"When we run out of bullets we go to bayonets. When we're all out of weapons," Paul answered with an almost maniacal laugh, "we'll piss on them."
That brought nervous laughter from a couple of the men who heard it. Funny, but there was no talk of surrender. The Japs would kill anyone who even tried, so what would be the point?
"Banzai! " came the shriek from the trench, and he saw a sword waving in the air. "Banzai, banzai, banzai!"
A sea of humanity lifted out of the trenches and up the slope of the hill. The men in Last Stand fired as rapidly as they could, with the two machine guns on the tank joining in. They launched mortar shells at their highest possible trajectory so they would come down just outside the berm. Japs fell by the dozen, by the score, but they still came on. Many fired at the Americans as they advanced and the air became filled with grenades. The noise was deafening as men shot at each other at close range, screamed, and died. Neither the berm nor the trenches provided full protection, and more of Paul's command fell.
Paul turned to Sergeant Orlando, whose head was sticking out of the driver's hatch. "Now," Paul managed to say with a calmness he didn't feel. "Use firefly, Sergeant."
The brief and incongruous sound of a warning siren caused the men behind the berm to duck. Then, a second's pause that lasted an eternity. At last, a tongue of flame peeked out of the tank's barrel and then surged outward in a sea of fire. Some of the advancing Japs were caught in it, while others saw it and stopped in sudden fear while their ranks continued to be riddled by bullets. The bravest men in the world are terrified by fire, and the Japanese were no exception. Those who could began to turn and run from burning death. It was no use. Death caught them in its flaming grip.
Orlando traversed the turret so that the flamethrower mounted in the barrel of the cannon created a circle of fire around Last Stand. The Japanese on the hill were turned into human torches that jumped and fell and screamed. Again and again, the tongues of flame licked the land outside the berm, sucking and scorching the life from it. Paul huddled with the others on the ground behind the berm and felt the flamethrower's hot breath as the barrel propelled its fire over them.
Finally, Orlando turned off his death machine. Blackened, burning Japs were everywhere, and the stench of burned meat was overpowering. Most of the Japanese were prone, but a few were frozen in sitting positions, and a handful still moved and twitched. Rifle fire from the berm ended their suffering. Paul noticed that it had grown astonishingly silent around Last Stand. No one was yelling "Banzai," and no one was shooting at them. Firefly, the flamethrower replacement for the tank's cannon, had worked. The firefly apparatus had sent the flames out much farther than a handheld flamethrower could, and with horrifyingly deadly effect.
The tank's engine roar broke the silence. Orlando plowed his tank through the berm and over the dead and dying. Almost leisurely, he drove along the circumference of the original defenses atop the hill. The flamethrower surged again as he scorched the slopes leading to Round Top, enlarging the circle of death, while the tank's machine guns added to the carnage.
The tank stopped and the driver's hatch opened. "They're all gone, Lieutenant," said Orlando. "Only dead ones left."
Paul nodded and sagged to the ground, exhausted beyond feeling. The Japs were gone, at least for the moment. Would they return? No, he corrected himself. When would they return? The Japs always returned. They never stopped and they were always there. Japs would be a part of his life forever. Then he realized that it had stopped raining and that he could hear planes flying high in the air above him.
Chapter 83
Sgt. Yuji Yokota grieved for the men of his decimated command. He had grown fond of the innocent young boys who had trusted him, and now so many were gone, their youthful lives snuffed out for no reason. He could only hope that some were still alive and were simply running from the horrors they'd witnessed. If so, he wouldn't blame them. It was the most awful death imaginable. There was nothing to describe the fear of being burned alive. His own personal bravery had vanished, and he had run with the rest of them, away from the hill and their hellish tormentor.
Even so, Yokota and his men had been fortunate. They had arrived late at the assembly point and had gone up the hill in the third wave, not the first. This had enabled them to flee when the jets of fire had commenced streaking down the hill, turning so many into screaming torches. Many of his boy soldiers had not made it back safely, but, overall, they had fared better than those who'd preceded them. Those brave soldiers of Japan were dead.
Lieutenant Uji staggered over to where Yokota squatted on the ground. Uji had lost his glasses and had to squint to see Yokota.
"We must attack again, Sergeant."
Yokota was incredulous. "Why? There's only us left. Everyone else is dead."
The temerity of the question shocked Uji and he cocked his fist as if to strike Yokota for his insolence. Then he changed his mind and merely shook his head. "It is our duty and our destiny. We must attack again."
"Lieutenant, there are only about forty of us left out of the eighty that attacked the first time."
Uji stiffened. "We ran, Sergeant. We ran like frightened dogs and I was one of them. We shamed ourselves and Japan by our actions. We must gain redemption."
"Plane!" a soldier yelled. Discussion ceased as the frightened men scrambled to make themselves small and invisible. The weather was quickly clearing, and there was no place to hide from the terrors of the sky. Yokota doubted if they would now get anywhere near the hill before being bombed or strafed. He squinted upward and saw a B-17. Its bomb-bay doors were opened and he awaited a rain of death, but, instead of bombs, thousands of sheets of paper began to fall like large snowflakes.
"Leave them," Uji commanded as the leaflets settled about them. Reading American propaganda was forbidden. However, it was a useless command as everyone grabbed a sheet. If nothing else, American propaganda leaflets made halfway decent toilet paper.
Yokota stared at the paper in his hand. On it was a picture of Hirohito standing alongside a little white man who was identified as Truman, the president of the United States, and they stood together as equals with the bulk of Mt. Kagoshima in the background.
In disbelief, he read the text. And then he read it a second time. The war was over. An honorable peace had been made. The integrity of Japan and her culture would continue. The emperor commanded that everyone withdraw from the American positions and head north to safety.
Uji crumpled the copy he'd been reading and threw it on the ground. Tears streamed down his face. "We attack."
Yokota stood and glared at the lieutenant. "No! You read the emperor's orders. We are to withdraw."
Uji was on the edge of hysteria. "They are lies, all lies. Even if we cannot succeed, we must give up our lives for Japan."
This enraged Yokota. Did the fool want to kill all of the remaining lambs? He grabbed the lieutenant by the collar of his jacket and jammed the paper in his face. "Would you disobey your emperor? Read where he forbids further suicides. To do what you now wish would bring shame to us, not glory."
Uji sagged and began to sob. After a moment, he managed to speak. "You are right, Sergeant. Even though it is hateful, we must obey the emperor. Take the men to the rear. I will follow."
Yokota looked about at the surviving boy soldiers, who watched him with hope, fear, and confusion mixed on their faces. "No, Lieutenant," he said gently, "you will not follow. You will lead us back to safety. Just like the emperor orders."