take you up on it and move myself and a few key people onto the Wasatch."

Nimitz beamed. "That would be excellent!" The two cocommanders could talk to each other face-to-face and solve problems without being separated by thousands of miles of ocean.

Sometimes Nimitz wondered how America's army and navy had done as well as they had with the prevailing arrangements.

"Say, General Bradley," Nimitz said teasingly. "May I presume you'll be our guest for dinner and possibly permit us to celebrate your well-deserved promotion in a traditional manner? Alcoholic beverages may be forbidden on ship, but it appears that we are on land at the moment."

"Delighted, Admiral. And when I am on board the Wasatch, I'll be certain to designate a portion of it army territory so we can get around that little prohibition."

Better and better, Nimitz thought. "And one other thing. Do you play horseshoes?"

Horseshoes, which Nimitz loved, had been prescribed for him as a means of alleviating the stress of his position. "Admiral Nimitz, I would be delighted to take you on in horseshoes."

Chapter 48

On a normal evening, the rugged coastal hills of the nearby island of Kyushu would have been plainly visible from the equally harsh coast of Honshu. But this, Field Marshal Shunroku Hata mused happily, was not an ordinary evening. This was a wonderful evening. It was one of those nights when the marriage of the cold wind from the north and the warm sea from the south had turned the night air into a dense fog that would last for many hours.

If he was shrouded in the fog, the American bombers and fighters would be blind to his actions. All along the shore, a mighty host had assembled, and its crossing of the mile-wide straits separating the larger island of Honshu from the smaller island of Kyushu would be a military triumph that would ring through Japanese history. Hata mentally compared it with Hannibal's crossing the Alps against the Romans. In this case, it would be the arrogant and supposedly invincible Americans who would be shocked to find that the battle-torn army on Kyushu had been so stunningly reinforced by two fresh and well-equipped infantry divisions.

For weeks he had planned, hoarded, and hid his thousands of men in places along or near the coast. Patiently, he had waited for the right weather conditions that would ensure that the two reinforced divisions of infantry would be able to cross that maddeningly narrow body of water without great harm.

Along with men, Field Marshal Hata had used his skills and power to accumulate hundreds of small boats that could hold anywhere between ten and fifty soldiers each. They were filling with men and would soon rush across the straits. There they would unload their human cargo and return for another trip. Hata's staff had felt it would take only two or three trips to complete the transfer. Thanks to the weather, it would all occur this one evening. The two divisions, thirty thousand men, would be safely across and inland on Kyushu before the weather changed. They would swarm the narrow straits like locusts crossing a field.

Japanese weather forecasters along northern Honshu and Korea were confident that the bad weather would hold at least throughout the night. Hata laughed silently at the term bad weather. He considered it marvelous weather. Some other day he would appreciate the sun and the blue sky; tonight he adored the gloom and fog. If the kamikazes were the divine wind, then tonight was the night of the divine mist.

The sixty-six-year-old Field Marshal Hata was in overall command of three area armies: the Sixteenth on Kyushu, which was currently fighting the Americans; the Fifteenth, which was based on the part of Honshu facing Kyushu; and the small Fifth Area Army, which was based on the northernmost island of Hokkaido. While the Sixteenth and Fifteenth faced the Americans, the Fifth looked nervously across the waters toward Sakhalin and Siberia, where the Soviets lurked.

At least he did not have to worry about the Red Army at this time. He had been assured that the Soviets would not move against Hokkaido or anywhere else. This enabled him to strip garrisons and exchange units without fear of the Russians stabbing him in the back.

The Russians might be a threat in the future, but the immediate problem was the American invaders, and an additional force of thirty thousand men might be enough to tip the scales in the favor of Japan.

The signal was given. As far as his limited vision would allow him, Hata could see hundreds of men pushing off into small boats while their comrades cheered them on, exhorting them to move more swiftly so they could make the journey themselves. It was glorious and made him think of a medieval pageant as the little boats disappeared into the fog.

Under normal circumstances, having so many men gathered in ranks along the beaches would have been suicidal, an invitation to the Americans to bomb and strafe, but this night the mist cloaked them. Hata's two divisions would go ashore and head inland, skirting the radioactive ruins of Kokura as they began their trek to the front lines.

"Banzai!" someone yelled, and a thousand nearby throats repeated the cry. Hata's chest nearly burst with pride and an unbidden tear swelled in his eye. These were good troops, the best Japan had left, and they would stop the Americans.

Field Marshal Hata walked the rocky beach, letting his men see him. They saluted and cheered him, and he saluted back with an uncharacteristic broad smile on his face. He knew it pleased them to know that he shared the night with them. Not many generals, much less field marshals, got this close to the men who would die for them. Hata knew it would further inspire the brave young soldiers in their fight for Japan's survival.

He checked his watch. It had been more than an hour, and the first wave should be across the straits. He received confirmation of this from a radioman, who said that many were already unloading and the men were heading inland. Some of the swifter boats had already made it back to Honshu and were loading again. He squinted out into the dark waters and wished he could see more clearly.

And then he could.

There was no mist. For a fraction of a second, he could see every small craft that bobbed on the waves and the dark columns of infantry beyond that snaked into the hills of Kyushu. Then a light brighter than a thousand suns washed across him, baking him. A second later, a shock wave blasted across the straits and blew his charred body into a thousand pieces. The shock wave continued up the hills of Kyushu and Honshu, draining the life from many of those who had not been killed by the fire of the initial blast.

Those who survived the heat and shock wave watched in agony as the evil-looking mushroom cloud lifted toward the heavens. At its base, a massive tidal wave formed and hurled itself onto the land, washing away further thousands of those who had lived through the first seconds of the explosion and dragging their bodies down to the sea.

When it was over, few remained to tell of the catastrophe, and most of those who did live were sickened and later killed by the rain of radioactive water and debris that blanketed the area. Had more been alive when this deadly torrent occurred, the deaths from radiation poisoning would have been greater. As it was, only a handful were left to sicken and die.

As the angry wave receded back into the churning straits, the mist soon returned and covered the water. If someone had walked into the scene and not known the truth, it would have appeared peaceful and serene with only a moderate rain falling to mar the night. No one would have believed that the thirty thousand men of the Japanese 81st and 214th Infantry Divisions had been there and then ceased to exist.

Chapter 49

It seemed like a miracle, or maybe several miracles, 1st Lt. Paul Morrell thought. Their ordeal at the front was over, at least for a while. The entire regiment had been rotated out of line for rest and refit and sent to a camp near the undistinguished town of Miyakonojo, about fifty miles inland, while some other poor slobs took over the thankless task of climbing hills the Japs didn't want them to.

As an example of their new status as temporarily rear-echelon, they'd had the opportunity to wash their uniforms and shower. An astonishing amount of dirt had run off Paul's body, and he was surprised at how skinny he'd become. He weighed himself and found that he'd lost fifteen pounds and that his body was mottled with bruises and laced by scratches. He looked at himself in a mirror and saw a gaunt-looking stranger with deep-sunk and fatigued eyes. What the hell had happened to the young man he'd once been? He wondered if he could ever go back to his prior life.

They ate hot meals topped off with a dessert of cold ice cream, and so what if they ran out of chocolate- everything was delicious. They had cots in tents that actually kept out the wind and the rain. Paul vowed that he would never again think of a tent as a primitive place to live. Compared with the previous weeks of living in rain, mud, and squalor, a tent was luxury beyond compare. The Waldorf-Astoria in New York would not have been better, he thought. Then he laughed at himself. Of course it would be better.

Even more civilizing was the presence of good, cold American beer. Paul clutched several bottles to his chest and stepped outside. Despite the chill, he and most of the others found it relaxing to be in the open air to smoke, drink, and just wallow in the wondrous fact of their being alive and well. A number of guys were still indoors playing cards or just sleeping, but it was exquisite to be outside and able to walk upright without fear. Although artillery rumbled in the distance, the air was free of the stench of death and the smell of sulfur from exploding shells. For once, the air they breathed was actually fresh.

Weapons were stacked in their tents, but they all still wore the steel pots that had protected their skulls since the landing. About a third of the men who had landed with the regiment were dead or wounded. They'd paid a helluva price for a beer and a warm place to sleep.

Paul walked past a group of enlisted men who were sprawled on the chill ground. "Hiya, Lieutenant," said Weaver, a PFC from Chicago. Weaver had been slightly wounded but had declined a chance to go to the rear earlier. By declining to go, he had probably screwed up his chance for a Purple Heart. Paul made a mental note to see if he could do something about that.

"Hi yourself," Paul said, grinning, ignoring that none of them had made any effort to come to attention. It was not the time to be tight on military formality. Now was a reminder that it really was a citizen army, with few professional or career soldiers. First Sergeant Mackensen was the only one he could think of, although some would doubtless want to remain in the service after the war ended. If, that is, the war ever ended.

"Got a question for you, sir," Weaver said.

Paul stopped. "Okay."

"Do you think they should have drafted Frank Sinatra like they did Joe Louis?"

Paul laughed. "I have a question for you- who the hell cares?"

Weaver pretended to be hurt. "We do, sir. Every day we come up with a topic to discuss, and Sinatra's draft status is today's issue of deepest concern. Hell, sir, it helps keep our minds out of the war."

Makes sense, Paul thought. Keep the agony at bay with silliness. "What other questions have you come up with?"

Weaver belched and almost dropped his beer. As it was, he spilled some and it sloshed over his leg. He didn't seem to notice. "Well, sir, yesterday we discussed whether or not Judy Garland fucked the Tin Man, and the day before we decided that smoking really was good for you and wouldn't stunt your growth."

"Heavy stuff." Paul laughed. "What's the consensus on Sinatra?"

Weaver looked at the others, who nodded for him to continue. "Well, we think we're better off without him. We think he's so skinny someone would have to carry his gear for him. Also, I don't think he sings that great anyhow and won't last, despite what my little sister writes about him. She just loves his skinny little dago ass. By the way, last week we decided that Scarlett O'Hara probably was a lousy lay. We still wonder, though, whether Jap pussy is slanted sideways like their eyes are. Guess we'll have to find that out ourselves, although none of us are so horny yet that we'll screw someone who actually eats raw fish."

"You will be soon," Paul told them solemnly. "Keep up the good work, men."

He walked past where Sergeant Collins, First Sergeant Mackensen, and several others were relaxing as well. Collins had a silly grin on his face while Mackensen's eyes were blank. Sweet dreams, Paul thought. Sergeant Orlando, owner of the M4 Sherman that had proven its worth a dozen times, brushed by him on his way to join the group.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but this is the NCO club. Officers' country is two trees and five rocks over to your left."

Paul slapped him on the shoulder and told him where he could drive his tank and then spin the turret. All the rules were relaxed, at least for the time being, and it was good, damn good, to be alive.

Just about two trees and five rocks over, Paul found Captain Ruger, Lieutenant Marcelli, and Lieutenant Bergen sitting on the ground. Lieutenant Kinski, he recalled, was resting from a bout of near pneumonia. Kinski was a new guy who'd replaced Houle, who'd been killed a week before.

"Siddown," Ruger ordered, and Paul happily complied. He squatted on the ground and took a long pull of beer. Each of the others had a beer in his hand and a couple more in the pockets of his jacket. "Ammunition," Ruger added, and patted a full bottle. "Never want to run out of ftickin' ammo."

Paul sprawled on the ground and looked up at the sky. "What now, brave captain?"

Marcelli answered, "Live for today. There may not be a tomorrow."

Ruger cuffed him on the arm. "God, that's dismal. We're getting out of here. All of us! Even Kinski, when he gets over his case of the sniffles."

Paul thought such fond hopes were the alcohol talking. Unless the war ended soon, they'd have to return to the fighting and take their share of casualties once more. Paul wondered just how many times a man could be shot at before the bullet with his name on it was fired. He decided to change the subject.

"Okay, Captain, we go home. Then what?"

"Gotta get home real fast and get out of the army so I can make a lot of money while I can. The Depression was ended by the war, but it sure as hell is coming back. Roosevelt might have fixed it for a little bit, but this Truman character ain't smart enough to keep the wolves from returning. I was poor before and I ain't gonna be poor again."

Ruger finished a bottle and threw it angrily into the darkness, where it landed with a dull thud. "That's what I hate about being here. All the people who were in the army are getting out and getting all the good jobs and all the good women. Thank God I got a good woman waiting for me, at least that's one thing I won't have to worry about. But by the time we get discharged, there won't be shit left in the way of jobs, and the Depression will come back in all its ugliness."

Marcelli handed Ruger a fresh bottle. "Some people say that the economy won't go belly-up. They say there's so much pent-up demand for goods that a boom economy will last a long time. I read an article about that in a Collier's I found," Marcelli added brightly.

"So, how you gonna solve the problem, Captain?" Paul asked.

"Real estate," Ruger answered quickly. "Nobody's built any houses in years, and there isn't that much room left to build in the cities, and, besides, most city houses are small and cramped. People who have money are going to want something better than the little homes their parents had and will be moving out into the countryside. Hell, a lot of them are still living with their parents in those little houses. I'm going to buy vacant land and build houses on it."

Paul wondered how that ambition jibed with his earlier statement that the economy would go to hell, but decided not to pursue it with the inebriated captain. However, he was intrigued by the comment that no homes had been built since the war started. No cars had been made, so it made sense that other aspects of the economy had frozen in place as well. If so, it meant that a lot of people did indeed have a lot of money to spend. Large plots of vacant land outside of the city might be a good idea for an investment. All he had to do was get home and get his hands on some money. He had a college degree, liberal arts, and it was time to put it to use.

"I just want a job, any job," muttered Lieutenant Bergen. "My dad had a farm in Kansas and lost it all."

Ruger raised an eyebrow. "I thought you were from New York?"

"I am now. We moved there and lived with relatives and tried to find work. There wasn't much there either."

Paul thought of his almost privileged background. At times his parents had been worried about money, but they had never been destitute. He had seen people begging in the streets and sifting through other people's trash for thrown-away treasures, but, even during the worst of times, he had never thought it could happen to him. Now he was beginning to realize just how fortunate he'd been and just how much he had taken it for granted.

Weaver's comments about Sinatra and his being skinny might have been about the Depression as well. He'd known of a lot of guys who'd failed their preinduction physicals simply because they weren't healthy enough to be soldiers. There was nothing apparently wrong with them, but years of poor eating had damaged them physically. He wondered if they would live shorter lives as a result. He laughed. Hell, they might live a lot longer than he would. After all, the Japs weren't shooting at them.

"Here's to MacArthur." Bergen raised his beer and slopped some onto his chest. "Shit," he said, and wiped it off awkwardly.

