1945 (23 page)

Then, suddenly, the guns on a nearby ship would open up at a diving plane. Soldiers would gape and pray as streams of shells sought out the dark blot in the sky that was the Jap plane. A kamikaze who'd made it that far was a survivor who had somehow penetrated the fighter defenses only to face being blown out of the sky by shipborne guns. When a suicide plane was hit, it either exploded into pieces or had a wing ripped off, which caused the plane to cartwheel out of control and into the ocean. When that occurred, the men cheered.

Sometimes, however, an enemy plane got through, and as they waited, another transport took a hit. They watched in horror as flames billowed from the ship. The stricken ship quickly launched lifeboats, and hundreds of soldiers tried to escape the inferno by jumping into the sea. It looked like an anthill that had been disturbed, only those were people, not ants. The
Luce
did not change course. Picking up survivors was the job of the destroyers and their smaller cousins, the destroyer escorts.

"Get me ashore," Paul muttered, and shook as he watched men's heads disappear forever beneath the waves. "Please, God, get me off this ship."

At long last, the landing craft arrived and the men clambered awkwardly down cargo nets.

One man screamed and fell into the boat. He grabbed his leg and began to writhe and moan. A medic checked him quickly and turned to Captain Ruger.

"His ankle's broken, Captain. We gotta get him to a hospital ship."

Ruger was coldly furious. "Bullshit. I saw that cowardly little motherfucker let go and fall intentionally. He stays where he is."

The soldier in question was wide-eyed with fear and pain, and the medic was confused. "What do I do with him, sir? I gotta treat him."

Paul had heard of people hurting themselves intentionally to avoid going into combat, even shooting themselves, but he'd never seen it before. He wondered if Ruger was correct in his judgment.

"That sorry son of a bitch is going with us to Japan," Ruger snarled. "When we get there, you drag his ass out onto the ground and leave him there. If he's lucky, somebody'll take pity on him and take him to a field hospital. But there's no way that little shit is going to sleep on a bed with clean sheets while the rest of us are fighting Japs."

That brought an angry growl from the rest of the men, and the LCIs were quickly filled. The injured man whimpered that he didn't want to go, which seemed to confirm Ruger's assessment, but he otherwise stayed quiet.

The LCIs formed a large circle as they waited for all of them to be loaded, and men got sick as they bobbed in the choppy water, and the stink of vomit was added to the scent of fear. Finally, the little boats were lined up with the others that had loaded their human cargo from other transports, and the whole line headed inshore.

As they drew closer to land, Paul peeked over the edge of the boat and looked at Japan. The steep hills seemed to spring directly from the sea. They were scarred and torn, with most of their vegetation blown away or burned off. He could see ruined vehicles and other unidentifiable things that burned fiercely.

As they passed through a line of warships, they tried to identify them. The only one they were certain of was the battleship
West Virginia
. When her sixteen-inch guns fired at some distant target, the blast was deafening, and it was as if the whole ocean quivered like an earthquake. Despite the shaking they took from the sound of the firing, many were cheered by the sight of the old battlewagon pounding Japan. The
West Virginia
had been mauled and sunk at Pearl Harbor and, like most of the others sunk in that catastrophe, had been refloated and given an opportunity to take revenge. The
Wee-Vee
, as she was affectionately known, was happily complying.

"Lookit!" one of the men yelled. Paul followed the soldier's outstretched arm and saw a body floating facedown in the water. Then he saw another, and another. All were Americans. "Aw, Jesus," said someone, who began retching.

"Get your fucking heads down!" yelled the ensign in charge of the LCI as it turned sharply to avoid something. An anonymous voice exclaimed that it was a mine. Bullets clanged against the hull and someone screamed. Paul turned and saw a sailor crumple to the deck. Blood gushed from his massive stomach wound. A medic rushed to help him, but the ensign only glanced briefly at his fallen crewman. His eyes stayed fixed on the dangerous waters and the task of navigating toward the shore.

Sergeant Collins stared at the wounded man. "Jesus, Lieutenant, I thought we owned at least part of this place. What the hell's going on?"

