1945

Chapter 63

Maj. Stan Kutchinski was furious. For the second time in the last three missions, an engine was acting up and he would have to abort the bombing run. As he looked down at the gray-black ocean almost twenty thousand feet below him, he cursed another missed opportunity. This should have been his sixteenth mission, but an oil leak in one of the B-29's four engines had changed all that.

Earlier in the war, he would have pressed on along with the other bombers in his command since the B-29 could easily fly with three, or even two, engines. But orders were orders, and in the case of mechanical failure, he was to turn back. It wasn't something he could hide, as the problem forced him to shut down one engine. Thus, he had turned back to base and relinquished command of the other bombers to his number two.

Kutchinski wasn't concerned about being considered a coward for aborting the mission. The twenty-five-year-old major had seen enough aerial combat to satisfy any requirement for bravery. Instead, he was upset about missing a chance to rack up another score toward getting to go home. As a means of pacifying rebellious young officers who wanted out of the war, the military had reinstated the policy of rotating bomber crews back to the States after twenty-five combat missions. Today would have been sixteen if his plane, the Polish Pope, hadn't decided to act up.

With sixteen in, he would have needed only nine more, and that would only have taken a few weeks, a month at the most. Back home, he might have been discharged and given the opportunity to latch onto one of the civilian airlines. Kutchinski was convinced that air travel was the thing of the future, and he wanted on board an airline as quickly as possible. At the worst, he would have been given a military job training other pilots and would still have had time to make contacts with the airlines.

Aborting bombing missions because of mechanical failure wasn't done because there was so much danger from the Japanese planes and guns. In fact, the runs weren't particularly dangerous at all anymore. Jap interceptors were almost nonexistent, although the occasional kamikaze would try to ram a B-29, and Japanese antiaircraft guns had been battered into mush by other bombers.

But mechanical failure was a solid reason to abort because of the possibility of having to bail out over Japan, where there was the overwhelming likelihood that they would be killed out of hand by the angry Japs. Kutchinski and his men had heard too many tales of Americans being literally ripped to pieces by Jap mobs. Sometimes he wondered if he could blame the Japs. On previous missions they had flown over the Kyushu battlefields and seen the clouds of smoke reaching thousands of feet into the sky from the blackened and ruined land. What was occurring below in that tragic inferno was scarcely imaginable. Then they thanked the gods that had permitted them to join the air force rather than the godforsaken infantry.

Kutchinski's real fear was that there'd be a general stand-down because of a lack of targets before he could reach twenty-five missions, and he'd wind up being stuck in the military for the rest of eternity. No matter how the pie was cut, there were now too many planes and too few targets. Today they were to have bombed a valley where the Japs might be hiding some soldiers. A valley? What the hell kind of a target was a valley? Then he'd decided that it would have been a good one if it had helped him get to that magic number twenty-five.

"Major?"

It was Sgt. Tom Franks, the belly gunner, calling on the intercom. "What is it?"

"Ship on the water below us."

Kutchinski grinned. "That's where ships are supposed to be, Sergeant." Like the others on the Polish Pope, Franks was an original member of the close-knit crew, and none of them thought too much of military discipline when they were in the air and away from the base.

"I know that, Major sir, but I've been watching this one through my binocs and it looks like a sub. Aren't they supposed to be underwater?"

"Except when they're not," Kutchinski said. "What's so interesting about this one?"

Franks paused. "I don't believe it's one of ours."

Kutchinski turned the controls over to his copilot and went down the middle of the plane to the underslung glass bubble that housed the belly gun. Franks handed him his binoculars. They were high powered and unauthorized. Franks had won them in a poker game a couple of weeks earlier.

"Take a look," Franks invited.

Kutchinski took the binoculars and focused them. It was difficult because the plane was bouncing slightly and there were irregularities in the glass bubble, but he finally managed to get a good look. Yes, it was a ship, and, yes, it was a submarine. It was hard to tell its speed from their height, but the small wake indicated it was moving slowly. Kutchinski agreed with Frank's assessment that the sub indeed looked strange. He switched on the intercom and told the copilot to descend to ten thousand and circle the vessel.

"She'll see us and dive if she's a Jap," Franks complained.

"Better that than drop a load of bombs on one of ours."

"Ain't ours, Major," Franks insisted.

Kutchinski hoped it was a Jap. He had never bombed a ship and hated to abort the mission with a full load. In a few moments he was going to have to dump the bomber's load into the ocean. Now maybe, just maybe, he might have a useful target.

Kutchinski was well aware that no bomber had likely yet sunk a moving warship. Despite pilots' claims to the contrary, it was just too difficult to hit a moving target from a great height. The ship below had too much time to gauge the fall of the bombs and simply turn away. That there was really no such thing as precision bombing was another factor.

Despite new Norden bomb sights, most bombs didn't land anywhere near their intended target. Norden bomb sights didn't take into account the nervousness of the operator, where a single second's misjudgment could send a bomb early or late to its destination, winds that could shift even the largest bomb in its flight, and air turbulence that jarred the plane and spoiled the calmest bombardier's aim. These and the fact that bombers could still be fired at during some aspects of their run all conspired to send bombs off target.

But what if it was a Jap sub and there was something wrong with her? She was clearer now and her silhouette was definitely strange. Their radioman signaled Guam that they had a possible enemy sub sighting and were trying to verify. Guam told them to be careful.

Maybe the Polish Pope's luck would change. After the two earlier aborts, some wiseasses were saying it was because of the plane's name. There had never been a Polish pope, Kutchinski was told, and there never would be. The name was a jinx. Even Father Girardelli, the Catholic chaplain, had suggested he change it. The priest had also assured him that the papacy was reserved for deserving Italians and had gotten a little angry when Kutchinski had told him there was no such thing as a deserving Italian.

"He's shooting at us!" yelled Franks.

"He surely is," Kutchinski said happily as tracers arced from the sub toward their plane. That settled it. The sub was a Jap. He bounded to the pilot's seat and took over command of the plane. And she's not diving, he thought with glee. Maybe she can't, he thought. Such a shame.

He decided he would not try to hit the sub directly, but came at her bow-on at one thousand feet. If a bomb dropped even near a ship, the pressure would cause the sub's hull to buckle and send her down as effectively as if he had dropped one straight down her conning tower. He ordered the nose gunners to spray the decks of the sub with.50-caliber machine-gun fire as they approached. It wouldn't be accurate, but it might make those on her deck keep their heads down for a critical second while they bombed.

For an instant before the bombs dropped, he saw figures running about the deck of the sub and jumping into the water. Then the plane flew over and peeled away. Kutchinski saw nothing but heard the tail gunner whoop with joy. He banked the plane in a tight turn and saw the waters around the sub had been whipped into a froth as a dozen five-hundred-pound bombs exploded around her. As expected, none hit, but they caused a pressure surge that lifted the sub out of the water and laid her on her side. She began to take water and settle.

"Anybody taking pictures?" Kutchinski hollered. An affirmative reply came from two of his men who never flew without their cameras.

Franks hollered that he could see that several hull plates were damaged. "She's ruptured like my uncle Harry, Major. She's done for!"

"My sympathies to your uncle Harry," Kutchinski yelled over the intercom. He then directed his radio operator to notify the navy that there might be debris that could provide intelligence, along with the possibility that some Japs had survived the onslaught. Through his own binoculars he thought he could see heads in the water.

As the men on the Polish Pope circled and watched, the stricken sub sank beneath the waves, breaking in half just before she slid from view. It occurred to Kutchinski that damned few men had been able to get off, and he wondered what was going on in that sinking ship as it descended to the bottom of the Pacific. He decided he didn't really want to know.

Chapter 64

Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto vomited oily water and grasped for a piece of floating debris. The dying submarine I-58 had sent a torrent of matériel upward as she sank to the bottom, and much of it now floated near him. If he could stay afloat for a while, he might not yet die. That he was still alive in the first place hinted that he might not yet have been chosen to die this day.

He wiped his eyes and squinted. The oil and the salt from the water had blurred his vision. A life preserver bobbed a few feet in front of him and he struggled into it. Relieved of the need to use all his strength swimming, he looked about him. The I-58 was indeed gone, as if there had been a doubt. He hollered and a scattering of voices answered.

In a few minutes he had gathered up the survivors of the sinking. Counting himself, there were eight men. Eight men out of the entire crew. A couple were wounded, but would survive if he could get them out of the chill waters in a reasonable amount of time. He didn't think there were sharks this far north, but he quickly concluded that sharks were the least of their problems. The cold would get them in a few hours at most.

They fashioned a raft of sorts out of the remains of the sub and clambered on board. They had no food or water, but at least they were alive. They were the lucky ones.

Luck, however, could be good or bad. It had been good luck that the I-58 had evaded destruction for so long. They had used the last of their torpedoes and were attempting a passage back to Japan when, bad luck, the bow fins had suddenly stuck in a position that gradually drove them toward the surface. But perhaps that had been good luck? Had they jammed in the downward position, the I-58 would slowly have descended to the bottom of the ocean, where it would have laid forever while the men died of oxygen loss if the depths didn't crush the sub's hull.

Hashimoto shuddered at the thought. He had thought they were far enough away from the American warships and ordered an immediate surfacing to see if the damaged fins could be fixed. He feared daylight surfacing, but there had been no choice.

It had been bad luck that the American plane had spotted them. Even then he did not think the danger was immediate. The plane, a bomber, had circled them and was obviously puzzled at their behavior and uncertain of their nationality. The damage to the bow fins would only take a few minutes to fix, and then they could dive from the vulture's sight.

It had been stupidity, not bad luck, that doomed them when the machine gunner on the conning tower had fired at the bomber. Not only was the bomber out of range, but it gave away the game. When the bomber came in with its guns blazing, Hashimoto had been forced into the water with most of the men who now sat with him on the raft. He and the others had just made it back onto the deck of the sub when the bombs had exploded, killing the I-58. That they were not in the water, good luck, had saved them. Water does not compress so the pressure of the explosions on their bodies in the water would have squashed the life from them.

"Captain," said one of the sailors, pointing toward the horizon. Two ships were approaching. This time there was no puzzlement. They were American, and in only a few moments, he identified them as destroyers.

The only remaining officer was Ensign Naha, a young man Hashimoto didn't really know. Ensigns were best seen and not heard. Naha stood up shakily on the raft.

"We must not be taken," he announced.

"What do you propose?" Hashimoto asked. The ensign bowed respectfully and knelt down to keep his balance. "Do we have weapons to use on the Americans?" Hashimoto asked.

A quick check showed there were none, not even a pocketknife. "I believe it is our fate to be captured," Hashimoto said. He wondered whether that would be good luck or bad. Regardless, it would happen.

"I will not surrender," yelled Naha. Before anyone could stop him, he jumped into the water and disappeared. In a few seconds, some bubbles popped onto the surface. They were all that remained of Ensign Naha, and the sight of yet another wasted life saddened Hashimoto. He realized that a decision he had always thought impossible was now imminent.

"Captain?" asked one of the sailors through blueing lips. "Shall we follow him? Give us your orders."

The destroyers were much closer and had paired off, one on either side of the huddled group. In a few moments they would be on top of them. It occurred to Hashimoto that the Americans could only have been a mile or so over the horizon. Luck again?

"My orders are that we live."

"They will shoot us," the sailor wailed.

"Not if we show them we are harmless. Strip," Hashimoto ordered. He and the six other men peeled off their clothes. He'd heard that the Americans were concerned about Japanese hiding grenades in their clothing and on their bodies. Nakedness, however degrading under the circumstances, might show them otherwise.

"Everything," he commanded, and in a few seconds they were all naked and shivering from fear as well as the cold.

With exquisite seamanship, one of the destroyers placed itself virtually alongside the raft. "Do you surrender?" someone asked in terrible Japanese.

"We surrender," Hashimoto responded slowly but clearly. He hoped that the American understood him. "I am an officer and you have my word on it."

Getting on board the destroyer was tricky. Netting was lowered, but a couple of the men were too numbed from the cold to hold on. The Americans dropped ropes and hauled up the Japanese like cargo. Hashimoto, as the officer in charge, was the last and managed to climb the net.

Finally he stood, dripping and naked on the deck of the American warship. He was surrounded by at least a score of armed men. Submachine guns were leveled at them as if the seven cold, miserable, and naked Japanese would try to take over the destroyer.

They are afraid of us, Hashimoto realized. They are terrified. They outnumber us and outgun us, yet we are to them the stuff of nightmares.

Hashimoto picked out a man who was obviously an officer, perhaps even the captain. Hashimoto's English was extremely limited, but he felt compelled to say something.

Bowing with as much dignity as he could manage under the circumstances, he said, "Surrender. We surrender. We fight no more."

Chapter 65

Secretary of State Jim Byrnes and Undersecretary Joseph Grew joined General Marshall and President Truman in the Oval Office. The meeting had been called at the request of Marshall, who immediately told them that Magic and other sources confirmed that the Japanese were planning to use gas and biological weapons.

The news visibly upset Byrnes. "Not poison gas. Not at this stage of the game."

Truman was deeply concerned, but took the news calmly. "General, I gather you can verify this."

"Sir, they've had a gas and biological warfare program based in Manchuria for a number of years."

"Go on," Truman ordered.

"Gentlemen," Marshall began, "one Lt. Gen. Shiro Ishii was in charge of what the Japs referred to as Unit 731, and it was located near Harbin, Manchuria. I believe it was situated there well before the war started, so it's had time to grow and develop with relative secrecy. The unit was in charge of virtually all of Japan's research into poison gas and germ warfare. Ishii is rumored to have authorized the use of gas and germs on Chinese villages a few years ago as well as performed medical experiments on prisoners of war."

Byrnes glared. "Sadistic bastards."

"Agreed," said Marshall. "They may have attempted germ warfare against the British in Burma, and it is possible that they attempted to spread plague germs among U.S. troops on Saipan. Mercifully, the sub bringing it in was sunk, but some evidence did drift ashore."

Truman shook his head. "How successful would you gauge Japan's program to be, General?"

"Very successful. The key would be the fact that Ishii rose in rank from major to lieutenant general in only a few years. Without success, he would not have been promoted. Ishii and some of his staff are back in Japan. This means that the Russians let them pass through. They doubtless brought additional quantities of their inventory."

Truman seethed. "And now they can send waves of poison gas against our boys."

"Not exactly," Marshall answered. "I do not believe they have huge supplies of gas, but if they do use gas, it will more likely be in the form of artillery shells or bombs attached to kamikaze planes. That would be far more accurate and nowhere as dangerous to the senders as the old method was."