"Fuck MacArthur," Marcelli snarled. "If he'd done this right, we wouldn't be here. We'd have won already. He's dead and good riddance."

Captain Ruger coughed and fumbled for a cigarette. "You think Bradley'll do better?"

"Couldn't do worse," Marcelli answered.

Paul wondered about that as well. He knew of Bradley from his reputation in Europe and felt they'd gotten a top-notch man to replace MacArthur. Bradley would do a good, solid job and not place his men in unnecessary jeopardy. But, of course, much of what occured would depend on the Japanese, who had, so far, proven damned uncooperative.

They talked and drank until they ran out of beer. Then they sent Lieutenant Bergen- he was the junior officer present as well as the most sober- back for more, which they polished off. Finally it was time to return to their tents and the luxury of sleeping on cots instead of the ground. They would wallow in the ability to sleep in until the headaches that were going to occur from their drinking wore off. The MP guards around the camp would protect them from any Jap snipers or infiltrators. All they had to do was rest and build up their strength for the next round of fighting.

As Paul staggered into his tent and stripped down to his Skivvies, he wondered just what life would be like when he got back home. He wondered what Debbie's reaction would be when he finally got back to her. In a way, he felt guilty. It'd been a while since he'd had the time and the opportunity to even think of her, much less write her. Their mail hadn't caught up with them so he didn't know if she had written lately or not. He closed his eyes and conjured up a vision of her face. She seemed to smile at him and then he was asleep.

Chapter 50

Men stiffened to attention as the four-seater R5 A helicopter lowered itself awkwardly onto the ground. When the rotors stopped their insane whirling, Lt. Gen. Robert Eichelberger saluted General of the Army Omar Bradley as Bradley emerged gingerly from the ungainly machine.

"Welcome to paradise," Eichelberger said as Bradley returned the salute. The two men then shook hands warmly. "Did you enjoy your helicopter ride?"

"Incredible machine. I knew we had them, but this is the first time I've ridden in one. And it was a fine idea having me ferried out from the Wasatch in it. How many others are there and what are we using them for besides limos for generals?"

Eichelberger laughed. "We have nearly a hundred in total, although many are smaller than the one you rode in. We use them for courier service because the roads here are nonexistent, and you'll be pleased to know that we are using choppers for medical rescues and evacuations. Of course, the wounded have to be heavily sedated or they'll go into shock from the realization of what they're flying in."

"Wonderful," Bradley said sincerely. The care of his wounded was always a primary concern.

"We first used them in the jungles of Burma a year or so ago, and under the circumstances, it was a logical thing to do here. We've also outfitted some choppers with rockets and machine guns and have had a little success with them as gun platforms. Unfortunately, they're so damned vulnerable to almost any kind of gunfire that we've put that idea on the back burner. Pretty soon I'm confident that someone will come up with a helicopter that's larger and will be armored enough to stand small-arms fire."

"Good idea," Bradley said as they walked toward the miscellany of huts and tents that were the headquarters buildings of the American army in Kyushu.

Bradley halted. "Is the air force here?"

"Yes, sir. Per your instructions, you'll talk with LeMay alone, and then with Krueger, Hodges, and myself tomorrow."

"Good." What he had to say to Maj. Gen. Curtis LeMay would best be said in private. The air corps was a young service, and Curtis LeMay, at thirty-nine, was a very young general who was brilliant, hard-driving, and innovative. His idea to strip the B-29s of machine guns so they'd be lighter and then fly low-level bombing runs on the Japanese had worked brilliantly. Many Japanese cities had been reduced to flaming rubble with few losses to the B-29 fleet. As recently appointed commander of the Twentieth Air Force, LeMay was the senior air corps officer in the Pacific.

Sometimes, however, LeMay's aggressiveness caused others to question his judgment.

Bradley entered the hut Eichelberger indicated. LeMay, a burly man, stood and snapped to attention. Bradley gestured for him to sit down.

When both were comfortable, Bradley began, "General LeMay, you have a reputation for directness. I want some straight answers to some simple questions. First, who ordered the atom bombing of the straits between Honshu and Kyushu?"

"I did," LeMay answered without hesitation.

"On who else's orders?"

"President Truman's."

Bradley hid his surprise. Marshall had radioed him that the bombing had come as a complete surprise to Truman. This meant that LeMay had liberally interpreted his orders. Or disobeyed them. "Clarify that for me, General."

LeMay's eyes registered mild surprise. "General, following Hiroshima and Nagasaki, we then bombed Kokura. Washington was informed that there were no other targets remaining in Japan that were worthy of an atomic bombing, even though one city, Niigata, did remain from the original list of four. I did not quite agree with the decision, but complied. However, we were able to continue firebombing cities and other targets with conventional bombs, and it was clearly understood that atomic bombs could be utilized in the future against targets that were purely military in nature."

"And the straits bombing fit this description?"

"It did absolutely. Two divisions of infantry were out in the open and packed together like little yellow sardines. We bombed them and we killed all of them."

"What about civilian casualties? I was led to believe that Jap refugees crossed the other way from Kyushu to Honshu."

"Could've been some, but I doubt that. Our eavesdroppers said that the Jap army had grabbed everything that floated for this effort. There would have been damn few civilians, if any, out on the water that night. Besides, who cares? There isn't a target in the world that's one hundred percent military. Civilians have been getting in the way since man invented the club, and that's just too bad for them."

"What about our POWs?" Bradley asked. "Were any of them in the area as hostages?"

"Possibly, although probably not. This was a secret move on the part of the Japs so they wouldn't broadcast the fact that our boys were out there as hostages. It would give away their little scheme. And if any of our guys were killed by the bomb, then it was the fault of the Japs for putting them there instead of in proper camps. Sorry, but it wouldn't be the first time Americans were killed by our own bombs. You do know that a couple of dozen were killed at Nagasaki, don't you?"

Bradley concurred grimly. Japanese usage of Allied prisoners in military and industrial work was contrary to international law and had caused a number of tragic casualties. "General LeMay, are you aware that many of the world's countries are calling us butchers and barbarians for dropping yet another atomic bomb?"

LeMay laughed harshly. He started to take a cigar from his shirt pocket and then thought better of it. "General Bradley, that's bullshit and you know it. Hell, I've killed ten times as many Japs, civilian and military, with conventional weapons as I have with nukes. And don't let them snow you with that crap about radiation. As I see it, anything that kills Japs, whether today or next month or even the next century, is fine by me."

LeMay again grabbed for that elusive cigar and retreated. He was not certain what Bradley's reaction would be to his smoking it. "What the hell do those people want, General? Should we go back to crossbows? Nah, the more we kill, the sooner this war ends and the killing stops. Then we can get prepared for the next one against the Russians. The commies are going to be a helluva lot harder to fight than the Japs."

No argument there, Bradley thought. He too felt that the Russians were the real threat to a peaceful future. "General, don't you think it would have been appropriate to inform your commanding officer of your intentions to bomb the straits?"

"General Bradley, the opportunity came up quickly and we didn't think we'd be able to communicate with you and explain the situation in time. We know the Japs are trying to pick up our broadcasts, and we were afraid they'd realize we were up to something. We also thought you'd approve, even if after the fact."

Bradley leaned back in his chair and glared. "You're right about my approving it. I would have. It's the best possible use of a terrible weapon. But the rest of what you said is pure crap. You don't just throw on a nuclear mission just like that and take off in ten minutes. You've been listening to the Japs planning this thing from the beginning, at least days and perhaps weeks, and decided a long time ago that getting me, or whoever else might have replaced MacArthur, angry was a risk worth taking. You weren't going to take the chance of being turned down, were you?"

LeMay shrugged unconcernedly. "Guilty. I got a war to win and Japs to kill. Screw it, sir, it was a target handmade for an atomic bomb. Conventional bombing would have been worthless because of the bad weather. With an atomic bomb, the bombardier only needed to drop the damn thing in the general vicinity of the straits and accuracy wouldn't matter one damn bit. Colonel Tibbets commands the squadron that's dropped all the atomic bombs and he flew the plane himself, and they managed to drop it right on the bull's-eye. The dumb Japs didn't know that the mist hung only a couple of hundred feet above the water so the bombardier had some recognizable mountains to use as aiming points. We bagged ourselves two full divisions and one field marshal. Not a bad night's work if you ask me, although the scientists say that the mist actually held down deaths from the flash."

Damned if LeMay doesn't remind me of Patton, Bradley thought with some satisfaction. He and Patton had once been friends until it was necessary for Bradley to rein him in once too often. He would try to avoid that problem with the belligerent LeMay.

"General LeMay, do you want that third star?"

The question surprised the young general. "Hell yes."

"Good. Now the way to do it is to keep from surprising me. You will not, repeat not, use any nuclear weapons in the future without my express permission. Had you told me of your plan for bombing the straits, I would have heard you out, asked some of the questions I've raised today, and then very likely approved. Thus armed I would not have felt like a fool when Truman asked me about the bombing. Whatever authority you feel you might have had from Truman, Marshall, MacArthur, or God Almighty no longer exists. Until and if the air corps becomes a separate service, it is still part of the army, and the army reports to me. Is that clear?"

"Perfectly." LeMay looked surprised and chastened.

"Do you have any plans for A-bombs pending now?"

"None whatsoever, although we are still looking for anything fat and juicy like the straits."

"Good." Bradley relaxed. The situation was under control. LeMay might be overly aggressive, but he was ambitious and ethical and would follow direct and succinct orders. He would not jeopardize a chance at that third star. One question nagged at Bradley. "Tell me, what would Tibbets have done if he could not have found the target in the mist? He could not have returned to Tinian."

LeMay was horrified at the thought. "Hell no! Nobody's gonna try and land a bomber with an atom bomb on it, or any other kind of bomb for that matter, at a base of mine if I can help it. No, sir, he was to drop it in the ocean if he had to. If it was already armed, then it would go off and he would kill a lot of fishes but that's all. Better he kills fishes than the damn thing explodes when he lands at Tinian and we lose a perfectly good base and a helluva lot of good guys."

Made sense, Bradley thought, although the very idea of discarding one of their precious atomic bombs was jarring after all the effort that had gone into developing them. "What about the navy?" Bradley teased. "Any concern that you might cause damage to them if you'd had to ditch the bomb?"

LeMay grinned evilly. "Screw the navy. Nah, sir, they would have been warned."

Bradley laughed and rose. "General LeMay, please go back to killing Japs, and for God's sake, smoke that darn cigar."

Chapter 51

The ocean floor is far from flat. Its undulating hills and valleys of varying sizes and depths generally reflect the land it surrounds. Japan, a hilly and mountainous collection of islands, is encircled by a submerged continuation of herself. Thus, a submarine lying in hiding on the ocean floor on the Japanese continental shelf was rarely a stable and level platform.

The I-58 was down at the bow and tilted slightly to starboard as she lay silently on the bottom. This made any normal function such as standing, walking, or sitting awkward at best. One couldn't even lie down properly under the circumstances, and this made sleeping difficult. Exhaustion on the sub was a common result.

But, hidden as they were in a submerged crevasse, they were safe from detection. Sonar probes couldn't find them. Commander Hashimoto again reviewed his successes and his failures. On the positive side of the ledger were the sinkings of two freighters and an American warship that might have been a light cruiser or a destroyer. Which it was he didn't know. It had attacked him so quickly while he was lining up another freighter that his only concern was to sink it quickly and get away. Identifying it was irrelevant.

On the negative side, three fairly undistinguished ships were all he had to show for a combat cruise in which he had hoped for fat pickings once he had penetrated the American destroyer screen. Despite his best efforts, it hadn't worked out that way. Even though hundreds of American transports and scores of carriers were in the area, the vastness of the North Pacific worked to hide them. Then, when he did find a group of potential targets, the wolfish and snarling destroyers were always present. He had attacked on occasion, but the counterattacks by the destroyers had forced him to hide, and the men of the I-58 did not press the attacks to their conclusions.

At least he had gotten rid of the kaiten. The last remaining suicide-torpedo pilot had ridden his chariot to glory and death the previous day. Whether he had hit the freighter they'd targeted, Hashimoto didn't know. He and the crew of the I-58 rather doubted it as there had been no explosions rumbling in the distant ocean. With profound sadness, he imagined the kaiten spiraling downward in the sea's darkness to oblivion. What a waste. He hoped the eager young fool had died quickly.

One other time, the I-58 had been forced to make an emergency descent when a pair of American destroyers had angrily charged on his periscope. He thought they'd been directed to him by an airplane that had seen the I-58's shape underneath the waves. At least his unloved executive officer had finally served a purpose, if not in life then in death. The man had been killed in an earlier depth charge attack when an explosion hurled him against a pipe, cracking his skull. Afterward, his body had been kept in cold storage. When the depth charges got too close for comfort, the cadaver was stuffed into a torpedo tube and released upward with some debris. It had convinced the destroyers that the I-58 had been killed and they had departed.

Hashimoto checked his position. He was fifty miles south of the island of Tanega-Shima, which itself was south of Kyushu. Tanega-Shima was not a safe haven as it had been occupied by the American 158th Regimental Combat Team since early November, several days before the main assault on Kyushu.

Hashimoto had intended to stay closer to Kyushu, but American destroyers and a lack of good targets had caused him to stalk his prey ever farther away from Japan proper.

Enough, he decided. They had rested here a sufficient length of time. "Periscope depth," he ordered, and the boat slowly rose toward the surface. As it left the mud of the undersea ravine, the I-58 stabilized and Hashimoto was able to stand and walk properly.

"Anything?" he asked the men whose ears and listening devices strained for the sound of the turning screws of a hostile ship.

Neither he nor the others detected any ominous noises. This did not necessarily mean they were safe. A destroyer could be lying silently on the surface and waiting for him to betray himself, or an American search plane with radar might detect his periscope as it lifted above the waves and drop bombs on his head. As a precaution, his ascent was slow and he would raise his periscope with great caution.

Finally, Hashimoto ordered up periscope and began a visual search. He swiveled in a full three-sixty and saw no sign of danger, or targets for that matter. Dammit, he cursed. Where were all the American ships?

Then he blinked. A smudge was on the horizon. Yes, the light was good and there was definitely something there, actually just below the horizon. He calculated distance and speed and concluded that it was a large ship. Perhaps it was the carrier that had been denied him. Incredibly, the ship seemed to be alone. Could the Americans be repeating the mistake that had cost them the Indianapolis? He found that hard to believe, but the evidence of his eyes was too compelling.