Paul shook his head in disbelief. If the landing forces were still taking small-arms fire a full day after the initial assault, just what had actually been accomplished?

Paul pushed his way through the packed men to the ensign. From the scars on the LCI, she seemed to have made several trips to the Japanese shore. "Is it always this bad?"

Without looking at him, the naval officer laughed harshly. "Bad? Hell, buddy, this trip is a piece of cake. You should've been here yesterday when they threw all kinds of shit at us. I've made four trips in, and this is by far the easiest. I've heard that most of the guys in the first waves were wiped out and that half the people who went ashore yesterday are dead or wounded. If you're real lucky, you guys might even make it onto land before you get killed."

Finally, the ensign glanced down, and Paul saw the ensign was even younger than he was. "The sailor who just got shot is a replacement for another guy who got killed yesterday," the ensign said more gently. "Look to your left."

Paul did as he was told and saw a capsized LCI, and others that were bobbing, half-sunk, in the waves. Some were abandoned and burning, with bodies still in them. The sick-sweet stink of burning flesh was heavy in the air, and Paul gagged.

As they approached the shore, Paul called for all the men to check their gear one last time. A couple of them sank to their knees in prayer while others lowered their heads and moaned. More bullets clattered against the LCI, and a shell landed close by, spraying them with water and metal splinters, but neither caused casualties.

Finally, they felt the landing craft's flat hull scrape against the bottom. The ramp dropped quickly and the men ran through knee-deep water and up onto the steeply rising land. Jesus Christ, Paul thought with horrified disbelief as he clambered uphill, I'm in Japan!

Before the men's headlong rush could slow, a sergeant with an armband that designated him a beachmaster popped out of a foxhole and yelled at them to follow him.

"Move it!" he hollered. "Move fast or you're gonna stay here forever."

The platoon needed no further motivation. The beachmasters owned the landing sites, and regardless of rank they were to be obeyed without any hesitation. The platoon ran like furies where he directed them. Other LCIs had disgorged their human cargoes, and other beachmasters guided their reluctant flocks upward and inland. Paul ran with his troops toward a series of long, narrow trenches cut in the side of the hill. The beachmaster herded them in. On the way, they saw more dead. The majority had been badly mauled or burned, with parts of bodies strewn about with ghastly abandon.

Paul saw the disconnected head of an American soldier that appeared to be staring at the sky in some amazement. He'd seen the results of violent death in Germany and thought himself somewhat battle-hardened, but this was death on a scale that dwarfed his experiences and threatened to overwhelm his senses.

Inside the trench, Paul got himself under some semblance of control and checked his men.

Four were missing.

He turned to the beachmaster sergeant, who was breathing heavily and staring at the glowing end of a cigarette. "Four of my guys are missing, Sarge. Shit, we've just gotten here and I've lost four men!"

The beachmaster shook his head. "Maybe not, Lieutenant. There's a lot of confusion. More'n likely they just got lost or rubbed off onto somebody else's unit. If they're okay, they'll show up. If not"— he shrugged— "then there's nothing you can do about it anyhow."

He offered a smoke, which Paul accepted gratefully. His cigarettes had gotten wet. "Sarge, I thought we owned this place, or at least part of it," Paul commented, unconsciously repeating Collins's earlier comment.

"We thought we did too. But the Japs infiltrated back last night and set up shop with snipers and small mortars. That's why graves registration hasn't cleaned up the beach yet. Ain't no sense in getting killed trying to save a dead body. If we keep our heads down, we're safe from the snipers, and it would take a direct hit on the trench to cause any damage from the mortars. The Japs've got some bigger guns shooting indirect fire on us, but the navy's doing a good job of putting them out of business when they do open up.

"This is bad," the sergeant continued, "but it ain't nothing like yesterday, Lieutenant, nothing like it at all. Yesterday was all flying metal and GIs screaming as guys died. The Japs had troops in bunkers near the water that had to be burned out with flamethrowers. Sometimes a Jap would pop out from behind us and throw a grenade. Lieutenant, this is a walk in the park."

