Under normal circumstances, having so many men gathered in ranks along the beaches would have been suicidal, an invitation to the Americans to bomb and strafe, but this night the mist cloaked them. Hata's two divisions would go ashore and head inland, skirting the radioactive ruins of Kokura as they began their trek to the front lines.
"Banzai!" someone yelled, and a thousand nearby throats repeated the cry. Hata's chest nearly burst with pride and an unbidden tear swelled in his eye. These were good troops, the best Japan had left, and they would stop the Americans.
Field Marshal Hata walked the rocky beach, letting his men see him. They saluted and cheered him, and he saluted back with an uncharacteristic broad smile on his face. He knew it pleased them to know that he shared the night with them. Not many generals, much less field marshals, got this close to the men who would die for them. Hata knew it would further inspire the brave young soldiers in their fight for Japan's survival.
He checked his watch. It had been more than an hour, and the first wave should be across the straits. He received confirmation of this from a radioman, who said that many were already unloading and the men were heading inland. Some of the swifter boats had already made it back to Honshu and were loading again. He squinted out into the dark waters and wished he could see more clearly.
And then he could.
There was no mist. For a fraction of a second, he could see every small craft that bobbed on the waves and the dark columns of infantry beyond that snaked into the hills of Kyushu. Then a light brighter than a thousand suns washed across him, baking him. A second later, a shock wave blasted across the straits and blew his charred body into a thousand pieces. The shock wave continued up the hills of Kyushu and Honshu, draining the life from many of those who had not been killed by the fire of the initial blast.
Those who survived the heat and shock wave watched in agony as the evil-looking mushroom cloud lifted toward the heavens. At its base, a massive tidal wave formed and hurled itself onto the land, washing away further thousands of those who had lived through the first seconds of the explosion and dragging their bodies down to the sea.
When it was over, few remained to tell of the catastrophe, and most of those who did live were sickened and later killed by the rain of radioactive water and debris that blanketed the area. Had more been alive when this deadly torrent occurred, the deaths from radiation poisoning would have been greater. As it was, only a handful were left to sicken and die.
As the angry wave receded back into the churning straits, the mist soon returned and covered the water. If someone had walked into the scene and not known the truth, it would have appeared peaceful and serene with only a moderate rain falling to mar the night. No one would have believed that the thirty thousand men of the Japanese 81st and 214th Infantry Divisions had been there and then ceased to exist.
Chapter 49
It seemed like a miracle, or maybe several miracles, 1st Lt. Paul Morrell thought. Their ordeal at the front was over, at least for a while. The entire regiment had been rotated out of line for rest and refit and sent to a camp near the undistinguished town of Miyakonojo, about fifty miles inland, while some other poor slobs took over the thankless task of climbing hills the Japs didn't want them to.
As an example of their new status as temporarily rear-echelon, they'd had the opportunity to wash their uniforms and shower. An astonishing amount of dirt had run off Paul's body, and he was surprised at how skinny he'd become. He weighed himself and found that he'd lost fifteen pounds and that his body was mottled with bruises and laced by scratches. He looked at himself in a mirror and saw a gaunt-looking stranger with deep-sunk and fatigued eyes. What the hell had happened to the young man he'd once been? He wondered if he could ever go back to his prior life.
They ate hot meals topped off with a dessert of cold ice cream, and so what if they ran out of chocolate- everything was delicious. They had cots in tents that actually kept out the wind and the rain. Paul vowed that he would never again think of a tent as a primitive place to live. Compared with the previous weeks of living in rain, mud, and squalor, a tent was luxury beyond compare. The Waldorf-Astoria in New York would not have been better, he thought. Then he laughed at himself. Of course it would be better.
Even more civilizing was the presence of good, cold American beer. Paul clutched several bottles to his chest and stepped outside. Despite the chill, he and most of the others found it relaxing to be in the open air to smoke, drink, and just wallow in the wondrous fact of their being alive and well. A number of guys were still indoors playing cards or just sleeping, but it was exquisite to be outside and able to walk upright without fear. Although artillery rumbled in the distance, the air was free of the stench of death and the smell of sulfur from exploding shells. For once, the air they breathed was actually fresh.
Weapons were stacked in their tents, but they all still wore the steel pots that had protected their skulls since the landing. About a third of the men who had landed with the regiment were dead or wounded. They'd paid a helluva price for a beer and a warm place to sleep.
Paul walked past a group of enlisted men who were sprawled on the chill ground. "Hiya, Lieutenant," said Weaver, a PFC from Chicago. Weaver had been slightly wounded but had declined a chance to go to the rear earlier. By declining to go, he had probably screwed up his chance for a Purple Heart. Paul made a mental note to see if he could do something about that.
"Hi yourself," Paul said, grinning, ignoring that none of them had made any effort to come to attention. It was not the time to be tight on military formality. Now was a reminder that it really was a citizen army, with few professional or career soldiers. First Sergeant Mackensen was the only one he could think of, although some would doubtless want to remain in the service after the war ended. If, that is, the war ever ended.
"Got a question for you, sir," Weaver said.
Paul stopped. "Okay."
"Do you think they should have drafted Frank Sinatra like they did Joe Louis?"
Paul laughed. "I have a question for you- who the hell cares?"
Weaver pretended to be hurt. "We do, sir. Every day we come up with a topic to discuss, and Sinatra's draft status is today's issue of deepest concern. Hell, sir, it helps keep our minds out of the war."
Makes sense, Paul thought. Keep the agony at bay with silliness. "What other questions have you come up with?"
Weaver belched and almost dropped his beer. As it was, he spilled some and it sloshed over his leg. He didn't seem to notice. "Well, sir, yesterday we discussed whether or not Judy Garland fucked the Tin Man, and the day before we decided that smoking really was good for you and wouldn't stunt your growth."
"Heavy stuff." Paul laughed. "What's the consensus on Sinatra?"
Weaver looked at the others, who nodded for him to continue. "Well, we think we're better off without him. We think he's so skinny someone would have to carry his gear for him. Also, I don't think he sings that great anyhow and won't last, despite what my little sister writes about him. She just loves his skinny little dago ass. By the way, last week we decided that Scarlett O'Hara probably was a lousy lay. We still wonder, though, whether Jap pussy is slanted sideways like their eyes are. Guess we'll have to find that out ourselves, although none of us are so horny yet that we'll screw someone who actually eats raw fish."
"You will be soon," Paul told them solemnly. "Keep up the good work, men."