Then the grim truth hit him as he reworked his calculations. The distant ship was moving slightly away from him and at a speed in excess of thirty knots. The I-58 could do nine knots submerged and just over twenty on the surface. He would never catch her, and he wasn't even close to being in range for one of the dozen torpedoes he had remaining. While the torpedoes could speed toward an enemy at forty-five knots, their range was only two and a half miles. He wished for the larger torpedo that once flew from Japan's now sunken surface ships. Their range was more than twelve miles. Even with that, he conceded grudgingly, the attempt would have been futile as the target was more than twelve miles out.

"Ah," he said suddenly, and the others looked at him. "The target is turning," he announced with a tight smile, and there were gasps of surprise.

The target was zigzagging and one of her movements was bringing her closer to the I-58. But how close? he wondered. Would he be able to fire his torpedoes at her, or would she just tantalize him with her presence and then race away?

Hashimoto ordered down periscope and directed the sub's full submerged speed toward where he thought the target was headed. And then he waited. If fate was with him, the target ship would be drawn close. If not, then he would swallow his anger and seek another.

Half an hour later, he again looked through the periscope. The target was markedly closer and still moving at great speed. Perhaps that was why she was alone. She could move more swiftly than any escorts. Better, she truly was a great ship. The dazzle camouflage painting on her hull and upper works broke up her design so he could not determine what she was, although she lacked the boxy shape of a carrier. She was, however, simply the largest ship he had ever seen.

Then it dawned on him. The massive target drawing closer to him was an ocean liner, probably the Queen Mary or the Queen Elizabeth. The leviathans had sped across the Atlantic Ocean with passengers in peacetime and now carried soldiers, but he had never before seen one. He knew they'd made numerous solo Atlantic crossings without incident because they had almost twice the speed of a submarine and were much faster than most surface warships. Traveling in a convoy had been deemed much more of a danger than cruising alone. Yes, that's what it must be, and she was coming toward his position like a greyhound. Hashimoto plotted a new course to intercept her, one that presumed she would not change again. He feared that she would turn away before she came into range, but he had to make the effort. He peered through the periscope until his head ached but he couldn't stop looking. More minutes crawled by, and now the great ship was almost within range of the I-58's arsenal. The target was plotted and all four bow tubes were ready.

No! Hashimoto slapped at the periscope in fury. She was starting her turn. He wanted to scream. But then he smiled. She was so big that turning quickly was physically impossible. Soon her drift had carried her well within range, and she had presented him with virtually her whole length to shoot at. She had come close enough that, with the periscope telescope at full zoom, he could see dots that were people on her deck.

"Fire tubes one through four," he ordered. His voice was incredibly calm even though he wanted to exult aloud with the ecstasy of success. The Japanese torpedoes were superb and would do their work.

The submarine rocked in the water as four torpedoes, each with almost nine hundred pounds of high explosives, surged outward and underwater at speeds many automobiles couldn't reach on land.

Hashimoto's eyes stayed glued to the scene. As the seconds counted off, he saw an antiaircraft gun on the ship fire tracers toward him. Either the periscope or the torpedo tracks had been sighted, but it was too late for the liner to do anything but continue her inexorable starboard turn.

The first torpedo struck near the bow on the port side and was followed in quick succession by three more as explosions took in nearly the entire length of the giant ship. Her continued forward motion caused the ocean to surge through the gaping holes in the target's hull. The liner was literally driving herself into the sea.

The forward tubes were reloaded with incredible haste. "Fire one and two."

Again the submarine rocked as nearly a ton of death raced toward the stricken target. These torpedoes too exploded on the port side, and with the accumulation of wounds, the ship began to roll sickeningly on her side.

Then Hashimoto knew horror. The ship's decks were black with humanity. Thousands of men were on the target, moving and swirling like people in a crowded Tokyo street, and they were all trying to escape the dying ocean queen at once. The ship continued to roll on her side with astonishing swiftness. It was like watching a child's toy in a pond. Nothing that mighty should die so quickly, but she did.

Minutes later she had turned completely on her side. Scores of men stood helpless on her exposed hull as it bobbed and wallowed in the water. She shook them off her slippery hull like a dog sheds itself of water. Then her bow slid into the water, and her stern, with her propellers still spinning in obedience to her last instructions, followed until there was only gurgling white water where the great liner had been. On board the I-58, they could hear the creaking and groaning sound of the giant metal ship breaking up in its descent to the bottom. Hashimoto thought he could hear the death screams of those trapped belowdecks for her final ride.

A stunned Hashimoto looked on the sea where the ship had been. The handful of lifeboats and rafts were jammed with humanity. The sea was covered with dark dots that each represented the head of a desperate swimmer. The water wasn't frigid, but the men in the water wouldn't last long. He briefly contemplated surfacing and trying to rescue some of them, or even giving them his own rafts, but thought better of it. There were just too many and the danger was too great. There had been more than enough time for the ship to have gotten off a distress call, hadn't there? Help for the dead queen had to be on the way, wasn't it?

But what if there wasn't? The Americans hadn't missed his earlier kill, the Indianapolis, for several days after the sinking. What if this was a repeat ofthat incident? This was war and they were the foe. The I-5 8 had hurt the enemy of Japan and hurt him badly. Hashimoto still had a handful of torpedoes left and more targets to seek out before trying to sneak back to Japan.

But the sight of so many men thrown into the ocean sickened Hashimoto. He stopped looking through the periscope and pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the tube.

"Down periscope," he ordered, and gave a course that would take them away from this place of death. He grieved for the men he'd just killed. Hashimoto would continue the war, but he was now sick of the killing. The feeling had been growing in his soul for some time. He would report his success to Tokyo, but would take no joy in it. The joy he had felt at finding such a target had disappeared.

Then Hashimoto knew what he would do. The Americans were looking and listening for Japanese subs. He would radio his report in such a way that they would know exactly where to look for the survivors of the dead queen. Perhaps that way he could live with himself in a future world.

Chapter 52

President Harry Truman buried his face in his hands and would have wept if it would have done any good. The other man in the office, Gen. George C. Marshall, bit his lower lip and waited for the tirade he expected and in some way felt he deserved. But it didn't come.

"Why?" Truman asked softly. "Why on earth was the Queen Elizabeth sailing alone to Japan? Why weren't there any escorts with her?"

Marshall lowered his head sadly. Admiral Leahy or King ought to have been answering Truman, but Leahy had emotionally collapsed as a result of the sinking, as well as being in disfavor with Truman because of his increasingly pacifist views, while King was trying to coordinate the continuing but increasingly futile search efforts for survivors.

"Both the Queen Elizabeth and the Queen Mary have been leased to us by Britain's Cunard Line and neither has ever sailed with an escort. They are so fast that most warships simply couldn't keep up with them, and they certainly were able to outrace any submarine. They've made numerous trips across the Atlantic to England and made them without any U-boat attacks, and with even greater numbers of GIs on board. The U-boats were always a much greater menace to shipping than any submarines the Japanese sent out." Marshall didn't add that both he and King thought that virtually all the Jap submarines had been sunk.

"So what happened this time? Did we just run out of luck?"

"It appears that the Queen Elizabeth was guilty of nothing more than stumbling on a waiting Jap I-boat." He added that there would be no further solitary sailings. The fully laden Queen Mary had been recalled to San Francisco. "After all is said and done, bad luck and a mechanical problem with the ship's sonar may be the answer."

"And, after all is said and done," Truman said, unconsciously mimicking Marshall, "how many young Americans are dead?"

Marshall started to answer, but his voice broke with pent-up emotion. He took a deep breath and tried again. "There were just over fourteen thousand unassigned army replacements on the ship. While rescue efforts are still continuing, we have picked up only a little more than two thousand of them, and a lot of them are in pretty bad shape. Admirals Nimitz and King hold out little hope that we will find more than a few more men alive. Rescue ships have plucked several hundred bodies from the waters and will continue that aspect of the recovery effort."

Truman winced. "And if it wasn't for the broadcast from the Jap sub, we wouldn't have yet missed her, would we?"

The killer of the Queen Elizabeth had been identified through his broadcast report as Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto and the sub as the I-58. Hashimoto and the I-58 had destroyed the Indianapolis only a few months earlier in circumstances that were chillingly similar.

"General, is this Hashimoto a war criminal?" Truman asked. "Can we promise the American public the satisfaction of a hanging in return for this disaster?"

Marshall again wished that a naval officer was present to respond. "The Queen Elizabeth was a legitimate target and he was under no compulsion to warn her, or do anything else that might have endangered himself. His actions were similar to what many of our own submariners are doing in their actions against Japanese shipping. In fact, Hashimoto may have saved a lot of lives by broadcasting his triumph in the clear, without any encoding. He gave the precise location of the sinking, which was highly unusual. Since the Queen Elizabeth's radio was knocked out within minutes of being hit, that transmission was our only real knowledge of where to begin looking."

Truman had wondered about that as well. "Do you think he did that on purpose to help us get those boys out of the water, or was he trying to show off and rub it in?"

"I don't know. Although rather unlikely, it is just possible that he was trying to save lives by the time he sent his message. If the war ever ends, we might have a chance to ask him."

Truman stood and looked out the window behind his desk. "I'm curious. England had any number of ports where a liner full of soldiers could disembark troops, while we don't yet hold a single good-sized Japanese port. Just where on earth was the Queen Elizabeth going to dock and unload all those troops?"

"She was going to reach a point off Japan where she would be surrounded by a horde of destroyers to protect her. LSTs and other smaller craft would swarm around her, and men would disembark directly onto them. As Nimitz's boys had it planned and rehearsed, the Queen Elizabeth would be emptied in a few hours and be back on her way to Hawaii or California."

But it hadn't gone as planned and almost twelve thousand American boys had been drowned. So far, they'd managed to keep news of the catastrophe out of the newspapers and off the radio. Just how much longer this could keep up was debatable. A few days was the best guess. With the earlier crises of the war behind them, many reporters and correspondents were openly chafing against what they felt was unnecessary government censorship. Several papers had already announced that they would no longer abide by censorship rules, and the attorney general had told Truman that there really wasn't much the government could do about it. Prosecuting newspapers would be politically disastrous and might not result in a favorable verdict in the courts.

A few days, Truman thought. Just a few days and then the world would know that twelve thousand GIs had died not in battle but in getting there. That it was nearly Christmas would make it even more devastating. The atom bomb had killed thirty thousand Jap soldiers a few days earlier, and a conventional torpedo had just killed twelve thousand Americans in what the Japanese were sure to call justifiable revenge. Where was the justice? What the hell use was it to have superweapons when the enemy's old ones worked so damnably well?

Chapter 53

Joe Nomura was about to lose the chess match to the Son of Heaven.

"Check!" he said in an undeniable tone of gloating.

Joe bowed and smiled. "You win, Your Majesty. Would you like another game?"

Hirohito laughed again. "No, beating you four times in a row is enough. You try hard and are improving, but you really aren't a very good player."

"It's been years since I had the opportunity to play, sir." And that was in Hawaii, dammit!

"I know," the emperor said gently. "I did not mean to make fun of you. I enjoy playing chess with you and I enjoy having you to talk with. You are so much less a radical than the good colonel, my jailer." Joe was genuinely surprised. "Oh, I know you are a member of the kempei, which means you should be a fanatic like Sakei, but I see in your eyes that you are wearied by the war."

"I think everyone is, Your Majesty." It was a good, safe answer.

"Of course, but there is a great deal of disagreement over what to do about it. You are aware, are you not, that I am here because I agreed to surrender to the Americans?"

"Yes."

"Anami and the others who took over are afraid that the Americans will destroy Japanese culture. I disagree. I feel that surrender is the only way to preserve it, and there are many who agree with me. Tell me, Captain, what do you see in this camp, and when you leave here and walk through the countryside? Do you see a culture being preserved, or do you see dirty and starving people eating roots and dying of cold? And when you listen to military reports, do you hear that the Americans have been driven from Kyushu or that their planes have stopped bombing our few remaining cities?

"No! Captain, I believe that it is men like Anami and his puppet Colonel Sakei who will destroy Japan if they are not stopped. It is they who threaten the continued existence of Japanese culture, and not your emperor."

Joe said nothing. Even though his few sessions with Hirohito had been cordial, one did not argue with one's emperor. Nor did one agree with him too promptly. There was the concern that he was being tested, but for what? Silence was the best course.

"I understand, Captain, that you will neither say nor do anything that will put you in any jeopardy, and I applaud both your tact and your restraint. Yet again your eyes betray you. You wish you could say something, but don't know how or what to say, do you?"

Joe smiled. "Your Majesty is quite wise."

"And perceptive."

Joe did not disagree. Where the hell was this going? he wondered.

"Someday you may have to make some difficult, even agonizing decisions, Captain. You may have to decide where your true loyalty lies. Is it to Anami and Sakei, or is it to Japan and your emperor? My duty lies in ending this war as quickly as possible and by using any means available. I feel that I could have been the instrument of peace. I pray that it is not too late for me."

Hirohito clapped his hands. "Go now. Think about what I have said and what is the evidence of your eyes, your mind, and your heart. I know you will make the decision that is best for Japan."

Almost in shock, Joe stood and bowed. He left the compound hastily and rode his bike out into the countryside. What the hell was Hirohito saying? It sounded as if he wanted Joe's help to spring him from his prison, and the more he thought about Hirohito's words, the more he became convinced that his assumption was correct.

Now what? Jesus. Just when he thought he had a handle on things, someone went and changed the damned rules. He had to get back to camp and contact his handlers. Maybe it was time to break into the new code? He was only to use it as a last resort because, after that, there was no other. Maybe he should try to use the old one without compromising himself. He'd have to talk to Dennis. Dennis was damned clever and would help come up with something.

With a jolt that nearly caused him to fall off the bike, he realized that he might have it within his power to end the whole war if he could get Hirohito out of his confinement and into the hands of other people who thought the way he did.

Chapter 54

Ernest Bevin was Great Britain 's secretary of state for foreign affairs in the relatively new government of Prime Minister Clement Attlee. It seemed poignant and significant to President Truman that the heads of both the world's greatest democracies had fallen within a couple of months of each other. Franklin Roosevelt had died of a massive stroke, while Winston Churchill had been replaced by a Labour government that the British people felt was better qualified to lead them through the coming peace.

Of the three world leaders who'd forged the wartime alliance against the Nazis, only Joseph Stalin remained.

"Mr. President, I have come on a mission of great urgency, and it is imperative that we be able to speak frankly and candidly, even though that will require the stating of some unpleasant truths." Bevin chuckled. "Indeed. First let me say that I come as the representative of a country, Great Britain, that is your only true friend on this earth."