In the First World War, gas had been released from containers and blown by the wind across to the enemy's trenches. One real problem was the likelihood of the wind shifting, thus sending the clouds of gas back to the side that had released it. Using gas in artillery shells and small bombs effectively eliminated that problem.

Marshall continued, "We've had a number of requests from our own side to use gas against dug-in Japanese positions. A solidly built Jap bunker can withstand a flamethrower, but not gas, which will permeate through whatever flame-retarding barriers they have constructed. On my own initiative, I have sent more than five thousand gas artillery shells and chemical bombs to Okinawa. They are in place and can be transported for use on Kyushu at any time."

Truman started to glare at Marshall, but realized that the man had once again planned far ahead. "If the Japs use those shells, even if the number is limited, can our boys protect themselves? Do they have gas masks?"

Marshall laughed harshly. "While all of our boys were issued masks at some time in the past, I doubt that one GI in ten still has them. They are normally the first thing the soldiers throw away as excess weight to carry. It would take a while to resupply, and I'm afraid the danger still wouldn't be taken all that seriously. Also, the gases and chemicals now in everyone's arsenals are far more lethal than the ones used in the last war. In some cases, the merest touch of poison on bare skin can kill, which means gas masks would be useless. We would have to dress our men in rubber suits to protect them, and that is simply not feasible."

"We don't need more casualties," Truman said softly. "Particularly not from gas."

The American forces on Kyushu were going into a final defensive mode prior to the attack on Honshu. Casualties to date were well over the two hundred thousand mark and were still climbing, and civilian protests were mounting. Truman had canceled his daily walks. He couldn't bear all the heckling and shouts from the hundreds of people who surrounded the White House.

"Sir," Marshall said, "the real danger may come not from gas but from germ warfare. As I said, they've used it in China and tried to use it on Saipan. They are capable of sending infected suicide soldiers into our lines to spread anthrax, plague, botulism, and cholera. The Chinese believe the Japanese spread diseases by dropping crude bombs with infected fleas and other items like infected feathers on their cities. Based on our radio intercepts, that is an entirely likely scenario."

"Hideous," whispered Truman.

"It gets worse," Marshall said. "We now believe they will try to hit the West Coast of the United States with germ warfare. They have the capability, and in their current state of desperation, we believe they will make the attempt."

Truman was incredulous. "How? Their navy's sunk and their planes can't reach this far. Do they intend to send germs by balloon like they did the firebombs that were supposed to burn our forests down?"

"No, sir, but not quite all their warships have been sunk. We believe they could use at least one of their remaining large submarines for that purpose. These carry small floatplanes, which could be launched just off California, Oregon, or Washington, and the germs could be dropped from very small bombs or sprayed on a city much like a crop duster sprays a crop. We have no idea how much damage it could cause. Our medical facilities are much better than those in China, where many thousands may have died from germ attacks. Maybe only a few will die, maybe none."

"Panic," Truman said angrily. "If it happens, there'll be a panic and everyone in California will head east in terror-stricken waves. It's insane. It would unleash torrents of hatred that would take an eternity to cool down. Anami's people are fools!"

Truman turned and glared at Grew and Byrnes. "Here's what I want you two gentlemen to do. You will use your neutral-country contacts to tell that son of a bitch Anami that any use of gas or germ warfare will be repaid a hundredfold with gas attacks of our own. Tell him we will use every nuclear bomb we now have and can build against anything that moves in Japan, civilian or military, and that includes Tokyo and Osaka. We will, if necessary, pull our boys from Kyushu and then make sure that everything that lives in Japan is killed."

Truman took a deep breath to control his anger. "You will have them tell Anami that we also have the ability to use chemicals that will destroy their rice crops, and that will ensure that anyone who survives the initial bombs and gas attacks starves to death."

Grew was shocked at Truman's torrent of anger. One point puzzled him. "We have the ability to destroy their food crops?"

Marshall answered. "Not yet, but they don't have to know it. Experiments with plant-killing chemicals are progressing, and it may be a year before they are ready, but it will happen. Very soon we will be able to defoliate Japan. We have been performing a number of experiments at Camp Detrick, Maryland, and the only remaining concern is not wanting to kill civilians along with the crops."

"The hell with the civilians," Truman snapped. "If the Japs use gas or germs, then all restraints are off and everything in Japan is a target."

"The Japs will get the word," Byrnes said grimly.

"Good." Truman relaxed visibly as his fury dissipated. "And the navy will redouble its efforts to stop any germ-bearing sub. Now, General Marshall, I understand there is a bit of good news."

"Yes, sir, we have confirmed that the Jap sub that sank the Indianapolis and the Queen Elizabeth has finally been hunted down and destroyed. The sub was the I-58, and her captain was among a handful of survivors who are now our prisoners."

"Hang the bastard," Byrnes snarled.

Truman managed a grin. "No, Jimmy, the American way is a trial first and then a hanging."

Marshall did not think it was amusing. "His defense will be that he was doing his duty. Both the Indianapolis and the Queen Elizabeth were legitimate military targets, and he will argue that he was doing nothing other than what our own subs did to Jap ships. I'm afraid we may be considering him a monster only because he was so successful. He is also proving quite useful. Like most of the Japanese we've captured, they aren't the slightest bit reluctant about answering every question we put to them. It's ironic, but once they actually do fall into our hands, a lot of them tell us everything they know, almost without our asking. He may even be able to help us stop their plague sub."

Truman accepted the rebuff in silence. Marshall was right. Dammit, Marshall was always right. Hanging the captain of the I-58 was immaterial. He had to keep focused on the task at hand, the ending of the war. He did not want it complicated by some fool launching a gas or germ attack on the United States.

Chapter 66

In the distance, the deep, dark clouds merged with the flat sea, giving the impression of a continuous oneness that was almost frightening in its totality. If he didn't know better, Dennis Chambers thought he could easily confuse the view of sky and sea with that of a definition of eternity.

Bringing himself back to reality, he shitted his weight so that the small rock jabbing his buttock wasn't quite so aggravating. Then he pointed the flashlight out into the void and repeated the signal: one long flash and two short ones. It was the Morse code symbol for the letter!). D, he'd decided, stood for "dark," for the night, or "dumb," for him sitting here and waiting. That it also could've stood for "dead" he ignored.

There would be no response from the sea. The signal was only meant to be seen, not responded to. It would be too easy for someone else onshore to pick up a signal from the sea. Of course, there was always the possibility that a Jap patrol craft would pick up his flashes and make their own inquiries, but that was a chance that Dennis had to take.

Dennis froze. There was the hint of movement on the water. Dark shapes moved closer. They were so quiet and so well hidden that he hadn't detected them until they were almost on top of him. He watched in fascination as the three rafts were beached and their occupants spilled out onto the rocky shore a few yards in front of him. Still silent, they lay prone and formed a skirmish line a few feet from the water's edge. Dennis signaled again, and one shape moved toward him. The man was dressed in black, had dark guck smeared across his face, and carried an automatic grease gun. It was an American, and the sight of the well-armed and deadly-looking newcomer sent chills down Dennis's spine.

"You Joe?" the man hissed.

"I'm Chambers." Nomura was discreetly in hiding, about a hundred yards behind Dennis.

The man leveled his gun at him. "I expected Joe."

"They told you there were two of us, didn't they?"

The man paused and stared at Dennis, fearing a trap. Then he relaxed slightly. Chambers obviously wasn't a Jap, and Chambers was the name of Joe's companion. "What's the capital of North Dakota?"

This was incredible, Dennis thought. A geography test. "Buddy, I have absolutely no fucking idea."

The man lowered his weapon and grinned. "I don't either. Maybe they don't have one. I'm Ensign Billy Swain and this is my team. Now, where the hell is Joe?"

"About a hundred yards behind me and watching us. What do you know about him?"

"Nothing. I was told it was best that I don't."

Nomura had thought it would be that way and Dennis responded, "Joe is Joe Nomura, a Japanese-American OSS agent who's now wearing the uniform of a Jap officer. He also has only one arm, which he lost fighting Nazis in Italy. He thought it would be prudent if I met you first and explained that fact so you wouldn't shoot him on sight and ask questions later."

"Makes sense." Swain passed the word that they would see a Jap and they were not to open fire. Dennis then gave the signal for Joe to emerge. "Jesus H. Christ," Swain exclaimed when he saw Nomura. "Damned good thing you didn't meet us. We'd have shot you and run like hell back to the sub. Now, let's get inland and get our gear hidden."

"Not so fast," Nomura said. "Is it clear who is in charge of this operation?"

Swain thought of making a smart-ass remark, but even in the gloom he saw the hard look in Nomura's eyes. "You are, sir."

"Good. The sub is still waiting for the rafts to return, isn't it?"

"Yes. While eight of my men remain here, the others take the rafts back where they can be taken back on board the sub and stowed. That way there's no chance that they'll wash onshore and be discovered."

A small touch, but a smart one, Joe thought. He gestured to Dennis. "He goes back with the rafts."

Swain blinked. "That wasn't in the plan."

"Plans change, Ensign."

"Indeed they do, sir. May I ask why?"

"Two reasons. First, Dennis is an undernourished and not very healthy airman, while all of you guys are trained killers who've been eating well and have all your strength. When this mission starts, I think Mr. Chambers would be a hindrance rather than a help. We've talked it over and he realizes that.

"There's a second reason," Joe continued. "There are some extremely important things about this operation that the top command has to know about, and they can't be trusted to radio. The message must be delivered in person. When your men return to the sub, the captain will be made to understand that he must rendezvous with a seaplane to get Captain Chambers to Okinawa as soon as possible."

"Understood," said Swain. The rafts were empty and ready to pull out with two paddlers each.

Dennis and Joe shook hands. Then Dennis got into one of the rafts and settled on his haunches. He sucked in his breath as he felt the craft bob in the water. It had just been freed from the shore of Japan. When he was shot down and imprisoned, even after escaping, he never really thought he'd leave the Land of the Rising Sun alive.

Dennis had argued with Joe about his leaving. At first he'd felt he was betraying the man who'd saved his life, but the logic of the decision quickly became obvious. Along with being an OSS agent, Joe was an infantry combat veteran and would be operating with skilled specialists, and Dennis would only be in the way. Besides, the need to deliver the message was real. It was imperative that Hirohito be handled correctly for the mission to succeed.

Dennis had exulted when he'd first seen fellow Americans, armed and ready, emerging from the sea. Now, as the land receded behind him, he felt a new wave of emotions that overwhelmed him. In a few minutes he would be safe on board an American ship. In a couple of days at most he would be on a military base. Maybe they would let him contact Barb and let her know he was okay.

The water in front of them seemed to boil slightly as the submarine rose from periscope depth. Seconds later, the raft bumped gently alongside her hull. As hands reached to pull Dennis to the safety of the deck and helped him down the conning tower, he hoped the wetness on his face would be seen as ocean spray and not the tears it really was.

Chapter 67

Major Ruger and Paul Morrell stood to attention as Brigadier General Monck entered the battalion's command tent. "At ease, fellas, relax," Monck said. An easy grin split his face.

As a platoon leader, Paul had only met Monck on a couple of occasions and hadn't even talked to the man since becoming company commander.

He did know Monck's reputation as a firm but fair commander who didn't care much for the formalities of rank, particularly in these circumstances.

Major Ruger caught Paul's discomfort. "The lieutenant really doesn't think he did anything special. After all, he was primarily interested in saving his worthless ass and not winning a medal."

Monck laughed. "Well, his ass isn't all that worthless." The general reached into a fatigue-jacket pocket and pulled out a small package. "Here. The powers that be have determined that your coolheadedness under fire deserves a Bronze Star. Congratulations, Lieutenant."

"I really don't think I should have this, sir," Paul said as Monck placed the box in his hand.

Monck looked at him coolly, but with a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "I'm not surprised you said that. A lot of people do when they see a medal. But the truth is, you do deserve it, and certainly more so than some of the politicians who get honors for being on the same continent as a battle."

"But why, sir? I just did my job."

"That's right, son. All you did was your job. But you didn't have to do your job, did you? You could have laid on the ground until somebody else did his own job and killed the sniper. Or you could have hid until it got dark and then you could have skulked away and let somebody else figure out how to get rid of the bastard, if he hadn't already fled the coop so he could do it again. By that time who knows how much damage even a half-starved little kid could have done. No, you did exactly what you were supposed to do, which is solve the problem, and that, young Lieutenant Morrell, is precisely why you are getting this medal. You did your job and you did it well."

Paul nodded and took the box. He put it in his own pocket. It would be examined later. "Then thank you, sir."

Monck shook Paul's hand. Paul was astonished at the strength of the grip. "Lieutenant, this may not seem like much now, but it means a lot to your men to know that people like me have confidence in people like you. A few years from now, maybe a lot of years from now, you'll take it out and show it to your kids. You'll be proud of it and they'll be proud of you."

Paul finally grinned. "First I gotta get home before I can have any kids to show it to, General."

Monck laughed while, in the background, Ruger rolled his eyes in mock horror. Monck's expression changed as he unfolded a map and spread it on the table. He was no longer laughing.

"Gentlemen, along with giving Mr. Morrell his medal, I am visiting all my battalion commanders to make sure they understand precisely what is going on."

Paul asked if he should leave and Monck said no. "This'll save the major a trip if you hear it from me. What has been rumored is now going to occur. Effective immediately, the U.S. Army and Marines on Kyushu are to cease offensive operations and dig in. General Bradley and Admiral Nimitz feel that we have accomplished our purpose, and that we now own enough Jap real estate to use as a base for the next phase, the invasion of Honshu.

"As a result, you are to entrench and prepare to hold the ground we have. The only actions you will take will be patrols to make sure the Japs haven't organized an army just over the next ridge. What I think will happen is that the Japs, once they realize we've gone to ground, will attack the first time the weather gives them an opportunity. Bradley thinks that will be their last great attempt to drive us out of here."

Instinctively, all three men looked out through the tent's opening. It was cloudy and there was a light drizzle. It was not quite bad enough to ground air support or hamper artillery, but the January weather was far from ideal.

"Bradley feels that the Japs will attack just like the Germans did in the Bulge a year ago December," Monck added. "I agree. They will try to hug us real close so our planes and guns, even those that do get off, will be unable to bomb or fire because the Japs are too close to us."

The other men nodded silent agreement. What was referred to as hugging had been standard operating procedure for the Japs on the defensive ever since the Americans had landed. That they would try it while on the offensive was something new and unpleasant to ponder.

"Will they have enough to hit us with?" Ruger asked. "If that sniper's condition is any indication, the Japs are in pretty bad shape."

