One or two moved with purpose, seeking the living to offer assistance.
One such man found his Captain.
Yamagiri was quiet, his head bleeding from mouth and nostrils, injuries caused by blast concealed within his almost intact tunic jacket.
The sleeves hang tattily, absent material from the elbow down… absent flesh from the elbow down.
He sat on the stumps where once his legs had been, surprisingly little blood spilling from his wounds, the swollen ends partially sealing the awful wounds, twin tourniquets fashioned from webbing doing the rest of the life-saving work.
Hamuda squatted beside the destroyed man and held his shoulder.
Yamagiri smiled, the small act allowing a renewed surge of blood and detritus from his mouth.
“So, Major Hamuda… this is the end eh?”
Both listeners were incredulous that the man could speak at all, let alone coherently, and almost without any indication that he had been mortally wounded.
The young private wiped his captain’s mouth clear of blood.
“Thank you, Saisho.”
The soldier bowed his head respectfully.
Yamagiri made a study of examining himself, his eyes flitting from wound to wound.
“Major, it would appear that I’ll not be making the last charge with you. So sorry.”
“Rest, Hideyo, rest now.”
The dying man laughed, clearly and crisply.
“No, I think not, Major. It’s time to meet my ancestors.”
Yamagiri looked at the bloody stumps of his arms, and turned his gaze back to Hamuda.
No words were needed, his mute request well understood.
Hamuda’s silent reflection was interrupted by the sounds of approaching vehicles, the screech of tank tracks mixing with the revving of heavy engines, as Pershings and half-tracks moved towards the river crossing.
He stood and bowed deeply to the dead Yamagiri, using a piece of paper to wipe the remaining blood from his sword.
A number of survivors, nine in total, had gravitated towards their leader, arming themselves with whatever they could find, ready to offer a final act of resistance.
Two of the men were so wounded as to be unable to support a weapon of any kind, but they were determined to be in the charge.
The men organised themselves with the help of a Corporal, himself wounded and dripping blood as he walked the line.
Hamuda looked upon them; the last of the Rainbow Brigade.
The corporal brought the group to some semblance of attention, saluted Hamuda, and adopted the very best ‘attention’ position he could manage.
Something changed in his mind.
He would not die this day, nor would his men die in some grand gesture of fealty to the Emperor.
‘Enough… we have all done enough.’
“Men… we have done our duty to the Emperor and our country… we have always done our duty… and done it well.”
Hamuda turned and levelled his sword at the advancing armada of power.
“Our duty is clear…”
The sword swept savagely through the air as he turned back to his waiting soldiers.
“Our Emperor has today informed us of it, and you have all heard it.”
The katana slid back in its scabbard. With additional drama, Hamuda extracted his Nambu pistol and tossed it on the ground in front of him.
“Our Emperor requires us now to endure the unendurable and limit any outbursts of emotion.”
One or two of the battle-hardened soldiers wept openly as their commander gave them their lives back.
“We are commanded to devote our strength to the future of our country… and we will, men, we will.”
Hamuda pointed at the pistol.
“With honour, and with my thanks, that of the Emperor and the Empire, place your weapons there… now… so that we may unite in the cause of our country and its people…”
One soldier looked near panic, the desire to immolate himself for the Emperor battling with the orders of his commander.
“Kitarane… Private Kitarane!”
The man snapped out of his trance.
“Lay down your rifle, private… our Emperor commands that you preserve your life for the good of and future of the Empire.”
Kitarane dropped his rifle immediately.
“Well done… well done…”
Hamuda gripped the man’s shoulder, the act bringing forth tears from both of them.
The rest of the weapons lay on the ground, the heavy atmosphere occasional punctured by a metallic sound as a grenade or a piece of ammunition joined the growing pile.
The military bearing had improved and the line was straight and more upright.
“Men… soldiers……… comrades… you are the finest troops I ever commanded… so… let us march with our heads held high… undefeated… ready to do what we must… endure what we must… and we will soon see Mount Fuji and our homes again!”
Spontaneously, the men threw their working arms skywards in unison.
“Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!”
A pair of eyes on the northern slopes on Height 404 was naturally drawn towards the sound.
“Here they come!”
Three half-tracks were over the bridge and they had fanned out swiftly, permitting men on foot to move up to support them.
“Sir?”
“Sergeant?”
“Orders were quite clear, Lootenant.”
The young man hesitated.
“Don’t look like they’re doing a banzai to me, Sergeant.”
The NCO looked at the new officer and spat demonstrably, a jet of tobacco juice clipping the top of the .50cal pulpit.
“How many banzai charges you seen, Lootenant Capaldi?”
The officer coloured up.
“None, as you well know… but they…”
“But fuck all, Lootenant. They wounded my brother and his mates on the canal with the games they play. Can’t trust the bastards.”
“But th…”
“And the orders were very clear, Lootenant.”
Vincent Capalde, only a week with the armored infantry unit as a replacement for a well-respected officer on his way stateside with severe injuries, was out of his depth.
He looked at the small group of enemy soldiers, their leader holding a sword in his left hand as he led his men forward.
‘Oh fuck it.’
“Fire!”
Captain, the Marquis, Ito Hirohata, could not feel his left arm, which, given its condition, was just as well.
When he was blasted out of the Panther’s turret, he had broken it in three places as it connected with the inside of the cupola.
A fourth break occurred when he came down in soft vegetation, the mangled limb flapping across of bridge of wood, snapping noisily at the wrist.
His pain had increased and increased, amplified by the destruction of ‘Masami’, the loss of Hamuda’s tank crew, and the obvious destruction being wrought around him by the terror fliers of the enemy.
His pain had disappeared in an instant as, above his head, an enemy aircraft was destroyed, causing the pilot to bail out.
The US Marine Corps’ pilot landed heavily less than twenty feet away, and was immediately consumed by white silk as the parachute came to earth.
Curses and yelps of pain marked the man’s efforts to free himself from the grip of the vegetation and the stifling presence of the deflated canopy.
Hirohata switched between watching the American lump struggling under a white screen, and the actions of his friend and commander, Major Nomori Hamuda.
He watched as Hamuda paraded his men, as they discarded their weapons, and as they gave three Banzai salutes.
He watched as they marched forward to observe the Emperor’s wishes, and to surrender themselves to the unthinkable for the sake of the future of the Empire.