Byrnes responded quizzically, "I'm delighted that you reaffirm our alliance, but why do you state that you are our only true friend?"

Bevin nodded. "Because France, under the insufferable Charles de Gaulle, is going its own arrogant way, and the other European countries are too devastated to provide anything beyond lip-service support to you as allies. In Asia, Chiang's China is tottering and claims to be your ally for the sole reason that you provide Chiang with the material resources to fight the Japanese and the Communists. Russia, of course, is betraying you routinely."

There was overwhelming evidence that the Russians were fighting only the Chinese Nationalists, while permitting hundreds of thousands of Japanese soldiers to trek through Soviet lines to Korea, where the Japanese tried to slip them into either Honshu or Kyushu.

"I spoke with Ambassador Gromyko this morning in person," Truman said, "and with Molotov by phone. Both men flatly deny any complicity in the fact that the Japs are getting through to Korea. When I showed Gromyko proof that Russian ships were actually ferrying Japs to Korea, they professed shock and said it must be the actions of a deviant local commander."

Bevin arched an eyebrow. "Did you believe them?"

"Hell no, and I let Gromyko have it with both barrels." Truman laughed bitterly. "When I tried to scold Molotov, the son of a bitch hung up on me. Deviant local commander, my foot. Nobody in the Soviet Union even goes to the John without Stalin's specific permission."

Bevin relaxed slightly. "Do you accept that China is lost?"

"I don't see how it could be otherwise," Truman answered. "I've met with some congressmen who are supporters of Chiang Kai-shek and they've yelled at me that we have to do something, anything, to help Chiang, but nobody knows what that something or anything might be. Yes, Mr. Bevin, China is lost no matter what the so-called China Lobby in Congress says and wishes."

"Mr. President, distasteful though that may be, it helps bring me to the reason for my visit. The Russians are moving down the coast of China and taking over the land held by the Japanese, which includes all the major coastal cities."

Byrnes nodded. "But how does that affect Great Britain?"

"Hong Kong," Bevin stated simply.

"I see," said Marshall. "You want your empire back and you wish us to help you get it."

"Not totally," Bevin corrected. "England is emotionally, physically, and economically ruined by this war. What my government has to do for her people is to end the war as quickly as possible so that we can begin to recover before recovery is impossible. Our army and navy must be brought home and the enormous expenditure in war material must be pared down."

"And how does Hong Kong fit in this picture?" Truman asked.

"It is much more than a symbol of empire. I know that your nation hates the thought of colonial empires and has made it emphatic that you are not going to fight to reestablish European colonies, but Hong Kong is unique. It is a British city-state, albeit with a large Chinese population, that is both a symbol to my country and a place where a great number of British prisoners, civilian and military, are being detained."

Truman understood and conceded that point. "The safety of our prisoners in Japanese hands is a grave concern."

"Then you were as horrified as we were about the massacre in Kagoshima," Bevin said.

U.S. Marines had finally stormed Kagoshima City in bloody house-to-house fighting. After slogging through the charred ruins of the town, they'd found more than two hundred Allied prisoners of war who'd systematically been murdered by the Japanese before they themselves committed suicide. The prisoners' hands had been tied behind their backs and they had been beheaded.

"We have to get our prisoners back," Bevin said. "The Japs have seven or eight Dutch or Commonwealth prisoners for every one American in captivity. While we have liberated some helpless wretches in our drive through Burma, the vast majority remain in very brutal Jap hands. You were truly fortunate in that you rescued so many in the Philippines, but you know full well just how terribly they'd been treated."

Only now were the truths of the Bataan Death March and the atrocities at the Philippine camps such as Cabanatuan being accurately assessed. The kindest camps were those where the inmates were merely overworked, beaten, and starved. At others, these were combined with torture, hideous experiments, and ritual murder. Lt. Gen. Masaharu Homma had commanded the Japs in the Philippines at the time of Bataan and was one of the leading candidates to be hanged after the war. Gen. Tomoyuki Yamashita, who currently led the ragged remnants of the Japanese army in the hills of Luzon, was another.

"So what do you want?" Truman asked.

"As I stated, Hong Kong. We wish your support in taking it. I'll be candid. If we do not get it, we may have to consider making a separate peace with the Japanese. It is that important to us."

"Just how do you plan to use our support to take the city?" General Marshall asked.

"At their current pace, we estimate that the Russians will be in Hong Kong in four months, six at the latest. The Soviet thrust does seem to be running out of steam, but it is still pushing southward.

"We wish to detach our task force from your Pacific fleet and use it to support a relief expedition. That Royal Navy force includes four battleships, five carriers, and a number of cruisers and destroyers. We also have three divisions training to invade Honshu as part of Operation Coronet. We need American transports to take those three divisions to Hong Kong and help land them in sufficient time to retake the city and forestall its takeover by the Communists. Let's be honest, gentlemen. America neither needs nor particularly wants Great Britain's participation in the coming invasion."

"General MacArthur may not have wanted your help," Marshall said, "but General Bradley absolutely does. And I know that your small but heavily armored carriers are almost impervious to Japanese kamikaze attacks, which makes them immensely valuable at this time."

"When?" Truman asked, cutting off Marshall.

"In sixty days. Ninety at the most. If the Reds get wind of our intentions, they will expedite their march down the coast. We must get there first and leave the Russians outside Hong Kong."

Marshall was concerned. "Mr. President, we are planning the invasion of Honshu in a little more than three months. Because of the losses we've taken from the kamikazes and weather, we have barely enough transports now to complete our plans. If we skim off enough to take three divisions and their supplies to Hong Kong, I don't think they can be back to their staging areas in time. The invasion will have to be postponed."

"Or accelerated," Truman said softly, and watched as Marshall's face registered astonishment. "Here is what we will do," Truman said, turning back to Bevin. "General Marshall and General Bradley will determine whether we can land on Honshu sooner rather than later and free up the shipping. I agree with you, the war must be ended. The United States is growing wearier of this war far more quickly than I ever dreamed."

News of the existence of a list of prisoners had caused many relatives of missing Americans to hope for the best. Some had marched in the streets in favor of an end to the war. So far, they were a vocal minority, but Truman knew that another disaster like the Queen Elizabeth or the massacre at Kagoshima would increase their numbers to where they would be a force to be reckoned with.

Truman leaned forward and smiled in Bevin's face. "Now let's discuss the price of our cooperation."

Bevin laughed. "What do you want?"

"Britain will immediately support the idea of a homeland for Jews in Palestine and begin to act on that support."

Bevin pretended surprise. He had expected this sort of quid pro quo. "That is contrary to our current policy and will outrage the Arabs."

Truman smiled. "I don't give a damn about the Arabs. Congressional elections are coming in less than a year and presidential elections in two years after that. I wish to be reelected and so do you. My party represents an international focus, while the Republicans still harbor a large number of isolationists. Think about it. Who is more likely to be present with you in Europe to confront the Russians: Tom Dewey or me? The Republicans are against communism and Dewey is fairly forward-thinking, but other Republicans, Vandenberg for instance, would rather fight the Reds on the coasts of New Jersey. I am certain you would rather we confront them on the Elbe in Germany.

"Mr. Bevin, there are very few Arabs in America, and those who are here aren't particularly political, but there are many, many Jews. American Jews normally vote for my party, the Democrats. Giving in to the legitimate aspirations of European Jews for a homeland and keeping your earlier promises about it being in Palestine will help me get elected in '48. It's just that simple. You want Hong Kong and I want Palestine. If you agree, we will assist you in three months, not sooner. That might just give us time to invade Honshu and swing a sufficient number of transports south with your warships. Do we have an agreement?"

Bevin calculated his losses. The hell with both the Jews and the Arabs, he thought. More than either, Britain needed Hong Kong, and three months should be more than sufficient time. Even though most Englishmen knew that the days of empire were over, they wanted England to be the country making the decisions and setting the terms that would free her colonies. Fortunately, it was a myth that Great Britain was economically dependent on places such as Hong Kong and India. She wasn't.

Bevin conceded. "All right, but there are many Jews who do not wish to go to Palestine and instead wish to come to America. These you will take. Also, the opening of Palestine to Jewish immigration must be done in such a way that the Arabs will see your country as pushing and bullying us into doing it and thereby hate the United States and not us. We are dependent on their oil and need their goodwill to make it back economically. You may never be able to get petroleum from the Arabs in the future, however."

"That's acceptable," Truman said. In the world of politics, forever never occurred. Regardless of the rhetoric and the passion, today's enemies could easily become tomorrow's allies and vice versa. "The Arabs can keep their damned oil. We have more than enough for our needs."

Chapter 55

The commander of 528th's 1st Battalion, Maj. Jimmy Lee Redwald, was a little too flamboyant in his dress and mannerisms for Brig. Gen. John Monck's personal taste. Redwald casually ignored the unwritten prohibition on looking too much like an officer while in a combat area. His fatigues were always clean and pressed, and his boots shined. Since Redwald didn't have the rank to have anyone available as a valet, Monck presumed that the major did the laundry and spit-shining himself. Monck could think of several better ways to spend an evening.

Redwald also kept his major's insignia on the front of his helmet, although he did not use the shiny brass that would have drawn sniper fire from all across Japan. The major was infatuated with what he'd heard and read about the hard-driving George Patton in Europe. On occasion, Monck had reminded Redwald that Patton operated farther behind the front lines than a mere major did and was less likely to draw enemy fire. That little fact did not appear to impress the lanky Oklahoman.

On the positive side, Major Redwald's battalion was well run and the men seemed to respect their commander while tolerating his attempt at being colorful with quiet amusement. On balance, there were a lot worse officers and not that many better.

What the hell, Monck thought as he, Parker, Redwald, and Monck's driver drove toward Redwald's command post with their guard vehicles ahead and behind them. If being a show-off works for Redwald, who cares. "Jimmy Lee, who's this boy you're putting up for the Medal?"

"Didn't you get my report, General?"

"Of course I did and it reads quite well. But they all do, don't they? I know what it says, but what does it mean? Did he really dive on that grenade to save others, or was it some kind of fluke? As much as I'd like to have a Medal of Honor awarded to one of my men, the Medal's a precious thing and I want to know what's right before I endorse the report and send it on to division."

Monck's endorsement was but one of many steps before a Medal of Honor could be awarded to the dead medic, while a lack of an approval would kill it.

"I've been wondering that same thing since Ruger forwarded Lieutenant Morrell's report to me with his endorsement," Redwald said. "All I can say is no one really knows what went on in that poor boy's mind when he saw that grenade lying in front of him. Was he really trying to save his men or did he think he could smother it and save himself? Maybe he just plain stumbled while trying to get out of the way and fell on it despite himself. I really don't know and no one else does either. The only thing I do know is that the Wills boy is dead and two wounded men aren't, and all as a result of his actions. Ask the two wounded boys and they'll say Wills was Jesus Christ himself."

Monck agreed silently with Redwald's assessment. Neither officer would speak of another fact, that having a Medal of Honor winner under their command would mean an honor to the unit and some would rub off on Wills's superiors all the way up the chain of command.

"You gonna approve it, General?" Redwald asked hopefully.

"I don't know." Monck wasn't going to recommend something he didn't believe in. "Wills's going to get something, but I don't know just what. You know as well as I do that it might get knocked down to a Distinguished Service Cross or a Silver Star before the whole process is over. Both of them are high honors, but neither one is the Medal. Parker, what do you think?"

Parker ignored the talk and looked instead at the surrounding desolation. The area they were driving through had been heavily fought over, and a multitude of shell craters made the terrain look like a moonscape. At least the dead had been picked up. American graves registration had interred U.S. dead in temporary cemeteries, while Japanese dead had been buried in mass graves or plowed over where they'd fallen.

As on most of occupied Kyushu, no Japanese civilians were around, which was prudent on their part. Even civilians stood a good chance of being shot on sight. There had been enough suicide attacks on the part of old men, women, and even children to justify the quick response by the GIs. The few Japanese who did remain on southern Kyushu were housed in camps.

"Personally," Parker finally answered, "I'm glad I don't have to make that decision."

Monck grinned. "Thanks for your help."

"What's really important," Parker continued, "is why the shiny major in the front seat hasn't been shot at by the Japs. I mean, he is so clean he glistens."

Redwald laughed. The teasing was old hat. "Just trying to set an example for my men."

The jeep lurched through a large shell hole in the dirt road, then made a wide turn to avoid another one. They were less than a mile behind the slowly advancing front lines and traveling conditions were primitive at best. What few roads there were had been chewed up by the war. In many areas, supplies had to be hand-hauled up to the front, which further slowed the regiment's advance.

The situation was the same for the rest of the invasion force. Requests for mules had gone out and would be filled. Mules had been used with considerable success in Italy and in other rugged areas, but the need for them had not been anticipated in Kyushu, which was becoming more and more reminiscent of a World War I battlefield instead of a modern World War II killing ground.

In Monck's opinion, the lack of mules was just another after-the-fact screwup. A great big book would someday be written about what could have been done better in Kyushu. By that time, of course, it would be too late for the participants.

The jeep came to a virtual stop as they inched their way past a large pile of loose rubble. Suddenly the pile exploded and a demonic screech filled the air. Monck was paralyzed by the apparition that emerged through the dirt and dust. It was a Japanese soldier, his mouth wide with his scream, and a samurai sword gripped with both hands. With incredible quickness, he brought it up from his waist to over his head and swung it expertly.

With a near-silent swish it sliced off Redwald's head, sending it flying through the air to land on the ground with a dull thud. He swung again. Monck threw himself out of the jeep and the blade clanged against the metal side of the vehicle. Parker had scrambled out the other side, but the driver was trapped and had started to scream. Monck fumbled for his pistol, pointed it at the Jap, and pulled the trigger. Nothing. He had forgotten to remove the safety.

The Japanese soldier again shrieked his fury and the sound was recognizable as "Banzai." Just as he was about to kill the driver, one of the guards from the rear jeep ran up, jammed a Thompson submachine gun into the Jap's chest, and fired a burst that shredded their attacker's torso. He howled and fell backward. The GI stood over him and fired another burst, which further pulverized his body, sending flesh and bone spraying through the air.

Monck checked the driver, who was shaken and sobbing but otherwise okay. Parker was on his feet and unhurt, although almost equally shocked. The blood on Monck's uniform had come from Redwald's headless body, which still sat primly in the front seat beside the driver, who had begun vomiting over the other side.

Good idea, Monck thought. His own stomach was heaving at the grisly sight. He looked over to where Redwald's head lay faceup. Incredibly, it looked as if he was smiling.

"Parker," Monck gasped, "what the hell just happened? I thought this place was safe?"