Paul took a deep breath and felt the smoke from the Chesterfield scorch his lungs. It felt good. As he smoked, two of his lost lambs sheepishly reported in. As the beachmaster had guessed, they'd run off the beach with the wrong group of GIs. The other two arrived a couple of moments later, shaken but okay. Paul took another drag on his cigarette.

"How far away's the front?" he asked the beachmaster. After all, the man was a veteran who'd been there a whole day and a night.

The sergeant looked about nervously. "Between ten feet and a mile. Kinda depends on who's counting and measuring. Snipers and infiltrators can be anywhere, so keep your guard up at all times. The big front's about a mile away. You're gonna see it real soon."

Morrell finished the cigarette and threw the butt away. I'm in Japan, he again thought in disbelief. I'm in Japan and thousands of Japanese are going to try and kill me. He looked at his men and saw similar fears reflected on their pale and frightened faces. He had landed and his platoon hadn't yet lost a man. It couldn't continue that way. The devastation in the ocean and on the shores told him that their turn was coming. And all he had to do was survive it.

Marshall arrived at the White House with Gen. Omar Bradley in tow. Bradley, who had returned from Europe a few months earlier to take charge of the recently formed Veterans Administration, felt ill at ease in the White House. As a result of his new appointment, he no longer considered himself a full-time military man, and he found the change unsettling. The VA assignment was a chore Bradley had taken on with great reluctance.

Bradley thought it was incongruous to be worried about assimilating returning veterans when a climactic campaign was under way in Japan. Earlier in the year he had led a million and a half men into battle against the Nazis, and he felt he should still be their commander. However, his president had thought otherwise, and the lanky, popular, fifty-two-year-old West Point graduate had complied with the wishes of his commander in chief.

Bradley had grudgingly obeyed. He was also mildly concerned by Marshall's admonition that he should listen rather than comment during the meeting with Truman. It was what he would have done anyhow. Not only was he the junior member of the trio, but he had little knowledge of what was transpiring in the Pacific. He knew the general plans, of course, but not the details.

A few moments later, Admiral Leahy arrived and greeted the others with formal cordiality. He seemed surprised at Bradley's inclusion, which did nothing for Bradley's state of mind.

Truman bade the men to sit around a small table. He waved a piece of paper in their direction. "Gentlemen, I certainly hope you can shed more light on the situation than this imperious little pronouncement from General MacArthur does."

Marshall smiled tightly. The pronouncement had gone out from MacArthur's headquarters and to all members of the press as well as the White House. It was almost as if the president were included on the distribution list as an afterthought.

The message itself was painfully short: "On the morning of November 10, 1945, American ground forces under the command of General Douglas MacArthur commenced landings at several points on the shores of Kyushu, the southernmost of the four main Japanese home islands. Even though confronting stiff, and at times fanatical, resistance, General MacArthur's armies are pushing steadily inland. With God's blessing and through the bravery of our young men, we pray that the will of the United States will prevail."

Truman laid the paper on the table and looked about in exasperation. "This doesn't tell me a damned thing about the battle. It's a press release, nothing more. It also implies that only the army is fighting and ignores the efforts of the navy and, once again, the marines."

The latter issue was a sore point. The navy was separately commanded by Nimitz and could take care of its own press releases. On the other hand, MacArthur commanded three divisions of marines, who technically belonged to the navy but who were under his control for this campaign. The marines had landed on the southwestern side of the island while the army assaulted the southeastern part, and all were involved in bitter fighting. By implication, MacArthur had snubbed the marines.

He had done this before. Earlier in the war when the various units that had fought for him at Bataan and Corregidor were recommended by him for citations, he had left out the 4th Marine Regiment. The men of the 4th had fought with incredible bravery and had endured terrible casualties before ultimately having to surrender along with the other forces under Wainwright's Philippines command. When questioned, MacArthur had said that the marines already had enough medals. The intentional oversight had been corrected in Washington.

"Typical of that fella MacArthur," Marshall said, using his favorite phrase for MacArthur. It was not a compliment. He'd seen the statement before and concurred with Truman's assessment. "General Krueger is the field commander in charge of the Sixth Army, but you'd never know it from this statement."