"Their army is in terrible shape," Monck admitted, "but the bastards are still fighting. They may be sick, cold, and starving, but there's still an awful lot of them left. This is their home and they're gonna make us pay for it until someone like Hirohito tells them to stop. And one other thing. I don't just want trenches, I want forts. If they break through, I don't want our rear areas vulnerable to being overrun. Everyone is going to have a circle to defend, and that includes the lard-ass rear-echelon troops you all love so much."

Ruger understood. "So we dig trenches and set up observation posts outside them. Good. The boys will be thrilled to not have any more hills to climb. What about things like barbed wire and mines? Will we get enough of that to keep them at bay?"

"Probably not," Monck said sadly. "It's one of the many things no one thought we'd need in the quantity we'd like to have. You'll get enough wire for a couple of strands, but nothing like the thickets of wire that were used in World War I. As to mines, I don't even know if we have any."

A couple of strands of wire would be nothing more than an annoyance. Without wire and mines, any successful defense would depend on having at least some warning, as well as being able to focus overwhelming firepower on an oncoming enemy that wasn't afraid to die.

"Anything else we should know?" Ruger asked.

"Just one more thing. How are your men set for gas masks?"

Chapter 68

Col. Tadashi Sakei whirled as Joe Nomura entered his office, causing papers to fly from his desk onto the floor. "Captain Nomura," he snapped angrily, "just where the hell have you been the last couple of days? You should be here with me and your emperor! Don't you know that? Where is your sense of duty?"

Despite the difference in ranks and the fact that Sakei was an Imperial Guards officer, Joe did not let the other man bully him. After all, he wore the uniform of a kempei officer and, in theory at least, was answerable to no one, not even a guards colonel.

"I had other duties to attend to," he answered stiffly.

If Sakei was upset by the borderline insolence, he didn't show it. Instead, Joe felt he probably expected it and had simply been letting off steam. Sakei shoved a batch of papers at Joe. "Here, what do you make of these?"

Joe glanced at them. They were copies of the most recent transmissions that had been sent from his station in the hills. This time, the radio was different as was the code. The transmissions, he saw with satisfaction, had not yet been decoded, and the sheets were nothing more than pages of gibberish. He pretended to study them and then handed them back.

"The spy has changed codes. I knew that. We've been expecting it for some time."

"Is it significant, Captain? What do your superiors say?"

"I have been out of touch with my superiors," Joe answered with ironic truthfulness. He would never think of contacting anyone higher up in the kempei command structure. "American bombing has disrupted communications even worse than before, and we will not get much assistance from them for the foreseeable future."

Joe returned the papers. "My own opinion of the change, however, is that one of three things has happened. First, that the codes were changed simply because it was time to do so as they have been in continuous use for some time. Second, that the spy, doubtless an American as we've agreed, has been replaced. Perhaps he was replaced because he was killed? Third, it is possible that another spy has landed. Other spies have landed elsewhere, so why not here?"

"Good reasoning," Sakei mumbled, and Joe saw how the anxieties were wearing on him even more than in the past. Sakei looked on the verge of collapse. "The original American code was inferior in its architecture and easily broken. Our codes are not changed because they are unbreakable."

Privately, Joe wondered about that statement. It was typical Japanese arrogance to presume something's superiority simply because it was of Japanese origin.

"But what do you make of the planes and the dummy parachutists?" Sakei asked. "We have identified an American airborne division in Kyushu. Could they be planning a massive assault?"

The last couple of nights had been filled with the roar of hundreds of low-flying transports that flew over Kyushu and, in some cases, dropped dummy paratroops. It was all part of a massive distraction that covered the low-level drop of a platoon of airborne rangers that even now was reconnoitering Camp 7. As soon as possible, they and Ensign Swain's frogmen would move against it and pull Hirohito out of his cage.

"I think," Joe answered, "that the Americans are trying to distract and confuse us. By reacting and moving our troops to counter their phantom assaults, we expose our soldiers to further attacks from the air and at little cost to the Americans."

Sakei nodded. "Even so, I am tempted to move the emperor to a place of greater safety."

Joe was horrified. If that occurred, they would have to make an attempt to take him along a road and then fight their way back to an extraction point. All their plans were dependent on Hirohito's staying at Camp 7. If he was moved out of their reach, they would have to abort the attempt, and that would be tragic.

"Sir, with respect, I believe that it would be a mistake. To move the emperor now would subject the Imperial presence to the same aerial threats that would befall any column of soldiers or a convoy of trucks. Hirohito's presence is unknown here and the camp continues to be safe from bombing. In my opinion, Colonel, at this time this is the safest possible place for the emperor."

Sakei rubbed his eyes with his fists. He was almost groggy from worry and loss of sleep. "You are right, Captain. You are always right. I am glad I have you to depend on and help me think. You are a credit to your uniform. The emperor will remain here, although I will notify nearby police and militia units to be on the alert."

Joe bowed and walked toward the emperor's quarters. Sakei continued to be deluded and that was good. The colonel was a butcher, a sadist, and, to a large extent, personally responsible for the continuation of the war. Screw Sakei, Joe thought. Then he wondered just what effect Sakei's alerting police and militia units would have on the plans to extract Hirohito. Hopefully, Hirohito's taking would be done quickly and there would be no time for reinforcements to arrive.

Nomura knocked on a tent pole and received the invitation to enter. As he bowed before Hirohito, it occurred to him that he both respected and liked the little, bespectacled man who wanted peace. This was the embodiment of Japan, not fools like Sakei.

"How is the good colonel?" Hirohito asked.

"At the point of collapse, sir."

Hirohito smiled. "Confusion to our enemies, then. What news, Captain?"

"Soon, very soon. Perhaps even tonight. I will remain here and make sure I am with you when it happens."

Hirohito smiled grimly. "Soon cannot be soon enough, Captain Nomura. Every moment we wait is filled with death for the innocent. We must stop this killing."

Chapter 69

The name for the barren and war-scarred hill occurred to several in Paul's company who had any knowledge of the Civil War and the battle of Gettysburg. The hill they were fortifying was fairly small, strangely symmetrical, and an extremely important piece of earth to the men of the company because, as they told him, they were on it. Thus, it was christened Little Round Top, although, they quickly dropped the adjective little and simply referred to it as Round Top.

The war and their efforts had denuded the hill of trees and shrubs. Many of the shattered trees had been turned into logs, which reinforced the trenches and bunkers that now crisscrossed the hill and provided comfort and protection for the 134 men in the company.

"Good job, Paul," Major Ruger said as he finished his tour. "The numbers are a little depressing, though. Didn't we start this thing with more than two hundred men in the company?"

More than half the company had been killed or wounded since the invasion, along with a handful who, like Lieutenant Marcelli, had succumbed to physical and mental illnesses. Both Paul and Ruger remembered the lecture back on Okinawa during which that half-crazed sergeant had predicted they would take such heavy casualties. It had seemed so unlikely then, but it had occurred.

"Look at 'em," Ruger said. He pointed in the direction of a half dozen confused, clean, and depressingly healthy young soldiers. "Replacements, and they're so scared they can hardly stand there without pissing themselves."

"I'll spread them out so they won't be together and feed off each other's fears," Paul said.

Paul was fortunate to get any more help. Only those few bodies who had already been in one of Kyushu's several replacement depots were being sent to frontline units. All other possible replacements en route or not quite landed had been shunted off to the Philippines or Okinawa to take part in the invasion of Honshu. Paul didn't really know which group was the luckier. Honshu didn't sound like any more fun than Kyushu had been. At least he'd got six new soldiers if they didn't wind up hurting themselves before they got acclimated.

"I love what you've done with the tank," Ruger joked. Sergeant Orlando's beloved Sherman was in the center of the perimeter and at the very top of the hill, where it was surrounded by an earthen berm. It had taken a great deal of time and effort to maneuver and manhandle the metal beast up Round Top and was only possible after the remaining trees had been chopped down. While it gave Orlando a complete field of fire, it also exposed the tank, which was one of the reasons for the berm. Someone had mentioned that from a distance the tank on the hill looked like a nipple on a tit, or maybe a fly on a pile of shit. Orlando didn't think it was funny.

"I just wish he still had the big gun," Paul said. While it was in the rear for maintenance, a tube had been inserted in the 76mm's barrel. This changed it from a cannon to a giant-sized flamethrower that could belch fire for more than a hundred yards out. "I have doubts about the change."

Orlando had heard the comment. He waved and grinned. "Don't worry, Lieutenant, we haven't failed you yet."

"No, you haven't," Paul said, laughing. "I just wish you had gotten more wire when you were in the back."

Ruger winced at the comment. There just wasn't enough barbed wire to go around. Literally. The perimeter on Round Top was surrounded by a thin line of fencing that would have been more appropriate for preventing cattle from straying from a Montana ranch, instead of protecting a fortified hill. The little ring of wire would not be much of a deterrent.

"Want some artillery?" Ruger asked.

"Sure," Paul answered. "What's the catch?"

"Nothing, although maybe I feel guilty about the little bit of wire and the absolute lack of mines. General Monck gave me two 105-millimeter pack howitzers, and this looks like a real good spot for them. They can protect the flanks of the companies to your right and left, and they can hit the high ground in front of you."

"Mount Ugly?" Paul grinned.

Ruger looked at the scarred and denuded hill in front of them and decided that the name fit marvelously. Technically, it was in Japanese hands, but Paul's soldiers had scorched it and stripped it bare of vegetation so that the Japs could not use it for concealment and sneak up on Round Top.

Mt. Ugly was a little higher than Round Top, and that was a concern as the Japanese could hide behind it and be out of sight. However, if the Americans took Mt. Ugly, there would be another, higher hill behind it, and they would also be sticking out of the American lines and be even more vulnerable than before. There was no choice but to make the best of Round Top. The howitzers would help there as well. With their high trajectory, they would be able to lob shells just over the ridgeline of Mt. Ugly and maybe shake up anybody forming up for an attack.

Paul shivered as a blast of cold, wet air hit him in the face. One of the advantages of entrenching was that there were places on the hill that were actually dry and fairly warm. Of course the trenches themselves were dank and ankle-deep in water, which might lead to trench foot or frostbite, but the bunkers were fairly comfortable.

"Want to go inside?" Paul suggested. "We've got hot coffee and some doughnuts left over from breakfast."

Ruger readily agreed. The war was getting a lot more civilized. Why stay out in the rain if you don't have to? The weather, however, concerned him. It wasn't yet bad enough to put a halt to air support or artillery, but it was making things difficult. It wouldn't take all that much more to shift a lot of advantages to the Japanese, wherever they were hiding.

Again the wind swirled. It was raining harder now. Ruger touched Paul on the arm and pointed across the valley to the scarred bulk of Mt. Ugly. It was scarcely visible.

Chapter 70

The ringing phone jarred Barb Chambers from a deep sleep. After a moment's confusion, she turned on the light and looked at her watch. It was just after midnight. Who on earth could be calling her at this ungodly hour? She hoped it wasn't a drunk wanting a ride home. Her number was close to that of a local bar, and she often got calls from wives wondering just when the hell their no-good husbands were coming home. It would not be the first time her sleep had been interrupted by such a call.

She walked to the kitchen and turned on that light, somehow managing to pick up the phone on the fourth ring. "Hullo," she mumbled, her tongue still thick and uncooperative.

"Barb?"

She tensed. The voice was faint but chillingly familiar. Too familiar. "Yes," she said hesitantly. She had stopped breathing and her heart had begun racing. She dared not hope, would not hope.

"It's me, Barb."

"Dennis?" Her mind reeled. This couldn't be happening. This was a dream and she would soon awaken and find the happiness surging through her had been snatched away and replaced by cruel reality. Dennis was missing. The Japs said he was a prisoner, but Truman said the Japs lied. She hadn't heard from him in almost a year, and it was more likely he was dead than alive.

"It's me, honey. In the flesh."

Barb Chambers sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cool to her buttocks through the thin cotton nightgown. She could feel things, sense things; therefore, she was not dreaming. This was truly happening.

"Where are you?" she said, half talking and half sobbing and all the while praying he wouldn't go away. This could not be an illusion, could it? Was she hallucinating?

There was a pause, and when Dennis responded, she could tell he was crying as well. "I can't say. Not just yet at least. But I'm safe, Barb, I'm safe. I'm on an American base and everything's gonna be okay." With that his voice broke down.

"When will you be home?" She tucked her knees under her chin, hugged them, and began to rock back and forth.

"Soon. Maybe a couple of weeks, but they're gonna get me out of here as fast as they can." He did not add that he wasn't going anyplace until the attempt to free Hirohito was completed, one way or another.

Dennis'd had his conferences first with Ridgway, and then with Bradley and Nimitz. They all said they understood fully. Hirohito would be treated with all the courtesy afforded a head of state and not treated as a prisoner. Now it was rumored that Truman was flying to Okinawa and that Dennis would meet with him as well. What a hell of a story he would have to tell Barb when he was allowed to tell it. If he was allowed to tell it, he corrected.

"Barb, I can't talk for very long 'cause this is costing the government a helluva lot of money and maybe someone else wants to use the phone. I just want you to know that I love you so very much and that I thought about you all the time I was, ah, in trouble. The thought of coming home to you was something that helped keep me alive when it got rough."

"I was so worried, so scared." She wanted to ask how rough it had been, but she was afraid of the answer. It could wait. He was alive and said he was well and that was all that counted.

"So was I, hon, but it's okay now. But, hey, how about you? How are you holding up?"

"Just fine, Dennis. My sister is here and she's helping out a lot."

"With what?" he asked, puzzled.

Barbara laughed at his confusion. "When was the last time we made love, dear Dennis?"

He thought quickly. He'd had a brief leave just before shipping out to Guam. That, he calculated, had been a little more than a year ago. They'd made love like bunnies for those few days as if there would be no tomorrow. There almost wasn't, he thought ruefully.

"I remember it well."

"Well, so do I and so will you. For the rest of our lives we're going to remember it. Dennis, you have a son. I didn't tell you because I didn't know at first, and then you went missing and I couldn't. I wanted so much to tell you, but there was no way," she sobbed.

"Jesus," Dennis gasped. "I'm a daddy."

"He's Dennis Jr. and he's got all the tools and digits he's supposed to." In the background, Dennis Jr. had awakened and was being soothed by Barb's sister, who was looking on incredulously. He would need changing and then he would want to nurse.

"Jesus," Dennis repeated.

"Dennis, have you suddenly gotten religion?" she teased.

"I'm overwhelmed."

"So am I," she whispered. "Now get home and let's get started on the next one."

Thousands of miles away, OSS agent Johnson watched as Chambers shakily hung up the phone. Despite trying to give the man some privacy, he had overheard much and understood more. The call had obviously gone well from the glazed and goofy look on Chambers's face.