Colonel Parker lit a cigarette with trembling hands. "Ain't nothing safe on this island, General. I think that was one of what our boys're calling spider men. Those are suicide soldiers who dig into the ground and cover themselves up. Then they wait until the fighting has passed by and attack targets of opportunity like one of those trap-door spiders back home in Arizona." He took a deep drag and it seemed to steady him. "Y'know, I think he went after Redwald and not you or me because Redwald looked more like a senior officer than we do."

"Helluva price to pay for clean living," Monck muttered, but he agreed with Parker's assessment. Redwald was dead and they were not because Redwald looked the part of an officer more than they did.

Monck's guards had finished searching the dead Jap's body. They were eager to drag the corpse out of sight so they could see if he had any gold fillings. It was a despicable habit, but if the frontline troops didn't get a crack at the fillings, then some rear-echelon jerk would pry them out. Monck tolerated pulling gold fillings, but drew the line at cutting off ears or penises and drying them for use as an obscene necklace.

According to the dead Jap's papers, he was an officer and about forty years old. In that case, Monck wondered, where the hell were the rest of the guy's troops? Maybe they were all dead and he was the last of the Mohicans and determined to join them. If so, he'd just got his wish.

Chapter 56

Gen. Omar Bradley ducked his head as he and Eichelberger entered the dugout headquarters of the U.S. Sixth Army on Kyushu. Along with the stale air and the heavy overlay of cigarette smoke, Bradley noticed the pathetic attempts at Christmas decorations. A few ribbons and some Christmas-tree balls hung on a local fir do not a holiday make, he thought ruefully. Another Christmas would be spent with American soldiers killing the enemy and dying in turn. What a lousy world it sometimes was.

In the distance, antiaircraft guns crumped into the sky, and the people in the dugout complex looked nervously at each other.

Bradley turned to General Krueger. "Should we get to a shelter?" The roof over their heads was camouflaged canvas.

Krueger looked worn-out. His eyes were dark-ringed and his face sagged. "No, at least not yet."

Bradley accepted the decision. As a result of the army and marine advances, some Japanese kamikaze attacks had shifted to ground targets. High on their list were fuel dumps and anything that looked like a supply depot. The army had lost a large amount of its fuel and ammunition reserves in the attacks.

Nor were places like Sixth Army headquarters immune. This was the reason for the highly visible and well-defended headquarters complex that was a couple of miles away and totally empty of working personnel. It had drawn Jap suicide planes the way honey draws bees, while the real headquarters, half-buried and well hidden, remained unmolested.

Bradley took a seat by the makeshift conference table. "General Marshall wishes this offensive wrapped up as soon as possible so we can concentrate on the second phase of the operation."

At sixty-four, Lt. Gen. Walter Krueger now looked eighty. He was known as a meticulous planner, an instructor, and a man who worked mightily to keep casualties down. Now he was haunted by failing in that goal.

"General Bradley," Krueger said slowly, the fatigue evident in his voice, "we're moving inland and up the island as fast as we can. If we try to push harder against Jap resistance, we'll only stack up more dead and wounded. Just like on Okinawa, it sometimes takes days to clear a cave complex on one small hill only to find another one a few hundred yards away. This is not the type of fighting that can be rushed."

Bradley stepped to a wall map that showed the line of American advance. A little more than one quarter of Kyushu was in American hands. The line of American battle symbols ran from just north of Sendai on the west coast and looped across the island to a point halfway along the east coast between Miyazaki and Nobeoka. Kagoshima and the dormant volcano that dominated the city had been taken, as had Mt. Kirishima in the middle of the island. Artificial harbors were under construction in Kagoshima and Ariake bays, while more than a dozen small airfields were in operation.

Land areas taken included those optimistically labeled the Ariake, Miyazaki, and, on the other side of the island, the Kushikino "plains." Other areas were labeled "corridors," as if they formed an easy path to the interior of Kyushu. Plains and corridors they might have appeared on maps, and the land might actually have been more gentle than that in the interior, but it was still rugged. By moving through those alleged plains and corridors, the army and marines had been rewarded by confronting even more difficult and arduous terrain. It hardly seemed fair, Bradley thought.

"General Krueger," Bradley said, "the original plans called for us to take only the southern third of Kyushu, and I believe we have pretty much accomplished what we set out to do. Ariake Bay is ours, as is Kagoshima Bay. Our ships are using both shelters and will use them even more if only the kamikazes would stop coming over."

As if to punctuate the comment, something exploded a few miles away.

"Gentlemen, the president is under tremendous pressure to finish this war. He is under additional pressure to support British operations along the China coast in conjunction with the liberation of Hong Kong. He has committed to supporting the British with transports and landing craft in three months."

"No!" General Eichelberger blurted. "That'll mean a delay in our attack on Tokyo."

Bradley smiled grimly. "It is now almost Christmas and it is just over three months before Operation Coronet, the invasion of Tokyo, is scheduled to take place. I want that attack accelerated. Gentlemen, I want this battle on Kyushu wound down so that all our resources can be directed towards Honshu and Tokyo. I want our boys ashore on the Kanto Plain and driving towards the Imperial Palace as soon as is humanly possible. We cannot delay Coronet; therefore we must accelerate it."

"But what will I do for an army?" Eichelberger asked softly. It was a reminder to Bradley that he and the absent Hodges were scheduled to be field commanders for Coronet as Krueger was for the smaller Olympic. "Surely you don't expect to use the men now on Kyushu?"

"That's correct, I do not. Along with their presence being needed here, they are far too worn-out for further offensive operations. No, they are to stay here."

"Thank God," said Krueger, who could finally see an end to his horrors. "But Bob's right. What will he use for an army? The invasion of Honshu will use an additional fourteen divisions in the initial phase alone. Half those boys are either en route or not even formed up."

Bradley smiled tightly. "Then we'll use the half we got. Gentlemen, I've been coordinating with Nimitz and the Pentagon on the status of the Japanese army defending Tokyo. What had once been estimated at eighteen infantry and two armored divisions has been reduced to less than half that, and many of those remaining soldiers are nothing but untrained warm bodies in uniforms. They are recent conscripts who've had no training whatsoever and don't possess much in the way of weapons. Our air force has been pounding anything they see, so there has to be further erosion in their ability to fight.

"Bob, Walt, I don't think the Japs have anything left near Tokyo to fight with. I agree with intelligence estimates that there will be little resistance to an invasion of Honshu."

Bradley saw the disbelief on their faces. They'd heard much the same thing from MacArthur earlier in the year, and it had proven horribly, tragically wrong. But Bradley also saw a glimmer of hope that this would end the terrible fighting. This was information that had come from several sources, and not just MacArthur's pet intelligence coordinators who had been deemed infallible by their late commander.

Bradley moved away from the map. "The battle lines are almost static and we are playing into their hands. The harder we push against their defenses, the more men we lose. This battle for Kyushu is nothing more than a rehash of Verdun in the last war, or Stalingrad in this one, where one side tried to make the other side bleed itself to death. We can't continue fighting and losing men at this rate."

"All right," admitted Eichelberger. "We can't. So what's Walt to do while Hodges and I try to pull an army out of thin air?"

"First of all, Bob," Bradley said, "your army isn't coming out of the air. It'll be coming from the Philippines, California, Hawaii, and Europe. It'll be close, but I'll guarantee you at least two marine and ten army divisions, along with at least one armored brigade, for the invasion."

Eichelberger nodded. "If you're right about the state of the Jap army, it'll do. In fact, it'll more than do."

Bradley turned to Krueger. "Walt, you may have the most difficult part. Any reinforcements and replacements not already landed here are now going to go to Bob. You'll have to make do with what you have."

Krueger shrugged. "I kinda guessed as much. If it'll help end this thing, I'm game. As if I had a choice." He grinned for the first time.

"Good," said Bradley. "One thing I am very afraid of is a major Jap counterattack. If they detect that we've slowed down and eased off on the pressure, I'm convinced they'll try one. I want you to keep up a minimum level of pressure to keep their attention focused on Kyushu."

Eichelberger arched an eyebrow. "A counterattack? Do you really think the Japs are up to that? We've hit them pretty hard, Brad. They've taken a lot of casualties, probably a lot more than we have."

Bradley seated himself and leaned back in the chair. "Just about a year ago I was in Europe and we were all counting out the German army. They were dead, we said, defeated and destroyed. Then the Germans found a weak spot in the Ardennes and we wound up fighting the bloodiest battle in the history of the United States, at least until this one.

"Against all odds, the Nazis managed one last attack, one last hurrah, and just when we thought they couldn't. We were caught preparing our own plans as if they didn't have any of their own. Are you aware that our latest intelligence estimates are that the Japs still have more than half a million men on Kyushu?"

"I know," said Krueger. "We kill them and they keep replacing them with fresh bodies from Korea and Honshu. Maybe they aren't top-notch soldiers, but they're still fighting. Damned Reds are helping them too. We think we've caused a quarter of a million Jap dead or wounded, but they keep making good the losses."

"Truman will take care of the Russians," Bradley commented hopefully, "but you've got to watch out for the Japs. If the Battle of the Bulge is any guide, they will wait for an extended period of rotten weather when our air forces are grounded and attack then. Unfortunately, they are still getting good weather information from stations in Korea and even from Manchuria. Since the winter storms flow down from up there, they will have several days' advance notice. So will we, of course. Nimitz has already put a number of navy weather experts on ships and has them in the Sea of Japan off Korea and Honshu."

"Good," both other generals muttered in near unison.

"General Krueger, I want your boys to be ready to circle the wagons- and I mean that almost literally- when Nimitz gives the signal that the weather is ripe for the Japs to attack. If nothing comes of it, that'll be fine by me, but I'd rather have a false alarm, even a number of them, than a rehash of the Bulge, where two regiments of the 106th Division were forced to surrender. I don't want to even think of additional American troops being captured by the Japs. I don't care how you do it, but there will be no weak places for the Japs to exploit if and when they do attack."

"What about atom bombs?" Eichelberger queried.

"There won't be a place for them on the battlefield that I envision if the Japs do attack us." Mentally, Bradley hedged the statement. If a suitable target was found far enough from the battle lines, he would consider it.

The door to the room burst open. "Incoming!" yelled a sergeant. "Jap planes on a dead line towards us."

"Shit," said Krueger as the men raced in undignified haste down an earthen corridor to the reinforced shelter. "I guess our little secret's out. I was really starting to get fond of this hole."

Chapter 57

Relations between senior officers of the Japanese army and the navy were generally formal at best. The rivalry was historically intense. Each had its own priorities and each was bitterly jealous of the other, even to the point of orchestrating assassinations in the decades prior to the war.

The army had argued against the southward push of the navy that had brought the United States and Great Britain into the war. At the time of Pearl Harbor the Japanese army was fully involved in a major land war with China- one it had started without seeking government approval- and wished to finish that war before starting any new adventures.

Within a year of the attack on Pearl Harbor, the Imperial Japanese Army could only sit and seethe in impotent fury as the Imperial Japanese Navy lost battle after battle and watch in frustration as enemy warships drew ever closer to Japan.

As 1945 drew to a close, only the army remained to defend Japan, and the naval officers who'd been so proud and smug the years before were scarcely tolerated pariahs whose rash efforts had failed the empire. While the navy licked its wounds and tallied its losses, the army had gone on the offensive in China and pushed the Chinese Nationalists southward, forcing the American air forces to evacuate bases from which they'd been bombing the home islands. As a result, many army officers now looked down on their naval counterparts. The army had always felt that Japan's true adversary was the Soviet Union, and it had galled the generals to have to make peace, however temporary, with Stalin, who had broken it that summer.

In this hostile environment, the unique friendship between Lt. Gen. Masaharu Homma and Vice Admiral Jisaburo Ozawa somehow first developed, then flourished. Both were in their late fifties, and each had experienced glory and despair. Both men had pragmatic feelings about the war and felt that it had to be concluded quickly before Japan disappeared.

They also thought that the code of Bushido, which required fighting to the death, was nonsense in the current circumstances. Homma, who had served two terms as liaison with the British army, was well aware of the fighting capabilities and the industrial might of the West. Ozawa had seen that might in more recent action. He had watched in agony as ship after ship of his fleet sank as a result of the hammer blows inflicted by the overwhelmingly powerful Americans.

In 1941, Homma had commanded the Fourteenth Japanese Area Army in the invasion of the Philippines. He had succeeded, but had paid a terrible price for the victory. Instead of the quick and easy conquest that intelligence estimates had promised, the American and Philippine soldiers had fought bravely and held out for months longer than anticipated. The defense of Bataan and Corregidor had upset the Japanese timetable for conquest, and Homma, upon ultimate completion of his task, had been returned to Japan and left in administrative limbo.

Homma was further stung that the Americans had blamed him for the Death March and other atrocities committed by his subordinates. He had ordered that prisoners be treated fairly, but these orders had been ignored. Homma accepted the blame. Morally, he felt responsible. He had conquered a nation but had lost his career.

Ozawa, on the other hand, had merely lost his fleet. Highly regarded and respected, he had been an early proponent of airpower and had skillfully led his carriers in combat until the last of them was overwhelmed in the climactic Battle of Leyte Gulf. A quiet and basically humble man, he knew there was nothing more useless than an admiral without a fleet, and he no longer had a single major surface ship, much less a fleet.

Each man understood the other and their relationship grew. Had the government of General Anami been aware of it, it might have expressed disapproval. But the Anami government had many other and more compelling problems to resolve than to worry about two old officers getting together for drinks and idle conversation.

General Homma's vivacious and tiny wife, Fujito, beamed happily as she answered the door and admitted the admiral. She bowed and took Ozawa's soggy hat and raincoat, then departed to let the admiral and her husband have their talk.

"Your journey here was uninterrupted?" Homma inquired.

"Safe enough," Ozawa replied. "One innocuous car is not going to attract an attack."

Both men knew it was not quite that simple. With fuel rationing so strict that civilian car usage was virtually nonexistent, American pilots had easily concluded that any car or truck on the road was a legitimate military target. Ozawa had been both prudent and lucky. He did not burden his host with the fact that he and his driver had twice bolted from the vehicle during his ten-mile journey out of fear that he had been sighted by Yank planes. He had wiped most of the mud from his uniform trousers from his having hid in a ditch. Homma was too tactful to comment on the stains.

"You are fortunate," Ozawa commented, "that you live far enough away from Tokyo proper to be relatively free of the bombers and the fires." Ozawa's own small house had gone up in flames during a bombing. He now lived with relatives.

Homma nodded. His home in exile was only twenty miles from the Imperial Palace, but it might as well have been a thousand miles from the source of power. At least until recently.

