1945 (41 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What the hell?" Peters said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, are you onto something?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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