"Congratulations, pop," Johnson said, extending his hand. "First cigar you get ahold of is mine."

"Fair enough." Dennis grinned. "Now, what do I have to do to get something to eat around here?"

"Whatya want?" Johnson signaled to a clerk who would make a quick trip to the mess hall. They still didn't want Chambers running around in public in case he slipped and said something. Even though it was extraordinarily unlikely that anything said on Okinawa would fall into Jap hands, there was no sense taking any chances at all at this late stage of the game.

"How 'bout a hamburger and a milk shake? Chocolate."

Johnson rolled his eyes and guffawed. That would make three of each in the last hour. "Dennis, you are nothing but a damned eating machine."

Chapter 71

Sgt. Yuji Yokota's plan to avoid further military service had fallen apart only a couple of weeks after Ens. Keizo Ikeda's frail plane had taken off and disappeared into the darkness.

Yokota's original idea had been to head north and lie low in the hills until the war ended, as he thought it surely must. He had what he felt was enough food to last him, but a sudden rain squall had ruined a great deal of it, forcing him down from the hills and into the camps to avoid starvation.

A roadblock set up to catch deserters had nailed him almost immediately. There had been no use even trying to lie his way through it. For one thing, he was still too well fed to have been anything but a soldier, and then he'd made the absurd mistake of standing at attention when a kempei lieutenant had interrogated him.

The kempei officer had sneered and given him two choices. He could "volunteer" for a shock brigade forming to attack the Americans, or he could be hanged right then and there. With false pride in his voice, Yokota had assured the officer that he would be honored to fight for Japan, which had been his intent all along. After all, he insisted, he had been on his way to find a new unit after his old one had been destroyed. The lieutenant's barely stifled laugh told him he hadn't believed a word of that declaration.

In the end, his sins had been overlooked because experienced NCOs were rarer than hen's teeth at this stage of the war. Yokota was delighted that they even let him keep his stripes. Even though he was primarily a mechanic, he was still a sergeant. With even that little bit of authority, he thought he might be able to bluff his way out of trouble. At the very least, he was still alive.

He was dismayed when he saw the unit he was finally assigned to. It was called a company, although it had only eighty men and to call the soldiers men, or the men soldiers, was to stretch either point. They were all extremely young and in their mid to late teens, inexperienced, ill equipped, and scarcely trained. They all had rifles and bayonets, although some of the weapons dated back to the turn of the century.

They averaged only twenty rounds apiece, which wasn't enough for a skirmish, much less a war. When Yokota commented on that, he was told that their purpose was one grand and final attack on the Americans, and that courageously thrust bayonets would prove more effective than bullets.

Was this all that was left, Sergeant Yokota wondered, an army of young boys? If this was the case, then Japan was in horrible shape indeed. Many of the young recruits looked terrified as well as cold and miserable. At least as military personnel they had access to Japan's dwindling store of rations, so they didn't look as bad off as many people he'd seen.

Their company commander was Lt. Fumimaro Uji, who was also the company's only officer. As the only experienced NCO, Sergeant Yokota was second-in-command. Tall, thin, and extremely nearsighted, Lieutenant Uji had been a supply officer until the army realized it had a desperate need for officers of any kind and, with no supplies to distribute, had found a way to utilize him.

Lieutenant Uji was unqualified to lead a field command and knew it. As a result and within hours of his arrival, it fell to Sergeant Yokota to get the company organized and on the move toward the Americans. Uji professed to hate the Americans and to be willing to die a glorious and bloody death fighting them. He made a speech to that effect that further terrified the youthful recruits.

Their trek south was fraught with peril. Even with the weather deteriorating, the American planes were omnipresent threats. They hiked the trails at night in an extended single-file column that made them difficult to be seen and hit. Even so, they often heard the crump-crump of bombs falling in their area, and several times came upon the grisly remains of others who had been either careless or unlucky. Knowing that the trails were in use, the Americans had started lobbing napalm bombs at suspected troop concentrations. On a couple of occasions they had passed the charred and blasted remains of Japanese dead. Whether they were soldiers headed to battle or civilians who happened to be in the wrong place was not always something that could be ascertained by looking on the mangled dead.

Under the circumstances, Sergeant Yokota wasn't in the least surprised when several of the recruits simply disappeared into the night. Lieutenant Uji was beyond himself with rage and disappointment, but even he recognized the futility of going after the deserters. It did not escape Yokota's notice that kempei presence was inconsistent the closer they got to the actual fighting.

Then came the day he realized they'd arrived at their destination. Their sector was quiet, but the Americans were only a couple of miles away.

"The rains are getting harder," Lieutenant Uji exulted. "Under their cover we will soon launch ourselves against the enemy and rid Japan of their scourge."

Yokota agreed that the weather was truly flicking miserable. A couple of the men had developed hacking coughs and now vomited their rations. As to whether the Americans could be driven off, he had doubts. Even though many hundreds of other soldiers were well hidden in the area, he wondered what they could do against the American army's legendary firepower. What use was courage and a bayonet against a machine gun? He'd seen that scenario played out in China when the roles were reversed. There it had been the Chinese who'd had the courage but not the weapons, and they'd been slaughtered.

And how would his men react when the time came? To his surprise, Yokota had found himself growing attached to them and not wishing them harm. He was their grandfather and they came to him with all kinds of problems. One had asked him why they were fighting and when it would stop. It was evident from the way the others watched this one that he represented all of them. They were all smart and most were educated. In earlier days, Yokota would have slapped them for being weak or even beaten them senseless and sent them back to work, but not now. Too much had changed. These were children, not soldiers, and he grieved for them and what they would suffer. He told them the war would soon end.

Worse, he knew that he was only a couple of miles and a day or two away from his own destruction. This was not the way he'd planned it, and he racked his brain trying to figure a way out of the mess he'd gotten into. He would do everything he could to save his newfound children along with himself. Only problem was, he hadn't the foggiest idea how.

Chapter 72

Joe Nomura was half-asleep outside Hirohito's bedchamber when he heard the first shout of alarm. It was followed by a burst of gunfire and a scream that ended in a gurgle. It had begun. He checked the time. It was a couple of hours before dawn. Joe pulled his pistol from its holster and ran the few feet to Hirohito's quarters.

"Where're you going?" yelled Sakei as he charged in. "Traitors are attacking us. They want the emperor. We must stop them." He had his own pistol out and was casting about in sleep-induced confusion.

"I'm going to protect the emperor," Nomura answered, and pushed past him. Sakei didn't protest. Instead, he went on to battle what he thought were the Japanese forces trying to take or kill his emperor. Nomura hoped it would be several minutes longer before Sakei realized his mistake.

Hirohito was seated on the floor listening to the battle. Apprehension was on his face, but not fear. "It is time?"

Joe plopped down beside him. "Yes."

Further conversation was cut off by a fusillade of shots punctuated by further screams. "Your men got so very close before being detected, didn't they?"

The bad weather had worked in their favor and hidden the approach of the rangers and the frogmen. Refugees remained huddled in their miserable tents and shelters and ignored the thirty-odd men who'd moved with near perfect silence through the camp and toward the hospital. Those who saw them noted nothing unusual as the men had been draped in blankets. In the rain and dark they appeared to be another group of refugees, or additional troops for the mysterious compound.

More gunfire erupted, this time close. The top of the tent shuddered and a line of bullet holes appeared in it. It reminded Hirohito of the time when Sakei had first taken him prisoner in the bunker beneath the palace in Tokyo. It was hard for Hirohito to remember that it had been only half a year earlier. As if to complete the memory, Sakei burst in on them. He had a pistol in his hand and his face was contorted with rage.

"Americans!" His voice was a shriek. "Americans are attacking us." He turned to Nomura. "We must move the emperor immediately."

"No," Joe answered softly. He fired his pistol twice, hitting Sakei in the chest with both bullets.

Sakei dropped to his knees and let his pistol fall to the ground. "Not you," he muttered as realization dawned.

A moment's anger twisted Sakei's face before his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped to the floor. An enlisted guard retreated in on them and Joe shot him in the back. Another entered and, seeing the bodies, ran away before Joe could kill him as well.

"Roy," a deep voice yelled.

"Trigger," Joe answered, completing the signal. After a moment's delay, Ens. Billy Swain entered the tent and looked in disbelief at the small man with glasses who sat with Nomura. He had known whom to expect, but it still came as a shock that the emperor of Japan sat on the floor a few feet in front of him.

"Un-fucking-believable," Swain whispered as Nomura and Hirohito stood up.

"What's he saying?" Hirohito asked.

"That he's glad to see you," Joe responded. "Now let's get out of here."

They ran outside where a perimeter had been set up. A ranger said that their commander had been killed. "We've got to get out of here right now," Swain said. There was no disagreement. "We've got about two miles to go."

Nomura had not been privy to this part of the operation. Again, what Joe didn't know, Joe couldn't tell. If the operation failed and he was captured, he could say nothing that would endanger his comrades. Thus, he was slightly surprised when they did not make a direct run to the ocean, which was less than ten miles from the camp. Swain had said two miles, so that meant something else was up.

First they retreated through the refugee camp. There was confusion and consternation everywhere as a result of the gunfire. People swirled and screamed as they tried to avoid the compact group of armed Americans pushing through them. No one appeared to notice the small, bespectacled civilian in their midst.

Finally, they made the safety of the brush and continued through it. Joe watched the effects of the night on Hirohito. While sometimes looking bewildered, he would see Joe looking at him and shake it off. He had made a fateful decision and would stand by it.

They came to a clearing. A handful of rangers emerged and a sergeant told Swain that the message had been sent. The cavalry was on the way.

"How many casualties?" Hirohito asked. Two dead and seven wounded, he was told. It amazed and saddened him that these young Americans had died or been hurt on his behalf.

"How long will this take?" Joe asked.

"Twenty minutes max," Swain replied.

This did not constitute good news to Joe, who recalled Sakei's comment about alerting local police and militia. "It better be soon. There were survivors among the guards and they'll have sent for help. Things are going to get very interesting if the planes don't arrive real fast."

Billy Swain grinned. "Planes? Joe, who the hell said anything about planes?"

Chapter 73

Admirals Nimitz and Halsey were uncomfortable with the situation in which they found themselves. The rain had kept the kamikazes away, but that was the only good thing they could say about the operation that had grown from the proverbial shoestring and now utilized a large part of America 's naval might.

They both thought it unlikely that the operation would succeed, with Halsey going so far as to say it hadn't a snowball's chance in hell. Nimitz had initially gone along with it because it seemed remotely possible and wouldn't cost much, thus making it worth a try. Now, as they waited in the night, their doubts ran wild.

They were on the bridge of the newest and largest carrier in the fleet, the recently commissioned USS Midway. The Midway was almost a thousand feet long, displaced over fifty-five thousand tons fully loaded, and carried 137 airplanes. Of particular importance, she was the only carrier in the U.S. fleet with an armored deck. In a lesson learned from the British, it was hoped that any kamikazes that did attack her would bounce off, which was why she had been rushed to completion and sent to Japan.

Ironically, Nimitz and Halsey knew the impressive Midway was already obsolete. Even though a comparative giant, her flight deck was too short to handle the new jet fighters that were being developed. So far, jets had not played a part in the invasion of Japan because of the lack of bases with runways long enough to handle them, and since the Japs had no planes to speak of, the slower prop models were more than sufficient to the current task.

As further protection, the Midway and her important cargo were surrounded by a host of cruisers and destroyers along with half a dozen other carriers. This was just as well since the Midway's planes had been forbidden to fly. There were more important uses for the flight deck.

"Fool's errand," murmured Halsey. "Goddamned idiot trip."

Nimitz did not contradict him. What had seemed at least marginally possible a few hours earlier seemed like just so much nonsense. How could a handful of rangers and frogmen possibly take Hirohito off Japan?

"They're brave," Halsey conceded, "but the whole thing's just a folly. I only hope they don't all die."

"I agree," said Nimitz. Normally he would have been at his command post at Okinawa or on the Wasatch; however, the situation was so unique that he felt compelled to be on the Midway waiting for success or failure. That he was not the only important person on the carrier was also not lost on him. Should anything happen to the Midway, history might well change dramatically.

A junior officer interrupted Nimitz's thoughts. "Sir, we have a message from Roy. He says send Dale."

"My gawd," said Halsey. "Something's actually happening out there, isn't it?"

Nimitz nodded. The question was rhetorical. Dale was the signal to begin extracting the troops. He wondered if the American raiders had actually taken Hirohito or were just running for their lives. Irrelevently, he wondered who'd thought of using the names of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans for the operation.

Chapter 74

Nomura looked at the clearing that was now surrounded by lights that pierced the foggy sky. Swain had said help was coming and that was good. Bad news, however, was that a Jap patrol had found them, probably attracted by the lights. It had been driven off, but the sky was getting brighter, and Jap reinforcements were coming through the brush and homing in on the beacons.

"When, Mr. Swain?" Joe asked impatiently.

"Any second now."

As he said that, a ranger outpost began firing at approaching Japanese. The Japanese shot back, and mortar shells began to drop near the perimeter. In the background Joe heard a distant clattering sound that rapidly grew closer. He turned and watched as what appeared to be a giant insect dropped from the sky.

"What the hell is that?"

Swain grinned. "That my friend is a helicopter. Chopper for short." As he spoke, a mortar exploded, hurling Swain on top of Nomura. Joe pushed him off and saw that the back of Swain's head had been blown away. Joe's leg was bleeding and he was covered with Swain's gore. He had picked up shrapnel and maybe pieces of Billy Swain. He picked himself up and managed to stand and control the pain.

The first chopper landed, quickly followed by a second. Sounds told Joe that others were approaching. He made a quick decision. "Get the emperor out on the first one and send one of the Japanese speakers with him."

"What about you?" one of the rangers asked.

"That's my problem. Hirohito goes first and then the rest of us."

Hirohito and a wounded ranger headed for the first helicopter. The emperor hesitated momentarily as he realized that the frail-looking craft was expected to fly him out over the Pacific. He turned, waved at Joe, then boarded. Joe was glad to see that the wounded man was one of the Japanese speakers. Good. Someone was using his head and killing two birds with one stone.

Hirohito looked out through the window as the helicopter began its slow, noisy ascent. Joe wanted to scream for it to hurry, to make all the dead and wounded relevant.

Prudently, the pilot kept the chopper low and headed away from the approaching Japanese. The second helicopter lifted off and two more landed in their place. These were quickly filled with wounded and flew away. Wounded now had the highest priority. The dead would have to remain.

