“Our forces will crush them with a single blow and send them back into the sea.”
Kimura liked the sound of that, but what did it mean for him? “We will join the charge at dawn, sir?”
“No,” Okubo said. “I have other plans for us. Gather some food and water — whatever you can find. We are going to get into position early and support the attack. I will eliminate any machine gunners that I can to help make the attack a success.”
Having sent Kimura on his way, Okubo watched him go with satisfaction. He was pleased so far with this soldier, who did what he was told and asked just enough questions to show that he had some spark. I must not grow too fond of him, Okubo reminded himself. He is expendable — as are we all. Serving with Okubo had proved dangerous — on Guadalcanal, no fewer than two men had died serving as his kosho. This was not a military term but the traditional title of a samurai’s official assistant, similar to how a Western knight was served by a page.
While returning to his quarters, Okubo passed a group of soldiers who were loitering. Their uniforms looked slovenly, and they were joking with each other. Thinking of the task that awaited them all in a few hours, he stopped and glared at the men.
“Do you have nothing better to do?” he demanded. He reached for one of the soldier’s rifles, grabbing it from the man’s grasp. “Look at this weapon! It is a disgrace!”
Enraged now, Okubo struck the soldier’s face a stinging blow with his open hand. Many of the Japanese officers had been incredulous when General Patton had been reprimanded for slapping a shell-shocked soldier in France. The incident had been much publicized in Japan as a sign of American weakness.
Having been struck by Okubo, the Japanese soldier knew better than to react in any way but saying, “Yes, sir!”
Okubo jabbed a finger at the chrysanthemum symbol stamped onto the receiver of the rifle. “Do you not see the Emperor’s mark? This rifle belongs to the Emperor, and you will show it respect. Go clean it immediately! That goes for the rest of you as well!”
The men had snapped to attention when Okubo stopped, and now they scrambled to do as he ordered. It did not matter if Okubo was their direct superior or not. An officer could do what he pleased to an enlisted man without consequence. He could shoot a man who shirked his duty. Lately, more than a few would-be deserters who had tried unsuccessfully to slip away into the jungle had been summarily beheaded. The swords that the officers carried were for more than show.
Okubo reached his quarters, a simple tent erected within a quick sprint of a dugout that offered protection from bombardment and aerial attack.
He glanced at his Seiko wristwatch. There was much to do to prepare for the morning, and very little time.
Quickly, he stashed his sword in his chest. He would have no need of it in the morning and had brought it to the staff meeting only as a badge of office. He replaced it with the much smaller and useful knife that he slipped into his belt. He admired the two blades side by side. The weapons had been passed down through the family, once owned by his great-grandfather, who had been an actual samurai.
The weapons formed a pair, forged together more than a century ago from steel that had been folded back into itself more than a thousand times. Okubo felt confident that nothing on earth could break that steel — certainly not another sword, although the days of sword battles were long since over.
From his chest, he removed another treasured item. This was a hachimaki, or headband, bright white, decorated in the front with a symbolic kanji that represented an archer, the nine strokes of the Japanese symbol being reminiscent of a drawn bow. Okubo tied the hachimaki around his head.
In keeping with modern times, his weapon was a rifle rather than a bow, but the symbolism remained — an archer was deadly even at a great distance, and many legendary samurai had been famed as archers.
There was a noise at the tent flap and Okubo looked up. Kimura had returned. He juggled an armload of supplies — rice, water, and even a small bottle of sake. He had to hand it to Kimura. The young soldier was resourceful.
Okubo laughed. “I hope the general doesn’t know you stole his sake!”
“Sir, a friend owed me a favor. Anyhow, there is a great deal of sake to be had right now.”
It was true that liquor was readily supplied before an attack. The men were encouraged to drink heavily before a banzai charge because it fueled their bravery.
“Don’t worry, I will not ask any questions, Kimura. Gather your things. We are going to leave now to get into position.”
“So early, sir?”
“We must be in position before dawn so that we can take the enemy by surprise. A warrior is always two steps ahead of his enemy.” He reached for the sake and took a satisfying swig of the rice wine, then offered the bottle to Kimura, who looked surprised by the gesture but then also took a drink. “Hurry now, we haven’t much time.”
Moving through the camp, they passed through the sentries and closer to the American lines. Armed with his sniper’s rifle with its telescopic sight, no one thought to question Okubo.
He moved carefully through no-man’s-land, the band of brush-covered territory between his own forces and the enemy’s position. In the darkness, it wasn’t easy going. The grass and low-growing bushes snapped at his feet. Once they entered the jungle grove, he moved as silently as he could, pushing aside the heavy leaves and vines almost blindly. He didn’t dare use a light but had to rely entirely on stealth. Ahead, he could hear the surf on the beach, and he used this as a guide.
Behind him, Kimura made enough noise for both of them.
“You sound like an elephant!” Okubo whispered harshly. “The Americans must not hear us.”
“Hai,” came Kimura’s hushed response. To Okubo’s satisfaction, Kimura seemed to move more quietly after that.
Okubo knew that everything depended on the success of the impending Japanese attack. The Americans were still confined to a relatively narrow beachhead that did not extend more than a half mile into the island. Their forces, made up of marines and soldiers, were spread thin, although they occupied all the high ground between Mount Alifan and Mount Tenjo.
The Japanese still held the area between the Americans and the precious Orote airfield. Trying to hold their position would be a war of attrition that they could not win. Even now, the American ships anchored off the island managed to deliver a constant stream of supplies to the beach, everything from ammunition to food to tanks. The Japanese had no hope of resupply. Those same ships could bombard the Japanese positions at will, their shells able to reach several miles into the island interior. Then again, around the airfield the Japanese had a strong defensive perimeter that consisted of connected pillboxes, dugouts, and trenches. Artillery and air bombardment were not enough. The Americans would have to fight their way to the airfield one step at a time.
From the air, the Japanese faced constant harassment from strafing and bombing whenever they showed themselves by day. This was an important reason why they were mostly operating now by night. The American planes generally did not fly missions by night, if for no other reason than that they feared attacking their own troops by mistake.
It almost seemed like a waste of effort, this striving for an airfield on a jungle island. However, Okubo knew that the stakes were high. Each airfield that the Americans seized was like a stepping-stone that brought them that much closer to Japan itself. The airfield also had strategic value for naval battles. Just last month, Japanese planes had used the Orote field to attack the American fleet during the Battle of the Philippine Sea. More than one hundred Zero planes and a dozen Gekkō night fighters had been based there. Those planes had not been enough, and the Japanese fleet had been defeated, leaving Guam open to invasion. Now all those planes were gone, either destroyed on the ground or shot out of the sky.