1945 (31 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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