The sequence of drop-down and liftoff continued despite Japanese fire, which got closer and heavier. As the Americans departed, it meant fewer and fewer remained to man the defenses, and Joe realized that he had a difficult decision to make.

Suddenly, a helicopter was hit and exploded in a burst of flames. It crashed to the ground. No one left it. The approaching chopper pilots ignored the fire and carnage to land and remove more men.

"How many left?" Joe yelled after still another pair had lifted off. The men sounded off. Only five were left alive, counting himself.

Two more helicopters managed to land, avoiding the flaming ruins of the burning one. Two men filled one and it lifted off.

"Go," Joe ordered.

A ranger looked aghast. "What about you, sir?"

"No room at the inn, buddy. I'll be all right. Just get your asses out of here."

The remaining rangers didn't need more urging. They sprinted to the last helicopter and flung themselves into the cabin, and the chopper immediately took off.

Joe turned and saw Japs approaching less than a hundred yards away. The sun was beginning to rise and the whole area remained lit by the lights and the fire. "Hurry!" he screamed at the approaching Japanese. "Hurry! The Americans are getting away. Kill them!"

With that, he stood and shot at the helicopter, which was now safely out of range. He only stopped when the wave of advancing soldiers raced by him.

A militia officer trotted up to him, saw the kempei uniform, and saluted. "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes, but some of them may have gotten away." Joe gestured vaguely in the direction of some hills to his left. "Send your men in that direction." The officer did as he was told and Joe was again alone.

Joe thought he had a few minutes before they started to think and wonder just what he had been doing inside the American perimeter. They wouldn't believe for long that he'd been captured and escaped, or that he'd bravely followed the American raiders.

He staggered. His leg hurt like a bitch. The wounds didn't seem serious, but walking was going to be painful and slow. But what choice did he have? At least one guard had seen him shoot another. Did that man still live? Had he informed his comrades about the kempei officer's strange behavior? Soon the place would be crawling with investigators.

After all, one didn't lose an emperor and then just write it off. No, real kempei would be here soon. The time for masquerading as a kempei officer was over.

Joe limped down the path. His cache of equipment, food, clothes, and the precious radio were miles away. He would either have to get to them or find some other civilian clothing and, once again, let himself be swallowed up and made invisible by the throngs of refugees. Joe could only hope that the Japanese wouldn't be looking too hard for a man with one arm.

Chapter 75

An honor guard of marines stood on the deck of the carrier. Halsey had personally checked to make sure that the rifles they carried were unloaded. The last thing they needed was for someone to go crazy with revenge and shoot the emperor of Japan.

Halsey still couldn't believe this was happening, and he was reasonably sure that Nimitz didn't either. The approaching helicopter had first landed on one of the smaller escort carriers, where it was refueled and sent on to the Midway. It was a shame that helicopters had such short legs, but Halsey was certain that future ones would see the problem rectified.

Almost daintily, the helicopter carrying Hirohito poised above the flight deck and lowered itself to land gently. There was a momentary wait while the blades stopped whirling.

An improvised red carpet was laid from the helicopter to the carrier's superstructure. Then a naval officer in a clean dress uniform walked to the helicopter with as much dignity as he could manage. The hatch was opened and the carrier's band began to play the Japanese national anthem, which was followed by "The Star-Spangled Banner." Halsey thought that the latter was played with more verve and gusto than the former.

Hirohito leaned out of the chopper and stepped onto the deck. There was a collective gasp from the hundreds of crewmen who had gathered around the flight deck for the historic event, even though it had been unpubhcized. The carrier was a small town that kept few secrets.

Hirohito stood for a moment. Then he smiled slightly and walked forward to meet President Harry Truman, who had emerged from the shadows of the superstructure and was walking toward him.

As the men approached each other, the throng of sailors commenced to applaud and then cheer as they realized the significance of what was occurring.

Chapter 76

Japanese naval captain Minoru Genda was almost universally conceded to be a brave and extraordinarily brilliant officer who had a tremendous future before him. In his younger days- he was still only forty-one- many had despaired that he would not live long enough for his brilliance to blossom. He had been part of an acrobatic-flying group and had later been nicknamed the Madman because of his intense feelings that naval air was the way of the future. His fervor in proclaiming that carriers had made battleships obsolete had won him few friends in a big-gun navy.

Genda had helped plan the attack on Pearl Harbor and had taken part in numerous other battles. Some felt that if he had not been sickly during the ill-fated Battle of Midway, it and the war would have turned out differently for Japan.

Most recently, Genda had been assigned to help coordinate Japan's air defenses, which meant he had little to do since Japan's air defenses were virtually nonexistent. Thus, he could often be found at Anami's subterranean headquarters, and his presence was even looked forward to by those who considered him a hero.

After a cursory search for weapons- none of any kind were permitted in Anami's presence- Genda was admitted to Anami's private office. As he entered, a clerk closed the door behind him. As Genda expected, he and Anami were alone. The errand Anami had sent him on required a high degree of secrecy.

But first, there was a personal concern. "Your arm. What happened?" Anami asked.

Genda grimaced. His left arm was in a large cast. "Sir, the trip to Kyushu was even more dangerous than I expected. This is courtesy of an American plane my pilot and I almost couldn't evade. It looks worse than it is, however, and it will heal in a few weeks."

"I am glad for your safe return," Anami said with sincerity. He wished he had many more Gendas to depend on. "But tell me, is the situation as bad as we've been led to believe?"

"It is," Genda conceded sadly. "If anything, it is worse."

The day before, Anami had received frantic coded signals from Kyushu that Hirohito had been kidnapped by an American raiding party. Anami had prevailed on Genda to fly to Camp 7 on Kyushu and verify the disaster.

Genda awkwardly lit a cigarette with his good arm. "I was able to confirm that an American raider force knew precisely where Hirohito was, and after a brief fight, they took him away by helicopters, which they used to fly him out to their ships. Witnesses saw a man fitting Hirohito's description with them, and it may be that the emperor went willingly. A Japanese officer was also seen assisting the Americans, which indicates a conspiracy, at least at the lower level. We must assume that the emperor is in American hands and will cooperate with them. The Japanese officer in question has not been found."

And doubtless won't be, Genda didn't add. Whoever the Japanese officer was and anyone else in on the conspiracy were in hiding and not worth looking for. Hirohito's taking had stunned the Tokyo headquarters, but, so far, the news had not spread to the rest of Japan. It did, however, present a unique opportunity for those brave enough to take it.

Anami took the bad news with surprising calm. Then he smiled grimly. "No," Anami finally said. "Hirohito was murdered by the Americans. It is an unspeakable atrocity that we will blame on them."

"But, sir, Hirohito may make public announcements for the Americans, even calling for surrender. What then?"

Anami slammed his fist on his desk. "They will be denounced as lies and fabrications. We will inform the world that Hirohito is dead and that his son Akihito is the new emperor, and that I have been appointed regent. We shall simply ignore anything Hirohito does and says for the Americans. We will announce that, after murdering him, the Americans have hired an actor to pretend he is the emperor."

Amazing, Genda thought. How could Akihito be proclaimed emperor of anything when no one knew where he was? Anami's control of Japan was far from absolute. Genda forced a smile. "Excellent. But how will that enable us to win the war?"

Anami chuckled. "Why, Captain, we have already won the war. This attempt by the Americans to undermine the Empire shows how bankrupt they are. Our counterattacks will begin very shortly and they will bleed the Americans so badly that they will sue for a peace that leaves us strong."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we will fight on, Genda. We will fight on forever. We will never surrender and be destroyed as the Americans have planned for us."

"Good. Then I will return to my duties with greater zeal."

Genda stood and bowed. The cast on his arm threw him off-balance and he nearly stumbled. He grasped the edge of Anami's desk for support while grimacing in pain.

Anami rose quickly and steadied him. "Genda, are you all right? Perhaps you should see a doctor before going back to duty?"

"I'm all right," Genda insisted.

As he said that, the hand encased in the cast squeezed a rubber bottle, which emitted a puff of misty fluid that hit Anami square in the face. For a second, the general appeared puzzled. Then his eyes widened and he began to choke and spasm soundlessly. He sat down hard on his chair and slumped forward. Genda waited a moment. There was no need to check for a pulse. He only wanted to be sure that it was safe to proceed.

The mist was a nerve gas, a particularly virulent derivative of a German gas called sarin that General Ishii had managed to bring with him from Manchuria. It killed on contact with the skin by paralyzing the nerves. It also evaporated into the air and lost its potency almost immediately, which made it useless on the battlefield, yet marvelously lethal in this instance.

Finally, Genda was satisfied that enough time had passed and that it would be safe to handle the general without fear of contamination, particularly since the air vent in the underground office had been humming and pulling out stale air. "Help!" Genda hollered. "The general has collapsed. Help!"

The door opened and others rushed in. They pulled Anami off his chair and laid him on the floor. At least two checked for a pulse that wasn't there, then started pushing on his chest as if that would start his breathing again.

General Homma rushed in from his own office down the hall and took command, chasing out gawkers. Only a couple of men who continued to try to revive Anami remained. "What happened?" he asked Genda.

Genda spoke clearly. It was imperative that his version be told and heard first. "We were talking when he suddenly clutched his chest and pitched forward. He didn't make a sound. He just fell over and didn't move."

Homma nodded and responded firmly, "A doctor has been summoned, but for what purpose I don't know. It appears that General Anami has suffered a heart attack or a stroke." He looked at the faces assembled just outside the open office door. Many looked stunned, but some appeared strangely hopeful. "I am senior here," Homma went on, "therefore, I am assuming command. You will return to your duties and continue as before. Captain Genda, you will follow me and make a brief statement for the record."

Genda's statement to a clerk was a formality. Anami was dead of a massive heart attack probably brought on by the immense strain of his duties. In a few minutes Genda was aboveground after watching Homma begin to take over the reins of the Japanese government. Only the plotters knew that a coup had just occurred, and that Homma and Ozawa were part of it. As part of their plans, "emergencies" had sent both Admiral Toyoda and Field Marshal Sugiyama away from the headquarters.

Even though political assassination had been a macabre kind of Japanese tradition in the decades prior to the war, Genda deeply regretted that necessity had forced him to do it. Genda was a warrior, not a murderer. Anami had been a warrior too before he had succumbed to the madness that was keeping Japan in the war. Now Genda would inform his friend and mentor Admiral Ozawa that his mission was completed.

Even now, General Homma was setting more wheels in motion. There were others to round up or dispose of before a new government could be formed under General Homma and Admiral Ozawa. A government, Genda hoped, that would bring an end to the war that was destroying Japan.

As he walked toward his hidden vehicle, he chuckled. Who on earth was also plotting the overthrow of the government? Despite his disclaimer, he felt that the kidnapping of Hirohito must have had high-level help for it to have succeeded so neatly. He earnestly hoped that the various sets of conspirators didn't get in each other's way.

Chapter 77

The weather on the flight deck of the Midway continued wet and miserable. Despite this, both men had dressed formally and intended to be photographed without overcoats. It was important that they be seen as dignified heads of state, and not as ordinary people scuttling about in the rain.

Equally important was the need for a background that would convince the Japanese people that the emperor was both respected by the United States as a head of state, and that he was still in Japan. A picture of him anywhere else might be interpreted as his having fled the land and would mean his disgrace and the failure of his historic mission.

At first there had been hope that something in the city of Kagoshima could be used as a background, but little was left that was more than three feet tall. Weeks of hard fighting, coupled with the flimsy construction of most Japanese buildings, had resulted in an appallingly unrecognizable collection of ruins.

Then Undersecretary of State Joseph Grew thought of using Mt. Kagoshima as a background. While hardly as well-known as the snowcapped extinct volcano Mt. Fuji, it was well enough known to those who lived in the area as it dominated both the bay and the city. At any rate, it would have to do. The emperor and the president could only hope that enough Japanese soldiers would recognize the background as being uniquely Japanese and then be impressed by the message.

The weather refused to cooperate, though. Rain and large flakes of soft snow obscured the view of the mountain from the carrier. A photograph near the side of the flight deck could be posed to show nothing of the carrier, which might indicate that Hirohito was a prisoner, and all of the mountain, which would indicate that he was free. If only, of course, they could see the damned mountain.

Truman paced back and forth in the small room off the superstructure where he and Admiral Nimitz waited. "We can't stay here forever. Why not just take some pictures and get on with it."

"If it comes to that, we will," Nimitz answered wearily. He desperately wanted to get the Midway and Truman out of the area. "But I agree with Mr. Grew and so does Hirohito. We need to get that mountain in the background if there's any way we can."

"But we can't wait too much longer," Truman insisted. Indications were that the Japanese counterattacks would begin at any time if they hadn't started already. Who really knew what was going on in the misty hills beyond the bay? If it was too late to stop all the bloodshed, then they could at least stop some of it.

"Still think we should shoot the little bastard," muttered Halsey. Truman stifled a grin. The belligerent little admiral's thoughts weren't all that far from his own. He still had a hard time accepting that there was nothing Hirohito could have done to prevent the current phase of the war from ever starting in the first place, much less stopping it without outside help. Truman wondered if the emperor hadn't gotten a sort of religious conversion when he'd realized the war was lost. Perhaps he was actually maneuvering to keep his throne and for a place in history as a great humanitarian.

But, Truman thought, who the hell cares? End the war and worry later about what should have been done.

The phone rang and Halsey answered. "There's a break in the weather," he said as he hung up. "If we act right now, we might get some good pictures."

Truman and the two admirals raced out onto the flight deck, while Hirohito and Grew came from another room. Grew was the only person on the carrier Hirohito knew, and he had firmly refused to let the diplomat out of his sight. The former ambassador spoke fluent Japanese, which made him doubly valuable.

Hirohito and Truman took up stations by the edge of the deck. It occurred to Truman that, with just one little shove, one small emperor would suddenly find himself in the middle of a deep bay. The thought made him grin.

Cameras were hurriedly set up. In the background, the bulk of Mt. Kagoshima had become visible.

"Now," the photographer said. A movie camera was set up alongside the still photographer. It had all been well rehearsed. The two leaders stood beside each other, close but not touching. They would not shake hands as such contact was repugnant to Japanese males. They smiled and appeared as equals while the cameras whirred and clicked. More pictures were taken of them bowing toward each other at a depth that signified utmost mutual respect. Most Americans had little idea that a Japanese bow was filled with meaning. Too deep a bow and one signified subservience to the other; too shallow and it indicated dominance over the other. The bow had to be just right to convey the proper message of equality.

