1945 (47 page)

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."

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.

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.