Sakei gestured for the emperor to rise and follow him. Reluctantly, Hirohito did as he was told and emerged into the hallways that connected the palace to the shelter. He was dismayed to see several bodies lying in bloody disarray. Some wore sashes and some did not. It grieved him to realize that loyal soldiers had died on his behalf. Sakei, however, did not share his feelings. Instead, he pointed to a dead soldier who also wore a sash.
"Then we die with honor, not as prisoners!" Sakei said proudly. "Let the Americans bomb our cities. We will live in the countryside. Let them destroy our homes and we will live in caves in the hills. Let them invade our shores and we will fall upon them with every weapon we have. If we must, we will tear at them and destroy them with our hands and teeth. We have millions of soldiers and tens of millions of civilians willing to die to preserve our sacred culture. We will gnaw at their throats, and eyes, and testicles, and bleed the Americans until they come to their senses and negotiate an honorable end to this war."
It was all Hirohito could do to keep from laughing at Sakei's pompous and irrational speech. How could the deaths of all those people preserve anything Japanese? He had been told that the Americans thought of December 7, 1941, as the Day of Infamy. Now he had his own Day of Shame- August 14, 1945. God help the people of Japan.
Part One: The War Unending
Chapter 1
The muffled sounds of the nearby explosions cut through his sleep-fog and Lt. Paul Morrell leaped from his cot. A surge of fear ruined his warm and pleasant dream about his girlfriend, Debbie Winston. He grabbed his carbine and ran outside the tent and looked for the source, all the while trying to ignore the nausea and splitting headache that assailed him.
Another explosion came from behind the low hill just to the rear of the camp.
Morrell looked about for help as he ran up the hill. No one was around. They were probably still out celebrating the end of the war, although it sounded as if someone didn't believe it. Could they be under attack from some Nazi fanatics? It sure as hell sounded like it.
Another blast jarred him. He breasted the hill on the run and looked down below him. Then he started swearing softly. Two of his soldiers, Sgt. Cecil Wiles and Cpl. Tommy Nevins, were standing by the stream that ran through the gentle valley. Wiles, staggering ever so slightly, pulled the pin on a grenade and lofted it into the center of a wider section of the stream that formed a nice little pond.
Water geysered up from the pond and so did a number of dead fish. Wiles and Nevins whooped loudly at the sight.
"What the hell are you men doing?" Morrell snapped as he approached. He was furious at their stupidity and enormously relieved that he was not again at war. The two NCOs looked at him dumbly, then Wiles made a waving motion with his arm that might have been a drunken attempt at a salute.
"Fishing," Wiles said, then after a long pause, "sir. We are flicking fishing." Nevins giggled at the witticism and almost fell into the water.
Morrell looked about. The banks of the stream were littered with dead fish. Some had been blown to pieces by the grenades, while others had had their lives snuffed out by the concussion.
"All right," Morrell snarled, "this is enough." His anger was growing. Not only had they scared the crap out of him, but they were endangering themselves along with anyone else in the vicinity. They were destroying government equipment as well as blowing up someone's private property. Worse, his headache was throbbing and he felt as if he would heave.
It wasn't the first time the duo of Nevins and Wiles had gotten into trouble, usually alcohol-related. Even when sober they were only marginally efficient. He wondered just how they had gotten their stripes.
"Why is it enough, Lieutenant?" Wiles asked with mock innocence.
Morrell iterated the reasons and added a last one. "Because I'm ordering you to, that's why."
Nevins hiccuped. "Lieutenant, why don't you flick off."
Morrell was stunned and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Tell you what. You're both drunk, and so's probably half the army. Now I'm gonna be a real nice guy and pretend I didn't hear that. You two get back to camp right now."
Nevins's face flushed in anger and he looked as if he might take a swing at Morrell. However, he quickly thought better of it. Along with being an officer and someone you just didn't hit, Morrell was sober and fit-looking. At five-eleven, he weighed a compact 180, and despite his curly blond hair and innocent-looking blue eyes, Morrell looked as if he could take care of himself, especially in a fight with two staggering drunks.
"No," said Sergeant Wiles. "Let's not forget about it. What the hell's the matter with you, Lieutenant? You know you got a reputation around here as being the choirboy officer. You're a pain in the ass, Lieutenant. Look, the war's over and we got a right to celebrate, and if you don't like it, why don't you get the flick back to your tent and stay there."
Morrell was livid with anger. He'd been with the outfit only a short time in comparison with many others, and he knew he wasn't getting respect from many of the men. Second lieutenants were the lowest of the officer ranks and all too often the butt of jokes by others with more experience. A joke, or even a veiled insult, he could deal with, but this was outright insubordination.
He turned to Wiles. "I think you and your little pal have gone too far. I regret this, but I am going to see Captain Maxwell."
Wiles and Nevins looked at each other, then burst out laughing. "Sure," said Wiles, "you go see the captain. You just do that."
Morrell turned and, in a rage, his headache and hangover forgotten, almost ran the half mile to where Captain Maxwell had set up shop.
Captain Maxwell had commandeered an old two-story farmhouse that had escaped the ravages of both the German retreat and the American advance. Like so many places in Germany outside the major cities, the area in which they were camped looked as if nothing had changed in it for a hundred years. Whenever he saw Maxwell's ornate headquarters, Morrell was reminded of the story of Hansel and Gretel.
Maxwell's clerk looked uncomfortable at Morrell's request, but told him the captain would be downstairs in a minute. Morrell nodded and went into the living room, which served as the captain's office. Maxwell, a stocky National Guard officer about thirty years old, arrived and waved him to a chair. Morrell briefly explained the situation regarding the grenade-tossing and the two NCOs' drunken insubordination. The captain lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.
"Dammit," Maxwell finally said.
"Captain?"
"Lieutenant, how long you been with us?"
"About three months. Just before the Nazis finally surrendered."
Maxwell leaned forward. "That's right, just before the war ended. That means you came in on the ass end of a lot of fighting those boys had been going through for more than a year. You even replaced an officer who, while not particularly smart, was fairly well liked. So, how much combat did you see?"
Morrell flushed. "Not much at all, Captain." Only a few minutes, and he'd been scared to death and scarcely able to function. It was nothing in comparison with what the others had gone through, even the two assholes, Nevins and Wiles.
"That's right, and what were you doing a year ago?"
"I had just finished college and been called up."
"That's right, Lieutenant, you finished college. Then you did your basic training in the good of US of A, became an officer, and then got your butt shipped over here to us just in time to see the curtain go down. Do you know what we were doing a year ago? We had just arrived in France and had begun shooting our way across Europe. Know what I was doing four years ago?"