Several more pictures were taken while the light and the view remained. Halsey looked about nervously. If he could see the mountain, the Jap pilots could see the Midway. Granted the skies were filled with scores of American fighters and radar indicated nothing hostile in the area, but he remembered what happened to the Augusta and MacArthur. Halsey didn't want to go down in history as the admiral who lost the president of the United States. If the little Jap standing beside Truman got shot up, well, that was okay, but not the president of the United States.

"That's it," Truman said. "We have enough pictures and I'm freezing my butt off."

Grew translated the comment to Hirohito, who grinned and nodded. Truman wondered just how literal the translation had been and whether the emperor was a little less of a stick-in-the-mud than he appeared.

The executive officer of the carrier ran out onto the flight deck to intercept the group of men. He looked at all the assembled rank and directed his statement to Truman.

"Sir, we're receiving a broadcast from Tokyo. It says that Anami has been overthrown and that Admiral Ozawa and General Homma are now in charge. They're also saying they want to talk peace."

Chapter 78

A Jap attack on Round Top could come from three directions. It could come from over the hill known as Mt. Ugly, or around either side of it. Because of the poor visibility caused by the rotten weather, a series of two-man listening posts had been established at each of the three points, with a fourth outpost coordinating and commanding the three.

Sergeant Collins had been in the command-outpost foxhole for several hours and longed for his watch to end. Along with being wet, cold, hungry, and miserable, the situation was scary. The weather remained bad, it was night, and he couldn't see more than a hundred feet in front. The thought that Japs could be just out of his view was unnerving at best.

But that, of course, was why he and Private First Class Hanks, his radioman, were in the hole. It was far better that he and the others in the outposts be overrun by a horde of Japs than that the entire company suffer that fate. It had sounded faintly heroic when it had been discussed back on Round Top. Now it sounded foolish and downright stupid.

Small, wireless walkie-talkies connected the four outposts to each other. As the closest to Round Top, Collins also had the luxury of a field phone connecting him with the rest of the company. Phones were not considered good ideas for the three forward outposts because the wires could be cut or even stumbled upon by the Japs and used to trace back to an outpost itself.

Communications with the three posts were limited to clicks, not words. Collins's command post would send one click out, and a one-click response meant everything was okay. The command post would then send one back as confirmation that the signal had been received. In case of possible danger, the men in an outpost would click twice and withdraw from their exposed position. They didn't have to wait for a response. A series of three or more clicks meant that everybody should run like hell. The posts were to respond to the clicks from Collins every few minutes. It was hoped that the discreet and muffled sounds would not carry.

The system was far from perfect. Several false alarms had led to precipitous retreats back to Round Top. These had been followed by sheepish crawls back to their positions by the men who'd just run from them. Lieutenant Morrell hadn't chewed out anyone for his actions, but the continued unnecessary alerts caused stress and fatigue. Collins chewed his gum and wished for a cigarette. Why the hell wouldn't the Japs come and get it over with?

It had been several minutes since the last outpost check. "Hit 'em, Hanks," he whispered.

Hanks grunted, crouched over the walkie-talkie, and made a clicking noise with his mouth. A few seconds later he looked up. "One reports okay, Sarge." He returned to his task. Then there was a pause. "Nothing from two."

"Do three." Two was at the crest of Mt. Ugly, while the others were on the lower ground flanking it.

"Three's okay. Should I try two again?"

"Of course." Collins's mind raced. Was something wrong? A delay in responding had happened before, and he'd chewed ass for it. People were supposed to pay attention, not scare him half to death.

Hanks looked up from his crouch, concern on his face. "Still nothing."

They tried a third time and again no response. Outpost two was a little more than a quarter mile away and well within the range of the handheld radios. Were they malfunctioning? No, in that case either of the two men would have realized they hadn't heard from Collins in a while and used the backup set each group had. Kerns and Fellows were good guys and wouldn't just be sitting there with their thumbs up their asses.

Shit.

Collins's next alternative was to crawl out there and find them, which he dreaded. It was bad enough that he had to take the men out there when their shift started and return to get them when it ended. At least then he had their replacements with him and wasn't alone. Maybe he should get some help from Lieutenant Morrell? Under any circumstances, he would have to notify Morrell of the problem. The situation was the stuff of nightmares and his fears were as normal as the next guy's. Christ, if only he could see!

The wind swirled and he thought he picked up movement in the distance, maybe a couple of hundred yards away. It couldn't be Kerns and Fellows, it was too broad a sensation.

But it couldn't be the Japs because they always began their attacks with yells and all kinds of noise to inspire them.

His mind raced. It couldn't be the Japs, could it?

Then he realized the cold truth: the Japs weren't yelling!

"They're coming," Collins blurted to Hanks, who immediately began making clicking sounds as fast as he could. Kerns and Fellows hadn't answered because they were dead. Now he had to recall his other men and get the hell back to Round Top. There was no time for a phone call to warn Morrell and the others. The Japs might be right on top of him in seconds. He simply began firing into the air. With all need for secrecy gone, the approaching Japanese began to scream and howl like a chorus of devils.

Chapter 79

General Homma was frustrated. He was now the de facto premier of Japan and commander of all the empire's armed forces, yet he found himself unable to function effectively in either capacity. Once again his communications officer had sadly informed him that they were still unable to reach Sixteenth Area Army headquarters on Kyushu. Damn the Americans! If they wanted the war stopped, they had to let him restore some semblance of communications so that he could contact his commanders and tell them to cease firing.

He had just completed meeting with Admiral Ozawa, who had taken control of the Foreign Office, where he had ousted Tojo. Field Marshal Sugiyama had killed himself when confronted with arrest, while Admiral Toyoda had disappeared; thus, they had no serious rivals. Many peace-inclined diplomats had been arrested by the previous regime, while others were in hiding, but the remainder, such as Togo and Marquis Kido, were now frantically trying to make contact with the Americans. Ozawa was confident that the Potsdam Declaration could be utilized as a basis for ending the war on terms that would guarantee that the Japanese world would not disappear. It would be shameful, but better than dying uselessly.

Lt. Gen. Shiro Ishii knocked. He entered and bowed. Homma wanted to dislike Ishii for all the despicable things he had done with his chemicals and germs, but the little man with the thick mustache had performed an invaluable service by providing the means to eliminate Anami and would be compensated by being allowed to live. Ishii would disappear.

Homma drummed his fingers on his desk. "Have you stopped the gases?"

"Like you, I have been unable to raise General Yokoyama on Kyushu. I have been able to ascertain, however, that very little in the way of chemical shells or grenades actually made it across the straits to Kyushu, and absolutely none of the bombs. Most are still in vaults here on Honshu or were on boats sunk in the straits by American planes. I now doubt that more than a couple hundred chemical weapons are on Kyushu."

Homma did not consider this entirely good news. Even a little bit of gas used on the Americans might provoke a devastating reaction from them. It was imperative that they somehow reach General Yokoyama and cancel the final phase of Ketsu-go #6, the plans for the defense of Kyushu.

"What about the submarine?" Homma asked.

The submarine, one of the large R-class types, carried a floatplane in a waterproof deck-hangar. The sub had more than enough range to cross to North America. There its orders were to launch its plane, which would be loaded with a number of small ceramic bombs that carried plague-infested fleas kept alive in an oxygen mixture.

"It attempted to leave two days ago. It was sunk by American destroyers."

"Thank God," Homma said, and wondered why he wasn't distressed by the additional deaths.

America was civilized, clean, and possessed excellent medical facilities. After the initial terror, the plague would easily have been eliminated and would only have added to America's fury with Japan. The attempt to spread germs in America had been total madness.

A staff officer interrupted. His expression was one of deep relief. "General Homma, we have finally established contact with General Yokoyama."

Homma virtually ran to the radio set. The reception was weak and distorted by static, but he convinced General Yokoyama that he, not Anami or Sugiyama, was now in charge.

"General," Homma said, virtually yelling to be understood, "you must not use the gas shells you have received."

"I wasn't going to," Yokoyama answered. "Apart from the fact that such weapons are not an honorable means of waging war, there were too few of them to make a difference, and we have no real way of delivering them effectively. I had them put in a cave and the entrance sealed."

Wonderful, Homma thought, such good news. "Excellent. Now, it is imperative that all aspects of Ketsu-go be halted. Do you understand? You must not launch your attacks. Neither your army nor the remaining kamikazes must attack."

After prolonged silence, Homma thought he might have lost contact. Finally, General Yokoyama's voice came through faintly but distinctly.

"My dear General Homma. I deeply regret to inform you that the attacks are commencing as we speak and there is no way I can stop them. The soldiers are marching and the planes are now in the air. The arrow has been fired from the bow. It cannot be recalled."

Chapter 80

Collins and Hanks narrowly avoided being shot by their own men as they crawled into the trenches on Round Top. Moments later, two more men from his outposts clambered in, their faces a mixture of relief and terror. No more followed, and it was reluctantly concluded that the four missing men were most likely dead.

"What did anybody see?" Morrell asked. "How many Japs are there?" The men, Collins included, shook their heads.

"We really didn't see much at all," Collins said. "Just a lot of commotion and noise." Behind and below them, the infernal shrieks continued, further emphasizing that no more Americans would be returning from the outposts around Mt. Ugly. "Sorry, Lieutenant, but we weren't in any position to hang around and count noses."

"They're going around us," Morrell muttered. "Open fire into the valley."

Gunfire rang out and rippled down the hill in all directions. It was a joy and a relief to be able to shoot. There was plenty of ammunition, and Morrell had earlier decided there was no point in saving it. Indirect fire against an unseen enemy was nowhere near as effective as shooting a target that was visible, but it would cause some casualties and maybe disrupt the Japs' plans. Similar firing could be heard from other American positions.

"Why aren't they coming?" someone yelled, and Morrell had to wonder as well. According to Collins, they'd been just a little behind him as he'd run for safety.

A Jap mortar shell exploded in their perimeter, followed by others. While they lacked heavy artillery, the Japanese had a large number of the extremely portable 50mm mortars and shells and were using them to effect.

Paul yelled for the company's own 60mm mortars to return fire and ordered the howitzers to open up as well. As the mortars responded, the sergeant in charge of the two pack howitzers told him the Japs were too close for him to shoot at. Effectively, they were under the barrels of his guns.

"They're hugging us," Morrell growled, and Sergeant Mackensen agreed. "Even if the weather breaks, nobody can help us."

Morrell tried division artillery and was told they were busy with other attacks, which he could now hear in the distance, and that the Japs were too close to his position to risk shelling blindly into the gloom and mist.

A plane hummed low overhead. It missed the hill by only a few feet. "Kamikaze!" someone yelled. Seconds later, there was a flash and the sound of an explosion behind them. The kamikaze had missed Round Top but had hit the hill behind them.

"Sonofabitch, that was close!" snapped Collins.

"Get to your men," Morrell ordered. Collins was in charge of a score of men Paul had designated their reserve. They were to reinforce any area where the Japs broke through.

Otherwise, the defense of Round Top consisted of two platoons that faced the front and curved along the sides of the hill. There they met the third platoon, which faced rearward and had the greatest length of ground to cover. Putting most of his defenders toward the front had seemed like the best idea, but now with the Japs hugging the hill and circling behind it, Paul was no longer so certain.

A group of men ran through the rear of the defenses, and Morrell recognized some of them from Ruger's headquarters and heavy-weapons companies. Then he remembered that theirs was the hill behind Round Top, the one the kamikaze had hit.

"Where's the major?" he asked, and was told that no one knew. A Jap plane had landed smack on the command bunker, then the hill had been overrun. The Japs were solidly behind Round Top. At least a couple of dozen men had made it through to him and were welcome reinforcements. Poor Ruger, he thought, then quashed it. If the major was dead, Paul would mourn for him some other time.

"Another plane!" came the cry. This time it was even lower than the last.

"Get down!" Paul yelled as it appeared through the mist. This one was not going to miss Round Top. The explosion of the crash was deafening, and the shock wave passed over him like a hot, sharp wind. Gasoline flamed into a smoky pyre right where his front-facing second platoon met the rear-facing third. Men were down and the trench was destroyed. Now he understood why the Japs hadn't launched their attack. They had been waiting for the kamikazes to soften up the hilltop fort. In the absence of artillery, the Japs were using suicide pilots.

They had succeeded in breaching his defenses. Fully a third of his defensive positions were destroyed, and the main Jap attack hadn't even begun.

Chapter 81

Lt. Gen. Matthew Ridgway didn't like dealing with the press. While some of the reporters were pretty good joes, others were nothing but sharks who'd sell their mothers for a story. That is, he smiled inwardly, if they'd had mothers. There were exceptions among Ridgway's compatriots, of course. Patton, for instance, had swaggered and postured for the press, while the late MacArthur always seemed to be onstage and never at a loss for a quote.

The press was, however, safely muzzled in this war and, with few exceptions, understood the need for it and cooperated with the wartime censorship regulations. After all, who wanted to give out military secrets that would cause the deaths of American boys? For that reason, and because the journalists in Bradley's press pool were men of integrity, Ridgway felt fairly comfortable with the men gathered in his office. Long after the war they could write all the books they wanted and analyze to their hearts' content all the decisions others made. In the meantime, every word they wrote was subject to review and removal.

It was a fairly eclectic and highly qualified pool of talent. Wilfred Burchett represented the London Daily Express, Theodore White was employed by Time-Life, Hanson Baldwin was from The New York Times, and Webley Edwards was a radio correspondent from CBS.

"Gentlemen," Ridgway began, gesturing toward a large map of Kyushu that hung on the wall behind him, "let me give you a quick overview. The Japs have launched major attacks against our positions, primarily along our right flank. This is the area covered by the I Corps, which consists of the 25th, 41st, and 53rd Infantry Divisions. At this time there are no serious attacks against either the marines on our left flank or XI Corps in the middle. It appears that the Japs have concentrated their thrusts against I Corps only, and we first thought their goal was a penetration down to Ariake Bay."

"Can they make it?" Burchett asked.

"Not a chance. They are about seventy miles from the bay and we'll stop them well before they get anywhere near it. We are in the process of moving two divisions from IX Corps, the 81st and 98th infantry, into blocking positions behind I Corps. IX Corps had rotated back into reserve and is close enough to help out. No, gentlemen, their goal is not Ariake Bay. The Japanese are just squandering lives."

"Ours included, I presume," Baldwin commented.

Ridgway winced. "Absolutely."

White raised his hand. "I know it's certainly simpler on a map than it is in reality, but can any of the other units, such as the marines, attack north and swing behind the Japs?"

