"Over here, Lieutenant." It was Wills, the medic.
There was more firing and Sergeant Collins profanely called for the men to stop. Paul got up and ran hunched over, expecting every second to be shot by the sniper. He made it safely to where Wills was working on a soldier who lay on his back. Paul threw himself down beside the two men.
It was Haskins, a young PFC about twenty. His throat looked as if it had exploded, and Wills was frantically trying to stop the blood that was gushing out over both of them. Paul tried not to look at the ripped and torn cartilage that was exposed just beneath the young man's chin. Haskins's mouth was flapping and it looked as if he was trying to say something; he couldn't, except for a low gurgling. Haskins's eyes fixed on Paul, silently imploring him to get him out of the mess he found himself in.
Paul looked at the medic, who shook his head. "I gave him morphine. A lot of it." A few seconds later, Haskins's eyes glazed over and he stopped breathing. "Nothing I could do, sir," Wills said, and he began to gather up his gear.
"You did your best," Paul said, conscious of the emptiness of the comment.
Wills didn't respond. Nothing would be said about the overdose of morphine that had hastened Haskins's death. Many of the soldiers carried extra morphine to put either themselves or a buddy out of misery in the event of an awful wound. It was something else the people at home didn't know about.
Haskins was the platoon's first fatality since landing on Kyushu almost a week earlier. A couple men had been wounded, but none killed. They'd been fortunate. The powers that directed their lives had kept their battalion as a regimental reserve until earlier in the day. Thus, they'd left reserve status and moved up to the front only a few hours earlier.
Paul moved a few feet away from the dead soldier and sat down in the dirt. He really didn't know Haskins well at all. He'd been a quiet kid who just did what he had to and pretty much stayed out of trouble. He'd been a late arrival to the company and had replaced one of the earlier men who'd been a total screwup. Now, because he was more competent than the dud whose place he'd taken, he was lying dead on the ground with his throat ripped out.
Sergeant Collins flopped down beside Paul. "We got the sniper, sir. Wanna see?"
Paul realized that he did want to see the Jap who'd killed Haskins. "Yeah."
Collins led him up the hill about a hundred yards to where a couple of men stared at the ground. A body lay half out of a hole. The upper torso, riddled with bullets, barely looked human. Leaves and branches jutted from the webbing of the Jap's helmet, part of his camouflage. The man's rifle lay beside him.
Collins kicked at the corpse and it slid back into its hole. "He wasn't very smart. He was pretty well hidden and should have waited until we passed. Then he could have hopped out and shot a couple of us before we got him. I think he panicked."
Wonderful, Paul thought, and shuddered. He hoped none of the Jap soldiers had the balls to wait while the army had passed by and over them.
Captain Ruger approached and found him deep in thought. "Shake it, Paul. You lost a man. It was your first and it won't be your last."
"I know, Captain. We lost our first American and we just killed our first Jap. That's one for one. Tell me, how many Japs are there on this stinking island?"
"A lot," Ruger said.
"Yeah, just a few minutes on the line and we've got a dead kid. Now I've got to write a letter to his family telling them that he was brave and died both instantly and painlessly, when we all know he was scared to death for several agonizing minutes and flopping like a fish. And all the while he was trying to say something through a hole in his neck that was so big you could stick your fist in it."
Ruger eyed Paul coldly. "You gonna be okay? You've got a right to be upset, but I don't need my second-in-command collapsing on me."
"I won't collapse," Paul said grimly. "This never happened to me, not even when I was in Germany. Of course, the war was almost over so even the krauts were concentrating on staying alive. I had a couple of guys hurt, but it was mainly their own fault. What the hell did Haskins do to get killed like that?"
"He was born," Ruger said, and grasped Paul's shoulder. "Look at the bright side. We took the hill. Only thing, there's another hill right after this, and another one after that."
Paul stood and slung his carbine over his shoulder. "Yeah, and this is supposed to be the gentle part of the terrain around here. What the hell are we gonna do when the ground gets really difficult? You and I both know that there'll be more than one sniper on the next one."
They both turned toward the north. Hill after hill grimly rose in serrated splendor, like so many sword blades waiting to slash them. They were not hills, Paul realized, they were weapons in the Japanese arsenal, and every one of them would have to be disarmed.
Chapter 34
It had been Comdr. Mochitsura Hashimoto's fond hope that the submarine I-58 would be able to sneak out and around the flank of the American invasion fleet, then attack transports and carriers through what had to be its more vulnerable rear. After all, wouldn't the eyes, ears, and guns of the Americans be pointed toward Japan and not back in the direction from which they'd come? He admitted to himself that this might be a futile wish, but it was the course he would pursue.
First, the Imperial Navy's submarine command had changed their minds and radioed that he should indeed carry the disliked kaiten human torpedoes on his sub when he attacked the American fleet. He had complied without protest. If ever the kaiten were going to prove themselves useful, this would be the time.
This necessitated a delay while he sailed to the hidden supply facility and had the four human-piloted torpedoes attached to the deck of the I-58. His sub could have carried six of the strange things, but the specially adapted torpedoes were in short supply. There were more than enough human volunteers to ride them to their doom, but the American raids had severely affected Japan's ability to manufacture the weapons.
Along with torpedoes, Hashimoto thought ruefully, everything else was in short supply. When he asked for supplies, all he received was a litany of unavailable items, including fuel. He was able to top off his tanks, but a harried supply officer informed him that there were no more fuel reserves. So, this would likely be his last cruise. If that proved to be the case, he could end his part in this dreadful war and return home with honor satisfied.
What really dashed his hope for a rearward assault was even more significant than the delays required for the installation of the kaiten. The utter vastness of the American fleet precluded any attempt to flank it. His executive officer had bitterly surmised that it would be necessary to sail to Australia to find the American flank. As with many a bitter jest, it held a nugget of truth. The numbers of enemy warships off the coast of Kyushu defied counting. There were more American battleships and carriers off Kyushu than the Japanese navy had ever dreamed of having in their fleet, and they were accompanied by vast hordes of smaller cruisers and destroyers. Truly, the American ability to manufacture weapons had tragically been underestimated by the Japanese government. Even though he would fight bravely, Hashimoto knew that his efforts, even if successful beyond his dreams, would be meaningless when compared with the size of the American fleet.
He hoped that his fellow submariners would have the same type of success that he planned on for the I-58. Cumulatively, perhaps they could affect the outcome of the war. Hashimoto had no delusions regarding the ultimate end to the conflict: Japan was doomed to lose. All he could do was what he'd been ordered to, and that was to help cause so much damage to the Americans that they would negotiate a better peace for Japan. It seemed foolish to him. An earlier peace might have found the Americans in a more forgiving mood. Now they would truly be vindictive.