After tea was drunk and the amenities observed, Homma brought out some rice brandy that a local entrepreneur had made. If not good, it was at least potent. Ozawa smacked his lips in appreciation, then leaned forward and smiled slyly. "Should I congratulate you or offer condolences, my friend?"

Homma chuckled. "A little of both would be in order."

As a result of the death of Field Marshal Hata in the latest nuclear bombing, the army commands had been reorganized. General Homma had been recalled from exile and given command of the Twelfth Area Army, which encompassed Tokyo and most of the area surrounding it.

"At least you have an army," Ozawa said softly. "While I have no surface ships at all. The last destroyer was sunk a couple of days ago. A few submarines remain, but the enormous American fleet is largely unmolested. My trips to headquarters are little more than exercises in futility."

"Good friend," Homma replied, "the truth is that my situation is as bad as yours. The Twelfth Area Army largely exists on paper and in the confused mind of General Anami. Once it consisted of eighteen infantry and two armored divisions, but it now lists but eight infantry and one armored, and these are but terribly depleted shadows of themselves. The other divisions have been sent to the slaughterhouse in Kyushu, while the remaining units have been stripped by transfers and then pounded to pieces by the ever-present American planes. I doubt that I could field fifty thousand trained men and twenty tanks. My soldiers cower in their bunkers all over the Kanto Plain. It would be virtually impossible for me to assemble them into a true fighting force under the circumstances. For all intents and purposes, Tokyo is undefended by the Japanese army."

Ozawa was shocked. "I had no idea it was so bad."

"Nor did I. Until my recent appointment, I was uninformed of the situation. It is the same elsewhere on the home islands. The Fifth Army on Hokkaido has been reduced from five divisions to two, the Eleventh north of here from six divisions to one, the Thirteenth to my south from six to two, and the Fifteenth, which is adjacent to Kyushu, from eight to three. Large numbers of civilian militia have been formed, but they are unarmed and untrained. They will be useless when the Americans come."

"Is it possible that they won't come?" Ozawa asked hopefully, even though he knew the dreaded answer.

"They will come. It is only a matter of time. Anami thinks otherwise of course. He feels that the recent slowdown in American operations on Kyushu means they have been defeated, or at least so bloodied that they have no will to continue. Anami feels the time is ripe for a counterattack that will drive the Americans back into the ocean. Another Decisive Battle, he says, and the war will be won to the extent that we can have a negotiated peace with honor."

Ozawa laughed in derision. "A Decisive Battle? Just how many of those will we fight? Pearl Harbor was a Decisive Battle, as were Midway, Leyte, a number of others. Leyte Gulf was supposed to be the battle that ended the war and it almost did. We lost what was left of our navy in it! What a fool he is to believe in that discredited doctrine!"

As the smaller nation, Japan had always looked for a way to deliver a knockout blow against the overwhelming might of the Americans. The naval war had been predicated on sucking the American fleet into a decisive battle with the Japanese fleet off Japan that would end in an overwhelming victory for Japan. It was a shame the Americans hadn't cooperated, Ozawa thought ruefully.

Homma poured a little more brandy. "Major Hori, who has been so successful in anticipating American actions, told Anami the Americans have not been defeated. Instead, Hori feels they have taken all they require of Kyushu for use as a staging area and are now preparing to invade south of Tokyo. For the first time, Anami disagreed with Hori and sent him away after a tongue-lashing. I agree with Hori. The Americans will invade Honshu and will do it soon."

A plane flew low over the house, and the frail structure began to shake. Both men looked at each other as they recognized the now distinctive growl of an American P-51. It was so symbolic of their total helplessness that an American fighter could gaze down on them from only a few hundred feet and nothing could be done about it.

"Admiral, so many of the fine young men we've sent to Kyushu have been killed or wounded in the fighting, while many others never even made it to the cursed island. It is a closely guarded secret, but only about half the men sent on the journey ever arrive. The American planes kill them en route or sink their boats in the straits. The same is happening with the men we are trying to bring from Korea. The slaughter of the young is incredible. An entire generation of Japanese men is being destroyed. If we do not end this, we will be like France was after the last war. Emasculated."

Ozawa thought for a moment. There was something he had to say, but it had to be said carefully. "In your opinion, is the military situation hopeless?"

"Yes."

"Is nothing going right for us?"

"Well, the Americans haven't quite figured it out, but with our hidden airstrips on Kyushu just a few miles behind the front lines, suicide attacks are no longer as necessary as they had been. The planes can actually load up with bombs and return without too much difficulty. Many now fly but a few feet off the ground, bomb, and return to their hideouts. American supplies are in such abundance that it is virtually impossible for even the most inexperienced pilot to miss dropping a bomb on something important. Our fliers will not resume actual suicide attacks until the counterattack, which will not come until the weather grounds the American planes."

"But what about the secret weapons? Are they but rumors?"

Homma shook his head. "Some of them are real, but may bring more harm to Japan than to the Americans. We have quantities of poison gas and plague germs to use against them, but I fear for American retaliation, which could utterly destroy what little remains of Japan."

Gas? Germs? Ozawa was appalled. What kind of war was Anami waging? Ozawa's voice nearly broke in despair. "Is there nothing we can do?"

Homma laughed harshly and took the leap of faith that Ozawa was with him. "Are you suggesting a coup?"

"Why not? That's how Anami came to power, isn't it? It would be justice to turn the tables on that drunken buffoon."

"Indeed, but Anami has the emperor and claims to speak for him. As long as that is the case, any coup would be ignored. Besides, Anami has surrounded himself with those loyal to him and they are not under my command. He is very careful and trusts very few in the army. Myself, I am watched very closely when I am near his headquarters. I believe I was chosen for my current assignment because I was available, not out of any great confidence in my abilities or in my loyalty."

Interesting, thought Ozawa. "Where is the emperor? We've heard rumors, but what is the truth?"

"The emperor is at some undisclosed place on Kyushu. Incredibly, he was sent there before the invasion because it was deemed safer than Tokyo. It is now considered too dangerous to try and bring him back."

"Amazing," the admiral commented. "So we will continue to fight until the last young man is dead and until the Americans have stormed the Imperial Palace. But what if we found the emperor and he announced a desire for peace?"

"Then much would be changed, my friend. Perhaps what remains of Japan could even be saved."

They spoke for a while longer, this time of families and friends, many of them recently dead. Much later, the admiral departed and Homma fervently wished him a safe journey.

Homma went to his bedroom, undressed, and lay down on his back on the sleeping mat. Fujito came and knelt beside him. She was his second wife and younger than he. She was one person who had brought stability to his otherwise wild and erratic youth. She was priceless to him. Without her, he would have wound up an irresponsible and drunken fool.

"Did it go well?" she asked as she ran her hands down his muscular chest.

"Very well," he said with a smile as he enjoyed the gentle touch of her hands. He knew full well that she had been listening all the time. "The good admiral understands everything. I believe I have planted a seed, although there may have already been one present. We will now have to see what grows."

Fujito's hands roamed lower. "Ah." She giggled softly. "I have found something that is growing already!"

Homma laughed. She slipped off her robe, then swung her slender, naked body over his and led him into her. He was strong tonight and she moaned happily and reveled in each powerful upward thrust. The inaction of the previous years had almost driven him to despair and sometimes sapped his manhood. He was a tiger, not a domestic animal to be kept penned. His new command and its challenges were so much better for both of them. Fujito had sublime confidence in her general. If anyone could solve Japan's terrible dilemma, she was confident that her husband could.

Chapter 58

When Captain Ruger had dictated what Paul Morrell referred to as his "last will and testament" while on the troopship off Kyushu, both had thought that the personnel changes in it would occur after his being killed or wounded. Promotion had not been a thought.

The killing of Major Redwald, their battalion commander, had changed that. Ruger had been promoted to the temporary rank of major, and Paul was given Ruger's old command, although not the rank of captain. First lieutenant was a common enough rank for an inexperienced company commander. In the absence of any other available junior officers, Sergeant Collins assumed command of Paul's old platoon. Sergeant Orlando continued to provide support with his tank.

Both Paul and Major Ruger had made it clear that they didn't want to break in any rookie second lieutenants at this stage of the battle. Paul in particular found that amusing. Only a few months earlier he had been the unwanted and untested rookie. Now he was considered experienced and part of the old guard.

First Sergeant Mackensen put down the field phone. "Lieutenant, there's a problem with Lieutenant Marcelli. I think you'd better go over."

Paul swore softly and scrambled out of his foxhole and through the light cover of brush to where the second platoon was dug in. Mackensen and a radioman followed close behind.

The company had been back in the lines for several days after their all too brief respite. Little had changed in their absence, although a cockamamy rumor said that they were to seize some good defensive ground and hold on until the Japs starved to death.

Bullshit. They had continued to inch up increasingly steep hills and fight their way through strong Jap positions. Paul had lost track of the date. Was it Christmas yet? If so, he thought as he stumbled on a rock and almost lost his helmet, how would Santa find him? At least he'd gotten some mail and managed to send some good letters off to Debbie. Thank God he could count on her.

"Over here, Lieutenant," one of Marcelli's soldiers yelled.

Paul covered the last few yards to where a small group of men clustered about a large lump that lay in a foxhole. It was Marcelh. He was facedown and still, but his chest moved from the effort of breathing.

"What happened to him?" Paul asked. The men shrugged and moved off. They didn't want to know.

Mackensen slid into the hole and tried to move Marcelh. He was curled up in a fetal position and unresponsive. The stink of feces and urine wafted up from the hole. Lieutenant Marcelh had fouled himself.

When Mackensen moved Marcelh's head, his eyes were squinched shut as if daring the world to make him look. Mackensen tried to straighten him out, but he returned to his curled-up ball position like a preformed rubber toy. It was ghastly to look at. This creature looked nothing like the eager young officer who was Paul's friend.

"He's shell-shocked, Lieutenant," Mackensen announced softly. "He's gone someplace else, the lucky bastard."

Paul slid down beside the lieutenant, shook him gently, and patted him on the cheek. "Jerry, can you hear me?" he whispered in Marcelli's ear. "Jerry, c'mon, buddy. We got a job to do and I need you. Help me out this one time and we'll all get to go home."

He heard a low moan and saw a thin line of drool starting to run down Marcelli's chin. Seeing a man like that was even more awful than seeing one wounded by a bullet or shrapnel. Bullet wounds you could bandage, but what the hell did you do when a man's mind snapped? No wonder the other soldiers didn't want to hang around. They were afraid it was contagious. It wasn't, of course, but each man knew that he had his own breaking point. They just didn't want to be reminded of it. Paul had to get rid of Marcelli before his condition played havoc with the rest of the company's morale.

Paul snapped at his radioman, "Get a medic up here with a stretcher. I want him out of here right now." The operator gulped and sent the message.

Paul found a blanket and covered Marcelli. He wanted to keep him warm, but he also didn't want anyone else staring at him as if he were some kind of freak. "Well, First Sergeant, what do you think happened?"

Mackensen shrugged. He didn't understand weakness, and in his world, battle fatigue or shell shock qualified as weakness. He knew it occurred and was sympathetic to those it hit, but he had no idea why it happened.

"Beats me, sir. We both saw him yesterday and he was fine. A little nervous, maybe, but that's not unusual out here."

No, Paul sighed, not unusual at all in a land where everything, even the earth and the trees, was hostile. Shell shock was getting more and more common, although this was the first case he'd seen in the company. There would be more as there was only so much that the human psyche and soul could take.

With the exception of the few days in the rear, they'd been in combat almost every day since landing more than a month ago. The company had suffered more than seventy casualties and had received only a dozen fresh-faced young replacements, who'd been unprepared for the horrors confronting them. As a result, a high percentage of the innocent and clean-uniformed replacements had themselves gone down. What saddened Paul the most was that few knew who the dead and wounded replacements were. No one wanted to make friends with someone who was likely to die. They were stuck with the people they'd begun with in the company, but they didn't have to open their hearts and souls to anyone else. Why compound problems with the burden of grief when someone was lost.

The stretcher-bearers came and got Marcelli strapped down and carried away. For a moment, the young lieutenant had opened his eyes, and Paul had been struck by the total blankness behind them. Wherever Marcelli's mind was, it wasn't in this world. As he disappeared down the hill, Paul wished him peace, although he feared that Marcelli would become like one of those World War I veterans he'd once seen at a government hospital. They'd lived there for decades, utterly unaware and comprehending nothing. He'd been twelve at the time, and the scene had given him nightmares.

Paul shuddered and wondered when he would break. Then he wondered if his mind hadn't already gone. Perhaps this whole thing was just a nightmare? Maybe all he had to do was close his eyes and it would all go away? Maybe he could will himself home with his head cradled between Deb's breasts while she kissed his forehead and told him everything was okay.

Yeah, sure, and all he had to do was click his heels and he'd be in Kansas with Dorothy and Toto.

Mackensen was looking at him funny. Had he been babbling out loud? "Any orders, sir?"

"Yeah," said Paul grimly. "Let's go kill some fucking Japs and get this over with."

Chapter 59

OSS agent Johnson didn't like working alone after all the time spent with Peters. The two men had established a rapport that was almost the same as two brains working in tandem, or perhaps being married, as some of the other OSS personnel teased. Teamwork was especially important because the puzzle he was working on wouldn't cooperate and divulge its solution. Thus, he was tickled when his partner in crime, Peters, walked through the door of their hut and hung his wet coat on a hook. Peters had caught the flu and had been on sick call for a couple of days. He still looked like shit, but Johnson had missed him.

Johnson looked down at the piece of paper whose meaning had been eluding him. "Got a very cryptic message from Nomura that I don't understand. Instead of using the emergency code, he's using a message within a message, only I don't know what it is. It's gotta be obvious, but not to me right now."

Peters knew what he meant. Sometimes messages were like crossword puzzles. Where one person might be stymied, a second would see the solution immediately. Johnson handed him the paper and Peters read the elusive message verbatim: "Sound of tall construction machinery adjacent. Cooperation expected from chief operator in moving it from the premises."

"What the hell?" Peters said.

Johnson laughed. "Now I don't feel so bad. It's been driving me nuts since it came in a few hours ago."

Peters thought hard. What did the phrase tall construction machinery really mean? Intuitively, he knew those words were the key to the solution. They also knew that it must have been extremely important for Joe to have sent the information in such a manner. Yet it was still not important enough for Nomura to have used the emergency code. He was still saving that.

"Quick, list all the types tall construction machinery you can think of," Peters ordered.

"Derrick, crane, steam shovel, hoist, windlass? Hell, I don't know. There's probably others I can't think of."