Ridgway stifled a sigh. Spare me from armchair generals. "Not in enough time to help out. While the Japs have stripped many of their defenses to form for this attack, the soldiers left behind are well dug in and in strongly situated positions. They would hold out for some time, and even if overrun, the mountainous lay of the land would preclude any quick move around the Japanese rear. No, the battle will be fought with the forces currently in place and those I mentioned as moving up to reinforce them."

"And the weather was the primary reason they got the jump on us?" This was from Edwards, and it was evident from his voice that he was used to being behind a microphone as well as a typewriter.

"Yes, although we knew it was likely coming, there was little we could do to prevent them from moving and massing their forces under the cover of cloud and rain. We dug in as much as possible and we can only hope it was enough."

"Sort of like the Ardennes all over again, eh, General?" This from the Brit, Burchett.

"Except that we are much better prepared. It shows that possessing overwhelming power is not always enough to prevent a desperate enemy from trying one last throw of the dice. The Japs will doubtless achieve local penetrations and overrun some positions, but they will be stopped." Ridgway faced Baldwin. "Like you said, we will suffer many, many needless casualties. Except for the fighting in I Corps area, the war is over."

"Any comment on the kamikazes?" asked White.

Ridgway's expression turned even grimmer than before. "That the Japs would use kamikazes on frontline positions came as a complete shock. With our warships pulled back, we expected suicide attacks on fuel depots, storage dumps, and command centers, but not on frontline trenches and pillboxes. Gentlemen, they hurt us badly with that tactic. Our antiaircraft guns were almost all situated farther rear. Just like the picket destroyers caught hell off Okinawa, our boys in the foxholes and trenches are taking a beating, and there isn't a helluva lot we can do about it."

"But why doesn't the weather hamper them like it does us?" Baldwin queried. He had seen Iwo Jima and was familiar with hell.

"Because they don't care. Jap planes by the hundreds, maybe a couple of thousand, are skimming a few feet over the hills, and when they see something that looks like our lines, they line up and crash into it. Since they intend to die in the first place, they are willing to take risks that we wouldn't even consider. If they lose some of their pilots through accidental crashes into the wrong hillsides, they just don't seem to give a damn."

It was White's turn. "What about Hirohito? Where is he and what's he up to?"

"Hirohito is now in Kagoshima City trying to coordinate an end to the hostilities. He has recorded messages for the Japanese troops and people that are being broadcast as we speak. Additionally, hundreds of thousands of leaflets are being dropped on the combatants. Hopefully, it'll work.

"The remnants of Japan's armies in the Philippines under General Yamashita have given up as a result of Hirohito's actions, and the garrisons of Rabaul and Hong Kong have also surrendered. Even in Kyushu, General Yokoyama is trying to recall his troops. It's working. It'll take time, but it's working." Then Ridgway sagged. "I can only hope that it isn't too late for our boys in I Corps."

Edwards looked up from his notes. "When will Hirohito be going to Tokyo, and what about General Homma's position with us?"

"The emperor feels that his place is on Kyushu, and everyone agrees with him. General Homma and Admiral Ozawa have pretty well shut down the Japanese military on Honshu and elsewhere, so there's no need for the emperor's presence there to help things along. Hirohito has told Bradley that if it would help, he would march to the front lines and try to stop the Japanese attacks in person. It won't happen, of course, but we believe his sincerity and it does show that he is fully committed to the goal of ending the fighting."

White was concerned. "But what about Homma? Isn't he the man responsible for the Bataan Death March? If he is instrumental in ending the war, does that mean he won't be prosecuted?"

Ridgway shrugged. War crimes trials were none of his concern, at least not yet. "Maybe his actions show he isn't as guilty as we thought? On the other hand, you may also be right. Helping to end this crap might just win some people a lot of forgiveness."

Burchett seemed to shiver. "In the meantime, God help the men in the front lines who are having to endure this awful fighting."

The reporters looked at each other. "I think we're about done, aren't we?" White said, speaking for the group.

"Yes."

"Well then, General, how much of what you've said will we be able to print?"

Ridgway laughed grimly. "Not a damned word."

Chapter 82

Paul Morrell was consumed with fear and anger. Japs were less than a hundred yards away in the trenches along where the kamikaze had crashed. The Japs had swarmed up the hill and overrun what remained before he could shore up the defenses and replace the casualties. Worse, a misunderstanding had sent Sergeant Collins and the reserve force of twenty men in a counterattack that had seen them chewed up by the Japs. Only a handful of men had returned, and Collins wasn't one of them.

"What now, Lieutenant?" It was First Sergeant Mackensen, and Paul saw fear in his face as well. The sergeant was normally a rock, but now he was as scared as anyone. Death in the form of untold numbers of Japs was only a little ways away.

Ironically, the long night had ended and the weather had begun to clear up, which meant that he could see the Jap trenches more clearly. Sometimes he could see their helmets and bayonets as they moved around and got organized. Shooting between the two groups was constant, and Paul wondered which of the many dead bodies on the ground between the two lines was his friend Collins.

"Lieutenant," Mackensen insisted, "what the hell do we do now?"

Paul began to shake again. With enormous effort, he gathered himself. There were orders to give. "We go to Last Stand. Order everybody out of their trenches and into Last Stand."

It was desperation, but what other choice did he have? Last Stand was the sardonic name given by the troops to the earthen berm that ran around Orlando's tank. In front of the berm was a line of trenches. It was Paul's idea. Men could shoot from behind the berm and from the trenches, which would effectively double their firepower. It would also make them more vulnerable to machine gun and mortar fire because they would be so closely packed, but it was a chance he had to take. Already Jap mortar rounds were falling, and a number of his wounded had been pulled back to the narrow ground between the tank and the berm.

On signal, men raced from their positions and into Last Stand. Paul was dismayed at how few they were. Mackensen sorted them out and made sure there were no gaps in the lines. The Japs must be doing much the same thing, Paul realized. They were gathering for one last push past the useless howitzers and into Last Stand. He wondered just what the hell the Japs would do with the hill when they took it. The Japs had suffered badly. The slopes of Round Top were littered with dead and the trench was full of them.

"Lieutenant." It was Orlando from the tank.

"What?"

"I just want you to know that our hitherto inexhaustible supply of ammo is pretty well shot, pardon my pun."

It didn't surprise Paul. Everyone's weapon had been firing constantly. A lot of their reserve stores had been destroyed by the plane, while others were out of reach because of the Jap advance.

"When we run out of bullets we go to bayonets. When we're all out of weapons," Paul answered with an almost maniacal laugh, "we'll piss on them."

That brought nervous laughter from a couple of the men who heard it. Funny, but there was no talk of surrender. The Japs would kill anyone who even tried, so what would be the point?

"Banzai! " came the shriek from the trench, and he saw a sword waving in the air. "Banzai, banzai, banzai!"

A sea of humanity lifted out of the trenches and up the slope of the hill. The men in Last Stand fired as rapidly as they could, with the two machine guns on the tank joining in. They launched mortar shells at their highest possible trajectory so they would come down just outside the berm. Japs fell by the dozen, by the score, but they still came on. Many fired at the Americans as they advanced and the air became filled with grenades. The noise was deafening as men shot at each other at close range, screamed, and died. Neither the berm nor the trenches provided full protection, and more of Paul's command fell.

Paul turned to Sergeant Orlando, whose head was sticking out of the driver's hatch. "Now," Paul managed to say with a calmness he didn't feel. "Use firefly, Sergeant."

The brief and incongruous sound of a warning siren caused the men behind the berm to duck. Then, a second's pause that lasted an eternity. At last, a tongue of flame peeked out of the tank's barrel and then surged outward in a sea of fire. Some of the advancing Japs were caught in it, while others saw it and stopped in sudden fear while their ranks continued to be riddled by bullets. The bravest men in the world are terrified by fire, and the Japanese were no exception. Those who could began to turn and run from burning death. It was no use. Death caught them in its flaming grip.

Orlando traversed the turret so that the flamethrower mounted in the barrel of the cannon created a circle of fire around Last Stand. The Japanese on the hill were turned into human torches that jumped and fell and screamed. Again and again, the tongues of flame licked the land outside the berm, sucking and scorching the life from it. Paul huddled with the others on the ground behind the berm and felt the flamethrower's hot breath as the barrel propelled its fire over them.

Finally, Orlando turned off his death machine. Blackened, burning Japs were everywhere, and the stench of burned meat was overpowering. Most of the Japanese were prone, but a few were frozen in sitting positions, and a handful still moved and twitched. Rifle fire from the berm ended their suffering. Paul noticed that it had grown astonishingly silent around Last Stand. No one was yelling "Banzai," and no one was shooting at them. Firefly, the flamethrower replacement for the tank's cannon, had worked. The firefly apparatus had sent the flames out much farther than a handheld flamethrower could, and with horrifyingly deadly effect.

The tank's engine roar broke the silence. Orlando plowed his tank through the berm and over the dead and dying. Almost leisurely, he drove along the circumference of the original defenses atop the hill. The flamethrower surged again as he scorched the slopes leading to Round Top, enlarging the circle of death, while the tank's machine guns added to the carnage.

The tank stopped and the driver's hatch opened. "They're all gone, Lieutenant," said Orlando. "Only dead ones left."

Paul nodded and sagged to the ground, exhausted beyond feeling. The Japs were gone, at least for the moment. Would they return? No, he corrected himself. When would they return? The Japs always returned. They never stopped and they were always there. Japs would be a part of his life forever. Then he realized that it had stopped raining and that he could hear planes flying high in the air above him.

Chapter 83

Sgt. Yuji Yokota grieved for the men of his decimated command. He had grown fond of the innocent young boys who had trusted him, and now so many were gone, their youthful lives snuffed out for no reason. He could only hope that some were still alive and were simply running from the horrors they'd witnessed. If so, he wouldn't blame them. It was the most awful death imaginable. There was nothing to describe the fear of being burned alive. His own personal bravery had vanished, and he had run with the rest of them, away from the hill and their hellish tormentor.

Even so, Yokota and his men had been fortunate. They had arrived late at the assembly point and had gone up the hill in the third wave, not the first. This had enabled them to flee when the jets of fire had commenced streaking down the hill, turning so many into screaming torches. Many of his boy soldiers had not made it back safely, but, overall, they had fared better than those who'd preceded them. Those brave soldiers of Japan were dead.

Lieutenant Uji staggered over to where Yokota squatted on the ground. Uji had lost his glasses and had to squint to see Yokota.

"We must attack again, Sergeant."

Yokota was incredulous. "Why? There's only us left. Everyone else is dead."

The temerity of the question shocked Uji and he cocked his fist as if to strike Yokota for his insolence. Then he changed his mind and merely shook his head. "It is our duty and our destiny. We must attack again."

"Lieutenant, there are only about forty of us left out of the eighty that attacked the first time."

Uji stiffened. "We ran, Sergeant. We ran like frightened dogs and I was one of them. We shamed ourselves and Japan by our actions. We must gain redemption."

"Plane!" a soldier yelled. Discussion ceased as the frightened men scrambled to make themselves small and invisible. The weather was quickly clearing, and there was no place to hide from the terrors of the sky. Yokota doubted if they would now get anywhere near the hill before being bombed or strafed. He squinted upward and saw a B-17. Its bomb-bay doors were opened and he awaited a rain of death, but, instead of bombs, thousands of sheets of paper began to fall like large snowflakes.

"Leave them," Uji commanded as the leaflets settled about them. Reading American propaganda was forbidden. However, it was a useless command as everyone grabbed a sheet. If nothing else, American propaganda leaflets made halfway decent toilet paper.

Yokota stared at the paper in his hand. On it was a picture of Hirohito standing alongside a little white man who was identified as Truman, the president of the United States, and they stood together as equals with the bulk of Mt. Kagoshima in the background.

In disbelief, he read the text. And then he read it a second time. The war was over. An honorable peace had been made. The integrity of Japan and her culture would continue. The emperor commanded that everyone withdraw from the American positions and head north to safety.

Uji crumpled the copy he'd been reading and threw it on the ground. Tears streamed down his face. "We attack."

Yokota stood and glared at the lieutenant. "No! You read the emperor's orders. We are to withdraw."

Uji was on the edge of hysteria. "They are lies, all lies. Even if we cannot succeed, we must give up our lives for Japan."

This enraged Yokota. Did the fool want to kill all of the remaining lambs? He grabbed the lieutenant by the collar of his jacket and jammed the paper in his face. "Would you disobey your emperor? Read where he forbids further suicides. To do what you now wish would bring shame to us, not glory."

Uji sagged and began to sob. After a moment, he managed to speak. "You are right, Sergeant. Even though it is hateful, we must obey the emperor. Take the men to the rear. I will follow."

Yokota looked about at the surviving boy soldiers, who watched him with hope, fear, and confusion mixed on their faces. "No, Lieutenant," he said gently, "you will not follow. You will lead us back to safety. Just like the emperor orders."

Chapter 84

General Monck and Colonel Parker left their jeep at the base of the hill and began the climb to the top of the battle-scarred mound. Both men were shocked by what they saw. The ground itself had been scorched, and the Japanese dead still lay where they'd fallen. Burned and blackened bodies with their clothes burned off gestured to them with charred limbs thrust upward. Body parts, many unidentifiable, had to be avoided as they walked. Monck slipped and recoiled in revulsion as his hand came to rest on what might have been part of a skull.

As they reached the crest, they stepped over the trench. There were bodies in it, but others were strewn about as if they had been pulled from the trench.

"Someone was looking for our boys," Parker commented softly. "And making sure the Japs were really dead." American dead and wounded had just been evacuated from the killing ground.

"The smell is awful," Parker added in understatement. The smell was nauseating. "I don't think I'll ever be able to eat roast beef again."

Monck corrected him. "It smells like pork." He wanted to gag.

They passed the blackened skeleton of a crashed plane. Its tail was pointed incongruously to the sky. They had seen many like it in their inspection of the regimental area. Kamikazes had caused almost as many casualties as the Japanese banzai attacks.

An American walked around the hill taking pictures while a second took notes. "Correspondents," said Parker. "I just hope they get the story right for once. It deserves to be told."

Monck led the way through the breach in the earthen berm. Numerous pairs of eyes were on them, but there had been no attempt to challenge or call out to them. For all their rank, Monck and Parker might as well have been invisible. They looked at the living men, many of whom walked or stood like zombies. Finally, one disassociated himself from the group and walked over to them. Monck was hard put to recognize the exhausted and filthy man as Lt. Paul Morrell.

Monck stopped Morrell from saluting and put his arm around the younger man's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, General," Paul said, his voice and body quivering.

Monck was confused. "Sorry? For what?"

Paul's voice was choked with emotion. "I lost half my men."

"No," Monck said with gentle firmness. "You saved half your men. You and your men are heroes. You stood off at least a battalion of Japs and you're still here to talk about it. Son, I'm the one who should apologize. I tried to get you more help, but there was nothing to give you."

But Monck wondered what he could have done that would have saved lives on Round Top. Fewer than seventy had survived unhurt. Monck's doubts would haunt him for the rest of his life, just as Morrell would have to live with his. The fury and intensity of the Japanese attacks had stunned them. Someone who wasn't there had picturesquely described the assaults as waves from a stormy sea crashing over rocks with the rocks finally prevailing. Only the rocks and the waves were flesh and blood, not granite and water.

Paul was not consoled. "I should have used the tank sooner."

Perhaps you should have, Monck thought. But that was hindsight. Paul had fought the battle and won it. He was the one who had to make the decisions and not anyone else. He had done what he had to and done it when and how he felt was right. Morrell didn't know it yet, but he truly was a hero.

"If you had used the tank sooner, it might have been knocked out and been useless. No, Paul, the berm shielded the tank until the right moment."

Paul appeared to accept the statement. "All right, I guess, sir. What's the latest on Major Ruger?" Word had reached him that Ruger had been found just barely alive and under a pile of bodies and rubble.

"He's alive, but very badly wounded. With a little luck, he'll make it, but he won't ever be the same again."

"What'd he lose?"

"His legs. Both above the knee. They were terribly crushed and couldn't be saved."

"He's lucky, sir. He won't have to go back to fighting."

"Nor will you, Paul." Monck turned to Parker and ordered, "Get these men off this hill."

"Yes, sir," Parker said. "The relief from the 77th is just a little ways behind us. They'll be up in about an hour."

"Now," Monck snapped. "I want these men off this hill now."

The Japs weren't coming back, and the survivors of Round Top needed to get as far away from the hill as possible. Monck wanted to get them back to a land of clean clothes, showers, and food. They needed to forget the nightmare landscape that was Round Top as soon as possible.

"Leave the tank," Monck ordered Morrell. It was probably too risky to drive the damn thing downhill anyhow. God only knew how they'd gotten it up there in the first place. "Leave everything. Just get down off this hill." Again Monck turned to Parker. "When they meet up with the column from the 77th, they can use their trucks to take them to the rear."

Paul managed a small smile. "Sounds good to me, sir. Then maybe we can begin to put this behind us."

As Paul walked away to gather his men, Monck wondered if anyone would be able to forget what had happened on Round Top and any of the thousands of other battlegrounds on Kyushu. He hoped they wouldn't.

Chapter 85

Debbie Winston sat in the chair in her bedroom. Her bare feet were tucked under the long flannel nightgown. It was the middle of the night and she couldn't sleep. Too much was happening in her life.

Days earlier, the final end of the war had been almost anticlimactic. There'd been no dancing in the streets and few parties had been thrown to celebrate it. Instead, there'd been a feeling of enormous relief coupled with worry that this peace would also somehow fall apart. After all, hadn't the Japs surrendered once before? This time, thank God, it looked as if it would stick.

Debbie's brother, Ron, might yet be drafted, but not until after he finished high school. No fighting was going on, which meant he would be safe, unless, of course, he got sent to Palestine, where a small war raged. Maybe, she thought wryly, a little military discipline would help the spoiled and sulky little snot grow up. God only knew he needed it.

She took a deep breath and again read the letter from Paul. He was safe and unharmed, although his choice of words and phrases said there were things he wasn't ready to talk about, or at least put down in a letter.

This was not all that surprising. She had read with horrified fascination of the final desperate battles on Kyushu. One article in Life magazine had mentioned a place called Round Top as an example of the savage intensity of the final conflict. Not until reading Paul's letter did she realize he had been at Round Top. The thought that he had been so close to death had further reinforced her strong feelings for him.

Her friend Ann, whose boyfriend had returned an amputee from the war, had reached over and held Debbie's hands. "All you can do is be there for him. Hold him, listen to him, and understand that he's seen and done things that no one should ever have to endure and that we cannot possibly imagine, no matter how much we read or hear about them."

Paul's letter had been hopeful that he'd be stateside fairly soon, and the newspapers had confirmed it. Those men who'd borne the brunt of the fighting on Kyushu would be coming home in a hurry. They would be replaced by a far smaller number of Americans who'd be taken from the units forming for the now canceled invasion of Honshu.

If she was going to be there to help him through his nightmares, they were going to have to get married fast so she'd be there during his nights. She grinned to herself. She hoped Paul would realize the good that would come from their being wed as quickly as they could arrange it.

Debbie looked out the window of her second-floor bedroom. Snow was on the ground and she wondered if it would still be there when Paul returned. She hoped it would. That would mean they'd be together soon.

Chapter 86

Mitsu Okimura walked over to the bunk where the young man who was now her good friend sat propped up and reading a book. When he saw her, he dropped the book on his lap and smiled.

Mitsu shyly returned the smile, but decided to be a nurse before succumbing to the pleasure of his company. She pulled back the covers and checked the wounds on his leg. The infections had almost all but disappeared, and the color of the surrounding skin was healthy. In a way, this dismayed her, as it meant he might be well enough to move on.

"Will I live?" Joe Nomura teased her. She was so serious, he thought, but so pretty.

"Very likely," she answered primly, but the twinkle in her eye betrayed her.

It was an easy thing to say now. Earlier, it had not been so definite. Nomura had shown up at the hospital almost delirious with fever and with a leg swollen to twice its normal size. Dr. Tanaka had considered amputation but decided against it because the young man had already lost an arm. Tanaka, with Mitsu assisting, had spent hours probing the infected flesh for the pieces of shrapnel that had caused the problem. Against all odds, they had succeeded through a combination of Tanaka's skill, and American sulfa and penicillin. There would be scars, but they would recede over time. When he was fully healed, Nomura wouldn't even limp.

Mitsu dropped the blanket back over his legs. "I have a question for you."

"Ask it."

"Several times I have had night duty and come by to see how you were. On a couple of occasions, you were thrashing in your sleep and speaking words I didn't quite understand."

Joe was touched that she would single him out for such care. Peace had brought a dramatic reduction in the number of patients, which meant she was free to indulge in him if she so wished. That she so wished was a pleasant thought.

The American field hospital he'd been trying to reach had closed up and moved for the same reason- no more customers. But now, what did he tell her? Well, he would begin with the truth, at least a little of it.

"It was probably English, Mitsu. I speak it very well."

Her eyes widened. "I thought so. I have learned a little of it here, and I thought I recognized some of the words. Have you been to America?"

He laughed. She said it as if it were some sort of holy place. "Yes. I spent some years in Hawaii."

"I would like to see America someday," she said solemnly. Mitsu eased him out of the bed and up to a standing position. He put his arm around her slight but strong shoulders, and she put hers around his waist. It was time to strengthen his legs so he could walk unaided. Already she suspected he didn't need to have his arm about her, but it was rather pleasant so she did not comment on it. So too she liked the feel of his body under her hands.

"Wouldn't you be afraid of all the Americans?" he asked.

"No," she said firmly. "At least not anymore." Proximity to the American hospital had shown her that the GIs were nothing but little boys who were as normal as Japanese men, just larger and louder.

"But what about the war, Mitsu? Weren't they your enemy?"

Mitsu was puzzled. Why had he said your enemy rather than our? "Once I hated the Americans. Now I realize that the whole war was an evil wrong that should never have happened. Now I realize too that the Japanese people were duped by warlords. No, Jochi, the Americans are not my enemy. They never were."

They stepped outside. It was chilly, but far from unpleasant. Besides, he could feel one of her small breasts against his side, and that was definitely keeping him warm. In the distance, he saw a car coming down the road.

"Mitsu, did you hear about American-born Japanese who helped the Americans invade Kyushu by spying on the Japanese and performing acts of sabotage?"

She nodded against his shoulder in such a way that he couldn't see her face. "And you're one of them, aren't you?"

Joe took a deep breath. At least that's over with, he thought. "Yes. Will you hate me for that?"

Mitsu looked up at him. Her dark eyes were clear with understanding. "You served your country. How could you be hated for doing that? Tell me, did anything you did truly help end the war?"

He laughed, surprising her. "Yes, Mitsu, it definitely did."

She smiled and squeezed him. "Then that was good and you are good." The car was drawing closer. Probably more American doctors looking for possible radiation-sickness victims, she thought. They couldn't quite believe there weren't any at the hospital.

"Jochi, when you leave, where will you go?"

"Back to Hawaii."

"I wish to go with you."

He was stunned and thrilled. She felt as deeply as he did. He hadn't been imagining it. They'd only known each other for a couple of weeks, but it felt like forever.

"What about your family?" Mitsu's mother and sister had been located in the north. There had been a brief reunion and a parting that had left Mitsu unsettled.

"They will soon move to Yokohama to be with cousins. I have no desire to be with them. They are rooted in self-pity and the past, while I wish to live in the future. Now, will you take me with you to Hawaii?"

"Of course." He pulled her closer to him. The car had stopped almost directly in front of them. "It won't be a problem. I think I'm owed some pretty big favors by some very important people."

The car doors opened. OSS agents Peters and Johnson stepped out. They grinned happily and waved when they saw Joe. Joe laughed. "What the hell took you guys so long?"

Chapter 87

"Gonna miss you, Jim," President Harry Truman said as he reluctantly accepted his secretary of state's letter of resignation. "You did a helluva job under some rotten conditions."

Byrnes shrugged, but the compliment pleased him. He had hoped to give it another year or so at State, but the pressures of the job in the past several months had accelerated the overall deterioration of his health. All his ambitions were now behind him.

"Harry, if I want to live to enjoy my retirement, I'd better go now. At any rate, General Marshall will do an outstanding job as my replacement. Sometimes I get the feeling Marshall's been prepping for this all his life. He's the man to shepherd the new world as it develops."

After a few minutes of small talk, Byrnes departed, leaving Truman with his many thoughts.

First and foremost, World War II was over and now the world was learning the true nature of nuclear warfare. Scientists from many nations were examining the ruins of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Kokura, and the residue of the straits bomb. Radiation, so casually dismissed as a factor in earlier calculations, was being redefined as a deadly killer that never stopped killing.

Truman knew that a portion of the world's population would forever castigate him for using the terrible weapon, but he had done so with a clear conscience and the hope that the bomb would bring an early end to the war. That the war had not finally concluded until the early months of 1946 was sad, but not as awful as it could have been for either side had it dragged on even longer.

In the war's beginning, many predictions had called for fighting the Japanese until the latter part of the 1940s. "The Golden Gate in '48" had been the GIs' sarcastic lament. It meant that they themselves did not figure to get home until 1948. Truman considered himself responsible for doing much better than that.

The "peace with honor" had been less than the unconditional surrender of Japan that FDR had first declared was requisite. American military occupied less than a third of Kyushu and were negotiating with the Japanese government for long-term leases for naval, air, and army bases in the Kagoshima, Ariake, and Sasebo areas. After the boys came home, the total number of Americans at the several bases would likely be less than a hundred thousand and would be more concerned with Russia than Japan. That American troops would be coming home had offset any resentment that perhaps the Japs had gotten off too easily. Of course, newsreel films of the devastation in Japan reinforced that the Japs had been brutally beaten.

Joseph Grew was ensconced in Tokyo with several hundred civilian and military "advisers" who now worked with the new Japanese government. Homma and Ozawa had announced their intention to resign and retire from public life. Hirohito had renounced his claim to being a godhead, and democratic elections were being planned. The political face of Japan was being restructured.

Japan had withdrawn any claims to Formosa or Korea, although Okinawa would revert to Japanese control. Japanese garrisons, many starving and in wretched condition, had almost all departed from distant parts of the Empire and, like their brethren on the home islands, were being disarmed by their own government while American representatives watched. It was all astonishingly peaceful now.

War crimes were a touchy issue. Many of the major possible criminals were already dead. Anami, Sugiyama, and Tojo, to name a few, had either been killed or had committed suicide, while Ishii seemed to have disappeared. Even so, an international tribunal made up of representatives from Spain, Portugal, the Vatican, Switzerland, and Sweden would judge those the United States wished to prosecute.

Homma would not be prosecuted. There was substantial evidence that he might not have known the Bataan Death March was occurring. He had accepted moral responsibility for the atrocity insofar as he had been in command of the Japanese forces involved. In light of his subsequent actions in bringing the war to an end, he was given the benefit of a reasonable doubt.

Truman received the latest on casualties for Operation Olympic, the invasion of Kyushu. The total stood at just under 350,000, and almost a third of those were dead. It was a staggering addition to the total of 300,000 Americans killed in all the other battles of World War II.

Many of the wounded were physically and mentally maimed for life. The medical profession took justifiable pride in that so many of the wounded would live, whereas, in prior wars, they would have succumbed to their wounds. While they might be crippled, they would at least have a chance at some kind of life.

It further grieved Truman that almost half the Allied POWs in Japanese hands the previous summer had died of various causes. These included starvation, mistreatment, murder, and death from American bombs and shells directed at where the Japs had placed them.

All of this, Truman thought, to conquer an area of Kyushu that was only a little larger than the state of Delaware. The hills must have been painted with dead. He thought it incredible that only a few months before, he and his advisers had debated just how hard, or even if, the Japs would fight. Now they knew. The Japanese had fought like tigers for their homes and their way of life. How could he and his advisers have been so wrong?

If he wanted good news, all he had to do was check what was happening to the Soviet Union. With their economy in shambles, ostracized by the Western nations, and living on plunder stolen from Eastern Europe, the Russians were now having a difficult time. In China, the collapse of the Nationalists and the departure of the Japanese had left a power vacuum. When both the Soviets and the Chinese Communists had tried to seize control, their forces had collided. Now, Chinese Reds and Russian Reds were killing each other, and the Russians, at the end of a long and tenuous supply line, were definitely getting the worst of it.

The Russians had also been forced to withdraw from Korea, this time urged on by a Korean national named Syngman Rhee, whose irregular armies had made life miserable for the Soviets. The Soviets' inability to succeed in Asia was not lost on European nations, which were gaining confidence in their dealings with the far from omnipotent Russian bear.

Only in the Middle East were American troops in any danger. Palestine was in ferment, and the British had informed Truman that they were no longer interested in policing it. Now that the British had Hong Kong back, there was little motivation for them to hang on in the bloody and not so Holy Land that had already claimed a number of lives.

The Arabs hated the United States for helping out the Jews, but that could not be helped. France and Holland were on Truman's back to help them reclaim their colonies in Southeast Asia, but he'd be damned if he would aid either country to enslave other human beings.

"What a helluva complicated world we live in," he said to the wall. He checked his watch. It was time for a drink.