Something clicked in Peters's mind. An involuntary shiver went down his spine. He was afraid of the way his thoughts were proceeding. "Would voice be a synonym for sound?"

"Sure, are you onto something?"

"Yeah. Or maybe I am. Substitute voice for sound and crane for tall construction machinery and you have 'voice of the crane is adjacent.' "

Johnson's jaw dropped. "Voice of the Crane is one of Hirohito's titles. Jesus, is Nomura telling us that he is in direct contact with the emperor?"

Peters nodded. "It's hard to believe, but I think he is. And if I'm right on that count, he's also telling us that Hirohito wants to get out of wherever he is and we're expected to help."

"Hoo, boy," Johnson whistled. "This is way too big for us to handle. We better bring some brass on board with this. Do we tell Washington?"

"No," Peters said reluctantly, "For the time being, I think we'd better keep this right here on Okinawa. I don't want this secret to leave this island just yet. Besides, if our assessment is full of crap, I don't want that news off Okinawa either."

Peters and Johnson stood at attention as Lt. Gen. Matthew Ridgway entered the small conference room. Both agents were dressed in army uniforms, but without any indications of rank. Ridgway's crisp, strong-jawed appearance reinforced the impression of a can-do type of leader. He looked younger than his fifty years and had only recently transferred in from the European theater, where, as a major general, he had commanded the XVIII Airborne Corps, which had included the 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions in the Battle of the Bulge, and the earlier and ill-fated Operation Market Garden. Ridgway's third star was only a few months old. He held no specific command; instead, he functioned as a troubleshooter for Gen. Omar Bradley. His presence was taken by Johnson and Peters as a good omen.

Ridgway took a seat and directed the others to do likewise. "Where's Hirohito and just why do you think we can snatch him away from his own people?" he snapped.

Peters answered, "He's being held by Anami's people in northern Kyushu. I don't know exactly where and our agent declined to give specifics. It's far too risky for him to divulge that he has that knowledge as we are fairly certain the Japs are picking up a lot of what he's sending and decoding it by now."

Ridgway grunted. "And you really believe your man is in contact with him?"

The general had their brief written report, but wanted to hear their answers verbally. Their fear that it would be laughed away was already dissipating. They had hoped to see either Bradley or Nimitz, but this conference with Ridgway meant that at least someone at the top thought it was worth pursuing.

"The message from Nomura is necessarily cryptic," Peters continued, "but we strongly believe that is the gist of it. Our agent has located Hirohito, who is likely a prisoner, and the emperor wants out of his captors' hands so he can bring peace."

"Why?"

It was Johnson's turn. "Intelligence analysis says the emperor was never that strong an advocate for war against America and was more than ready to surrender after Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The subsequent overthrow of the Japanese government by Anami and his cohorts had nothing to do with Hirohito except to put him in personal jeopardy."

Ridgway shook his head. It was almost too incredible to believe. "And we're supposed to accept that this Nomura character of yours has landed on Japan, wandered around for months, somehow become Hirohito's best friend, and, as a result, the emperor will let us take him off Kyushu and out to an American warship? You know a few people on Bradley's and Nimitz's staffs think you guys are either drunk or hallucinating? Worse, there's the serious possibility that you've misread the message, or that the whole thing is a trap to kill anyone who tries to liberate Hirohito. For all we know, this Nomura character has either been captured and tortured or he's become a turncoat."

Johnson persisted, "General, Mr. Nomura has proven himself very resourceful. We do not believe he has been captured or is sending messages under any duress. There were key words to use and ways of phrasing things that would have tipped us off if that was the case. No, I believe he is dealing with Hirohito and that Hirohito wants to get somewhere so he can really and finally end this war. What we need is your approval and assistance in getting them out."

Ridgway cupped his chin thoughtfully. "I'm curious, gentlemen, just how had you planned on extracting Nomura in the first place when the time was right?"

"By submarine, sir," Peters answered. Inwardly, he exulted. Ridgway was still listening to them. He hadn't laughed them out of the office. "We were going to get him out the same way he got in. Only when the boat that landed him was sunk, we didn't think the navy would let us have another one."

"So you essentially wrote him off after that."

"Yes, sir. To be brutally frank, we wrote him off even before that," Johnson added with candor. "We thought he'd last maybe a week or so and really never expected to have to pull him off under any circumstances. We gave him some plans, but they were more like placebos to make him feel good. We never expected him to do this well or last all this time. We really thought he'd have been caught or killed a long time ago. What he's done for us has been nothing short of incredible."

"So I've heard." Ridgway had read the reports from Nomura and what was now a small but efficient cadre of other Japanese-American OSS agents operating on Honshu. When the book about these activities was written, he'd decided, it would be a helluva bestseller.

Ridgway took a deep breath and made a decision. "All right, we'll do it. First off, we need to insert some people in there to do some real operational planning. How do we get that message to him without tipping off Jap eavesdroppers?"

Peters handed Ridgway a typed sheet of paper. "This is part of his placebo, only we referred to it as a menu. It's a list of possible extraction locations, dates, and an equivalent alphanumeric code. All we have to do is tell him to designate the best time and place from his copy of the list, and you can send in what I presume will be an advance party."

"Very good." Ridgway grinned. God, if he could pull this off, he would go down in the history books as the general who ended the most miserable war in American history and saved many thousands of American lives. So too would this Nomura character, who must have a real set of balls to be doing what he was doing. Ridgway had long since decided he'd like to meet Nomura. Bradley and Nimitz had said he'd have to wait in line.

Ridgway chuckled. "Admiral Nimitz told Bradley that there was a new era dawning regarding cooperation between the army and the navy. I have a few thoughts on how to help out your Mr. Nomura and test the good admiral's sincerity at the same time. Gentlemen," he said, grinning, "I think the next few days are going to be very, very interesting."

Chapter 60

Emperor Hirohito moved his rook, pausing before removing his hand. Once he let go of the piece, the move would stand. Until then, it was tentative and reversible. Finally he let go and smiled. "I believe you are in check, Captain Nomura."

Nomura sagged. Damn, he was getting so close to winning. "Indeed I am, Your Majesty."

"A shame. For a while there I thought you were really improving, but then you made a couple of moves that disproved my theory. Unless, of course, your mind is not on your game."

Nomura smiled. "You are correct, sir. Many things are distracting me. With regrets, sir, it is truly difficult to concentrate."

"I understand, Captain. Chess in the midst of a war for survival must seem like a trivial enterprise. Now then, what solutions do you propose to my dilemma?"

Nomura took a deep breath. This was the moment he'd been both anticipating and dreading. To divulge anything would be to brand himself as either a traitor or a spy. If he had misunderstood what Hirohito wanted, or if Hirohito had changed his mind, he would place himself in mortal danger simply by opening his mouth. All or nothing, he decided.

"Sir. Arrangements that I would not wish to comment on are being made to free you. When that time occurs, you will be able to make any announcement you wish regarding your opposition to the war. Hopefully, the result will be the honorable surrender of Japan."

"Colonel Sakei and his soldiers will not surrender me to the opposition without a struggle."

"I know."

Hirohito looked saddened. He fully understood that men would die in the effort to free him. The blame was Anami's, and not his own. Anami, the man he had once thought of as a friend, had caused his imprisonment and continued the war, causing the deaths of so many tens of thousands. So what if a few more died? In a macabre way, it would be an investment, and the profit reaped would be the continuation of Japan. He accepted that.

"Captain, when I am, ah, freed from here, it cannot be to another prison cell, not even a highly gilded one."

"I understand." Nomura hoped the people in Washington understood that as well.

"Do you? Wherever I wind up, it must be as the emperor of Japan, the spiritual and constitutional leader of a sovereign nation that wishes an honorable peace with the United States. Any attempt to use me or to show me off as a trophy will backfire and result in my removal from the throne by the warlords. This could even occur in absentia."

Nomura nodded his understanding. He was almost too surprised to speak. Was the emperor signaling that he understood that the Americans would take him, and that he would not be rescued by another group of Japanese? Nomura did not think he had given any hint ofthat.

"Captain, would you do me a favor?"

"Certainly, Majesty."

"Please remove your tunic and shirt."

Confused, Nomura stood and did as requested.

"It is as I thought," Hirohito said. "You are an American."

"What?"

"Don't deny it, Captain. Look at your vaccination. You were vaccinated on the arm. Japanese are vaccinated on the hip."

Nomura's mind whirled. Should he try to deny it and say he had received his shots while in the United States or something like that? After all, he had already told Hirohito that he'd traveled widely. But if the emperor believed he was an American and voiced his opinion to Sakei, then Nomura was doomed. Who would take his word against that of an emperor, even an imprisoned one?

"Well?" the emperor asked. "Do you admit it?"

Nomura bowed his head. "Yes."

"When did you plan to tell me?"

"I had no idea, Your Majesty. Maybe not until the last minute, sir, when it would be too late to do anything about it."

Hirohito looked pained. "I suspected that would be the case. I understand your logic and I accept it. I have no idea how you will accomplish this and do not wish to know. You are an incredibly brave and resourceful man, Captain. You have fooled Colonel Sakei, who, however, sees what he wishes to see. Put on your clothing before someone comes in, and we shall play another game. It is well that we do something while we talk."

Nomura again did as requested. "How did you suspect, sir?"

"A number of small things, nothing significant taken individually, but collectively they become relevant. Most of the people I deal with are members of the extended royal family or the military hierarchy, and I am used to the manner in which they defer to me. You, however, portrayed yourself as an ordinary officer without Imperial connections. You were properly subservient, except at those times when your wish to win at chess overpowered your discretion. No ordinary Japanese would have behaved like you did. At first I put it down to my own ignorance of ordinary Japanese, but then I more closely watched the behavior of the others in Sakei's detachment. Prisoner or no, they think of me as a god, and your eyes tell me that you think otherwise.

"Then, on realizing that the so-called spy was still on the loose, I began to put two and two together. I also thought it unlikely that a true kempei officer would be so easily suborned. Tell me, did you kill the man whose uniform you wear?"

"He was dead already. A traffic accident."

"Amazing. In the midst of a war we still have traffic accidents."

"Sir, you said Sakei sees what he wishes. Are you confident ofthat?"

Hirohito pushed a few pieces around the board and Nomura did likewise. "Yes, Captain. Like his leader, Anami, he is blinded from the truth. You wear the uniform of a Japanese officer and say you are his ally. Therefore, he believes you. It is almost inconceivable to him that an officer could betray his nation. Continue acting as you have and keep telling him that Japan is winning, and the poor deluded man will think you are a staunch ally."

Hirohito sighed deeply and for a moment Nomura thought he was in pain. "When I became emperor in 1926, I named my reign showa, which means 'enlightened peace.' I never thought it would come to this. This war must be concluded."

Joe Nomura bowed in deepest respect. "It will end, sir."

"Captain," Hirohito said sternly, "I meant what I said about not being treated as a prisoner. If my people perceive that I am in shackles or held against my will, they will disown me, and all my efforts will come to naught. You must make your superiors understand that."

"I will, sir." Nomura had no idea if he could accomplish that. He only hoped that his superiors would figure it out for themselves.

"One other thing, Captain."

"Sir?"

Hirohito smiled briefly. "You gave in far too easily. I have no idea how or where the ordinary Japanese people are vaccinated."

Chapter 61

As he stepped out into the cold and damp December air, Truman waved to the onlookers and began his morning walk. The streets of Washington were busy with vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Dressed in suit, overcoat, and snap-brim hat, Truman made it an almost daily ritual that delighted spectators almost as much as it tickled him.

As he moved out briskly at a pace that would daunt a soldier, Secret Service agents took up their places around the president while a gaggle of reporters and the just plain curious trailed behind. In all, the ad hoc parade consisted of about fifty people. It amused Truman that so many of the older print and radio reporters had declined to even try to keep up with him. Now it was the young pups such as Brinkley, Sevareid, and Rooney who tried to keep pace with a man who knew he was in excellent physical condition and proved it with astonishing frequency. It tickled Truman that the heavy boozers and incessant smokers among the journalists had all been walked into the ground.

Today he had exited the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue. He would walk down Fifteenth Street to where it rejoined Pennsylvania and then to the Capitol, loop around to Independence Avenue, and finally back to the White House by way of Seventeenth Street. It was several solid miles of walking and it would feel good. Somehow life always became easier when he managed to get in some exercise.

"Mr. President, any further comment on the prisoner of war lists?"

One of the more unusual aspects of Truman's daily walks was that the reporters keeping up with him could ask him any questions they wished. Of course, he didn't have to answer, or, if he did, he could frame the answer any way he wished. Harry Truman had long ago figured out that the question-and-answer game could be worked both ways.

"As I've said, boys," he responded solemnly, "the list is a cruel delusion and only goes to show what a hard and unreasonable foe we're fighting. It sickened me when they listed as living so many young men we knew were dead. That it gave false hopes to people back home was a terrible thing for the Japanese to do."

The list had been given by the Japanese to the Swedish embassy, who had turned it over to the Reuters News Agency. It contained the names of people who were known to have died in the campaigns or had already been liberated and appeared to presume that no one had died in Japanese camps. Many other names were suspected of being fictitious.

"As to the young men they've put in jeopardy by placing them in danger areas," Truman continued, "well, the rules of war say they are responsible for our men's safety. If they do not make a reasonable effort to protect the Allied servicemen they have as prisoners, then they are criminally liable."

He didn't add that the condition of those who would be liberated was likely to be ghastly at best.

"Mr. President, there are rumors that the British are working on a separate peace with the Japs. How would that affect the war?"

Truman returned a friendly wave from a black woman standing by the curb. "The war in the Pacific is an almost all-American effort. If the Brits do decide it is in their best interests to make peace, then there's nothing we can do to stop it."

However, Truman knew it was highly unlikely. The British needed American help to get to Hong Kong, and the Japanese there had already reached an accommodation with the Russians and didn't need one with the British. A local truce with the commandant at Hong Kong was possible, but nothing that would end the alliance with the United States.

"What about the revolts in the Holy Land? Is it true that we'll be sending troops to help the English keep order?"

Truman shook his head. "They haven't asked for our help yet, although I might look favorably on such a request. We cannot have Muslims and Jews killing each other. It is inconceivable to me that survivors of the Holocaust cannot find peace in the Holy Land."

The announcement that Britain was going to open up Jewish immigration to Palestine had caused an unexpectedly serious explosion among the indigenous Muslim population. Hundreds had been killed in rioting, and the cities of the Holy Land were burning. Anti-American sentiment in Arab countries was at an all-time high.

In Palestine itself, British forces were hard-pressed to keep order, and there were indications they favored the Muslims anyhow. Truman had already decided that the British might be getting help from American forces now in Europe whether they wanted it or not.

"What's being done to stop the Russians?"

Good question, Truman thought. He avoided a direct answer by laughing and making small talk with a startled group of passersby. In fact, the Soviets were taking over everywhere their tanks were parked. Poland was gone, and East Germany was occupied as was part of Austria. Hungary and Czechoslovakia were tottering, while Bulgaria and Romania were already solidly allied with Stalin. Only in Greece had the Reds been halted, and there appeared to be a curious situation developing in Yugoslavia as the Yugoslavs under Tito seemed to be marching to a different Communist drummer.

The reporter persisted, "Sir, what additional is going to be done to help Chiang?"

This one he could answer. "We are continuing to send him supplies. Short of sending him troops, which we are not in a position to do, there is little else that can be done. He's going to have to fight his battle himself."

The reporter nodded and took notes. Truman had intentionally confirmed the obvious- China was going Communist and there wasn't a damn thing anybody could do about it. Even the most aggravating of the congressmen in the China Lobby now accepted that fact, although their public pronouncements said otherwise.

"Mr. President, what about the rumors of Jap peace feelers? Is there anything to them?"

"No," he snapped. "There are no true peace feelers. Any so-called peace feelers are the same as before the Anami coup in August. That is, they are from well-intentioned Japanese civilians, mainly low-ranking diplomats who are stationed in Europe. They personally wish peace but have no control or influence over the actions of their military government."

Truman was personally convinced that most of the people in Japan were heartily sick of the war. If only they could be reached, he thought, but he was convinced it was hopeless. The Anami government controlled the military, and the military controlled Japan.

"Mr. President, when will we invade Honshu?"

Truman laughed heartily. The reporter flushed and grinned back. "Do you really expect me to answer that question?" Truman said.

"No, sir, but would you comment on the progress of the fighting on Kyushu?"

Truman paused again to shake a few hands. A tourist took his picture with a Kodak. "Any fighting is awful, and this is extremely hard, particularly since the war should have ended months ago. However, our boys are continuing to make progress."

"Do you anticipate a Japanese surrender?"

"We anticipated one last August. Remember, we had one in hand and Anami's thugs snatched it away."

A reporter half ran to get close by. Truman could see that the boy's face was flushed. The puppy wouldn't last more than a block or two. "Can you comment on the pressure from the Vatican to negotiate a peace rather than holding out for unconditional surrender?"

Now let's see who's paying attention, Truman thought. "We will never negotiate with the Anami government."

The reporter took quick notes. Truman looked behind him to where a couple of the more experienced reporters were looking at him quizzically. Yes, they knew that news was often made by what was not said, and the president of the United States had just not said a mouthful.

Before anybody could elaborate, the disorganized entourage turned onto Independence Avenue and were suddenly confronted by a group of several hundred women who blocked the road ahead. As the Secret Service tightened their protective cordon around Truman, he saw that many of the women were carrying signs and placards. END THE WAR NOW some said, while others read BRING OUR BOYS HOME or END THE KILLING TODAY. He was particularly stunned by one placard naming him as a murderer of American youth.

The women themselves looked nothing like the unwashed, hairy, and wild-eyed radicals who normally marched and protested whatever they felt was wrong with the world. These were all white women, middle class and well dressed, and many looked at him grimly. He could read expressions of anger, frustration, and, to his horror, contempt. He involuntarily recoiled from the depths of their passion while flashbulbs popped and photographers immortalized the event.

Truman was hustled down a side street by the Secret Service and then into the backseat of a trailing car. He brushed off the apologies from the chief agent. The chief said he'd known of a small demonstration in front of the Capitol, but had thought nothing of it as there were almost always demonstrations of some kind. But this one had quickly become unusually large and particularly vocal.

When Truman returned to his office, he checked with Jim Byrnes and found that similar demonstrations were taking place in a number of cities across the nation, and that the demonstrators were primarily women, tens of thousands of women. Truman was shocked. It was almost unheard-of for a large portion of the "normal" population to be against an American war. He poured himself a whiskey and water and another for Byrnes.

"Jim, what the devil's going on? Why are they blaming me instead of the Japs?"

Byrnes took a quick swallow. "I think we're gonna be catching real hell from now on. People are tired of the war and sickened by the casualties. This week it's the women protesting. Next week it'll be their husbands. Good Lord, what'll happen if this spreads to the young men and they stop showing up for military service? Hell, they know we can't prosecute everyone."

Truman thought Byrnes was overreacting and said so. American boys would always do the right thing about their obligation to serve when called. But he also recalled that there had been riots over the military draft during the Civil War, and that the world war in 1918 had not been fully supported by the American public. The attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 had galvanized a confused nation and unified it as it had never been before. Now it looked as if small rips in the fabric of unity were beginning to develop. What on earth would he do if large numbers of young men actually decided not to show up for induction?

Truman put down his glass. He had to find a way to end the war. "Jimmy, I seem to recall you wanted this job yourself at one time?"

Byrnes helped himself to some more whiskey. "I believe you've been grossly misinformed, sir. Nobody in his right mind would want to be president."

"True." Truman laughed.

Truman knew that Byrnes's statement was facetious. In 1944, Byrnes had campaigned hard for the vice-presidential nomination, but Roosevelt's slight and almost uncaring nod had given it to Truman instead. As a result, Truman was stuck with the job.

Now, Truman had to deal with the real concerns that were developing. Only a few months ago, a Gallup poll had said that fully 90 percent of the public supported forcing Japan to an unconditional surrender. But that was no longer the case. The polls still showed a majority wanted unconditional surrender, but that number was declining. Truman mistrusted polls, but he acknowledged that a trend was occurring. If the wives and mothers of America were turning against him, what did it mean for the nation's future?

Chapter 62

The flat, sharp crack of the nearby rifle shot sent everyone sprawling in the cold, wet dirt. Paul's first reaction as he hugged the ground was that someone's rifle had gone off accidentally. With everyone running around with loaded weapons it was a constant worry, and he determined to find out who it was and have Mackensen rip him a new asshole. They'd lost enough good men to the Japs without anyone having to worry about being shot by their own men. So far, he'd managed to avoid having that sort of tragedy and planned to keep it that way.

Then, in the second it took for those thoughts to clear his mind, he realized that the sound of the gun said it was not one of theirs. By now the noise made by a Garand or a carbine was a familiar, even friendly and reassuring one, and the shot that had sent them all scurrying was alien. A Jap had taken a shot at them and he had been close by. And, unless he was a magician who could move through the woods in silence, the sniper was still there.

The men now hiding on the ground made no sounds. Fire control was excellent. No one was blazing away at shadows, thus giving away their position or endangering others. Paul broke out into a sweat as he realized that the Jap could not be more than a few score feet away, if that far. Lie still, he told himself. Any kind of motion in the low shrubs and trees might attract the sniper's attention.

But where the hell was he? That Jap had to give them a clue as to his whereabouts, didn't he? They couldn't lie on the ground forever. Of course, if you were shot, forever began immediately. This thought made lying still on the ground look very much like the right thing to do.

Again Paul's company was on a steep hillside and attempting to seize the high ground. This particular hill was heavy with bushes and some surprisingly tall conifer trees that reminded a couple of the men of northern California. As they had advanced northward and into the interior of Kyushu, the type of foliage had changed from the palms and banyans of the south to the more familiar pines and beeches. Even the trees that would normally drop their leaves retained them, although they were brown and lifeless.

It was another hill that was too steep for Orlando's tank to climb even if it had been available. The Sherman was in the rear for long-overdue maintenance. The infantry would have to solve the problems themselves.

CRACK!

The sniper fired again and Paul flinched. He closed his mouth and nearly bit dirt as he tried to hide. This time there was no doubt. The son of a bitch was almost on top of him. There was no cry for help so it appeared the Jap had again missed his target. Either that, Paul thought ruefully, or he had killed his victim instantly and silently. Speculation didn't matter; the sniper had to be taken out.

Paul shifted his body with almost glacial slowness. He would make no sudden motions that would attract the enemy. After what seemed like an eternity, he had rolled onto on his back with his carbine on his chest. He looked upward through the trees and tried to figure out which one hid one Jap sniper.

He could see nothing. The trees were all thick and blotted out the sun. Yet the sniper had to be in a tree, and that tree was damned near to him.

Click.

Paul froze. Oh, Jesus, he thought. The sound had come from almost directly above him, and it was a bullet being chambered in a rifle. The sniper was going to shoot. He squinted and stared at a cluster of limbs about thirty feet above him. Was it the Jap or were his eyes fooling him? The cluster of branches could be a platform hiding the sniper or they could be a perfectly natural accumulation of fallen debris. If he fired at it and was wrong, he would have given away his position to the sniper, and that sort of mistake could be fatal. He stared at the branches and willed the Jap to do something to give himself away.

A stick slowly moved by the branches and began to project out. As Paul watched in fascination, he realized that he was looking at the barrel of a rifle. He shrieked and fired his carbine on full automatic until the clip was empty. The sound deafened him for an instant. Leaves and twigs exploded from the trunk of the tree and the camouflaged firing platform.

Then there was silence.

"Who fired?" yelled Mackensen.

"I did," Paul answered hoarsely.

Mackensen was beside him. "You get him?"

Paul gestured upward. The obscuring branches had come off the tree, and what remained had taken on a distinctly human form as it dangled facedown. It was limp and lifeless, but human. Then whatever had been holding the body to the tree came loose and the Jap commenced a fall to the ground, his body hitting several limbs that slowed his descent.

The body landed only a few feet away from Paul and Mackensen. A second later the Arisaka rifle clattered down beside its owner. Several of Paul's soldiers had emerged from their refuges and looked at the Jap, who was now sprawled awkwardly on the ground.

Mackensen moved to check him out. "Be careful," Paul said.

"Hell, sir"- Mackensen grinned- "if that fall didn't make him go off, nothing will. I really don't think he's booby-trapped." He inserted a booted foot under the man's armpit and rolled him over on his back. Paul gagged. One of his shots had ripped off the man's jaw, while others had ripped open his chest and stomach.

Humming idly, Mackensen went through the Jap's pockets and pulled out his papers. There was nothing terribly exciting. He announced that the Jap was an enlisted man in a unit they already knew they were fighting.

Mackensen straightened up and handed the papers to Paul. "I don't read their shit all that well, sir, but I think this says he's seventeen years old. He also wasn't that good a shot since he didn't hit nothing."

There was a snapshot of an older couple who were probably the dead man's parents and another of a young girl dressed in a demure kimono. It chilled Paul. He had a picture like that in his wallet and he visualized some Jap soldiers looking at it and commenting crudely. He wondered what they would have thought of Debbie's photo. Would they have laughed at his parents the way his men were now doing with the Jap's and make noises about whether they wanted to flick the girlfriend? Probably, Paul decided.

There was some Japanese paper money as well, and he gave it to the soldiers. It was worthless, but everyone wanted some to send home as a souvenir.

Paul looked more closely at the corpse. Mackensen had said he was seventeen, just about the same age as Debbie's brother. He was small and frail and looked more like thirteen than seventeen. Most Japs were smaller than Americans, but this man couldn't have been more than five feet tall and probably didn't weigh more than a hundred pounds.

Then Paul noticed how unhealthily thin the dead man was. He was almost emaciated and Paul made a note to pass that fact on to battalion. The only bodies they'd seen lately had been badly burned or shredded, which made it impossible to estimate their overall health. If everyone in the Japanese army was as hungry-looking as this sorry cadaver, then the Japanese supply system had completely broken down.

Hell, just last night Paul and his men had eaten a hot chicken dinner from a mobile field kitchen. When was the last time the Jap'd had a full meal? Weeks, he guessed, and it was probably boiled rice. If the Jap army was starving, that was good news.

Paul checked the man's equipment. The uniform was worn thin and in tatters. It was a far cry from what he and the others were wearing. It was still above freezing, but the air was damp and chill, just what his mother referred to as perfect pneumonia weather. This poor Jap must have been freezing, which might have thrown off his aim.

The slowdown in the American advance had permitted rear-echelon units to move closer to the front, and the men had actually been able to warm up in a tent with a portable stove the other day. Paul wondered when the dead boy had last been warm.

The young man's footwear was as bad as the rest of his gear. The soles of his boots had worn through and been replaced by pieces of wood. Paul looked at his own combat boots and wet-weather gear. He was dry and fairly comfortable. How the hell had the dead boy even been able to function? Again, it was information to send back to battalion.

A couple of men had checked the Jap's mouth and pronounced in disgust that there were no gold fillings. Paul felt a queasiness in his gut and walked away. He found refuge behind a bush and puked everything that was in his stomach, including what might have been left of that hot chicken dinner. He heaved until his stomach hurt and then his body shook. He had just killed a man and the reaction had set in.

Finally, he got control of himself and rejoined his men. Mackensen looked at him sympathetically. "You okay, sir?"

Paul chose to lie. "I'm fine."

"Your first?"

Paul took a mouthful of water from a canteen, swirled it around his mouth to cleanse it of the taste of bile, then spat it out. "Yeah. It shows, doesn't it?" He was slightly ashamed of his reaction in front of the rocklike first sergeant.

"Well, sir, that puts you one up on me," the first sergeant said with undisguised admiration. "That was damned good shooting and great hunting."

Paul thought Mackensen was kidding. His first sergeant had to have killed scores of the enemy. But then, who knew whether you actually killed or not? Many times Paul's men had blazed away at an unseen enemy, or in the general direction where they thought the Japs were. The results were impersonal and generally unknown. This type of killing was unique.

The only other times they'd actually seen the Japs they'd killed were during that banzai charge and when they'd taken out that bunkered-in tank.

"Thanks, top," Paul said, and managed a grin. "That means a lot coming from you." He saw looks of undisguised admiration on the others in the area. 1st Lt. Paul Morrell was a killer. Killer Morrell had blown a Jap's ass out of a tree and saved their lives. With the GIs' sense of exaggeration, he knew the legend would grow and have him shooting a score of Japs out of a score of trees and with only six bullets. Well, the only life he was certain he'd saved was his own.

Paul recalled Ruger's comment about his not firing during that earlier Jap attack and how upset he'd been to realize it. Now, not only had he fired his carbine, but he'd killed with it. He would not, however, tell anyone that this was the first time he had actually fired his weapon in anger. Killer Morrell. He decided he sort of liked it. More important, if it gave his men more confidence in his abilities, then it was all to the good. All he had to do now was make sure he deserved that confidence.